Bluebolt One

by Philip McCutchan

  She said wearily, flicking ash off her cigarette, “Of course. I did go to school, you know.”

  He smiled. “Fine! Now listen carefully. I’m attached to Naval Intelligence at the Admiralty, and I have certain facts at my disposal, facts which at the moment mustn’t be released even to the police. Remember, I’ve told you I don’t believe MacNamara did kill the man in the Tube—he hadn’t got that sort of reaction. By running away he’s behaving perfectly naturally, if rather stupidly. That’s all. I’m genuinely out to help. And if I can find out who did that killing—well, MacNamara’s in the clear, isn’t he?”

  “Uh-huh.” She lit a fresh cigarette, discarding more than half the old one, and he noticed the shake in her fingers as she did so. “Yes, I suppose he is. But what I said was the truth. If I’d known where Pat was, I’d have gone to him myself.”

  “You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?” he asked gently.

  She didn’t answer right away. She drew deeply on her cigarette and drank some gin, then, frowning a little, she said, “I wasn’t in love with him, if that’s what you mean. Not exactly that. I was attracted, I suppose. I. . . respected him and I felt terribly sorry for him. I’ve always been able to tell about people.” After that she looked at him sardonically, her lip curling a little. “You think it’s all pretty odd, don’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Not necessarily. Would it help at all if you were to tell me about it, Miss Ross?”

  She gave a tired sort of smile and said, “What you mean is, you want to know. All right then—I’ll tell you.” She took another mouthful of gin, spilling some on her lap. “I did what girls like me aren’t generally supposed to do. I went to a public hop, all by myself. You know the kind of thing I mean—the Palais. . . ."

  It was rather a sad little story really, as the girl told it, abruptly and unsentimentally. She had lost both her parents in a flying accident when she was a baby, and she had no memory of them whatever. She’d been brought up by a bachelor uncle who’d kept what sounded like a very rackety establishment down in the West Country, with drink flowing regularly and girl friends constantly appearing and being replaced by new ones. She’d been pushed around a lot, and the kind of life that she’d had to lead had sickened her and she’d become something of an anti-social recluse, not wanting to meet any of her uncle’s friends or, indeed, anybody else. In the end, soon after leaving school, she’d had an almighty row with the gay uncle, who’d made semi-drunken advances to her one night. He had washed his hands of her, and she’d come to London, alone and utterly friendless, though at first she’d scarcely been conscious of this, and with just one skill to offer, a skill which she’d developed in the long, lonely hours in Devon—an ability to design dresses. This had led her to a small job in a well-known London fashion house, but she’d been unable to get along with her workmates and so, later on, she’d got this job at Helene’s. She’d first come to London four years before, and for a time she’d lived in a young women’s club; there she’d been, after a while, desperately lonely because somehow or other she’d felt she had quite lost the ability to make friends, and she used to sit night after night in the club lounge, all by herself, pretending to read a book, until she went off early to bed. And after a time, she’d begun to change.

  London was all around her, and all the girls she knew at work had boy friends, and she felt the lack, felt the awful, grinding loneliness of her position; but she herself never had any opportunity of meeting any men at all. The club had a moral tone so high, she said, that it hit you like a bomb and she almost wished herself back in Devon; but under no circumstances would she crawl to the uncle now. No men were allowed in that club, and most of the young women were of the severe, blue-stocking type; while at work the only men who came into the shop were heavily attached, and all they could do was to make eyes at her and wonder how she would compare in bed with their own wives or mistresses. As to the other girls, she simply could not, as she had said, get along with them, and they had no out-of-hours contact at all. She was, she admitted frankly, becoming a misfit.

  In time she had begun to earn more money from her work, especially after moving to Helene’s, and she’d found this flatlet going for a rental which was reasonably within her resources, though it didn’t leave a lot over, and she’d taken it thankfully. It had, however, proved a mistake and she was lonelier than ever.

  She explained quite honestly that her position was the worst a girl could be in, bar one. She was by this time frankly avid for male company, but because of her mental conflicts and her deep-seated inhibitions (which, Shaw guessed, had by this time assumed the proportions of a complex), she just couldn’t see any way of getting it except by a pickup. So she’d gone one night to the Palais and she’d seen Patrick MacNamara, sitting all by himself—because, as she suspected, of his colour. That, she said, made two outcasts, two people against the world, and she’d thought to herself, well, what the hell, may as well make myself cheap as be a wallflower. So, when he’d given her a half-defiant grin, she’d started to eye him properly. And that was how it had all begun. She told Shaw now quite openly and without shame that she wasn’t a virgin any more, but she knew how to take care of herself, thanks to early example; and she repeated that she wasn’t in love with Patrick MacNamara, but she had grown, as she’d said earlier, to respect him as a decent boy who was fighting a losing battle against colour prejudice and bad luck and to that extent, and partly because of her own deep loneliness, she said, perhaps she did love him without being in love, if Shaw could understand the difference . . . they were, she said, almost two of a type apart from the colour of their skins.

  “What else do you want to know?” The question was abrupt, as though she felt she had already talked too much and was ashamed after all at having let her hair down so far.

  Shaw said, “I’m interested in his friends, Miss Ross. That bad set you mentioned earlier.”

  “D’you mean Sam Wiley and his crowd? They were Africans too. Do you mean them?”

  “Perhaps. At any rate, I’d be glad if you’d tell me more.” Suddenly, something came into his mind, an association of names, an alliteration, and he thought: Sam... that rings a bell, or does it? Then he remembered reading that morning about Esamba. . . Esamba—Sam? He gave an involuntary start, saw Debonnair looking at him curiously, and then realized Gillian Ross was talking.

  He said, “I’m sorry, Miss Ross, I didn’t catch what you were saying?”

  “I said, I can’t help you an awful lot. I didn’t know Sam or what Pat called ‘the boys’ myself, you see. I never even saw them. But Pat used to talk about Sam—at least, he did just once, after—after something happened. . . .”

  Shaw prompted, “And that was?”

  A far-away look came into her eyes. “Once when I was in his room in Notting Hill some one came to see him, his landlord it was, and he went away for about ten minutes. While he was away, I looked round—it was the first time I’d been there, actually, and just in case you want to know, it wasn’t the last, though I never went to his new place because we couldn’t be alone there, he hadn’t got a room of his own. Well, as I say, I looked round. I wasn’t prying. I was just—well, getting to know his things, the way he lived, the things he liked to have by him. Looking at his books and so on—you know. He never said very much about himself and I was interested. Anyway, there was a piece of paper on the floor, down between the bed and a table where he kept his books. I picked it up, and I saw it was a note. It was from this man Sam Wiley.”

  “Did you read it?”

  She said hesitantly, “Well, I couldn’t help it really. It was something about a meeting being cancelled—I didn’t pay much attention at the time. Anyway, he came back just then, and when he saw what I had in my hand, well, his reactions absolutely amazed me. He went a sort of grey colour and he began to shake all over as if he was ill. I thought for a moment he really was ill, then I realized he was just—scared. Very scared.” There was still that far-away look. “H
e snatched the note and stuffed it in his pocket, and just stood there staring at me, with his eyes all kind of—of wide and starey. I tell you, he was absolutely terrified. He started talking wildly, said Sam was very powerful and he could see all that went on, everywhere, and he’d be very angry with him for leaving the note lying about.”

  She stopped, and Shaw noticed that she was twisting a handkerchief into a knot in her lap. He asked gently, “What did you think about all that at the time?”

  “Quite honestly, I thought he was mad.”

  Shaw nodded. “Did you ever see anything else funny at any time?”

  “No, not really___I did find some little things on his table once, funny things like little carved men, sort of all dried up. He said something about them being given him by a witchdoctor back in Africa when he was a little boy. I remember asking him about things like that, if he believed in black magic and all that, but he wouldn’t talk about it at all.”

  Shaw felt a sudden thrill, and once again his mind seemed to fill with the darkness that was MacNamara’s unhappy land. He asked, “Did he ever say anything about this Sam Wiley beyond what you’ve told me? Think carefully, Miss Ross: Did he ever tell you anything that might help us now?”

  She frowned in concentration. “No-o. . . I really don’t remember anything, and I’m sure I would have done.”

  “Do you know where they met—was there anything in the note you found?”

  She said, “No, there wasn’t. Pat was always out on a Thursday, though, even when he wasn’t on a night turn. He may have gone to meetings, I don’t know.” She added, “I do know he used to go to a sort of club most Thursdays, a place in Camden Town called the Ship’s Biscuit. It’s in Corner Crescent. . . I think it’s a kind of drinking club. They may have used it as a rendezvous, I suppose?”

  “Have you any idea what went on there?”

  “Pat told me there was a strip-tease—it’s that sort of place. I was rather surprised, really.” She looked across at him, finished the gin, and set the glass down rather hard on a small table. “And that’s all I know. Honestly.”

  “Yes, I see.” He frowned in some perplexity. “Miss Ross, I don’t want to be prying or indelicate or anything like that, but wasn’t it a little odd for you to go on seeing him after you found out that he might be mixed up in something you thought yourself was peculiar?”

  She shrugged, swung the tartan trews over the arm of her chair. The unburdening process seemed to have done her good to the extent of bringing back a hardness, a self-contained compactness, into her face and attitude. She said distantly, “Oh, I suppose it was very odd. I don’t kid myself over that. White girls, nice ones, just don’t go around with—niggers, do they?” There was something off-beat, something challenging and yet hopeless, in her tone, something vaguely masochistic and yet at the same time almost frightening. “Only it so happens I didn’t think of him as a nigger—even after I’d found out what I told you. I thought of him as a Negro, yes. What’s wrong with that?”

  Shaw said, and meant it, “In itself, nothing. I’ve known plenty of coloured men who’re more worthy of respect than many whites. I was referring to what he was mixed up in.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I know you were really. You don’t look the kind of man who’d be prejudiced. But mixed up in . . . I think he’d been forced into something against his will, almost. As you said—a dupe. There wasn’t anything vicious in him at all. If he’d been allowed to lead his own life by both blacks and whites he’d have been entirely different. He was a disappointed man, Commander Shaw, and he’d got bitter. I don’t know what it was he’d been made to join, but I don’t think you can blame him, whatever it was.” She was speaking with a passionate sincerity, eyes bright. “And you see there were very good reasons why I stuck to him.”

  Shaw said diffidently, “Forgive me. I know you spoke of this before. But you’re definite you’re not—”

  “Expecting his baby?” She gave a high, nervy laugh and her face tightened. “Oh, God, no. I told you the whole truth. I’m not as stupid as that.” She swung her legs down and stood up, tall, almost statuesque in a pale afternoon sun shining through the attic window. “The reasons I meant were simply that he was literally the only friend I had. . . and perhaps I am in love with him, I don’t know. So get him back—will you?”

  He said, “I’ll do all I can. You have my promise. There’s just one other thing,” he added casually. “Had MacNamara got anything branded on to his right arm?”

  She said, “Yes, as a matter of fact he had. A spider. He said it was some sort of tribal mark, to do with an initiation ceremony which they’d carried out when he wasn’t much more than a baby.”

  “Thank you. That’s all, then, Miss Ross. Take a tip from me, though.” He wagged a finger at her, solemnly. “Don’t leave this flat on any account whatever for the time being. Don’t admit any visitors unless they produce evidence to Mrs Tait that they’re either policemen or some one from my department. Don’t even answer the doorbell yourself. I’ll spin Mrs Tait a yam on the way out, and I’ll also see what she can do about your essential shopping. As far as Helene’s is concerned, you’re still under the weather. Clear?”

  “I suppose so. But what’s the idea?”

  “Just routine precautions. But see you do as I tell you. If you want me at any time, ring this number.” Shaw tore a sheet of paper from a notebook and scribbled the number of the outside line to his flat. He added an Admiralty number and said, “If I’m not there and it’s urgent, ring this other one and ask for Captain Carberry. If you do all I say you won’t have to worry.”

  Walking away down Oakley Street for the King’s Head and a snack lunch, Shaw and Debonnair exchanged wondering glances. Debbie said, “My God, Esmonde, what a popsie—and what a crazy, mixed-up kid, poor girl! Good background, I think, but she certainly does lead her own life—and how!”

  “Yes... funny how they can change, isn’t it? But—try putting yourself in her place.”

  “Oh, I know! Sorry if I sounded catty. You can’t lead other people’s lives for them, and that’s a fact, though there’s plenty of busybodies trying to.” She wrinkled her nose attractively. “Let me know in good time if ever you see me starting to become an old cow, Esmonde.” They walked on in companionable silence for a few yards, then she said, “Esmonde, you looked as if you’d sat on a pin when she first mentioned Sam Wiley. Do you know the gentleman?”

  “Not personally—yet. But I’ve a nodding acquaintance with another gent by the name of Esamba.”

  “Who?”

  “Esamba, Deb. I’ve read about him. This morning. It’s just my turn of mind, I suppose. Esamba’s one of the Dark Gods—he’s the One Who Blows Out The Light Behind Men’s Eyes.”

  She stared at him. “You mean kills them?”

  “Not necessarily, I gather. Sends them blind first, anyway.”

  “Oh, Esmonde!” She gave one of her deep, gurgling chuckles. “This is Oakley Street, S.W.3, and there’s a London Transport bus, and there’s a bobby by the traffic lights—see? This is dear old London—wake up! You don’t really believe all that voodoo nonsense, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said echoing Jiddle. “I honestly don’t know. There are so many things we don’t know, can’t know, for all our scientific progress—and so much I can’t tell you anyway, my dear. But I assure you I haven’t suddenly gone off my head.”

  She said comfortably, taking his arm as they crossed the road, “Well, that’s nice to know, anyway. By the way, what are we going to do after we’ve eaten?”

  “I’ve got a phone call to make to Carberry, put him in the picture in case that girl rings him or the Old Man starts asking him questions.”

  “Anything else?”

  She was looking up into his face and smiling, but there was a hint of anxiety behind that smile. He asked, “For Carberry? Yes, there is. I want a membership card as soon as possible for the Ship’s Biscuit club in Camden Town.”

  “Mean
you’re going there?”

  “I am—and to-night at that. Remember, it’s Thursday today. But before I go, we’ll dine somewhere, you and I, Deb.”

  “Two meals out in one day? Sounds as though you don’t expect to have the chance again for some time, doesn’t it?” He grinned and squeezed her arm, but he didn’t say any more.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  That same afternoon word had reached the Bluebolt control-station in Nogolia’s Naka Valley that the bodies of two white men had been found, horribly mutilated, on the Jinda-Manalati road not far from the tribal village of Zambi. In the north of Nogolia a white woman, wife of an executive of the Nogolia Copper Mining Corporation, had been raped by six Africans and then butchered. Her husband had almost stumbled on the body himself when he arrived home and had gone practically out of his mind when he realized what had happened. Reprisals had been made by a group of angry white copper workers, who had gone out in force and beaten up crowds of (probably innocent) Africans, one of whom had since died. This had led to counter-reprisals and a general riot in which a number of Africans and Europeans had been killed and several policemen seriously injured by stones, broken bottles, and sticks. The riot had been put down, but the situation was still on a knife-edge.

  When Julian Hartog got this news he sat very still at his desk for nearly a minute, his eyes blazing oddly in his dark face. Then he got up, went over to a cupboard, and took down a half-empty bottle of whisky. He took two big gulps, neat from the bottle, and shut the cupboard again. Then, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he went over to the window and he stood there a long while, just looking out at the rain and the jungle and the grotesque antennae of the mast which rose above the control-room’s glass-domed roof. There was still a peculiar glitter in his eyes, and a vein throbbed tightly in his left temple. He was beginning to feel that he couldn’t take much more of this, that something must snap before long, that he must act even before those blackmailing bastards who were behind the current troubles were ready for him, act before things were taken out of his hands and the station was overwhelmed by the march of events . . . a moment later he began walking up and down, walking with those long, loping strides, wolf-like, lean and hungry and predatory.