A Sentence of Life

by Julian Gloag

  “I’m not superstitious, really.”

  “Well, just to be on the safe side.” Jordan tore the date from the calendar, revealing the fourteenth and fifteenth, Saturday and Sunday, bunched economically together on the next sheet. The days of leisure, he thought, were lucky to be included at all. “Now you’ll have to pack up and go home.”

  “I thought I’d just finish off these galleys.”

  “What is it, Pembroke and Rose?”

  “Yes. I’ve just got the last chapter.”

  “That’s pretty dull stuff for a Friday night. Friday night is Amarmi night.”

  “What’s that—Amarmi night?”

  “It’s a shampoo. You stay home on Fridays and wash your hair for the big do on Saturday.”

  “Oh.” June smiled brightly.

  He knew he’d put his foot in it somehow. “Of course,” he said, “if there isn’t a do on Saturday, then you have Friday night off. In which case you could forget Pembroke and Rose and come and have a drink with me.”

  “Well, I don’t think—”

  “Come on, June.” It was the ideal solution. “I need something to fortify me for the ordeal of Waterloo, anyway.”

  “Thank you very much then. I’d love to.” She frowned a little. “You don’t think …”

  “Don’t worry, the Law always leaves early on Friday nights.”

  “Miss Lawley’s really very nice in her own way.” June fetched her coat and put it on. It had a grey fur collar.

  “Which could be said of practically anyone, you know.”

  “Well, people are nice—really underneath, don’t you think, Mr. Maddox?”

  Jordan raised the ring on his umbrella and freed the spokes. “I don’t know. Perhaps. I hadn’t thought about it.”

  June faithfully carried the galleys of Pembroke and Rose in a brown envelope. “I’ll just finish it up over the weekend.”

  In the neon-lit Strand they turned off from the crowd intent on Charing Cross and went down the slope of John Adam Street into Buckingham Street.

  It was raining a dim February drizzle. As Jordan held the umbrella over June, their elbows touched for a moment. They stopped at the top of the steps leading to Watergate Walk and looked down.

  “It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. The Watergate—did the river really come up to here?”

  “Yes. This part of the Embankment wasn’t built until the eighteen sixties. Before that, everything along here was right on the river. The Savoy, Somerset House—at one time they were all accessible by water. Useful for slipping away unseen in the night and that sort of thing.”

  “It must have been ever so wide then.”

  “It was. You notice it in the old prints. At first you think there’s something wrong with the perspective. But of course it was only at high tide, you know. Most of the time there must have been great mud flats on either bank.”

  “What fun for the children.”

  “I’d never thought of that.” Jordan smiled. He could hardly imagine Georgia—whose greatest grubbiness was jam on her face—romping in the mud. Yet she’d probably love it. Willy kept her too clean and proper; she’d grow up just like Willy, with a horror of dirt and a “thing” about baths. As they descended the steps and went along the stone-flagged alley, there leapt into his mind a blasphemous picture of Willy, immaculate in garden-party get-up, slipping and staggering in the grey-coated mire, smiling with brave horror.…

  “What would you like to drink?”

  “A sherry?”

  “It’s their specialty. They have thirteen varieties. Here’s the card. Manzanilla, Amontillado, Tio Pepe, Oloroso, Amoroso …”

  “Gracious. Something sweet?”

  “Amoroso. And I’ll have Manzanilla. Large ones, please.”

  “I’ve never been here before. It’s a real cellar, isn’t it?”

  “Barrels and all. It’s a favourite haunt of Colin’s—Mr. Sutlif. I like coming here on Friday night. It’s payday. I believe a lot of these people come here and have their weekly glass or two on Friday. Look at that old fellow over there. He’s always in the same spot on a Friday evening.”

  The elderly man in a bowler hat was sitting impassively before a large port. He wore a dark overcoat, a wing collar, a black tie, and gold-rimmed glasses—and he looked as though he never removed any of them.

  “I wouldn’t …” June stopped.

  “You wouldn’t what?”

  June moved her head in embarrassment. “I was going to say I wouldn’t like to work for him.”

  Jordan laughed. “Watch now.”

  The old man took a biscuit and consumed it without visible motion of his jaws. He held the glass carefully in his hand and put it to his lips. The old throat swallowed once, and when he put the glass down it was half empty.

  “I wonder if he really enjoys it.”

  “Pleasure so decorous is totally undetectable, probably even to himself.”

  The waiter brought their sherry. They were quiet for a while.

  “How’s Mrs. Maddox?”

  “She’s very well.”

  “And Georgia?”

  “She’s always in fine fettle.”

  “She’s four now, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” Damn, he’d forgotten all about Georgia. He wondered if Willy would be able to get Mrs. Hillman in to sit. Friday was a bad night.

  “I remember when she was born, you coming into the office …”

  “Yes. I was exhausted.” Of course there was always Mrs. Oates, but Mrs. Oates had a tendency to nip at the whiskey.

  “Oh, no, you were on top of the world.”

  “Was I?” Then there was the problem of food. Mrs. Oates insisted on being fed. And the fish pie probably wouldn’t stretch to two. Perhaps he should give Willy a ring.

  “I often wonder what it’d be like.”

  “What, sorry?”

  “Having a baby, I mean.”

  If he hurried he could still get the six forty-five. “Miserable business.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But afterwards, when you’ve had …”

  “What? I’m so sorry, I was thinking of something else.”

  June sipped her sherry uncomfortably. “I’ve got a friend who—”

  “That’s good news.”

  “No, I mean a girl friend.”

  “I’m sorry, that sounded awful.”

  “Oh, no. But, I mean, this girl had a baby and the father—well, he died.”

  “What dreadfully bad luck.”

  “Yes. It must be awful not having a father—I mean a baby with no father.”

  “Yes, it’s hard on the child. Unless …” Ten minutes across Hungerford Bridge to Waterloo. It was now six twenty-five. Which left him ten minutes—five, to be on the safe side.

  “Unless what, Mr. Maddox?”

  “Oh, unless there are relatives or something. You know, who’ll look after the child.” Five minutes. That was settled. “That’s what happened to me, you know. My mother died when I was born—well, a few days after, actually—and I hardly ever saw my father.”

  “That must have been awful.”

  “Not really. It didn’t do me any harm. I was taken in, you see, by my aunt and uncle—my mother’s brother and sister. It worked very well.”

  “I see.”

  “This is rather a morbid conversation, isn’t it? Come on, drink up. Would you like another?”

  “Oh no thank you. That was lovely.”

  “Well, let’s be off then, shall we?” He stood up, and as June reached down to gather her handbag and gloves and the brown envelope, he thought the drink had not had quite the desired effect. She looked wilted rather than cheered.

  They went up the steps into Villiers Street.

  “You can get a bus all right from Charing Cross, can’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Jordan smiled. “Cheer up. You’ve got two whole days to y
ourself. Don’t work too hard on Pembroke and Rose.”

  “I won’t, I promise. Good night, Mr. Maddox.”

  “See you on Monday then, June.”

  “Yes. And—and thanks ever so much.”

  As he took the footpath over the river, he glanced to his left. Waterloo Bridge was at its most slim and elegant. High tide. At ebb, when the supports were visible, the bridge had an undressed, ungainly appearance. He wondered if he’d been a bit abrupt with June.

  The Shell-Mex clock gave him eight minutes. He’d have to hurry or he wouldn’t have time to get an evening paper.

  He put June and her hypothetical problems out of his mind.

  It had stopped raining, thank God.

  24

  He held the piece of paper in his fingers. It was a blasted irritant. For the last hour—hour and a half?—he had listened to Chief Superintendent George’s answers, unfaltering and fair, to Pollen’s questions. He had noticed for the first time a pleasant, distant burr to the policeman’s voice. Sensibly and easily Mr. George had given his evidence, and it had soothed Jordan, healing the nausea and the pain. And now here was Bartlett wanting to rock the boat. Jordan looked at the scribbled words:

  MADDOX—

  In accordance with your instructions I shall not c-examine George re your treatment at Sarah St. I assume, however, that this instruction does not apply to various remarks George made to you at S. St. and which you quoted to me. If my assumption is incorrect, return this note to me so indicating.

  G.B.

  From Bartlett down the line to Tom to Denver to Jordan the note had come. He’d had it three minutes now. Remarks that George had made? What did it mean? Half his attention was with Pollen’s final questions to George; the other half could not decipher the message. All he noticed was the strong dash of Bartlett’s handwriting: t’s crossed with great vigorous slashes, the I’s and b’s and h’s spikily upright—a strange contrast with Bartlett’s plump exterior. Only the loops below the line, the t’s and g’s and y’s, were weak and indeterminate.

  He scrunched the note in his hand and shoved it into his pocket. But just as he looked up, Pollen was taking his seat. From behind Jordan came a shuffling and sighing of the spectators. And then Bartlett rose.

  Jordan found himself wishing that Bartlett would not attack George, as he had attacked the pathologist. The pathologist had been a pompous ass, perhaps, but George was—well, decent.

  “Chief Superintendent George—how long have you served in the force?”

  “The metropolitan police force, sir? Thirty-two years, come August. Before that I served for three years in the Cornish constabulary.”

  “Almost thirty-five years’ service? And how long have you been in the C.I.D., Superintendent?”

  “Nineteen years. First with Scotland Yard, and then the last twelve years with S District C.I.D.”

  “And of those twelve years, you have been Chief Superintendent of S District C.I.D. for eleven, have you not?”

  “I have.”

  “And as such, all murder cases in S District are your responsibility and investigations are directed by you?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And in the last eleven years, Superintendent, how many persons have you arrested or caused to be arrested for the crime of homicide?”

  “Forty-nine.”

  “And in how many of those forty-nine cases did you secure a conviction?”

  “A quite improper question, my Lord.” Pollen up, indignant.

  The judge clamped his jaw tight, then released it like a spring. “Mr. Bartlett, surely you know better than to put a question like that. The police, as you are well aware, play no part in the judicial process—in ‘securing a conviction,’ as you see fit to put it.”

  “I apologise, my Lord. I shall rephrase the question.”

  “No dramatics, please, Mr. Bartlett.” The judge clacked his teeth.

  “Superintendent, how many of those forty-nine cases resulted in the conviction of the person or persons whom you caused to be arrested?”

  “Forty-seven. One case is yet to come to trial. And the other one concerns these present proceedings.”

  “So out of forty-seven murder cases that came to trial as a result of your investigations, all resulted in conviction?”

  “Yes.”

  “A remarkable record, Superintendent.” Bartlett put his head on one side, as though turning such spotless brilliance over in his mind. “Very remarkable indeed. You must be very proud of that record, Superintendent?”

  “I do my best to do my duty.”

  “Pity it is not given to all of us to be so infallible. Well, well.” Picture of Bartlett shaking himself free from the clutches of hero-worship. And Jordan thought how easy and how cheap it was to make subtle fun of a witness—and a witness was, of all people in the court, defenceless.

  “Now I’d like to turn to Exhibit Number Seven—the alarm clock which you found in Singer’s room. It was on the floor and the glass face was badly splintered. The clock had stopped as a result of the shock of falling, and the hands stood at nine thirty-nine. Is that an accurate summary?

  “Yes. We were able to ascertain that the clock had stopped, rather than run down naturally, because upon examination it was found to be almost fully wound.”

  “It was an eight-day clock?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So that it must have been wound rather recently?”

  “Yes. It hadn’t been running much more than a day or so.”

  “Which would be consistent with it having been wound on Saturday night or Sunday?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet there were no fingerprints found on the winder?”

  “No.”

  “Nor on the handle that adjusts the time?”

  “No.”

  “Nor anywhere else on the clock?”

  “Just on the alarm button at the top of the clock. There was a clear print of Singer’s forefinger there.”

  “Right forefinger or left forefinger?”

  “Right forefinger, I assume. Singer was right-handed.”

  “You assume? Don’t you know?”

  “I’m not positive about it, no.”

  “Superintendent, might one not deduce from the absence of prints—except on the alarm button—that the clock had deliberately been wiped clean of fingerprints?”

  “I’m not sure I follow you there. A neat and tidy person would be likely to dust or polish a clock, incidentally, of course, removing any fingerprints.”

  “The neat and tidy person would in that case have to wear gloves, would she—or he—not?”

  “Not necessarily. The clock could be held steady with a finger on the alarm button.”

  “Yes. And if that neat and tidy person were right-handed—and we know Singer was right-handed—she would be likely to steady the clock with her left forefinger, while she ‘polished or dusted’ it with her right hand, would she not?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Well, it would be far more natural and likely for her to use her right hand to polish, would it not?”

  “Yes, it would be more likely.”

  “And in that case we would expect to find the print on the alarm button to be of Singer’s left forefinger rather than her right forefinger, would we not?”

  “That would follow, yes.”

  “And yet you ‘assumed’ the print was that of her right forefinger. Why?”

  “I had not considered the point you have just raised.”

  “Not considered it? Not considered it important enough to investigate?”

  “I’m quite sure the fingerprint department will have recorded which finger the print came from.”

  “Doubtless, doubtless—and it will certainly be interesting to find the answer. But you did not deem it necessary to inform yourself?”

  “As I’ve said, it did not occur to me.”

  “But you see now that it is a very important point, don’t you
?”

  “Frankly, it seems to me a rather obscure point.”

  “Then let me enlighten your obscurity, Chief Superintendent.” An almost imperceptible emphasis upon the word Chief. “We have to ask ourselves who wiped the alarm clock clean of prints and why that person did so. If we assume that this was done by June Singer in the ordinary course of her houshold cleaning—an excessively thorough household cleaning, it may be thought—then we would expect the print to be of the left forefinger. But—yes, Superintendent, what is it?”

  “Excuse me, sir.” A bustling at the back of the court had advanced to the witness box, beside which the City police sergeant was now proffering a piece of paper to Superintendent George. “This is the answer to your question,” George said.

  “What question?”

  “My assistant just phoned through to the fingerprint department to ascertain whether the print was from the left or right forefinger. This is the reply.”

  “Very well, tell us.”

  George unfolded the note and looked at it. He raised his head and said impassively to Bartlett, “The left forefinger.”

  Jordan felt like cheering—or laughing.

  But Bartlett was unmoved. “Very thorough, at length. Were you, Superintendent, equally thorough over the matter of the hands?”

  “The hands? The hands of the clock?”

  “Yes—the hands of the clock. They stand as we have seen—and can see now—at nine thirty-nine. Were they moved, Superintendent?”

  “Certainly not. They are in exactly the same position as when the clock was found.”

  “Can they be moved, Superintendent? Or were they pinned in their present position by the fall of the clock?”

  “No attempt has been made to alter the placing of the hands. They are in the precise position they—”

  “You don’t know whether the hands can be freely moved, in other words?”