Shaw said, “I’m interested in his friends, Miss Ross. That bad set you mentioned earlier.”
“D’you mean Sam Wiley and his crowd? They were Africans too. Do you mean them?”
“Perhaps. At any rate, I’d be glad if you’d tell me more.” Suddenly, something came into his mind, an association of names, an alliteration, and he thought: Sam… that rings a bell, or does it? Then he remembered reading that morning about Esamba… Esamba — Sam? He gave an involuntary start, saw Debonnair looking at him curiously, and then realized Gillian Ross was talking.
He said, “I’m sorry, Miss Ross, I didn’t catch what you were saying?”
“I said, I can’t help you an awful lot. I didn’t know Sam or what Pat called ‘the boys’ myself, you see. I never even saw them. But Pat used to talk about Sam — at least, he did just once, after — after something happened…”
Shaw prompted, “And that was?”
A far-away look came into her eyes. “Once when I was in his room in Notting Hill some one came to see him, his landlord it was, and he went away for about ten minutes. While he was away, I looked round — it was the first time I’d been there, actually, and just in case you want to know, it wasn’t the last, though I never went to his new place because we couldn’t be alone there, he hadn’t got a room of his own. Well, as I say, I looked round. I wasn’t prying. I was just — well, getting to know his things, the way he lived, the things he liked to have by him. Looking at his books and so on — you know. He never said very much about himself and I was interested. Anyway, there was a piece of paper on the floor, down between the bed and a table where he kept his books. I picked it up, and I saw it was a note. It was from this man Sam Wiley.”
“Did you read it?”
She said hesitantly, “Well, I couldn’t help it really. It was something about a meeting being cancelled — I didn’t pay much attention at the time. Anyway, he came back just then, and when he saw what I had in my hand, well, his reactions absolutely amazed me. He went a sort of grey colour and he began to shake all over as if he was ill. I thought for a moment he really was ill, then I realized he was just — scared. Very scared.” There was still that far-away look. “He snatched the note and stuffed it in his pocket, and just stood there staring at me, with his eyes all kind of — of wide and starey. I tell you, he was absolutely terrified. He started talking wildly, said Sam was very powerful and he could see all that went on, everywhere, and he’d be very angry with him for leaving the note lying about.”
She stopped, and Shaw noticed that she was twisting a handkerchief into a knot in her lap. He asked gently, “What did you think about all that at the time?”
“Quite honestly, I thought he was mad.”
Shaw nodded. “Did you ever see anything else funny at any time?”
“No, not really___I did find some little things on his table once, funny things like little carved men, sort of all dried up. He said something about them being given him by a witchdoctor back in Africa when he was a little boy. I remember asking him about things like that, if he believed in black magic and all that, but he wouldn’t talk about it at all.”
Shaw felt a sudden thrill, and once again his mind seemed to fill with the darkness that was MacNamara’s unhappy land. He asked, “Did he ever say anything about this Sam Wiley beyond what you’ve told me? Think carefully, Miss Ross: Did he ever tell you anything that might help us now?”
She frowned in concentration. “No-o… I really don’t remember anything, and I’m sure I would have done.”
“Do you know where they met — was there anything in the note you found?”
She said, “No, there wasn’t. Pat was always out on a Thursday, though, even when he wasn’t on a night turn. He may have gone to meetings, I don’t know.” She added, “I do know he used to go to a sort of club most Thursdays, a place in Camden Town called the Ship’s Biscuit. It’s in Corner Crescent… I think it’s a kind of drinking club. They may have used it as a rendezvous, I suppose?”
“Have you any idea what went on there?”
“Pat told me there was a strip-tease — it’s that sort of place. I was rather surprised, really.” She looked across at him, finished the gin, and set the glass down rather hard on a small table. “And that’s all I know. Honestly.”
“Yes, I see.” He frowned in some perplexity. “Miss Ross, I don’t want to be prying or indelicate or anything like that, but wasn’t it a little odd for you to go on seeing him after you found out that he might be mixed up in something you thought yourself was peculiar?”
She shrugged, swung the tartan trews over the arm of her chair. The unburdening process seemed to have done her good to the extent of bringing back a hardness, a self-contained compactness, into her face and attitude. She said distantly, “Oh, I suppose it was very odd. I don’t kid myself over that. White girls, nice ones, just don’t go around with — niggers, do they?” There was something off-beat, something challenging and yet hopeless, in her tone, something vaguely masochistic and yet at the same time almost frightening. “Only it so happens I didn’t think of him as a nigger — even after I’d found out what I told you. I thought of him as a Negro, yes. What’s wrong with that?”
Shaw said, and meant it, “In itself, nothing. I’ve known plenty of coloured men who’re more worthy of respect than many whites. I was referring to what he was mixed up in.”
She nodded. “Yes, I know you were really. You don’t look the kind of man who’d be prejudiced. But mixed up in… I think he’d been forced into something against his will, almost. As you said — a dupe. There wasn’t anything vicious in him at all. If he’d been allowed to lead his own life by both blacks and whites he’d have been entirely different. He was a disappointed man, Commander Shaw, and he’d got bitter. I don’t know what it was he’d been made to join, but I don’t think you can blame him, whatever it was.” She was speaking with a passionate sincerity, eyes bright. “And you see there were very good reasons why I stuck to him.”
Shaw said diffidently, “Forgive me. I know you spoke of this before. But you’re definite you’re not—”
“Expecting his baby?” She gave a high, nervy laugh and her face tightened. “Oh, God, no. I told you the whole truth. I’m not as stupid as that.” She swung her legs down and stood up, tall, almost statuesque in a pale afternoon sun shining through the attic window. “The reasons I meant were simply that he was literally the only friend I had… and perhaps I am in love with him, I don’t know. So get him back — will you?”
He said, “I’ll do all I can. You have my promise. There’s just one other thing,” he added casually. “Had MacNamara got anything branded on to his right arm?”
She said, “Yes, as a matter of fact he had. A spider. He said it was some sort of tribal mark, to do with an initiation ceremony which they’d carried out when he wasn’t much more than a baby.”
“Thank you. That’s all, then, Miss Ross. Take a tip from me, though.” He wagged a finger at her, solemnly. “Don’t leave this flat on any account whatever for the time being. Don’t admit any visitors unless they produce evidence to Mrs Tait that they’re either policemen or some one from my department. Don’t even answer the doorbell yourself. I’ll spin Mrs Tait a yam on the way out, and I’ll also see what she can do about your essential shopping. As far as Helene’s is concerned, you’re still under the weather. Clear?”
“I suppose so. But what’s the idea?”
“Just routine precautions. But see you do as I tell you. If you want me at any time, ring this number.” Shaw tore a sheet of paper from a notebook and scribbled the number of the outside line to his flat. He added an Admiralty number and said, “If I’m not there and it’s urgent, ring this other one and ask for Captain Carberry. If you do all I say you won’t have to worry.”