The Third Series Plays | Page 8

slow and imperturbable, as if she had much time before
her. Her face is broad and dark, with Chinese eyebrows.
MALISE. Wait, Mrs. Miller!
MRS. MILER. I'm gettin' be'ind'and, sir.
She comes and stands before him. MALISE writes.
MRS. MILER. There's a man 'angin' about below.
MALISE looks up; seeing that she has roused his attention, she stops.

But as soon as he is about to write again, goes on.
MRS. MILER. I see him first yesterday afternoon. I'd just been out to
get meself a pennyworth o' soda, an' as I come in I passed 'im on the
second floor, lookin' at me with an air of suspicion. I thought to meself
at the time, I thought: You're a'andy sort of 'ang-dog man.
MALISE. Well?
MRS. MILER. Well-peekin' down through the balusters, I see 'im
lookin' at a photograft. That's a funny place, I thinks, to look at
pictures--it's so dark there, ye 'ave to use yer eyesight. So I giv' a scrape
with me 'eel [She illustrates] an' he pops it in his pocket, and puts up 'is
'and to knock at number three. I goes down an' I says: "You know
there's no one lives there, don't yer?" "Ah!" 'e says with an air of
innercence, "I wants the name of Smithers." "Oh!" I says, "try round
the corner, number ten." "Ah!" 'e says tactful, "much obliged." "Yes," I
says, "you'll find 'im in at this time o' day. Good evenin'!" And I thinks
to meself [She closes one eye] Rats! There's a good many corners
hereabouts.
MALISE. [With detached appreciation] Very good, Mrs. Miler.
MRS. MILER. So this mornin', there e' was again on the first floor with
'is 'and raised, pretendin' to knock at number two. "Oh! you're still
lookin' for 'im?" I says, lettin' him see I was 'is grandmother. "Ah!" 'e
says, affable, "you misdirected me; it's here I've got my business."
"That's lucky," I says, "cos nobody lives there neither. Good mornin'!"
And I come straight up. If you want to see 'im at work you've only to
go downstairs, 'e'll be on the ground floor by now, pretendin' to knock
at number one. Wonderful resource!
MALISE. What's he like, this gentleman?
MRS. MILER. Just like the men you see on the front page o' the daily
papers. Nasty, smooth-lookin' feller, with one o' them billycock hats
you can't abide.
MALISE. Isn't he a dun?
MRS. MILER. They don't be'ave like that; you ought to know, sir. He's
after no good. [Then, after a little pause] Ain't he to be put a stop to? If
I took me time I could get 'im, innercent-like, with a jug o' water.
[MALISE, smiling, shakes his head.]
MALISE. You can get on now; I'm going to shave.
He looks at the clock, and passes out into the inner room. MRS.

MILER, gazes round her, pins up her skirt, sits down in the armchair,
takes off her hat and puts it on the table, and slowly rolls up her sleeves;
then with her hands on her knees she rests. There is a soft knock on the
door. She gets up leisurely and moves flat-footed towards it. The door
being opened CLARE is revealed.
CLARE. Is Mr. Malise in?
MRS. MILER. Yes. But 'e's dressin'.
CLARE. Oh.
MRS. MILER. Won't take 'im long. What name?
CLARE. Would you say--a lady.
MRS. MILER. It's against the rules. But if you'll sit down a moment I'll
see what I can do. [She brings forward a chair and rubs it with her
apron. Then goes to the door of the inner room and speaks through it]
A lady to see you. [Returning she removes some cigarette ends] This is
my hour. I shan't make much dust. [Noting CLARE's eyebrows raised
at the debris round the armchair] I'm particular about not disturbin'
things.
CLARE. I'm sure you are.
MRS. MILER. He likes 'is 'abits regular.
Making a perfunctory pass with the Bissell broom, she runs it to the
cupboard, comes back to the table, takes up a bottle and holds it to the
light; finding it empty, she turns it upside down and drops it into the
wastepaper basket; then, holding up the other bottle, arid finding it not
empty, she corks it and drops it into the fold of her skirt.
MRS. MILER. He takes his claret fresh-opened--not like these 'ere
bawgwars.
CLARE. [Rising] I think I'll come back later.
MRS. MILER. Mr. Malise is not in my confidence. We keep each other
to ourselves. Perhaps you'd like to read the paper; he has it fresh every
mornin'--the Westminister.
She plucks that journal from out of the armchair and hands it to
CLARE, who sits doom again unhappily to brood. MRS. MILER
makes a pass or two with a very dirty duster,