Portobello by Ruth Rendell Read Free Book Online

expedient of buying
no more. Possibly it would take him a week or two, so there would
be no proposal of marriage that evening.
    Perhaps she had expected it. He couldn't tell whether that was the
case or she was just tired. Whatever it was, she said she'd like to go
home to her own flat and he put her into a taxi for that rather less
salubrious north-western edge of Notting Hill beyond the Portobello
Road. An early night for him also, then. He would propose soon; there
was no doubt he loved her. Next time they met, perhaps, or in a
week's time. By then the habit he had mysteriously got into would
be behind him. She would certainly say yes, they would fix a wedding
date and she would move in. That was what he wanted, wasn't it?
    It was not yet quite 10.30 but he fell asleep quickly and
therefore was awake at six, scarcely able to believe his ears
when the phone rang at ten past. No one should phone anyone
after nine in the evening was a principle of Eugene's and certainly
not before nine in the morning. His 'hello' was icy.
    A man's voice, educated, not unlike his own but younger, said,
'I've only just seen your notice. Well, I didn't see it. Someone told
me about it. My mother, actually.'
    'Do you know what time it is?'
    Instead of taking this question as rhetorical, his caller said, 'No,
I don't. Quite early, I should think.'
    'What is it you want?'
    'I think you've got my hundred and fifteen pounds.'
    'Ah, yes.' Eugene tried to consider. 'You did say a hundred and
fifteen?'
    'Yes. It's mine.'
    He wasn't yet fully awake. Still, it was apparent this was the
rightful owner of the money. What was he going to do about the
other chap, he thought fuzzily, the one who was coming today?
'Perhaps you'd like to come here and collect it,' he said.
    'I can't do that.' The voice might be educated but it was odd for
all that, vague somehow, in no hurry. 'I'm in hospital, had a heart
operation,' it said. This perhaps accounted for the oddity. 'I'm going
to be in here quite a bit longer. Could you send it?'
    'I suppose so,' Eugene said ungraciously and with a sigh. 'Who
are you and where do you live – when you're not in hospital, so
to speak.'
    'But I am in hospital. Look, I'm called Joel Roseman and I live
in Ludlow Mansions, Moscow Road. That's West Eleven. But I
don't see why you can't send it to the hospital. It's the Welbeck
Nightingale Heart Hospital, only it's not in Welbeck Street, it's in
Shepherd's Bush. The McCluskie Wing. Have you got that? A
cheque would be safer than sending cash.'
    What a time to phone! And from a hospital bed! Surely a private
clinic by the sound of it, so this Joel Roseman could hardly be in
need of the money. Eugene began to feel very uncomfortable and
the hot verbena-scented bath he took didn't much improve matters.
He should have got the name and phone number of the man who
was coming at 6.30 today so that he could put him off. How could
he have failed to do that? In his blue silk dressing gown he sat up
in a pink velvet armchair, thinking about it. Looking at the very
nice Cotman on the opposite wall usually calmed him down but
not this morning. He went downstairs, which he seldom did before
he was dressed, and in the drawing room, from the fifth drawer
down in a tallboy of tiny drawers, opened a fresh pack of
Chocorange, put one in his mouth and another in his dressinggown
pocket. 'Tooth-friendly', it said on the packet so that was all
right. Still, it was the first time he had sucked one of the things
before 10 a.m. Another thin end of the wedge. He would just have
to go through with it, see this chap and tell him he was too late.
Awkward but inevitable. And those things had better be rationed
from now on, one more after lunch, two in the afternoon and
maybe one before Ella arrived.
    But no, not rationed. Given up. He would buy no more.
    Suppose the nameless man, his first caller, happened by chance
to fix on the right sum? It would be a remarkable coincidence,
Eugene thought, but not impossible. He