Another burst of applause came from the Centre Court, and he wondered who was playing. He had to pass along there to get to the meadows which were used as parking places: he had left his machine in one of the nearest.
Then, suddenly, he saw a man who looked like the one who had shouted: “Go home, nigger!” And in a Sash, his exaltation dispersed, and gloom replaced it. For that to have happened here, at his beloved \Wimbledon!
Instinctively-knowing the only way to forget, the only way to salve his injured spirit, was to practise his service: practise it until he dropped — he increased his pace. All he wanted, now, was to get to that secret court at The Towers.
He saw several men about the park, three of them close to his motor-scooter. But he did not give them a second thought until he was astride it. Then, very slowly, three of them converged on him, and suddenly he realised what they were here to do.
For a split second he was thunder-struck. Then, with the nearest man only three yards away, he leapt off his machine and backed towards a car; lessons learned bitterly in his youth now racing through the years to help him.
Then the first man struck at him with a stick or bar, and the full horror of his purpose flashed through Barnaby’s mind. If he took one such blow on his serving arm, he had no chance at all to win the crown. He jerked aside, desperately — and somewhere, a whistle shrilled out. For a split second, he thought these men had sent for others: that he had no chance at all. Then they turned away and began to run!
He could not believe his eyes. The whistle shrilled again and Barnaby saw a policeman in the far corner, helmet high above the sun-brightened roofs of the cars, a whistle at his lips. His relief was so great that for a moment, he went limp. Then, as he started shakily forward, he struck his left leg on the bumper of a car and crashed down, instinctively thrusting his right shoulder forward to take the weight of the fall.
The first thing he felt was the sharp pain in that shoulder and in his shin.
The second was near-panic, because of the shoulder. He was deaf to the shouting, the shrilling of whistles, the pounding of feet. He was simply filled with blind panic at the unbearable shattering of his dream. Because he could not use that shoulder again for days: the precious, vital days.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Despair
Police Constable Donaldson was in that particular car park because he suspected that the pick-pockets and bag-snatchers used two or three cars in the park, near the direct entrance from the courts, to stow away their loot. He was still in a flush of satisfaction because Superintendent French had told him that his report was being taken seriously and he was to see Chief Inspector Bligh later in the day. Meanwhile, French had pointed out, if he could find more evidence against Martha Triggett, then the stronger his case and the better his chances of transfer to the Criminal Investigation Department.
Donaldson’s attention had first been aroused by the frequency of the visits to that particular car park during playing-hours. People came in late, often enough; but few, once they were at Wimbledon, left early. While keeping watch, he had noticed three different youths and two girls go up to one of three cars, open the boot, put something in, close and lock it, and return to the courts area. There were always hundreds of people moving about, going from one court to another -drawn by rumours of a close match or of a personality, or of trouble — so the pathways were always thronged.
What they do, Donaldson reasoned, is go and take a wallet or what-have-you and unload it into the car. Then, I’ll bet, someone comes and takes the stuff away.
He had been there at that particular time, standing behind a. big, old-fashioned Rolls-Royce which gave him fair cover, to watch the three cars he believed were being used as a temporary cache. He had seen the four men come into the park and although he had recognised none of them, there was something in their manner which had made him suspicious. The way they looked around, for instance; the way they gathered in a kind of cordon, and waited — for what? His first suspicion was that they were car thieves, here on a lightning raid: but there was nothing hurried about what they were doing.
Then he had seen a tall negro coming across the park, and had noticed the way the waiting men tensed. The young negro had made his way to a motor-scooter and the policeman had looked from him to the four men. He did not fully understand; did not realise what was going to happen — until three of them began to approach the negro menacingly. And in the instant that one man struck with savage force, P.C. Donaldson blew his whistle.
Within seconds, other police were hurrying to the scene as the four attackers fled. Once they reached the crowded pathways, there was little chance to catch them, and all four got away.
But Chief Inspector Bligh, who had heard the alarm, had caught sight of one of the fleeing men. And he had no doubt at all that it was Sebastian Jacobus, the well-known Right-wing troublemaker and a ring-leader in the agitation against immigrants living in Britain.
Gideon’s lunch, with two prominent bankers who wanted to discuss general security for bank transport, was useful, but there was little he could promise. He would have to ponder deeply, as well as contact the City of London police and other forces in the Home Counties. As he left the City restaurant, close to the stark, new Barbican and mellowed St. Paul’s, he saw a coloured bus conductress, and his thoughts flew to Juanita Conception. The lunch hadn’t lasted too long, and he could just fit in a visit.
His driver ventured: “I had a bet with myself that you’d go to the hospital, sir.”
Gideon grunted.
Ten minutes later, he went into a small ward, where the girl was dozing. He half-wished he had not bothered her, for she was so obviously under sedation that the name ‘Gideon’ did not seem to mean anything to her. He murmured a few platitudes, and left, carrying a picture of her young face and the huge pad on her lips.
Once back at his office, he felt glad that he had been to the hospital. Such visits were never a waste of time. He had begun to look through some papers when Bligh telephoned.
The note of excitement in his voice was very noticeable as he reported.
“Quite sure it was Jacobus you saw?” asked Gideon.
“Positive, sir,” said Bligh.
“And they attacked this American just after he’d come off the court?”
“About half-an-hour afterwards, sir. And there’d been an incident when he was on the court, during his match. Just as he was at match point, a man in the crowd shouted out ‘Go home, nigger! I — er — happened to be there.”
“What happened?” demanded Gideon.
“Well, a rather fine thing, sir,” Bligh told him. “He was playing young Bruce Hamilton, one of Australia’s most promising young players. Hamilton obviously heard the baiting, and threw away two points. He was outclassed, mind you -this chap Rudge is a very powerful player. But his nerve was badly shaken and Hamilton might have turned the tables -very sporting gesture, it was. Afterwards — it’s a bloody shame — young Rudge fell and hurt his shoulder. It’s probably going to make him drop out and it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d beaten some of the top seeds.”
“Pity,” Gideon grunted. “Bad enough if he’d just had an accident.” He was sifting through some papers on his desk and couldn’t find what he wanted. “Hold on, Bligh.” He pressed a bell for Hobbs, who came in at once. “Alec, I read something about Sebastian Jacobus today, he met a — ah! I’ve remembered. Wait a minute, Alec, will you?’’ He spoke into the telephone again: “Jacobus has cropped up in another job -we’ll find him and talk to him, but you concentrate on Wimbledon. How are things going on the pick-pocket front?”