St. Urbain's Horseman (10 page)

Jake wore his cheapest, most conservative suit, something gray with hire purchase, shiny with virtue. His drip-dry shirt, especially chosen to ingratiate him with the jurors, was an Arrow. He had deliberated for
more than an hour before settling on a tie, just the trick, from the sales rack at John Barnes.

Only yesterday the astute Mr. Pound had summoned Ingrid to the stand. Ingrid, appropriately pale yet fetching in a severe black suit, the hemline cut just a hint above the knee.

“What is your occupation, Miss Loebner?”

“I work as an
au pair
girl. I am a student.”

In short order, the bewigged Queen's Counsel established that Ingrid was twenty years old, had been in the country for seven months, and came of impeccable family, her father being a dentist in Munich. On the night of June 12, she had been to see the film at the Swiss Cottage Odeon and had then stopped for a coffee at The Scene on Finchley Road. A stranger had approached her table.

“He purported to be Jacob Hersh and said that he was a film director.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you believe him?”

“He showed me an identification card and a newspaper review of his last film.”

“And then what happened?”

“He asked me if I was an actress.”

“And what did you reply?”

“No. But he seemed excited. In a nice way, you understand. And he said I was just the girl he was looking for.”

“And then what happened?”

“He asked me to come to his house, yeah, to read from a script. He wished to know if my English was good.”

“You agreed?”

“There seemed no harm in it. He said Elke Sommer was also an
au pair
girl in Hampstead when she was discovered.”

“Miss Sommer is a screen actress of German origin. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And are these the pages of script he asked you to read? Please examine them carefully before you answer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The girl in the script is said to be attired, I quote, in only a nurse's cap, a bra, a corset, and high-button shoes. She wields a riding crop, unquote. Did you wear such a costume?”

“I read the lines for him many times first, yeah. He seemed very serious, sir.”

“Then what happened?”

“He asked me to wear the costume as described in the script.”

“And what did you do?”

“I did as he asked. I read the lines in my bra and panties. He had no nurse's cap, but there was a riding crop.”

“I see. And who played the other part, as it were?”

“He was the General Montgomery.”

“If it please your lordship, I will now hand up some further pages of script to be proven at the proper time …”

Jake stared at his shoes, squeezing his hands together.
Never apologize, never explain
.

The next witness was the long stooping cop with the correct face who had come to arrest Harry.

“And then,” Sergeant Hoare said, “I asked him once more if his name was Harry Stein and he said this is not Germany and he would not tolerate Gestapo tactics.”

“He refused to tell you his name?”

“He said he had chums in Fleet Street and he was familiar with police brutality. His exact words were, ‘No Cossack is going to plant a bloody brick on me.' ”

“I see. Go ahead, please.”

“Then I asked him yet again if he was Harry Stein and if he knew a young lady called Ingrid and he replied this was still a free country in spite of Polaris and the American bases.”

“American bases?”

“He was wearing a
CND
button on his lapel. He tried to shut the door in my face.”

As the clerk brought Harry Stein the New Testament to swear on, the usher coughed and asked in a small, courteous voice, “Religion?”

Harry's silence was not merely hostile. It scorched.

“Are you, ah, Jewish?”

Before Jake's eyes the ruinously expensive legal advice, the cajoling, the rehearsals, the tranquillizers, all went up in smoke.

“For purposes of census, taxation, and pogroms,” Harry proclaimed in a swelling voice, his St. Crispin's Day voice, to the somnolent court room, “I am a Jew.”

It's the rope
, Jake thought.
It's the rope for sure
.

The bewigged Mr. Pound fixed Harry with his most piercing look. “When you forced the girl upstairs into Hersh's bedroom,” he asked, “was Hersh –”

“I didn't force her.”

“When you
led
the girl upstairs, was Hersh already undressed?”

“I don't remember.”

“You don't remember?”

“He had his underwear on.”

“Powder-blue
underwear?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Powder-blue. The color.”

“Yes.”

Yes, yes. Sweat oozing from every pore, Jake forced himself to stop listening, already adjusting to prison life. He saw big goysy queens goosing him on the way to chow. Psychopaths calling him chicken because he wouldn't join in the escape plan, maybe murdering him because he was unlucky enough to overhear the plot. No sitting in a centrally heated toilet with the avant-
Guardian
after breakfast; Instead a bucket fermenting in the corner of the cell all day and he too sensitive but agonizingly constipated. “Go ahead,
dearie. I won't look.” Depraved warders jew-baiting him. “You want smoked salmon? Chivas Regal? Monte Cristos? Matzoh-ball soup? Sure, Yankel. Just write your missus to send us a check on the numbered Swiss account.” And naturally he would fail to prove himself in the exercise yard. “There goes Hersh. Fainted at the carve-up. What a giggle.”

T
WISTING DIZZILY ON THE BED, EVERYTHING SWAYING
, pounding, Mrs. Hersh prayed, offering five years of her life if only they wouldn't put him in prison, he got rid of her, the
choleria
, and returned to Montreal with the children, they were such a burden to her, to make a fresh beginning.

Then, just as she was drifting off to sleep, she was startled by a knock on the door. “Yes?”

“I'm sorry if I wakened you,” Nancy began, determined to be gentle, “but –”

“Who can sleep?”

“– Jake just phoned to say he'll be late.”

A hand held to her cheek, Mrs. Hersh asked, “Oh, my God, what's happened now?”

“Nothing,” Nancy replied, mustering a reassuring smile. “He and Ormsby-Fletcher have a lot to talk about. They've gone to a pub. He could be very late, Mrs. Hersh. Here you are,” she said, setting the tray before her. “I picked up some kosher salami and rye bread for you.”

The salami sandwich was garnished with sliced sour pickle, radishes daintily cut, tomatoes and lettuce. There was also a pot of tea with lemon and a freshly cut rose standing in a tall wine glass on the tray. Mrs. Hersh lifted the topmost slice of bread off the sandwich,
sighed reprovingly, replaced it and pushed the tray aside. Impulsively, Nancy rammed the tray right back at her. “Eat it,” she demanded.

Mrs. Hersh stared, amazed. Pogrom, pogrom.

“I had to go to three shops before I could find kosher salami. Now you eat it, Mrs. Hersh.”

“I can't.”

“I'm going to sit right here and you're going to eat the sandwich. Every – last – mouthful.”

“I can't.”

“Eat it.”

“But you buttered the bread.”

“What?”

“It isn't kosher. I'm not allowed to eat butter with meat.” Shit. Shit, shit. “You are not to spy on me.”

“I didn't see a thing. So help me God.”

“You were watching by the window. Wide-eyed.”

“Me, I committed a crime.”

“You are not to say a word to Jake. Do you understand?”

“Oh, I understand. Don't you worry.”

“No, you most emphatically do not understand. Not for a moment. Do you actually think Luke is my lover?”

“Who said a word?”

“I have lots, you know. Troops. Between pregnancies. When I'm not nursing babies or changing nappies. Whenever Jake's out for lunch they arrive by the charabanc-load to fuck me black and blue.” Oh, no, Nancy thought.
Oh God, stop, what are you saying?

“That's a word from the gutter.”

“If you can't eat butter on your salami sandwich,” Nancy charged, unable to contain her tears any more, “how come you can have eggs with your hot dogs?”

“Eggs are
parve,”
Mrs. Hersh returned haughtily.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Nancy stamped her foot. She stamped it again. “Sometimes all your Jewish hocus-pocus –”

Six million isn't enough for them.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. Open the sewer gates. Let's hear it all.”

Which is when Molly catapulted into the room, flying into Mrs. Hersh's arms. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing, precious one.”

Somehow, Nancy contrived to light a cigarette.

“And how did it go today?” Mrs. Hersh asked. “Did he say?”

“It couldn't have gone very well,” Nancy said, “or he wouldn't be out getting drunk somewhere.”

And she slipped out of the room, hurrying to Ben, who had begun to cry indignantly. Squashing out her cigarette, she scooped him up, digging her nose into his cheek and inhaling deeply, showering his bottom with little bites salty with tears.
I mustn't lose my milk. No matter what, I must not lose my milk
.

Slowly, methodically, Nancy emptied a pail of nappies into the Hoover, folded the dry set, and had only just escaped into the toilet when Molly began to pound on the door.

“Wanta come in.”

“Go get your coat, dear. It's time for us Sam.”

“Wanta come in, wanta come in.”

So Nancy opened the door.

“Plop,” Molly squealed, standing over her, giggling. “Ploppety-plop.”

“M
R. HERSH,” THE PUBLICAN HOLLERED, “TELEPHONE
for Mr. Jacob Hersh.”

But it wasn't Nancy.

“Is Harry with you?” Ruthy asked, her voice quivering.

“No.”

“He was supposed to be here for dinner more than an hour ago. I don't know where he is.”

“Calm down.” If he's skipped bail, Jake thought, it will only cost me 2,500 pounds. Well, in for a penny, as Ruthy was so fond of saying, in for a pound. “I'm sure he'll turn up soon,” he lied.

“What if he's done something to himself?”

Too much to hope for. “He's out walking somewhere, Ruthy. Or maybe he's fallen asleep.”

“Don't you think I tried his flat?” she asked, breaking into sobs.

“Do you want me to come over?” he asked wearily.

“But if he found you here with me, he'd be furious.”

“Yes, that's right. Take something, Ruthy.” Cyanide. “He'll turn up eventually. Nothing's happened to him. If I know Harry he can hardly wait to sit in the stand again tomorrow.”

“That's nasty.”

“Yes, Ruthy. No, Ruthy. Good night.”

But Ormsby-Fletcher, concerned, felt that Jake should not antagonize either of them, and he insisted that he look in on Ruthy. So they finished their drinks and walked to the car park behind the Old Bailey, assuring each other once more that it had been a most encouraging day in court. Ormsby-Fletcher dropped Jake off at Ruthy's place.

“Has he come yet?”

Ruthy shook her head, biting back the tears.

“Have you got anything to drink here?” Jake asked, sinking into the only chair that wasn't buried in clothes waiting to be ironed.

“There's some Shloer's. I've also got a bottle of Babycham.”

If only, Jake thought, Remy Martin went in for contests, and, remembering, he dug into his jacket pocket. Hoping to mollify Ruthy, he made her a gift of a dozen Kit-i-Kats and six Knorr labels, withholding his five Beefeaters for the moment.

“Would it be too much trouble to make me a cup of coffee?”

The children were in bed, alas, and so, as she prepared the instant coffee, Ruthy was free to run through her dolorous litany of complaints again. Harry had wanted to mend his ways and settle down, he had given up that sort of girl, and the photography, until Jake had taken him to C. Bernard Farber's,
that
party, thrusting him into temptation.

Jake, playing his part, wearily pointed out that he was doing all he could for Harry. He sprang awake only when Ruthy tried a new twist.

“Harry brought the girl to the house for you. He didn't want her at all.”

Suddenly, all the ugliness inherent in the trial, the coarseness, the necessary lies, crystallized for Jake in the buxom shape of flatulent Ruthy. “My dear Mrs. Flam,” he said quietly, “listen to me. I've got a wife and three children. I'm risking more than I should for Harry's sake. All I want in return is the truth. No last minute tricks.”

“You say one thing, he says another. How do I know what happened? I wasn't there.”

“Even you can't be that stupid, Ruthy.”

“Ta.”

“Why would I have Harry bring a girl to my house for me?”

“You're a man, aren't you?”

“If I was going to have a girl while Nancy was away, I wouldn't have Harry there too.”

“How would I know what sort of games you fancy?”

“Oh God,” Jake said, rising, and he shoved the five Beefeater labels at her just as the doorbell rang.

“It's him! It's Harry!”

Harry stared at Jake, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Well, hello. And where have you been? Out murdering somebody?”

He didn't answer.

“Or was it just a little rape round the corner that kept you?”

Pinched and pale, Harry said, “What are you doing here?”

“Ruthy was worried. I came to comfort her.”

“To bribe her,” Harry said, pouncing on the labels, “to turn her against me.”