The Price of Love and Other Stories

by Peter Robinson

  My knees cracked as I shifted position. I could hear the ambulance approaching through the dark, deserted streets of the city. Just as I was about to stand up, the weak light from the torch glinted on something in the grass, half hidden by Evelyn’s outstretched arm. I reached forward, placed it in my palm and shone the torch on it. What I saw sent a chill down my spine. It was a tiny, perfectly crafted grimacing monkey. The very same one I had seen so many times on Cornelius Jubb’s charm bracelet.

  It was with a heavy heart that I approached the U.S. army base in a light drizzle early the following morning, while Evelyn Fowler fought for consciousness in the infirmary. It was a typical military base, with Nissan huts for the men, storage compounds for munitions and supplies, and the obligatory squad of soldiers marching around the parade ground. Along with all the Jeeps and lorries coming and going, it certainly gave the impression of hectic activity.

  My official police standing got me in to see the CO, a genial enough colonel from Wyoming, called Hank Johnson, who agreed to let me talk to Pfc. Jubb, making it clear that he was doing me a big favor. He specified that army personnel must be present and that, should things be taken any further, the matter was under American jurisdiction, not that of the British. I was well aware of the thorny legal problems the American “occupation,” as some called it, gave rise to, and had discovered in the past that there was little or nothing I could do about it. The fact of the matter was that on August 4,1942, after a great deal of angry debate, the cabinet had put a revolutionary special bill before Parliament which exempted U.S. soldiers over here from being prosecuted in our courts, under our laws.

  The colonel was being both courteous and cautious in allowing me access to Cornelius. The special USA Visiting Forces Act was still a controversial topic, and nobody wanted an outcry in the press, or on the streets. There was a good chance, Colonel Johnson no doubt reasoned, that early collaboration could head that sort of thing off at the pass. It certainly did no harm to placate the local constabulary. I will say, though, that they stopped short of stuffing my pockets with Lucky Strikes and Hershey’s bars.

  I agreed to the colonel’s terms and accompanied him to an empty office, bare except for a wooden desk and four uncomfortable hard-backed chairs. After I had waited the length of a cigarette, the colonel came back with Cornelius and another man, whom he introduced as Lieutenant Clawson, a military lawyer. I must confess that I didn’t much like the look of Clawson; he had an arrogant twist to his lips and a cold, merciless look in his eye.

  Cornelius seemed surprised to see me, but he also appeared sheepish and did his best to avoid looking me directly in the eye. Maybe this was because of the scratch on his cheek, though I took his discomfort more as a reflection of his surroundings and hoped to hell it wasn’t an indication of his guilt. After all, we were on his home turf now, where the colored men had separate barracks from the whites and ate in different canteens. Already I could sense the gulf and the unspoken resentment between Cornelius and the two white Americans. It felt very different from Obediah Clough’s clumsy and childish attempts at bullying; it ran much deeper and was more dangerous.

  “Tell me what you did last night, Cornelius?” I asked, the words out of my mouth before I realized what a mistake I had made calling him by his first name. The colonel frowned and Lieutenant Clawson smiled in a particularly nasty way. “Pfc. Jubb, that is,” I corrected myself, too late.

  “You know what I did,” said Cornelius.

  The others looked at me, curious. “Humor me,” I said, feeling my mouth become dry.

  “We were celebrating the victory in Sicily,” Cornelius said. “We drank some beer in the Nag’s Head and then we went back to your house and drank some whiskey.”

  The colonel looked surprised to hear Cornelius talk, and I guessed he hadn’t heard his voice before. When you were expecting some sort of barely comprehensible rural Louisiana patois, what you got in fact was the more articulate and refined speech of the New Englander, a result of the time Cornelius had spent in the north.

  “Were you drunk?” I asked.

  “Maybe. A little. But not so much that I couldn’t find my way home.”

  “Which way did you go?”

  “The usual way.”

  “Through Brimley Park?”

  Cornelius hesitated and caught my eye. “Yes,” he said. “It’s a good shortcut.”

  “Did you notice anything there? Anyone?”

  “No,” he said.

  I got that sinking feeling. If I could tell that Cornelius was lying, what would the others think? He certainly wasn’t a natural liar. And why was he lying? I pressed on, and never had my duty felt so much of a burden to me before.

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “No,” said Cornelius.

  “Do you know a girl by the name of Evelyn Fowler?”

  “Can’t say as I do.”

  “About five foot three, good-looking girl. Wears nice clothes, makes a lot of them herself, has a Veronica Lake hairstyle.”

  “Who doesn’t?” said Cornelius.

  It was true; there were plenty of Veronica Lake look-alikes walking around in 1943. “She’s been in the Nag’s Head a couple of times,” I added.

  “I suppose I might have seen her, then,” said Cornelius. “Why?”

  “She was raped and beaten last night in Brimley Park.”

  Now, for the first time, Cornelius really looked me in the eye. “And you think I did it?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I’m only asking if you saw anything. It was around the time you left. And,” I dropped the grimacing monkey softly on the table, “I found this near the scene.”

  Cornelius looked at the charm, then turned up his sleeve and saw the missing spot on his bracelet. Clawson and the colonel both stared at him gravely, as if they knew they’d got him now and it was just a matter of time. I wasn’t so sure. I thought I knew Cornelius, and the man I knew would no sooner rape and beat Evelyn Fowler than he would sully the memory of his own mother.

  Finally, he shrugged. “Well,” he said, “I did tell you I walked through the park. It must have dropped off.”

  “But you saw and heard nothing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Bit of a coincidence, though, isn’t it? The timing and all.”

  “Coincidences happen.”

  “Where did you get that scratch on your cheek?” I asked him.

  He put his hand up to it. “Don’t know,” he said. “Maybe cut myself shaving.”

  “You didn’t have it last night when you left my house.”

  He shrugged again. “I shave in the mornings.”

  “It doesn’t look like a shaving cut. Are you sure you didn’t get it when you were attacking Evelyn Fowler?”

  He looked at me with disappointment in his eyes and shook his head. “You don’t believe that.”

  He was right; I didn’t. “Well, what did happen?” I asked. “Help me here.”

  “I think that’s about enough for now,” said Lieutenant Clawson, getting to his feet and pacing the tiny room. “We’ll take it over from now on.”

  That was what I had been afraid of. At least with me, Cornelius would get a fair deal, but I wasn’t sure how well his fellow countrymen would treat him. I was the one who had brought the trouble down on him, the one who couldn’t overlook something like the little monkey charm I found at the crime scene, even though I never suspected Cornelius of rape. But these men…how well would he fare with them?

  “This girl who was attacked,” Clawson went on, “is she still alive?”

  “Evelyn Fowler? Yes,” I said. “She’s unconscious in hospital, but she’s expected to pull through.”

  “Then maybe she’ll be able to identify her attacker.”

  I looked at Cornelius and saw the despair in his face.

  I thought I knew why. “Yes,” I said. “Perhaps she will.”

  Within two days, Evelyn Fowler was sitting up and talking in her hospital bed. Be
fore the Americans arrived, I managed to persuade Dr. Harris, an old friend, to give me a few minutes alone with her.

  Not surprisingly, she looked dreadful. The Veronica Lake hair hung limp and greasy, framing her heart-shaped face. She was still partially bandaged, mostly around the nose, but the dark bruises stood out in stark contrast to skin as pale as the linen on which she lay. Her eyes had lost that light, cynical, playful look and were filled instead with a new darkness. When she tried to smile at me, I could see that two of her lower front teeth were missing. It must have been a terrible beating.

  “Hello, Constable Bascombe,” she said, her voice oddly lisping and whistling, no doubt because of the missing teeth. “I’m sorry, it’s a right mess you see me in.”

  I patted her hand. “That’s all right, Evelyn. How are you?”

  “Not so bad, I suppose, considering. Apart from my face, that is. And a bit of soreness…you know.”

  I did know.

  “He must have been disturbed or something,” she went on. “I suppose I was lucky he didn’t kill me.” She tried another smile and some of her natural sweetness and playfulness came through.

  “Did you see your attacker at all?” I asked, a lump in my throat.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I mean, you can’t help it, can you, when a great hulking brute’s on top of you thumping you in the face? I saw him all right.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  Here she paused. “Well, it was dark, what with the blackout and all that. But I suppose in a way that’s what made it easier.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The blackout. His face, it just blended right in, didn’t it.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and turned her head toward me. “He was a nigger.”

  “Evelyn, that’s not a polite word to use.”

  “Well, it wasn’t a polite thing he did to me, was it?” She pouted. “Anyway, Jim, that’s my sweetheart, Jim’s a GI and he says them niggers are good for nothing and they have their way with white women at the drop of a hat. Said they’re hanging them over there for it all the time. They’re not the same as us. Not as intelligent as us. They’re just like big children, really. Or animals. They can’t control themselves. I know what folks thought of me, that I’d go with anybody, but I wouldn’t go with a nigger, not for a hundred pounds. No, sir.”

  “Was it someone you recognized?”

  “I’d know him if I saw him again.”

  “But you’d never seen him before?”

  “I didn’t say that. My head still aches. I can’t think clearly.”

  “Did you scratch him?”

  “I certainly tried hard enough…Funny thing…”

  “What is?”

  “Well, it’s just a feeling I got, I don’t know, just about when I was passing out, but at one time I could have…”

  “What?”

  “Well, I could have sworn that there were two of them.”

  Apart from one or two brief consultations with Lieutenant Clawson and another U.S. military lawyer called William Grant, the case was taken out of my hands, and whatever investigation was done was carried out by the U.S. military. It’s a sorry state of affairs indeed when a British policeman has no powers of investigation in his own country.

  Naturally, the Americans were tight-lipped, and I could discover nothing from them. Evelyn came out of hospital after a week and soon got back to her old self, and her old ways, though she seemed to be avoiding me. At least she never came to the Nag’s Head anymore, and I got the impression that whenever she saw me approaching in the street she crossed over to the other side. I guessed that perhaps the Americans had found out about our little chat and warned her off. Whatever the reason, they were keeping everything under wraps, and hardly a snippet of information even got out to the papers.

  Of poor Cornelius, I had no news at all. I didn’t see him again until the general court-martial at the base. As he sat there, flanked by a guard and his lawyer, he seemed lifeless and mechanical in his movements, and the sparkle had gone from his eyes, though the look of innocence remained. He seemed resigned to whatever fate had in store for him. When he looked at me, it seemed at first as if he didn’t recognize me, then he flashed me a brief smile and turned back to examining his fingernails.

  I had never been to an American GCM before, and I was surprised at how informal it all seemed. Despite the uniforms, there were no wigs in evidence, and the language seemed less weighty and less full of legal jargon than its British equivalent. There were twelve members of the court, all officers, and by law, because this was the trial of a Negro, one of them also had to be colored. This turned out to be a young first lieutenant, new to command, who seemed nervous and completely intimidated by the other eleven, all of whom had higher ranks and much greater seniority.

  Cornelius pleaded not guilty, and his defense was that he had interrupted the attack and chased off the attacker, whom he had not recognized because of the blackout. When he had realized that a colored American GI standing alone in a deserted park after nightfall with a raped and beaten white girl would immediately fall under suspicion, he did what any colored man would do and hurried back to camp.

  Naturally, I was called quite early in the proceedings to present my evidence, much as I would have been in an ordinary court. I described how I had been woken up and led to Brimley Park by Harry Joseph, what I had seen there and what I had found in the grass beside Evelyn Fowler. I was then asked about my relationship with the accused and about how we had spent the evening drinking previous to the attack. The problem was that whenever I tried to expand on Cornelius’s good character, his virtues, and to emphasize that, drunk or sober, he was not the sort of man who could have carried out such a brutal rape, they cut me off. Even Cornelius’s lawyer never really let me get very far. As a policeman, of course, I was used to giving evidence for the prosecution, not for the defense, but this time the limitations galled me.

  Evelyn Fowler was a revelation. In court, she looked a lot more demure than she ever had in the Nag’s Head: no dirndl skirts, bolero dresses or Veronica Lake hairstyles for Evelyn today, only a plain Utility dress and her hair tied loosely behind her neck.

  Lieutenant Clawson proceeded gently at first, as if afraid to stir up her feelings and memories of the events, but I guessed that his apparent sympathy was merely an act for the court. When he got to the point, he made it brutally and efficiently.

  “What were you doing in the park that night, Miss Fowler?” he asked.

  “I was walking home from a dance,” she said. “My friends wanted to stay, but I had to get up early for work. It’s a shortcut.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Someone grabbed me and threw me to the ground. He…he punched me and tore my clothing off.”

  “And he raped you. Is that correct?”

  Evelyn looked down at the handbag clasped on her knees. “Yes,” she whispered. “He raped me.”

  “Miss Fowler, do you see the man who raped you and beat you here in this courtroom today?”

  “I do,” she said.

  “Can you please point him out to the court?”

  “That’s him,” she said, pointing at Cornelius without a moment’s hesitation. “The accused. That’s the man who raped me.”

  “You have no doubt?”

  “Not a shred,” said Evelyn, her lips set in a determined line. “That’s him.”

  And did Cornelius’s lawyer attack her evidence? Not a bit of it. Did he challenge her character and question how she had arrived at her identification? Not at all. I knew that Evelyn hated and feared colored people, and that she had been well versed in this by her beau, GI Jim, but did the lawyer ask her about her feelings toward Negroes? No, he didn’t.

  I was willing to bet, for a start, that Evelyn hadn’t picked Cornelius out of a lineup of similar physical types, and that as far as she was concerned one Negro looked very much like another. And Cornelius did have a scratch on his face, after all. I wouldn’t
even have been surprised if she had been told in advance that a charm from his bracelet had been found right beside her arm after the attack. She had told me that at one point she had sensed two men. Couldn’t one of them have been Cornelius fighting off her attacker? But neither lawyer asked about that.

  All in all, it was a disappointing affair, one-sided and sloppy in the extreme. I spent the entire time on the edge of my seat biting my tongue. On several occasions I almost spoke out, but knew they would only expel me from the courtroom if I did so. I could only pray for Cornelius now, and I wasn’t much of a believer in prayer.

  After a short recess for lunch, which I spent smoking and trying, unsuccessfully, to gain access to Cornelius’s lawyer, there was little else to be done. Dr. Harris gave evidence about Evelyn’s condition after the attack, not forgetting to mention that the small piece of skin found under one of her fingernails was black.

  In the end, it was an easy decision. Pfc. Cornelius Jubb admitted to being in Brimley Park on the night in question, around the exact time the attack occurred. It was a particularly brutal attack, and Cornelius and Evelyn, while they might have recognized each other in passing, had no earlier acquaintance, which might have earned the court’s leniency. A charm from a bracelet the accused was known to wear habitually was found at the scene. He had a scratch on his face and she had black skin under her fingernail. His defense—that he had seen a woman in trouble and come to her rescue—was too little, too late. They might as well have added that he was colored, but they didn’t go that far.

  But when the verdict finally came, it took the breath out of me: Pfc. Cornelius Jubb was found guilty of rape and was sentenced to be hanged by the neck until dead.

  That was one little detail I had forgotten, and I cursed myself for it: Under U.S. Article of War 92, rape was a crime punishable by life imprisonment or death, which is not the case under British law. They wanted to make an example of Cornelius, so they went for the death penalty, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. In a way, I had got him into this, through my bloody devotion to my job, to duty. I could have hidden the monkey charm. I knew Cornelius wasn’t a rapist, no matter what happened in Brimley Park that night. But no, I had to do the right thing. And the right thing was going to get Cornelius Jubb hanged.