Beyond this place (25 page)

Steadily, she crossed the street and approached the figure of the Silver King. The dryness in Paul's throat increased. He leaned forward, his eyes starting from their sockets, his whole body rigid. Watching, he saw Lena address the Silver King — he could almost follow the movements of her lips as she spoke.

"Mr. Oswald?"

The tall figure gave Lena his attention, then made a dignified inclination of assent.

"I was asked to deliver this to you, sir."

How good, how steady and composed were Lena's actions!

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Paul ceased to breathe as she passed over the package, held the receipt book open, offered the pencil stub to Oswald.

"Sign here, sir, please."

The pencil was now in Oswald's hand. The moment was prolonged beyond endurance, the silence grew so rigid and unnatural it seemed to crack Paul's eardrums. Then Oswald signed the book. A long sigh, a slow expulsion of breath came from Paul. Lena was on her way back, still walking steadily, unhurried and composed. Now she had joined him. Without a word he turned. Their retreating footsteps were muffled in the thick darkness of the deserted alley.

CHAPTER VII

PAUL never knew how he got back to Ware Place. On the return journey he did not speak but walked blindly, with lowered head, on the verge of physical collapse. When they reached No. 61, he sat down, dominated by a single thought. A hard pain kept beating behind his forehead, and chill, shivering waves swept over him. Oswald was left-handed. Enoch Oswald, ex-student of anatomy, member of the Grasshoppers' Club, collector of rents, owner of 52 Ushaw Terrace, was the man. The revelation suffocated him, dazed him by its blinding light. He could not, by himself, sustain it. Leaning his elbows on the table, he supported his head, with both hands.

"Lena," he muttered. "There's something I must tell you."

"Not yet, Paul." She was very pale, but her expression was firm. From the pot simmering on the stove she poured a cup of soup and, with an insistence not to be denied, forced him to drink it.

When he had finished she sat down opposite him.

"Now, Paul," she said quietly.

There was a pause. Then, raising his head, he began to speak and, while she listened intently, he told her everything. Although

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his voice was low and tremulous, his manner held a seething bitterness as he concluded:

"So now I know. I know it all. And what can I do? Nothing. Whom can I go to? Nobody. When thev wouldn't listen to me before, what do you think they'd do — Sprott, or Dale, or even Birley — if I went to them with this? There's no justice. So long as people are comfortable themselves, with plenty to eat and drink, spending money in their pockets and a roof over then-heads, they don't care a damn about right and wrong. The whole world's rotten to the core."

There was a rigid silence. Deeply moved, she shook her head slowly.

"No. If people only knew about this . . . they wouldn't allow it. Ordinary people are honest . . . and kind."

He looked at her with disbelief.

"Does your experience prove that?"

She coloured slightly, started to speak, then as though unsure of his meaning, was silent. But in a moment she took a deep breath.

"Paul! I'm not clever. Yet I think I know what you should do."

He stared at her.

"Yes," she said earnestly. "There is someone you should go to."

Incredulouslv, he repeated her words. Then he added:

"Who 0 "

"Well," she hesitated, her face flushed and confused, "it is a friend of mine."

"A friend of yours? A friend of . . ." As he echoed the words they sounded so inept, so preposterous, in the face of his terrible dilemma that a pained and twisted smile distorted his cheek. A friend of Lena's! After all his efforts, all that he had tried to do, this naive solution seemed so ridiculous that, without warning, in a fit of sheer hvsteria, he began to laugh. Try as he might, he could not stop laughing and before he knew what was happening, all the rending anguish in his breast flowed over in a burst of choking sobs. She had risen to her feet and was gazing at him, deeplv troubled, but afraid even to lay a hand upon his shoulder. When at last the spasm was over she said:

"You must cret some rest now. We'll talk it over tomorrow." o

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"Tomorrow," he echoed, in a strange, savage tone. "Yes . . . lots of things will happen tomorrow."

Alone, in the spare room he had occupied the night before, Paul sat down on the edge of the bed. His head felt hot and his feet were cold. He sensed vaguely that he had caught a chill, but this seemed to him of no importance whatsoever. Indeed, the more his physical discomfort grew, the more dazzlingly acute his mind became. He saw, clear and vivid, the picture of his futile strivings, saw, too, that he might continue in futility unless once and for all he could force the matter to a crisis. The need for open and decisive action swelled within him like a great river about to burst its banks. In this strange urgency of his mood, his natural balance and good sense were gone, supplanted by a frantic recklessness. He wanted to stand in the market place, to reach out his hands and shout of this iniquity to the four winds of heaven.

At that thought, a gleam that was in part irrational lit up his eyes. Presently, he rose and, first reassuring himself that the door was locked, went over to the wooden writing desk which stood in the corner. Here, he took out the few sheets of white shelf paper which had been used to line the drawers. He laid the paper on the floor; then, taking pen and ink, he knelt down and began to block out certain letters in big capitals. He had always had a special talent for printing and in about an hour, although his hand shook slightly and his vision was not quite clear, he had finished. He left the papers on the floor to dry and lay down, fully dressed, upon the bed.

Despite the burning project that filled his mind, he slept, but restively, and always with that same sense of fever gathering in his veins. About seven o'clock he awoke with a start. His headache was worse, a splitting frontal pain, but this merely strengthened his intention. He picked up the paper sheets from the floor, rolled them into a long cylinder and, treading warily as he passed Lena's door, went out.

The rain had quite gone as he hurried down Ware Street, the morning was clear and fresh with the softness of dawn. At the cabman's shelter opposite Duke's Court he stopped, and finding some coins in his pocket, ordered a mug of coffee and a

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thick slice of margarined bread. The food made him feel less ill, but he had not gone half way up Duke's Row before a rush of sickness came over him. He leaned over the gutter in a fit of nausea.

At the end of the Row, Duke's Yard, the premises of the Lanes Billboard Company, at this early hour, were still deserted. He squeezed through a gap in the rotting wooden fence, against which, awaiting his turn, he had so often stood in line with the other sandwichmen. Inside, the double posterboards, scores of them, were packed in a long open corrugated iron shed. Paul selected the newest he could find, and using one of the many "brush-pots" standing in the shed, pasted on his printed sheets. He was about to sling on the boards when his eye was caught by a rusty heap in the corner of the shed. He recognized the iron chains which had been used as an advertising feature during the recent visit to the Palace Theatre of the illusionist, Houdini. Without hesitation, for he was now completely possessed, he went forward and, after some searching, found a sound thin chain and a serviceable padlock. Five minutes later, with the chain round his body and wearing the sandwich boards, he left the yard.

The cathedral clock was striking eight as he came back into Ware Street and started his march towards the centre of the city. Already the bustle of the day had begun. People were swarming from the buses and subway exits. But as they hurried towards their places of business, only a few directed curious glances towards the young man bearing on his back the notice:

MURDER: THE INNOCENT CONVICTED.

And on his chest:

MURDER: THE GUILTY FREE.

If any of them gave the matter a second thought it was to class it as part of an astute advertising campaign — one of these eye-catching slogans which intrigued the public for weeks before the date of disclosure.

Nine o'clock came and Paul still plodded along the gutters, gazing straight ahead, with an expressionless face, clutching the

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heavy boards with rigid hands. Since he wished as long as possible to avoid the attentions of the police, he kept away from the main intersections, at each of which an officer was on point duty. Once or twice he was conscious of a sharp scrutiny, but for once fortune seemed upon his side — no one stopped him.

As the forenoon advanced Paul began to feel faint, but with the real part of his purpose still unaccomplished — this parade was merely the prelude to his main intention — he would not give up. Deafened by the noise of the traffic, splashed with mud from the grinding wheels, he still kept on. Yet he could not altogether master his increasing weakness: several times he swayed uncertainly.

Towards noon a curious crowd had begun to follow him. For the most part it was made up of loafers and out-of-works, the idle riff-raff of the city, augmented by a few errand boys and a mangy, barking dog. At first Paul had been a target for some vulgar jeers, but as he gave no answer, the crowd attended him in silence, mystified perhaps, yet now, by instinct, more than ever certain of reward. Shortly after one o'clock the procession reached Leonard Square and here, at last, under the statue of Robert Greenwood, first Lord Mayor of Wortley, Paul halted. He took off his boards and stood them on the pavement; then, first twisting the chain tightly round his wrist, he padlocked himself to the iron railings at the statue's base. A gasp of bated anticipation went up from the onlookers and immediately, since it was now the lunch hour, the press of people round about increased. When Paul turned and faced the assembly he had an audience of almost a hundred people.

With his free hand he unloosened his necktie — it seemed to be strangling him. He was conscious of no fear, no excitement, only of a desperate urgency to put his case before these citizens of Wortley. Now was his chance, they were waiting on him to speak; Lena had said that ordinary people were kind, he could never have a better, a fairer opportunity to convince them. If onlv his head had not ached so frightfully. Worse than that was the sickness, and the sense of unreality which pervaded him, as though his feet were mounted on balloons which floated dizzily through the air. He moistened his cracked lips.

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"Friends," he began, "I've come here because I've something to tell you . . . something you should know. My name is Mathry and my father is in prison. . . ."

"You'll be there yourself, chum, if you don't watch out!"

The interruption from the back produced a laugh. Paul waited till it died out.

"He's been in prison fifteen years and all for a crime he didn't commit."

"Ah! Tell that to the marines!" shouted another voice from the back. Again the general laugh, followed this time by shouts of "Shut up!" "Fair play," "Give the poor b— a chance!"

"I have proof that my father is innocent but no one will hear me. . . ."

"We can't hear you either, chum, unless you speak up."

"That's right. Speak up. Speak up," cried several others in the crowd.

Paul swallowed dryly. He realized dimly, that although he was straining his throat to the utmost, his voice was emerging faint and cracked. He made a superhuman effort.

"Fifteen years ago on circumstantial evidence my father was convicted of murder. But he did not commit the crime. . . ."

The mongrel dog, which had followed Paul persistently, suddenly began to bark.

"I repeat ... he did not commit the crime ... in proof of which . . ."

But the dog was now barking so loudly, snarling and snapping at Paul's feet, that he could not make himself heard. Then, while he paused, the hound, encouraged no doubt by the approbation of the onlookers, unexpectedly jumped up on him. Paul staggered and almost fell. As he clutched dazedly at the sandwich boards a murmur grew amongst the mob.

"He's drunk."

"Does he think he can make a mug of us!"

"Paste the young soak."

A banana skin flew through the air and pulped against Paul's cheek. It was the signal for a fusillade of bread crusts and unwanted food from people eating their lunch in the crowd. A few apple cores followed by way of variety. At that moment two

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policemen pushed their way through the closely packed crowd. One was a young constable, the other was Sergeant Jupp.

"What's all this? D'yc-u know you're creating a disturbance."

Paul gazed at the two blurred figures in blue, vaguely recognizing Jupp. He had reached the end of his resources. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. The crush around him increased.

"He's tight, Sergeant," a sycophantic voice suggested from the front rank. "Been talkin' a lot of rot."

"You've really done it this time. I've been waiting for it. Come along with us." The sergeant took Paul and tried to pull him through the crowd. Meeting with resistance he pulled violently, almost dislocating Paul's wrist, before he noticed the presence of the chain. His muscular neck turned dark red.

He muttered to his companion.

"He's padlocked himself. We'll need the wagon."

The two policemen struggled angrily to free the chain, tugging Paul this way and that, while the crowd pressed and milled around them. Another policeman arrived, then hurried off, blowing his whistle. Everyone seemed to push and shout at once, the traffic was held up, there was a general commotion. This was the moment which Paul had foreseen as the climax of his resistance, the crisis when he would deliver his most impassioned address.

"Friends," he tried to shout, "I'm only asking for justice. An innocent man . . ."