The Best of Gerald Kersh

by Gerald Kersh

  ‘See, Baby? Now, what’ll we have?’

  ‘I, ah, a small shandy.’

  ‘Oh, no, George. Not if you drink with me, you don’t. None of your shandies. Drink that stuff and you don’t drink with me. You’re going to have a Bass, a Draught Bass. That’s a man’s drink. Baby, two Draught Bass.’

  ‘He always has his own way,’ said the girl called Baby.

  ‘Skin like cream,’ whispered Tooth, with a snigger. When the girl returned with the beer he leaned across the bar and stroked her arm. ‘This evening?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  Tooth grasped her wrist. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Leave go. People are looking.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’ll wait for you after eleven.’

  ‘I shan’t be there. Let go my arm, I tell you. The manager’s coming over.’

  ‘This evening?’

  ‘Stop it, you’ll get me the sack.’

  ‘I don’t care. This evening?’

  ‘All right, but let go.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Wainewright saw four red marks on the white skin of her arm as Tooth released her. She rubbed her wrist, and said in a voice which quivered with admiration: ‘You’re too strong.’

  ‘Eh, George?’ said Tooth, nudging Wainewright and grinning.

  ‘You must have one more drink with me,’ said Wainewright, emptying his glass with a wry face, ‘and then I must be off…. Excuse me, miss. One more of these, please.’

  ‘Eh? Eh? What’s that? Oh no, damn it, no, I don’t stand that. You make it two more, Baby. Do you hear what I say?’ Fixing Wainewright with an injured stare, Tooth added: ‘On principle, I don’t stand for that kind of thing.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘So I should think! No! Fair’s fair! Well, and where are you staying now?’

  ‘In my aunt’s place still.’

  “Hear that, Baby? Looking after his old auntie, eh? His nice rich old auntie. Ha-ha! He knows which side his bread’s buttered, George here. No offence, George. I’m going to look you up in a week or two. I want a nice room, reasonable.’

  ‘We’re full right up just now, Tooth.’

  ‘Ah, you old kidder! Isn’t he a kidder, Baby? You’ll find me a room all right. I know.’

  And surely enough, a fortnight later Tooth came, and by then Wainewright’s aunt was dead, and there was a room vacant in the solid and respectable old house in Bishop’s Square. So Tooth had come to live with Wainewright. Yes, indeed, he had blustered and browbeaten his way into the grave, as luck ordered the matter; for there Mrs Tooth had found him.

  And therefore all Britain was waiting for a Notable Trial and, under rich black headlines, the name of George Wainewright was printed in all the papers, called by the prosecution as witness in the Victoria Scissors Murder.

  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 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 many men.’

  ‘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. 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 hi
m 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, tomorrow!’ 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 tomorrow. 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, 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 wrote 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.’