After he had been in London for two or three days, and suspected that he had more than once betrayed himself by his voice, Ellis decided he couldn’t afford to take any more such risks. Until he could think of a more permanent plan he posed as a deaf-mute; going so far as to learn the deaf and dumb alphabet. But you couldn’t go around talking with your fingers to people who didn’t know the signs. That might do for the few, but the pebble had to do for the majority. He would have to do something permanent about his voice, but what, he had no idea. He hadn’t realised how easily his voice could betray him. He hadn’t realised how sharp these people were. Look at the prisoner. He had only said, “There are a few more pieces here,” and they had pounced on him; shot him, too.
He had come to the trial prepared for trouble. Old Bailey was a lion’s den if ever there was one. The place was stiff with police and Army Intelligence officers. He couldn’t afford to make a slip here and he kept the pebble tucked up between his gum and his cheek and hadn’t once taken it out.
The fat woman was speaking to him again. “All this fuss. Why don’t they ‘ave done with it? They know ‘oo ‘e is, don’t they? That voice is enough. Why don’t they get on with it?”
Ellis scowled at her, tried to shift away, but her fat body wedged him in and he couldn’t move.
“ ‘Ere ‘ave a sandwich,” she said generously. “They’ll be at it all the afternoon. It’s ‘ungry work, listening to all them words. Wot are they getting at, anyway? Think ‘e’ll wriggle out of it?”
Ellis shook his head, put out a grubby claw, took one of the sandwiches. He had had no lunch and his insides were rumbling, but he did not intend to miss one word of this legal battle. But for his own shrewdness this could easily have been his own trial. The atmosphere of the court, the words, the reactions of the speakers fascinated him. It was like attending one’s own funeral service. He accepted the sandwich gratefully, turned away to slip the pebble out of his mouth into his hand.
“That’s right,” the woman whispered, nodding and smiling. She had a round, red, jolly face. Her small brown eyes twinkled. “Tuck in. I got plenty. I believe in feeding meself, not that you can get the food these days. Queue . . . queue, all the time.”
Ellis nodded. He wasn’t going to open his mouth now, no matter what she said to him. He bit into the fresh bread, chewed slowly. Cheese and pickles. The poor know how to look after themselves, he thought bitterly. Cheese and pickles while a man was waiting to die.
The Judge was reading from the prisoner’s statement, “I take this opportunity of making a preliminary statement, concerning the motive which led me to come to Germany and to broadcast over the German radio service. I was actuated not by the desire for personal gain, material or otherwise, but solely by political conviction.”
Ellis winced as he heard these words. They bit unexpectedly into his conscience.
“I was actuated not by the desire for personal gain . . ."
He couldn’t say that for himself. What he had done had been for personal gain. They could prove that all right, no matter what he said. But what else could you expect? In this country they never gave you a chance. You had to be a public school type or at least look presentable before you could earn more than ten pounds a week. Brains and ability didn’t count. Never mind how hard you worked at night school to improve yourself. It was who’s your father? What’s your school? Let’s look at your suit.
Before he had joined the British Union of Fascists he had been earning thirty-five shillings a week as a clerk in a tin-pot estate agent’s office. He had tried to get a better job, but the white-collared swine, sitting smugly behind their desks, wouldn’t look at him. The news that his father was doing a twenty-year stretch for killing his daughter always damned his chances. It wasn’t his fault that his father was a reprieved murderer, was it? Anyway, if the old man hadn’t killed her, he would have wrung her neck himself — the dirty little bitch! He had seen her with his own eyes walking up and down Piccadilly, a torch in her hand and an inviting smile for any man who’d look at her. And she had pretended she had a decent job in the ladies’ room of a night club! No wonder she had money to burn. He had gone straight back home and told the old man, who’d gone after her. He could see the old man’s face now: white as mutton fat and with something in his eyes that made him look like a wolf. He had tracked her to a smart flat in Old Burlington Street, and after throwing the swine who was with her downstairs, he had broken her back across a table. Serve the slut right! The Judge had been sorry for him; so had the jury, and the Home Secretary had reprieved him. But the story wouldn’t die. “That’s the fellow ‘oo’s father done murder — killed ‘is daughter, ‘e did. Blimey! I wouldn’t put it past to murder someone ‘isself!” That’s how they had talked until he had put on a black shirt, then they shut their mouths. They were scared of him then. They knew he could whistle up Scragger any time he wanted him, and Scragger would take care of them.
He wondered about Scragger as he sat in the stuffy court, his mind darting into the past with lightning feints of a trapped bird. Good old Scragger! Nobody scared Scragger. Perhaps he was a little cracked, but he’d do anything for anyone he liked, “and he liked me,” Ellis thought. “Seemed to take an immediate fancy to me. Maybe it was because he was so big and stupid and I was so damned puny and smart.”
His attention suddenly switched back to the Judge’s voice.
He was still reading the prisoner’s statement.
“I decided to leave the country, since I did not wish to play the part of a conscientious objector and since I supposed that in Germany I should have the opportunity to express and propagate views the expression of which would be forbidden in Britain during time of war. Realising, however, that at this critical juncture I had declined to serve Britain, I drew the logical conclusion that I should have no moral right to return to that country of my own free will and that it would be best to apply for German citizenship and make my permanent home in Germany. Nevertheless, it remained my undeviating purpose to attempt as best I could to bring about a reconciliation or at least an understanding between the two countries.”
Well, he didn’t care about any understanding between Britain and Germany. They could both go to hell for all he cared. Nor did he care how powerful Russia became or how many Jews were born. All he cared about was looking after himself, making a bit of money, having a home and some comfort. They paid him five pounds a week for wearing a black shirt. They recognised his worth. He didn’t mind working for the money. No one could call him lazy. He would have worked for anyone if they’d given him a chance, but the B.U.F. were the only ones who hadn’t thrown his father’s crime in his face. They treated him fairly. They had encouraged him to study, taught him how to talk correctly, and that was more than the damned capitalists had done.
But the war caught him on the hop. They had advised him to get out, to go to Germany, but somehow he didn’t fancy going there. He’d heard too many stories about the Nazis. It was all very well admiring them from a distance, but he wasn’t such a mug as to get too close to them. In England you could stand up on your hind legs and call the Government all the names you could think of, and the Bobby, standing nearby, grinned at you from behind his hand. You could even bash a Communist — at least, he didn’t do the bashing, Scragger did that — and get away with it. But in Nazi Germany you kept your trap shut or else you got into trouble.
He didn’t want to go into the Army either, but he hadn’t the guts to be a conscientious objector. So into the Army he went: slap into the hands of the capitalists again. Commission? Not likely! (‘The fella’s father’s a murderer, ol’ man. George Cushman . . . you remember? Murdered his daughter . . . shocking case. Couldn’t have a chap in the Mess whose father did a thing like that, could we, ol’ man?”) No, they didn’t give him a commission; they made him a potato basher, attached to the cookhouse. That was all they thought he was fit for: peeling potatoes every day until his hands were raw and his nails broken. Then they sent h
im along with thousands of sacks of potatoes to France, and he had been caught up in the Dunkirk retreat.
Maybe the newspapers had said that every man-jack in that retreating army had fought to the end. The Pioneer Corps, the office staffs, the cooks were supposed to have held the Germans back with their bare fists. Perhaps they did, but he didn’t. He’d had enough of the British Army. He had waited for the Germans and then given himself up. “I’m a member of the British Union of Fascists,” he had told them, and that did the trick.
Why should he care what sort of tripe they gave him to read into the microphone? He was getting a hundred marks a day and all found, and besides, it gave him a tremendous feeling of power to be able to talk to millions of his fellow-countrymen. Not every man could do that, especially if he was the son of a reprieved murderer.
“Ave another sandwich,” whispered the fat woman at his side. “The jury’s going out in a minute. I’ve eaten all I want.”
He took another sandwich, nodded his thanks. She wasn’t a bad old stick, he thought. Give her a bit of a shake-up if she knew who he was. He smiled thinly, bit into the bread.
“Want feeding up, that’s wot you want,” the woman said after the Judge had disappeared through the door behind the bench. “Proper skeleton if you’ll pardon me being personal. Was you a prisoner of war?”
Ellis hesitated, then gave way to the temptation to boast.
“Belsen,” he mumbled, his mouth full, his eyes searching her fat, good-natured face. He was pleased to see her expression change to awe and horror.
“Cor luv me!” she exclaimed. “Belsen! I saw it on the pitchers. Was you there?”
He tore at the bread with his sharp little teeth, nodded.
“Well, I never,” she said, seemingly unable to get over it, “Fancy you being there. You poor thing, you.”
Ellis shrugged, looked away. Perhaps it was unwise to say too much to this woman. He looked round the court, wondered how long the jury would be before they made up their minds.
“Did they torture yer?” the woman asked, plucking at his sleeve.
He suddenly hated her morbid curiosity and turned on her: “Shut up,” he snarled. “I’m not talking about it.”
She looked disappointed, a little hurt. He could feel her eyes on him, but he looked straight in front of him.
The jury returned into court at four o’clock. They had taken twenty minutes to arrive at the verdict.
While Ellis waited he thought of the prisoner, tried to imagine how he would feel in his place. As the minutes passed he became more and more tense, until he had to make an effort to control his trembling limbs.
The door behind the bench opened and a small group of aldermen and sheriffs in their robes passed through, standing aside then to bow to the Judge who entered, carrying in his hand a pair of white gloves and that strip of black cloth known as the black cap.
The prisoner came up the stairs at the back of the dock. Ellis couldn’t look at him. He felt it would be like looking into a mirror.
The Clerk of the Court asked: “Members of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?”
Ellis leaned forward, sweat beads on his forehead, his teeth bared.
“Guilty.”
Twenty minutes to make up their minds to send a man to his death. Twenty minutes! Ellis snarled at them, a red mist of rage before his eyes. It could have so easily been him up there facing the Judge.
The fat woman, thinking he was unnerved, put her hand comfortingly on his arm.
The Judge pronounced the sentence of death.
“Serves ‘im right,” the woman said in a hushed voice, moved in spite of herself. “ ‘E was a traitors.”
The Chaplain said, “Amen.”
Ellis gritted his teeth. If they caught him, they’d hang him, too. But he wasn’t a traitor! They’d treated him badly, and he had got his own back; that’s all it was. Besides, if they’d listened to him, London would never have been bombed. He had told them over and over again to get rid of Churchill and to make friends with Germany. But the fools hadn’t listened and now London was in ruins, and they would call him a traitor.
He stood up as the court began to clear. He and the fat woman were carried along in the crowd towards the exit.
Suddenly he could contain himself no longer. “It’s murder!” he burst out furiously. “They never gave him a chance.” He was so angry that he didn’t realise that he was speaking in his normal voice.
The fat woman stared at him, puzzled. Somewhere she had heard that voice before.
A policeman also heard the voice. He looked sharply round the court. The sea of faces moving towards the exit meant nothing to him, and yet he was sure that Edwin Cushman had spoken those words.
While he stood hesitating, not knowing what he should do, the man in the shabby brown suit slipped through the doorway and moved quickly down the corridor, out of sight.
CHAPTER TWO
The building was dark and cool after the fierce heat of the street; it was silent, too, dirty and dilapidated. There was no lift, and the big sign on the wall on which were painted the various names of the firms housed in the building had more vacant spaces on it than names.
Ellis caught a glimpse of the girl’s legs as she walked up the stairs to the second floor. He was plodding up the first flight, and had heard her wooden heels clicking on the stone stairs before he saw her. By leaning over the banister and staring up, he caught sight of her legs in lisle stockings, the hem of her grey skirt and a flash of white underwear under the full skirt.
He quickened his pace, curious to see what the girl looked like. The two of them appeared to be alone in this big, silent building, and the only sound that came to him was the click of her wooden heels.
On the third-floor landing, he caught a glimpse of her as she rounded the bend in the corridor. She was wearing a grey flannel skirt and a short blue coat. Her little hat was shapeless: the kind of hat you’d expect to find in a dustbin. Although he only caught a glimpse of her he was immediately aware of her desperate poverty.
He hesitated as he looked at the directory sign on the wall.
The Deaf and Dumb Friendship League appeared to have offices round the bend of the corridor if you could believe the painted hand pointing in that direction. He walked on, rounded the bend as the girl disappeared through a doorway, half-way down the passage.
When Ellis reached this door, he found lettered on it in flaked black paint on pebbled glass: The Deaf and Dumb Friendship League; and in smaller letters the legend: Manager: H. Whitcombe. He turned the knob and went into a small narrow room with two windows, a shabby little typewriter desk, closed, a number of dusty filing cabinets, no curtains to the windows and a carpet so threadbare that you wouldn’t notice the rips in it unless you tripped over one.
A counter divided the room into two, and in its turn the counter was divided by four wooden screens. They reminded Ellis of the partitions in the pledging office of a pawnbroker’s shop.
The girl in the grey skirt was standing at one of the partitions, her back to Ellis. He stared at her, wishing to see her face, but as she did not look round, he had to be content to eye her square, narrow shoulders, her straight back and her legs which had already attracted his attention. Rather to his surprise he found himself trying to see beyond the shabby clothes at what he was sure was a beautifully proportioned body. Her legs vaguely excited him in spite of the darned lisle stockings and the down-at-the-heel shoes.
Except for the girl and Ellis the room was empty. He took up a position at the partition next to the one at which she was standing and waited. The partition hid the girl but he could see her hands resting on the ink-stained counter.
They were small, strong hands; brown and smooth; the fingers long, the thumbs waisted, the nails almond-shaped. He looked at his own hands, short-fingered, ugly, the nails bitten to the quicks, knuckles grimed, and he grimaced.
A door of the inner office across the far side of the room opened, and an elde
rly man came out. He wore a black suit with high lapels and too many buttons down the front. He had been fat at one time, but now he had wasted, and loose skin hung from his jowls giving him a look of a depressed bloodhound. His sharp, black eyes, under heavy eyebrows, darted to the right and left; shifty, suspicious eyes. He nodded first to the girl, then to Ellis. There was nothing friendly about the nod.
He went immediately to the girl.
“There’s nothing for you,” he said, obviously anxious to get rid of her. “Perhaps next week. It’s no use coming like this day after day. Jobs don’t grow on trees.”
“I can’t wait until next week,” the girl said. Her voice was flat, expressionless, soft. “I haven’t any money.”
The elderly man, who Ellis guessed rightly to be Mr Whitcombe, the manager, shrugged. It seemed he had heard that tale so often it had come to mean nothing to him. “I can’t help that,” he said, impatiently. “There’s nothing for you. I have a note of your name and address. If I hear of anything I’ll drop you a card.”
“You keep saying that,” the girl said in her toneless voice. “It’s three weeks now since I gave you the forty shillings. You must do something for me. You said when you took the money you were certain to fix me up in a few days.”
Mr Whitcombe’s face changed colour. He looked furtively at Ellis, then back to the girl. “You be careful what you’re saying,” he returned, lowering his voice. “Forty shillings? I don’t know what you mean. What forty shillings?”
“You said you’d find me a job that didn’t need a reference if I gave you forty shillings,” the girl said, her voice tight with emotion. “It was a loan, you said, because you wanted to get straightened out. I gave it to you because I didn’t have any references.”
“You’re day-dreaming,” Mr Whitcombe said, embarrassed. Wait a minute. Let me see what this gentleman wants. You really shouldn’t say such things before witnesses. I took no money from you.” He moved along the counter until he was opposite Ellis.
Trusted Like The Fox Page 2
