Keith. [Sardonically] Privilege of A brother.
As it happens, I’m thinking of myself and our
family. You can’t indulge yourself in
killing without bringing ruin. My God!
I suppose you realise that you’ve made me an
accessory after the fact—me, King’s
counsel—sworn to the service of the Law,
who, in a year or two, will have the trying of cases
like yours! By heaven, Larry, you’ve surpassed
yourself!
Larry. [Bringing out a little box] I’d
better have done with it.
KErra. You fool! Give that to me.
Larry. [With a strange smite] No. [He holds
up a tabloid between finger and thumb] White magic,
Keith! Just one—and they may do what
they like to you, and you won’t know it.
Snap your fingers at all the tortures. It’s
a great comfort! Have one to keep by you?
Keith. Come, Larry! Hand it over.
Larry. [Replacing the box] Not quite!
You’ve never killed a man, you see. [He gives
that crazy laugh.] D’you remember that hammer
when we were boys and you riled me, up in the long
room? I had luck then. I had luck in Naples
once. I nearly killed a driver for beating his
poor brute of a horse. But now—!
My God! [He covers his face.]
Keith touched,
goes up and lays a hand on his shoulder.
Keith. Come, Larry! Courage!
Larry looks up
at him.
Larry. All right, Keith; I’ll try.
Keith. Don’t go out. Don’t
drink. Don’t talk. Pull yourself
together!
Larry. [Moving towards the door] Don’t
keep me longer than you can help, Keith.
Keith. No, no. Courage!
Larry reaches the
door, turns as if to say something-finds no
words, and goes.
[To the fire] Courage! My God! I shall
need it!
Curtain
At out eleven o’clock the following
night an WANDA’S room on the ground floor
in Soho. In the light from one close-shaded
electric bulb the room is but dimly visible.
A dying fire burns on the left. A curtained
window in the centre of the back wall. A
door on the right. The furniture is plush-covered
and commonplace, with a kind of shabby smartness.
A couch, without back or arms, stands aslant,
between window and fire.
[On this Wanda is sitting, her
knees drawn up under her, staring at the embers.
She has on only her nightgown and a wrapper over
it; her bare feet are thrust into slippers.
Her hands are crossed and pressed over her breast.
She starts and looks up, listening. Her
eyes are candid and startled, her face alabaster pale,
and its pale brown hair, short and square-cut, curls
towards her bare neck. The startled dark
eyes and the faint rose of her lips are like
colour-staining on a white mask.]
