Lonely Road (8 page)

Sir David Carter nodded: “Exactly so. In fact, our next step should be to secure a little more information than you have
been able to give us from the woman in Leeds. The professional dancer, Miss Gordon.”

“Well,” I said, “that’s easy enough.”

Fedden coughed. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said dryly.

I eyed him in surprise. “Well,” I said, “you can have her up and ask her where her brother is?”

The man called Norman spoke up then: “You must understand, Commander Stevenson, that the police have no power to interrogate a witness. They can invite the witness to make a voluntary statement, but the whole conduct of these matters is not so easy as it was.”

Sir David Carter leaned forward in his chair. “I see no reason for dissembling,” he said. “Frankly, Commander Stevenson, we find ourselves faced with a difficulty in this investigation. I will put it to you as briefly as I can.”

He paused for a little time, and then he said: “I would have you understand that in this office our business is to keep the peace. To surprise and to suppress any rising whatsoever that may be attempted against the elected government of the country—no matter what political aspect that rising may assume. Our business is to keep the peace of the country.”

He considered for a moment. “In this instance the disturbance which we suspect is identical in character with the Left Wing of the Government. I see no point in mincing matters. We have in this country a moderate Labour Government, and here, in the seclusion of this office, we suspect that these guns are intended to arm a Communist rising of some sort.”

I nodded slowly. I was beginning to see something of the difficulty.

Sir David continued: “I trust most sincerely that further investigation will show that our suspicions have no foundation in fact. But if they should have such foundation, then I have confidence that the Government will allow no political complexities to interfere with the proper suppression of any attempt against the peace of the realm, and with the punishment of the offenders. I have that confidence.”

He eyed me for a moment. “Supposing, however, a mistake
were made in this affair. Suppose that from this office we made public our suspicions of a rising in the Communist interest, which events proved to be groundless. It is not difficult to see the play which would be made with such a mistake by the Left Wing. In this matter, we must have a cast-iron case before publicity occurs.”

“I see that,” I said.

“I do not think that anyone would describe this as a cast-iron case at the moment,” he remarked dryly.

He paused for a minute, and then he went on: “Therefore, we cannot afford to give any publicity to this matter at the moment. And now we come to a further difficulty. You spoke just now of the possibility that we might interrogate this woman in Leeds about the movements of her brother. I wonder if you realise our difficulties, to-day, in the interrogation of feminine witnesses?”

I stared at him for a moment, and then I realised what he was driving at. “I see,” I said. “You mean Lord Lee’s Commission.”

He inclined his head. “Exactly. Consider our position in this matter. If we were to interrogate this woman in the manner which occurred to you—and as we might have done a year ago—what should we be doing? We should be taking information from her which might lead, in the end, to the arrest of her brother upon a criminal charge. In all probability we should not have indicated to her the result of any statement she might have been persuaded to make. That would not further our interests, you see—which are, to catch criminals.”

He paused. “The British public is very chivalrous, Commander Stevenson—too chivalrous for its own safety. Methods of crime detection which were adequate a year ago, to-day are hampered and restricted. If we were to interrogate this woman in such a way to-day, to-morrow the whole matter would be in the hands of her local Member of Parliament. And then … publicity.”

The window was open at the top; through the opening I could hear the noises of the traffic in Whitehall, and a girl
singing, and a piano, in some building near at hand. There was a bee on the window-pane, and I wondered where the devil he had come from. I sat on my Victorian leather chair and stared around, at Fedden, at Norman, at Sir David Carter. All of them seemed to be studying me, as if they found in me the solution to their difficulties.

“I see that this case is not an easy one,” I said quietly. “What I don’t see at the moment is why you have told me about it in this way.” And I stared at Carter.

He smiled a little. “Such a question is justifiable. We have told you about it, because in our opinion the matter can most readily be solved with your assistance. I should say that you are at perfect liberty to refuse to assist us, in which case we shall only ask for your discretion when you leave this office.”

I stared him in the eyes. “What do you want me to do?”

He bent forward and toyed with a pen upon his desk. “I believe the information that you have given us to be most valuable,” he said at last. “We want only one more light upon the case before we take the matter up in earnest. We want to know something more about the woman’s brother, the man who runs the motor-lorry. Where he is usually to be found, the name of a friend who knows his whereabouts, the address to which a letter should be sent to reach him—almost anything will serve our purpose. Once we have access to the man we can proceed upon our usual lines without the grave risk of interrogating the woman.”

He raised his head. “This woman spoke to you about her brother when you were dancing with her before. We should like you to go to Leeds and dance with her again.”

The bee still buzzed upon the window-pane, the dull thunder of the traffic still sounded from Whitehall. I was about to speak, but he stopped me.

“One moment. I have said that you are at liberty to refuse us this service, but I should like you to give it full consideration before you speak. This importation of arms is a serious matter for the country, Commander. It means—it may mean civil war. Imagine it for a moment, if you can, civil war in
England, at this time. The country pulling round and becoming prosperous again—industry finding its feet. And then—this thing.” The pen-holder snapped in two between his fingers, but he did not seem to notice it. “For myself, I cannot bear to think of it.”

He raised his head. “This is a distasteful service that we are asking of you, but a very small one. Even so, I should not have suggested it but for the fact that in you we have a man whose record is—quite out of the ordinary.”

I met his eyes and stared him down. “I murdered thirty German sailors in the war,” I said harshly. “I suppose that’s what you mean. Seems to me that’s a damn good credential for a job like this.”

Nobody moved when I said that, and for a minute nobody seemed to know quite what to say. I didn’t help them; I was busy with my own reflections. I was thinking of the girl in Leeds, and how decent she had been to me that night. I was thinking of how she had been afraid that I was spending more than I could easily afford.

At last I broke the silence myself. “Let me get this right,” I said. “You want me to go to Leeds and dance with this girl again, and get her to talk. You want me to find out some information which will set you on to her brother, without letting her know that this is a police matter. That’s what you want?”

The man called Norman stirred. “That is what we want. Some means of finding the brother when we want to pull him in.”

I stared at him. “I should be glad if you would talk English. Some means of finding the brother when you want—to do what?”

He flushed angrily, and Sir David Carter interposed. “It is very necessary that we should be able to keep the brother under observation,” he said smoothly. “You will appreciate that. If this man is simply the driver of the lorry and no more, I doubt if it would be necessary to take any further steps in regard to him.”

I sat there for a minute, deep in thought. “What happens if I can’t find out anything at all?”

“Then we shall have to deal with the matter with our usual machinery,” he said. “It means a grave risk of publicity. And frankly, I do not consider that this case, at present, is strong enough to bear a critical examination.”

I nodded. “So that if I don’t go to Leeds, you’ll have that girl up and interrogate her?”

“In all probability,” he said.

I sat there resting my chin upon one hand and staring into the fireplace. I was thinking of the life that I had been living since the war, what I had done and what I had achieved. It wasn’t very much—a few old sailing ships gathered into a barely economic trade. It seemed to me that the life I had been leading for the last ten years had done little good to me or anybody else. One must live steadily and do what one can. As for this matter of the girl who had been kind to me—well, that was just my luck.

I raised my head and glanced across at Carter. “All right,” I said quietly, “I should be very glad to go.”

I got away from there as soon as possible, and went back to my club. Fedden walked back with me, but I had little to say to him, and presently he went away. I lunched and went out to the Academy, and there I put my name down for the little study of seagulls that now hangs in the library above my desk. Then back to the club to spin my dinner out over an hour and a half, and read Surtees till I went to bed.

Next morning I took the Bentley after breakfast and set out up the Great North Road, lunching in Newark with the best part of the journey done. By tea-time I was back in that garish, over-furnished place in Leeds, sitting and smoking in a corner of the lounge, watching the young business men and brokers with their girls, who thronged the place. There was nothing else to do, and I sat there till dinner, wondering what was going to happen to me that night. I dined alone, and went out immediately afterwards to the Palais.

The place was fairly full. I sat for a little while at a table alone, watching the dancers and wondering how to set about the business I had come upon. The girl was there. I could see her sitting in the pen, reading a magazine and now and then passing a desultory glance around the room. I knew that she had noticed me, and presently I went and fetched her out to dance.

It seemed to me that she was changed in the weeks that I had been away. The set phrases, the fixed smile were all the same, but beneath it she seemed listless and depressed. I took her out for a waltz; she danced beautifully, but there was no life in it; it was as if she had lost all heart and interest in her work. I cursed myself for a fool that I had ever come upon a crazy job like this, took her back to my table, ordered her a cup of coffee, and gave her a cigarette.

She roused a little when the coffee came, and made a definite effort to entertain me. “I’m so glad you’ve come in again,” she said. “I often thought about you, and wondered if you’d come back. I said to Phyllis only the other day, I said I wondered if you were coming back again ever. It’s ever so nice when people come back.”

I smiled. “Who’s Phyllis?” I inquired. I didn’t particularly want to know, but I did want to make it easy for her to talk about the things she knew.

“One of the other professionals here—that girl over there.” I saw a lithe young girl with very fuzzy hair, dancing with a Jew. “I’ve been teaching her to swim at the baths in the morning. I do think swimming’s lovely. Would you like to dance this one?”

We went and danced to the slow, haunting rhythm of a foxtrot in the changing lights. It seemed to me that that Palais was a place where one should dance exquisitely or not at all; the floor was too large for the mediocre. I said as much, regretting my deficiencies.

“You’re not so bad,” she said. “Not half so bad as a lot of the gentlemen. I could give you a lesson any morning, if you like,” she added hopefully. “It’s only five shillings.”

I repressed a smile; it was a sign of returning animation that she was looking about for business. “I think I shall be busy all to-morrow,” I replied. “I’m only up here for a day or so.”

“Have you come up on business?” she inquired. I said I had; so much at least was true. “It must be fun travelling about like that,” she said, a little wistfully. “One gets tired of just staying in one place always.…”

The dance came to an end, and we went back to our table and the lukewarm coffee. “You haven’t been down south since I saw you?” I asked. “To Torquay or anywhere?”

I was very much alert that night, on the look-out for any detail which might help my game. I saw at once that I had touched upon some tender spot; she laughed, but not for merriment. “No,” she said. “You don’t get away much when you’re in a Palais.”

I nodded sympathetically. “You must get fed up with it,” I said. “Do you like Leeds?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s not bad. But I don’t like towns at all—not really. Or maybe that it’s just the holiday season.” She was depressed. Then she roused herself and said brightly: “I say, you must think me mopey to-night. Aren’t I awful!”

I eyed her for a moment. “Not a bit,” I said. “I think you’re very tired. What you want is a good holiday.”

“My holiday begins on Sunday,” she said simply. “But I’m not going to take it after all. Maybe I’ll get it later on.”

“Why not?” I asked. “I’d take it if I were you. Do you good.”

For a time she wouldn’t tell me, but presently it all came out. It came in little disjointed, disillusioned sentences, fragments that I had to extract and piece together one by one. And when I had it all, I found I had a story that had something of a tragedy in its ordinariness.

Her working hours were from three in the afternoon till midnight, six days a week with no half-holiday. Unprotected by any union or organisation of that kind, her working year
included all Bank Holidays; Easter to her was a Sunday and no more; she worked on Boxing Day. She was paid ten shillings a week, plus her commission and tips; this gave her an average income for the year of about two pounds a week. She was allowed one week’s holiday a year, unpaid.

It was pathetic, the importance which she set upon this holiday. She didn’t say much, but I gathered that she had been saving all the year for it, garnering her two-shilling pieces and half-crowns week by week. By careful economy she had amassed nearly seven pounds towards it; she was going to Scarborough with a girl who worked in an office in Pudsey, and who hadn’t got a boy friend either.