THE ROMANCE OF AN UGLY POLICEMAN
Crossing the Thames by Chelsea Bridge, the wanderer through Londonfinds himself in pleasant Battersea. Rounding the Park, where thefemale of the species wanders with its young by the ornamental waterwhere the wild-fowl are, he comes upon a vast road. One side of this isgiven up to Nature, the other to Intellect. On the right, green treesstretch into the middle distance; on the left, endless blocks ofresidential flats. It is Battersea Park Road, the home of thecliff-dwellers.
Police-constable Plimmer's beat embraced the first quarter of a mile ofthe cliffs. It was his duty to pace in the measured fashion of theLondon policeman along the front of them, turn to the right, turn tothe left, and come back along the road which ran behind them. In thisway he was enabled to keep the king's peace over no fewer than fourblocks of mansions.
It did not require a deal of keeping. Battersea may have its toughcitizens, but they do not live in Battersea Park Road. Battersea ParkRoad's speciality is Brain, not Crime. Authors, musicians, newspapermen, actors, and artists are the inhabitants of these mansions. A childcould control them. They assault and batter nothing but pianos; theysteal nothing but ideas; they murder nobody except Chopin andBeethoven. Not through these shall an ambitious young constable achievepromotion.
At this conclusion Edward Plimmer arrived within forty-eight hours ofhis installation. He recognized the flats for what they were--just somany layers of big-brained blamelessness. And there was not even thechance of a burglary. No burglar wastes his time burgling authors.Constable Plimmer reconciled his mind to the fact that his term inBattersea must be looked on as something in the nature of a vacation.
He was not altogether sorry. At first, indeed, he found the newatmosphere soothing. His last beat had been in the heart of tempestuousWhitechapel, where his arms had ached from the incessant hauling ofwiry inebriates to the station, and his shins had revolted at the kicksshowered upon them by haughty spirits impatient of restraint. Also, oneSaturday night, three friends of a gentleman whom he was trying toinduce not to murder his wife had so wrought upon him that, when hecame out of hospital, his already homely appearance was further marredby a nose which resembled the gnarled root of a tree. All these thingshad taken from the charm of Whitechapel, and the cloistral peace ofBattersea Park Road was grateful and comforting.
And just when the unbroken calm had begun to lose its attraction anddreams of action were once more troubling him, a new interest enteredhis life; and with its coming he ceased to wish to be removed fromBattersea. He fell in love.
It happened at the back of York Mansions. Anything that ever happened,happened there; for it is at the back of these blocks of flats that thereal life is. At the front you never see anything, except an occasionaltousle-headed young man smoking a pipe; but at the back, where thecooks come out to parley with the tradesmen, there is at certain hoursof the day quite a respectable activity. Pointed dialogues aboutyesterday's eggs and the toughness of Saturday's meat are conducted_fortissimo_ between cheerful youths in the road and satiricalyoung women in print dresses, who come out of their kitchen doors on tolittle balconies. The whole thing has a pleasing Romeo and Juliettouch. Romeo rattles up in his cart. 'Sixty-four!' he cries.'Sixty-fower, sixty-fower, sixty-fow--' The kitchen door opens, andJuliet emerges. She eyes Romeo without any great show of affection.'Are you Perkins and Blissett?' she inquires coldly. Romeo admits it.'Two of them yesterday's eggs was bad.' Romeo protests. He defends hiseggs. They were fresh from the hen; he stood over her while she laidthem. Juliet listens frigidly. 'I _don't_ think,' she says. 'Well,half of sugar, one marmalade, and two of breakfast bacon,' she adds,and ends the argument. There is a rattling as of a steamer weighinganchor; the goods go up in the tradesman's lift; Juliet collects them,and exits, banging the door. The little drama is over.
Such is life at the back of York Mansions--a busy, throbbing thing.
The peace of afternoon had fallen upon the world one day towards theend of Constable Plimmer's second week of the simple life, when hisattention was attracted by a whistle. It was followed by a musical'Hi!'
Constable Plimmer looked up. On the kitchen balcony of a second-floorflat a girl was standing. As he took her in with a slow and exhaustivegaze, he was aware of strange thrills. There was something about thisgirl which excited Constable Plimmer. I do not say that she was abeauty; I do not claim that you or I would have raved about her; Imerely say that Constable Plimmer thought she was All Right.
'Miss?' he said.
'Got the time about you?' said the girl. 'All the clocks have stopped.'
'The time,' said Constable Plimmer, consulting his watch, 'wantsexactly ten minutes to four.'
'Thanks.'
'Not at all, miss.'
The girl was inclined for conversation. It was that gracious hour ofthe day when you have cleared lunch and haven't got to think of dinneryet, and have a bit of time to draw a breath or two. She leaned overthe balcony and smiled pleasantly.
'If you want to know the time, ask a pleeceman,' she said. 'You been onthis beat long?'
'Just short of two weeks, miss.'
'I been here three days.'
'I hope you like it, miss.'
'So-so. The milkman's a nice boy.'
Constable Plimmer did not reply. He was busy silently hating themilkman. He knew him--one of those good-looking blighters; one of thoseoiled and curled perishers; one of those blooming fascinators who goabout the world making things hard for ugly, honest men with lovinghearts. Oh, yes, he knew the milkman.
'He's a rare one with his jokes,' said the girl.
Constable Plimmer went on not replying. He was perfectly aware that themilkman was a rare one with his jokes. He had heard him. The way girlsfell for anyone with the gift of the gab--that was what embitteredConstable Plimmer.
'He--' she giggled. 'He calls me Little Pansy-Face.'
'If you'll excuse me, miss,' said Constable Plimmer coldly, 'I'll haveto be getting along on my beat.'
Little Pansy-Face! And you couldn't arrest him for it! What a world!Constable Plimmer paced upon his way, a blue-clad volcano.
It is a terrible thing to be obsessed by a milkman. To ConstablePlimmer's disordered imagination it seemed that, dating from thisinterview, the world became one solid milkman. Wherever he went, heseemed to run into this milkman. If he was in the front road, thismilkman--Alf Brooks, it appeared, was his loathsome name--came rattlingpast with his jingling cans as if he were Apollo driving his chariot.If he was round at the back, there was Alf, his damned tenor doingduets with the balconies. And all this in defiance of the known law ofnatural history that milkmen do not come out after five in the morning.This irritated Constable Plimmer. You talk of a man 'going home withthe milk' when you mean that he sneaks in in the small hours of themorning. If all milkmen were like Alf Brooks the phrase wasmeaningless.
He brooded. The unfairness of Fate was souring him. A man expectstrouble in his affairs of the heart from soldiers and sailors, and tobe cut out by even a postman is to fall before a worthy foe; butmilkmen--no! Only grocers' assistants and telegraph-boys were intendedby Providence to fear milkmen.
Yet here was Alf Brooks, contrary to all rules, the established pet ofthe mansions. Bright eyes shone from balconies when his 'Milk--oo--oo'sounded. Golden voices giggled delightedly at his bellowed chaff. AndEllen Brown, whom he called Little Pansy-Face, was definitely in lovewith him.
They were keeping company. They were walking out. This crushing truthEdward Plimmer learned from Ellen herself.
She had slipped out to mail a letter at the pillar-box on the corner,and she reached it just as the policeman arrived there in the course ofhis patrol.
Nervousness impelled Constable Plimmer to be arch.
''Ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo,' he said. 'Posting love-letters?'
'What, me? This is to the Police Commissioner, telling him you're nogood.'
'I'll give it to him. Him and me are taking supper tonight.'
Nature had never intended Co
nstable Plimmer to be playful. He was athis worst when he rollicked. He snatched at the letter with what wasmeant to be a debonair gaiety, and only succeeded in looking like anangry gorilla. The girl uttered a startled squeak.
The letter was addressed to Mr A. Brooks.
Playfulness, after this, was at a discount. The girl was frightened andangry, and he was scowling with mingled jealousy and dismay.
'Ho!' he said. 'Ho! Mr A. Brooks!'
Ellen Brown was a nice girl, but she had a temper, and there weremoments when her manners lacked rather noticeably the repose whichstamps the caste of Vere de Vere.
'Well, what about it?' she cried. 'Can't one write to the younggentleman one's keeping company with, without having to get permissionfrom every--' She paused to marshal her forces from the assault.'Without having to get permission from every great, ugly, red-facedcopper with big feet and a broken nose in London?'
Constable Plimmer's wrath faded into a dull unhappiness. Yes, she wasright. That was the correct description. That was how an impartialScotland Yard would be compelled to describe him, if ever he got lost.'Missing. A great, ugly, red-faced copper with big feet and a brokennose.' They would never find him otherwise.
'Perhaps you object to my walking out with Alf? Perhaps you've gotsomething against him? I suppose you're jealous!'
She threw in the last suggestion entirely in a sporting spirit. Sheloved battle, and she had a feeling that this one was going to finishfar too quickly. To prolong it, she gave him this opening. There were adozen ways in which he might answer, each more insulting than the last;and then, when he had finished, she could begin again. These littleencounters, she held, sharpened the wits, stimulated the circulation,and kept one out in the open air.
'Yes,' said Constable Plimmer.
It was the one reply she was not expecting. For direct abuse, forsarcasm, for dignity, for almost any speech beginning, 'What! Jealousof you. Why--' she was prepared. But this was incredible. It disabledher, as the wild thrust of an unskilled fencer will disable a master ofthe rapier. She searched in her mind and found that she had nothing tosay.
There was a tense moment in which she found him, looking her in theeyes, strangely less ugly than she had supposed, and then he was gone,rolling along on his beat with that air which all policemen mustachieve, of having no feelings at all, and--as long as it behavesitself--no interest in the human race.
Ellen posted her letter. She dropped it into the box thoughtfully, andthoughtfully returned to the flat. She looked over her shoulder, butConstable Plimmer was out of sight.
Peaceful Battersea began to vex Constable Plimmer. To a man crossed inlove, action is the one anodyne; and Battersea gave no scope foraction. He dreamed now of the old Whitechapel days as a man dreams ofthe joys of his childhood. He reflected bitterly that a fellow neverknows when he is well off in this world. Any one of those myriad drunkand disorderlies would have been as balm to him now. He was like a manwho has run through a fortune and in poverty eats the bread of regret.Amazedly he recollected that in those happy days he had grumbled at hislot. He remembered confiding to a friend in the station-house, as herubbed with liniment the spot on his right shin where the well-shodfoot of a joyous costermonger had got home, that this sort ofthing--meaning militant costermongers--was 'a bit too thick'. A bit toothick! Why, he would pay one to kick him now. And as for the threeloyal friends of the would-be wife-murderer who had broken his nose, ifhe saw them coming round the corner he would welcome them as brothers.
And Battersea Park Road dozed on--calm, intellectual, law-abiding.
A friend of his told him that there had once been a murder in one ofthese flats. He did not believe it. If any of these white-corpuscledclams ever swatted a fly, it was much as they could do. The thing wasridiculous on the face of it. If they were capable of murder, theywould have murdered Alf Brooks.
He stood in the road, and looked up at the placid buildingsresentfully.
'Grr-rr-rr!' he growled, and kicked the side-walk.
And, even as he spoke, on the balcony of a second-floor flat thereappeared a woman, an elderly, sharp-faced woman, who waved her arms andscreamed, 'Policeman! Officer! Come up here! Come up here at once!'
Up the stone stairs went Constable Plimmer at the run. His mind wasalert and questioning. Murder? Hardly murder, perhaps. If it had beenthat, the woman would have said so. She did not look the sort of womanwho would be reticent about a thing like that. Well, anyway, it wassomething; and Edward Plimmer had been long enough in Battersea to bethankful for small favours. An intoxicated husband would be better thannothing. At least he would be something that a fellow could get hishands on to and throw about a bit.
The sharp-faced woman was waiting for him at the door. He followed herinto the flat.
'What is it, ma'am?'
'Theft! Our cook has been stealing!'
She seemed sufficiently excited about it, but Constable Plimmer feltonly depression and disappointment. A stout admirer of the sex, hehated arresting women. Moreover, to a man in the mood to tackleanarchists with bombs, to be confronted with petty theft is galling.But duty was duty. He produced his notebook.
'She is in her room. I locked her in. I know she has taken my brooch.We have missed money. You must search her.'
'Can't do that, ma'am. Female searcher at the station.'
'Well, you can search her box.'
A little, bald, nervous man in spectacles appeared as if out of a trap.As a matter of fact, he had been there all the time, standing by thebookcase; but he was one of those men you do not notice till they moveand speak.
'Er--Jane.'
'Well, Henry?'
The little man seemed to swallow something.
'I--I think that you may possibly be wronging Ellen. It is justpossible, as regards the money--' He smiled in a ghastly manner andturned to the policeman. 'Er--officer, I ought to tell you that mywife--ah--holds the purse-strings of our little home; and it is justpossible that in an absent-minded moment _I_ may have--'
'Do you mean to tell me, Henry, that _you_ have been taking mymoney?'
'My dear, it is just possible that in the abs--'
'How often?'
He wavered perceptibly. Conscience was beginning to lose its grip.
'Oh, not often.'
'How often? More than once?'
Conscience had shot its bolt. The little man gave up the Struggle.
'No, no, not more than once. Certainly not more than once.'
'You ought not to have done it at all. We will talk about that later.It doesn't alter the fact that Ellen is a thief. I have missed moneyhalf a dozen times. Besides that, there's the brooch. Step this way,officer.'
Constable Plimmer stepped that way--his face a mask. He knew who waswaiting for them behind the locked door at the end of the passage. Butit was his duty to look as if he were stuffed, and he did so.
* * * * *
She was sitting on her bed, dressed for the street. It was herafternoon out, the sharp-faced woman had informed Constable Plimmer,attributing the fact that she had discovered the loss of the brooch intime to stop her a direct interposition of Providence. She was pale,and there was a hunted look in her eyes.
'You wicked girl, where is my brooch?'
She held it out without a word. She had been holding it in her hand.
'You see, officer!'
'I wasn't stealing of it. I 'adn't but borrowed it. I was going to putit back.'
'Stuff and nonsense! Borrow it, indeed! What for?'
'I--I wanted to look nice.'
The woman gave a short laugh. Constable Plimmer's face was a mere blockof wood, expressionless.
'And what about the money I've been missing? I suppose you'll say youonly borrowed that?'
'I never took no money.'
'Well, it's gone, and money doesn't go by itself. Take her to thepolice-station, officer.'
Constable Plimmer raised heavy eyes.
'You make a charge, ma'am?'
'Bless the man! Of course I make a charge. What did you think I askedyou to step in for?'
'Will you come along, miss?' said Constable Plimmer.
* * * * *
Out in the street the sun shone gaily down on peaceful Battersea. Itwas the hour when children walk abroad with their nurses; and from thegreen depths of the Park came the sound of happy voices. A catstretched itself in the sunshine and eyed the two as they passed withlazy content.
They walked in silence. Constable Plimmer was a man with a rigid senseof what was and what was not fitting behaviour in a policeman on duty:he aimed always at a machine-like impersonality. There were times whenit came hard, but he did his best. He strode on, his chin up and hiseyes averted. And beside him--
Well, she was not crying. That was something.
Round the corner, beautiful in light flannel, gay at both ends with anew straw hat and the yellowest shoes in South-West London, scented,curled, a prince among young men, stood Alf Brooks. He was feelingpiqued. When he said three o'clock, he meant three o'clock. It was nowthree-fifteen, and she had not appeared. Alf Brooks swore an impatientoath, and the thought crossed his mind, as it had sometimes crossed itbefore, that Ellen Brown was not the only girl in the world.
'Give her another five min--'
Ellen Brown, with escort, at that moment turned the corner.
Rage was the first emotion which the spectacle aroused in Alf Brooks.Girls who kept a fellow waiting about while they fooled around withpolicemen were no girls for him. They could understand once and for allthat he was a man who could pick and choose.
And then an electric shock set the world dancing mistily before hiseyes. This policeman was wearing his belt; he was on duty. And Ellen'sface was not the face of a girl strolling with the Force for pleasure.
His heart stopped, and then began to race. His cheeks flushed a duskycrimson. His jaw fell, and a prickly warmth glowed in the parts abouthis spine.
'Goo'!'
His fingers sought his collar.
'Crumbs!'
He was hot all over.
'Goo' Lor'! She's been pinched!'
He tugged at his collar. It was choking him.
Alf Brooks did not show up well in the first real crisis which life hadforced upon him. That must be admitted. Later, when it was over, and hehad leisure for self-examination, he admitted it to himself. But eventhen he excused himself by asking Space in a blustering manner whatelse he could ha' done. And if the question did not bring much balm tohis soul at the first time of asking, it proved wonderfully soothing onconstant repetition. He repeated it at intervals for the next two days,and by the end of that time his cure was complete. On the third morninghis 'Milk--oo--oo' had regained its customary carefree ring, and he wasfeeling that he had acted in difficult circumstances in the onlypossible manner.
Consider. He was Alf Brooks, well known and respected in theneighbourhood; a singer in the choir on Sundays; owner of a milk-walkin the most fashionable part of Battersea; to all practical purposes apublic man. Was he to recognize, in broad daylight and in open street,a girl who walked with a policeman because she had to, a malefactor, agirl who had been pinched?
Ellen, Constable Plimmer woodenly at her side, came towards him. Shewas ten yards off--seven--five--three--Alf Brooks tilted his hat overhis eyes and walked past her, unseeing, a stranger.
He hurried on. He was conscious of a curious feeling that somebody wasjust going to kick him, but he dared not look round.
* * * * *
Constable Plimmer eyed the middle distance with an earnest gaze. Hisface was redder than ever. Beneath his blue tunic strange emotions wereat work. Something seemed to be filling his throat. He tried to swallowit.
He stopped in his stride. The girl glanced up at him in a kind of dull,questioning way. Their eyes met for the first time that afternoon, andit seemed to Constable Plimmer that whatever it was that wasinterfering with the inside of his throat had grown larger, and moreunmanageable.
There was the misery of the stricken animal in her gaze. He had seenwomen look like that in Whitechapel. The woman to whom, indirectly, heowed his broken nose had looked like that. As his hand had fallen onthe collar of the man who was kicking her to death, he had seen hereyes. They were Ellen's eyes, as she stood there now--tortured,crushed, yet uncomplaining.
Constable Plimmer looked at Ellen, and Ellen looked at ConstablePlimmer. Down the street some children were playing with a dog. In oneof the flats a woman began to sing.
'Hop it,' said Constable Plimmer.
He spoke gruffly. He found speech difficult.
The girl started.
'What say?'
'Hop it. Get along. Run away.'
'What do you mean?'
Constable Plimmer scowled. His face was scarlet. His jaw protruded likea granite break-water.
'Go on,' he growled. 'Hop it. Tell him it was all a joke. I'll explainat the station.'
Understanding seemed to come to her slowly.
'Do you mean I'm to go?'
'Yes.'
'What do you mean? You aren't going to take me to the station?'
'No.'
She stared at him. Then, suddenly, she broke down,
'He wouldn't look at me. He was ashamed of me. He pretended not to seeme.'
She leaned against the wall, her back shaking.
'Well, run after him, and tell him it was all--'
'No, no, no.'
Constable Plimmer looked morosely at the side-walk. He kicked it.
She turned. Her eyes were red, but she was no longer crying. Her chinhad a brave tilt.
'I couldn't--not after what he did. Let's go along. I--I don't care.'
She looked at him curiously.
'Were you really going to have let me go?'
Constable Plimmer nodded. He was aware of her eyes searching his face,but he did not meet them.
'Why?'
He did not answer.
'What would have happened to you, if you had have done?'
Constable Plimmer's scowl was of the stuff of which nightmares aremade. He kicked the unoffending side-walk with an increasedviciousness.
'Dismissed the Force,' he said curtly.
'And sent to prison, too, I shouldn't wonder.'
'Maybe.'
He heard her draw a deep breath, and silence fell upon them again. Thedog down the road had stopped barking. The woman in the flat hadstopped singing. They were curiously alone.
'Would you have done all that for me?' she said.
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'Because I don't think you ever did it. Stole that money, I mean. Northe brooch, neither.'
'Was that all?'
'What do you mean--all?'
'Was that the only reason?'
He swung round on her, almost threateningly.
'No,' he said hoarsely. 'No, it wasn't, and you know it wasn't. Well,if you want it, you can have it. It was because I love you. There! NowI've said it, and now you can go on and laugh at me as much as youwant.'
'I'm not laughing,' she said soberly.
'You think I'm a fool!'
'No, I don't.'
'I'm nothing to you. _He's_ the fellow you're stuck on.'
She gave a little shudder.
'No.'
'What do you mean?'
'I've changed.' She paused. 'I think I shall have changed more by thetime I come out.'
'Come out?'
'Come out of prison.'
'You're not going to prison.'
'Yes, I am.'
'I won't take you.'
'Yes, you will. Think I'm going to let you get yourself in trouble likethat, to get me out of a fix? Not much.'
'You hop it, like a good girl.'
'Not me.'
He stood looking at her like a puzzled bear.
'They can't eat me.'
'They'll cut off all of your hair.'
'D'you li
ke my hair?'
'Yes.'
'Well, it'll grow again.'
'Don't stand talking. Hop it.'
'I won't. Where's the station?'
'Next street.'
'Well, come along, then.'
* * * * *
The blue glass lamp of the police-station came into sight, and for aninstant she stopped. Then she was walking on again, her chin tilted.But her voice shook a little as she spoke.
'Nearly there. Next stop, Battersea. All change! I say, mister--I don'tknow your name.'
'Plimmer's my name, miss. Edward Plimmer.'
'I wonder if--I mean it'll be pretty lonely where I'm going--I wonderif--What I mean is, it would be rather a lark, when I come out, if Iwas to find a pal waiting for me to say "Hallo".'
Constable Plimmer braced his ample feet against the stones, and turnedpurple.
'Miss,' he said, 'I'll be there, if I have to sit up all night. Thefirst thing you'll see when they open the doors is a great, ugly,red-faced copper with big feet and a broken nose. And if you'll say"Hallo" to him when he says "Hallo" to you, he'll be as pleased asPunch and as proud as a duke. And, miss'--he clenched his hands tillthe nails hurt the leathern flesh--'and, miss, there's just one thingmore I'd like to say. You'll be having a good deal of time to yourselffor awhile; you'll be able to do a good bit of thinking without anyoneto disturb you; and what I'd like you to give your mind to, if youdon't object, is just to think whether you can't forget thatnarrow-chested, God-forsaken blighter who treated you so mean, and gethalf-way fond of someone who knows jolly well you're the only girlthere is.'
She looked past him at the lamp which hung, blue and forbidding, overthe station door.
'How long'll I get?' she said. 'What will they give me? Thirty days?'
He nodded.
'It won't take me as long as that,' she said. 'I say, what do peoplecall you?--people who are fond of you, I mean?--Eddie or Ted?'
The Man with Two Left Feet, and Other Stories Page 11