My Name is Michael Sibley

by John Bingham

  But when you come in person to the scene of the crime, the emotions have departed, and all that remains are things that are extremely mundane. And there is nothing more dramatic about the actual corpse of a murdered person than there is about a fat bluebottle which somebody has squashed on a window ledge. It is a nasty mess, that is all.

  The room in Suffolk Street was small, papered with blue-flowered wallpaper which in some places was peeling off. There was an iron double bed occupying most of the room, a marble-topped washstand with a basin of dirty water on it; and by the side of the basin a half-full bottle of gin, a chipped cup and a used glass.

  The floor was covered with linoleum, ragged at the edges, and there was a strip of carpet on each side of the bed. An inexpensive dressing table with a hairbrush, a few bottles and pots of cheap cosmetics and a beer bottle stood under the window. A pile of woman’s underclothes and a pair of corsets were on a hard chair by the side of a small gas fire. A man’s cloth cap was on the floor.

  The bed was unmade and crumpled, but the police had pulled the blankets up so that only a few smudges of blood on a pillow were visible.

  It was very quiet, and the chief impression you had was as if somebody had stopped a clock. When I turned to leave the room, I noticed a small picture, a cheap, coloured reproduction in a wooden frame on the wall to the right of the door. It was a picture of the Madonna and Child. It seemed a strange thing to find in that room.

  I should say that she must have been tempted to take it down sometimes. But maybe she thought that to do so would be finally to admit to herself that she was finished. Perhaps that poor prostitute who slept with Lascars and the riff-raff of a seaport continued to make excuses to herself right to the end. Such women often think that one day they may be able to marry and settle down. Perhaps even on the day the knife killed her some faint hopes had stirred that, some time, her luck would change and everything would be all right in the end.

  You can’t tell for certain.

  CHAPTER 7

  That, then, was my first murder assignment.

  When I returned home at about 8:15 I wrote my story out, had a cup of tea, and related all the details for the benefit of Mrs. Martin and Phyllis. At about ten o’clock I went upstairs to have a word with Mr. Martin. I usually tried to find time for a chat with him in the late evening, and we used to discuss the day’s news.

  He was knitting a jumper in red wool when I went in, and had naturally heard about the murder. He sat up in his big bed, wearing the old grey woollen cardigan, hard at work under the harsh electric light, and barely looked up when I went in.

  “How’s it going?”

  He put his knitting down. “Can’t dam’ well grumble. They tell me you’ve been out on a murder.”

  “That’s right. Not much in it, though. The chap gave himself up.”

  “No mystery to solve?”

  “No. I suppose he’ll swing all right.”

  “Oh, he’ll swing all right. Hell! Of course he will.”

  “Serves him right, the brute.”

  I was thinking of the picture on the wall by the door, and of the woman who had not known that morning was to be her last. The old man picked up his knitting again and said nothing. He was like that; when he did not agree with you, he would sometimes remain silent.

  I said, “Are you one of these people who don’t agree with hanging?”

  He took a sip at the glass of milk which Mrs. Martin had brought him in accordance with her nightly custom.

  “Don’t you believe in hanging?” I pressed him.

  He looked at me ferociously and said, “No! Hell, no! Except in cases of poisoning.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Because it’s cruel. That’s dam’ well why.”

  I had always thought he was a man of sound common sense, a representative of the middle classes, an upholder of tradition, and a bulwark against political extremism and crankiness in general.

  “But what about the poor bloke who’s been done in? What about him?”

  “He’s dead. Nothing is going to bring him to life. Besides you don’t only hang the blasted murderer. Have you ever thought what it’s like to be the mother or father or wife or children of a murderer who is hanged? Counting the damn days, then the hours, then the blasted minutes. Knowing that somebody you love is getting more and more afraid. Bloody hell, it’s awful. And then the anniversaries: they keep thinking, ‘It was a week ago today,’ or ‘It was a month ago,’ or a year ago.”

  “The chap ought to think of that before he kills somebody,” I said obstinately.

  “Maybe he ought to, but he doesn’t. And whether he ought to or not makes no difference to his dam’ wife or mother. Besides, suppose there’s been a mistake? What then?”

  “There never is a mistake. Not these days.”

  “Ever heard of circumstantial evidence?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “It’s dangerous. Hell, it’s dangerous.”

  “Oh, pooh,” I laughed. “Not these days, it isn’t. They never hang the wrong man these days. Anyway, it’s a good job you’re not Home Secretary.”

  I attended the police court proceedings when Geoffries appeared in the dock the following day. They only lasted a few minutes. Inspector Daley, in evidence, described how he arrested and charged Geoffries. When charged, Geoffries replied, “Yes, sir.”

  “And on that evidence,” said the prosecuting solicitor, “I ask for a remand for a week.”

  Everybody looked bored. One of the warders in the dock with Geoffries was picking his teeth with a pin; the other had his elbow on the side of the dock and was leaning his head on his hand.

  Geoffries sat staring at the floor of the dock, and did not look up except to say, “Not murder. She made me do it.” Asked if he wished for free legal aid, he said, “Yes.” For the rest of the time he sat leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loosely. He wore a chocolate-coloured suit, but no collar or tie. Because he was dark-skinned, he looked very much alone in a white man’s court. He also looked quite listless, as though he had now seen enough of this world.

  It was strange to think that the ageing and painted prostitute whose ill-used body was lying in the mortuary had meant enough to him to make him lose his life on her account. I suppose that in an alien and unsympathetic port she was his sole anchor, the only person who brought him, or simulated for him, what passed for human warmth and affection. Rather than risk losing her, he killed her. Ackersley, the schoolmaster, had at least made certain of his loss before he killed himself. Though the one was a semi-savage and the other a cultured man, they both broke, in their different ways, under the same strain.

  Later, at the Assizes, his counsel based such defence as he could muster on provocation, and made some sort of emotional appeal to the jury to find him guilty of manslaughter. The judge, of course, tore it to shreds, and it was all quite useless. Counsel might as well have saved his breath.

  One may doubt, too, whether the Home Secretary found cause for any really lengthy consideration of the affair before dismissing the appeal. May O’Brien had to be avenged and other prostitutes protected.

  It was what they call in official circles a nice, straightforward case.

  But I was too young to feel any pity, and anyway I was very busy, and soon had something else to occupy my leisure thoughts. On the day when Geoffries was remanded I had an evening job. The Palesby police had organized a dance in aid of the Police Orphanage.

  Such dances never give a reporter much trouble. You go along and do a couple of descriptive paragraphs, noting any unusual decorations or events; you give a paragraph to the Mayor’s speech, in which he says the town’s police force is second to none in the country; and you add the names of the Master of Ceremonies, the band leader, and any local dignitaries who may be there. Then you can either drink beer in the bar, dance, or go home—whichever suits you best. Hardly any of the men wear evening dress, and any young man can go up to any girl a
nd ask her for a dance without the formality of an introduction.

  I had never had any dancing lessons as a boy, but once or twice at similar functions in Palesby I had been persuaded to shuffle round the floor, usually with some not very good-looking girl whom somebody had forced upon me. Now, as I stood on the edge of the floor, I had all the details I wanted and was wondering whether to go home, or to go and have some more beer with Inspector Daley, when I saw with great delight that the girl I had met in the park was standing talking to another girl on the far side of the floor.

  As I watched, a young man in a sports jacket and grey flannel trousers went up to them, bowed, and took her companion off for a dance. I went over at once. She looked round as I drew near and smiled.

  “Hello. How’s the mud patch?”

  “Oh, that’s gone. I was wondering whether by any chance you’d be reporting this dance.”

  “What about coming and having a drink?” I said, secretly very pleased that she had thought of me at all. “I’m afraid I’m not much good at dancing.”

  “Well, I’ve just had one.”

  “Well, have another to keep it company. Make you grow into a big girl.”

  “What about Mavis?”

  “Who’s she?”

  “My sister-in-law, the girl I was talking to. She’ll wonder where I’ve got to.”

  “She won’t have far to look. Come on,” I coaxed.

  “Well, I should like to.”

  I bought her a gin and lime and ordered a beer, and we went and sat at a small table. Her brother Bill was at sea again, so she and her sister-in-law had come to the dance by themselves.

  “After all, as I said to Mavis, it doesn’t do Bill any good for you to be sitting moping at home while he is away. I mean, does it?”

  She looked at me questioningly. I thought that doubtless Mary O’Brien had said much the same thing. It was only a matter of degree.

  “Not a bit,” I said. “What about you? Have you got a boyfriend at sea?”

  She turned to me with an amused expression in her blue eyes.

  “Listen to us! We are getting nosey, aren’t we? What if I have or I haven’t?”

  “Nothing. I just wondered. A chap can ask a question.”

  “Those who ask no questions get told no lies.”

  “So I’ve heard before somewhere.”

  Her eyes, which had been fixed on my face with the peculiar surprised look brought about by the way she shaped her brows, flickered very slightly. She was, I discovered later, a quick-witted girl, despite her unfortunate tendency to talk in clichés.

  “Are you one of the sarcastic kind?” she asked tartly.

  “Of course not. Butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.”

  “That’s just as well, then. I don’t like sarcastic chaps. If you want to say a thing, I always say, then say it, and don’t wrap it up and try to be clever. So you’d better keep your sarcasm for London. We’re plain folk up here.”

  “I don’t think you’re at all plain—if I may say so.”

  This miserably crude compliment seemed to mollify her. She smiled, and after a short pause said, “As a matter of fact, if you want to know, I did have a boyfriend, and he’s here tonight. But I’ve chucked him up.”

  “Why? Mind you, I’m very glad to hear it.”

  She stamped out her cigarette in an ashtray. “That doesn’t mean the situation is vacant, even if you are a reporter and a quick worker. Don’t get any funny ideas.”

  “My ideas are never funny. They’re mostly deadly serious.”

  She gave me a quick look, which I was to recall later, but said nothing.

  “Have another gin and lime?”

  She shook her head and suggested that I should dance with her.

  “But I can’t dance. Not properly.”

  “Then it’s high time you learnt. Come on. I’ll give you a lesson.” I got up rather reluctantly.

  “Well, don’t say you haven’t been warned. I suppose you know I haven’t any idea what your name is? Mine’s Michael Sibley.”

  “Mine’s Cynthia Harrison,” she said.

  I followed her out of the refreshment room. She was dressed in a flowered pink frock, with an artificial rose on one shoulder. Round her neck she wore a string of small artificial pearls of the kind which you could buy at that time for about 30s. On her left wrist was a thin engraved bangle made of some light metal resembling platinum, and in her ears were a pair of cheap earrings manufactured in the shape of tiny roses which served to enhance the porcelain-like look of her face. She walked with short, firm little steps, and because her dress was cheap and fitted too closely in the wrong places, her posterior wobbled briskly every time she put her foot down.

  We went on to the floor just as the band was beginning a fox-trot, which in the early stages of its development was an ideal dance for beginners who were content just to shuffle around the room.

  “You’ve got a good ear for rhythm,” she said after a few moments. “I’ll be able to teach you fairly easily, I should think.”

  “Do you like dancing very much?”

  “Love it. So if you want to go out with me at all, you’d better put your mind to it. But do you?”

  “I’m a quick learner.”

  I ventured to press her hand. She neither returned the pressure nor protested. She looked up at me with her wide blue eyes and smiled. I felt happy and excited. I’d got a girl.

  The next moment I felt bewildered.

  The band had stopped playing, and I was leading her off the floor when a tall, bony youth with red ears which stood out from his head blocked our path. I stepped to one side to pass him, but he moved into my way. I looked at him enquiringly.

  He said quite simply, “Hop it.”

  I looked at him in surprise.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Go on. Hop it, there’s a good chap. Hop it off ’ome.”

  I was vaguely aware that Cynthia had melted away from my side. This was clearly her jilted boyfriend.

  I said, “I’m not doing any harm.”

  He thought this over for a few seconds. I made as if to pass him, but he stopped me with a large red hand.

  He said patiently, “Look, ol’ man, I don’t want to sock you, but hop it off ’ome. Go on.”

  I took off my glasses with my left hand, folded them up and put them in my pocket. With my right hand, I fumbled for the knuckleduster which I had carried ever since I had bought it with Crane.

  He had had a few drinks and spoke rather thickly. I had had a few myself, and was not feeling at all cool and collected, otherwise I should not have been so silly; you don’t use a knuckleduster on a drunk in a friendly dance hall, even if he does happen to be bigger and tougher than yourself.

  I said, “Don’t be unreasonable. Look, I was just—”

  “I swear I’ll sock you if you don’t clear off.”

  I slipped the knuckleduster on my hand, but I did not even have to take it from my pocket. Strangely enough, in the long run, it would have been better if I had done so, but there was no means of knowing that, that evening. But had I had a few more beers inside me, and acted impulsively, that stupid incident at a dance hall in Palesby might have made all the difference to me. At the time, I was glad I had kept my head, to some extent anyway.

  Cynthia returned with Inspector Daley. Daley laid his hand on the young man’s arm.

  “Now then, now then, what’s this?” he said cheerfully. “Trying to break up the happy family gathering, Harry? This is the Gazette reporter, Harry. We shall not get any report of the dance in the paper if you go and knock him about, shall we, Harry?”

  Daley led him off towards the bar. I heard him saying, “Come on, Harry. Come and have a quick one to pull you together, eh?”

  “Don’t take any notice of him,” said Cynthia. It struck me at the time as rather superfluous advice, now that the incident was over. I smiled and put my spectacles on again.

  “Jealous, I suppose?”r />
  “Now you see why I chucked him.”

  “I suppose you can’t blame him really.”

  She shook her head impatiently. “Well, I do blame him. Too blinking possessive; that’s the trouble with him.”

  “I suppose he is pretty keen on you.”

  “Well, if he is fond of me, he ought to like me to be happy. But, oh, not at all! He wanted me all to himself. He wanted to get engaged, and get married, and have children. And me still young. I want to have a bit of fun out of life first. I’m still young. Haven’t I a right to have a bit of fun out of life?”

  “Of course you have,” I replied warmly. We sat down, and Cynthia’s sister-in-law joined us. After I had been introduced, she said, “Was that Harry making a fuss?”

  “He threatened to knock Michael about. That settles it, making a scene in front of all these people. Made me feel a proper fool, I can tell you.”

  “Harry was always hot-headed,” said Mavis. “I could have told you there’d be trouble.”

  She was a blonde woman of about thirty, with grey eyes, and on the plump side. She was dressed in pink, and inclined to be spotty. She wore a number of cheap bangles, and talked a great deal and very fast, and for the next ten minutes she and Cynthia chattered about the various people present. Sometimes they talked in undertones and giggled, and I assumed they were discussing other women. But I was quite happy. Cynthia had referred to me by my Christian name. Cynthia had been indignant when Harry, the abandoned Romeo, had wanted to knock me about. Cynthia was my girl. Almost, anyway.

  We left shortly before the dance ended. I walked back to their home with them. The house was slightly bigger than the one where I had a room, and had a small lawn, hardly larger than a bedsheet, between the little gate and the front door. Otherwise, it had the same atmosphere, and rather similar furnishings.

  The Harrisons, however, actually used their front parlour. There were two easy chairs in it, a sofa, a fern in the window, and the usual upright piano squeezed against a wall. In Palesby the first thing you did to establish the fact that you were financially sound, and therefore quite respectable, was to buy an upright piano.