Fear to Tread

by Michael Gilbert

  “I said,” said a voice from the private bar, “that when we went off the gold standard prices went down, not up.”

  “Well, they’re going up now, all right, you must admit. Cranky, see. What’ll it be, dearie? This one’s on me.”

  Mr. Wetherall accepted a small whisky, and looked round for his friend, and found that he was asleep on the settee with his head on his bagpipes.

  “You don’t want to worry about him,” said Annie. “He’s just a cadger. Plays the bagpipes to the queues in Leicester Square. Between you and me he’s not a Scotsman at all. His name’s Higgins.”

  “It’s funny the people you run across,” said Mr. Wetherall. “I’ve been a schoolmaster in London most of my life, so I dare say I notice it more than most. I’m always running across boys I’ve taught. I can’t always place them straight away. The other day I sat next to one at a boxing match. At first I couldn’t think of his name. Then I got it – Prince.”

  If Mr. Wetherall had happened to look up at that moment it is quite possible that he would have saved himself a lot of trouble. If he had seen the sudden, wary look that passed over Annie’s face, sweeping away the surface animation, as water hardens again when a ruffle of wind has passed; if he had seen this and been able to interpret it, it seems likely that he would have gone straight home.

  “Prince,” said Annie. “That’s quite a common name.”

  “Used to be a boxer, so he tells me. Then he lost an eye.”

  “Yes,” said Annie. She had her back to him and was re- stacking a small pile of cigarette packets. “And you were his schoolmaster, were you. It’s a small world, isn’t it?” She turned round. “What school would that have been?”

  “Actually it was in Battersea.”

  “Battersea Park, Battersea Park,” said the Scotsman, “Oh, the bonny bluebells of Battersea Park.”

  “You’ve woken up, have you?”

  “Awake, my love, and thirsty.”

  “Perhaps I might—” began Mr. Wetherall hospitably.

  “Now don’t you do it,” said Annie. “You’ve stood him plenty of drinks already. It’s time he bought you one.”

  Mr. Higgins shot her a dirty look.

  “Really,” said Mr. Wetherall, “I’ve still got—”

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Higgins rapidly. “Always finish one glass before you start on another. I’ll buy myself a drink this time.” He took out a wallet which seemed to contain more pound notes than Mr. Wetherall had ever seen in one wallet before, and said: “Make it half a pint of mild.”

  This was to the barmaid. Annie had disappeared into the private bar.

  When she came back she was her old cheerful self again, and she told Mr. Wetherall a number of surprising things about the functions of the kidneys. Mr. Wetherall, who had really begun to enjoy his evening, was sorry when the clock hand reached eleven.

  “Time, gentlemen,” said Annie.

  “Your clock’s fast,” said a small man in the corner.

  “So what?” said Annie. There seemed to be no adequate answer to that. The small man removed himself from his corner and drifted off.

  “Will I play you a wee tune on the pipes?” suggested Mr. Higgins.

  “No.”

  “A lament for the closing of the day. Written by the great Rob Roy himself when they refused him a last drink at the Railway Tavern at Ardrishaig.”

  “Come along now. We don’t want any trouble – your friend’s going. You’d better go with him.”

  “All right,” said Mr. Higgins. “All right. All right.”

  Outside in the street he linked his arm through Mr. Wetherall’s and said, in the tones of one who has had a bright and daring idea. “Why don’t we go and have a drink?”

  “The pubs will all be shut.”

  “Och, and awa’ wi’ ee,” said Mr. Higgins. “There are plenty of clubs.” The idea sounded vaguely attractive. Club, to Mr. Wetherall, meant the United University where he occasionally took tea with a friend. He had never in his life visited a night-club, or even contemplated such a thing.

  As they turned into Dean Street a name caught his eye. “Bernadis.” There was something odd about it. No lights. A notice in the window.

  “It’s no good trying there,” said Mr. Higgins. “Closed for repairs and renovations.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Wetherall had suddenly remembered something. It took him a moment to put his finger on it. Hadn’t he told Annie that he was dining at Bernadis with a friend. She must have known—

  “How long’s it been like that?”

  “Months and months. Come along.”

  Obediently Mr. Wetherall moved after his new friend.

  Like a shadow, a tiny sense of disquiet moved with him.

  Mr. Higgins’ ideas on how to look for a club in Soho had the merit of simplicity. You looked into every basement until you saw a light. Then you went down and knocked.

  After one or two unfortunate mistakes they found themselves at the door of the Minstrel Boy.

  “Come on,” said Mr. Higgins. “This one’s all right.”

  “Don’t you have to be a member?”

  “Of course I’m a member. Come on.”

  At the bottom of a further flight of stairs they found a youth, seated beside a table, with a cash register and a magazine devoted to racing pigeons.

  “Are you the Minstrel Boy,” enquired Mr. Higgins.

  “No, he’s gone to the war,” said the youth sadly.

  “With his wild harp slung behind him,” suggested Mr. Wetherall.

  “That’s right. Members?”

  Mr. Higgins said: “Certainly.”

  “Gotcher cards?”

  “Left them at home.”

  “Five bob each,” said the youth, “and you can become members all over again.”

  “Scandalous,” said Mr. Higgins.

  Mr. Wetherall paid and they went in. It seemed to be a popular sort of place, even if it did not quite square up with Mr. Wetherall’s idea of a night-club. No floor-show, no band, no orchids, no champagne, and, rather to his disappointment in his exalted state, no female uncovered above the knee or below the neck. As much as it looked like anything else on earth it looked like an up-to-date, well-run station buffet. There were a number of tables, all occupied, and a counter at one end which was dispensing coffee and hot snacks. A wireless set was relaying dance music from a foreign station. Everyone seemed to be talking at the top of their voices.

  “More room further on,” said Mr. Higgins. He plunged through the doorway and they found themselves in another cellar.

  This had a small bar made entirely of looking-glass, and a lumpy settee round its wall, and a choice of three further doors.

  The first one they looked into contained a very large table, on which was a gramophone and round which was a circle of young men listening to the gramophone. Everyone looked up angrily when they came in, so they went away. The second door led down two steps into an even lower cellar, full of tables, at which men with boards sat playing chess. In this room no one looked up at all. The third room was almost empty. They selected a table and sat down.

  They sat for a long time whilst nothing much happened.

  “Perhaps it’s run on the cafeteria system,” suggested Mr. Wetherall. “Do you think we ought to help ourselves?”

  “Certainly not,” said Mr. Higgins. “Assert yourself.”

  He picked up a glass ash-tray and clashed it on the table top. Since the table was a metal one the noise was considerable.

  A middle-aged man at a neighbouring table whom they had supposed to be a fellow patron, put down his evening paper and asked what he could do for them.

  “I would like some hot sausages and some beer,” suggested Mr. Wetherall.

  “How much of each?”

  “Twenty sausages and a gallon of beer,” said Mr. Higgins. “And make it snappy. The proprietor’s a friend of mine.”

  “Very good,” said the middle-aged man. He left the room.

>   Five minutes later he came back with two big Steins and a pitcher of beer, and asked, as he put it down on the table: “Would either of you gentlemen be Mr. Wetherall?”

  “Certainly not,” said Mr. Higgins, before Mr. Wetherall could open his mouth. “My name’s Freeman. This is my friend Mr. Hardy.”

  “O.K. O.K.” said the man. He withdrew.

  Mr. Higgins poured himself out a lot of beer and drank it. “Never does to tell ‘em your name,” he said. “Probably find it’s someone you owe money to.”

  Even at that time of night Mr. Wetherall found it difficult to believe that his few and modest debts would have pursued him to a club in a cellar in Soho. Something was happening in the main room. Voices were being raised and questions were being asked. The sense of unease, which had been in the background since Dean Street, suddenly took a decisive step towards him.

  The waiter reappeared. He looked worried.

  “Please come and talk to the gentlemen,” he said. The words were plainly addressed to Mr. Wetherall. Mr. Higgins had settled down on the sofa in his favourite position, with his bagpipes under his head.

  In the outer room by the counter stood two men. They were both above ordinary height and wore belted raincoats and soft hats which yet contrived, somehow, to look like a uniform.

  “Mr. Wetherall?”

  “Yes.”

  At that they looked at him. It was a bleak, dispassionate look which he was to remember afterwards.

  “I’m afraid we must ask you to come along with us.”

  “Where to? And what’s it all about?”

  “West End Central Police Station,” said the man who had spoken first. He had reddish hair and a strong, red face, like a rough-riding, hard-drinking farmer. One of his eyes had a tiny spot of yellow in the iris. He lowered his voice slightly. “If it’s any interest to you, it’s about Crowdy.”

  “But I—”

  “We don’t want any trouble here, do we?”

  “I suppose not,” said Mr. Wetherall. Since he had made his mind up, all he was concerned with was to let no trace of it show on his face. “Do you mind if I get my coat?”

  “Sure.” The red-faced man nodded to his companion. He was a younger man, with a pale face under thick black hair. He followed behind Mr. Wetherall, but not too quickly or too closely for what Mr. Wetherall had in mind. As he reached the door leading into the room where he had been sitting he quickened his pace, jumped through it, shut it behind him, and slipped home the bolt. It was a strong bolt; he had happened to notice it as he came out, and on it his impromptu scheme depended.

  He was only just in time. As the bolt went into its socket a body thudded into the door from the other side.

  At the noise, Mr. Higgins, now the only other person in the room, sat up sharply and cried: “Wassat?”

  “Burglars,” said Mr. Wetherall breathlessly.

  “I’ll give them burglars.”

  “They’re after your bagpipes.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  The door shook again and a lump of plaster came out of the wall.

  There was another door in the far corner. Mr. Wetherall opened it and looked out. It led to a short, dimly-lit passage. There were further doors opening off it. The one on the left proved to be locked. The one on the right led to a coal cellar. As he tried the third, at the end of the passage, there was a crescendo of crashes behind him and above them the faint defiant squeal of bagpipes.

  The third room was a small, dirty lavatory. Mr. Wetherall went into it, and shot the bolt. It wasn’t much of a refuge. The door was flimsy and the bolt small. He climbed on to the seat and tried the window. It was a ramshackle casement, its panes covered with whitewash, and it looked as if it had not been opened in twenty years. Nevertheless it moved, reluctantly, a few inches.

  Mr. Wetherall was slim, and fear lent him the necessary agility. A few seconds later he was through the window and standing in a small area. It was really no more than a pit, acting as air shaft to three or four houses. Overhead he could see the bars of a grating against the night sky. From the noise behind him it sounded as if his pursuer was busy breaking down the cellar doors. It would not be long before he turned his attention to the lavatory.

  Mr. Wetherall stumbled forward across the area, which seemed to be knee-deep in bottles. Logic told him that there must be at least one corresponding window on the other side. There was, and it was tightly shut.

  It was not a moment for half-measures.

  He groped down and picked up a bottle. With it he knocked out the top pane of glass then thrust his hand through and undid the latch. He pressed the bottom casement up, only discovering as the blood ran down his palm, that he had by no means removed all the glass. In the excitement he felt nothing.

  A light sprang up in the lavatory behind him.

  He fairly dived through the window into warm, fluffy darkness.

  It was an inhabited room. There was some sort of carpet on the floor. It smelt like a bedroom. At that moment the light came on. It was a bedroom. There was a very old man in bed. He sat up, clasping the flex of the light switch to his thin, night-shirted body, and stared at Mr. Wetherall.

  “It’s all right,” muttered Mr. Wetherall. “Just reading the meters.”

  The man appeared to be deaf. He simply sat and stared, with his mouth wide open.

  With a feeling of unreality strong upon him Mr. Wetherall tiptoed to the door, opened it, and went through, shutting it quietly behind him. He had seen a flight of uncarpeted stairs ahead, and he went up them. Another passage not quite so dark. He guessed he was back on the ground floor level now. There was a door at the end of the passage, and it was obviously a street door. It was fastened.

  First he fumbled with the top bolt, then the bottom bolt. There was a chain in the middle, which he finally got off, at the cost of a clattering jangle.

  A woman’s voice said something from the room to the left of the door.

  Mr. Wetherall worked with clumsy speed in the dark. There was a Yale lock, which he fastened open on the catch, and finally a big handle which he turned.

  The door still refused to move.

  A shaft of light lit up the passage. The door on the left had opened. A dark woman, with her hair in curlers, looked out.

  “Henry. It’s a burglar.” Her voice sounded tiny and far off.

  “I’m not a burglar,” said Mr. Wetherall. “I’m trying to get out. Get out! Do you understand?”

  The woman gaped at him, with exactly the same air of disbelief he had already seen on the face of the man in the cellar. Then she said faintly: “The key’s beside the door.”

  Mr. Wetherall looked up, and there it was, a large, old- fashioned key. He took it down, fitted it into the lock and turned it. The door opened and he stepped out into the street.

  Two seconds later he realised, with a sense of apprehension, that it had all been a waste of effort. He had been running like a rabbit in a circle. The men who were after him understood the geography of Soho better than he did. They were waiting for him in the street.

  “Just along here,” said the red-faced man, as calmly as if nothing had happened since the last time he had spoken.

  They turned into a short cul-de-sac between high buildings. The red-faced man held him by one arm, just above the elbow. The younger, black-haired man walked beside him, whistling very quietly, his hands in his pockets. As they turned into the cul-de-sac a lamp on the corner lit up his face. It was not a very good face, and Mr. Wetherall remembered where he had met it before. It was the man he had seen coming out of the telephone kiosk at the corner of Brinkman Road on the morning he had taken Crowdy to Waterloo”Where are you taking me?” he asked suddenly.

  “That depends on you,” said the red-faced man. As usual he did the talking. “We don’t want any trouble. It’s people like you who make trouble.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “A bit of information. Where have you put that boy?”

  �
�Which boy?”

  “Don’t stall. Which boy? Which boy? Do you kidnap three a week?”

  “Are you police officers?”

  “That’s right,” said the red-faced man. “We’re police officers. Now just answer the question.”

  “I don’t believe—” began Mr. Wetherall.

  It came from behind, a jolting blow of agonising force and precision, into his side, below the ribs and above the hip. He tried to turn, but the grip on his arm was too strong for him. He tried to speak, but his voice had gone.

  “Better answer the question,” said the red-faced man. “You don’t want to upset Sailor. Once you upset him he gets excited. He liked doing it, you know.”

  Mr. Wetherall got his breath back.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  The second blow was on exactly the same spot and was harder. Mr. Wetherall felt a red hot pain stabbing through the growing numbness. And again.

  “St. Christopher’s Home for Boys.” The words seemed to be jerked out of him.

  “Where’s that?”

  “At Woking.”

  “All right,” said the red-faced man. As though it was a signal, something heavy caught Mr. Wetherall on the side of his head. At the same moment the grip on his elbow loosened, and he dropped forward onto his knees.

  The black-haired man kicked him twice on the side of the head.

  “That’s enough,” said the other man.

  “I haven’t started yet,” said the black-haired man. It was the first time he had spoken. His voice was educated.

  “I said that’s enough.” The red-faced man leaned down and flicked the wallet out of Mr. Wetherall’s inner pocket. Then with the same neat studied movement, he took a flask out of his own pocket, unscrewed the lid, and emptied the contents down the front of Mr. Wetherall’s coat.

  He looked down at the crumpled figure on the pavement. Something seemed to be amusing him. “Looks as if he’s had quite a party,” he said.

  The two of them walked away. As they went the black-haired man trod hard on the back of Mr. Wetherall’s outstretched hand. Doing it seemed to cause him some sort of pleasure.