The Colour of Murder

by Julian Symons

  Chapter Ten

  “A half pint of mild and bitter, please,” said little Mr Lambie. He stared sadly at the drink when it came, sipped it, and then began the task of finding out from another publican whether he had seen John Wilkins on the night of Monday, June the fourth.

  Edward Lambie did not look much like the ferret of Captain Spaulding’s description. He looked, rather, like a clerk in an insurance company, one who has missed promotion and knows that life holds nothing for him now but a steady descent to the grave. His features were insignificant and almost shapeless, but somehow melancholy. His clothes were respectable, a bowler hat, fawn raincoat, pin-stripe suit, but without being worn out they gave an impression of shabbiness. Mr Lambie had never had much luck in his life – not much luck of any kind, good or bad. When he left the grammar school where, naturally, he was known as Baa Lamb, he became a clerk in a small engineering firm.

  At the death of his parents he left this job and used the few hundred pounds they had left him to start a sports shop. The sports shop was on its last legs when the war came and saved Mr Lambie from the need to worry about what he was going to do next. He volunteered at once, served for seven years with no particular distinction. When the war was over Mr Lambie, who had during the sports shop period collected a wife and child, drifted into a variety of jobs, most of which he kept for only a few weeks. He had been employed by Captain Spaulding now for two years, a length of office which might be attributed equally perhaps to the fact that he was prepared to work for low wages, and to a dreary pertinacity in him that did sometimes produce surprisingly good results. Not that, in general, the results could be either good or bad, since it was usually just a matter of obtaining divorce evidence – evidence which sometimes, as Mr Lambie said to his wife, made you wonder what the world was coming to.

  Mr Lambie had had an unproductive couple of days in which he had drunk a great deal of beer, which in a quiet way he rather liked, and asked a lot of questions. Now he had come back to the Toll Gate, his starting-point.

  “You’re absolutely sure, aren’t you, Mr Holloway, that Mr Wilkins never said anything about where he was going?”

  Mr Holloway, red-faced and beefy, drew a pint. “Absolutely sure.”

  “And he left here about a quarter past nine, that’s right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He didn’t say anything like ‘I’m going to have another one round the corner’ or ‘I’ve just remembered an appointment,’ did he?” Lambie asked hopelessly.

  “Now, look, I want to be helpful. I’m not a man who says ‘Clear off, I’ve told it all to the police.’ Not me. I like to help everybody. But I’ve told it all to you before. I’ll say it just once more and that’s the end of it, understand? He came in here about a quarter to nine, maybe just after. He was well-loaded, but no more than that, or if he was he didn’t show it. He had two whiskies, he talked a bit to me and a couple of other people in the bar, and about a quarter past nine he went out.”

  “You don’t remember anything about the conversation?”

  “I said that’s an end of it.” The big man moved away up to the other end of the bar. Mr Lambie contemplated his beer. A hand touched his shoulder. He turned, and confronted a villainous-looking old man, with a cunning eye, grey hair dyed a patchy brown, and brown moustaches stained nicotine yellow in the middle.

  “Forgive me butting in, sir. Couldn’t help overhearing. You’re making inquiries about this fellow on trial now at Lewes.”

  “That’s right.” There was something obscurely military about the old man’s appearance, something that reminded Mr Lambie of an ancient, immensely decayed Captain Spaulding.

  “Might be able to help you. Happened to be in here when that chappie was having his drink.” The old man smiled, showing a mouth full of rotten teeth, and expelled his whisky-tobacco breath at Lambie. “Major Mortimer, RASC, retired.”

  “My name’s Lambie.” He suddenly became aware that his companion’s glass was empty and that he was drumming with his fingers on the bar. “What’s that you’re drinking?”

  “Large whisky and splash.” The major downed half his drink at a gulp, and wiped his moustache. “Yes, I had the privilege of speaking to our mutual friend, shall we call him, and gave him a little advice.”

  “You haven’t been to the police?”

  “I have not, sir. What’s the point? This isn’t a hostelry I often favour, and they haven’t sought me out. But you, now – you want to know where this feller went when he left here. I might be able to tell you.”

  “Yes?” Mr Lambie found it difficult not to move back from the rotten teeth and the whisky breath.

  “There’s no taste in nothing. What’s it worth to you? Is it worth a tenner?”

  “Good gracious, no.” Mr Lambie was scandalised. “I had thought–”

  “Yes?”

  “I had thought of buying you another drink.”

  Major Mortimer laughed heartily. “You’re a good chap. Come on now, what’s it worth? Can’t be worth less than five smackers, surely?”

  “If you like to tell me what you know, I can say what it’s worth.”

  “Oh, no, no. Can’t catch an old bird with that kind of chaff. Softly softly, catchee monkee, eh?” Mr Lambie watched in fascination as Major Mortimer’s withered Adam’s apple moved up and down, signifying his consumption of more whisky. He was in a difficult position. On one hand Captain Spaulding grudged spending money on this kind of thing, on the other he was reluctant to let pass the first apparent clue to John Wilkins’ movements. Something told him to go on bargaining. He did so, a pound note changed hands, and Major Mortimer told his story.

  “He was in here, this feller, and a bit the worse for wear, you might say. Talking about his wife, how she was no good to him, that kind of stuff. Something about this other kid, Sheila, seems she’d done him down in some way. Between the two of them the poor chap was out on his feet. Only one remedy for that kind of thing, I remember when we were out at Poona in twenty-seven there was a lot of unrest among the men, one thing and another. Only one thing for it. Arranged trips to the local red light district, nothing damn’ well voluntary about it either, proper parade you understand, CO’s orders. Marched ’em down, went in by numbers, had no trouble with ’em afterwards.”

  “I don’t quite see what that’s got to do with Wilkins.”

  “Same problem, old man. Wanted a woman, to quieten him down. Told him so, and told him where to go too.”

  “You mean–”

  “Little pub in Kemp Town, place called the Diving Bell, you get all sorts in there. Take it from me, old chap. I know.” There was something really horrifying about the leer which Major Mortimer now gave Mr Lambie.

  “And you suggested he should go up to this place? You don’t know if he went.”

  “Don’t precisely know, old chap. But from my knowledge of human nature, which is pretty considerable – he did.”

  It was five minutes to ten when Mr Lambie came out of the Toll Gate. He wondered whether he had wasted the pound. It was in any case too late, he said to himself thankfully, to trail up to Kemp Town tonight on what was very likely a wild goose chase. He walked back to his boarding-house, kissed the photograph of his wife as he did every night, and went to bed.

  Chapter Eleven

  The most important witness for the prosecution, Magnus Newton had said to Charlie Hudnutt in discussing the case, was the scientist Ritchie. But before the important Mr Ritchie there was another witness who was by no means unimportant. His name was Fanum, and he was a thin, nervous man in his sixties with pince-nez perched uncertainly on his nose. He had been to visit a friend in Hove, he told Hayley, and had been walking back along the promenade. At twenty minutes to twelve he had heard, from the direction of the beach, a terrible laugh. What had it been like? It was like nothing, Mr Fanum said, that he had ever heard, a wild howl like that of a wolf or the keening of a dog, which was yet in some extraordinary way a laugh.

&nb
sp; He seemed prepared to elaborate on this, but Hayley managed to prevent him from doing so. Mr Fanum had then seen a man walk up the stone steps from the beach. His face was of a ghastly pallor, and he had staggered as though ill or drunk. The man had gone on in the direction of John Wilkins’ hotel.

  “You saw this man under a street lamp?” Hayley asked.

  “That is so, sir.”

  “The light was quite a bright one.”

  “Quite bright. The lighting along there is very good.”

  “You later picked out the prisoner as the man you saw, at an identification parade?”

  “That is so.”

  “And you have no doubt of the identification?”

  Very firmly Mr Fanum answered, “None at all, sir.”

  Puffing a little, Magnus Newton rose to cross-examine. “You are an – um – retired architect, Mr Fanum. And you had been visiting your friend Mr – um – Royston, I think you said. What had you been doing in his company?”

  “We had supper, then a game of billiards.”

  “Supper and a game of billiards, yes. Anything to drink?”

  “Just a bottle of beer, you know. I never take more than a bottle of beer.”

  “I am glad to hear it, Mr Fanum.” Mr Newton and Mr Fanum smiled and bobbed at each other. Mr Fanum’s pince-nez dropped off and he stooped to pick them up, a little flustered. “And you say you left Mr Royston’s house at half past eleven. How can you be so sure of the time?”

  Mr Fanum looked offended. “I looked at my watch. My watch is never wrong.”

  “Never wrong, Mr Fanum? Has it never been so much as five minutes fast or slow?”

  “Not in twenty-five years,” said Fanum triumphantly. “So that you are absolutely sure the time was exactly twenty minutes to twelve when you saw this man.”

  Mr Fanum wagged a finger. “Not exactly, sir. I should allow a margin of – let me see – two minutes on either side.”

  “But the time could not possibly have been half past eleven when you saw him.”

  “No, certainly not.” Mr Fanum appeared scandalised by the suggestion. More smiling and bobbing.

  “Then you heard this remarkable sound. Could you, again, say what it was like?”

  Mr Fanum leaned forward eagerly on the ledge of the box. “It was like the laugh of a hyena when it has its prey at its mercy.”

  There was a faint murmur in court, that might have been laughter. “I am obliged,” Newton said. “When were you last in Africa?”

  “In Africa.” Mr Fanum gave a brief giggle, sharply cut off. “I have never been outside England in my life.”

  “Really?” Newton rocked backwards and forwards, considering. “Then how do you know what a hyena sounds like when crouched above its prey?”

  “I – well–” Mr Fanum took off his pince-nez and rubbed them, quite at a loss. Hayley rose to his rescue.

  “My lord, I don’t see the force of this line of questioning. Mr Fanum heard some sound which drew his attention to the beach. Surely its exact nature is not important – we are prepared to agree that it cannot be established.”

  “I don’t wish to appear obstinate, my lord, but I think it is,” Newton persisted. “Mr Fanum heard this remarkable sound, then a minute or two later he saw a man whom he has identified as the prisoner come up from the beach. The connection between the two things is obviously of interest.”

  The judge coughed. “Yes, I think so. Continue your questioning.”

  “Now, Mr Fanum, perhaps we can get some more exact idea of this sound. You are sure it was a laugh?”

  “Yes, I think so,” said Mr Fanum, very unsurely.

  “It could not possibly have been, for instance, a girl screaming for help?”

  “Certainly not, nothing like that.”

  “I am obliged. Was it a laugh like this?” Newton vented a deep ho-ho-ho of false enjoyment.

  “Oh no, not at all like that. That wouldn’t have frightened me.”

  “The laugh frightened you, did it, Mr Fanum?”

  “It made my blood run cold,” Mr Fanum said with an air of triumphant originality, and giggled again.

  He’s really turning this one inside out, Mr Likeness thought, and doing it beautifully too, so that the old fool thinks he’s doing well and the jury can see that he is an old fool. His hand wandered to his nose and he began to pick it, which was a thing he very rarely did in court.

  “Supposing that you had not heard this strange sound, are you quite sure you would have noticed the figure coming up from the beach?”

  “Oh yes. No doubt about it.”

  “Why?” Mr Fanum goggled at him. “Why would you have noticed him? What was there so remarkable in his appearance?”

  “He staggered a little. His face was very pale. He was muttering to himself–”

  “You have not mentioned that before,” Newton said sharply.

  “I – why, no. It’s just come to me.”

  “Do you mean that he was muttering words you could hear? Or just that you saw his lips moving?”

  “I didn’t hear any words.” Mr Fanum jammed his pince-nez down on his nose defiantly.

  “Then you say that his face was pale. Do you know that the light under which you saw him was fluorescent, and that under such a light everybody – you and I and everyone else in this courtroom – would take on a most unpleasing pallor?”

  “I – well, I didn’t notice.”

  “So that this person under the lamp could have looked no paler than you looked yourself.” Newton rocked again on his heels. “What suit was this man wearing?”

  “He was wearing a sports jacket and trousers.”

  “Of what colour?”

  Mr Fanum spread out his hands in agitation. “I couldn’t exactly say.”

  “Ah. Was there any blood on them?”

  “I couldn’t say. The light was not good enough–”

  “The light was not good enough. But it was good enough for you to recognise the prisoner, a man whom you had never seen before. How far were you from him?”

  “About five or six feet.”

  “And how long did you see his face? Would you say – since you’re so exact about time, Mr Fanum – would you say five seconds?”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “In any case, it was no more than the time it took him to walk past you. In that time you identified him.” Newton thrust his head forward. “Mr Fanum, did you see photographs of the prisoner in the papers before you made your identification?”

  “I may have done, I really don’t know.” Mr Fanum looked as if he were going to cry.

  “Mr Fanum, I suggest to you that you were walking along and you heard this very unnerving laugh – which you can’t exactly identify except to say that it was unnerving – and then you saw somebody coming up from the beach. If you had not heard the laugh, you would not have given the man a second glance. Isn’t that so?”

  Mr Fanum looked at him with dazed incomprehension. “It was a murderer’s laugh. That laugh had in it the colour of murder.”

  “That laugh had in it the colour of murder,” Newton repeated, savouring the meaningless phrase, making sure the jury took it in too. “So naturally the next person you saw must be a murderer. And John Wilkins, who happened to be wearing a sports jacket like thousands of other people in Brighton – do you agree now that you can’t swear to the identification?”

  “I still think I saw him.” Mr Fanum pushed his pince-nez lop-sided on his nose and looked at the prisoner. “And I tell you this – that laugh had the colour of murder in it.”

  Why, Hayley wondered as he rose to re-examine, without much hope that he could eradicate the impression of ineffable foolishness suggested by Mr Fanum, why are witnesses with a perfectly straightforward story to tell so stupid?

  Chapter Twelve

  “Your chap did pretty well this afternoon,” said Robin Pinkney.

  “I hope so.” Mr Likeness, that perpetual small smile on his crumpled yellow face,
sighted carefully down his cue at the only red left on the table, and cut it sharply into the top pocket. “He certainly made Fanum look an absolute fool. Was that a good thing to do? I expect it was.”

  Pinkney looked at him curiously. “It’s not like you to have doubts.”

  The yellow was an easy ball. Mr Likeness screwed back beautifully to obtain perfect position on the green. “You’re right there, Rob. It’s going well, and Newton’s pretty good. I’ve got a feeling, though–”

  “What sort of a feeling?”

  “I don’t know.” He played a delicate stroke which put the cue ball just behind the pink, a difficult snooker. “The fact is, he’s an uncomfortable young man to have around, this young Wilkins.”

  “You mean you feel sorry for him?” Pinkney tried to get out of the snooker, failed and swore.

  “Not exactly. In fact, he’s pretty unattractive. But there’s a kind of innocence about him–”

  “He didn’t do it, you mean?”

  “I don’t know what I do mean,” said Mr Likeness pettishly, and took brown, blue, pink and black on this visit to the table.

  “There’s nothing innocent about you when it comes to playing snooker,” Robin Pinkney said. “That’s ten bob I owe you, and quite enough. Let’s go along to the bar.”

  Magnus Newton also was obscurely disturbed, and tried to say something of what he felt to Charlie Hudnutt. That briskly cynical young man, however, persisted in considering his senior’s expressions of doubt as mock-modesty after his success that afternoon. After dinner Newton left him, and rang up his wife at their home in Hampton Court. He learned that their only child, ten-year-old Viola, who had a severe attack of mumps, was no better. Newton adored the child, and wondered if worry about her condition was the cause of his own disquiet.

  Rather to his surprise he found himself, on his return to the hotel lounge, seeking out the company of Doctor Andreadis. The doctor had been told that, unless some unforeseen move was made by the prosecution, he would not be called as a witness. Nevertheless he had appeared that afternoon, a handsome and debonair figure looking (thought Newton, who was a devotee of both theatre and cinema) rather less like a doctor than like Anton Walbrook playing the part of a doctor in some Hollywood drama. Now Andreadis greeted him with a grave but brilliant smile. Newton dropped into a chair beside him.