Chief instructor of the Judo Club, dark-haired, thickset little Welshman, Griffiths, got to his feet, and Dr. Morelle followed suit, giving a hitch to his white jacket around which he wore the black belt of a fourth Dan. His opponent similarly attired was a seventh Dan, with several years’ experience at the Kodokwan in Tokyo.
It was late afternoon, the Dojo or club-room, in the centre of which the two men prepared to practice their science, was a lofty-ceilinged room with the tall windows overlooking the side-street which led off the Cromwell Road. The windows were wide open to the light summer breeze.
Griffiths moved in, with his right hand extended, elbow tucked close, as if pointing a gun.
With a swift movement Dr. Morelle pushed the V formed by the thumb and fingers of his left hand, with the thumb pointed downwards, against the other’s extended wrist, and forced it to the left. In the same movement he advanced his left foot diagonally to the left, and now with his right hand caught Griffiths’ hand which held the imaginary gun.
Keeping both his arms straight Dr. Morelle made a left turn on the ball of his left foot, swinging his opponent’s captured arm over his head. He shifted his right foot to correct his balance while he straightened Griffiths’ arm, pulling his wrist down past his right side, while at the same time he turned the opponent’s wrist to the right.
Griffiths opened his right hand as if releasing the gun.
The little Welshman grinned at him.
“Nice, Doctor,” he said. “If I’d had my finger on the trigger guard of the gun you’d have torn my hand to bits.”
Dr. Morelle shook his head in self-criticism. “Not half-fast enough,” he said. “That’s what comes of being unable to keep up one’s training. You lose the split-second coordination which in an emergency could make all the difference.”
“Don’t forget,” the other said, “that in such a case, chances are you’d be dealing not with an expert, but with someone who wouldn’t know the first thing about Judo.”
Dr. Morelle gave him a nod. “Nevertheless,” he said, “one should be prepared for an opponent who knows more than you do.”
The Dojo remained empty for the next hour, the club-members usually did not arrive until early evening, and Dr. Morelle and Griffiths went through a dozen exercises, practising the moves and holds, the shifts and stratagems which would be required to deal with an attempted hold-up by an armed assailant.
Perspiration poured down their faces and bared chests as they circled and lunged, parried and struck, the soles of their bare feet a sibilant hiss on the shining surface of the tatami. Dr. Morelle defended himself against a drunk swinging punches at him. As Griffiths in the role of a drunken attacker flung out his left fist Dr. Morelle’s right forearm blocked the blow, while his left hand gripped the other’s right wrist, pushing it back to the left. He moved left with his left foot, and brought his right foot past his opponent’s right foot, grabbing the other’s right elbow with his right hand, at the same time bringing his left foot behind Griffiths, to pin his wrists between his shoulder-blades. Pressing down on the other’s right elbow, Dr. Morelle now had his own left elbow forced hard against Griffiths’ left shoulder-blade, his feet were placed so that he was perfectly balanced, his knees bent and relaxed.
“Okay, Dr. Morelle,” Griffiths said, and they relaxed.
They left the tatami to sit squatted against the white-painted wall, while they discussed Judo, its origins and philosophy.
“Let’s hope, of course,” Griffiths was saying, “you don’t have to prove my words, but I really think there’s not many you’d meet who’d stand much chance against you.”
“Win your battle with the sword in its sheath, eh?” Dr. Morelle said.
“That’s the way they say it in Japan,” the other said. “If you can talk your way out of trouble without having to demonstrate how smart a jujitsu expert you are, so much the wiser.”
“A man can be a Black Belt,” Dr. Morelle said, “without necessarily being a great philosopher. But all things being equal — health and physique — a great philosopher would almost certainly have the makings of a Black Belt.”
The dark-haired Welshman nodded. “It’s like the noise which follows the clap of the hands,” he said. “You can’t have one without the other. For one’s body to be so coordinated that it automatically takes control as required in the face of danger, that is the height of achievement for the jujitsu exponent.”
“Which perfection,” Dr. Morelle said, “requires continuous practice.” He gave a little sigh. “I fear that much as I wish I were able to give the science more time, life holds too many distractions for me to be able to do so.”
“Maybe,” Griffiths said, “but you don’t do so badly.” He regarded Dr. Morelle’s lean profile while he noted that his breathing was steady and regular, the deep chest between the wide angular shoulders rose and fell rhythmically. “I suppose it’s because you possess such terrific powers of concentration which few people have.”
“You’re very kind,” Dr. Morelle said. “In fact, my work does require a certain amount of application in order to attain any measure of success.”
He seemed about to enlarge upon the subject, when he turned his head quickly as a shadow darkened the doorway to the Dojo. The familiar figure that had appeared there and now stood looking across at him brought the faintest shadow of a frown to Dr. Morelle’s aquiline features.
“Hope I’m not intruding,” Detective-Inspector Hood of New Scotland Yard said, with a slow grin spreading beneath his iron-grey moustache. He was wearing a well-worn pin-stripe suit of conservative cut and carried a bowler hat. He made as if to step forward onto the tatami when he was halted by a peremptory word.
“Wait,” Dr. Morelle said. He got to his feet and his companion also stood up as he padded across. “Against the rules,” Dr. Morelle said, “to walk on the tatami in your shoes.” The detective wore an expression of puzzled amusement. “If you knew anything about the science to which this place is dedicated you’d appreciate that you spend some considerable amount of your time with your face on the floor. That’s why we’re careful to prevent dirt being brought in from the street.”
“Oh,” Inspector Hood said, and a trifle self-consciously he took the blackened briar pipe he was chewing on from between his teeth and pushed it into his pocket. “Miss Frayle said you might be here,” he said.
Dr. Morelle’s eyebrow shot up, and a look of pain flitted across his saturnine features, glistening with sweat. “She would,” he said uncompromisingly. “From which it requires little difficulty to deduce that you have only recently had the dubious pleasure of conversation with her.”
Dr. Morelle had led Inspector Hood out of the Dojo and along the passage to a corner where they could-talk undisturbed. They made an incongruous pair, Dr. Morelle, lean, sinewy and glowing as a result of his work-out, in his white jacket and short trousers, and the man from Scotland Yard heavily-built in his formal suit, and bowler hat clutched in his thick hands.
Miss Frayle had seen the force of Erica Travers’ suggestion that they ought to get in touch with Inspector Hood. But she could not help wishing that they had not been involved themselves in this business. All very well for Erica to satisfy her curiosity, but another thing to make your interest known to a third party. If the girl at the hoop-la knew that it was Johnny Destiny she wasn’t likely to give him away, and Erica’s inquiries might incur some risk to herself by warning the man that she had recognized him.
Mingled with her uneasiness was the feeling in her own mind that Erica had made a mistake. It was putting too much faith in a newspaper photograph to rely on it as proof of identity. On the other hand though, Erica had met the man; she had been in his company only the day before, on the boat.
It was then that she decided that the best thing to do was not to get in touch with Inspector Hood, but speak to Dr. Morelle about it. That way, following Dr. Morelle’s advice, she and Erica could return to Dormouse Creek and carry on with their ho
liday in peace.
But she was to be thwarted in achieving this simple solution to her problem. In the call-box outside the Kursaal she listened with Erica beside her to the distant burr-burr of the telephone ringing at 221b Harley Street. The ringing was not answered. It was then that Miss Frayle, glancing at her watch, realized that Dr. Morelle had said something about the Judo Club. She considered getting him there, she didn’t know the number, but the Directory would give it her, but decided that it mightn’t be such a good idea. She might not find him in a very receptive mood. Miss Frayle, with Erica’s agreement, settled for Inspector Hood, after all.
“I thought you were on holiday, Miss Frayle,” Inspector Hood had said to her, when she finally got through to him at Scotland Yard. She plunged into her explanation for telephoning him.
“It’s about a friend of mine, Miss Travers, I’m on holiday with her, she’s sure she’s seen the man whose body was found on the boat-train at Victoria yesterday. You know, the newspapers say his name’s Johnny Destiny.”
Inspector Hood had heard her out. Prompted by Erica she told him all she knew. “And what do you think, Miss Frayle?” he said, his tone non-committal.
“I suppose he could resemble the photo in the paper,” she said slowly. “But it might be just coincidence. But, Erica, Miss Travers, is positive that he’s the same man she met on the boat.”
As Inspector Hood related all this that Miss Frayle had told him over the phone now to Dr. Morelle, he unconsciously produced his pipe again from his pocket and chewed its stem. “What do you think of it?” he said finally. He searched the gaunt, aquiline features that had been bent upon him attentively. Both Inspector Hood and Dr. Morelle had made their respective contribution towards the unravelling of the tangled skein that had been the Transatlantic case, and the name of Johnny Destiny was something to be reckoned with.
“Of course,” the detective said dubiously, “it’s easy enough to make a mistake in the crowds at Southend Kursaal. And, I mean, he was found on the train all right, and after all, when a chap’s dead, he’s dead.”
Dr. Morelle regarded him with a faintly mocking expression. He could hear the thwack from the Dojo of a body meeting the tatami as Griffiths and another member of the Judo Club engaged in a bout.
“It would appear that this one isn’t,” he said.
Chapter Fifteen
HE WAS PLEASED with himself. He was riding high, like on the roller-coaster at the Kursaal. He’d found the girl, and she was all ready to move right in under his umbrella.
Any fear back of his mind that she might have left the place was wiped out as soon as he saw the hoop-la stall. He’d made a good impression, she was ready to go for him. But then didn’t he find it went that way with any number he had wanted to go for him? He smiled thinly to himself and went into one of the Kursaal snack-bars and ordered coffee and hot dogs.
He didn’t notice the other customers. He sat at the counter in a corner. He began working it out he was going to play his hand from here. He had to be diplomatic. No use pushing her and setting the fire-alarm ringing. He’d got to take it gently and he was sure she’d lead him home. Casual inquiries about where she came from, was she alone, she have any folk around?
If he played his cards right, an hour or so with her should put him on the road to his final destination. He would be glad to get out of Southend, anyway. Hot and crowded and noisy, it was unwise to stay in any one place too long. And this crummy place was no place to stay anyway. He rode the electric train to the pier-head, found a chair in a quiet corner in the shade and relaxed. It was nice just to lie back with his eyes closed and feel the gentle sea breeze whispering across his face. Nice just to lie there, and think of nothing in particular, knowing everything was organized up to date.
He was back on shore again by seven. He wandered along towards Westcliff, lingering over a couple of drinks in a bar. When he returned to the Kursaal he was still feeling good and all set to click the last cog in the works into place.
She was trying to look as though she wasn’t waiting for him at the hoop-la. The customers were still throwing the rings, but there was another girl working the stall. The dark, sultry girl saw him and said something to the other girl. The other girl glanced up in his direction and smirked. He gave Lucilla a glad hand, then she came out to meet him.
She looked more attractive now than when he had first seen her. Luscious was the word. She’d changed her frock. He could see it wasn’t an expensive one. Just a plain summery job with a full skirt and an off-the-shoulder line, but she looked a million in it. She didn’t wear much make-up. A touch of lipstick to turn her full mouth to a deeper red.
“I wondered if you’d be back,” she said. The glance from beneath her dark mascarad eyelashes held a conversation with his own eyes.
“I didn’t,” he said. “Nothing could have kept me away.”
She eyed him sceptically, but she fell into step beside him and he took her arm, and she changed her handbag over so that it didn’t bang against him.
“How much busier than this can you get?” His glance took in the crowds still milling around.
She laughed softly. “What about your Coney Island?” she said. “From what I’ve heard, this place is an old folks’ home, compared. You been to Coney Island?”
He nodded. “I’ve been there. It’s bigger than this. Like a city all on its own. Theatres, night-clubs, all the works. Sure it’s different from this. But this is okay.” His pale eyes glinted at her from under the brim of his light hat. “Let’s get out of here, and have a drink,” he said.
They left the Kursaal and walked along the front towards the pier. Off the Western Esplanade they found a small bar. It was quieter than most, though the shouts and clamour of the holiday-makers still came to them as they sat down. A couple of drinks, then they moved on up the cliff to a hotel he had earmarked earlier. He bought her a good dinner. There was a bottle of champagne and it brought a sparkle to her lustrous eyes. The warm glow of her reached across the table and encircled him.
She began talking about herself. He already knew part of her story. But she didn’t know he knew. She didn’t know he knew more about her than she did herself. Her mother had died when she was a kid. She’d been alone a lot. She’d had to make her own way from the time she’d left school. Her father had drifted abroad. Vague business ventures, she said, she didn’t know much about that, had sent him travelling all over Europe. His expression didn’t change while she told him this. She’d never seen much of her father until now, she said. She was thankful he’d settled down at last.
A lonely inn on the marshes. He made a living from it. That and a bit on the side, shooting wildfowl. It was not far from Southend and she could keep an eye on him. She went over there as often as she could. It wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea. But she liked it and so did the old man.
Things were moving his way, already they were moving his way, he was telling himself. The inn not far away, that was how it was going to be, was it? He didn’t need much more and he’d have it all fixed. Working like this, with the big notion in the forefront of his mind, helped him keep his thoughts away from the romantic excursion the girl opposite invited. But she was a baby he could take to.
They finished their coffee. He had a brandy, but she still had a little of her champagne left to sip. She smoked one of his American cigarettes, he tapped it out of the packet for her. He bought himself a cigar, Havana. She watched him light it with admiration. Presently they strolled out of the hotel and wandered into the cliff gardens close by. The lights stringing along the promenade and pier glittered against the haze of the close of the summer’s day. Still the noise of crowds, and from somewhere the sound of dance-music. But it was quieter in the gardens, it seemed a way away. They were alone among trees and shrubbery and the scent of flowers.
They found a seat in the shadows of a tree. His arm moved round her shoulders and he felt her faint shiver as his fingers touched her flesh. She snuggled closer to him,
and he kissed her ear.
“Been a swell evening, hon,” he said. “Couldn’t we dream up some more like this one?”
“Only me and you to stop us,” she said. Her voice was a languorous whisper.
“To-morrow?”
She hesitated uncertainly. “I should be going over to see my father.”
“Has he got room for a weary traveller,” he said.
She drew out of his arm to stare at him. Her eyes were bright pools of wonder in the dusk. “You wouldn’t want to come over with me?”
“Nothing I’d like better than to tag along.” His words came out warm and fast, there was a deep note of sincerity, old-fashioned stuff, so that he could have been wanting to ask her father for his daughter’s hand in marriage. “You know something, hon,” he said. “You made where he hangs out sound like sweet music to me. Somewhere to get away from crowds and noise.” He paused, and then he packed the real throb into it. “Somewhere where we could be really alone.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t like it,” she said. “You’d think it was just some dump, I mean. And it’s miles from anywhere.”
“You got me figured out wrong, hon, when you say that,” he said. She was in his arms again. His mouth was against her ear. “The backwoods stuff is for me. If you knew how much I wanted to cut away from civilization, if only for a while. Get right back to Doctor Nature. And your pop’s place sounds just what the doc ordered. If you want to go over there to-morrow for as long as you want, it’s okay by me. Just so long as I’m right by your side.”
It was easier than he had expected. He arranged to pick her up in a car he’d hired at the room she had in a side-street not far from the Kursaal next afternoon. She said she could organize it so that she wouldn’t have to return until the day after next. She was sure her father would put him up all right. They stayed on, lost in the deepening shadows of the tree. He could give her the business now. His mind was temporarily free from the big caper, he could concentrate on the romantic stuff which was expected of him. It wasn’t difficult to ease himself into the mood. The night was close, filled with the scent of flowers. The sound of the traffic had faded into a distant murmur, mingled with voices of holiday-makers drifting past. Somewhere far away the red and green navigation lights on the ships in the estuary flickered in the darkness.
Dr Morelle and Destiny Page 9
