One by one the lights behind the big window opposite, screened by the yellow muslin curtains, went out like the eyes of a robot figure closing in sleep. Several times the green-painted glasspanelled door with the gilt letters “Restaurant” on it, opened, and men and women, in pairs or singly, came out. George watched them disperse, their heads down, some arm in arum, moving rapidly to another more distant shelter.
There was only one light burning now. He could see the shadowy outlines of the big blonde woman, Emily, and the whitecoated Hebrew, Max, through the curtain. The woman sat at the cash desk. He guessed she was emptying the till. The Hebrew seemed to be clearing up at the bar, washing glasses, drying them and putting then away.
It was time to talk to them. George crossed the street, pushed open the green-panelled door and entered the restaurant. The long room was stuffy, and smelt of food, cigars and coffee. The shaded light above the cash desk threw off an isolated yellow pool in the dim, smoky room.
“We’re closed,” Max said, continuing to put the glasses under the counter.
George looked first at the Hebrew and then at the woman, Emily He closed the door and moved further into the light.
Emily recognized him.
“Max…” There was a quick, urgent note in her voice. She put her hand under the desk, and a bell began to ring somewhere in the building.
Max was bending down behind the counter, arranging the glasses in an orderly row. As he heard the hell and caught the sharp note in Emily’s voice, he clashed the glasses together. One of them slipped from his fingers and dropped with a little thump on the carpet. He raised his head and peered at George, his pebbly eyes blank with alarm.
George waited. It was no use talking to them until they were ready to listen. At the moment their attention was concentrated in keeping him there, in trapping him.
“It’s all right,” he said, wanting to reassure them. “I’ve come to explain.”