readiness, and then as they passed under the bright lights of the Hippodrome, he recognised the girl: it was Clair!
It was extraordinary how, at the sight of her, his blood seemed to rush through his veins, and his heart began to pound.
For a second or so he hesitated, not sure whether he wanted her to see him or not. But what did it matter? he thought. She knows what I do, and what have I to be ashamed of? Besides, it would be a wonderful opportunity to have a photograph of her.
They were only a few yards away now. She was walking by the man's side, her light coat slung over her shoulders, the empty sleeves flapping in the wind.
Harry had scarcely time to notice the man, except he seemed tall and bulky. He swung up his camera. Clair appeared in the camera sight. She was looking right at him. He couldn't see her expression, but he had the impression from the sudden tilting of her chin and a slight falter in her stride that she was aware she was about to be photographed, then he pressed the combined shutter release and flashgun.
He had a lightning glimpse of her face in the brilliant white flash. She was looking right at him; then, smiling, he offered her his card.
She walked by him, looking sharply away, brushing past his hand and knocking the card out of his fingers. She went on, not looking back, as if she had never met him before; as if he was a complete stranger.
He looked blankly after her.
A hand touched his arm. He turned quickly to find the tall, bulky man at his side.
Harry took an immediate dislike to the pink, fat face and the hard little eyes.
"I don't think I like this," Brady said softly. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"
Harry bent quickly, picked up the card and offered it to Brady.
"Sorry if I startled you," he said, wondering who this fat spiv was. "You've just been photographed — you and the young lady. If you care to call tomorrow at that address, the prints will be ready. There's no obligation to buy."
"How very interesting," Brady said, and showed his gold-capped teeth. "I have a mind to call a policeman. You hawkers are a damned pest. You shouldn't be allowed on the streets."
Harry felt the blood rise in his face.
"You needn't have the photograph if you don't want it," he said, trying to control the anger in his voice. "Most people like to be photographed."
"But I'm not most people, my funny little man," Brady said, ignoring the fact that Harry was an inch or so taller than he. He tore up the card. "If you ever bother me again I'll give you in charge."
Before Harry could think of a suitable retort, Brady had walked away, his black square-shouldered overcoat open and flapping in the wind, his hands in his trouser pockets, his homburg hat tilted rakishly over one eye. He disappeared up a side street, leading to Lisle Street, leaving Harry, hot and furious, staring after him.
The incident spoilt Harry's evening. Why had Clair cut him like that? Perhaps she hadn't recognised him. Surely she wouldn't have walked past him without a word if she had recognised him?
Who was this fat spiv who looked as if he was made of money and someone in the black market? Could he be one of Clair's advertising clients? Somehow Harry couldn't believe that.
Angrily he wound off the film and put it in his pocket. Well, anyway he had a picture of Clair now.
That was something.
The crowds were beginning to pour out of the five cinemas around Leicester Square, and Harry decided to go to the studio and then get off home.
He, too, turned up the side street, leading to Lisle Street, wondering if he would be lucky enough to catch sight of Clair again; but apart from a couple of middle-aged women standing at the corner who called out to him, Lisle Street was deserted. He continued up Wardour Street, turned down a narrow side street that would bring him to Old Compton Street.
He had only walked a few yards down this dark little street when someone whistled softly behind him. He looked around, peering into
It was extraordinary how, at the sight of her, his blood seemed to rush through his veins, and his heart began to pound.
For a second or so he hesitated, not sure whether he wanted her to see him or not. But what did it matter? he thought. She knows what I do, and what have I to be ashamed of? Besides, it would be a wonderful opportunity to have a photograph of her.
They were only a few yards away now. She was walking by the man's side, her light coat slung over her shoulders, the empty sleeves flapping in the wind.
Harry had scarcely time to notice the man, except he seemed tall and bulky. He swung up his camera. Clair appeared in the camera sight. She was looking right at him. He couldn't see her expression, but he had the impression from the sudden tilting of her chin and a slight falter in her stride that she was aware she was about to be photographed, then he pressed the combined shutter release and flashgun.
He had a lightning glimpse of her face in the brilliant white flash. She was looking right at him; then, smiling, he offered her his card.
She walked by him, looking sharply away, brushing past his hand and knocking the card out of his fingers. She went on, not looking back, as if she had never met him before; as if he was a complete stranger.
He looked blankly after her.
A hand touched his arm. He turned quickly to find the tall, bulky man at his side.
Harry took an immediate dislike to the pink, fat face and the hard little eyes.
"I don't think I like this," Brady said softly. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"
Harry bent quickly, picked up the card and offered it to Brady.
"Sorry if I startled you," he said, wondering who this fat spiv was. "You've just been photographed — you and the young lady. If you care to call tomorrow at that address, the prints will be ready. There's no obligation to buy."
"How very interesting," Brady said, and showed his gold-capped teeth. "I have a mind to call a policeman. You hawkers are a damned pest. You shouldn't be allowed on the streets."
Harry felt the blood rise in his face.
"You needn't have the photograph if you don't want it," he said, trying to control the anger in his voice. "Most people like to be photographed."
"But I'm not most people, my funny little man," Brady said, ignoring the fact that Harry was an inch or so taller than he. He tore up the card. "If you ever bother me again I'll give you in charge."
Before Harry could think of a suitable retort, Brady had walked away, his black square-shouldered overcoat open and flapping in the wind, his hands in his trouser pockets, his homburg hat tilted rakishly over one eye. He disappeared up a side street, leading to Lisle Street, leaving Harry, hot and furious, staring after him.
The incident spoilt Harry's evening. Why had Clair cut him like that? Perhaps she hadn't recognised him. Surely she wouldn't have walked past him without a word if she had recognised him?
Who was this fat spiv who looked as if he was made of money and someone in the black market? Could he be one of Clair's advertising clients? Somehow Harry couldn't believe that.
Angrily he wound off the film and put it in his pocket. Well, anyway he had a picture of Clair now.
That was something.
The crowds were beginning to pour out of the five cinemas around Leicester Square, and Harry decided to go to the studio and then get off home.
He, too, turned up the side street, leading to Lisle Street, wondering if he would be lucky enough to catch sight of Clair again; but apart from a couple of middle-aged women standing at the corner who called out to him, Lisle Street was deserted. He continued up Wardour Street, turned down a narrow side street that would bring him to Old Compton Street.
He had only walked a few yards down this dark little street when someone whistled softly behind him. He looked around, peering into
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