Beyond this place (26 page)

But the younger policeman had smashed the padlock with a blow of his truncheon, Paul was bundled into the waiting police wagon, and whirled off to the station. Half insensible he scarcely knew what was happening to him until he was flung forward into a cell. His brow hit the cement floor with stunning force. This made no difference to the splitting pain permanently established within his head, rather it seemed to shock him out of the stupor into which he had fallen. At least, he groaned. This groan had a bad effect on the three policemen who stood watching him, and who were already considerably annoyed by the trouble he had caused them.

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"The young swine," remarked the first. "He's coming out of his drunk."

"No," said Sergeant Jupp, "it's not drink."

The third officer, a stout figure, was still red and fuming — in the struggle someone had kicked him in the stomach.

"Whatever it is, he's not going to muck me about and get away with it."

He bent forward, caught Paul by the scruff of the neck and dragged him upright, like a sack of Hour. Then, clenching his fist, he struck him between the eyes. Blood spurted from Paul's nose. He dropped in a heap and lay still.

"You shouldn't do that," Jupp said coldly. "He'll get enough . . . and soon."

As the cell door clanged on the silent huddled form the youngest of the policemen laughed uncomfortably.

"Anyway," he said, as though salving his conscience, "he asked for it."

CHAPTER VIM

IT was late afternoon when, in an uncertain fashion, Paul again became conscious of his surroundings. He lay for a long time staring up at the single armoured light in the roof of his cell. Then, he got on his hands and knees and crawled to the ewer standing at one end of the wooden plank bed. Tilting the ewer, he took a drink, then dabbed his swollen features. The water was cool and refreshing, but almost at once his face began to burn. Carefully, he pulled himself up and sat down on the plank. His head did not ache so much now. But to his surprise, he was finding it difficult to breathe — at every inspiration he felt a cutting pain in his left side. Presently he discovered that the way to avoid this, or at least to diminish the intensity of the pain, was to breathe less deeply, to take, in fact, only half a breath. Naturally he was obliged to make these shallow respirations faster, but this did not greatly inconvenience him.

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Suddenly, as he sat there, accommodating himself to this new symptom, the cell door opened and a man came in. Paul peered up through his swollen eyes, recognising the Chief Constable of Wortley.

Dale stood staring down at him silently for a long time, as though examining every detail of his condition. In contrast with their previous meeting, his demeanour was aloof, his expression strangely sombre. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and restrained.

"So you didn't take my advice after all. If I remember right, I told you to go home. But no, that wasn't good enough for you. You preferred to stop on and stir up trouble. So here you are, just like I told you, only worse, far worse."

There was another pause.

"No doubt you thought you were mighty smart. Defying my sergeant and getting away with it. Hanging around all these weeks without being picked up. Don't deceive yourself, my friend. All the time vou were living; on mv bountv. I could have hauled you in at a moment's notice. But somehow, against my better judgment, I wanted to give you an extra chance. And you didn't take it."

Dale's lips drew back over his strong teeth.

"So now you're in a pretty poor state, by the looks of you. Maybe my chaps used you a bit rough. But, tut, tut — you mustn't mind. That's what happens when you resist an officer in the execution of his duty. Nobody to blame but yourself."

Again a silence. It seemed as though the Chief Constable were inviting Paul to speak, even hoping that he might do so, might commit himself through some ill-chosen word. But from the moment Dale had entered his cell Paul had resolved to say nothing. His chance would come later, in court. He listened, with a queer sense of detachment, as the Chief resumed:

"And what do you think will happen to you now? Maybe you imagine you'll be let off with a caution and some more good advice. Somehow I don't think so. Somehow I think the dav for advice is past. You had your chance and vou didn't take it. And now you've been worming your way into things that don't concern you, working against the community, bothering decent citi-

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zens, pestering law officials, yes, even annoying Members of the House of Parliament. Besides that," the voice became low, "you've been annoying me. Not that it makes any odds — I'm sure of my ground — it's solid rock. Nevertheless I resent it, I resent your persistence, your imputation that I've done wrong. And now I've a curious feeling that you're going to suffer for it. Now it's you that's done wrong. You'll be up before the magistrate first thing tomorrow. It wouldn't surprise me if he took a serious view of the case and fixed bail pretty high — say fifty pounds. Now you'd have no manner of means of raising a sum like fifty pounds, would you? No, I was afraid not." He shook his head in silent satire. "That means you'll be remanded, back here to us. Well, it's a nice cosy cell you have . . . not much outlook to be sure . . . but every convenience. I hope you like it, for it looks as though you might be in it for quite some time to come."

For a moment longer, his narrowed scrutiny lingered, bore down on Paul, then he swung round and went out.

But as soon as Dale was out of the cell his expression altered. He frowned heavily. He had not been himself in there. He was like an actor who had given a bad performance and was now disgusted with himself. Yet what else, in the devil's name, could he have done? He had received an urgent message asking him to telephone Sir Matthew at the Law Courts. Before he did so he must be in a position to state that he had seen the prisoner.

As he entered his private office and sat down at his desk the cloud upon his brow deepened. Hardened though he was to all sorts of "messes," the sordid tangling of human affairs, which resulted from lives of crime, he did not like this affair that was back again upon his hands, it gave him a queer sensation in his stomach. He wished to God the crazy young fool had taken advantage of his leniency and cleared out during these past weeks. And again that tormenting question flickered out from the back of his mind, less a question than a whisper, a whisper of uncertainty: "Is there something in it . . . after all?"

He jerked his head back, angrily, like a goaded bull. No, by God, so far as he was concerned, there was nothing in it. He knew himself too well. He could produce a record of downright honesty, of unblemished integrity that would stand the closest

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scrutiny. He wasn't like some others he could mention who compromised with their consciences. His motto had always been: You cannot touch pitch and not be defied. His hands were clean.

Yet he stared at the telephone a long time before he could bring himself to unhook the receiver. And he dialed the number slowly, as though in doubt. It was Burr, the clerk, who answered, but almost at once Sprott came on the line.

"Hello! Hello! Is that you Sir Matthew?"

Immediately, Dale heard the click signifying that Sprott had pulled the switch which cut all extraneous connections and made the wire private. Then the prosecutor's voice came over, not this time suave and friendly, but full of anger.

"What's the reason of this new blunder?"

"Blunder, Sir Matthew?" repeated Dale, doggedly.

"You know perfectly well what I mean. This thing today, in the square. Didn't I give you specific instructions regarding that individual?"

"Your instructions were carried out."

"Then why has this occurred . . . this public pantomime . . . the very thing I was seeking to avoid? You ought to be able to use a little intelligent anticipation, once in a while."

The Chief Constable tried to steady himself. He could not afford to lose his temper. He answered:

"It wasn't easy for us, Sir Matthew. Who was to know what this young idiot was going to be up to? We watched him the best we could. I detailed one of my best men. But we didn't lay our hands on him since you told us not to be harsh. However, he has gone over the score this time. He ought to get six months easily for this."

"Don't be a fool."

There was an odd silence. When Sir Matthew resumed his tone was milder, full of reason.

"Look here, Dale. You were nearer the mark when you used the word idiot. There seems no doubt now but that this young man is a psychopathic case."

The Chief Constable, to control himself, had been drawing patterns on his blotter. But he stopped now, suddenly, and fixed his eyes on the blank wall before him.

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"If that is so," Sprott's voice went on, reasoning mildly, "he becomes immediately a subject, not tor judicial examination and punishment, but for medical treatment in one of our institutions dedicated to the therapy of aberrations of the mind."

"An asylum?" Dale interjected.

Sprott gave back a pained exclamation.

"My dear Dale, don't you realize that such objectionable terms as 'asylum' and 'lunatic' have passed out of civilized speech. To so describe our admirable poor-law institution at Dreem is in my opinion a most unwarrantable slur."

"Ah!" the Chief Constable murmured, in an indescribable tone. "Dreem!"

"Naturally, to certify him," Sir Matthew threw back, "one would require some data. Tell me something of him, Adam. Is he wild in his manner?"

"Yes," Dale admitted. "You could call it wild."

"And his friends? He has no one to take care of him?"

"He has a mother . . . and a girl in Belfast, but they seem more or less to have given him up. He's been living on the streets until lately . . . quite alone."

"Poor young man." Sprott spoke with a note of pity. "Everything points to the need for institutional care. He'll come up before the police magistrate tomorrow morning I presume?"

"Yes," Dale answered in a hard voice. "There is no way out of that."

This time the prosecutor's tone was not pained. The mellow unctuousness dropped from him and his answer went through the Chief Constable like a knife.

"I am not seeking a way out. Unless it be for both of us."

Now there was no doubt as to which was the stronger personality. In a quieter manner the prosecutor resumed.

"I think Mr. Battersby, the magistrate, is a very sound man."

"He is," Dale said, in that same slightly unnatural tone. "If he fixes bail high enough we're sure of a remand."

"I do not ask you to press the matter in any venal or questionable sense," Sprott said directly. "But it might be well for you to have a word with him, explaining the psychopathic aspects of the case, indicating that a remand would give us time

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to arrange a competent medical examination which, after all, would be in the young man's best interests."

"Yes," Dale said.

"Very well, then," Sprott said. Then he added with great distinctness, "Make no mistake this time."

He rang off.

A full minute later, and slowly, the Chief Constable hung up the receiver.

CHAPTER IX

THE police court opened next morning at ten o'clock. The courtroom, on the first floor, was lofty but quite small and informal, with a mahogany dais for the magistrate underneath the window, a row of chairs for the public on either side and, at the end, a wooden bench for the prisoners. It was a draughty chamber and a folding leather screen had been placed between the dais and the window, cutting off a good deal of the light. On the ceiling was a fresco of the city arms — two archers with drawn bows against an oak tree vert — which no one ever saw.

The red-necked officer took Paul upstairs. He did not seem a bad sort this morning — his breath smelled as though he had just enjoyed an after-breakfast pipe. As they left the cell he glanced meaningly at Paul's bruised and swollen eyes.

"Nasty fall you had yesterday, cully. Take care you don't slip up this morning. You follow me?"

Paul did not answer. Towards the early morning he had actually slept for several hours, a pained uneasy oblivion into which as into a dark pit, he had dropped from utter exhaustion. But this rest had not revived him. He could not understand why he felt so weak; even to breathe demanded an effort; and his side hurt him so badly he had to keep his left arm pressed hard against it in an effort to control the pain. But, in contrast, his

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mind was again keyed to that pitch of feverish sharpness which had characterized all his mental processes since memory had been restored to him. He saw everything with a bright, unnatural lucidity. And he was firmly determined that he would speak out, reveal everything. Yes, this time nothing would deter him.

When he was escorted through the side door and shown his place on the prisoner's bench the court was already in session and the magistrate, Mr. Battersby, a thin middle-aged man with a kindly yet careworn appearance, had begun to deal expertly with the usual run of misdemeanours. Paul studied him as he rapidly disposed of three elderly drunks, a youth caught collecting betting slips, a street hawker who had traded without a license, an old musician accused of begging, a tramp apprehended for being "without visible means of support."

The magistrate's lips were thin, moulded by his office to an apparent severity, but his eyes were wise and humane. He never smiled at the blandishments, the cajoling pleas of the old "lags" who stood before him. Yet none of his sentences were severe, several first offenders he merely bound over, and a young girl charged with petty theft he turned over, without comment, to the representative of the Salvation Army. To himself, Paul said: "This is a man who will listen to me."

Suddenly, while he studied Mr. Battersby, he became aware that he himself was the object of a steady and compelling inspection. He looked towards the public seats and immediately saw Lena. She was not alone. Beside her sat a complete stranger to Paul, a man of about forty, very bulky and unwieldy, wearing a flannel suit, a carelessly knotted tie, and a creased tweed overcoat which had seen much service. His battered soft hat was pushed back on his head, exposing a round bald brow. All his face was round and chubby, presenting, despite the frankly unshaven jowls, a curious nakedness which the pale-lashed eyes made a great effort to conceal by assuming a look of boredom. He had apparently for some minutes been contemplating Paul with this disillusioned detachment, but now, although his expression did not alter, he raised his forefinger and laid it against his lips. It was a trivial, short-lived gesture yet somehow its sig-