by J F Straker
He went back to the church and strolled down Jamaica Road to Cathay Street. On his previous visit he had been impressed by the signs of prosperity and progress in the streets and buildings; now he was impressed by the people. They were well dressed and looked prosperous, they had emerged from depression and poverty as Rotherhithe itself was emerging. In ten years time, he thought idly, Rotherhithe might well rival Islington as a fashionable residential area, as Islington was already rivalling Chelsea.
Cathay Street was less impressive. It was also profitless so far as his quest was concerned. The few residents he spoke to were friendly and co-operative; but most of them were elderly, and it seemed that none of the younger men had been christened William. Many of them had been out on the previous Saturday night, as they apparently were on most Saturdays, but David did not bother to inquire into their activities. Quite clearly none of them had been cuddling a girl in Rotherhithe Street.
One interview aroused his interest. The door was opened to him by a lush brunette with spiky eyebrows, and wearing a yellow polka-dot frock that seemed too flimsy to contain her ripe figure. She had all the curves that he liked to see, and none of those he did not. In her cheerful cockney voice she told him that her name was Judy Garland.
‘It sounds familiar,’ he said, smiling back at her.
‘’Tain’t my real name. That’s Christine. But ‘most every one calls me Judy.’ She looked him up and down. Apparently she liked what she saw, for she said, ‘Want to come in?’
David decided that he did. He was becoming tired of doorsteps. The small parlour was clean and gay, and so crammed with furniture that there was little room in which to move. In one corner stood a twenty-one-inch television set.
He explained the ostensible reason for his visit. Miss Garland was intrigued. ‘Fancy them wanting to know a thing like that.’ She pushed him into a chair, but did not sit down herself, preferring to lean against the table. ‘I get kinda itchy if I sits for long,’ she explained. ‘That’s why I don’t watch the telly much. But Mum and Dad, they watch it all the time. Never stop. Have a beer?’
He had a beer. So did Miss Garland, blowing her way through the froth and gulping down the liquid with gusto. Then she took a deep breath that stretched the bodice of her frock almost to bursting. ‘I’m a sucker for beer,’ she said. ‘Better’n all that hard stuff. P’raps that’s why the boys like taking me out. I mean —well, it costs less, don’t it?’
‘That wouldn’t be the only reason,’ he said.
‘No,’ she agreed cheerfully. ‘I know what they’re after, all right. You got a girl? Steady, I mean?’
He hastily disclaimed such a possession, and led the conversation back to television and Saturday night. No, she said, she had not been watching; as on most evenings, she had gone out. Where? Oh, they’d had a drink at the Angel and then gone to the flicks.
‘And after that?’
Some of her vivacity departed at the question. She did not respond to his knowing look. ‘That’s my business.’
‘Of course it’s your business,’ he agreed hastily, anxious not to offend. ‘Yours and the boy-friend’s. What’s his name? Tom? Jack? Bill? He’s a lucky fellow, whoever he is —’
She shook her head. Unless she were an accomplished actress those names had no particular significance for her. David’s disappointment was tempered with relief. It would not have been pleasant to think of Judy Garland as a target for a gunman.
She soon recovered her vivacity. They finished the beer, and when, somewhat reluctantly, he left, it was with an invitation to call any time he happened to be passing. ‘Can’t promise beer,’ she told him gaily, ‘but there’s always a cuppa.’
He thanked her. ‘Be seeing you.’
Half-way down the street a man was gazing up at one of the houses. He did not appear to show any interest in David, but as the latter reached the corner he noticed that the man was staring after him. David paused to stare back. Even when the man had turned and walked away he continued to stare. He was puzzled. Not so much that the man should have shown interest in him, but that he could be so certain he had seen him before and not remember where.
There were ten houses in Rose End, merged into a whole whose united front differed from the wall across the road only by the uniform insertion of doors and windows. Their roofs were of slate, their bricks a dirty grey from which most of the pointing had crumbled. Separating each front door from the narrow pavement was a single step, its stone worn almost hollow by generations of feet. The grey pall that had descended over the docks that May evening intensified the general air of gloom pervading Rose End. David, surveying it from Rotherhithe Street, felt the gloom enter into him also.
He decided to start at the far end, where the road narrowed abruptly into a footpath that led to Paradise Street. At the second house he tried it seemed that his luck was in. After listening to his opening spiel, the woman who had answered the door shouted over her shoulder, ‘Bill! You there?’ There was an answering shout from inside the house, and she called out, ‘Come here! There’s a gentleman wants to see you about the telly.’
Bill Brandon was a tall, gangling youth, good-looking, but with a sad, vacant expression. Yes, he said, he watched the telly; watched it most nights of a weekday. But when David asked about Saturday he couldn’t remember. ‘Ma!’ he bawled. Then, discovering that she was standing immediately behind him in the tiny hall, he grinned. Was I in or out Sat’day evenin’, Ma?’
‘You was out,’ she told him. ‘And goodness knows what time you come home. It was gone twelve when I went to bed, and you wasn’t in then. If your Dad were here —’
‘Well, he ain’t.’ The youth turned to David. ‘I was out, mate.’
David gave what he hoped was an ingratiating smile.
‘At the cinema? The local? We’re trying to discover, you see, how these counter-attractions affect our viewing figures.’
Bill Brandon shrugged. ‘Just out,’ he said laconically. ‘You know — with the lads.’
David had to leave it at that.
One other resident aroused his compassion, if not his interest. She was a girl of about Judy Garland’s height and build, but there the resemblance ended. Where Judy was all curves, this girl was all lumps. Her hair was a mousy brown, and she stood awkwardly, as though her legs or her feet pained her. But it was her face and her voice that troubled him. Her face was one continuous twitch; eyebrows, cheeks, nose, lips — they were all part of it and never still. She had difficulty too in forming her words. She did not stutter; the words, or at least the syllables, came out whole. But there were long, agonizing pauses while her mouth worked desperately to frame them.
In a doorstep interview that seemed endless he learned that her name was Mina Einsdorp, that she was twenty-one, that both her parents were out, and that there was no television-set in the house.
Hastily he switched to radio. Yes, they had a radio, but they did not listen often.
‘Did you listen Saturday evening?’ He could not see her as the female half of the couple in the archway, but he had to go on. ‘You, not your parents.’
She shook her head. It was easier than talking.
‘Were you out?’ A nod this time. ‘Mind telling me what you did? We treat all answers as confidential, of course.’
‘The —the —’ He thought she would never make it. ‘The cinema.’
He had expected that. ‘And after? A cafe, perhaps?’
It seemed that speech was becoming more difficult, the pauses between the words were longer. But eventually he learned that she had gone for a walk. And then, because the questions had ceased and she was able to be done with words, for a brief moment her face was still, and she smiled at him. It was a pleasant smile, and it seemed to David that it was at once familiar and unfamiliar. Then the twitches recommenced, and the smile faded.
The interview had depressed him, and his calls on the other residents of Rose End were brief and unfruitful. I may have missed something, he th
ought, as he trudged back to St James’s Road, but I don’t greatly care. This sort of lark is not for me.
Robert Lumsden opened the door himself; this time it was his landlady who was out. He was a good-looking young man in the late twenties, with a mass of curly ginger hair and a cheerful, freckled face. David said, ‘Sorry to bother you so late, but you were out when I called before. I’m trying to trace a lady named Nora Winstone. Mrs Nora Winstone. Do you know her?’
‘Can’t say I do. Should I?’
David was uncertain how to continue. Lumsden appeared to be telling the truth, yet what was his name doing in Nora’s diary if the two were unacquainted? While he hesitated, Lumsden said, with a faint burr to his voice that David could not place, ‘You intrigue me. Come in and tell me more.’
His room was untidy but clean. An iron bedstead stood against one wall, a large wardrobe and a chest of drawers filled another. Under the window was a long table, littered with sketches and paintings, and with all the paraphernalia of a line and watercolour artist. There were sketches and paintings on the bed, more on the mantelshelf and on top of the chest. To David’s untrained eye few of them appeared to be finished.
Lumsden grinned at him. ‘Sorry about the mess. Wasn’t expecting visitors.’ There was only the one chair, and he swept a pile of clothing from it. ‘Sit down. I’ll take the bed.’
David preferred to stand. He said, ‘Are you a professional artist, or is this just a hobby?’
Lumsden flapped a hand at the mantelshelf. There was paint on the dark-blue jersey and grey flannels.
‘If you mean that sort of stuff, it’s a hobby. I’m a commercial artist by trade. Now, what’s all this about? I’ve never even heard of a Mrs Winstone. Why come to me?’
‘Because your name and address are in her diary.’
‘They are?’ There was no mistaking his genuine amazement. ‘Well, what do you know? Who the hell is she, anyway? I don’t get it.’
David did not get it either, and he decided not to be too explicit until he did. He said, ‘I happened to find a diary that belonged to her. As it has your name in it I thought you might be able to give me her address so that I could return it.’
‘Sorry, no dice.’ Lumsden scratched his head in perplexity. ‘Where is this flipping diary? Let’s have a look at it.’
‘I left it at home,’ lied David.
He went across to the mantelshelf and examined the water-colours more closely. The scenes were familiar. One of them was painted from across a sandy cove, with the rocks piling up into a forbidding headland and the ocean rollers breaking over them. As art it was no great painting, but it was photographic. He said, ‘Isn’t that Poldhu, near the Lizard?’
‘It is. Thanks for the recognition; it does something for my ego. I’ve done quite a lot of painting round that area. My aunt runs a caravan camp between Poldhu and Pendwara, and I spend some of my holidays there.’ He grinned. ‘I’m not all that keen on the place, but it’s cheaper than paying for lodgings.’
‘You’re a Cornishman, aren’t you?’ David said. He had placed the burr now.
‘I was born there. Got it out of my system now, though. Do you know that part of the world?’
David grinned back at him. ‘My uncle has a pub in Pendwara. I get cheap holidays too.’
It was nearly midnight by the time he returned to his flat. He had decided that, in recompense for a tiring and somewhat depressing evening’s labour, he would indulge himself with a decent meal in town on the expense account. Paul had given him a taste for good food. Snowball was sticky over expenses, but he could be persuaded; and this was an occasion for persuasion. He sat drinking in a pub near Leicester Square until closing time, and then went on to a favourite restaurant near by and took his time over fillet steak and mushrooms, followed by cheese and biscuits and coffee.
His flat was on the ground floor of an elderly Georgian house in a quiet Fulham street, and consisted of a large bed-sitter with an alcove partitioned off to form a minute kitchen. The Alvis was parked outside, and as always he made sure that she was properly tucked up for the night before he mounted the wide steps to the front entrance. He was tired, and glad to be home. All that walking! He just wasn’t used to it.
At first he thought the lock was broken, or that he had the wrong key; the key entered the lock smoothly enough, but it would not turn. It was not until he had fiddled in the dark for some irritating seconds that he thought to try the handle and found that the door was unlocked. It did not perturb him; he had left the flat unlocked before. He ran his finger over the wall to the switch, flicked it down, and shut the door behind him.
He stared round the room in amazement. Disorder was complete. Drawers had been pulled from the chest, their contents littered the floor. Suitcases had been opened, his desk rifled, and his papers scattered in confusion. There were underclothes soaking in the wash-basin, a further pile on the floor beside it. The wardrobe doors were open and his suits had slid from their hangers.
And on the bed, feet and hands tied and a handkerchief bound over her mouth, lay a girl.
5
‘Susan! What the hell’s been going on?’
Without waiting for an answer he ran to the bed and began to free her feet. Not only were they bound together, they were also tied to the bedpost. When there was no response to his query other than a vicious jerk of the nylon-clad legs he looked at the girl in hurt surprise; then, realizing his error, he moved to the head of the bed and removed the handkerchief from her mouth. Even then she did not speak, though her lips moved. He fetched a glass of water, and put an arm round her and held her while she sipped. From the expression on her face swallowing was clearly a painful business, but presently she turned her head away and held out her hands.
‘My wrists, darling.’ Her voice was a croak. ‘They hurt.’
He untied them. A host of questions was on his lips, but he refrained from speaking them; she needed time in which to relax, to compose herself. As she rubbed her chafed wrists he stared in dismay round the room, brows knit in angry concentration. Then he bent and began to massage her ankles.
‘Thanks, darling. That’ll do.’ She swung her feet to the floor and sat up. Her auburn hair was ruffled from restless tossing, and she pushed and patted it into place. Her voice was still hoarse, and she picked up the glass and sipped again. ‘Pass me my handbag, will you?’
‘What happened?’ David demanded, obeying.
‘What do you think happened?’ Her grey-green eyes surveyed him scornfully from beneath pencil-thin eyebrows. ‘Either you’ve been burgled, or some of your friends have an odd sense of fun.’ She bent to examine her face in the mirror, wrinkling her small nose in disgust. ‘My, but I look a mess!’
He watched her as she applied lipstick and powder, combed her hair, and rearranged the casual auburn lock that hung tantalizingly over her forehead. He had known Susan Long since they were children together, and he accepted her presence in his flat as he would have accepted the presence of a sister had he had one. He was a self-centred young man, and his primary emotion now was irritation, not solicitude. But he was also aware that his irritation was ill-timed, and he did his best to suppress it.
Susan stood up and twisted the waist of her frock so that the full skirt hung evenly, and bent to smooth the pleats. But there were still pins and needles in her legs, and she flopped back on to the bed with a grimace. David said, ‘What’s the matter? They didn’t hurt you, did they?’
‘No. They were not exactly gentle, either.’ She crossed one leg over the other and rubbed it vigorously. ‘I think you might have asked me that before.’
‘Sorry.’ He stared round the room again. ‘How many of them were there?’
‘Two. At least, I think there were two. I never really got a proper look at them.’
He sat down on the bed beside her. ‘What happened? What were you doing here, anyway?’
‘What do you think I was doing? I came round to see you because I was bored. When I fo
und you were out I thought I might as well do a spot of washing and tidy the place up. It usually needs it.’
‘You made a good job of it,’ he said, kicking at a suitcase.
Susan laughed. It was a gay, infectious sound.
‘I did too, though I don’t blame you for doubting it. And I darned some socks and put your undies in to soak.’ She peered over at the wash-basin to see if they were still soaking. ‘Then I began to feel sleepy (I was on the set just after seven this morning, although it was quite unnecessary. They didn’t start filming till after lunch), so I switched off the light and lay down on the bed for a nap. And that’s where they found me. I must have forgotten to lock the door.’
‘What time was this?’
‘When they arrived? I don’t know although I seem to have been lying there for hours. I woke up to find them rolling me over on to my tummy. I never even saw their faces. They trussed me up and gagged me, and one of them — he had a queer, squeaky sort of voice — told me to keep my head buried in the pillows. So I did —they didn’t sound as though they would take kindly to argument. I could hear them moving about and opening and shutting doors and things, and then they left. They couldn’t have been here long. Ten minutes at the most.’
‘Did they say anything before they left?’
‘To me? Not a word.’
David went over to the wardrobe and started to put his suits back on the hangers. ‘They’ve made a mess of these,’ he said in disgust.
Susan laughed. ‘Is that possible, darling?’
He ignored the comment. ‘I can’t understand what they were after. There’s nothing here worth pinching. You know that.’
‘I know it, yes. But did they?’ Susan stood up and stretched. She had a plump, well-rounded figure. Stretching displayed it to perfection, but the demonstration was wasted on David. ‘Is there anything to eat? I’m starving.’
