‘You mean Wainewright?’
‘That’s it, Wainewright.’
‘How did you manage to run into him, Baby?’
‘It was a funny thing. You know Tuesday’s my day off. I generally go to see my sister. She lives near High Road, Tottenham. I left here about eleven in the morning and there was little what’s-his-name. Wainewright. I walked along Charing Cross Road to get the tram at the end of Tottenham Court Road – you like to stretch your legs on a nice morning like yesterday, don’t you?’
‘Well?’
‘I walk to Hampstead Road, and there he is again.’
‘Wainewright?’
‘Yes. Well, I pay no attention, I catch my tram, I go to my sister’s and spend the afternoon, and we go to the pictures. We get the tram back and go to the Dominion. And when we get out, there he is again!’
‘Wainewright?’
‘That’s right. There he is. So my sister says: “A nice night like this – let’s walk a bit. I’ll walk back with you.” So we walk back here. Well, when we get to the National Gallery, we wait for the lights to change before we cross the road – there he is again.’
‘There Wainewright is again?’
‘Uh-huh. So I say to him: “Hallo.” And he says “Hallo,” and walks off again along Charing Cross Road. It was almost as if he was following us.’
‘That’s funny,’ said John Jacket.
‘Coincidence, I dare say. But he’s a funny little man. Do you like him, Mr Jacket?’
‘No, Baby, I can’t say I do.’
‘Well,’ said the barmaid, reluctantly, ‘he seems to be all right. But somehow or other I don’t seem to like him very much myself. What’s the matter? What’re you thinking about, all of a sudden?’
‘Nothing, Baby, just nothing.’ Jacket finished his drink, and said: ‘He was outside here. He was at the tram-stop in Hampstead Road. He was at the Dominion. And then he was here again. Is that right?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Nothing. When’s your next day off?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘Are you going to your sister’s again?’
‘I generally do,’ said Baby, turning away to serve a soldier.
‘What time d’you get out?’ asked Jacket, when she returned.
‘About eleven or so. Why?’
‘I just wondered. And you get back before the pub closes, I suppose? Before half-past eleven, I mean. Eh?’
‘We’ve got to be in before twelve o’clock, you know,’ said Baby. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Curiosity. Your movements fascinate me,’ said Jacket.
Then the lunch-hour rush began to come into the ‘Duchess of Douro’, and Jacket went out.
He went to see Chief Inspector Dark. ‘Listen, Dark,’ he said, ‘you know me.’
‘Well?’ said the chief inspector.
‘You know I’m not crazy.’
Chief Inspector Dark pursed his lips and said: ‘Well?’
‘You remember that crazy little man Wainewright, the witness in the Tooth case?’
‘Well?’
‘I think he’s getting to be dangerous.’
‘How?’
‘You remember how he kept confessing to the killing of Tooth?’
‘Well?’
‘Well, Dark, I believe he really did do it.’
‘Well?’ said Chief Inspector Dark.
‘If I were you I’d keep an eye on Wainewright.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I believe that Wainewright’s gone really mad, dangerously mad at last, Dark.’
‘What makes you think so?’
Having explained why he thought so, Jacket concluded: ‘Wainewright’s feelings are hurt. He is determined to make you believe, at any cost.’
‘Look,’ said Chief Inspector Dark. ‘With one thing and another I’m rushed off my feet. I’m short-handed, and I’m busy. Is this all you’ve got to say?’
‘Keep an eye on Wainewright,’ said Jacket. ‘He’s after the barmaid, Baby, at the “Duchess of Douro”.’
‘Following her about? So would I, if I wasn’t a married man, and had time to spare,’ said Dark. ‘Keep an eye on Wainewright yourself. I don’t think there’s anything to it. I’m short-handed, and I’m busy, Jacket. Will you take a hint?’
Jacket said: ‘Oh well, I can’t blame you for not seeing my point.’
‘Much obliged,’ said Dark. ‘See you some other time.’
Jacket left, grinding his teeth. I’ll keep close to Baby myself, he said to himself, as he waited for a taxi in Whitehall. I’ll show them. I’ll make Dark feel small!
But on the following Sunday, Mr Chamberlain announced that England was at war with Germany, and ten days passed before John Jacket had time to think of Baby and of Mr Wainewright.
By then, something had happened.
It happened on the night of 5 September 1939. The Germans had destroyed the 7th Polish Division, and the French Army had engaged the Germans between the Rhine and the Moselle. U-boats had sunk British merchant ships. The blonde called Baby had her day off, and Mr Wainewright followed her. She did not leave until half-past five that day.
He had learned something of the technique of pursuit. Instinct had warned him to put on again his dark suit and his bowler hat. He wore, also, a grey overcoat. The blonde called Baby could be kept in sight without his being seen. Mr Wainewright knew how to play his cards. He saw her coming out of the side entrance of the ‘Duchess of Douro’, and kept her in sight: she wore a fur that resembled a silver fox, and a diminutive yellow hat. It was not difficult to keep her within your range of vision.
Mr Wainewright followed her to St Martin’s-in-the-Fields, and right, into Charing Cross Road. Something had happened to the current of life in the town. There was a new, uneasy swirl of dark-clothed civilians, like tea-leaves in a pot, together with a rush of men in khaki uniforms.
Baby walked on: she had to walk. Once she tried to stop a taxi, but the driver waved a vague hand and drove towards Whitehall. So she walked, until she caught her tram. Baby climbed to the upper deck to smoke a cigarette. Mr Wainewright sat below. When she got out, he got out. She disappeared into a little house beyond Seven Sisters corner. He waited.
As he waited he thought:
‘Nobody believes me. I’ve confessed to a murder. They throw me out. They laugh at me. They take me for a lunatic. To the police, I’m one of those madmen who go about confessing – saying they’ve committed crimes they haven’t committed. I killed Tooth, and I tell them so. But no! I’m crazy, they say. Good. I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her with a common knife. When the papers report it, I’ll mark it with a pencil and go along and confess again. Nobody will believe.’
The light was fading. Keeping his right eye on the ground-floor window of the house into which Baby had disappeared, Mr Wainewright stepped sideways into the road. He put his right hand under his coat and chuckled. Then he heard something coming. He hesitated, leapt backwards – saw that the truck had swerved into the middle of the street to miss him, and tried to jump back to the pavement.
But the driver, having seen his first leap in that treacherous autumnal light, spun back to the left-hand side of the road, and knocked Mr Wainewright down.
The light truck squealed to a standstill as its rear wheels came back to the surface of the road with a soft, sickening jolt. Somewhere a woman screamed, and a man shouted. A policeman came running, and as he ran he switched on the beam of an electric torch which waggled in front of him.
A few minutes later an ambulance came, with a high, flat clangor of bells. Mr Wainewright was carried away.