Beyond this place (5 page)

"The lunch hour is my busy time. We can't talk now. Not that I've anything to say — far from it. But as I close at seven and your train doesn't leave till nine you can come up to my flat around half seven o'clock. I'll give you a cup of coffee before you go."

"Thank you!" Then a flicker passed over Paul's eyes, dilating his pupils. "At your flat?"

Prusty nodded with a queer grimace, a narrowing of his nearsighted eyes.

"The same address. 52 Ushaw Terrace. It's still there. And so am I."

He went back to his customer and Paul left the shop. As he

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walked down the street, drugged with weariness — he had spent the previous night on a hard chair in the station waiting room — and weak for want of food, Paul recollected that he had passed a Y.M.C.A. on his way out from the centre of the city, and boarding a yellow tramcar, in five minutes he had reached the hostel. Here, after a hot bath, he brushed his clothes and tidied himself; then sat down to a good dinner of soup, a hot cut from the joint, and rice pudding.

It was now only two o'clock. As Paul quitted the dining hall, greatly restored, he pondered how he should use the time remaining before his appointment with Prusty. Suddenly an idea entered his mind. He made an inquiry at the desk, and after a ten minute walk along the congested pavements of Leonard Street, crossed to Kenton Place and passed through the portico of the City Public Library.

Under the high echoing dome, he sought out the newspaper reference section.

"Could you give me the name of the most reputable Wortley newspaper?"

The youngster behind the desk looked up pertly.

"Are any of them reputable?"

Then quickly, in the tone of one whose function it is to instruct strangers, he added: "Probably the Courier is the best. It's quite dependable."

"Thank you. Could I see the files for the year 1921?"

"For the entire year?"

"Well, no." Despite his show of confidence, Paul coloured. "The last four months of 1921 would be sufficient."

"Will you complete a form, please."

"Of course."

Paul picked up the chained pencil, filled in the slip and handed it over.

"You are not a resident of Wortley?"

"No."

The clerk hesitated, flicking the form with a fingernail.

"Strictly speaking, you are not entitled to the use of the reading room."

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Paul's face fell. But immediately the other relented, advanced a brisk suggestion.

"You probably have relatives in the city?"

"No."

"Surely you can give some address?"

"Well," Paul paused, "I've just come from the Y.M.C.A. in Leonard Street."

"That'll do nicely." The young librarian smiled affably. "I'll put it down." He pressed the bell on his desk. A few minutes later an attendant brought out a heavy leather-bound folio and placed it upon an adjoining table.

With an agitated touch, Paul began to turn the dry, yellowish sheets, and the dark cords of his emotion drew taut again as he came, suddenly, upon the first mention of the crime: yes, there it

Was: DASTARDLY OUTRAGE AT ELDON. YOUNG WOMAN BRUTALLY MURDERED.

He controlled himself, and clenching his teeth, set himself to read. He read steadily, with bent head, while the hands on the dome clock moved forward, read from the beginning to the end. In essence it was the story he had heard, but told with a more dramatic force. When he came to the arrest, sweat broke out upon his brow. As, word by word, the drama of the trial unfolded itself, a groan broke from his lips. The speech of the prosecutor, Matthew Sprott, K.C., cut him like a whip.

' This atrocious murder,' " he read, " 'carried out by a cool and abandoned ruffian in circumstances of savage ferocity which beggar description, is barely paralleled in the annals of crime. The blackguard who committed a crime of this order has sunk to the lowest depths of human degradation. Hanging, gentlemen of the jury, is far too good for him!'"

Then, in a special supplement, at the end of the last sheet he found a page of photographs: reproductions of the victim — a pretty, simpering young woman, with a padded, fluffy chignon, wearing a beribboned blouse; of die witnesses; of the contemptible informer, Rocca, a weak-faced, weedy creature with sleek hair plastered in a middle parting; of the fatally incriminating post card with its fatuous phrase: "Absence makes the heart grow

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fonder"; of the weapon — a German razor manufactured by the firm of Frass. There were no omissions, even the ship was there, cleaving the waves, the S.S. Eastern Star, on which the criminal had meant to flee. And, in the centre of the page, standing in the dock to receive his sentence, between two officers of the law, the condemned man. Paul gazed at the photograph with stricken eyes: his father's face, bearing a hunted, a strangely sunken look, like an animal finally cornered for the kill, filled him with a culminating anguish.

Quickly, quickly, he closed the file of newspapers. He felt deprived of the last hope to which, fondly and perversely, he had clung. "Guilty! Guilty!" he muttered to himself. "Beyond the shadow of a doubt!"

He glanced at the clock and saw, with dull surprise, that it was nearly eight o'clock. He rose and carried the file back to the desk. The librarian who had issued it to him was still on duty there.

"Shall you want this again?" he inquired. "If so, we'll keep it out for you."

Through the trances of his senses, Paul noticed that the young fellow was looking at him with friendly interest. He was about nineteen, small and slim, with a wide humorous mouth, grey intelligent eyes, and a snub nose which gave to his face a lively, rather perky expression. Paul wondered a little shamefully if he had witnessed his display of feeling.

"No, I shan't want it again."

He stood for a moment, as though expectant of a reply, but although the clerk's eyes remained upon him, he did not speak. Paul turned and went out of the library into the noisy streets.

CHAPTER VII

NOW that he knew everything, his first impulse was to abandon his appointment with Albert Prusty, to spare himself a senseless

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repetition of the pain he had recently endured. Yet in the end, with the strange fatalism which since the moment of revelation had guided all his actions, he bent his steps in the direction of Eldon.

He walked slowly: twilight was falling as he began to traverse the flagstones of Ushaw Terrace. It was a narrow thoroughfare with a tall row of stucco houses on either side, each with a porch and carriage step, bespeaking a bygone gentility. Though still respectable, conversion of the once stately dwellings into flats had robbed the neighbourhood of dignity, rendered it drab, even gloomy. Paul could not restrain a shudder as he approached the actual house where the murder was done, but setting his jaw, he passed through the entrance, mounted the damp-smelling stone staircase, and halting on the second landing, rang the bell.

After a short interval Mr. Prusty admitted him, through a dark hall, to the untidy front parlour, where, on a small gas ring a bubbling pot of coffee diffused a rich aroma.

The little tobacconist wore carpet slippers, an old velvet smoking jacket and, as though to point this eccentricity, a somewhat battered fez. But his manner was hospitable, and, bustling about, he poured the coffee, added brown sugar, then offered his guest a cup.

Paul sipped the thick black beverage, bitter-sweet and full of grounds. It was hot and refreshing. Meanwhile the tobacconist withdrew the straw from a long cheroot, sniffed it appreciatively, rolled it at his ear, and lit up.

"I do for myself here," he remarked, inhaling with a sigh of content. "The wife died six years ago. I hope you like the coffee ... I import it."

Paul mumbled an answer. Overcome by the strangeness of his position, he glanced about the room, furnished in worn red plush, and, caught by the ornate brass chandelier, his eyes finally came to rest upon the ceiling above his head.

"Yes," said Prusty, interpreting his expression. "I was in this very seat when the banging came through, such a fearful banging it made me rush up. God! Ill never forget the sight of her . . . lying there, half-naked, a tasty dish . . . but with her throat slit from ear to ear!" He broke off. "Don't look so scared, man. There's

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no one there now . . . it's empty. I have a key . . . the landlord lets me keep it . . . if you'd like to see the room."

"No, no." Paul shook his head. Then, pressing his forehead, he apologized. "I've had about as much as I can stand. All this afternoon I went through the case in the Courier."

"Ah, yes," Prusty meditated. "It was well reported there. They were even fair to me. And I made a poor enough show. Sprott, the prosecutor, made a regular fool of me. All because I would not swear the man who came out of that flat . . ." he gave his cheroot an upward tilt, "was Rees Mathry."

"You did not recognize him ... as my father."

"It was dark in the hallway. I didn't have my glasses. Oh, I daresay I was wrong. . . . Ed, the lad from the laundry, and all the others were so positive. But," he preened himself with a kind of crusty vanity, "I'm a stubborn man. I was not sure, and for all the badgering of that upstart Sprott I would not swear to it. Have vou ever been in the witness box?"

"No."

"God, when they have you there, they tie you in knots. Half the time you don't know what you're saying. The other half they won't let you say what you want to say. Now there was one strange thing I never got the chance to mention. I used to discuss it with my wife and Dr. Tuke — he was the doctor I called to see the body. Oh, he never figured in the case, they had their own medical experts and what not, but he was interested and we often talked it over afterwards."

The tobacconist impregnated his lungs with smoke, and reflectively stirred his coffee.

"When I went in the sitting room and saw that murder had been done, instinctively I rushed to the window and threw it open. I wanted to catch another glimpse of the man that ran away. And. by God, I did. Down there in the street, by the light that came from the window, I saw him pick up a bicycle that stood against the railings, jump on it, and pedal oft like mad. Now the colour of that bicycle was green . . . I'll swear to it ... a green bicycle. Strange, eh?" Prusty, who seemed to enjoy dramatizing himself, paused significantly. "Especially when you consider that all his life Mathry never had possessed even an ordinary bicycle."

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He waved a deprecating hand. "Of course they made out that he had simply lifted the machine to make a quick getaway. But if so, who owned that green bicycle, and where the devil did it vanish to — they dredged the canal for miles around, but never found it?"

There was a heavy pause.

"Another thing," Prusty went on, deliberately, "that peculiar leather purse found beside the body. It was not the murdered woman's. It was not Mathry's. Then whose was it? That was a point. ... It was a point that bothered a brainier man than me. The fellow who had charge of the case from first to last. Swann."

"Swann," echoed Paul blankly.

Prusty nodded with a sudden seriousness.

"Detective Inspector James Swann." Instinctively the tobacconist glanced about him, as though fearful of being overheard. He drew his chair closer to Paul. "I'm no humanitarian, I don't like to stick my neck out for anyone. But being who you are — I do think you ought to know about Swann."

The change in the other's manner struck through Paul's apathy. He sat up as Prusty resumed in a low and guarded tone.

"Swann was a nice chap, and smart too. But it wasn't only that — When he was on his beat, for instance, and any of the young lads got up to mischief, he wouldn't run them in, he'd just talk to them like a Dutch uncle — you see what I mean, he was regular decent. Unfortunately he had one weakness, and a bad one . . . the drink." Prusty stared at the glowing end of his cheroot and shook his head. "By God, it was strange, very strange."

Paul felt the back of his scalp contract. He was now listening intently.

"I knew him well, for he used to come to the shop twice a week for his half ounce of shag. And of course I saw a lot of him during the case. When it was all over and things had settled back to normal I began to notice a change in him. For one thing he was hitting the bottle harder. He'd never been talkative, but now it was difficult to get a word out of him. He wasn't so cheery, either, he seemed to have something on his mind. I often chaffed him about this, asked him if he was in love, and so on, but he always passed it off. Then one day, it would be about a twelve-month

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later, he came in looking extra grim ... he was maybe just a little tight. I'm going to take a big step, Albert,' he savs to me. 'I'm going to see Walter Gillett.' "

Prusty paused to sip his coffee.

"Now Walter Gillett was a lawyer with a first-class reputation, who did a lot or work about the police courts, and naturally I asked Swann why he was going to see him. But Jimmy shook his head. 'I can't say anything just now,' he answered in an odd way. 'But maybe you'll hear all about it soon.' "

Again the tobacconist lifted his cup and sipped. Paul could barely contain himself.

"Well," Prusty continued, sombrely, "I did hear something soon. The very next day, Swann turned up for point-duty at Leonard Square, stupid drunk. He fouled up the traffic, gave the wrong signals and caused a serious accident — a woman was run over and nearly got killed. Naturally there was a tremendous outcry. Swann was tried, dismissed from the force, and, as he no doubt deserved, sentenced to six months hard labour."

"Prison!" Paul exclaimed. "Then . . . what became of him?"

"He was finished," said Prusty. "When Swann came out he tried a number of jobs — private inquiry agent, hotel porter, cinema commissionaire — but he never stuck at anything for long. He was a changed man, to be honest, what with drink and one thing and another, he went to pieces. I can't say how he is now for I've lost track of him these last couple of years."