VISITORS TO THE CRESENT

by MARY HOCKING

  Her appearance momentarily silenced them, and Ames took advantage of the slight pause to dart forward and fling his arm around her.

  ‘Tell them how ridiculous this is, dear!’

  She recoiled from the fumbling pressure of his hand on her neck. Harper was watching them, his eyes hard and angry. He said:

  ‘May we use your sitting-room. Miss Holt?’

  It was a statement of intention rather than a question. MacLeish and a plain-clothes man came up to Ames and bundled him, protesting, into the room. Harper waited. When they had gone he went across to Jessica and put his hand on her shoulder. She felt his fingers grope in the hood of her raincoat, then he was standing beside her holding a small cylinder that looked like a film roll.

  ‘I had no idea,’ she whispered.

  He nodded his head, but said nothing. Now that he was facing her she saw that his control was costing him more than she had realized. Vickers’s eyes darted from one to the other. Then he came forward, a strange, almost dancing movement like a duellist making a preliminary skirmish.

  ‘I’m not sure you have any right to do that.’

  He wagged a finger in Harper’s face and his eyes were bright with laughter. But the intervention came, if anything, as a relief to Harper; he raised his eyebrows in bland surprise.

  ‘I don’t like your methods.’ Vickers was outrageously roguish. ‘You planted that there, you naughty policeman.’

  He made no attempt to disguise the accusation as anything but a deliberate attempt to trigger off an explosion. Jessica could see his fingers flexing and un-flexing, every nerve and muscle in his body seemed agitated as though by pain. Even Paddy was alarmed; she made a little movement towards him, prepared to grab at him if he did anything violent. Only Harper appeared unaffected by the tension; he remained perfectly still, although his eyes were watchful.

  ‘Policemen who practise that kind of thing should be taught a lesson.’ Vickers’s eyes flicked to Jessica for a moment. ‘Don’t you agree, dear?’ She realized that he was trying to use her to excite Harper’s temper. She could not trust herself to reply, and he went on: ‘I think perhaps I should take that packet from him.’

  Harper’s face had become even more expressionless.

  ‘I shouldn’t do anything silly if I were you, Mr. Vickers.’

  His tone was soothing, as though he were dealing with a routine case of hysterics. For a moment, Jessica was afraid that Vickers was going to hit him. Perhaps the constable in the hall thought the same thing, because he came up one or two steps and halted. His anxious face peering up through the banisters gave a comic touch to the scene. Harper’s lips twitched. Vickers went suddenly limp.

  ‘Later,’ he muttered, turning away. ‘We’ll finish this later.’

  Harper went into the sitting-room and shut the door.

  ‘You can go downstairs now,’ Vickers said to the constable. ‘Your superintendent won’t be needing your protection after all.’

  He stood at the top of the stairs, savouring his humiliation which seemed more terrible to him than the imminent prospect of arrest. Behind him, Jessica was taking off her raincoat, slowly, her fingers trembling as she fumbled with the buttons.

  ‘What is this all about?’ she asked Paddy.

  ‘They came here to arrest Desmond and . . .’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Vickers interposed harshly. ‘Of course they didn’t come to arrest him.’ This was another affront to his pride, and he struck out bitterly. ‘Do you imagine that in order to pick up Desmond Ames a superintendent and an inspector have to come down from Scotland Yard? If there is a warrant out for Ames’s arrest that oaf down there could have picked him up. No. They came here for another reason and found, to their surprise, that the fool had presented himself to them. So they snapped him up while they were about it – an unconsidered trifle.’

  ‘Then why do you think they are here?’ Jessica asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders, as though this were something too trivial to concern him. ‘Probably they have a search warrant. They called at the shop, found it closed, and came on here.’

  The front door was open and they could hear the constable at the gate telling people to move away.

  ‘This will be in all the papers,’ Paddy said.

  Vickers looked at her thoughtfully. ‘A pity we can’t offer them something more sensational, but I’m afraid Ames won’t make a very impressive exit.’

  He glanced down the stairs; the other constable was standing on the front step, his back solidly blocking the doorway.

  Behind them, the sitting-room door opened. Ames appeared on the threshold with MacLeish standing beside him; Ames presented such an abject figure that it was difficult to find sympathy for him. Jessica noticed a flicker of distaste in Paddy’s eyes, quickly stifled. MacLeish must have felt the same contempt, for he relaxed his vigilance and turned away to say something to Harper. Ames jerked himself free. There was a small stool just beside the door and MacLeish, momentarily off-balance, caught his leg against it; he sprawled sideways, effectively blocking the doorway. Ames rushed forward and while the angry policemen sorted themselves out he whirled along the landing. Paddy and Jessica instinctively moved to one side. Vickers had gone down to the half-landing and as Ames blundered past him, he put his foot out.

  The constable in the hall ran forward, but was too late to break the fall. By the time he reached him, Ames was a crumpled heap, blood streaming from his nose and a dark gash across his forehead. As the constable bent over him, a voice from the street adjured sarcastically: ‘Go on – hit him again, why don’t yer?’ Harper, half-way down the stairs, shouted to the constable:

  ‘Shut that door!’

  The constable complied to an accompaniment of boos and cat-calls. As MacLeish limped past him Vickers murmured:

  ‘There now! You’ve upset the man-in-the-street.’

  Ames was whimpering like an injured animal.

  ‘Get him into the bathroom and clean him up,’ Harper said grimly. He looked up the stairs. ‘Wait up there, please. All of you.’

  They went into the study. Vickers shut the door. The incident had restored his pride and he was himself again. He said:

  ‘What you might call a lucky fall. The police will have difficulty explaining that away.’

  He looked across at Jessica and waited; the little smile hovered round his mouth, but the eyes were very hard.

  ‘You tripped him,’ Jessica said.

  Paddy intervened quickly: ‘But it may help Desmond, Jessica.’

  Vickers and Jessica continued to stare at one another. Paddy came between them; she put an arm round Jessica’s shoulder.

  ‘Look, love,’ she whispered. ‘I know about this kind of thing. I’ve talked to fellows. If you haven’t got a very good defence, then you’ve got to find something – discrediting the police is one angle. See? So you must be careful what you say.’

  ‘Careful?’

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ Paddy’s voice grew harsh. ‘If we can make out the police beat him up . . .’

  ‘But they didn’t.’

  Jessica was still looking at Vickers; it was as though she were afraid to take her eyes off him.

  ‘Jesus!’ Paddy exclaimed, ‘What’s wrong with you, Jessica? We have to help Desmond, don’t we?’

  ‘But Superintendent Harper and Inspector MacLeish . . .’

  ‘What have they got to do with it?’

  ‘You can’t take a man’s character away.’

  ‘Character? A couple of bloody coppers!’

  Vickers moved closer. He said softly:

  ‘I can’t help wondering whether this devotion to truth is quite as pure and disinterested as it might be.’

  Jessica did not answer, but she stepped back a pace.

  ‘Policemen, I believe, do have a certain appeal to women. And I can quite see that Harper would be more satisfactory in some respects than Edward.’

  Colour flamed into her face. She turned away and said in a shak
ing voice:

  ‘We won’t discuss this any more.’

  ‘Oh yes, we will, my dear! I can be much more unpleasant than that.’ He caught her shoulder and swung her round. He felt her shrink from his touch and he remembered her cruelty of the other night. He forced her close to him. ‘Now just what do you propose to do about this?’

  Jessica’s voice was thin and rather high-pitched; physical violence terrified her.

  ‘If you spread this ridiculous story, I shall deny it.’

  ‘It will be your word against mine, will it?’ He began to bend her wrist back.

  She cried out: ‘Don’t be such a fool! If you hurt me I shall promise anything and then break my promise.’

  ‘I should rather like to hear you promise anything.’ He brought his face down very close to hers. ‘You know there is something rather exciting about a woman in pain. What will you promise me?’

  ‘No, George!’ Paddy caught his arm. ‘No!’

  The door opened and a constable came in. Vickers changed his hold on Jessica, sliding his arm round her waist as though he were supporting her.

  ‘Get out!’ he shouted. ‘You have already made this lady ill.’ The constable closed the door and stationed himself in front of it.

  ‘Superintendent Harper said that I was to stay in here.’

  His attitude made it plain that as far as he was concerned, the order had come direct from God.

  Paddy said quietly: ‘I think Jessica would feel better if she sat in the armchair, George.’

  ‘If the lady would like a cup of tea,’ the constable intervened primly, ‘I can arrange for one to be sent up to her.’

  Vickers turned away and went across to the window.

  ‘When the end of the world comes, the English will stand around offering one another cups of tea.’

  There was a small crowd in the street now and a few photographers had appeared.

  ‘I suppose you will take us down to the police station to make statements?’ Vickers said to the constable. ‘What a bedraggled, pathetic group we shall look to these good people, how we shall wring their tender hearts.’ His voice broke and he closed his eyes, his fingers tightened on the window sill. ‘My God! If I’m exposed to the pity of that sodden rabble, someone will pay.’

  The constable, who had never before heard such talk from a suspect, looked uneasy.

  ‘Pity is a contemptible thing, something for the weak, for the stupid little people who drag their lives away in dreary backwaters.’ He turned on the unhappy man. ‘What about it, constable? Shall we fight it out here, you and I?’ He laughed at the outraged expression. ‘Never mind; I want a worthier opponent than you.’

  ‘You won’t get one!’ Jessica spoke with sudden vehemence. ‘You’ll end up by having the same justice handed out to you as any other small-time criminal.’

  Paddy jumped up from her chair, ‘Have you two gone crazy?’ She pointed to the constable. ‘This man’s nearly bursting his brain making mental shorthand of all you’re saying.’

  ‘He doesn’t understand a word of it,’ Vickers said, contemptuously, ‘And anyway, there are no witnesses.’

  The door opened, hitting the unfortunate constable in the back, MacLeish, looking more exasperated than ever, pushed his way into the room.

  ‘I shall have to ask you to come down to the police station,’ he said.

  ‘And suppose we say we would rather not?’ Vickers asked.

  MacLeish’s hands clenched at his side, ‘It will only make things unnecessarily unpleasant, sir,’ His voice sounded like an imitation of Harper’s, without the assurance. Vickers noted the weakness of his control and hesitated, weighing the man’s worth as an adversary. He must have found him wanting, for with a shrug of his shoulders he walked out on to the landing. MacLeish followed in the rear of the party; he was still limping slightly, Vickers noticed this. As they went down the stairs, he whispered something to Paddy.

  The front door was open; at the gate a constable was moving people away. Desmond Ames was in the hall, bandaged, his head bowed. As he was pushed through to the waiting car photographers flashed busily, A few people booed again, and a voice at the back of the crowd called out half-heartedly: ‘Bloody swine!’

  Harper said to the constable: ‘Keep someone on duty here,’ then he got into the car.

  Vickers, Paddy and Jessica now followed. It was like a ghastly travesty of a royal occasion, Jessica thought, as the police cleared a way for them to another car. She was by the car when, behind her, Paddy stumbled. The constable who was escorting them turned quickly, anxious to avoid another incident. Jessica heard MacLeish shout: ‘Look out, you fool!’

  She turned and saw Vickers running down the road with MacLeish limping helplessly behind him. The constable who had been detailed off to guard the house also gave chase, but Vickers was well ahead. Before he reached Park Road East he vaulted over a fence followed gamely, but with less agility, by the constable. The road seemed suddenly full of people running here and there, photographers jostling one another, policemen shouting, blowing whistles, a milkman protesting in the gutter over several broken bottles. MacLeish had returned to shepherd Jessica and Paddy into the car; he was very pale and shaking with temper.

  ‘I shouldn’t think today’s work has added to your promotion chances,’ Paddy commented viciously as the car started up.

  After the confusion in Cedar Crescent, Park Road East seemed quiet, almost sedate.

  II

  ‘A free press,’ said Harper, ‘is one of the necessary evils of democracy.’

  The sergeant did not answer. He himself was angry about the way the incident had been reported in some sections of the morning press; for people who pretended to be so concerned with justice, some reporters were very quick to pass judgement without being in possession of the relevant facts. But Harper, who had never bothered to keep his relations with the press sweet, accepted the mud-slinging as a kind of rough justice. The sergeant realized this, and found his chief’s attitude the more puzzling. For Harper was undoubtedly troubled about something. And if it was not the press reports that troubled him, the sergeant could not think what was wrong. True, Vickers had escaped; but Harper had had plenty to say about that yesterday and his wrath usually exhausted itself quickly after an explosion of that magnitude.

  He watched Harper as he sorted out one or two exhibits on his desk. The shop premises had been searched and enough had been found to make any policeman happy: a transmitting set, a microscope, glass slides, a good deal of correspondence that would be difficult to explain away, and passports made out in the names of Johnson and Heinie respectively, together with a convenient amount of foreign currency. The lot, in fact, the sergeant thought. Yet as Harper handled the miscellaneous objects on his desk, the sergeant was surprised at his lack of zest; it was as though the man had had a surfeit of this kind of thing and had sickened of his work. Now he was handling the blue china boy with the watering can; the lid of the watering can was very small, but it reacted to a hidden spring and unhinged. The sergeant thought it was one of the most artful, delicate devices he had seen, but Harper pushed it to one side without a murmur. He studied the diaries and other papers carefully, searching with his usual alertness for the small, overlooked thing which might be more important than the obvious clues; he examined the other ornaments with their trick panels and false bottoms with his old, patient thoroughness. Yet there was something mechanical about his reactions. The machine was well-trained, the discipline long-practised, and it carried the man through: but only just. He turned away and picked up the cheap, battered toy; he touched the spring and the sleigh team moved forward, the fiddler began to turn slowly. Harper watched, the little frown between the eyes protesting a nagging pain.

  ‘Strange,’ he murmured, ‘the useless, broken things they bring with them.’

  He looked up at the sergeant as though seeking some kind of understanding.

  ‘It should play a tune, I think,’ he said, turning the toy ups
ide down and picking at the rusted mechanism. ‘Or maybe the sleigh bells rang.’

  ‘It looks as though it has been broken a long time,’ the sergeant said tentatively. ‘I doubt whether they ever used that for any purpose. It’s just a piece of junk.’

  Harper was still playing with the toy. After a time, he said:

  ‘Any news of Saneck?’

  The sergeant shook his head.

  ‘None since they lost him yesterday afternoon.’ He added reassuringly: ‘We’ll find him soon, sir. He’s not the type to be very resourceful, is he?’

  Harper’s mouth twisted down, but he did not answer. The sergeant picked up the bundle of letters which had been taken from Edward Saneck’s bureau; he flicked through one or two, shaking his head in a puzzled way.

  ‘Do you think they’re genuine, these letters?’

  ‘I haven’t read them yet. You’d better leave them with me.’

  The sergeant interpreted the words as a dismissal. He was glad to go.

  Harper continued to pick at the mechanism of the toy, goaded by a childish desire to prove that he could put it right. He had done the same kind of thing once before, drawing on a small reserve of hope he could ill afford to waste in an unavailing effort to mend a flute belonging to a dying boy in camp. He had been driven then by the same helpless desire to give something of his own strength, because he had felt guilty at his ability to survive. In the years between he had almost forgotten. Yet now it was as though a crack in his own flesh had remained open, ready to sting at the touch of another’s pain.

  It was not mere pity that he felt for Saneck. He had felt pity often enough; but it had been a cool, detached pity, easily shaken off with the dust of the day. But this was too close to understanding for pity. It was a mistake to risk understanding; if you came too close to another’s pain you must take your share of it. And, at some unguarded moment, he had allowed himself to come too close to Edward Saneck. He had tasted the bitterness of failure, felt the terror of ultimate defeat – the terror which up to now he himself had managed to escape although he had had a glimpse of what lay beyond, a glimpse of the moment when the pattern and the order begin to break down. Now he saw that another glimpse was about to be vouchsafed to him. He saw the path ahead very clearly. He had a job to do, and he had never been ashamed of his job; he knew that, at the end, he would carry it out, regardless of how Saneck might be affected. But when he thought of the days that would follow, he was afraid, not for Saneck, but for himself. This cramped pain in his stomach, this dredged, lifeless dreariness would remain with him until such time as memory deadened and released him again; and that release, he thought grimly, would be a long time in coming. He was older now, less resilient, and in some ways more vulnerable.