City of Spades - By Colin MacInnes Page 0,83

call them men – of battening on these wretched creatures, and living on the wages of their sin; and even, in a great many cases – though he would not necessarily say it was so in the present instance – even of forcing them out on to the streets against their wills. It was not for nothing, said Mr Gillespie, removing his spectacles a moment, that such men, in the speech of a more robust age, had been known as ‘bullies’.

The judge manifested a slight impatience, and Mr Gillespie took the hint. He explained to the jury that two police officers would tell them how observation had been kept on one Dorothea Violet Macpherson, a known and convicted common prostitute, who had been seen, on several nights in succession, to accost men in Hyde Park, receive sums of money from them, entice them into the undergrowth, and there have carnal knowledge of them. These officers would further tell the members of the jury how the said Dorothea Violet Macpherson was subsequently followed to an address in Immigration Road, Whitechapel, where she lived in two rooms with the accused. (Here Mr Gillespie paused, and spoke more slowly.) These officers would then tell how, on a number of occasions when observation was kept on the accused and on the said Dorothea Violet Macpherson, she was seen to hand over to him large sums of money that had come into her possession through her immoral commerce in the purlieus of Hyde Park.

The Crown counsel now glanced at Mr Vial, who sat looking into the infinite like a Buddha. ‘No doubt my learned friend here will suggest to you,’ he declared, ‘that the accused was not present on these occasions or, alternatively, that the sums of money in question were not passed over to him or, alternatively again, that if they were, they were not those proceeding from the act of common prostitution.’ Mr Gillespie waited a second, as if inviting Mr Vial to say just that: then continued, ‘It will be for you, members of the jury, to decide on whose evidence you should rely: on that of the witness, or witnesses, that may be brought forward by the defence, or on that of the two experienced police officers whom I am now going to call before you.’

The Detective-Inspector walked in with a modest, capable and self-sufficient mien. He took the oath, removed a notebook from his pocket, and turned to face his counsel.

‘Members of the jury,’ said Mr Gillespie. ‘You will observe that the Detective-Inspector is holding a small book. Inspector, will you please tell the court what this book is?’

‘It’s my police notebook, sir.’

‘Exactly. Officers of the Crown, when giving evidence, are permitted to refer, for matters of fact – and matters of fact only – to the notes they made of a case immediately after they have performed their duties. Very well. Now, Detective-Inspector, will you please tell my Lord and members of the jury what happened, in your own words?’

In his own words, and prompted only slightly by Mr Gillespie, the officer related the detailed minutiae of the events the counsel had already outlined. By the time of the third, fourth and fifth seeing of Dorothy taking money in the park, and seeing her giving it to Johnny in the Immigration Road, the tale began to lose some of its human fascination, even though its cumulative substance added greatly to the ‘weight of evidence’.

Mr Gillespie sat down, and Mr Wesley Vial arose.

‘Detective-Inspector,’ he said. ‘Do you know who the defendant is?’

‘Who he is, sir? He’s an African.’

‘Yes. Quite so. An African. But can you tell us anything about him?’

‘I have, sir.’

‘Yes, Inspector, we know you have. But I mean who he is? His family? His background? What sort of man the court has got before it?’

‘No, sir. He said he was a student.’

‘He said he was a student. Did you enquire of what?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You didn’t. Did you know this young man’s father, Mr David Macdonald Fortune, wears the King’s Medal for valour which was awarded to him when he was formerly a sergeant in the Nigerian police force?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You didn’t bother to find out what sort of man you had to deal with? It didn’t interest you. Is that it?’

The judge stirred himself slightly, as if from a distant dream. ‘I can’t quite see the relevance of that, Mr Vial,’ he said, in a melancholy, croaking voice. ‘It’s not the accused’s father who’s before me.’

Mr Vial bowed. ‘True, my