by J F Straker
Her hard blue eyes surveyed him. He was an untidy creature; hair thick and unruly, tie adrift, his suit obviously bought off the wrong peg and unpressed since. The scarecrow type, she thought; needs mothering. He had a long, lean body which looked uncoordinated, and had felt uncoordinated on the dance-floor. His face too was lean, with a sharp, pointed nose and a strong chin; the wide mouth seemed to split it in two when he smiled, to show sharp, uneven teeth which gave him a faintly wolfish look. His hands were hard, and she liked that. It was a pity about the mangled nails and the brown, tobacco-stained fingers. Yet somehow the nails went with the tie and the suit and the general air of untidiness. He had not yet learned self-discipline, she thought, never quite matured.
Her thoughts drifted away, and she sighed. David said, ‘As bad as that, am I?’
‘Eh?’
‘Been looking me over, haven’t you? I presume the sigh indicated you didn’t like what you saw.’ He shook his head in mock regret. ‘And I thought I was making an impression!’
She gave one of her rare, fleeting smiles. He suspected they were controlled by the heavy make-up; it might crack if she gave way to them unrestrainedly.
‘It was a private sigh. Not for publication.’
They danced again. David tried to make her talk about herself; not from curiosity, but because he had exhausted his own career as a conversational peg. But Nora was unresponsive, and he soon desisted. He learned that her name was Nora Winstone, that she worked as a manicurist near Victoria, and that she shared a Kennington flat with a girl called Elsie; but these were bald facts, and she enlarged on none of them. He was not particularly anxious that she should. They had been thrown together by an unfortunate mischance. It was unlikely that they would be thrown together again.
They had one more dance, and then Nora said she was leaving. It was nearly midnight, and Jimmy was preparing to close the bar. The bearded man was still there; still jigging, and with the meerschaum still between his teeth. Two of the young couples had left, and so had Chapman’s girlfriend. She had borrowed her taxi fare from the bar.
‘Said she’d post it.’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘Me, I just kissed it goodbye.’
He said it so cheerfully that David guessed it had not come from his own pocket. ‘Did you sign her on as a member?’ he asked.
‘Sign? That dame don’t sign nothing that’ll cost her money. She likes it coming her way. All the time.’
David laughed. ‘I’ll see you home,’ he told Nora. ‘The heap’s outside.’
She did not ask if she would be taking him out of his way; it was clear that the offer was expected. As he waited for her at the foot of the wide steps he wondered what else would be expected of him. Just what sort of a woman was she? He was sufficiently conventional to mistrust white women who chose the companionship of coloured men.
The Centipede occupied the ground floor and basement of an old house that was scheduled to be demolished when its lease expired. The houses on either side of it had already gone; their empty sites provided convenient parking-space for the club’s members. As he helped Nora to stumble across the uneven, rubble-strewn ground David regretted he had no torch. She did not complain, but she was undoubtedly suffering. So, he suspected, were her shoes and stockings.
‘Well, here we are,’ he said, trying to keep the pride out of his voice. ‘There’s the heap.’
She looked at it aghast. ‘What is it?’
‘Alois Twelve-Fifty.’ The polished aluminium body gleamed in the moonlight, and he stroked it tenderly. The Alois had been his for only a few months. ‘Nineteen twenty-five model. One of the earliest. Real vintage motor-car.’
‘I thought it was only wines that had vintages.’ She ran a hand along the side, seeking the door-handle. ‘How does one get in? There’s no door.’
Clearly she was not impressed. That’s what it means to grow old, he thought sadly. No feeling for adventure. She’d prefer one of those plush, modern hot-boxes.
‘Hop over the side,’ he told her. ‘Here, let me give you a hand. We’ll leave the hood down, eh? It’s a warm night.’
She was too occupied in climbing into the car to answer. Gratefully he took her silence for consent.
‘Hang on to your hair,’ he warned, letting in the clutch. ‘It could be breezy.’
With a crisp roar the Alvis bumped out on to the unlit street and accelerated nobly towards Streatham Hill, its headlamps splitting the darkness, the noise of the exhaust bouncing back at them off the tall, closely packed buildings. Nora clutched with both hands at her flimsy scarf and huddled down behind the low wind-screen. But speed was more implicit than real. Once into top gear David’s foot was light on the throttle. He held the steering-wheel with one hand, leaning away from his passenger, his overlong hair blown across his face and whipping into his eyes. He delighted in the feeling of power that the one-and-a-half-litre engine gave him, but he did not necessarily want to squander that power. It was enough to know it was there, to feel it under his foot. Occasionally he jabbed lightly at the throttle, exulting in the ready response, or leaned still farther to the right to watch the big wheels bouncing smoothly under the narrow, sloping wings. And for much of the time he sang — a wordless, tuneless song that was swept away by the breeze.
They went down Brixton Hill and along the Brixton Road to the Oval. Here David slowed, looking to the woman for guidance. She directed him across the traffic lights into Harleyford Road, and round the Oval into Vauxhall Street. It was a part of London foreign to David, and he was appalled by what he saw. Open expanses of waste land, grim, empty houses with the windows boarded up, houses partially demolished or in an advanced stage of decay; all, he supposed, the result of war-time bomb damage that none had yet seen fit to repair or replace. Some of the buildings were occupied, and he wondered how people could live in such surroundings. Among the rubble and the decay were rows of little villas, scarred and blackened, where light still showed in a few of the windows; dreary little shops with cracked panes that seemed withdrawn into themselves in an agony of despair and shame; and the occasional larger building, cut off from its fellows and standing, alone and forlorn, in a desolate waste of rubble and tumbled earth and weed.
The street in which Nora lived was less grim than the others, but it too shared the general air of depression and decay. David stopped the Alvis where she directed, and sat for a moment in silence looking up at the tall, blackened building. It stood back from the road, with steps leading to what appeared to be a large porch. Years ago, no doubt, it had been a family residence of some grandeur. Now it was no longer grand, and housed not one family but several. It had grown old and decrepit and gaunt and tremendously pathetic.
A light showed in a top window. Nora had told him she lived on the top floor. He said, ‘Looks like your friend has waited up for you.’
‘She’s a late bird herself.’
A car was parked a short way up the street, its lights towards them. Otherwise the street was deserted. David climbed out of the Alvis and went round to help Nora. As she stood up her handbag slipped from her lap to the floor, scattering its contents, and she swore. David was shocked. It was an oath he had not previously heard on the lips of a woman.
‘Let’s get you out first,’ he said. ‘I’ll salvage your valuables later.’
She stood on the pavement while he rummaged on the floor and under the seat. Lipstick, powder-compact, spectacles, sundry coins, paper tissues, comb, pencil — gradually he collected them and put them in the bag, sweeping the floor with his hand to ensure that he had missed nothing.
‘I think that’s the lot,’ he said, handing her the bag. ‘Care to check?’
‘There was nothing of value,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
There was cloud over the moon, the night had grown suddenly chill. They stood side by side on the bleak pavement, looking up at the house. David wondered what his next move should be. What did the woman expect?
Nora shivered. She said, ‘Well, I’m
going in. Thanks for the lift.’ And, when he said nothing, ‘Aren’t you going to kiss me good-night?’
‘The thought had crossed my mind.’ Keep it on a facetious level, he decided. He wanted nothing from her, but he had to play along. ‘How will you have it? Long or short, hot or cold, wet or dry? They come all shapes and sizes with me.’
‘As it comes. I’m not fussy.’
It was short, cold, and dry. Her lips were soft and sticky, their pressure automatic. He suspected that she got no more pleasure than himself from the embrace. Certainly there was no effort to detain him when he desisted.
‘Thanks for a pleasant evening,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We must do it again some time.’
He knew they never would.
She waited by the steps until the engine crackled into life, and gave him a listless wave of the hand as he shouted good-night and let in the clutch. As he passed the stationary car ahead he saw that it was a black Zodiac saloon, its gleaming paintwork and crisp, modern lines looking out of place in that grey, sad neighbourhood.
He wondered a little about Nora as he made his way back to the Harleyford Road, but by the time he reached Vauxhall Bridge he had forgotten her. Delighting in the empty streets and the crackle of the Alvis’s exhaust, he sang lustily all the way back to Fulham.
* * *
It was not until the next evening, when he was cleaning the interior of the car, that he found the diary. There was no reason why he should have missed it the previous night (it was on the carpeted floor, near where the passenger’s feet would be); but he had missed it, and it was up to him to return it. It had Nora’s name inside the cover, and as he flipped idly through the pages he saw that she had kept no day-to-day record. It was filled mainly with addresses and telephone numbers and what he supposed were appointments; although now and again she seemed to have made a brief record of events, and there were occasional comments. The writing was squarely childish. He did not scan it closely enough to judge its literacy or spelling.
Since he did not know her address he could not post it to her. But he had no doubt he could find the house again; he would return it after supper. He hoped she would be out. Then he could leave it with her friend or push it through the letter-box, and avoid the possibility of further entanglement. Women like Nora, he thought, with all the impudence of youth, must be short on escorts. He had no wish to fill the gap.
In the fading May sunlight the neighbourhood looked even more depressing than it had the night before. Now he could see it as a composite whole, and he did not like what he saw. There might be something here for Topical Truths; a scathing exposé of the shocking conditions under which these people were forced to live. In contrast to the muck and scandal in which he normally dealt, Snowball was occasionally moved to project himself as a crusader, a second-rate Beaverbrook.
The adjective was David’s, not his editor’s.
Two cars stood outside the house. David pulled up behind them, and as he cocked a leg over the side he saw they were police cars. A uniformed constable stood near the foot of the steps, and when David approached he moved to bar his progress.
‘Which of the flats are you visiting, sir?’ he asked.
‘Top floor. Miss Winstone’s. Why? Anything wrong?’
‘I don’t know, sir. But I have instructions that no one is to go up until the superintendent gives the word. He’s up there now.’
Police constables and police cars did not seem out of place in that neighbourhood, but a police superintendent was another matter. David’s journalistic instincts were aroused. This was big stuff, surely.
‘The divisional superintendent?’ he asked.
‘No, sir. Detective Superintendent Morgan. Scotland Yard.’
David whistled. He knew Morgan, had known him for years. Morgan was his godfather, had been his father’s closest friend. But it was not the coincidence of the superintendent’s presence there that evening that surprised him. The divisional detective inspector would normally take charge of the investigation of any crime committed within his division. That Morgan should have been called in indicated something big, something that stretched beyond the bounds of M Division.
‘Is the D.D.I. with him?’ he asked.
The constable did not answer. There was the sound of footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs within the house, and he sprang smartly to attention and saluted as three men came out from the dark porch and descended the worn, unscrubbed steps. One of them, a big, broad man wearing a bowler hat and carrying a neatly rolled umbrella, frowned when he saw David. Then the frown changed to a grin, and he stretched out a hand in greeting.
‘Why, David!’ he exclaimed. ‘What the heck are you doing here? Don’t tell me that rascally editor of yours has started to think up trouble before it actually happens?’
David winced. Morgan’s grip was muscular.
‘Snowball didn’t send me. I’m not here on business, sir. Just wanted a word with Nora Winstone.’
Morgan’s well-trimmed eyebrows lifted. ‘You know her? I wouldn’t have said she was exactly your cup of tea.’
David flushed, pushing the hair out of his eyes. The superintendent always managed to make him feel like a small boy, and he resented it.
‘We’re not intimates, if that’s what you’re inferring. We just happen to be members of the same club in Streatham. The Centipede.’ Because of his resentment his tone lacked the grudging respect he usually accorded his godfather. ‘We were both there last night. I drove her home.’
‘You what?’
‘I drove her home.’ The astonishment in the superintendent’s voice and look dispelled David’s resentment. Curiosity replaced it. ‘Anything wrong in that?’
‘Not wrong, no. But definitely odd.’ Morgan caught David’s arm and started to propel him towards the cars. ‘I think you had better come back to the station with us, my lad. You see, Nora Winstone didn’t return home last night.’
‘But she did! I dropped her right here.’
‘You did, eh? Well, she never reached her flat. What’s more, she hasn’t been seen since.’ Morgan shook his head. ‘We’re working on the assumption that the woman has been kidnapped.’
3
Detective Superintendent Rees Morgan flicked imaginary specks of dust from the seat of the swivel chair and lowered his bulk into it, carefully hitching up his well-creased trousers. When he sat his paunch became more pronounced. He was aware of this, and it worried him; he was a man who prided himself on his appearance. But he had to sit sometimes.
‘Take a pew, David.’
David did as he was bid. He had followed the police cars to divisional headquarters in the Borough High Street (his godfather had politely declined the offer of a lift in the Alvis. ‘I don’t really go with that sort of car,’ he had explained), and had waited with some impatience while Morgan and the D.D.I. had conferred with the divisional superintendent in another office. Morgan had said that Nora was missing, that she had not returned to her flat the previous night.
But he had certainly taken her there. She had been standing by the steps as he drove away, and she had only to walk up those steps and climb the stairs to her flat. Why had she not done so?
The superintendent scraped his chair closer to the wide, flat-topped desk, cloaking his paunch, and surveyed his godson with curiosity and some apprehension. He had been fond of David the boy, but as the boy grew into a man the affinity between them had gradually waned. Perhaps the fault was his; perhaps he had not tried hard enough to appreciate the difficulties that can beset a youth orphaned while still in his teens, had shelved his responsibilities too readily and too soon. Occasionally, stricken by conscience, he had attempted to remedy the fault; invited him out to dinner, dropped in at his flat for a casual chat. But the attempts had seemed doomed to failure. Inevitably the two men grated on each other. David appeared to interpret interest as interference, advice as criticism, and resented both, so that his godfather’s efforts to be heartily avuncular too often ended in ang
er. And perhaps, thought the superintendent, with unusual humility, the lad’s resentment was not entirely unjustified. For he was critical of his godson. He thought him irresponsible and slovenly and bumptious, and mistrusted both his judgments and his intentions.
It was those judgments and intentions that troubled him now. Hitherto their infrequent meetings had been of a social nature. What unhappy quirk of fate had decreed that David should be involved in what might well prove to be the trickiest case of his career?
He drew a paper-bag from the pocket of his smartly cut jacket, and proffered it to David.
‘Have an acid-drop? No? Well, smoke if you want to. There’ll be a cup of tea along shortly, I hope.’ He popped an acid-drop into his mouth, placed the bag within easy reach, and leaned back. ‘Now, let’s have it, shall we? The whole story, from the moment you walked into the Centipede and saw Nora Winstone until you dropped her outside that ghastly flat. Being a journalist, you probably think you can distinguish between what’s important and what isn’t. Well, maybe you can. But I want the ‘isn’t’ as well.’ He saw David frown, and gave what was intended as a knowing wink. ‘The police are discretion personified. Anyway, this isn’t going to be an official statement. It’s off the record. O.K.?’
David was more than ready to oblige. He was bursting with curiosity, but he knew that he would get nothing out of Morgan until Morgan had got what he wanted out of him. Perhaps not even then; not unless it suited the superintendent’s purpose. But if Morgan were prepared to talk at all he should be prepared to talk to his godson. David’s appraisement of that affinity had hitherto been low; he had thought it more of a handicap than an asset. Now its status rose appreciably.
Morgan knew how to listen. He prompted, but he did not interrupt unnecessarily. Every now and again he would pop another acid-drop into his mouth (he was a non-smoker), sucking on it continuously, but never crunching it until only the last thin sliver remained. Several teeth had recently been extracted from his lower jaw, and with each particularly virile suck a little hollow would appear in his left cheek. It fascinated David.
