by J F Straker
‘But she visits you,’ David objected. ‘You said so just now.’
‘She comes when he’s out. He works nights, you see.’ Mrs Einsdorp shook her head. ‘I think he knows. But he won’t see her, not even after all these years. To him it’s just like she’s dead. Nora says she don’t want to see him neither. She’s hard, same as her Dad. Yet it seems like she’s fond of him; always asks how he is.’ She sighed. ‘Well, blood’s thicker’n water, they say.’
He nodded impatiently. ‘And the baby? Mina?’
It was Mrs Einsdorp who had persuaded her husband to adopt the baby. It was not the child who had sinned, she had pointed out; Nora could not look after it herself if she had to earn a living, and the only other solution would be to put the child in a home. Was he prepared to let that happen?
Mr Einsdorp was not. After considerable argument he had agreed to adopt the child, but only on the understanding that she was to be brought up as their own daughter, and that Nora should have no say in the upbringing. He had even insisted on choosing the baby’s name.
David had wondered why Nora should have chosen to refer to the girl as Bill instead of adopting the diminutive by which she was generally known. Here, perhaps, was the explanation. It was an expression of rebellion against her father’s dictatorial attitude.
‘You mean Mina doesn’t know Nora is her mother?’ he asked, aghast.
‘She calls her Auntie,’ she said simply. ‘I’m her mother.’ Her tired eyes rounded. ‘You said you was a reporter, didn’t you? You won’t go putting all this in the papers? Dad wouldn’t never forgive me.’
‘We won’t print a word without your permission,’ he assured her. And meant it. ‘You may not realize it, Mrs Einsdorp, but you and your family are badly in need of help. That’s why I’m here — to help you. However, we’ll go into that later. When did you move to Rotherhithe?’
‘Soon after Mina was born. That was Dad’s idea. He didn’t want the neighbours to know, you see.’
David did see. ‘And that unfortunate affliction — the impediment in her speech, the twitching in her face? Has she had that from birth?’
‘Oh, no, sir. She was a lovely little thing. That come after the accident.’
The accident had occurred when Mina was fifteen, and was working in a local factory. The building was old, and much of the woodwork rotten. A board had given way as she was coming down a flight of stairs, and she had tripped and fallen, injuring her spine. ‘In hospital for months, she was,’ the woman said, with a deep sigh. ‘Months. And when she come out...’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘It’s her nerves, you see. She won’t never get any better, the doctor says.’
David expressed his sympathy. ‘It sounds like negligence on the part of her employers. Did she get compensation?’
‘The judge give her seven thousand pounds.’ She mentioned the sum as if it were of no interest, as insignificant as a few pence. ‘But she weren’t allowed to spend it. She has the interest, of course, but she don’t get the rest till she’s twenty-one.’
She’s twenty-one now, thought David. Had the old woman forgotten?
Seven thousand pounds. A man could go far with money like that. Had the same thought occurred to Robert Lumsden? Had seven thousand pounds blinded him to Mina’s impediment and the ugly twitches in her face, sparking an interest which was purely mercenary on his part, however romantic on hers?
He said, ‘It’s a tidy sum. Money can’t compensate for injuries like hers, of course, but it must help. How did your daughter take it? Nora, I mean.’
‘She was proper upset about the accident. Down at the hospital ‘most every day, she was. Mina means a lot to Nora. But she was pleased about the compensation. She always wanted Mina to have the best; most weeks she’d send money for me to spend on her. I had to hide it from Dad, or he’d have made me send it back.’
David could believe that. Nora Winstone might have an unorthodox code of morals but he suspected she also had a form of honesty and sincerity. As for the Calvinistic Mr Einsdorp...
‘What time does your husband go to work, Mrs Einsdorp? I suppose right now he’s asleep upstairs?’
She sat up straighter, her eyes rounding. She had the most expressive eyes he had seen in an old woman.
‘Of course he ain’t,’ she said, staring, her fingers twisting and kneading in her lap. ‘He’s in hospital. I thought that was what you come about.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘His head’s broke.’ The fingers were suddenly still, there was a sharpness in the quiet voice that had not been there before. ‘Some young thugs done it. They broke into his warehouse Saturday before last it was —and beat him up. Come on him from behind — never give him a chanst, he said.’ As an afterthought she added, ‘They killed a policeman. It was in the papers.’
David was too startled for immediate comment. Morgan had told him of the night watchman, but he had never given the man another thought. Was there a connexion here, or was it just coincidence that Einsdorp should have been injured in a raid witnessed both by his daughter and his granddaughter? At least it explained the anger that Morgan had sensed in Nora. It had been generated not so much by the murder of Constable Dyerson as by the assault on her father.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated mechanically. ‘He’s getting better, I hope.’
‘That’s what they tell me at the hospital. I hope they’re right.’
With something of pride she detailed the injuries her husband had suffered. David was not particularly interested, but by the time she had finished he had recovered his wits once more. He said, ‘I’m sure they are. And it’s about the warehouse job that I’m here, Mrs Einsdorp. Your daughter Nora came down to visit you that evening, didn’t she?’
Yes, she said, Nora had been down. But she never gave previous notice of her visits, and Mina had been at the cinema. It was after midnight when the girl returned, and by that time Nora had left. ‘I never did find out what made her so late,’ Mrs Einsdorp said, frowning. ‘The police come about Dad, you see. They took me to the hospital. And when I come back — well, I was that worried I never thought to ask.’
‘Was she upset when she came in?’
She thought for a while, her eyes closed in concentration.
‘I can’t remember.’ As the implication of his question occurred to her she opened her eyes wide. ‘Why should she be upset? We didn’t know about Dad till the police come.’
He told her then. Quietly and unemotionally, softening the highlights as much as he could to ease the pain he must cause her, he told her how her granddaughter had been with a man in Rotherhithe Street that night, how Nora had watched the couple from the shadows, and how all three must have witnessed the murder of the policeman. He told her how Nora had gone to the police, and how, as the result of her action, she had been kidnapped and was being held by the gunman; and he tried to explain, without being too melodramatic, the danger that threatened Mina. But he did not mention Winstone, nor Robert Lumsden by name. Nora’s marriage was her own affair; if she chose to keep it secret from her parents it was not for him to reveal it. As for Lumsden well, Lumsden’s association with the girl still had to be confirmed, however sure of it he might be in his own mind. Perhaps the confirmation would come now, from the woman.
Apart from an occasional exclamation of pain or alarm or momentary disbelief she listened to him in silence; her tiny body seemed to shrink as she leaned farther and farther forward from the edge of the chair, her head performing in a series of little shakes as though she were a bird with a freshly caught worm in its beak. Her fingers played nervously with the apron, screwing it round and round and then releasing it. And all the time her eyes seemed to grow larger, eventually to fill with tears.
‘But why didn’t Mina tell me?’ she wailed between sobs. ‘And she didn’t. Not a word. Not even when the police come about Dad. And Nora...’ She sobbed louder. ‘What will happen to her, sir? What’ll they do to the poor girl
?’
‘Nothing, I hope.’ He tried to sound cheerfully optimistic. ‘They will probably hold her until the hunt has died down and they can clear out of the country. Then they’ll let her go.’ He went over and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. He had little experience of coping with tears of grief. It’s worrying for you, I know, but you mustn’t lose heart. What we have to do now is to ensure they don’t get hold of Mina and Lumsden as well. That’s the best guarantee of Nora’s safety.’ He paused, aware that he had spoken Lumsden’s name and that she had accepted it without comment. ‘You know Robert Lumsden?’ he asked.
She nodded her bowed head. Content, David went back to his chair and waited, allowing her time to recover.
Presently she dabbed at her eyes with the apron and sat up.
‘They been going steady best part of a year,’ she told him in a watery voice. ‘Dad don’t like him; he thinks he’s after her money, you see. So does Nora. But I don’t know; he’s a good-looking boy, and ever so polite.’ She dabbed again at her eyes, ending with a hearty sniff. ‘Mina’s ever so in love. He’s the only boy she’s had, you see, since the accident, and it meant a lot to her. He took her to the pictures every Wednesday, regular as clockwork.’ Mrs Einsdorp heaved a deep sigh. ‘Well, it’s done now. I just hope she’ll be happy, that’s all.’
David was not sure what it was that was ‘done.’ He presumed the woman was referring to the fact that Lumsden and the girl had gone away together, and he said, ‘You told me she had left a note for you, Mrs Einsdorp. May I see it? It may give some indication of where to look for them.’
She stood up, her body bent at first and straightening slowly. ‘It’s in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘I’ll get it.’
She was, he thought, the most docile creature he had ever interviewed. She had accepted and answered his questions almost without comment, had never queried his right to put them. Did he have a right? he wondered. Perhaps not. But at least he was there to help her. That he was also helping himself was immaterial.
When she shuffled back into the room she was wearing spectacles. ‘It don’t say where they went,’ she said, handing him the note. ‘But read it if you like.’
He did like. He was a better judge than the woman, he thought, of the value of any information it might contain.
‘Dear Mum,’ he read. ‘This is just to tell you that Robert and me have gone away together. We were married last Monday, but we kept it a secret because we thought Dad might try to stop us. Now we’re off on our honeymoon. Robert says not to tell you where we’re going, so I won’t. But I’ll write to you soon. And not to worry, dear. I know Dad doesn’t think Robert is right for me, but he doesn’t know him as I do. I love him, and I’m ever so happy. Your loving daughter, Mina. P.S. I hope Dad is heaps better. Tell him not to be mad at me, and give him my love.’
Marriage. He had not expected that, although it was certainly logical. How else could Lumsden gain control of the girl’s money? David read the note again, looking for something that was not there. Mina wrote only of a honeymoon; there was no mention of what David had supposed to be the true reason for her flight. Was she then unaware of the danger that threatened her and her husband, or was the omission intentional, made to spare her supposed parents further grief?
Well, marriage did not alter the situation as it concerned him. The couple still had to be found.
‘Quite a surprise, eh? I hope they’ll be very happy.’ He handed back the note with a friendly smile. ‘I should do as she says, Mrs Einsdorp, and try not to worry. Mina will be all right; she has a husband to look after her now. I see she promises to write. When she does you must let me know at once. And remember to keep the envelope. She may not give her address, but the postmark would help us to trace her.’
He tore a page from his notebook and wrote down his telephone number. She looked at it doubtfully.
‘I don’t know as that’s right,’ she protested. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to tell the police? I mean, they’d look after her, wouldn’t they? They’d see as she didn’t come to no harm.’
It was the first time she had sought to deny him. Surprised, he could summon up no valid argument with which to refute her.
‘We’d look after her too, Mrs Einsdorp,’ he said weakly. ‘A newspaper is a powerful instrument.’ That would tickle Snowball’s fancy, he thought, and wondered what possible power could be wielded by Topical Truths under such circumstances. ‘Naturally we would inform the police as soon as we found her.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said again. Mrs Einsdorp could be stubborn. Turning the paper over and over between her fingers, she said, ‘I’ll ask Dad. He’ll know what’s best. I’ll do like he says.’
From that decision he could not budge her.
* * *
Snowball lived in a small semi-detached house in Beckenham. Perched on a step-ladder, he was busily clipping the front hedge when David drove up in the Alvis. From the road only his head was visible, a great white puff-ball balanced on top of the yew. Then the puff-ball vanished, to reappear at the front gate.
‘Is this possible?’ he demanded, as David approached. His spectacles glinted in the afternoon sunlight, so that in place of eyes there were two white caverns. ‘Is an employee of mine actually working on a Sunday?’ He held the gate wide. ‘Come in, come in. Now you’re here you can mow the lawn.’
From anyone else David would have accepted this threat as a feeble attempt at humour. But not from Snowball. Snowball might well expect him to do just that. He said quickly, ‘Something has cropped up which won’t keep till to-morrow. The lawn will.’
‘That so?’ Snowball removed his spectacles and plucked reflectively at the goitre. ‘Well, I suppose I’ll have to listen.’
They sat in deck-chairs on the back lawn, and David told him of his visit to Rotherhithe, becoming unhappily aware that in the telling the tale seemed to lose much of its importance and urgency.
Snowball thought so too. He said tartly, ‘Very dramatic, David. But if you don’t know where the couple are, then all we can do is wait until the girl writes to Grannie. So where’s the urgency?’
David had no answer to that, though he had racked his brains for one throughout the journey down to Beckenham. The urgency was there, but he lacked the inspiration to cope with it. He had hoped that his editor might be more successful.
‘It’s useless to wait,’ he said. ‘When the letter arrives the old woman will go straight to the police. That’s for sure.’
Snowball clucked impatiently.
‘Sit on her doorstep, waylay the postman. Be there when the letter arrives. A twice-daily vigil won’t hurt you. Or do you suggest we advertise for them?’ He levered himself out of the deck-chair. ‘I’m going indoors to make a pot of tea. You sit there and soak up some sun. It may bring you inspiration.’
David lay back and closed his eyes. From the kitchen came the rattle of crockery; to have the old man waiting on him was a unique experience, and he intended to enjoy it. Pleasant, too, to relax in the sun. There was no garden at the flat, but here in this quiet suburban road it was almost like being on holiday. It reminded him of his uncle’s pub down in Cornwall. There was the same small garden at the back, with a lawn and flower-beds and masses of rose-trees (odd that old Snowball should be a gardener), and a gravel path winding down to a green-painted shed with a tarred roof. The view was different, of course. Here there were only trees and the roofs of houses. Whereas at Pendwara...
He struggled awkwardly out of the chair, almost knocking the tea-tray from Snowball’s hands. But he did not stop to apologize. He said excitedly, ‘I’ve got it! I know where they’ve gone! Cornwall. Lumsden’s aunt runs a camp near Mullion. It’s the ideal spot for a bolt-hole. For a honeymoon too, come to that.’
The editor unfolded the legs of the tray and placed it carefully on the lawn.
‘And you’re thinking that a trip to the coast would make a pleasant break, eh?
‘All right. But watch your step, young
man. Overdo the junketing, and I’m knocking it off your annual holiday. Now, then — do you take milk and sugar?’
11
To David Wight, packing was a comprehensive term. It included a final cleaning, polishing, refuelling, and checking of the Alvis, a cursory tidying of the flat, writing notes to whom it might concern, a telephone call or two and, finally, the jamming of a few necessary articles into a suitcase. This last occupied the least time of all.
Dusk was falling as he completed the first stage and carefully replaced the cover on the Alvis. As he snapped the penultimate fastener into place a voice behind him said quietly, ‘Any news, man?’
David jumped and turned quickly. He had been so engrossed in his task that he had not heard Winstone approach. He said irritably, ‘If you creep up on a chap like that you’re liable to get hurt. News? Yes, of a sort. But I don’t know that it concerns you.’
He turned to fix the last fastener.
Winstone said, ‘I’m aiming to come before this, but things getting tricky. I got to be careful. Reckon I’m being watched.’
David grunted. ‘You’ve got company, chum. It’s almost traditional.’ Then, realizing the implication, he glanced quickly up and down the darkening street. There were a few people about, but no loiterers, no suspicious-looking characters. ‘Did you manage to give him the slip?’
‘I guess so. Little guy in a grey suit and brown shoes. I seen him two — three times today. Seems like he always going my way.’
‘Mine favoured brown shoes and a blue raincoat,’ David said. ‘I wouldn’t know about his suit.’ He walked round the Alois, making sure the fasteners were secure. The street seemed to have emptied, the darkness was more opaque. He said, ‘Better come inside. It may not be healthy out here.’
Obediently Winstone followed him into the flat. He no longer sported the light-blue suit and the pointed shoes of Thursday evening; they had been replaced by a black sweater, polo-necked and baggy, over narrow jeans, with rope-soled sandals on his feet. The injuries to his face were less conspicuous. Heavy scabs had formed on lip and cheek. His mouth still looked twisted, but his right eye was now open and the dark skin camouflaged much of the discoloration that remained.