Final Witness

by J F Straker

  He turned to look at his editor. Snowball was still poring over the diary, had been poring over it for the past ten minutes, making numerous notes on a memo pad. He was a skinny, wizened little man, with long, bony fingers and a mop of dirty white hair. It was the hair that had earned him his nickname; thick and unruly as David’s, but cut to form an enormous puff-ball that dwarfed the wrinkled face beneath. Like David, he was indifferent to his appearance. He sat now in his shirt-sleeves, tie loose and collar unbuttoned, frayed braces precariously supporting his trousers by one button only at two out of the three points of suspension. As usual, his bifocals were nearer the tip of his nose than the bridge.

  ‘Getting anywhere?’ David asked. ‘Personally, I’d say it’s a wash-out. What ought I to do? Hand the damned thing over to Morgan, or keep it and pretend it never happened?’

  Snowball sucked hard on his pipe; it had gone out, and he placed it on the desk beside him. The office stank of the strong tobacco he always smoked.

  Without looking up from the diary he said, ‘You don’t need me to tell you what you ought to do. Whether you’ll do it is another matter. What was the name of that darky?’

  He had a harsh, rasping voice, surprisingly strong for such a little man. David said, ‘I don’t know. Nora called him George. Why?’

  Snowball ignored the query. ‘A list of addresses and telephone numbers as long as your arm, and all of ‘em male. Is she that kind of a woman?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. We didn’t get that far.’

  ‘H’m! Well, George doesn’t get a mention. There’s no William either. So who’s this Bill she refers to? He’s the boy we want.’

  David shook his head. ‘Search me. But I agree he’s important. He was important to Nora too; so important that she wouldn’t trust his safety to her memory.’

  ‘Then why isn’t his address in the book, along with the others?’

  ‘Because it was too familiar to be forgotten, I imagine.’

  Snowball grunted. ‘Could be. Or maybe it’s here and we haven’t recognized it. Well, whoever he is — husband, boyfriend, brother — we have to find him. That sticks out a mile.’

  David eyed him with disfavour. It would help, he thought, if he could learn to like the little man. But he found that difficult.

  ‘How do you propose we do that?’

  ‘Look for him, of course. There’s this list of names in the diary; I’ll put young Oliver on to that. Routine stuff. He can’t mess it up, though he’ll do his damnedest, bless him!’

  ‘And me?’

  Snowball took up his pipe and lit it, releasing a pungent cloud of smoke. He said, between puffs, ‘There’s a Robert Lumsden on this list. Only name in the Rotherhithe area. He’s yours.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  The editor scratched his head. He was always scratching it. David suspected that he never washed his hair, that it was alive with fleas. Sometimes he fancied he could even see it move.

  ‘That mysterious young couple Morgan mentioned. The Winstone woman must have known them; why else would she be spying on them so far from home? Her home, I mean; the couple are more likely to be locals. And if Robert Lumsden is a pal of hers he may be a pal of theirs. Find out.’

  Just like that, thought David. Find out! Without concealing his annoyance, he said sharply, ‘And where does that get us?’

  ‘Oh, be your age, David! Your friend Morgan’s no fool. I doubt if this Bandy creature is either, or he’d be in the can by now. Both will be looking for the missing witnesses, though with different ends in view. Well, you find them first. At least you have some sort of a lead, damn it!’

  In David’s opinion a list of addresses and a man’s Christian name was not much of a lead. He had hoped to find in the diary sufficient juicy material for a typical Topical Truths story which, suitably embellished, could be published as soon as Morgan gave the word. He had been prepared also, if Snowball thought it advisable, to follow up any direct leads which the diary might give. He had not contemplated a wild-goose chase round Rotherhithe such as his editor now proposed.

  ‘What about the diary?’ he asked.

  The editor picked it up, tapped it thoughtfully on the palm of his hand, and pushed it across the desk.

  ‘Hang on to it until we know where we’re going. After that...’ He shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘Suit yourself, my boy. It’s your neck that’ll get wrung, not mine.’

  ‘Thanks,’ David said bitterly. ‘Any more helpful advice?’

  Snowball stood up. His legs were short in proportion to his torso, so that he looked even shorter standing than sitting.

  ‘Yes. If Lumsden’s a wash-out you might try a house-to-house investigation.’ David started to protest, but Snowball cut him short, flapping his long, bony hands, the nails of which were packed with grime. Not the whole district, you fool. Just the vicinity immediate to the crime.’ A large goitre disfigured his neck, and he had a habit of pressing it with his fingers when deep in thought. He pressed it now. ‘T.V., huh? They’ve all got ‘em these days. If you come up against someone who hasn’t, switch to radio.’

  ‘T.V.?’ David frowned. ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘Programme investigator. For the under-thirties, say; that should include anyone who could reasonably be described as young. When did that cop get himself shot? Saturday? Then ask what programme they watched Saturday night. But it’s the ones who didn’t watch that matter. Find out what outside attraction took them away from the set. And get their names. Don’t forget you’re looking for a youth whose Christian name is Bill or William.’

  You had to hand it to Snowball, David thought, with grudging admiration; a scoundrel, but a knowing scoundrel. The old boy’s assumption that Bill was the male half of the missing couple was sound; and although Bill himself might not live in Rotherhithe, his girl almost certainly did. David wondered how Morgan and the gunman would set about looking for them.

  ‘It’s a common enough name,’ he said. ‘What do you suggest I do with him if I find him? Tell him what has happened to Nora, try to get his co-operation? Or do I hand him over to Morgan?’

  ‘If he reads the papers he’ll know what’s happened to Nora. It won’t cheer him any if you tell him why — if he doesn’t already know, that is. He’ll realize this Bandy means business; and if he was scared of offering himself as a witness before he’ll be even more scared now. No, I don’t think I should mention the Winstone woman. And forget the police. For the present, anyway.’

  David was puzzled. He had assumed that the object of the exercise was to find the missing couple, warn them and get their story, and then hand them over to Morgan with the compliments of Topical Truths. That would be something of a coup, the biggest they had had since Shere Island. What was Snowball up to? What was at the back of that sneaky mind of his?

  ‘I’m just playing canny,’ Snowball told him, grinning. There was little mirth in the grin. His teeth were brown except where the gaps showed, and the gaps were plentiful. He was always about to have the remainder of his teeth extracted and dentures fitted, but so far he had never got around to it. ‘Morgan can’t use witnesses until he has a suspect.’

  ‘He most certainly can. He needs a description of this Bandy creature. Nora couldn’t provide that.’

  ‘All right. We’ll get the description and pass it on.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘There are ways,’ Snowball said enigmatically. ‘You let me worry about that. But hand that couple over now, and Morgan will just sit on them — weeks, maybe months. Produce them at the crucial moment, and you’ve got drama. And it’s drama that makes news.’ The grin faded. ‘Now get busy and find them.’

  ‘And sit on them myself? What happens if the thugs catch up with us? It could be unpleasant.’

  ‘I’ll take care of that. Your job is to find them.’ The telephone rang, and he grabbed at the receiver and rasped an acknowledgment. Then he handed it to David. ‘For you.’

  The caller was Brenn-Taylor.
David was both surprised and flattered. He had not really expected Brenn-Taylor to contact him, and certainly not so soon; they had had little in common at school, and were unlikely to have much in common now. Perhaps it was another instance of distance lending enchantment to the view.

  ‘Elsie gave me your message,’ Brenn-Taylor said. He had a silky, languid voice with the merest suspicion of a lisp. ‘Nice to know you’re still around. We must have a bite together some day. Do you working lads get time off for lunch, or is it pie and beer at the local?’

  Normally it was pie and beer. But, as Snowball had intimated, David would be unlikely to get results in Rotherhithe until after working hours. For once he had leisure to spare.

  ‘I could manage lunch to-day,’ he said. ‘Are you free?’

  Yes, Brenn-Taylor said, he was free. ‘Meet you in Kettner’s around twelve-thirty. Pink gin or sherry? I’ll have them lined up.’

  David chose the gin, and hung up. Snowball was drumming impatiently on the desk. The dancing fingers, knucklebones triumphant, touched the diary and seized on it.

  ‘Hang on to that,’ Snowball said, handing it to him. ‘What Morgan doesn’t know can’t hurt him.’ He scratched energetically at his hair, so that the mop seemed suddenly alive. ‘Can’t hurt you either, eh?’

  * * *

  It was strange, thought David, how little some people changed. He had not seen Paul Brenn-Taylor for ten years, yet he recognized him immediately. The dark, wavy hair, already greying at the temples, was more carefully trimmed and brushed, his teeth were more yellow, he had filled out and was perhaps an inch or two taller; otherwise, apart from the missing left arm, he was much the same. Brenn-Taylor had always been a neat dresser, he remembered; now, with the money to indulge his tastes, he looked immaculate. He was not a handsome man. His brown eyes were slightly asymmetrical, his large, transparent ears projected almost at right angles from his head, his lower lip protruded aggressively. Broad but round-shouldered, his thin legs accentuated by the narrow trousers, he would have looked top-heavy had not the large feet restored the balance.

  ‘Nice to see you, dear boy,’ he said, in the affected drawl David remembered so well. At school David had been wary of that drawl; it could sharpen without warning into incisive abuse or vituperation. He remembered, too, the way Brenn-Taylor had of peering at the person he was addressing, as though he were short-sighted —which he was not. ‘A little late, aren’t you? I took the liberty of ordering lunch; hope you don’t mind. We’ll down these and eat.’

  That too, thought David with some resentment, was typical of Brenn-Taylor as he had known him. But he did not protest. Instinctively he was again the fifth-former, acknowledging the inalienable right of the prefect to give orders. As the lunch progressed the relationship softened; rapport came with the wine. Yet even the wine could not entirely dispel David’s feeling of subordinancy. It was uncommon to him, and he fought against it. But it was still there at the end.

  The lunch was excellent — glazed paupiettes of sole, roast duck with orange salad, bananas au rhum, a ripe stilton. They drank Chablis with the sole, a fine Clos de Vougeot with the duck, cognac with their coffee. It was Brenn-Taylor who at first did most of the talking. He had travelled extensively, knew a number of celebrities, and possessed a fund of good stories. Listening to him, David grew increasingly envious. ‘What do you use for money?’ he asked eventually, as the anecdotes piled up.

  ‘Just money. An aunt in the States left me her all when she died, dear soul. I belong to what are vulgarly known as the idle rich. More idle than rich, perhaps but I get by.’

  ‘Lucky devil.’

  Brenn-Taylor glanced down at the empty sleeve. ‘I could be luckier.’

  It was the first reference either man had made to his injury. Encouraged by the Burgundy, David said, ‘I’m sorry about that, Paul.’ That made another first; they had not used Christian names before. ‘Skip it if you like, but — well, how did it happen?’

  Paul shrugged. ‘The usual. A damned drunk losing control of his car.’ He lifted his glass to gaze reflectively at the light through the rich redness of the wine. ‘I’m resigned to it now, but it took some getting used to. Put paid to a lot of youthful dreams.’ He sipped at the wine. The drawl was back in his voice as he said, ‘Tell me about yourself, dear boy. Elsie tells me you’re mixed up in crime. How come?’

  David told him, careful to say no more than Paul might have learned from Elsie or the newspapers. That, he reflected sadly, was little enough. There was only the diary. Although the Press had not connected Nora Winstone’s disappearance with the murder of Constable Dyerson, Elsie undoubtedly had.

  So had Paul. Listening to David, he had only toyed with the bananas au rhum. Now, when the waiter had removed his plate, he said, ‘A pity Elsie’s so garrulous. It’s done her friend a power of no good.’

  With that David agreed. ‘How well do you know the regulars at the Crocodile?’ he asked.

  ‘You might say we’re on excellent drinking terms. Respectable types, most of them. I’d be surprised if they included this Bandit fellow.’

  ‘Bandy, not Bandit. Though Bandit would be more appropriate. I presume he’s called Bandy because —’ David’s hand, its nicotine-stained fingers conspicuous against the white tablecloth, paused half-way to his glass. ‘Hey, Paul! There wouldn’t be a bandy-legged coot among them, would there?’

  ‘Not as I’ve noticed, dear boy. But then I’ve never actually studied their pins.’ His lips parted in a wry smile. ‘You’re sitting pretty, aren’t you? Find the missing witnesses, take them along to the Croc, and let them unmask the criminal. They know him, he doesn’t know them. It’s a cinch, dear boy.’

  David echoed the smile. ‘Always provided Bandy happens to be among those present.’

  Yet it was a new and fascinating prospect, and during the silence necessitated by the presence of the coffee waiter he savoured it. Not only to find the missing couple, but to expose the gunman as well — that would indeed be a feather in his cap. The gloom that had descended on him in Snowball’s office had been lightened by the excellent lunch. Now he was even enthusiastic.

  There was just one snag. He first had to find his witnesses.

  ‘And that, dear boy, will be like looking for needles in a haystack,’ was Paul’s comment. He lit an enormous cigar, taking pains to ensure that it was evenly alight. ‘I wish you luck. Another brandy?’

  ‘Thanks.’ At the start of the meal David, while appreciating Paul’s choice of food and wine, had pondered uneasily on the cost. Now he no longer cared. ‘But at least this Bandy creature will be faced with the same problem. Unless Nora Winstone has given him a lead.’

  ‘I doubt if he’ll even bother to try,’ Paul said. The lisp was more pronounced now; David suspected the brandy. ‘Why should he? Witnesses aren’t dangerous unless they’re prepared to come forward and testify. Apparently these two are not.’

  ‘But they won’t be allowed to remain in obscurity. Not if the police can help it. And not if I can help it — although they don’t know about me, of course.’ David sipped appreciatively at the cognac. He was not certain where the change had occurred, but now it was he who had taken charge of the conversation. Realization of the switch gave him a childish feeling of pleasure. ‘To my mind he just has to find them. And I shudder to think what will happen to them when he does.’

  ‘Then don’t think, dear boy.’ Paul finished his coffee and replaced the cup with an air of finality. ‘Mind if I rush off? I have a date with an angel who objects to being kept waiting.’

  ‘Don’t they all?’

  ‘Yes.’ He beckoned to the waiter. ‘How about you? Off to Rotherhithe on your quest?’

  ‘Not directly. A short kip back at the flat wouldn’t come amiss.’ David waved a hand over the table, narrowly missing the bowl of flowers. ‘I’m not used to so much hoggery midday. And they’ll all be out at this hour. Down there they work.’

  Paul insisted on paying for the lunch. As t
hey parted at the entrance he said, with more earnestness than he had so far shown, ‘I envy you, David. It must be pleasant to have a purpose. Count me in if you need an assistant at any time. And I mean that.’

  Surprised, David felt that he did.

  He did not return to the flat. Instead he went to a cinema where, between snatches of uneasy slumber, he watched the screen and reflected on Paul Brenn-Taylor. At school a difference in age and position had prevented friendship between them. Paul had clearly enjoyed his authority; scorning popularity, he had run the House with what David and his friends had considered to be unduly harsh efficiency. They had disliked and feared him. Yet today, ten years later, the two of them had lunched together like old friends. More surprising still, Paul, who to David had seemed to have everything that can make life agreeable, had professed envy of him, David.

  To David it was incomprehensible.

  It was half-past six when he left the bus in Jamaica Road, and walked down St James’s Road to the address written in Nora Winstone’s diary. But Robert Lumsden was out, and the woman who opened the door to him could not or would not say when he would be home. She was a stiff, uncommunicative creature; David’s discreet probing discovered nothing more of her lodger than that he occupied a ground-floor room and was often away. When he inquired about Lumsden’s job she took fright and shut the door on him.