Stars For The Toff

“Nice morning, Guv’nor!”

“What a happy place the world is this morning,” remarked Rollison.

“For some folk,” observed the taxi-driver, sagely. “Where to, sir?”

“As near West London Magistrates Court as you can get.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” said the taxi-driver. “But it may take some time. Just come from that direction, I have— never seen crowds like it, the streets are packed solid.”

The taxi-driver was right.

The crowds stretched all along Southcombe Street, people standing five and six abreast, filling every corner and doorway, blocking the pavements and overflowing into the road. Most were women, but here and there a long- haired, Edwardian-trousered youth waited with the soul-starved patience of the empty-headed. There was no forward movement in the queue, and there was likely to be none, for the West London Magistrates Court was no different from other London police courts; the public gallery was large enough to take only a handful.

Rollison saw the extra police—six were standing close to the entrance. As he made his way towards it, a plain-clothes detective from the Division approached him.

“You here on business?”

“Serious business,” Rollison answered.

“What business?” The detective, big and burly, drew closer, and said sotto voce, “Nip in quick, Mr Rollison.” Aloud, he complained: “Why don’t they tell me?”

Rollison went inside gratefully.

He knew the sedate manner of warders and policemen and court officials. It was traditional that there should be quietness if not complete silence. So it was now—except that by the door leading towards the public benches and the Press box an unusual crowd of eager-faced men and women muttered among themselves under the condemnatory gaze of two policemen and a magistrate’s clerk. Over their heads Rollison saw a solid mass of people inside the panelled room, and constant movement where usually there was dull sedateness. A red-faced court policeman was struggling to keep some kind of order. Catching sight of Rollison, he drew a hand across his sweaty brow.

“Ever see the like, sir?”

“No, Sergeant, never. No room at the Court, eh?”

“Take my tip, sir, you go down into the cells and on up that way. When his nibs comes in he’ll clear this mob away. Follow his nibs, sir, that’s the safest thing.”

“What it is to have friends,” murmured Rollison appreciatively.

“We owe you a turn or two when we think of the number of prisoners you’ve put in the dock for us, sir.”

Rollison thought: “It’s a rewarding world, after all.”

He went down the flight of steps the sergeant had indicated, and into the quietness of the room below. Here, a few prisoners and a few policemen sat or stood about, amongst them three solicitors of his acquaintance. One nodded. The third came up, a man whose name Rollison could not recall.

“Who’s your client, Rollison?”

“Just a watching brief.”

“Don’t say Madam Melinska fleeced you, too, she’s only been in this country a few months. Must be a quick worker, what?” The man laughed coarsely.

“Prejudgment?” murmured Rollison.

“Personal opinion. She’s a smooth-tongued bitch.”

“You’re not appearing for her, I trust? Nor against her?” Rollison added hastily.

“No,” the other answered.

“What do you know about the girl?”

“A chip off the old bitch.”

“Mr Godley!” a younger man called, and the man with Rollison turned away, with a grunt which may have been “excuse me.” Rollison watched him striding on stumpy legs towards the cells, and echoed in disgust:

“Godley, good God!”

Then an odd realisation came to him. He was angry with Godley for his condemnation of the two women.

As he assimilated this fact, a tall, grey-haired, austere-looking man came in at a side door: Nimmo, the stipendiary magistrate in charge. Ignoring everyone, he strode towards an arched wooden door marked: Magistrate. Private. Rollison watched it close behind him; then, feeling a rising curiosity, glanced round for a newspaper which might help him to understand more about the charge. He was beginning to thirst for knowledge of Madam Melinska and her assistant, Mona Lister.

Nimmo came out, wearing a gown; an M.A. gown.

Almost immediately, Rollison followed him up the steps, past the dock with its shiny brass rail, close to the bench to which Nimmo was climbing. The clerk to the Court had summoned everyone to stand, and a solid mass of people rose. Rollison was close to the dock and expected to be moved on at any moment.

Nimmo sat down; everyone sat down except the mass of people jammed in the doorway. Nimmo glanced across, and said: