City of Spades

by Colin MacInnes

  ‘Just underneath us, I expect.’

  ‘So we won’t see him.’

  ‘We will when he’s giving evidence,’ said Theodora. ‘That’s the witness-box there on the right.’

  ‘Box is the word for it. It looks like an upended coffin.’

  Mr Wesley Vial met Mr Archie Gillespie in the lawyers’ lavatory. ‘I do hope, Wesley,’ the Crown counsel said, ‘your man’s English will be comprehensible. I take it you’ll be putting him in the box?’

  ‘Time alone will show, Archie. But if you want any evidence taken in the vernacular, we can always put in for an interpreter and prolong matters to your heart’s content.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Gillespie. ‘Crown counsel don’t draw your huge refreshers.’ He dried his hands. ‘Who’s the judge?’

  ‘Old Haemorrhoids.’

  ‘My God. It would be.’

  The lawyers looked at each other resignedly. There was a distant shout, and they adjusted their wigs like actors who’ve heard the call-boy summon them to the stage.

  Johnny Fortune had been brought up from Brixton to the court in one of those police vans where the prisoners half sit in metal boxes, hardly larger than themselves. They’d arrived more than an hour before the case began, and the court jailer, after searching him yet again, said, ‘Well, we won’t put you in the cells unless you really want to go there. If I leave you in the room here, will you behave yourself?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You want some cigarettes?’

  ‘They not let me take any of my money.’

  ‘Oh, pay me when you’re acquitted!’ said the jailer with a hearty laugh, and gave Johnny Fortune a half-filled pack of Woodbines and a cup of purple tea. ‘I see you’ve got Vial,’ he went on. ‘That’ll cost you a bit, won’t it? Or should I say’ – the jailer laughed roguishly – ‘cost your little lady and her customers?’

  Johnny stood up. ‘Mister, put me in your cells. I do not wish your tea or want your Woodbine.’

  ‘No offence, lad, don’t be so touchy. I know you all have to say you’re innocent – I get used to it here. Come on, keep them – you’ve got an hour to wait.’ The jailer patted his prisoner on the shoulder, and went over to gossip with a lean, powdered female constable in civilian dress, who, as they talked, looked over the jailer’s shoulder at the folds in Johnny Fortune’s trousers.

  Everyone stood, and the judge came in wearing a wig not of the Gilbert and Sullivan variety, but a short one, slightly askew, that made him look like Dr Johnson’s younger brother. The jury was new, and the case their first, so they had to be sworn in by the usher. Two of them were women: a WVS housewifely person, and the other with a beret and a tailored suit whose nature it was impossible to guess at. A male juror turned out, when he swore, to be called ‘Ramsay Macdonald’, on hearing which Mr Vial made a slight histrionic gesture of impressed surprise to Mr Gillespie, who ignored him.

  One of the two policemen in the dock nudged Johnny, and he stood. The clerk, a quite young man with a pink, pale face, read out the charge in a voice like an Old Vic juvenile’s; and when he asked Johnny how he pleaded, looked up at him, across the court, with a pleading expression on his own wan face.

  ‘I plead not guilty.’

  Mr Zuss-Amor, flanking his advocate, twitched his shoulders slightly. You never could tell with defendants: he’d even known them get the plea wrong at the outset.

  Mr Archie Gillespie’s opening statement of the case for the Queen against the prisoner was as methodical as one would expect from a Scottish lawyer of vast experience and entire integrity. He had the great psychological advantages of believing the facts in the brief that he’d been given, or most of them, and of being quite dispassionate in his advocacy. He had no feeling of animosity towards the prisoner whatever, and this made him all the more deadly.

  He began by explaining to the jury what living on the immoral earnings of a common prostitute consisted of. It was a distasteful subject, and a painful duty for the members of the jury to have to hear about it. But they were, he did not doubt, men and women of ripe experience, to whom he could speak quite frankly. Very well, then. As everyone knew, there were, unfortunately, such women as common prostitutes – selling their bodies for gain (Mr Gillespie paused, and gazed at a female juror, who licked her lips) – in our society; women whose odious commerce was – subject to certain important restrictions – not actually illegal, however reprehensible on moral grounds. But what was illegal – and highly so, and he would say more, revolting and abhorrent – was the practice of certain men – if one could call them men – of battening on these wretched creatures, and living on the wages of their sin; and even, in a great many cases – though he would not necessarily say it was so in the present instance – even of forcing them out on to the streets against their wills. It was not for nothing, said Mr Gillespie, removing his spectacles a moment, that such men, in the speech of a more robust age, had been known as ‘bullies’.

  The judge manifested a slight impatience, and Mr Gillespie took the hint. He explained to the jury that two police officers would tell them how observation had been kept on one Dorothea Violet Macpherson, a known and convicted common prostitute, who had been seen, on several nights in succession, to accost men in Hyde Park, receive sums of money from them, entice them into the undergrowth, and there have carnal knowledge of them. These officers would further tell the members of the jury how the said Dorothea Violet Macpherson was subsequently followed to an address in Immigration Road, Whitechapel, where she lived in two rooms with the accused. (Here Mr Gillespie paused, and spoke more slowly.) These officers would then tell how, on a number of occasions when observation was kept on the accused and on the said Dorothea Violet Macpherson, she was seen to hand over to him large sums of money that had come into her possession through her immoral commerce in the purlieus of Hyde Park.

  The Crown counsel now glanced at Mr Vial, who sat looking into the infinite like a Buddha. ‘No doubt my learned friend here will suggest to you,’ he declared, ‘that the accused was not present on these occasions or, alternatively, that the sums of money in question were not passed over to him or, alternatively again, that if they were, they were not those proceeding from the act of common prostitution.’ Mr Gillespie waited a second, as if inviting Mr Vial to say just that: then continued, ‘It will be for you, members of the jury, to decide on whose evidence you should rely: on that of the witness, or witnesses, that may be brought forward by the defence, or on that of the two experienced police officers whom I am now going to call before you.’

  The Detective-Inspector walked in with a modest, capable and self-sufficient mien. He took the oath, removed a notebook from his pocket, and turned to face his counsel.

  ‘Members of the jury,’ said Mr Gillespie. ‘You will observe that the Detective-Inspector is holding a small book. Inspector, will you please tell the court what this book is?’

  ‘It’s my police notebook, sir.’

  ‘Exactly. Officers of the Crown, when giving evidence, are permitted to refer, for matters of fact – and matters of fact only – to the notes they made of a case immediately after they have performed their duties. Very well. Now, Detective-Inspector, will you please tell my Lord and members of the jury what happened, in your own words?’

  In his own words, and prompted only slightly by Mr Gillespie, the officer related the detailed minutiae of the events the counsel had already outlined. By the time of the third, fourth and fifth seeing of Dorothy taking money in the park, and seeing her giving it to Johnny in the Immigration Road, the tale began to lose some of its human fascination, even though its cumulative substance added greatly to the ‘weight of evidence’.

  Mr Gillespie sat down, and Mr Wesley Vial arose.

  ‘Detective-Inspector,’ he said. ‘Do you know who the defendant is?’

  ‘Who he is, sir? He’s an African.’

  ‘Yes. Quite so. An African. But can you tell us anything about him?’

  �
�I have, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, we know you have. But I mean who he is? His family? His background? What sort of man the court has got before it?’

  ‘No, sir. He said he was a student.’

  ‘He said he was a student. Did you enquire of what?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You didn’t. Did you know this young man’s father, Mr David Macdonald Fortune, wears the King’s Medal for valour which was awarded to him when he was formerly a sergeant in the Nigerian police force?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You didn’t bother to find out what sort of man you had to deal with? It didn’t interest you. Is that it?’

  The judge stirred himself slightly, as if from a distant dream. ‘I can’t quite see the relevance of that, Mr Vial,’ he said, in a melancholy, croaking voice. ‘It’s not the accused’s father who’s before me.’

  Mr Vial bowed. ‘True, my Lord. But your Lordship will appreciate, I’m sure, how vital it is for me, in a case of this description – that is, a case where the defendant is a citizen of one of the colonies of our Commonwealth – to establish clearly his social standing and reputation. The members of the jury’ (Mr Vial inclined himself courteously towards them) ‘may not be as familiar as we have grown to be, my Lord, with what very different sorts of African citizen are now to be found here in England among us: some, no doubt, with a background of a kind that might render an accusation of this nature unfortunately all too credible, but others – as I hope to show you is the case at present – in whom such conduct would be as totally improbable as it would were I, my Lord, or Mr Gillespie here, to be said to indulge in it.’

  There was a hush, while everyone digested this. ‘Yes. Well, do proceed, please, Mr Vial,’ said the judge.

  The defending counsel turned once more to the Crown witness.

  ‘You have, in fact, Inspector – apart, of course, from the present case – nothing to say against the defendant?’

  ‘No, sir. He’s got no police record.’

  ‘Exactly. He’s got no police record. And has he, at any time, made any statement in writing, or any verbal statement concerning the charge, by which he admits his guilt in any particular whatever?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So we’re left with what you and your officers have seen, Inspector.’

  The Inspector didn’t answer. Mr Vial looked up, and barked at him, ‘I say, we’re left with what you tell us that you’ve seen. Will you please answer me, Inspector?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were asking me a question, sir.’

  ‘You didn’t know I was asking you a question. Very well. Now, I want you to tell us about these happenings in Hyde Park. You saw this woman accost various men at various times on various evenings, take money from them, and disappear with them into the …’ (Mr Vial looked at his notes) ‘… yes, into the undergrowth, I think it was. Now let us take the first evening: the evening you tell us that the defendant later received twenty-eight pounds from this woman. How many men accosted her?’

  ‘Five or six, sir.’

  ‘Five – or six? Which was it? You may consult your notebook if you wish.’

  ‘Six, sir.’

  ‘So each man would have paid an average of four pounds thirteen shillings and four pence for this woman’s services?’

  ‘Not necessarily, sir. She could have had some money in her bag before she went inside the park.’

  ‘In her what, Inspector?’

  ‘She could have had some money in her bag before she went there.’

  ‘What bag?’

  ‘The bag she put the money in, sir.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mr Vial picked up a document. ‘But in the magistrates’ court, I see you told his Worship that this woman put the money in her raincoat pocket.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Sometimes she put it in her raincoat pocket, and sometimes she put it in her bag, is that it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I see. And then she went with these people into the undergrowth. How dark was this undergrowth?’

  ‘Quite light enough to keep her under observation, sir.’

  ‘Come now, Inspector. Are you telling the court a woman of this description would take a man, in a public locality like Hyde Park, into a place that was dark enough for her purposes, but light enough to be observed by two police officers – standing at a certain distance from her, I suppose?’

  ‘We were quite near enough, sir, to see whatever happened.’

  ‘You were quite near enough. And she never saw you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘On no occasion? Not once on all these evenings when you and your colleague stood peering at her while she went into the undergrowth with all these dozens of men?’

  ‘She gave no sign of being seen, sir.’

  ‘Not even when you followed her home?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What did she travel home on? A bus? A tube?’

  ‘She usually took a bus to Victoria station, and then a tube, sir.’

  ‘She usually did. Aren’t prostitutes in the habit of taking taxis? Isn’t that notorious?’

  ‘Not all of them, sir. Not always.’ The officer consulted his notebook. ‘She took a taxi one night, but it’s not been referred to in my evidence.’

  ‘So you followed her by bus, or tube, or taxi to the Immigration Road – and then what?’

  ‘We saw her go into the house, sir.’

  ‘Saw her how? Did you follow her inside?’

  ‘No, sir. We kept observation from the street.’

  ‘So you must have seen her through the window. Is that it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘This window had no curtains, I suppose. Is that what you have to tell us?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it had. But they weren’t always drawn over it.’

  ‘Not always drawn across the window in the depths of winter?’

  ‘Not always, sir.’

  Mr Vial paused for quite ten seconds. ‘Officer,’ he said, ‘if you, or I, or anyone else in his right mind were going to hand a large sum of money over to somebody else, even for a perfectly legitimate reason, would we really do it in front of an open, uncurtained window on the ground floor of a house in a busy street of a not particularly salubrious neighbourhood?’

  ‘That’s what they did, sir.’

  ‘And if the transaction was a highly illegal one, as it would be in the present instance, wouldn’t there be all the more reason to hand the money over behind closed doors and out of sight?’

  ‘These people are very careless, sir. They’re often under the influence of alcohol, and other things.’

  ‘They’d need to be! They’d certainly need to be, to behave so rashly!’ Mr Vial gazed in amazement at the judge, at the jury, at Mr Gillespie, and back again at the Detective-Inspector. ‘Now, Inspector,’ he said gently. ‘Please understand I’m not questioning your good faith in any respect. You’re an experienced officer, as my learned friend has said, and there can therefore be no question of that at all … But don’t you think, from what you tell us, it’s possible you were mistaken?’

  ‘No, sir. She gave him the money like I said.’

  ‘On half a dozen occasions, a prostitute takes money out of her handbag, or raincoat, or whatever it was, and hands it over to a man in a lighted room without the curtain drawn across in full view of the general public, and does it all so slowly that anyone standing outside could count the exact number of pound notes? Is that what you’re telling us?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’ Mr Vial sat down.

  The Detective-Constable was called. Examined by Mr Gillespie, he confirmed his colleague’s account in all essential particulars. Mr Wesley Vial rose again.

  ‘How long have you been with the CID, Detective-Constable?’

  ‘Two months, sir.’

  ‘This is your first case as a CID officer?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Before you
joined the CID, did your duties bring you in contact with this sort of case at all?’

  ‘No, sir. I was in Records.’

  ‘You were in Records. Now, Constable. Since this case was first brought in the magistrates’ court, you have discussed it, naturally, with the Inspector?’

  ‘I’ve talked about the case in general, sir. I haven’t discussed the details of the evidence.’

  ‘Of course not. The evidence you gave is entirely your own, isn’t it? But you’ve relied on the guidance of your superior officers to a certain extent as to how you should put it to the court?’

  The judge made a slight noise. ‘I don’t think you should ask the witness that, Mr Vial,’ he said. ‘You needn’t answer, Constable.’

  ‘As you say, my Lord. I have no further questions.’

  The Detective-Constable left the box and went and sat by the Inspector, who gave him a slight, official smile. ‘Call the defendant,’ said the usher.

  Johnny Fortune left the dock, walked firmly through the court and took the oath. The assembly regarded him with a slightly increased respect; for whatever the outcome of the case, a person in the witness-box seems a very different person from one sitting between two policemen in the dock.

  Mr Vial faced his client with a look stern as Gabriel’s, and said: ‘John Macdonald Fortune: do you know what living off the immoral earnings of a woman means?’

  ‘Yes. I do know.’

  ‘Have you lived off the immoral earnings of this woman?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘Have you ever lived off the immoral earnings of any woman?’

  ‘Never! Never would I give my blood to such a person. Never!’

  Mr Vial sat down. Mr Gillespie arose.

  ‘You say you’re a student,’ he began. ‘A student of what?’

  ‘Of meteorology.’

  The judge leant forward. ‘What was that word?’

  ‘Meteorology, my Lord. I’m not quite sure what it is, but no doubt we’ll discover. And how long is it since you attended your last lecture?’

  ‘Is some months now.’