One Fight at a Time

by Jeff Dowson

  Winston pulled open the drawer to the left of the kitchen sink.

  “This might be it,” he said.

  He picked up the ring bound notebook and passed it to Grover, who flipped through the pages. He recognised Harry’s handwriting.

  Winston asked him another question.

  “So are soldiers the only black people you’ve known?”

  “Wisconsin’s way above the bible belt,” Grover said. “It’s not exactly heaving with ‘people of colour’ as we were told to say. I used to be a cop. I’d been on the Tomah PD for about five months, when I came across my first case involving a black family. A store owner, white, was arrested for raping a black women. She had a husband and two kids. No one in the family had ever been in trouble. There wasn’t a rotten corpuscle in any of them. The grocer was released on bail. Somebody went round to his store later that night and blew a hole in him with a shotgun.”

  “And the black guy got the blame.”

  “Davis, his name was. He was arrested, held for a couple of days then sent home. Lack of evidence. But to some, it was an open and shut case. I was given the job of keeping an eye on the family. I spent 48 hours parked outside their front door in a prowl car. Until Davis persuaded me to go home and get some sleep. And that night, half a dozen Klansmen drove up from Missouri. Found the guy’s house, dragged him out onto his lawn and set fire to him.”

  There was a long silence. Winston shrugged his shoulders.

  “I should have been there,” Grover said. “Could have stopped it.”

  Winston looked at him. “You can only win battles one fight at a time”

  Grover held up the notebook. “Thanks again. I hope you get this place straightened out soon.”

  “Coffee, the lady said. So let’s take up the offer.”

  He pointed at the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ellie was serving in the shop when Grover got back to Gladstone Street. Harry was in his room, sitting on the bed. Grover gave him the notebook.

  “Oh great. Thanks.”

  Grover sat down next to Harry. “Okay, your turn.”

  Harry looked sideways at him. Suspicion in his eyes.

  “Favour for favour,” Grover said. “Where were you last Saturday night?”

  “I was at the pictures,” Harry said.

  “No you weren’t. We both know that’s a crock of shit.”

  “If you say so.”

  “We’re clutching at straws here Harry. You have to talk to us.”

  “Alright. I didn’t murder Nick. I wasn’t in the flat at the time.”

  “But you were there earlier?”

  Harry nodded. “Yes. Late afternoon.”

  “And later that night?”

  Harry shook his head and opened his mouth to say something. Grover beat him to it.”

  “Don’t make anything else up. You left a boot print in the blood on the carpet. And your fingerprints in the blood on Nick’s shirt.”

  Grover waited for him to respond. Harry looked steadfastly down at the carpet. Grover waited a bit longer. Harry wavered.

  “After the feature, I had a drink in the pub next door to the Majestic. Then I walked to the flat. Got there sometime between quarter to ten and ten o’clock. Nick was... well he was...” He mumbled into silence, then recovered slightly. “I’ve told all this to the police. I don’t want to go through it again.”

  “Okay,” Grover said. “Why did you go the movies on your own?”

  “Nick didn’t want to go. He’d seen The Blue Lamp.”

  Grover stood up and moved across the room. He looked down at the chaos of paper on Harry’s table.

  “How’s the novel coming?” he asked.

  “Oh... Slowly.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “A private detective, who stumbles over a body in the blackout one night in August 1940. It’s a friend of his. So he goes looking for the killer.”

  “Should make you some money. Providing you’re still alive to bank the cheque.”

  That seemed to strike home. Grover moved back to Harry and looked at him, dead centre.

  “Why do you have Daniel Zampa’s telephone number on your secret list? Are you a member of El Paradis ?”

  “No,” was all Harry offered.

  “So?”

  “So what? Nothing sinister about it. Nick was doing some work for Roly that involved visiting the club. He took me along. Zampa gave me his card and told me to stay in touch.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “So why keep that secret?”

  Harry snorted. “Everyone in the city knows about Zampa. I wanted to keep the connection from my parents.”

  He glared at Grover defiantly. Grover responded.

  “For Chrissakes, give us some help. There’s a rope at the end of this.”

  Harry fell on to his side, rolled over and lay facing the wall. Grover hovered over the edge of the bed.

  “Tell me what happened last weekend... Harry.”

  Harry spoke softly to the wall. “Nick and I had a fight.”

  Grover absorbed that.

  “A real fight?” he asked. “Knock ’em down drag ’em out?”

  “Almost. We had a huge row.”

  “About what?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Grover grabbed Harry by the shoulders. Hauled him upright, spun him around and propped him against the wall. Harry was shocked. He turned his head away. Grover reached out, wrapped his right hand around Harry’s chin and pulled his face back through ninety degrees. He looked at him with the eyes of an interrogator. For a moment he was back in Berlin.

  “You are going on trial for murder.” He emphasised every word.

  Harry shook his head free from Grover’s grip.

  “I can’t tell you. Understand. I can’t.”

  Grover backed out of the bedroom. He stood on the landing and blew out his cheeks in frustration. He knew he had made a mess of that. It would be even tougher to get Harry to talk after this. He walked slowly down the stairs.

  There were no customers in the shop. Ellie was waiting in the kitchen. Grover’s body language spoke volumes.

  “He wouldn’t talk to you then?”

  Grover shook his head. Sat down at the kitchen table. Ellie sat in the chair opposite.

  “He’s frightened of something,” Grover said. “Or someone. I mean, really frightened. Enough to risk going on trial for murder.”

  Ellie sat upright, raised both hands and brushed them through her hair.

  “And I lost patience with him,” Grover said. “Which didn’t help.”

  Ellie freed her hands and massaged both eye sockets. Grover watched, just a spectator.

  “Okay,” he said eventually. “Let’s be resolute. Write down a list of all his friends. All the ones you know. I’ll talk to them one at a time. Somebody will give up something.”

  Ellie took pencil and paper from a sideboard drawer. The shop doorbell rang. Grover stood up.

  “I’ll get it. If I’m confused about a price, I’ll call for help.”

  Mark Chaplin was standing in the middle of the shop floor. He introduced himself. Grover responded by doing the same.

  “I’m working for Harry’s lawyer,” he said. “Trying to build a defence case.”

  “Are you having any success?”

  “We need to know where Harry was last Saturday night.”

  “He was at the pictures wasn’t he?”

  “No, he wasn’t. It’s the story he is sticking to, but it’s not true.”

  Chaplin slid from uncomfortable to nervous. Grover monitored this.

  “I’d like to talk to you, before you go up to see Harry.”

  Chaplin moved his right foot sideways, shifted his weight from one hip to the other.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “You’re a close friend right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you known Harry?”

  “T
wo and a half years. We met during national service. We were both eighteen. We have birthdays in the same month.”

  “Do you spend much time together?”

  “We see each other at least once a week, I guess.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “Talk. Have supper together. Visit other friends. Sometimes we play cards. Harry’s a good poker player.”

  “Do you play for high stakes?”

  “Pennies. I think, the most there’s ever been in the pot is, I don’t know, three or four shillings.”

  “What’s Harry worried about?” Grover asked.

  “The trial.”

  “I mean, apart from that.”

  “Nothing, as far as I know.”

  “Would he tell you if there was something on his mind?”

  “I would think so, yes. Can I go up and see him now?”

  Grover gestured across the floor. Chaplin went into the hall. Grover listened as he climbed the stairs. He seemed to be moving fast.

  In the kitchen Ellie had the rubber end of the pencil in her mouth. She was staring down at the page of notepaper, on the table in front of her.

  “That was Mark Chaplin,” Grover said.

  Ellie looked up. “Yes, right,” she said. “He should be on this list.” She began writing his name.

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Not well at all really. He’s been here two or three times. His father is a policeman.”

  Out in the shop, the doorbell jingled again, the door banged closed and the bell jingled once more. Grover responded to the call, like the family dog on visitor watch. A man with long arms and wide shoulders, was standing on the shop floor. He was wearing an army surplus greatcoat, which looked at least two sizes too big for him. He was taller than Grover by an inch or two. His thick blonde hair was clipped into a severe short back and sides. The bushy eyebrows ran one into the other, in the space above his nose. He was ramrod straight, like a Regimental Sergeant Major.

  “Has Ellie got any of my special glue in?” he asked. He had a voice like a broken crankcase. Maybe the result of years yelling on the parade ground.

  “Glue? I don’t know. I’ll find out.”

  Grover went into the kitchen. Ellie looked up from the table and pointed to the sheet of paper.

  “I’ve done the best I can. I’ve probably missed a few people, but it’s something to work with.”

  “Good. There’s a man with huge eyebrows in the shop, asking for some special kind of glue.”

  “Oh that’ll be Jerry Wharton. He does a Punch and Judy show on the beach at Weston. It’s the first of May on Saturday. He’ll open for the season if the weather’s good. Come to think of it, he should be on the list. He’s known Harry for years. Put the kettle on while I go and serve him. Then we can all have a cup of tea and talk. I think you’ll like Jerry.”

  Wharton followed Ellie into the kitchen a couple of minutes later. He took off his coat and hung it over the back of his chair. Grover could now see why it was too big for him. Jerry was broad shouldered, but very thin. His dark blue eyes were dull, his face was pale. The two men shook hands.

  “I’m Ed Grover.”

  Wharton smiled. “I know.”

  They talked for a while. And, as Ellie had promised, Grover did like him. Mainly because Jerry Wharton was a one off. A communist Punch and Judy Man. Probably, a world first. Grover had never met either ilk before and to greet them both in one giant ball of entertainment was a real joy.

  “Punch is the Bolshevik you see. The policeman is the Tsarist lackey. The Crocodile is the corrupt state,” Wharton explained.

  “The kids don’t get that do they?”

  “Of course not. But one day I’ll present the Punch and Judy version of the October Revolution. Then things will change.”

  “Drink your tea comrade,” Ellie said.

  Wharton grinned at her. “Just you wait.”

  The three of them were sitting around the kitchen table. Jerry stopped doing his routine and became serious.

  “How’s Harry?”

  Ellie said nothing. Just lifted her shoulders and took a sip of tea.

  “He didn’t do it you know,” Wharton said. “He’s not capable of it.”

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted proceedings. Ellie and Grover swung to face the doorway. Wharton drank his tea. Mark Chaplin materialised in the stair well.

  “I’m off now Mrs Morrison.” He nodded at Grover. “Nice to meet you.”

  He left the doorway. A few seconds later the doorbell rang, the shop door opened and closed and the bell rang once more.

  “Who was that?” Wharton asked.

  “His friend Mark,” Ellie said.

  “Oh Mark. Yes.”

  Wharton nodded, as if he was logging something in his head. Grover saw this. He glanced at Ellie. She had not noticed. She was sitting with her elbows on the table, the tea cup cradled in both hands. Wharton stood up, took his coat off the back of the chair.

  “I ought to be on my way.”

  Ellie put the cup down and got up too. “I’ll show you out.”

  “No stay here, I’ll do it,” Grover said.

  Crossing the shop floor, Grover asked Wharton if he knew Mark Chaplin. “Sort of. I know he’s the son of a senior police office. I’ve seen him around. But I don’t know him personally.”

  He reached for the door handle. Grover grabbed his hand.

  “What else? You were uncomfortable for a moment back there.” Wharton said nothing. Grover persisted. “Come on I need to know.”

  Wharton opened the door and the bell rang. The two men stepped outside. Grover closed the door. The bell rang again, the sound muffled by the noise of the street. Grover and Wharton faced each other in the space between the bay windows. Wharton asked him how long he had known Harry.

  “I first met him when he was eleven years old. Back in 1940.”

  “And you’ve been in Europe since then?”

  “Until four months ago, yes. I met everybody again, last weekend.”

  “Have you talked with Harry?”

  “He’s not saying much beyond an alibi he conjured up at Brean Sands.”

  “He went to see Eric did he?”

  “You know Eric?”

  “Of course. I did my Easter holiday engagement at the camp three weeks ago. And I’ll be back there for a while in the summer.”

  He put his left hand into a trouser pocket, fished out a swazzle and put it in his mouth. Out came his Mister Punch voice.

  “That’s the way to do it.”

  Grover held up his hands.

  “Never mind that. What was that rationalisation you were making in the kitchen?”

  The Punch and Judy Man, turned his head and looked along the street. Grover pressed on.

  “Jerry... We both know Harry didn’t kill Nicholas Hope. But he’s not talking. At all. Murder is a capital crime. And there’s only one ending to that story.”

  Wharton looked up at Grover. He took the swazzle out of his mouth.

  “It won’t come to that surely.”

  “It might. The police have prints which put Harry at the scene. His knife is the murder weapon. The killer was left handed and so is he. His alibi won’t stand up, because it’s an invention. If he hangs on to it and the prosecution team convince the jury that he’s lying... which they will... he has no chance. He will go to the gallows.”

  Wharton looked back through the shop doorway. He pinched his nose with his left thumb and forefinger, balled his hand into a fist and bounced it off his chin three or four times.

  Grover tried again.

  “I’m working for Fincher Reade and Holborne,”

  “Officially?”

  “No. I’m in the US Army.”

  “So you’re not bound by the same lawyer client confidentiality?”

  “Yes I am. I talk about stuff with the defence attorney Zoe Easton and the outdoor clerk Melanie. I don’t reveal anything to anyone else.”


  “Not even to Ellie and Arthur?”

  “Only if it’s good news and not prejudicial to the case.”

  Grover was only just resisting the desire to grab Wharton by the throat. Wharton could see this. He nodded, as if making time to organise what he was going to say. Grover waited. Wharton made two attempts at a sentence. Grover waited a bit more. Wharton squared everything away in his head. And then the final version came out, crisp and unhelpful. Not what Grover wanted to hear.

  “I can’t tell you anything, Ed. You need to talk with Harry.”

  Wharton took a key ring out of the left hand pocket of his jacket, turned and unlocked the door of his green Austin A35 van parked at the kerb. He got in behind the wheel, closed the door and wound down the window.

  “I’m sorry, Ed.” He fired up the engine. “Talk to Harry. Try again.”

  He selected first gear and pulled away from the kerb. Grover watched until the van disappeared around the corner, then went back into the shop.

  Ellie was in the wash house, Harry was in the kitchen.

  “I’m making some more tea,” he said. “Do you want a cup?”

  “No thanks.”

  Grover looked at his watch. 5.20. He moved to the phone sitting on the sideboard, picked up the receiver and called Fincher Reade and Holborne.

  “Is Mel still there?” he asked. Waited for an answer then went on. “I’m coming in to see her.”

  He put the receiver down.

  “Tell your mother I’ve gone to the chambers,” he said to Harry.

  “Right.”

  Grover left the kitchen.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Is this good news?” Mel asked him.

  “Maybe.”

  They were in the meeting room again. The tea was Earl Grey and the biscuits were Edinburgh Shortbread. Grover went through everything that had happened since mid-morning.

  “You do get through a serious workload,” Mel said.

  “So far, to little or no effect.”

  He pushed his chair back, got to his feet and walked as far as the length of the room would allow. Then back the other way. Mel watched him, sensing his mood, waiting for the moment to interrupt.

  “Harry has to talk to us. He has to.” He stopped, took a deep breath, stretched his neck and looked up at the ceiling. “Shit.”