The Best of Gerald Kersh (21 page)

John Jacket put on his hat and left the house.

He did no work that afternoon. At five o’clock he telephoned Chief Inspector Dark, at Scotland Yard, and said: ‘… Just in case. That little man Wainewright has just been telling me that
he
killed Tooth in Bishop’s Square.’

Chief Inspector Dark replied: ‘I know. He’s been
telling
the same story around here. He was in yesterday. The man’s mad. Damned nuisances. Happens every time. Dozens of ’em always confess to what they haven’t done every time somebody kills somebody. Have to make
a routine investigation, as you know. But this Tooth business is nothing but a lot of Sweet Fanny Adams. Pay no attention to it. Wainewright’s stone crackers, plain crazy. Forget it.’

‘Just thought I’d tell you,’ said Jacket.

‘Right you are,’ said the chief inspector, and rang off.

*

So Jacket forgot it. Great things were happening. Everyone knew that England was about to go to war against Germany. The nights were full of menace, for the lights were out in the cities. London after dark was like something tied up in a damp flannel bag. Jacket, who preferred to work a little ahead of time, was preparing certain articles which, he was certain, were going to be topical. He wrote a thousand words about a gas attack, under the title
They
Thought
This
Was
Funny,
and had it set up, illustrated with a cartoon from a 1915 issue of
Simplicissimus.
He wrote an impassioned obituary on the first baby that was to be killed in London, for immediate use if and when the war broke out. He compiled and elaborated monstrously scurrilous biographical articles about Hitler, Goebbels, Goering, etcetera.

But one evening, as he sat refreshing himself with a glass of beer and a sandwich in the ‘Duchess of Douro’, he saw Mr Wainewright again. Mr Wainewright could not see him: a twelve-inch-square artificial mahogany pillar stood between them, and the hot, smoky bar was crowded. Mr Wainewright, dressed in a tight-fitting black suit with red chalk-stripes, was conversing with a thick-set sweaty man in a light tweed sports coat.

The conversation had touched the perils and the
dangers of the coming night. The thick-set man was saying:

‘Buy torches! Buy bulbs, buy bulbs and batteries! At any price – any price at all, wherever you can lay your hands on them. Buy torches, bulbs, and batteries. Prices are going up by leaps and bounds. A good torch is going to be worth its weight in gold. Everybody is stumbling about in the dark. There’s going to be accidents in the black-out. Mark my words. Accidents. And crime. Look out for crime.’

‘Crime?’ said Mr Wainewright.

‘Crime. Forgive me if I can’t offer you a drink,’ said the thick-set man.

‘Oh please, have one with me.’

‘No, no! Well, a small one. You’re very kind…. Yes, crime. Robberies, murders – the black-out sets the stage for robberies and murders.’

The barmaid whom Tooth had called Baby said, as she put down two drinks: ‘Are you still on about murders?’

Mr Wainewright, paying her, said: ‘You look out. This gentleman is right. You can’t be too careful. What’s to stop anybody following you home in the dark and sticking a knife in you?’

The thick-set man said: ‘Exactly, sir. Exactly.’

‘I don’t go home. I’ve got no home,’ said the barmaid. ‘I live here. You and your murders!’

‘Yes, but you go out sometimes,’ said the thick-set man.

‘Only on Tuesday,’ said the barmaid, with a tired laugh. ‘If you want to stick a knife in me, you’d better wait till Tuesday.’ She pushed Mr Wainewright’s change across the bar and served another customer.

‘Tuesday,’ said Mr Wainewright.

The thick-set man was pleased with his idea. He said: ‘I’m a man who is as it were
professionally
interested in crime.’ He looked sideways and laughed.

‘Oh, indeed?’ said Mr Wainewright.

‘As a
writer,’
said the thick-set man, suddenly grave. ‘My name is Munday Marsh. You may have come across one or two of my little efforts in the
Roger
Bradshaw
Detective
Library.’
He cleared his throat and waited. Mr Wainewright said:

‘Oh yes, yes I have indeed!’

‘I hate to have this drink with you because I can’t return it…. No, no – not again! You’re
very
good! As I was saying. Assume there is a sort of Jack the Ripper; a murderer without motive – the most difficult sort of killer to catch. The lights are out in this great city. The streets are dark. Dark, and swarming with all kinds of men from everywhere. Now, say a woman – Blondie there, for instance——’

‘She is called Baby,’ said Mr Wainewright.

‘Baby. Baby is found dead, killed with a common kitchen knife. There are thousands of kitchen knives. I’ve got half a dozen at home myself. Say I kill Baby with such a knife. All I need is nerve. I walk past her, stab suddenly, and walk on, leaving the knife in the wound. If necessary I turn back as the lady falls and ask “What’s the trouble?” Do you get the idea? I simply kill, and walk coolly on. Who could swear to me in this
blackout
, even if anyone saw me? Eh?’

‘What a clever man you must be!’ exclaimed Mr Wainewright.

Jacket, who could see his face, saw that the scanty
eyebrows
arched upwards, and observed a strange light in
the colourless eyes.

‘Of course,’ Mr Wainewright continued, thoughtfully, ‘you’d use – in your story, I mean – any sort of knife. Something anyone could get anywhere. A common French cook’s knife, say: a strong knife with a point. Um?’

‘Any knife,’ said the writer who called himself Munday Marsh. ‘Anything. You don’t wait to get your victim alone. No. All you need is nerve, sir, nerve! A quick, accurate stab, and walk calmly on your way. I’d write that story, only I can see no means of catching my
murderer.
’

The barmaid heard the last word and said: ‘My God, why is everybody so morbid? Murder, murder, murder – war, war, war. What’s the matter with you? You got a kink or something?’

‘Wait and see,’ said Mr Wainewright. ‘I’m not so kinky as you think.’

Jacket, still watching, saw Mr Wainewright’s pale and amorphous mouth bend and stretch until it made a dry smile. For the first time he saw Mr Wainewright’s teeth. He did not like that smile.

The barmaid raised her eyes to the painted ceiling with languid scorn. Jacket observed that she looked downward quickly. Then he heard the
whup-whup-
whup
of the swinging door, and noticed that Mr
Wainewright
was gone.

*

A week passed. John Jacket was eating and drinking at the bar of the ‘Duchess of Douro’ before one o’clock in the afternoon, the day being Wednesday.

‘How’s life?’ he asked the barmaid.

‘So-so,’ she said.

‘Doing anything exciting?’

She hesitated, and said: ‘I ran into a friend of yours last night.’

‘A friend? Of mine?’

‘That little man. What’s his name? A little man. You
remember
! That funny little man. Old Murders – I for get what he calls himself. The one that gets himself up like a gangster. Used to go about in a bowler hat. Talks about murders. What
is
his name?’

‘You mean Wainewright?’

‘That’s it, Wainewright.’

‘How did you manage to run into him, Baby?’

‘It was a funny thing. You know Tuesday’s my day off. I generally go to see my sister. She lives near High Road, Tottenham. I left here about eleven in the morning and there was little what’s-his-name. Wainewright. I walked along Charing Cross Road to get the tram at the end of Tottenham Court Road – you like to stretch your legs on a nice morning like yesterday, don’t you?’

‘Well?’

‘I walk to Hampstead Road, and there he is again.’

‘Wainewright?’

‘Yes. Well, I pay no attention, I catch my tram, I go to my sister’s and spend the afternoon, and we go to the pictures. We get the tram back and go to the Dominion. And when we get out, there he is again!’

‘Wainewright?’

‘That’s right. There he is. So my sister says: “A nice night like this – let’s walk a bit. I’ll walk back with you.” So we walk back here. Well, when we get to the National Gallery, we wait for the lights to change before we cross the road – there he is again.’

‘There Wainewright is again?’

‘Uh-huh. So I say to him: “Hallo.” And he says “Hallo,” and walks off again along Charing Cross Road. It was almost as if he was following us.’

‘That’s funny,’ said John Jacket.

‘Coincidence, I dare say. But he’s a funny little man. Do you like him, Mr Jacket?’

‘No, Baby, I can’t say I do.’

‘Well,’ said the barmaid, reluctantly, ‘he seems to be all right. But somehow or other I don’t seem to like him very much myself. What’s the matter? What’re you thinking about, all of a sudden?’

‘Nothing, Baby, just nothing.’ Jacket finished his drink, and said: ‘He was outside here. He was at the tram-stop in Hampstead Road. He was at the Dominion. And then he was here again. Is that right?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Nothing. When’s your next day off?’

‘Tuesday.’

‘Are you going to your sister’s again?’

‘I generally do,’ said Baby, turning away to serve a soldier.

‘What time d’you get out?’ asked Jacket, when she returned.

‘About eleven or so. Why?’

‘I just wondered. And you get back before the pub closes, I suppose? Before half-past eleven, I mean. Eh?’

‘We’ve got to be in before twelve o’clock, you know,’ said Baby. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Curiosity. Your movements fascinate me,’ said Jacket.

Then the lunch-hour rush began to come into the ‘Duchess of Douro’, and Jacket went out.

He went to see Chief Inspector Dark. ‘Listen, Dark,’ he said, ‘you know me.’

‘Well?’ said the chief inspector.

‘You know I’m not crazy.’

Chief Inspector Dark pursed his lips and said: ‘Well?’

‘You remember that crazy little man Wainewright, the witness in the Tooth case?’

‘Well?’

‘I think he’s getting to be dangerous.’

‘How?’

‘You remember how he kept confessing to the killing of Tooth?’

‘Well?’

‘Well, Dark, I believe he really did do it.’

‘Well?’ said Chief Inspector Dark.

‘If I were you I’d keep an eye on Wainewright.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I believe that Wainewright’s gone really mad, dangerously mad at last, Dark.’

‘What makes you think so?’

Having explained why he thought so, Jacket
concluded
: ‘Wainewright’s feelings are hurt. He is
determined
to make you believe, at any cost.’

‘Look,’ said Chief Inspector Dark. ‘With one thing and another I’m rushed off my feet. I’m short-handed, and I’m busy. Is this all you’ve got to say?’

‘Keep an eye on Wainewright,’ said Jacket. ‘He’s after the barmaid, Baby, at the “Duchess of Douro”.’

‘Following her about? So would I, if I wasn’t a married man, and had time to spare,’ said Dark. ‘Keep an eye on Wainewright yourself. I don’t think there’s anything to it. I’m short-handed, and I’m busy, Jacket. Will you take a hint?’

Jacket said: ‘Oh well, I can’t blame you for not seeing my point.’

‘Much obliged,’ said Dark. ‘See you some other time.’

Jacket left, grinding his teeth.
I’ll
keep
close
to
Baby
myself,
he said to himself, as he waited for a taxi in Whitehall.
I’ll
show
them.
I’ll
make
Dark
feel
small!

But on the following Sunday, Mr Chamberlain announced that England was at war with Germany, and ten days passed before John Jacket had time to think of Baby and of Mr Wainewright.

By then, something had happened.

*

It happened on the night of 5 September 1939. The Germans had destroyed the 7th Polish Division, and the French Army had engaged the Germans between the Rhine and the Moselle. U-boats had sunk British
merchant
ships. The blonde called Baby had her day off, and Mr Wainewright followed her. She did not leave until half-past five that day.

He had learned something of the technique of pursuit. Instinct had warned him to put on again his dark suit and his bowler hat. He wore, also, a grey overcoat. The blonde called Baby could be kept in sight without his being seen. Mr Wainewright knew how to play his cards. He saw her coming out of the side entrance of the ‘Duchess of Douro’, and kept her in sight: she wore a fur that resembled a silver fox, and a diminutive yellow hat. It was not difficult to keep her within your range of vision.

Mr Wainewright followed her to St Martin’s-in-
the-Fields
, and right, into Charing Cross Road. Something had happened to the current of life in the town. There
was a new, uneasy swirl of dark-clothed civilians, like
tea-leaves
in a pot, together with a rush of men in khaki uniforms.

Baby walked on: she had to walk. Once she tried to stop a taxi, but the driver waved a vague hand and drove towards Whitehall. So she walked, until she caught her tram. Baby climbed to the upper deck to smoke a cigarette. Mr Wainewright sat below. When she got out, he got out. She disappeared into a little house beyond Seven Sisters corner. He waited.

As he waited he thought:

‘Nobody
believes
me.
I’ve
confessed
to
a
murder.
They
throw
me
out.
They
laugh
at
me.
They
take
me
for
a
lunatic.
To
the
police,
I’m
one
of
those
madmen
who
go
about
confessing 
–
saying
they’ve
committed
crimes
they
haven’t
committed.
I
killed
Tooth,
and
I
tell
them
so.
But
no!
I’m
crazy,
they
say.
Good.
I’ll
kill
her.
I’ll
kill
her
with
a
common
knife.
When
the
papers
report
it,
I’ll
mark
it
with
a
pencil
and
go
along
and
confess
again.
Nobody
will
believe.’