Mrs. Williams wrinkled her nostrils in distaste as she regarded Chris Reynolds who was lounging elegantly in Henderson’s best armchair. She stood, hands on hips, and contemplated him as one who looks upon a bad egg at close range. Relaxed, and apparently without a care in the world, Chris was carrying out running repairs on his finger-nails with a pocket file. He offended Mrs. Williams’s eyes and she was at considerable pains to let him know it.
Mrs. Williams wondered sadly what things were coming to. She was the last person to think ill of the dead but one of Mr. Henderson’s other visitors had clearly been no better than she should be and had ended up drowned in the river. And now this young man with the pasty face and over-brilliantined head (which had already made an unpleasant mark on the armchair) had made himself at home, as casual as you please. Mrs. Williams sighed audibly and in the sigh was disapproval and an over-current of dislike. She said curtly: “Mr. Henderson’s just arrived.”
Chris Reynolds pushed tenaciously at an errant cuticle before answering. He then looked up and met Mrs. Williams’s grim scrutiny with a winning smile.
“Told you he wouldn’t be long, ma,” he said.
“You’ve been here over half an hour,” Mrs. Williams told him, as if every second had shortened her life.
Henderson came into the room and stopped dead when he saw Reynolds. Mrs. Williams shot him a meaning glance. “A gentleman to see you, sir,” she said with crushing disdain, and sailed out of the room. There was fierce resentment in every step.
“Who are you?” inquired Henderson.
“Are you Henderson?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
Chris grinnned and held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. Reynolds is the name. Chris Reynolds.”
Henderson did not shake hands. “Yes?” he said curtly.
Chris remained unaffected by Henderson’s curtness. “Doesn’t the name Reynolds mean nothing to you?”
Henderson said: “Reynolds, eh?”
“S’right, mate. Christopher Hubert Reynolds. My friends call me Chris.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled with pleasure.
“Was Miss—Billie Reynolds a relation of yours?”
“Sure,” said Chris. “She was my sister.”
“I’m sorry,” said Henderson, “I didn’t realize that. I was very sorry to hear about your sister.”
Reynolds waved the sympathy aside with an airy gesture. “Sad, ain’t it?” he said. He looked anything but sad about it. “Very, very sad. Mind you,” he went on judicially, “I always said she’d come to a sticky end. You can’t play with fire an’ not get burnt, can you, Mr. Henderson?” He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes: “Or can you?”
“What exactly is it you want?” asked Henderson.
Chris flicked ash on to the carpet and passed a hand over his greasy mane. “I just wanted to have a little friendly chat, that’s all. I knew you was a friend of Billie’s and so——”
“Who told you I was a friend of your sister’s?” broke in Henderson. He sat down on the arm of the settee and watched Reynolds closely.
“Billie did,” replied Chris, “said some very nice things about you an’ all. ‘Mr. Henderson’s different,’ she says, ‘he’s such a gentleman.’ Very partial to the public school type was my sister. Funny really, considering.”
“There seems to be some mistake,” said Henderson quietly. “I only met your sister once and that was twelve months ago.”
“Oh, is that so?” said Reynolds in what he imagined to be a heavily sarcastic tone. “Maybe your memory ain’t as good as it was. Have you forgotten the time she came here?”
“When was that?” asked Henderson cautiously.
“S’posing you tell me?” countered Chris amiably. He got up from his chair and faced Henderson. The smile was still in position. “Well, when was it, chum? Just over a week ago?”
Henderson said casually: “Are you by any chance trying to blackmail me?”
Chris registered horror at such an insinuation. “What, blackmail you?” he said, “the very idea! You was a friend of Billie’s, Mr. Henderson, an’ any friend of Billie’s is a friend of mine, get it?”
“I’m beginning to,” said Henderson shortly.
“If you must know,” continued Chris expansively, “I feel very friendly disposed towards you, very friendly.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Henderson. He regarded Chris with a mixture of amusement and distaste. “I’ve met your type before. You’re up to something. I’d like to know what.”
“Can you play chess?” asked Chris.
Henderson sprang across the room and seized Reynolds by the lapels of his jacket. His mouth was set as he held Chris in a vice-like grip. Chris’s eyes widened in fear.
“I asked you what you were up to, Reynolds,” he said, ominously quiet. “Now tell me.”
Chris shook himself free from Henderson’s grasp and straightened his coat. His veneer of toughness was back and the ingratiating smile had turned into a sneer. He said: “Want to know something, chum? My sister kept a diary, see, a nice chatty day-to-day diary. Well, it so happens yours truly found that diary”—Chris paused dramatically so that his words would take effect—“I found it at the bottom of an old chest-of-drawers.” He pointed a finger at Henderson. “Know what, mate? You’re in that diary and so are a hell of a lot of other people.”
“Well?” said Henderson.
“Use your imagination, teacher,” said Reynolds insolently.
Henderson contemplated Reynolds thoughtfully for a moment. Chris lit another cigarette with an air of complete detachment. Henderson said: “Where is this diary?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” said Chris in tones of bitterest contempt. “Think I’m a sucker? D’you think I carry it around with me? Use your loaf, for Gawd’s sake.”
“I’m serious,” said Henderson quietly. “Where is it?”
“How much?” sneered Reynolds.
“I don’t quite understand,” said Henderson. “What d’you mean ‘how much’?”
“Don’t give me that,” said Reynolds viciously. “You know bloody well what I mean. That diary’s worth lolly, mate—a nice packet of lolly. Now then, how much?”
Henderson shrugged. “How can I tell you what it’s worth when I haven’t seen it?”
Reynolds looked at Henderson through narrowed eyes. After a moment he said: “O.K., chumsey. You can see it tonight. Meet me at the houseboat at seven o’clock.”
“Now, just a minute,” said Henderson in a conciliatory voice, “has anyone else seen this diary—have you shown it to anyone else?”
“What d’you take me for?”
“Are you sure?”
“Course I’m sure.”
“All right,” said Henderson levelly. “I’ll come and see you at seven o’clock.”
Reynolds looked at Henderson suspiciously. “And no tricks, mind.”
“Don’t be a bigger fool than God made you, Reynolds,” said Henderson curtly.
Chris twisted his mouth into a leer. He’s coming out with something straight from Hollywood now, thought Henderson wearily. He was not disappointed.
“Don’t ever do that again, Mr. Henderson,” said Chris menacingly.
“Do what again?”
Reynolds hunched his shoulders in a gesture of distaste. “Don’t catch hold of me like that again. I don’t like it, mate. I’ve always been allergic to that sorta thing.” His hand suddenly went to his pocket and brought out a knife. He flicked open the blade expertly. “You took an awful risk, teacher.”
Henderson came to the conclusion that he was rather tired of Christopher Hubert Reynolds. He moved very quickly. His left hand closed on Chris’s wrist and pressed gently. Chris Reynolds struggled and started to sweat.
“I’ll tell you something I’m allergic to,” said Henderson, scarcely more than conversationally; “I’m allergic to silly little men with knives.” His grip relaxed a little. “Now, put that thing away and don’t be stupid.”
Chris sized up Henderson with a wary and professional eye. Then he put the knife back in his pocket. He groped in his mind for a crushing rejoinder, but failed to find one good enough. He finally settled for: “O.K., teacher, O.K.…” He dusted his coat down, squared his shoulders, shot a final venomous look at Henderson and went out. Henderson stood looking after him for a moment and then moved quickly over to the telephone.
He said, with a note of urgency in his voice: “Get me Westwood 9451.…”