Final Witness Read online

  Final Witness

  J. F. Straker

  © J. F. Straker 1963

  J. F. Straker has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1963 by Harrap

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

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  Extract from Death on a Sunday Morning by J F Straker

  1

  Only the wind disturbed the nocturnal silence. It blew fiercely off the river, funnelled down the narrow street in a flurry of dust, picking up scraps of paper and other refuse and juggling with them playfully before flinging them away. A sudden gust clouded the mouth of the alley where the woman stood, and she shielded her face from it and pressed her body against the high, unyielding wall of the warehouse, pulling her thin coat more closely about her and hugging herself tightly to deny access to the probing wind. She had known it cold in May before, but not as cold as this.

  As the gust subsided she drew away from the wall and looked across the street to the tall, arched doorway where the couple had taken shelter. She could not distinguish them clearly, but she knew they were still there; there was the occasional movement in the shadows, the faint, unintelligible murmur of voices brought to her by the wind. She stamped her feet and blew on her numb fingers, swearing softly to herself, at herself. For what was she waiting? In the twenty minutes she had stood there she had learned nothing. It was a senseless, futile vigil.

  Yet she continued to keep it. She was even able to obtain from it a strange satisfaction — the ecstatic, esoteric satisfaction of the martyr.

  A low rumbling to her right caused her to peer out cautiously. Light shone on to the street from beyond the warehouse, bringing the cobbles into high relief, but too faint to illumine fully the hoardings opposite. As the rumbling ceased there came the throb of an engine, and the dark shape of a large van emerged from the warehouse yard and turned right; it stopped, and the rumbling recommenced. Silhouetted against the glow of the sidelights she could see two men tugging at the heavy sliding doors, while another stood motionless and watchful near by. If they spoke she did not hear them. The wind carried the sound of their voices away.

  The woman shrank back quickly, forgetful of her vigil in the sudden panic that assailed her. She knew what the warehouse contained, and it was not difficult to guess why the men were there. As she thought of the night watchman and realized what the thieves must have done to him, anger and frustration were added to her fear. Yet she was powerless to intervene, to raise the alarm. If she ventured into the street they were bound to see her; there was no escape that way. And behind her, at the far end of the alley, there was only the river.

  So far the noises had been in undertones, muffled by the wind and dictated by the need for secrecy and silence. Now they sharpened. As the heavy doors clanged together there came the sound of iron-shod feet hitting the cobbles in rhythmic urgency; away to the woman’s left the dancing beam from a torch hurried towards her, swinging from side to side of the narrow street. Momentarily it flashed across the couple in the archway, and as she craned forward the woman caught a glimpse of a man’s face, scared and startled. Then, as the beam neared the mouth of the alley, she retreated into the protective darkness and waited for the roar of an opening throttle to announce the thieves’ departure.

  It did not come. There was only the excited babel of men’s voices, the patter of men’s feet on the cobbles, and above them the sharp whine of the starter motor — in frantic bursts at first, and then in laboured continuity.

  ‘Hold it, copper!’ snapped a man’s voice.

  She had not realized that the running feet had slowed and stopped. Cautiously she peered round the corner of the warehouse. The beam from the torch was still, directed downward at a pair of highly polished black shoes that winked back at it. Silhouetted against the light was the dark shape of the policeman, his helmet seeming to tower above the buildings beyond. The starter motor whined on, its note lower, more sepulchral.

  The beam lifted. As it moved slowly up the tight-fitting jeans, hesitating only slightly at the gun gleaming in the man’s right hand, a piece of newspaper came sailing down the street, dipping and soaring. It reached the mouth of the alley and was sucked in, wrapping itself round the woman’s face.

  A voice called shrilly, ‘Don’t do it, Bandy! For Chris’ sake don’t do it!’

  The woman snatched the paper away. Her spectacles came away with it, but she did not stoop to retrieve them. The torch was now steady on the man’s face. To her it was little more than a blur of white, like the blanked-out faces of prisoners in a newspaper photograph. Yet because the torch pinpointed it in the darkness she watched it.

  The policeman stood his ground. In a brisk, authoritative voice he said, ‘Better hand over that gun, lad. It might go off.’

  The van’s engine erupted into noisy life, drowning all other sound. But suddenly there were no faces, no voices, no human shapes; only a thin pencil of light along the cobbles, through which the polished shoes of the gunman moved briefly into obscurity, and behind the light the huddled figure of the fallen policeman. There came the brisk revving of the engine, and the van moved off with a hurried, untidy changing of gears, head-lights dancing as the wheels bounced on the cobbles. As the noise died and the lights vanished round a corner the woman saw the couple leave the shelter of their archway, heard the sound of their footsteps. But she did not follow. The purpose of her self-appointed vigil was forgotten, submerged in the tragic urgency of this new situation. She came out from the alley and ran to kneel beside the dead policeman.

  2

  The Centipede Club is in Streatham. It is a respectable club in a respectable district, although it gets its share of drunks. There was one there that Tuesday evening; an irascible, burly six-footer, with bloodshot eyes and a bulging stomach, who had discarded his jacket at an early stage and whose flapping shirt was wet with sweat. Between double whiskies he cavorted round the room with maniacal fury, pressing his partner, a tired-looking little brunette, against his damp bosom and glaring angrily at any couple who dared to impede him. As the evening advanced these became fewer. The women, if not the men, saw to it that his progress went unhindered.

  ‘Who’s the drunk, Jimmy?’ asked David Wight.

  The barman scowled. ‘Name of Chapman. Country member. Don’t come in often, thank goodness! Haven’t seen him for months.’

  ‘He’s making up for it now. How long before he passes out?’

  ‘He don’t pass out. Never has yet, anyways. Just keeps going till he gets the urge to quit.’

  Expertly Jimmy snapped the top off a bottle of light ale and buried the neck in a glass. ‘I hope he gets it soon. Could be trouble else.’

  David leant against the bar and watched the dancers jiving and twisting round the room. Like the drunk, he did not come to the club often. It was a cosy room, discreetly lit, with a good floor and a modern radiogram. An enormous and elongated black centipede formed a mural round three of the yellow walls; according to Jimmy, who claimed to have counted them, the creature had exactly one hundred legs, one for each of the hundred members to which the club was limited. David wondered who had imposed that limitation. To him it seemed unnecessary. He had never seen more than a score of people present at one time, and in general they were the same people.

  That evening there were thirteen; six couples
and himself. The women had an average share of good looks, but the men were an unattractive lot. Apart from the drunk, whose fat face was now almost incandescent, three of the men were young and noisily exuberant, one was a West Indian, and the sixth a bearded, thickset man who solemnly jigged his partner up and down in a dark corner of the room, a meerschaum pipe stuck between his teeth, a monocle dangling from a ribbon round his neck. Occasionally he would cease jigging, remove the pipe, and smother the girl’s face with kisses. Then back would go the pipe, and the jigging recommenced.

  It was the West Indian who interested David the most. In the middle thirties, he was lithe and sparely built, with a slim waist accentuated by a jacket of exaggerated cut. To David he suggested a mixture of several races. He had the high, severe cheekbones and taut skin of the Hindu, yet the full lips and thick woolly hair denoted negroid blood; his alert, inquisitive eyes had an oriental slant. His shoulders were narrow and sloping, his fingers long and supple; the pointed shoes probably added several inches to feet that were small. A thin chevron of a moustache decorated his upper lip, and diagonally across the high, domed forehead ran a jagged scar, thick and long and ugly, over which the dark skin had failed to knit. His partner was a woman David knew only as Nora; a tall, brittle blonde, with a good figure and a tight, impassive face. They danced well together, the woman a trifle stiffly, following the man’s intricate, rather exaggerated pattern of steps with the minimum of motion. And as they danced the man talked incessantly, his mouth close to his partner’s ear. David wondered at the theme of his monologue. It did not appear to be of absorbing interest to the woman.

  ‘Who’s the darky?’ he asked. ‘Never seen one here before.’

  The barman shrugged. ‘Couldn’t say. Nora brought him.’

  ‘Don’t we have a colour bar?’

  ‘Not yet we don’t. There could be one brewing.’

  David knew what he meant. Chapman had stopped dancing. He stood at the far end of the bar, whisky in one hand and his free arm encircling his partner’s waist, bloodshot eyes glowering at the dancers. But it was at Nora and the West Indian that most of his resentment was directed. Each time the couple passed him he commented loudly and disparagingly on the man’s colour and parentage and on the probable morals of his partner. That they ignored him only increased his resentment and sharpened the insults.

  When the dance ended they joined the other couples at the bar. David grinned at Nora, and she gave him a stiff little smile. There was a rumbling in Chapman’s throat. He removed an arm from his partner’s waist and banged a large fist on the counter, making the glasses rattle.

  ‘We don’t want bloody niggers here,’ he growled. ‘They stink. Tell him to get the hell out of it, Jimmy.’

  The chatter died. Unheeding, Jimmy went on pouring the drinks. Chapman’s partner clutched at his sweat-soaked shirt.

  ‘Stop it, Wilfred!’ she said plaintively. She had a squeaky little voice. ‘Don’t make a scene, dear.’

  The big man shook her off. He leaned across the counter and grabbed Jimmy’s arm, jerking him violently forward. Whisky splashed on the polished oak.

  ‘Hear what I said? Tell that nigger to beat it.’

  The barman put down the glass. He looked more annoyed than frightened. ‘You tell him,’ he said. ‘I only work here.’ Almost delicately he unpicked the hand from his sleeve, lifting it finger by finger. ‘Me, I prefer niggers to drunks. They’re less expensive.’

  The allusion was lost on Chapman. Nora was between him and his quarry, and he pushed her away and stuck his crimson face close to the dark face of the West Indian. The latter stood his ground; but there were little flecks of white foam at the corners of his mouth, and he licked his full lips nervously.

  ‘You going, nigger?’ Chapman brandished an enormous fist, on the little finger of which was a heavy gold signet-ring. ‘Or do I throw you out?’

  The young couples at the bar drifted away, the men led willingly enough by their anxious partners. David braced himself; he was disinclined for trouble, but he had no intention of running from it. With relief he saw the bearded man release his clutch on the girl, screw his monocle into his eye, and advance on the bar. The meerschaum was still between his teeth, but he looked a man who would stand no nonsense.

  Nora’s face was pale under the make-up, her eyes troubled. She said quietly, ‘You’d better go, George. I was afraid something like this would happen. That’s why I didn’t want you to come. But you insisted, and...’ She shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The West Indian nodded, his eyes fixed warily on the drunk. Perhaps he feared a sudden attack. But he looked neither surprised nor resentful of the insults; no doubt he was used to them. He finished his drink, flashed his white and gold teeth in a smile at Nora, and, passing his tormentor in a wide arc, walked briskly to the door, his body swaying from the hips.

  In silence they watched him go. At the door he turned. In a high-pitched, clipped voice he said, staring back at Chapman, ‘I’m going, man. But I ain’t going because you tell me. I just don’t like drunks. Like you said, they stink.’

  With a roar Chapman released his hold on the bar and charged drunkenly. As he passed the bearded man the latter put out his foot and gave him a sharp tap on the ankle, and with a crash that shook the room Chapman tripped over himself and fell headlong. David waited expectantly for the ensuing uproar, but it did not materialize; it was clear that Chapman did not know how he had come to fall. For a few moments he stayed prostrate. Then he sat up, glared dazedly at the watchful faces above him, and rose awkwardly to his feet. Swaying unsteadily, he tottered across to a chair and sat down, the chair legs scraping the floor in protest.

  David said to the bearded man, ‘Neat, chum. Very neat indeed.’

  The other removed the pipe from his mouth. In a transatlantic drawl he said, ‘Know what I like about you British? No segregation. The coloured man is your friend and brother. It makes us Southerners feel real mean.’

  He stuck the pipe back and returned to his partner.

  Someone put a record on the radiogram. David asked Nora to dance. He had two styles of dancing, neither of which was of text-book quality; Susan Long had classified them as ‘the quick and the dead.’ Susan herself was usually treated to the ‘quick.’ The ‘dead’ was reserved for David’s more elderly or unfamiliar partners; it consisted of a series of lateral shuffles and forward or backward glides, the feet never leaving the floor, the trunk erect and rigid. Nora followed it easily enough, her body as stiff and unyielding as his. Under his hand her waist felt as though it were encased in steel.

  ‘The shouting and the tumult dies,’ David said. ‘But it was unpleasant while it lasted. Particularly for you. I thought your friend behaved damned well.’

  ‘He’s used to it. And it doesn’t help to lose one’s temper. Not when the other man is so much bigger.’

  Cynical philosophy, he thought, and wondered what her relationship with her coloured friend had been — or still was. She was probably the elder by several years; he doubted if she would see forty again. The eyes betrayed her age; the eyes and the neck, where no artistry could hide the telltale lines. Nor was she beautiful. The careful make-up and the slim, tightly corseted figure, the platinum blonde hair piled high on her head (too high, thought David, for such a tall woman) provided a veneer of glamour, but they did not give her beauty. The black velvet dress, high necked and short skirted, hugged her figure. He thought her legs too thin, but her ankles were good.

  She was a patient listener, but David found himself unable to emulate her former partner’s ceaseless flow of words. There was nothing about Nora to inspire him. Half-way through the dance he ran out of conversation, and they finished it in silence.

  At the bar Jimmy said, ‘Now we can all have a nice, peaceful evening.’ He looked apologetically at Nora. ‘I’m sorry your friend had to leave. There wasn’t nothing I could do about it, was there?’

  She gave him a fleeting smile and shook her head. David noticed
with surprise that Chapman had gone. But his partner had not. She came up to the bar and added her apologies to Jimmy’s.

  ‘Drunken brute!’ she exclaimed, as angrily as her plaintive little voice would permit. ‘Spoiling everyone’s evening like that. And then he just walks out on me. Didn’t even offer to pay for my taxi.’ She grimaced. ‘Oh, well! But I’ll have something to say to Mr Wilfred Chapman if ever I see him again. Which I probably won’t.’

  She accepted eagerly the drink which David offered. Nora said, ‘You’re not a member here, are you?’

  No, she said, she was not a member. Jimmy began to enumerate the advantages of joining; he received a percentage of the takings and a bonus for enrolling new members. David asked Nora to dance.

  ‘I’d rather sit for a while,’ she said. ‘I’m tired.’ She nodded at the brunette. ‘Why not ask her?’

  ‘I’ll sit too,’ he said firmly. He felt in no way drawn to Nora, but at least her voice did not irritate him. It was cool and impersonal, and pleasantly low. And she did not chatter.

  In an effort to be sociable he told her about his job. When she learned that he was a journalist she evinced her first show of interest.

  ‘What paper?’

  ‘Not a paper — Topical Truths. It’s a weekly magazine.’

  ‘I know. Elsie takes it. She and I share a flat. But I’m afraid I’ve never read it.’ To soften the blow she added, ‘I’m not much of a reader.’

  He laughed. ‘You don’t have to apologize. It’s not much of a magazine. Just a scandal sheet. ‘The truth behind the news.’ But not the front-page news; not the big stuff. We’re not interested in politics or economics or world affairs. Sex, crime, gossip —it’s dirt we go for. We wallow in it. So do our readers.’

  He did not sound bitter. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked. ‘The work, I mean?’

  ‘It’s a job. And a beginning. One doesn’t have to like it.’