Scornful Moon

by Gee, Maurice

  The court rose for lunch. I walked on the wharves, watching gulls float and dip and water slide about the piles. It had a thickened movement beneath its oily sheen. ‘Whirling coalescence’ played in my mind but brought no useful insight. Dudley Aimer joined me, eating a meat pie. He showed me sketches he had made of Ollie Joll — some realistic, some caricature. Handsome Oliver: I preferred those to big-toothed Ollie, gun-toting Ollie.

  ‘He’s not an easy man to draw. He’s nothing when you do him straight, but you lose him when you pull bits out of shape,’ Dudley said. ‘He’s impressive though, don’t you think, just sitting there looking straight ahead.’

  ‘Something terrible must have happened,’ I said.

  ‘It’s women or money. We’ll find out.’

  Miss Jean Bird, typiste, had first seen the man she now knew to be Owen Moody three days before the shooting. He came to the office one afternoon with Mr Joll. The two appeared to be on friendly terms. They laughed and joked going up the stairs and stayed talking in the office for more than an hour. While there they drank some whisky, because Miss Bird found empty glasses smelling of liquor on Mr Joll’s desk when she tidied up before going home. She took them downstairs to rinse.

  She next saw Owen Moody on the Thursday of that week, shortly after lunch. He and Mr Joll came in at two o’clock. Mr Joll smelled of liquor but that was not unusual as he often took a glass of beer with his lunch, even when he ate a sandwich upstairs in his office. The two men were in good spirits and Mr Joll said, ‘Watch this young fellow, Jean. He’s got an eye for a pretty girl.’

  Mr Joll closed the office door. At about three o’clock she took up some letters to be signed. When she knocked, Mr Joll opened the door and said before she could speak, ‘Later, Jean. Not now.’ He seemed agitated. His face was pale.

  A short while later Miss Bird heard angry voices from upstairs, then nothing more until about 4 p.m. when the two men came down. Owen Moody was leading. He handed Miss Bird a sealed envelope and asked her to take it to the Post Office and have it registered. Mr Joll said, ‘Yes, Jean. Please do it.’ The men went upstairs again.

  Miss Bird took the letter as instructed. It was addressed to Owen Moody at Wellington Central Post Office.

  Mr Moody left at about 4.30 p.m. He asked if she had the letter receipt and when she handed it to him said, ‘Good girl,’ and winked at her.

  She took Mr Joll’s letters up to him. He was standing with his back to her, looking out the window. He told her to leave them on his desk. He was still upstairs when she went home at 5 p.m.

  The following day, the Friday of the shooting, Mr Joll behaved in his normal manner. He was cheerful and busy. Owen Moody arrived at 1.30. He went into Mr Joll’s office without knocking and closed the door. Miss Bird heard nothing for half an hour. Then she heard a gunshot.

  When Senior Sergeant Dowling charged him with attempted murder, Joll said, ‘Some mistake has been made.’ He submitted to being searched, then asked to call his lawyer.

  Meanwhile Sergeant Burrell searched Joll’s office. Broken glass littered the floor beside the window overlooking Taranaki Street. Joll’s high-backed chair was lying on its side; an inkwell had spilled ink on the desk which, judging from indentation marks in the linoleum, had been shifted from its usual place, possibly during the struggle described by previous witnesses. Five pistol shells lay on the floor and one was located beneath a roll-top desk. They were later found to fit the accused’s Mauser pistol. Three pellets went through the wall, another lodged in the spine of a book, and a fifth was found embedded in the angle of the skirting board and the floor.

  Burrell searched Joll’s desk, where he found business papers and two novels, one by Sapper and one by Zane Grey, borrowed from a threepenny library. He also found a framed photograph of Joll’s wife and daughters in a bottom drawer, along with a pack of playing cards and several articles on political matters torn from newspapers. A small bottle of whisky and two glasses were found in the cupboard on the other side. The roll-top desk held writing materials.

  Burrell opened the safe with the key sent round from the station after Joll had been searched. He found an envelope containing five photographs of naked women, three of naked men, and one of a man and woman engaged in lewd activities.

  Mander told him he need not go into further details on that matter.

  I know that photographs of that sort exist. I have seen men gathered in smirking groups looking at them but have never looked myself. Who are the creatures who allow themselves to be photographed in this way? Surely it’s impossible to retain any coherent sense of self after submitting to that, after photographing that, after looking? Their purpose is arousal, but self-disgust must follow. I stared at the man in the dock: his brushed hair, unsmiling mouth, firm nose, handsome jaw — and although he looked straight ahead, never flinched, never blinked, saw him change into something without outline or shape. Not some lewd, unhealthy thing. It was more horrible than that. Into nothing. I turned my eyes away. I could not look at him.

  • • •

  The hearing had only a short time to run. It was over by mid-afternoon. Joll’s lawyer, Wybrow — the man who had defended Mrs Maxey — asked scarcely a question.

  Two days before, Inspector James Teague had met him and his client at the gaol and handed him a statement taken from Owen Moody at the Wellington Hospital. He told Wybrow that he might, if he wished, allow Joll to read it. The pair retired for twenty minutes. When they returned, Joll told Teague that he had read the statement and made the following endorsement: ‘So far as it relates to my own act and deed I admit the above statement to be substantially true. Oliver Joll.’

  I don’t ‘remember’ the man who read it to the court. I can picture him if I try (it was Teague), but the person I see is Owen Moody and the voice I hear is his.

  Here’s the full text. It’s rather stilted. I remember thinking, He writes better fiction than fact.

  ‘I am an accounts clerk, twenty-nine years of age, and reside at Oriental Bay, Wellington. I met Mr Joll on Saturday the 17th of August while attending a football match in Lower Hutt. I had read his name in newspapers and knew he was a former City Councillor and a parliamentary candidate. I knew nothing of his occupation as a manufacturer. We got on spendidly and talked of many things. When Mr Joll invited me and a friend to have dinner with him on the following Monday night at the St George Hotel we had no hesitation in accepting.’

  (The Dominion report, which I’m using, is printed in solid blocks. I’m going to put it into paragraphs and drop the sub-headings: A Discovery in Joll’s Office; A Pistol Fired, etc.)

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary happened while at dinner. Mr Joll was a friendly host. Our conversation included cricket, the cinema, politics, on which we agreed, Mr Joll’s business, detective stories and Western stories, where our tastes coincided, and many other things. I found Mr Joll to be good company and invited him to have dinner with me, at the St George Hotel again, later in the week. He accepted. I admit that it was my plan to approach him about employment at this meeting as I saw no possibility of advancement where I was.

  ‘We met on Friday the 23rd and had a friendly and enjoyable dinner. I brought up the subject of employment and Mr Joll seemed pleased. He said that he had been looking for “a bright young chap with experience” and that I might “fit the bill”. He asked me to call on him at his office the following week to discuss the matter.

  ‘Before that date I ran into Mr Joll in the street and went with him for lunch at his club. I had finished my employment with Barnhill Importers after an argument with the head clerk. When I told Mr Joll, he was amused. He said I had burned my boats but he liked a young fellow with spirit. He invited me to his office, where he offered me a glass of whisky. Although I don’t like whisky, I drank it. The question of a job never came up but he reminded me as I left that we had an appointment to talk about it later in the week.

  ‘On Thursday, at about half past one, I again ran into Mr Joll in th
e street. He was coming back from lunch and invited me into a hotel for a glass of beer. I began to wonder if it was sensible to be on such familiar terms with a man who might become my employer.

  ‘We went to his office at two o’clock. There I discovered a certain disgusting feature in Mr Joll’s character. He took an envelope from his safe and showed me several photographs of nude women. From comments he made I began to suspect that his interests lay elsewhere, so I purposely encouraged him to display those qualities of his nature I expected. Mr Joll showed me photographs of nude men.

  ‘I understood that he had dirty intentions. For a short while I led him on in order to be sure. Then I told him that his behaviour disgusted me. I was angry to have been subjected to advances of such a foul nature and raised my voice several times as I denounced him. Mr Joll appeared shocked. Later he attempted to bluster. He claimed that he had been joking, then that he had just been making sure that I was a healthy-minded young fellow. None of this had any effect on me. The photographs he had shown and certain remarks he had made had convinced me of his perverted nature.

  ‘I then told Mr Joll that he was not a fit person to be a member of Parliament and that he must resign as a candidate in the election to be held later this year.’

  I’ve had to take a break in my transcription — cannot stand the bad air that seems to fill my study. I walked in the garden, where Rose joined me. She saw that I was troubled and asked me what it was. I haven’t told her of the task I’ve set myself — have told no one. I do not want to spread the contagion.

  I said that a piece of writing I was engaged on was giving me trouble — not a leader for the Dominion, I told her (I’ve given that up, not feeling that I can any longer judge and pronounce), but an historical thing that was leading me into places where I did not want to go. Rose understands me: knows when I want her to ask questions and when not. She led me round the garden, showed me plants and flowers, then stopped at the bank we’ve let run wild. Nasturtiums have taken it over. Their glorious red flowers floated like coracles on a sea of green. Last night’s rain had left water drops the size of pearls cupped in the leaves. I thought I had never seen anything so pure. ‘You could drink it,’ Rose said, tipping one into her palm. It lost its shape. ‘Oh, how sad. I wanted to swallow it whole.’ She licked it off, then laughed at her silliness; but to me she personified beauty and good health and I began to feel again the greater weight of good than evil in the world. I knew that I had the strength to describe those things I’ve set myself to face for a second time and, indeed, that they are less terrible than they appear in the night when I lie awake …

  I’ll hold the memory of my wife in the garden, I’ll see the pearl of water in the leaf, and go on until I reach the end …

  ‘He pleaded for mercy. He begged me not to force him to resign, saying that he would never be able to explain it to his wife. He made me look at a photograph of his wife and daughters. Such hypocrisy disgusted me further and I told him to put his other photographs away before showing me his family. I was, however, anxious to be just and do nothing cruel to innocent people, so I allowed Mr Joll to explain himself.

  ‘He told me he was suffering from a complaint that made it impossible for him to control his passions. His doctor would satisfy me in that respect. He rang up his doctor but could not get through.

  ‘Mr Joll became very earnest. He asked me to allow him several days to put his affairs in order and then he would kill himself. I did not believe him. It seemed to me that he was trying to give himself time to arrange some means of denying what had taken place in his office. By now I was thoroughly done up with the strain of the conversation. I was terribly tired and wanted to get away. I told him I would give him one day but that he should not think of suicide, rather of some convincing way of telling his decision to his wife. I repeated that he had no business in Parliament. My concern was that he should not be in public life, where his pretence of being normal would be corrupting in itself.

  ‘Mr Joll laughed at me, which was astonishing. He said he liked me as a man and that we should put the last hour aside — bury the whole steaming mess was the expression he used — and get on with our lives as men of the world. He told me he would give me a job at whatever rate of pay I cared to name.

  ‘I became very angry at this. I was deeply insulted and my desire to leave Mr Joll’s company became intense. I told him I would call on him the next day to discuss the form his resignation would take, but in the meantime I must have a note promising that he would resign a week from that day for reasons of unstable mental health. It must be addressed to me at the General Post Office, and registered. I said it would lie there until his resignation was complete. Then I would hand it back to him.

  ‘After further argument Mr Joll agreed. I dictated the letter, which he signed. I sealed it in an envelope and we took it downstairs to the office girl and told her to take it to the post office at once. While waiting for her to come back with the receipt, I went upstairs with Mr Joll again. This was a mistake. I was forced to listen to further pleading, then to his attempt to justify his appetites. I told him to be silent. When the office girl returned I went downstairs, took the receipt and went home.

  ‘I felt drained of energy and thoroughly worn out. My encounter with Mr Joll — the Joll behind his public face — was the most unpleasant experience of my life.’

  Owen Moody goes on: ‘Before calling on Mr Joll the following afternoon I went to the post office and took delivery of the registered letter. Although I had told him I would let it lie for a week, I was afraid he might find some way of getting hold of it. I believed it would be safer in my possession. During my final talk with Mr Joll it remained in my pocket.

  ‘I understand that this letter has never been found. I can only suppose that it fell out during our struggle, or when I was being cared for downstairs, or that some person removed it from my clothes at the hospital. I have no knowledge of its present whereabouts.

  ‘In Mr Joll’s office on Friday the 30th of August, the conversation of the previous day repeated itself. Mr Joll implored me for a month’s time and spoke again about his wife and family. I remained firm. I said that he must resign that afternoon and explained that I was letting him off lightly. By rights his true nature should be exposed.

  ‘Mr Joll changed his tack and refused to resign. He claimed that he had not yet talked to his wife. I told him that he must do the best he could, and that I was going to take his letter to the newspaper and explain the circumstances under which it had been written. I turned to leave. I heard Mr Joll open a drawer. He called out my name.

  ‘When I turned I saw that he had a pistol pointing at my chest.

  ‘He said, “This is for you,” and fired immediately.

  ‘I felt the bullet enter my chest and I fell down. Mr Joll came round his desk and looked at me. He thrust the pistol into my right hand. Then he ran out of the office.

  ‘I climbed to my feet, holding the pistol. I seized a chair from in front of the desk and smashed the glass in the window over Taranaki Street. I threw the chair out and called to some chaps in the street that I had been shot.

  ‘Mr Joll came back into the office. He cried out, “For God’s sake shoot me, Owen.” I attempted to keep his desk between us while keeping him covered. He rushed at me and tried to take the pistol. I kept it pointing away and let off all the shots until it was empty.

  ‘I don’t remember much more. I heard Mr Joll say that I had shot myself by accident. There were many people looking down at me. One of them, a young woman I thought very pretty, tried to give me first aid. I lost consciousness and did not recover until many hours later in the hospital.’

  Teague then read Joll’s endorsement admitting that the description of his acts and deeds was substantially true.

  Oliver Joll as I picture him: he shifts, I lose him, I see this part and that; strong neck, wide shoulders, chest and stomach of a well-fed man; face with its confidence gone — social, joking, dining, deciding
confidence — but in its place a resignation contented with itself, with knowledge gained and expectation put aside. His cheeks and mouth and jowls retain their carved fleshiness but there’s a skin taken off. His eyes have a colour more subdued than their former blue. I detest the man. I admire him too — but only in this manifestation: he stands and folds his arms, and answers the clerk’s question in his firm and normal voice: ‘I plead guilty.’

  Rose said, ‘Do you have to go today? It’s not doing you any good, Sam.’

  She was right. It was harming me. It was taking one of my skins away and making an impression like badly inked print on the nervous membrane underneath. Nothing can be trusted, I found there. There are hideous places one must look, and so on.

  I said goodbye to her and walked down to the Supreme Court. Outside I met Eric. He had sailed up from Christchurch in the night on the Rangatira — was tousled in his hair, misbuttoned in his waistcoat, shaved in a haphazard way. I hailed him, felt my voice come back.

  ‘Poor devil,’ Eric said when the court guards brought Joll in for sentencing.

  Wybrow, who had been short of questions the day before, was full of words that morning. He pattered them like rain, firm one moment, hushed the next, trying in his professional way to wash Joll clean in the steady fall. There’s no telling with the Chief Justice (Sir Michael Green). He has a way of being neutral while looking keen; and a way, then, of indicating in a word or gesture that although argument flows on, the rock of justice lying underneath will not be changed. (I wrote that several years ago in an article on Sir Michael, trying to suggest his Jewishness, and it still seems true.) He gave Wybrow all the time he needed, interjecting only two or three times: ‘We understand the weight of it,’ when Wybrow went on a little too long about the heavy responsibility he and his friend McMurtry bore in advising the accused to plead guilty. They had hesitated a long while but decided in the end that it was the only honourable course. It was not clear to me whether he meant for Joll or for themselves.