by J F Straker
Only when he had bathed his head in cold water and swallowed a couple of aspirins did he begin to consider why he had been attacked. Had it been a bungled attempt at murder? Surely not; since his assailant had not been disturbed he would have had all the time he needed to finish the job. Robbery was also out; his watch was still on his wrist, his wallet intact in his breast pocket. That left only intimidation. Yet how could such an assault influence the victim’s conduct if he were left in ignorance of its source? Surely some form of warning, either preliminary or coincident, was a necessity. Or was Bandy assuming that he was David’s sole enemy, and that David knew it?
His head ached abominably, the stiffness in his neck seemed to be getting worse. Deciding that he was in no condition to wrestle with what appeared to him now as an insoluble problem, that it would be better left till the morning, he began to undress. Normally this was a speedy process, with the discarded clothing flung over the back of a chair. Tonight, because each rapid movement sent pain shooting through his head, he took it more leisurely, easing his arms gently out of jacket and shirt, keeping his head up as he bent carefully to remove shoes and socks and trousers, emptying his pockets (something he normally did only when changing his suit) in a subconscious desire to delay each enforced action for as long as possible. Then, arrayed in pyjamas and dressing-gown, he went into the kitchen to heat some milk for a night-cap.
Watching the saucepan, he wondered whether he should telephone Morgan. But what could Morgan do? Without a description of his assailant, what could anyone do? The news would only increase Morgan’s suspicion that he was in possession of information denied to the police, and he had no wish to antagonize his godfather further.
He took the milk into the living-room and collected cigarettes and lighter from the small pile of articles he had taken from his pockets. Lighting his cigarette, he surveyed the pile. And it was then he realized that something was missing, and knew the reason for the assault.
They had taken Nora Winstone’s diary.
* * *
His head was still sore when he awoke the next morning, but the stiffness had gone from his neck and he felt surprisingly fresh. Obviously a cure for a hangover, he decided, although not to be recommended except in extreme circumstances.
He did not dawdle over dressing or breakfast. Lumsden’s was the only name in Nora’s diary that could immediately be connected with Rotherhithe, and Bandy would waste no time in going after him. Lumsden was elusive, but he might choose that morning to be available. David had to find him first.
He spent most of that Saturday in pubs and cafes, drinking glasses of beer and cups of tea and coffee that he did not want, and consuming a number of equally unwanted meat pies. In the intervals between eating and drinking he made frequent calls at the house in St James’s Road. But it seemed that Robert Lumsden spent no more time at home on a Saturday than he did on a working day, and David’s anxiety grew with each fruitless visit. So did the landlady’s irritation. At first she had been in an unusually friendly mood, informing him that her lodger had not returned home the previous night until well after midnight, but had been up and away again before seven that morning. By mid-afternoon it needed heavy work with the knocker to bring her to the door at all.
As the day wore on some of the urgency left him. It seemed that Bandy had not reacted with the anticipated speed, for according to the woman there had been no other callers. By six o’clock David decided he had had enough of Rotherhithe. Lumsden was probably out for the evening.
On his final visit he left a note with the landlady. The message it contained was urgent, but purposefully vague. He had cause to believe, he wrote, that Lumsden was in great personal danger, and urged the man to telephone him early the next morning. ‘It’s very important,’ he told the woman. ‘Put it on his mantel-shelf so that he will see it when he comes in.’
‘If he’s in a state to see anything,’ she said. ‘Which sometimes he ain’t of a Saturday.’
David went back to Fulham and rang Paul’s number. But Paul was out, and as an alternative he tried Susan. ‘I’m minded to take you out to dinner,’ he told her. ‘I need someone to talk to.’
‘It’s an effusive invitation, darling,’ she said. ‘But of course I accept. Am I paying?’
He grudgingly accepted responsibility for the bill. ‘But nowhere expensive, mind. This is on me, not the expense account.’
They went to the Yellow Duck, a small restaurant near Sloane Square. It had a bar; the food and service were good, the prices reasonable but not cheap. Susan was pleasantly surprised; she had not expected anything so affluent. When David called for the wine list instead of offering the usual choice between light ale and lager, she expressed her surprise vocally.
‘I changed my mind about the expense account,’ he told her. ‘I think I can work it.’
The restaurant was partitioned into alcoves, discreetly lit and with softly padded benches for seats. David had chosen a corner alcove, where provided they spoke quietly they were unlikely to be overheard. He did most of the talking. When they were together Susan was accustomed to the role of confidante, and even welcomed it. Particularly over a meal. She enjoyed her food, and it was pleasant to be able to eat and listen instead of being expected to eat and talk.
Susan chose a Dover sole after the soup, David a steak. He was not averse to talking with his mouth full, and he did so almost incessantly. But somehow with David it did not seem to matter; it was all part of his general untidiness, his immaturity. His sharp pointed teeth masticated rhythmically and fast, the words pouring out of the wide mouth; he was apparently in such a hurry that the pauses necessitated by swallowing were cut to a minimum. But as the wine took effect he became more relaxed, teeth and tongue moved more. leisurely. There were even intervals in which Susan was expected to comment, although when she did so he did not listen. He used the intervals to collect his thoughts for a fresh spate of words.
They were sipping coffee when he eventually came to a stop. It was the first time Susan had heard the whole story or the whole story as David knew it — and she was disturbed by what she heard. Nora Winstone aroused her sympathy, Bandy her abhorrence. But her main reaction was one of fear for David.
‘You mustn’t go on with it, darling,’ she protested. It’s far too dangerous.’ She was about to add that the danger was unnecessary, that the search could be continued more efficiently by the police. But prudence stopped her. She knew her David.
He was playing with his coffee-spoon. Now he waved it in a gesture of defiance and disapproval.
‘Rubbish!’ he said flatly.
‘It isn’t rubbish. They search your room, follow you around, and finally assault you. Or is that final? What happens next? I hate to think.’
‘Now you’re being melodramatic,’ he chided her. But his voice was kind. It was not unpleasant to be mistaken for a hero. ‘They knocked me out last night for the same reason as they searched my room and followed me around; they wanted information. Now they’ve got the diary they’ll probably leave me alone.’ He smiled indulgently, and rapped Susan’s knuckles gently with the spoon. ‘Stop worrying. Did Morgan take your fingerprints, by the way? He said he’d need them.’
‘Someone did. And don’t try to change the conversation. Doesn’t Mr Morgan think you ought to stop?’
‘I don’t know what he thinks. I haven’t asked him.’
She sighed. ‘I can’t understand what you’ve got against him, darling. I think he’s sweet.’
‘Not to me he isn’t. When I’m with him I just freeze up inside. He treats me as though I were still in short knickers; every time he offers me one of those dreadful acid-drops I want to scream.’ He replaced the spoon in the saucer. I must buy him some pumicestone, Susan thought, eyeing the nicotine-stained fingers — although he probably won’t use it. ‘I think he considers himself in loco parentis, though the Lord knows why he should. He doesn’t approve of me, and I still have a couple of uncles left.’
�
��He’s on the spot. They aren’t.’
‘You’re too right he’s on the spot. Right now I wish he’d get lost. Having him breathing down my neck gives me the willies.’
‘It’s Bandy who’s breathing down your neck,’ Susan reminded him. ‘Not Mr Morgan. You might be safer if he were.’ She took a final sip at her coffee and looked at her watch. ‘However, it’s your neck. Now tell me how you propose to entertain me for the rest of the evening. It’s only nine o’clock. Can’t we go somewhere and dance?’
‘Where?’
That David had not immediately vetoed the suggestion was proof to Susan that he had not properly assimilated it.
He was away off with his thoughts — in Rotherhithe, probably, she thought resentfully, remembering the smirk on his face when he had told her of Judy Garland. That was one thing about David she thoroughly disliked. He never spared her the attractions he found in other women.
‘Couldn’t we go to that club of yours? The Centipede? Put it on the expense account, if that’s what worries you. Tell Snowball you’ve been making further inquiries about the Winstones.’
Abstractedly he shook his head, twirling the thin stem of the wineglass between long, bony fingers. Then suddenly the abstraction was gone. He put down the glass, sat bolt upright, and stared at her with a glint in his eyes. Susan was good to look at; even David had admitted that, though seldom to her. Her red hair gleamed in the soft light, the simple black frock revealed the creamy whiteness of her neck and throat and the curves of her supple figure. But it was not her looks that claimed his attention now. She had given him an idea.
‘Lady, you get your wish.’ There was no room in the tiny alcove for swift movement, but he got to his feet and slithered awkwardly out into the passage. ‘Grab your coat while I pay the bill. We’re going dancing.’
‘At the Centipede?’
‘No. The Seventy-Seven.’
Susan had started to rise, her back propped against the wooden partition. Now she slid down on to the bench again, her grey-green eyes glowing at him.
‘The Seventy-Seven? Darling, isn’t that rather out of your class?’ She had been to the club with other escorts, but never with David. ‘Can Topical Truths afford such extravagance?’
‘It’ll have to.’ He grabbed her arm impatiently. There was no tenderness in his hold as he pulled her from the alcove. ‘This is a must.’
The Seventy-Seven was in Greek Street, and occupied two large basements knocked into one. The accent was on comfort, service, and discretion, and all were excellent. At one end of the long room was a bar, at the other a small stage on which a four-piece band — piano, tympani, trumpet, and guitar — played smoothly, the music sweet, the trumpet muted. The guitarist was also the singer; a West Indian, he had a pleasant tenor voice that excited neither himself nor his audience. The music, the lights, the softly padded chairs, the quiet voices of the waiters, provided an atmosphere inspiring indolence rather than energy. To Susan, a self-professed sybarite, it was pleasantly seductive and synthetically romantic; she fitted into it snugly. David, with his crumpled suit and his unruly hair and his air of impatient haste, did not. She knew he had not brought her there from choice. This was undoubtedly business.
David ordered drinks, the bill for which made him shudder. He had asked for and been given a table near the band, and he sat listening to the music and watching the musicians. The room was not crowded, and only a few couples were dancing; there was no abandon in their movements, they shuffled lethargically round with bodies fused. Susan would have liked to dance too, but she knew that David had other ideas. Maybe he would ask her later. She smiled to herself at the thought of David cutting loose among the slowly moving couples. He was a galvanic dancer, all arms and legs and sudden twists and turns.
Gazing round the room, she said, ‘There’s your friend Paul.’
David twisted in his chair to follow her gaze. Paul was at the far end of the room. He wore a dinner jacket, lapels softly rolled, a maroon cummerbund about his middle and a maroon tie at his neck. He had not seen David, and was reclining languidly in his chair, eyes half closed, his large feet thrust far under the table, a fat cigar trailing between thumb and forefinger. His companion, a tall brunette in a red sheath dress that plunged in a deep V to her waist, had her back to David. She was incredibly slim. Her hair spiralled tightly above the crown of her head, so that she looked like a finely pointed pencil.
A magnum of champagne was on the table between them.
David turned back to Susan. ‘You never told me you knew Paul.’
‘Didn’t I? Everyone knows Paul. One meets him at most parties.’
‘Not me. Perhaps I go to the wrong parties. Who’s the girl with him?’
‘Mary Halliday. You know the model.’
‘Never heard of her.’
Sipping abstractedly at his whisky, David concentrated once more on the band. They kept an even tempo with a well-defined beat, and Susan’s feet were tapping to the music. She said, ‘You’re not exactly attentive, darling. Do you always sit and gaze at the band when you take a girl out?’
He stared at her blankly. Then his mouth split in a wide grin.
‘Sorry. But this is where Winstone plays the trumpet. Didn’t I tell you?’
‘No.’ She looked at the trumpeter. ‘You said he was coloured.’
‘That isn’t Winstone, stupid. Winstone’s away for a few days — until he gets his face remodelled.’
‘Then why are we here?’
‘To ask questions. Morgan thinks he’s a fraud, I say he’s genuine. I want to know which of us is right, and I’m hoping some one in the band can tell me. That chap with the guitar is the one I have my eye on.’
The guitarist was a tall, rangy man with a narrow head and body, his hair black and woolly, his cheeks sunken. Susan thought he looked hungry, but David was less interested in his appearance than in attracting his attention. It seemed that the man’s eyeballs had only two positions; upward when he was singing, downward when he played his instrument. He took no apparent interest in the people for whom he was performing.
As the dance ended David saw Susan smiling past him, and turned. Paul was coming towards them across the floor. He took a direct course, heedless of the dancers whose progress he impeded.
‘Hello, there!’ Paul nodded to Susan and clapped David on the shoulder. ‘Didn’t know you frequented this dump, dear boy. Never seen you here before, have I?’
‘Never been here before,’ David told him.
‘That would seem to explain it.’ His tone was solemn, his thin lips mobile. As he lifted his hand to beckon the hovering waiter his feet shifted quickly to restore the balance. Susan suspected he was not entirely sober. ‘Mary and I are moving on, or I’d ask you to join us. But you’ll have a drink with me first.’
Without asking what they were drinking he nodded to the waiter. David said, ‘Is this a favourite haunt of yours?’
‘I find it more soothing than some.’
He did not sit down. They chatted for a few minutes, with Paul revealing intimate details of some of the couples as they danced past. Few, according to him, had the moral right to be together, a fact which caused him amusement rather than concern. Then, looking at his watch, he said, ‘That waiter’s damned slow. Mind drinking to absent friends? My wench will be fretting.’
Mary Halliday showed no sign of fretting when he rejoined her. She gave him the full model smile, leaning intimately towards him as he helped her up. David noticed that it was the head waiter who escorted them to the door, bowing obsequiously as he held it open. Paul completely ignored him. He saluted David, blew Susan a kiss, and sauntered out.
When the waiter arrived with champagne David grinned happily. ‘Typical Paul,’ he said. ‘The grand gesture, and ruddy generous too.’
‘Typical,’ Susan agreed. ‘I’m not so sure about the generosity. I think it’s egotism. Makes him feel important.’
‘You’ve got green eyes.’
Susan laughed. ‘Maybe I have. And it’s all second hand at that. But he’s supposed to be terribly spoilt. Comes of being an only child, I suppose.’
‘I’m an only child,’ David reminded her.
Which adds weight to the theory, thought Susan. She said lightly, ‘Maybe your parents were more sensible. Paul’s suffered from the same disadvantage as himself.’ She sipped at the champagne and gurgled in her throat. ‘Ummm! Here’s to Paul. May he go on being an egotist if this is the way it takes him.’
The champagne inspired David to abandon the subtle method of approach for direct action. As the band finished a number and laid down their instruments he stood up and walked the few paces to where the guitarist sat. The man’s eyes were shut; presumably this was the third position — the non-playing, non-singing position.
‘May I have a word with you?’ David asked.
The man’s eyes opened lazily; they were large and rather pink. ‘Go right ahead, man,’ he drawled. ‘Ah’m listenin’.’
The eyes were closing again as David said quickly, ‘It’s about George Winstone.’
The dark lids checked and shot up, the long, drooping body suddenly tightened. But the voice was still lazy as he said, ‘How’s about him?’
‘Doesn’t he usually play the trumpet here?’ The man nodded. ‘Why isn’t he here tonight?’
‘He’s sick.’
‘How sick?’ The man did not answer. ‘Did you know his wife is in trouble?’
For a brief moment the man regarded him. Then his gaze shifted, to rove round the room. There was movement among his fellow musicians, and he said, ‘Ah’ll come to yo’ table after the next number.’
Adding, as an afterthought, ‘Whisky sour.’
David ordered a double whisky sour and poured more champagne for himself and Susan. He was in a hopeful mood. The seed had been sown, and it seemed that the fruit might ripen. The guitarist had acknowledged Winstone as a member of the band, had not denied that Winstone was married or that his wife was in trouble. At least that part of Winstone’s story was not a lie.