by Gerald Kersh
Mr. Wainewright smiled as he entered the “Duchess of Douro”: this pub had brought him luck. In this saloon bar he had found power.
* * * * *
The barmaid called Baby was still there. Wainewright stood at the bar and waited. “What can I get you?” she asked.
With a gulp of trepidation Wainewright said: “Whisky.”
“Small or large?”
“Ah . . . large, please.”
“Soda?”
“Yes, please.”
“Ice?”
“Please.”
He looked at her. She did not recognise him. He said: “You don’t remember me.”
“I’ve seen you somewhere,” she said.
“I was in here some time ago with a friend of yours.”
“Friend of mine?”
“Tooth.”
“Who?”
“Tooth. Sid Tooth.”
“Sid! I didn’t know he was called Tooth. I thought his name was Edwards. He told me his—— Well, anyway . . .”
“If you didn’t know his name was Tooth, you don’t know about him, then,” said Wainewright, gulping his drink in his excitement.
“Know what?”
“Victoria Scissors Murder,” said Wainewright.
“What’s that? Oh-oh! Tooth! Was that Sid? Really?”
“Yes, that was Sid. It happened in my house. I’m Mr. Wainewright. I’m the witness for the prosecution.”
She served another customer: Wainewright admired the play of supple muscles in her arm as she worked the beer engine.
“Want another one?” she asked, and Wainewright nodded.
“Will you have one?”
“Mustn’t drink on duty,” she said. “So that was Sid! Well.”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings,” said Wainewright.
“Sad tidings? Oh. I didn’t know him very well. We were just sort of acquaintances. Scissors, wasn’t it? Well, I dare say he deserved it.”
Wainewright stared at her. “I was in the next room at the time,” he said.
“Did you see it?”
“Not exactly: I heard it.”
“Oh,” said the barmaid. “Well . . .”
She seemed to bite off and swallow bitter words. “WELL what?” said Wainewright, with a little giggle.
She looked at him, pausing with a glass in one hand and a duster in the other, and said:
“That makes one swine less in the world.”
“I thought you liked him,” Wainewright said.
“I don’t like any man.”
“Oh,” said Wainewright. “Um . . . ah . . . oh, Miss!”
“Yes?”
“Tooth. Did he . . . ah . . .”
“Did he what?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Yes he did,” said the barmaid.
“Did what?”
“Nothing.” She turned away. “Excuse me.”
Wainewright wanted to talk to her. “May I have another?” he asked. “Do you mind?”
He emptied his third glass. “You don’t like me,” he said.
“I don’t know you.”
“Do you want to know me?”
The barmaid called Baby said: “Not particularly.”
“Don’t go,” said Wainewright.
She sighed. There was something about Wainewright that made her uneasy: she did not like this strange, dead-looking, empty-eyed man. “Do you want something?”
He nodded.
“Another double Scotch?”
Wainewright nodded absently. Baby replenished his glass: he looked at it in astonishment, and put down a ten-shilling note.
“You’ve got some silver,” she said.
“I haven’t got anything at all,” said Wainewright, “I’m lonely.”
The barmaid said, in a tone of hostility mixed with pity: “Find yourself somebody.”
“Nobody wants me. I’m lonely.”
“Well?”
“I’ve got eight thousand pounds and a house. A big house. Big, big . . .” He spread his arms in a large gesture. “Twenty years I waited. I waited. God, I waited and waited!”
“What for?”
A buzzer sounded. A voice cried: “Order your last drinks please, gentlemen! Order your last drinks!”
“She was eighty-seven when she died. She was an old woman when I was a boy.”
“Who was?”
“Auntie. I waited twenty years.”
“What for?”
“Eight thousand pounds. She left it to me. I’ve got eight thousand pounds and a house. Furnished from top to bottom. Old lease. It brings in seven pounds a week clear.”
He groped in a fog, found himself, and dragged himself up.
“Pardon me, Miss,” he said. “I ought not to drink.” He felt ill.
“That’s all right,” said the barmaid.
“Will you excuse me, Miss?” asked Wainewright.
The girl called Baby was turning away. Something like rage got into his throat and made him shout: “You think I’m nobody! You wait!”
A doorman in a grey uniform, a colossus with a persuasive voice, picked him up as a whirlwind picks up a scrap of paper, and led him to the door, murmuring: “Now come on, sir, come on. You’ve had it, sir, you’ve had enough, sir. Let’s all be friendly. Come on, now.”
“You think I’m nobody,” said Mr. Wainewright, half crying.
“I wish there was a million more like you,” said the doorman, “because you’re sensible, that’s what you are. You know when you’ve had enough. If there was more like you, why . . .”
The swing-door went whup, and Mr. Wainewright was in the street.
He thought he heard people laughing behind him in the bar.
“You’ll see, to-morrow!” he cried.
The doorman’s voice said: “That’s right. Spoken like a man. Here you are, then, sir. Where to?”
A taxi was standing, wide-open and quivering.
“77, Bishop’s Square, Belgravia,” said Mr. Wainewright.
“Bishop’s Square, Victoria,” said the taxi-driver.
“Belgravia,” said Mr. Wainewright.
The doorman was waiting. He fumbled and found coins. “Here,” he said. The doorman saluted and the taxi-door slammed. Everything jolted away. At Whitehall, Mr. Wainewright realised that he had given the doorman four half-crowns instead of four pennies. He rapped at the window.
“Well?” said the driver.
“Oh, never mind,” said Mr. Wainewright.
Let them all wait until to-morrow. They would know then to whom they had been talking. . . .
But on that Sunday, for the first time in ten years, the editor of the Sunday Special cut out John Jacket’s article. Twenty minutes before midnight, formidable news came through from Middle Europe. Jacket’s page was needed for a statistical feature and a special map.
Mr. Wainewright went over the columns, inch by inch, and found nothing. He telephoned the Sunday Special. A sad voice said: “Mr. Jacket won’t be in until Tuesday – about eleven o’clock. Tell him what name, did you say? Daylight? Maybright? Wainewright. With an E, did you say? E. Wainewright? Oh, George. George E. Wainewright? Just George? George. Make your mind up. George Wainewright. I’ll give Mr. Jacket the message. ’Bye.”
On Tuesday, Mr. Wainewright arrived at the offices of the Sunday Special before half-past ten in the morning. Jacket arrived at a quarter to twelve. He saw that the little man looked ill.
“How are you, George?” he asked.
“Mr. Jacket,” said Mr. Wainewright, “what’s happened?”
“Happened? About what?”
“I hate to disturb you——”
“Not at all, George.”
“We met, you remember?”
“Certainly I remember. Hm?”
“The piece you were going to put in the paper about . . . about . . . my views on the Tooth case. Did you . . . ?”
“I wr
ote it, George. But my page was cut last Sunday. On account of Germany. Sorry, but there it is. Feel like a drink?”
“No, nothing to drink, thank you.”
“Coffee?”
“Perhaps a cup of coffee,” said Mr. Wainewright.
They went to a café not far away. Jacket was aware of Mr. Wainewright’s wretchedness: it was twitching at the corners of the nondescript mouth and dragging down the lids of the colourless eyes. “What’s up?” he asked, as if he did not know.
“Nothing. I simply wondered. . . . I wondered . . .”
“About that story? Take it easy, George. What is there that I can do? Bigger things have happened. As for this Tooth murder case – if you can call it a case. Martha Tooth is certain to get off lightly. Especially with Concord defending. I must get back to the office.”
In Fleet Street Mr. Wainewright asked him: “Is the trial likely to be reported?”
“Sure,” said Jacket.
“I suppose I’ll be called, as witness?”
“Of course.”
“But I’m detaining you, J-Jack.”
“Not at all, George. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, sir.”
Jacket hurried eastwards. Mr. Wainewright walked deliberately in the direction of the Strand.
* * * * *
Sumner Concord was perhaps the greatest defender of criminals the world had ever known. He could combine the crafty ratiocination of a Birkett with the dialectical oratory of a Marshall Hall, and act like John Barrymore – whom he closely resembled. The louder he sobbed the closer he observed you. In cross-examination he was suave and murderous. Birkenhead himself was afraid of Sumner Concord. Yet Concord was an honest man. He would defend no one whom he believed to be guilty.
“Tell me about it,” he said, to Martha Tooth.
“What do you want me to tell you?” she asked.
“You must tell me exactly what happened that evening at Number 77, Bishop’s Square. The truth, Mrs. Tooth. I want to help you. How can I help you if you do not tell me the truth?”
She said: “There isn’t anything to tell.”
“Now you are charged——” began Sumner Concord.
“Oh, what do I care? What do I care?” cried Martha Tooth. “Charge me, hang me – leave me alone!”
Sumner Concord had strong tea brought in before he continued. “Tell me, Mrs. Tooth. Why did you visit your husband that night?”
Martha Tooth said: “I wasn’t well. I couldn’t work. There were the children. I wanted Sid to do something about the children. I was his wife. He was my husband, after all. . . . I only wanted him to give me some money, just a little, till I could work again.”
“Work again at what, Mrs. Tooth?”
“I’d been doing housework.”
“And it had been some time since your husband had given you any money?”
“Three years.”
“You had been supporting yourself and your two children all that time?”
“Yes.”
“He had sent you nothing?”
“Not a penny. I left Sid over three years ago.”
“Why did you leave him, Mrs. Tooth?”
“He used to beat me. I couldn’t stand him beating me in front of the children. Then – it was when we had two rooms in Abelard Street near the British Museum – he brought a woman in.”
“Are there, Mrs. Tooth, by any chance, any witnesses who could testify to that?”
“Mrs. Ligo had the house. Then there was Miss Brundidge; she lived downstairs. I ran away with the children and went to my aunt’s place. She still lives there: Mrs. Lupton, 143, Novello Road, Turners Green. Her friend, Mrs. Yule, she lives there too. They both know. We stayed with them once. Sid used to knock me about. The police had to be called in twice. He wanted to kill me when he’d been drinking.”
“. . . In twice,” wrote Sumner Concord. “Novello Road. Novello Street Police Station, um? Take your time. Have some more tea. A cigarette. You don’t smoke? Wise of you, wise. He was a violent and dangerous man, this husband of yours, then?”
“Yes.”
“He threatened, for instance, to kill you, no doubt?”
“No,” said Martha Tooth, “he never threatened. He just hit.”
“And on this last occasion. You called to see him. Hm?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You hadn’t seen him for some time?”
“About three years.”
“How did you find out his address?”
“From his firm, Poise Weighing Machines.”
“You hadn’t tried to find out his address before, eh?”
“All I cared about was that Sid shouldn’t find out my address.”
“But you were at the end of your tether, hm?”
“I was supposed to be having an operation. I’ve still got to have an operation. And I thought Sid might let me have something . . .”
“There-there, now-now! Calm. Tears won’t help, Mrs. Tooth. We must be calm. You saw Sid. Yes?”
“Yes, sir. But . . . he’d been drinking, I think.”
“Tell me again exactly what happened.”
“I called. A lady let me in. I went up, and Sid was there. He said: ‘What, you?’ I said: ‘Yes, me.’ Then he said – he said——”
“Take your time, Mrs. Tooth.”
“He said: ‘What a sight you look.’ ”
“And then?”
“I suppose I started crying.”
“And he?”
“He told me to shut up. And so I did. I think I did, sir. I tried to. I asked him to let me have some money. He said that I’d had as much money as I was ever going to get out of him – as if I’d ever had anything out of him!” cried Mrs. Tooth, between deep, shuddering sobs.
“There, there, my dear Mrs. Tooth. You must drink your tea and be calm. Everything depends on your being calm. Now.”
“I said I’d go to his firm. I told him I was ill. I told him I’d go to his firm in the City. Then he hit me, sir.”
“Where?”
“In the face – a slap. I started to cry again. He hit me again, and he laughed at me.”
“He hit you in the face again?”
“Yes, with his hand.”
“This is very painful to you, Mrs. Tooth, but we must have everything clear. Your hand was wounded. How did you hurt your hand?”
“All of a sudden . . . I didn’t want to keep on living. I was so miserable – I was so miserable – I was——”
Sumner Concord waited. In a little while Martha Tooth could speak again.
“You hurt your hand.”
“I wanted to kill myself. There was a knife, or something. I picked it up. I meant to stick it in myself. But Sid was quick as lightning.”
There was a ring of pride in her voice, at which Sumner Concord shuddered, although he had heard it before.
“What happened then?” he asked.
“He hit me again and knocked me over.”
“You fell?”
“Against the bed, sir. Then Sid hit me some more and told me to get out. He said: ‘I hate the sight of you, get out of my sight,’ he said.”
“Above all, be calm, Mrs. Tooth. What happened after that?”
“I don’t know.”
“After he hit you the last time – think.”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You got up?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You can’t remember. Do you remember going out of the room?”
“I sort of remember going out of the room.”
“You got back to your home?”
“Yes.”
“You remember that?”
“Yes, sir. I know, because I washed my face in cold water, and moved quietly so as not to wake the children up.”
“That, of course, was quite reasonable. That would account for the blood in the water in the wash-bowl.”
“I dare say.”
“
Your throat was bruised, Mrs. Tooth. Did your husband try to strangle you?”
“He got hold of me to keep me quiet, I should think, sir.”
“Before you picked up this knife, or whatever it was? Or after?”
“I couldn’t say. I don’t know. I don’t care.”
“I suggest that you picked up this sharp instrument, knife, scissors, or whatever it may have been, after your husband took you by the throat.”
“Very likely,” said Martha Tooth, drearily, “I don’t know. I don’t care.”
“You must pull yourself together, Mrs. Tooth. How can I help you if you will not help yourself? You picked up this knife, or pair of scissors, after your husband began to strangle you with his hands. Is that so?”
“I should think so.”
“He was an extremely powerful man, I think?”
“My Sid? Sid was as strong as a bull, sir.”
“Yes. Now can you give me a list of the places – rooms, flats, houses, hotels, any places – in which you and your husband lived together from the date of your marriage until the date of your separation?”
“Yes, I think I could, sir.”
“You lived together for several years, didn’t you?”
“Nearly seven years, off and on.”
“He ill-treated you from the start?”
Martha Tooth laughed. “He beat me the first time two days after we were married,” she said.
“However, you managed to keep this matter secret?”
“Oh, everybody knew.”
“Hush, hush, Mrs. Tooth. Everything depends upon your self-control! He can’t hurt you now.”
“I’m not crying because of that . . .” Martha Tooth bit her sleeve and pressed the fingers of her free hand into her eyes. Still, tears came out between her fingers.
“Why are you crying, then?”
“You’re so good to me!”
“You must be calm,” said Sumner Concord, in a cold, hard voice.
She stopped crying. “Everybody knew how he treated me,” she said.
“You must try and remember everyone who might make a statement concerning the manner in which your husband treated you, Mrs. Tooth. You must try and remember. Is that quite clear?”
“Yes, sir, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid of being in the court. They’ll make me swear black is white. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I don’t——”
Sumner Concord stopped her with a gentle, but imperious gesture, and said: “Mrs. Tooth, you mustn’t persuade yourself that there is anything to be afraid of. You will be given a perfectly fair trial. The clerk of the court will say to you: ‘Martha Tooth, you are charged with the murder of Sidney Tooth on the 7th May of this year. Are you guilty or not guilty?’ And you will say: ‘Not guilty.’ This I believe to be the truth. I believe that you are not guilty of the murder of your husband. I believe that, desperate with grief and pain and terror, you picked up the scissors intending to kill yourself, and not to kill your husband.”
