certificate merely gives the name, date, and place of birth. But Elaine and I talked it over, old boy, and at first we were against telling her-or you-and then we said no it was not fair to you, old boy. So we told her. And very reasonable she was about the whole thing. Very reasonable.”
He sounded aggrieved.
I finished my whisky and got up. It is useless to be angry with stupid people, and pointless to argue with them.
“No wonder she looked pale at dinner. I thought she was just tired.”
“I think she really was just tired, old boy.”
He looked at me with his protruding grey eyes, leaning droopily against the mantelpiece, stroking his thin hair, a worried expression still on his face.
It was a hopeless situation. I gave up.
“Maybe she was just tired. I expect that was mostly it.”
I forced myself to smile. He brightened at once.
“Good! So now we’re all in the clear, old boy?”
“That’s right.”
“Good-o!”
“Good-o!” I repeated, and was nearly sick. “I must be off. I’ll just pop along and see if she’s asleep.”
Her bedside light was on, but she was asleep, and did not stir when I put my head round the door. Thus I knew that she did indeed realise that the evening’s revelation would make no difference to me, and was not worried.
It could also have meant that she did not care one way or the other.
The news about Juliet had driven other things from my mind. Within a quarter of an hour there occurred something which shook me considerably, because it gave a warning of the violence which lay ahead.
It has to be remembered that I was too young to have fought in the war, and that I had lived in a peaceful and well-ordered society. I was not prepared for hazards other than the normal perils of accidents or ill health.
I had read about peasants who were observed, threatened, stalked, and finally clawed down by the jungle carnivores, but it always seemed to me that if one stuck to the safer paths one could, apart from Acts of God, reckon on physical security in this twentieth century.
I had no conception, until the very end, of what I was up against.
What happened after I had finally said good night to Stanley Bristow and closed his front door can as well be told by the statement I made to the police, at about fifteen minutes past midnight, which ran approximately as follows:
My name is James Compton, of 274 Stratford Road, Kensington, London, W.8. I am an author. At about 11.50 p.m. this evening I left the house of my fiancee, Juliet Bristow, and her parents in Jameson Street to walk home.
At the corner of Jameson Street and Kensington Place, I glanced to the right to see if the road was clear and saw two men standing under some trees on the opposite side of Kensington Place. Kensington Place is not very well lighted. I paid no particular attention.
I walked along Kensington Place into Church Street. At the bottom of Church Street I crossed the road to look into a lighted shop window. When I recrossed the road by the traffic lights I saw two men who might have been those I had previously seen. They turned the corner into Kensington High Street, walking very fast, and I lost sight of them.
I proceeded along the High Street and turned left along Wright’s Lane. At the bottom of Wright’s Lane I turned right, and passed a narrow entrance which leads to a garage. About ten yards further along the road, which is very short, a man came around the corner and stopped me and asked for a light for his cigarette.
He leaned forward towards my lighter and I noticed that his right hand was in his raincoat pocket. I am aware that this sort of approach can sometimes lead to an attack. The street was deserted. I held my lighter away from me, and although I saw nothing suspicious I watched him carefully. As he leaned forward with his cigarette in his mouth, I noticed that his eyes were not watching the flame but appeared to be fixed on something behind me, and at the same time as I noted this I heard a slight noise behind me.
I jumped back and to one side, and turned round. A tall man who in my opinion had been approaching me changed direction and passed me on the edge of the pavement. He walked very fast, almost running, and disappeared round the corner. He was carrying a short object in his right hand which might have been some sort of bludgeon.
I had with me a walking stick formed from a knobkerrie, which is a stick with a heavy knob and is used by African natives as a weapon. I raised this in a defensive position when I turned round. It is possible that in the indifferent lighting he had not noticed the nature of the object I was carrying. It is possible that the sight of it deterred him.
The other man asked me whether anything was the matter. I said no but that I was a little nervy. He thanked me and walked off towards Wright’s Lane.
The tall man was about six feet in height, of normal build and had a round head with what seemed to be a crew-cut hair style, grey trousers, and a light brown knee-length mackintosh with a belt. He had turned the collar up, though it was not raining or cold. This obscured the lower part of his face. He wore no hat. His hair was brown.
The other man was about five feet seven inches tall, stockily built, and had a square face with a cleft chin. He wore a soft hat with a narrow brim. The hat had a cord round it. The tips of his striped shirt collar were fastened down with small buttons. He wore a light grey raincoat without a belt, which reached down below his knees. I think his eyes were light coloured. He had a slight foreign accent. I cannot identify the accent. Both men appeared to be in their thirties. I cannot say for certain that they were the men I had seen in Kensington Place or in Church Street. I might be able to identify them again, especially the shorter one.
“That’s about it,” I said, and signed the stilted, jerky statement. The bored young detective watched me. He stubbed out a cheap tipped cigarette, and leaned back in his chair.
I knew what he was thinking. I was thinking the same thing: when you got it down on paper it looked pretty thin on its own. And there was nothing anybody could do about it now.
The trouble was we had got off on the wrong footing. I went into the police station and said I wanted to report an incident which seemed to link up with something I had already reported to one of their sergeants, and the station sergeant said, “I see, sir,” and showed me into an interview room. Then the young detective came in, but he wouldn’t listen to me.
That was the point, he wouldn’t listen.
He said, “Well, all right, sir, but first let’s get an idea of the present trouble, and then we’ll see, we’ll see about the rest of it. Now what’s the present trouble, sir?”
The point is, it sounded thin, unless you had some idea of the build-up. But he cut me short when I tried to explain. He wanted the hard facts of my present “complaint,” as he called it.
So when he read through what I had written, I knew he was going to be niggly.
“What you saw in his hand might have been a torch,” he said.
“That’s right. It might have been.”
“You say he approached you. He might have been trying to pass between the buildings and you and the other chap-on the inside of the pavement, as it were.”
“He might have been. But we were well over on the inside. The easier way would have been to pass us on the outside.”
“People do funny things when they’re walking.”
“That’s right. But he was approaching me at quite a sharp angle from the pavement edge.”
I saw him turning the thought over in his mind, seeking some other plausible idea.
“Maybe he also wanted a light.”
“Two people without a light for their cigarettes, in the same short, deserted street, at the same time? Well, anyway, why didn’t he ask for one?”
“Maybe because you were waving this knobkerrie thing in his face.”
