“Sit down, Tom. I had your note,” he added. “Is the meeting over?”
“They keep throwing questions into the ring,” French answered. “That chap Bligh is quite a riot. Better switch him to public relations! As a matter of fact he’s covered much of the ground I wanted to cover about this bag-snatching lark,” he went on, obviously determined not to over-praise Bligh. “Pickpockets are getting so damned brazen they almost say ‘excuse me’ as they put their hands in your pocket!”
Was this just a ‘for old times’ sake’ visit? wondered Gideon.
“But there’s one thing I didn’t mention out there — you know what it is when you make a fool of yourself in front of a crowd. Don’t mind taking the chance with you.” French’s smile was quite ingenuous. “I’ve — er — I’ve got a young chap, constable, over in my manor. Chap named Donaldson, Bob Donaldson. Nice lad. Used to be a hairdresser, but it gave him hay-fever. The thing is . . .”
He was talking too much because he was nervous, Gideon realised with a shock. It was a long time since he himself had been truly nervous of anyone and it amazed him that any man of his own age- should feel like this. He set himself to make the situation a little easier.
“Want to give him a few months here?” he suggested.
“Lord, no! I don’t want to lose him yet. He’ll be up for the C.I.D. before Jong and he’ll walk in. No, it’s not that, George. Fact is, he’s got a long memory and he used to work in Stepney before he joined the Force — learned his hairdressing there. He always thought his teacher, a woman named Triggett -Martha Triggett — was a fence for loot taken from the crowds. Since Wimbledon’s been on the go, he’s been on duty. He’s seen some of Martha’s old hairdressing and beauty-parlour pupils lifting stuff and putting it in cars or vans, and he says he’s sure she’s behind it. He hasn’t taken any action against individuals; just consulted me. And here am I, George, consulting you!”
Gideon did not hesitate. “Tell Bligh this, and lay on a special watch this afternoon.”
“Good as done,” French assured him. “Of course Donaldson may be crackers, but —” He broke off.
“You wouldn’t be here now, if you thought he was,” said Gideon, drily. “All right, Tom. Thanks. Now I’ve got to be off to lunch. In the City,” he added, and picked up his hat.
The special survey fitted in perfectly with Bligh’s hopes and plans. He had never been more confident, and all his old fears were gone.
At a quarter-past three that afternoon, Barnaby Rudge stood at match point in the fourth and what should be the final set of his second round match. His opponent, a young Australian with a lot of promise, had not really been a match for him, and the temptation to let loose his service just once was almost overwhelming. He controlled the impulse, tossed up the ball, and was about to strike when he heard a man call in a clear,• carrying voice: “Go home, nigger!”
He faltered, and the ball dropped, He did not strike. The umpire called: “No service.”
Barnaby was suddenly on edge, every nerve in his body set a quiver. That call had come so utterly out of the blue. But now he was ready for anything. He wouldn’t miss this time, even if the man shouted again. He had to clench his teeth and at the moment of impact between strings and ball, the man did shout again: “Go home nigger!”
Barnaby served. The ball hit the top of the net, hovered, and fell back.
Someone cried: “Keep quiet!” Another man called angrily: “Who was that shouting?”
“Second service.”
Now, Barnaby was trembling from head to foot; a curious, tension-quiver which came from shock. He had been so superbly confident, had not realised how much he was living on his nerves. He let his second ball slide into his fingers, ready to toss it up. He was oblivious of the crowd, as such: did not see the people looking this way and that, seeking out the offender. He served, at half-speed, and the Australian drove into the right-hand corner, passing him.
“Deuce,”
He crossed over, and wiped his forehead. There was tumult inside him, coupled with a slow-burning anger; and Barnaby Rudge was a stranger to anger. He drew up to serve. There was no call, nothing to put him off except the fact that his concentration was shattered. He served, with greater ferocity.
“Go home, nigger!”
The Australian, covering the service, struck high, and the ball hurtled off the edge of the racquet into the net.
“Advantage, Rudge.”
“I’ll wring that swine’s neck!”
“Who the devil is it?”
“Can’t anyone stop that man calling out?”
“Hush!” a woman shrilled.
Barnaby served in the hush which followed, but there was bedlam in his mind — as if a hundred things were whirling round and round, wildly out of control. The service was good, but not nearly an ace. The Australian played over-hard, and the ball passed Barnaby and went over the baseline.
“Game, set and match to Rudge.”
The bedlam was still in his head, but now there was something else: a deep-throated roar of cheering, which seemed to lift his spirits and send them soaring. The lightness of heart put spring into his legs and he ran to the net. The Australian greeted him with a warm smile and a firm handshake.
“I hope you reach the final!” he said.
Barnaby Rudge’s heart was nearly singing. Now, he was aware of the cheering crowd; aware that they were as enthusiastic for a good loser as they were for him. He put on his sweater, picked up his racquet, draped a towel round his neck and walked off the court with the Australian. A girl pushed her way through; pretty, grey-eyed, freckled, with an accent that Barnaby did not know was Scottish. She flung her arms round the Australian.
“Oh, Bruce,” she said. “I’m so very proud of you!”
Of a good loser, Barnaby presumed she meant. The happiness in the girl’s eyes touched him with a gentle glow.
The cheering increased as he and his opponent ran. on, and he saw a young woman in the Royal Box. “Bow!” the Australian breathed in his ear; and as he paused to bow, awkwardly, he saw the young woman smile acknowledgement. Then he ran on into the men’s changing-room. No one, here, knew what had happened. Dozens of men were changing, two or three coming or going, naked, to the showers.
Barnaby showered, dressed and went out, the glow spoiled only now and then by a recollection of that high-pitched: “Go home, nigger.”
He did not want to think about it because it made his nerves shiver whenever he did. He must drive the recollection away, he would not think about it. But trying to dam those thoughts was like trying to dam a torrent. That it should happen here! In England! At Wimbledon! Oh, for heaven’s sake, it didn’t. matter . . .
He went out by the main entrance, and stood at the top of the steps. A roar of applause came from the Centre Court, behind him to his right; another from Court Number Three. For a few seconds, he just stood there; hearing, seeing, absorbing — oblivious of that stunning, tainted moment, lost in a still-incredible enchantment.
This was the Wimbledon of his dreams, and, much, much more beautiful than ever he had imagined. In the distance, soaring above the unbelievable green of these English trees in young leaf, a church spire glowed dove-soft in the warm sun: like a blessing. To the left, the Members’ Enclosure was a walk among roses: more like some private garden than a club. And over all, the attentive hush and intermittent roaring of the crowds, who stood so patiently round every court. He would never recover from his surprise that there were no stands, no seating at all, at most of the courts. But then, why should this place conform in any way to other, more accepted norms? There was only one Wimbledon in the world, and he would not have it any different.
It was such a perfect day to be here.
Even the busy refreshment stalls seemed strangely quiet, as if the heat somehow muffled all sound and movement. It was a pleasant, almost homely, and yet idyllic scene.