glances at certain passing citizens, all of a particular nature, confirmed Edward’s suspicions of his hopes. At a square green metal urinal stuck on to a tall wall like a carbuncle, the person paused, gazed around (Edward was standing blandly at a bus stop), and entered. Five minutes elapsed: too long for nature and for innocence, and Edward pounced.
The design of male urinals, in England, and especially those dating from the heroic period of pre-World War I construction, has to be witnessed to be believed. For this simplest of acts, what one can only describe as temples, or shrines, have been erected. The larva-hued earthenware, the huge brass pipes, the great slate walls dividing the compartments, are all built on an Egyptian scale. Each visitor is isolated from his neighbour, though so close to him and in such physical communion, as if in a sort of lay confessional. Horrendous notices advising not to spit in the only place in the city where it wouldn’t matter in the slightest, and warnings against fell diseases that can nowadays be cured by a few cordial jabs by a nurse in either buttock, abound, as do those reminding visitors about what their mothers taught them when, at the age of three or so, they were put into their first short pants. All this seems to bear witness to a really sensational and alarming fear and hatred of the flesh, even in its most natural functions, that inspired the municipal Pharaohs who designedthese places. And from their ludicrous solemnity, ribald inscriptions on the walls of a political, erotic, or merely autobiographical nature are an agreeable light relief.
As Edward expected, the person he had followed was up to no good at all and taking his place casually and, as it were, sympathetically in the adjacent compartment, he waited for his victim to make a fatal gesture. This, sure enough, he did. Whereupon Edward, making sure they were alone together, stepped quickly back behind the evildoer, said, ‘I’m an officer of the law: I want to speak to you outside,’ and hustled his prisoner out, barely giving him time to obey the injunction of an infantile nature just described.
Edward hurried his case along with a firm and dexterous grip, yet one which to a casual observer might seem that of a companion – perhaps a bit over-demonstrative, but certainly not ill-disposed. Round a corner, and over the western railway, they reached a lofty and secluded street.
Edward had said nothing yet (nor had the prisoner) and was, in fact, not quite sure what he was going to say. A charge of this kind, at the station, was always the subject of facetious comment, and on the part of a young CID man would certainly be esteemed detrimental to his prestige. In addition, as Edward well knew, there was the complication that it is very difficult to make such charges stick if the officer arrests the prisoner alone. In such a case, if the prisoner denies with resolution, it is one man’s word againstanother’s; and though the courts will probably believe the copper’s, they prefer corroborative evidence and are apt to dismiss the case if they don’t get it. The whole exploit was, in fact, an optimistic stab in a considerable darkness, and Edward had already decided to turn the prisoner loose after one of those lecturettes so gratifying to a young officer’s ego. But at this moment the prisoner uttered plaintively the magic words, ‘Officer, can’t we talk this thing over?’
Any experienced copper knows instantly what this means. For unless the prisoner is an imbecile – that does happen, of course – he will know perfectly well there’s no point whatever in talking anything over once the arrest is made, unless …
Edward stopped, backed the prisoner against a mews wall, still holding him firmly and discreetly, and said to him, ‘Well?’
‘I’m in your hands,’ the prisoner said, ‘and I don’t want this thing to go any further. I’m a married man.’
‘So?’ Edward said.
There was a
The design of male urinals, in England, and especially those dating from the heroic period of pre-World War I construction, has to be witnessed to be believed. For this simplest of acts, what one can only describe as temples, or shrines, have been erected. The larva-hued earthenware, the huge brass pipes, the great slate walls dividing the compartments, are all built on an Egyptian scale. Each visitor is isolated from his neighbour, though so close to him and in such physical communion, as if in a sort of lay confessional. Horrendous notices advising not to spit in the only place in the city where it wouldn’t matter in the slightest, and warnings against fell diseases that can nowadays be cured by a few cordial jabs by a nurse in either buttock, abound, as do those reminding visitors about what their mothers taught them when, at the age of three or so, they were put into their first short pants. All this seems to bear witness to a really sensational and alarming fear and hatred of the flesh, even in its most natural functions, that inspired the municipal Pharaohs who designedthese places. And from their ludicrous solemnity, ribald inscriptions on the walls of a political, erotic, or merely autobiographical nature are an agreeable light relief.
As Edward expected, the person he had followed was up to no good at all and taking his place casually and, as it were, sympathetically in the adjacent compartment, he waited for his victim to make a fatal gesture. This, sure enough, he did. Whereupon Edward, making sure they were alone together, stepped quickly back behind the evildoer, said, ‘I’m an officer of the law: I want to speak to you outside,’ and hustled his prisoner out, barely giving him time to obey the injunction of an infantile nature just described.
Edward hurried his case along with a firm and dexterous grip, yet one which to a casual observer might seem that of a companion – perhaps a bit over-demonstrative, but certainly not ill-disposed. Round a corner, and over the western railway, they reached a lofty and secluded street.
Edward had said nothing yet (nor had the prisoner) and was, in fact, not quite sure what he was going to say. A charge of this kind, at the station, was always the subject of facetious comment, and on the part of a young CID man would certainly be esteemed detrimental to his prestige. In addition, as Edward well knew, there was the complication that it is very difficult to make such charges stick if the officer arrests the prisoner alone. In such a case, if the prisoner denies with resolution, it is one man’s word againstanother’s; and though the courts will probably believe the copper’s, they prefer corroborative evidence and are apt to dismiss the case if they don’t get it. The whole exploit was, in fact, an optimistic stab in a considerable darkness, and Edward had already decided to turn the prisoner loose after one of those lecturettes so gratifying to a young officer’s ego. But at this moment the prisoner uttered plaintively the magic words, ‘Officer, can’t we talk this thing over?’
Any experienced copper knows instantly what this means. For unless the prisoner is an imbecile – that does happen, of course – he will know perfectly well there’s no point whatever in talking anything over once the arrest is made, unless …
Edward stopped, backed the prisoner against a mews wall, still holding him firmly and discreetly, and said to him, ‘Well?’
‘I’m in your hands,’ the prisoner said, ‘and I don’t want this thing to go any further. I’m a married man.’
‘So?’ Edward said.
There was a
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