The Man Whose Dream Came True

by Julian Symons

  ‘Bromley Water,’ Hussick said.

  ‘Bromley Water. Nor that she took you near to the station. Nor that she did anything but what she said, and spent the evening with Lands.’

  ‘I’ve told you what happened.’

  ‘Yes.’ Newton lighted a cigar, then as an afterthought offered the case to Hussick and Tony. Both refused. ‘You say you don’t remember passing cars or people.’

  ‘We did, of course, at least I suppose so. But not near Bromley Water. We went on side roads.’

  ‘And you can’t think of any other way in which this can be proved?’

  ‘Only by making her tell the truth.’

  ‘I was coming to that. When Mrs Foster goes into the box I shall cross-examine her on these lines. The questions will be severe. It is possible that she may break down under them. If not–’ Newton pointed the cigar at Tony like a gun. ‘The effect on your case may not be favourable. When you go into the box yourself you will certainly be subjected to a long cross-examination from the other side. It will be said that you are simply trying to blacken her reputation to save your own skin. I want you to understand that.’

  He was walking across from the dock, those few momentous steps to the box, body erect and shoulders braced back. Courteous and calm he faced the inquisitor, parried the questions and slipped the sword of a decisive answer past his opponent’s guard. I was stupid, I agreed to help her in a moment of madness. Slowly he turned to the judge. My lord, I was in love.

  ‘I asked if you understood.’ Newton looked at him impatiently, tapped grey ash on the floor.

  He transferred his attention to the puffy little man. ‘I’ve told you what happened.’

  God help us, Newton thought, I believe you have. He felt annoyed with Hussick. What point was there in a face to face confrontation with a man who told a preposterous story like this? What was a solicitor for but to act as a barrier against such embarrassing confrontations? Yet although even by his own account Jones was nothing more than a contemptible weakling, there was something ingenuous and even innocent about him that was in its way touching. To his own surprise Newton found himself moved by the fact that Jones’ fate rested in his hands.

  ‘We shall do everything we can for you.’ Inadequate words, no doubt, but he rarely said as much.

  Moreston, the police fingerprint expert, took up most of the afternoon. The evidence really amounted to saying that Jones’ prints had been found on the hammer and that it had certainly been used to kill Foster, but Moreston was aware of his own importance and his examination in chief took more than an hour. Newton noticed one or two jurors fidgeting, and made his own questioning brief.

  ‘Let me say at once that the defence does not dispute that the prints on the hammer are those of the accused. What I want to ask is this. Supposing he had used the hammer for some domestic task like – oh, knocking a nail in a wall – would he not have left prints like these?’

  ‘He might have done.’

  ‘And then there are other blurred prints, are there not?’

  ‘Perfectly true.’

  ‘If the hammer had been used for this domestic task by my client and then used afterwards for the crime by somebody wearing gloves, wouldn’t you expect such blurring to occur?’

  Moreston considered this. ‘It would be possible.’

  ‘Whereas if the blows were simply struck by Jones, who then dropped the hammer, the prints might be expected to be much clearer?’

  Moreston again took his time. ‘No, I don’t think so. More than one blow was struck and as the grip possibly shifted some blurring would be likely.’

  ‘But not so much, surely, as actually took place?’

  ‘Are you asking me that, Mr Newton?’

  The judge coughed. ‘It was a question, I think.’

  Moreston was determined to make no concession to Newton, whom he disliked. ‘I have already given my opinion, my lord, but I will repeat it. The blurring may easily have been caused by a shifting of grip on the hammer. In the purely hypothetical case that the hammer was later used by somebody else wearing gloves, that also would have caused blurring. I can go no further than that.’

  The judge looked over his half-lenses. ‘Does that satisfy you, Mr Newton?’

  No, Newton thought, but it’s all I shall get. ‘Thank you, my lord. Now, the effect of these blows with the hammer was to cause a considerable amount of blood to be spilt on the sitting-room carpet and elsewhere. Is it not surprising that not a single bloodstain was found on Jones’ clothing?’

  ‘I can’t give an opinion on that.’

  Newton knew this perfectly well, and he put the point later to the forensic expert when he was in the box. But still, it did no harm to ask the question of this stubborn fingerprint man. Anything must be useful which helped to counteract the evidence of the prints on the hammer.

  Chapter Eight

  There was no fish on the breakfast menu and Dimmock ate eggs and bacon while he read the morning paper with its report of the first day of the trial. In the outline of the case given him it had been suggested that he should try to trace the movements of Mrs Foster’s car, but he rejected this as hopeless. What facilities did he have for making such inquiries, what could he do that had not already been done by the police? Immediately after breakfast he started on the trail of restaurants and hotels and pursued it until just after lunch, showing the photographs of Mrs Foster and Lands everywhere he went. It was after lunch when he finished. Nobody recognised either of the photographs. If the couple had spent evenings together they had not done so at any of the places on his list. It began to rain before lunch and by mid-afternoon, when he reached Beaver Close, the rain had been joined by a high wind against which he struggled in his slightly shabby coat, pushing his way up to the door with one hand clasped on his hat to prevent it from being blown away.

  He’s selling something, Evelyn Bradbury thought as she watched him coming up the drive, but little as she liked door to door salesmen she felt sorry for him. One of Dimmock’s few advantages as an operative was that women often did feel sorry for him. He had a hangdog honesty that many women found sympathetic. When Mrs Bradbury, after looking at his card, asked what he wanted to know he flapped his arms in a hopeless way.

  ‘I’m not sure, Mrs Bradbury. I’ve been asked to make inquiries, that’s all.’

  ‘On behalf of Jones, you say. But who’s employing you?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to reveal that.’ In fact Dimmock didn’t know, nor was he interested.

  ‘The police have been round, you know.’ Dimmock’s resigned nod said that he would always arrive second or third, never first.

  ‘And of course my husband has had to give evidence. He was quite upset about it, you know they were at school together, but I mean you have a duty, isn’t that right?’

  ‘I would sooner talk to you,’ Dimmock said truthfully. He found women much more responsive than men.

  Few people said that to Evelyn Bradbury. She offered a cup of tea and took away Dimmock’s damp coat and hat. When she returned with the tea trolley and little sponge cakes she asked what he wanted to know. It seemed that he was not sure.

  ‘Well, of course you know it was here that they met. Bill says he will never forgive himself for bringing Jones back here. But they were old school friends, you see. He seemed quite a nice young man, although he spilled his tea. On the carpet, it’s almost new –’

  ‘A beautiful carpet,’ Dimmock said reverently and sipped the China tea. He preferred Indian. ‘Do you know Mrs Foster well?’

  ‘There is a Women’s Club in Southbourne, and we had met there. She was a new member, though she didn’t seem very interested. When she became a member we were hoping that she might bring her husband along at some time, he was something in the City you know, and Bill wanted to meet him. But we never did see him.’

  ‘You didn’t meet her cousin, Mr Lands?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Do have one of these cakes, I mad
e them myself.’

  ‘She never mentioned to you–’ Dimmock was at a loss to know what she might be able to tell him that was useful, and continued lamely, ‘–anything interesting. About her husband.’

  ‘We didn’t talk about him. I am sure it was a very happy marriage.’ She looked away with an expression of distaste. Dimmock humbly transferred his gaze to the carpet. ‘Except that she was left alone a good deal. It may have been rather dull for her. But then I always say that if you keep busy you are never dull.’

  ‘That’s very true.’

  ‘And she had her golf.’ Dimmock looked up. It was the first he had heard about golf. ‘She belonged to the Mendwich Golf Club. I have seen a bag in her car.

  ‘A bag.’

  ‘Of clubs.’ She spoke as if they were implements used by a primitive tribe.

  The secretary of Mendwich Golf Club was red-faced and stiffish, but in the end he was softened by Dimmock’s hangdog persistence. Yes, Mrs Foster had been a member of the club and came there occasionally in company with a friend of hers, or perhaps it was some sort of relative, named Lands. How often? At this point the secretary became restive and said that they did not keep a check on the presence or absence of members. Dimmock thanked him, withdrew, sat in his car and thought. There was a club within ten miles of the Villa Majorca, why hadn’t she joined that instead of the Mendwich which was thirty miles away? Because her cousin belonged to the Mendwich was the obvious reply. Probably there was nothing in it, but it was the first thing he had discovered that was of any interest at all, and Mendwich was outside the area in which he had visited restaurants and hotels.

  He spent the rest of the day calling on those near the golf club. At the Great South Motel the head waiter recognised the photographs as those of a couple who had come in sometimes for dinner. Had they stayed the night? About this he was emphatic. They had not. A pound note, which he contemplated with the indifference that others might show to a half-crown, changed hands. Would his story have been different if the note had been a fiver? Dimmock did not think so. At the end of a long afternoon and evening in the rain he had learned nothing of real value, yet he had the feeling that he was on the edge of some discovery. He looked at the material prepared for him by the office and read:

  ‘Check housekeeper. Mrs Twining keeps house for Lands, lives in.’ Below this was: ‘Check Fosters’ maid Sarah Russell.’ He telephoned and found that Lands was up in London, no doubt attending the trial. It was a good opportunity to call.

  It was twilight when he drove up to Land’s house, a rambling building which stood a quarter of a mile off the road at the end of a squelchy drive. Heavy rain fell out of a leaden sky. He could feel it seeping through his thin coat. The house was in darkness and there was no answer to his knock. He walked round and saw a light in what must be the kitchen, heard sounds of voices raised in high-pitched argument. He knocked on a side door and knocked again. There was a click. The radio argument was extinguished. A voice from behind the door said: ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name is Dimmock.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you’ll open the door I can give you my card.’

  The door opened on a bolt and chain. A woman’s body, tall and bulky, was outlined against the light. She held something in her right hand. Dimmock fumbled under his wet coat and found a card which said that he was an insurance investigator. The voice, harsh and sexually neutral, asked what he wanted.

  ‘Could I come in for a moment and explain.’

  ‘Is it about this business of Mr Foster?’

  Subterfuge seemed useless. ‘As a matter of fact it is.’

  ‘You want Mr Lands. He’s not here.’

  ‘You’re Mrs Twining, aren’t you? As a matter of fact it was you I wanted to talk to.’

  ‘I’ve said all I had to say. To the police.’

  Rain from the guttering above was dripping steadily on to Dimmock’s hat, and from the hat downwards. He could feel a cold trickle on his neck. ‘It’s a wet night, Mrs Twining–’

  ‘I know your voice.’ He was so disconcerted that he stopped talking. ‘On the telephone. Sneaking round when Mr Lands is away.’

  The drip ran under his collar. In desperation he moved forward and – a rare mistake on his part, for he was a man who respected the privacy of others – put his hand on the chain, not really with any intention of opening the door because that would not have been possible, but simply as a plea, a claim on her attention. The thing in her hand swung, and although he did not feel the blow his arm was suddenly numb. The door slammed shut, the radio voices started to argue again.

  It was only the third time that he had suffered violence. Back in the car he told himself he deserved it. He should have left his call until the morning, he shouldn’t have stretched out his arm. In spite of these reflections he was conscious of an unreasoning anger that lasted all the way back to the Commercial Hotel. Dinner was finished by the time he got back and he had to be content with a sandwich which was made for him with a bad grace, and a bottle of beer. When he asked for a hot water bottle in his bed the maid stared at him as though he had taken leave of his senses and said that there wasn’t such a thing in the hotel. After all, she added, it was summer.

  Up in his room he examined the arm, which showed a livid bruise between wrist and elbow. He wrote our his report in a hand less firm than usual, and went to bed. It was a long time before he slept. The day had been unrewarding, but that was not what kept him awake. He felt it to be monstrously unjust that a man making polite inquiries should be met with a blow on the arm.

  Chapter Nine

  Mobey had gone. His place was taken by an inarticulate lantern-jawed man with a permanent sniff, who was charged with arson. Tony tried to find out what had happened to Mobey, but the warders were evasive. In the end he found out from Hussick.

  ‘Mobey? The man who tried to poison his wife. He got ten years.’ Mr Hussick’s eyebrows danced. ‘Straight-forward case. Silly fellow.’

  Tony found that he was upset by this. ‘He told me it was a mistake.’

  ‘Naturally he’d say that. Not true, I’m afraid.’ Mobey was dismissed. ‘Mrs Foster’s giving evidence today. Then Mr Newton will put your case to her.’

  ‘What does he think of the chances?’

  ‘We did very well yesterday, I thought. Moreston’s a tough nut, doesn’t give an inch unless he’s forced to, but he had to agree about the blurring. It sank in with the jury, oh yes, I’m sure it sank in.’ He seemed about to burst into laughter at the thought of the way it had sunk in, but refrained. ‘When Mrs Foster is giving evidence, keep calm. No display of temper, judge doesn’t like that and the jury don’t like it either. You’ve been very good so far.’ He might have been a dentist congratulating a patient on the way he was enduring a long session in the chair.

  On the way to Court in the little van he thought about Mobey. How extraordinary it was that somebody could be in your company one day, talking cheerfully about getting rid of his wife so that he could live with his bird, and then on the next day a group of people chosen at random could decide that he was to be shut up in prison for years. Ten years – just think what it would be like to be shut up for ten years, or even seven which would allow for good conduct remission, shut up in one small room, let out only to do humiliating meaningless work, continually in the company of vulgar men, never seeing or touching a woman, your horizon bounded by the single cell, living in a world removed from bright light and colour. Would it be possible for him to endure such a world, and could it be right that anybody should be forced to suffer in that way? He saw the Morris wallpaper in his bed-room at Leathersley House, the colours brighter than they had been in actuality. When one of the two prison officers with him asked how it was going he said that he didn’t know, and saw the man look at his mate as though to convey an unspoken warning: ‘He’s been cheerful so far, but it’s getting to him now, he’s beginning to realise what he’s in for.’ The man offered him a cigarette but he shook his
head. When the two of them talked about a cricket match to be played next weekend he listened eagerly, although he was not interested in cricket.

  He had been braced for Jenny’s appearance, and was irritated when she did not appear in the witness box at once. Instead they had the girl from the travel agency where he had bought the ticket for Caracas. Then they had Bradbury to mention the thirty pounds he had promised to repay, and then Carlos Cotton talking about his unpaid debt to World Casino Enterprises. Newton’s cross-examination was brisk.

  ‘This debt was contracted at – ah – Landford, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you subsequently agreed to forgo it?’

  ‘I said he needn’t pay.’

  ‘But then you changed your mind, I understand.’

  ‘I found he was playing at Southbourne after I’d put the black on him.’ Cotton was wearing a tight black suit with very high lapels. His fingers played uneasily with a button.

  ‘Put the black on. What does that mean?’

  ‘I’d barred him from any of my gaming clubs.’

  ‘Your clubs. That is World Casino Enterprises, those are your clubs, are they not?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And what is your position in them, Mr Cotton?’

  ‘Director. And general manager.’

  ‘With some special responsibility for bad debts?’

  ‘We don’t like them. Who does?’

  ‘Who does?’ Newton echoed and continued smoothly. ‘You know that gambling debts can’t be enforced by law?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So how did you propose to enforce payment?’

  ‘I’ve told you. If he didn’t pay up he’d be barred. I’d barred him already.’ Cotton seemed to shrink into himself. He cast quick glances at Newton, the judge, the body of the Court, like a malevolent insect.

  ‘You didn’t threaten him with physical violence in any way?’