The Deadly Mystery of the Missing Diamonds (A Dizzy Heights Mystery)

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Venus?’ she suggested.

  ‘A planet named for the goddess of love? Perhaps. But my point stands. We just don’t know how to behave when there’s a pretty girl around, and it makes us all seem a little . . . odd.’

  ‘Perhaps I should dig out my old uniform.’

  ‘That would confuse us even more. We already know you as the unapproachable beauty married to the cocky musician. An unapproachable beauty in a safe, familiar uniform would be too much of a contradiction for our poor little brains to cope with. Heads would explode.’

  ‘You seem to be coping OK,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, yes. But I’ve already found love, d’you see? I’ve been immunized against the effects. And I’m slowly learning the mysterious art of dealing with a lady as though she were merely another human being. It’s tough going, but I’m getting the hang of it.’

  ‘Miss Mitchell must be a remarkably patient woman.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it, old gel. And if we’re to call you Ellie, you absolutely must call her Millie. I’m sure she’d insist on it.’

  Ellie smiled.

  ‘But I should leave you to your fun,’ he said, giving her a tiny bow. ‘I have to see a man about a dog, while you have a husband to admire and idiots to socialize with.’

  ‘You’re not idiots,’ she said as he walked away.

  ‘You’ve met Alfie, haven’t you?’ he said over his shoulder.

  The dance got underway exactly on time and the Dizzy Heights were in fine form. The sound was subtly different without Blanche, but her temporary dep had arrived just as they were settling down to play and was an accomplished player and he added his own flavour to the blend.

  The dancers, of course, were oblivious. They were the same club members, the same wives, the same sweethearts, and the same gaggle of unattached giggling socialites as always, but they had no idea there was a subtle change to the sound of the band. And why should they? They were there to drink and dance. As long as the band played familiar rhythms for familiar dances, who cared about the change in tone from the second saxophonist?

  The Alphabet Gang certainly didn’t. As usual, they were clustered together, laughing and chattering as though no one else was there. They were not, though, dancing. Ellie began to press her way through the expensively dressed crush of revellers to get to the only people she knew, but she didn’t make it. Before she was halfway there, the Dizzies struck up a Charleston and, with whoops and cheers, the Alphabet Gang took to the floor and showed the club what they were made of. She stood back to watch.

  The regulars made space around them and applauded the new moves. Ellie assumed they probably knew about the impending contest with the Wags Club, and they almost certainly knew the Alphabets well enough to be able to see the minimal progress they’d made in their lessons. Their enthusiasm seemed genuine rather than mocking. To a man, the Alphabets were still terrible, but they had a new-found confidence in their terribleness that Ellie found slightly endearing. It seemed their pals felt the same.

  They were applauded off the floor when the number ended, and Ellie resumed her efforts to reach them. By the time she got there they were still congratulating each other heartily.

  ‘Here comes our saviour,’ said Alfie loudly. ‘Welcome, Mrs M. What did you think?’

  ‘You’ve come along in leaps and bounds since I first saw you.’

  ‘It was the leaping and bounding that was causing the problems, according to Miss Mitchell. Much more control now, what?’

  Ellie smiled. ‘You and Ernie certainly look more comfortable.’

  ‘All our worries have gone since Ernie came up with the pantomime horse wheeze.’

  ‘All your worries? Or all everyone’s worries?’

  ‘Well, obviously Charlie thinks it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. But he’s a bit like that. Very strait-laced, our Charlie. Very proper. Looks down on our larking, I think. Looks down on us generally, to be truthful. Eton and Oxford, apparently. Cut above the likes of us. The others are agreed it’ll be a proper hoot, mind you.’

  ‘I’ve got to say I’m rather looking forward to it. Do you really think you’ll do it?’

  ‘Rather,’ he said enthusiastically.

  Bertie had turned round by this point. ‘What will he really do?’

  ‘He and Ernie are going ahead with the horse thing,’ said Ellie.

  ‘Of course they are. Wizard wheeze.’

  ‘Wizard,’ repeated Ellie sceptically.

  Both men laughed.

  Then the band struck up another tune they knew and their faces lit up.

  ‘Talk to you in a few moments,’ said Alfie.

  And they were off. The dancing was still terrible.

  As it turned out, it was Puddle who next found an opportunity to talk to one of the Alphabet Gang. During the band’s first break, at around ten o’clock, she was out in the corridor and on her way to the ladies’ cloakroom when she espied Bertie sitting in one of the leather armchairs that were dotted about the corridors. In fact, she saw a head of Brilliantined hair, gleaming in the electric light like burnished anthracite, but who else could it be?

  ‘Bertie,’ she called. ‘Hello.’

  He looked up. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, you seem to have the advantage of me.’

  ‘I’m Isabella Puddephatt,’ she said.

  ‘Are you? Are you indeed?’

  ‘From the band. I play saxophone and clarinet.’ She held out her hand. ‘And my friends call me Puddle.’

  He shook the proffered hand. ‘Charmed, I’m sure. Do sit down, won’t you? Puddle, eh? Why Puddle? Why not something a little more endearing, like Pudding?’

  She grinned and sat. ‘Oh, that’s easy. Anyone who called me Pudding would be found dead in a ditch, their mangled corpse eaten by foxes.’

  ‘Duly noted,’ he said with a smile. ‘Puddle it is, then. But . . . well, you interest me strangely, Miss Puddle. There must be a story behind it?’

  ‘Oh, there is,’ she said.

  He waited for more, but none came. He was going to ask again, but thought better of it. He’d already been assured of the fate that awaited anyone who got the soubriquet wrong – he didn’t dare contemplate what might happen should he make the wrong guess as to the origin of what he presumed was a childhood nickname.

  Instead he said, ‘I’m sorry for not recognizing you. The honest truth is I have the most shockingly poor eyesight but refuse to wear my spectacles. Vanity, d’you see? A chap has to look his best, what?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. You always have other things to be thinking about while we’re playing, after all. Those dance steps won’t learn themselves.’

  ‘Don’t remind me. I do wish we hadn’t agreed to that idiotic contest.’

  ‘Whose idea was it?’

  ‘I can no longer remember, to tell you the truth. Not mine, that’s for sure. I’d rather have settled our petty rivalries any other way. Any way at all.’

  ‘Pistols at dawn?’

  ‘If it came to it – probably, yes. I’m almost certain I’d rather the threat of death or arrest to the humiliation of having to dance in front of judges. At least I know I’m a fairly decent shot.’

  ‘You shoot, then?’

  ‘What? Oh, I see what you mean. No. Family rides to hounds, of course. But I prefer to fish. We have fishing rights on the Scottish estate, d’you see? Salmon mostly. Trout, too, of course. I love it up there. I learned my shooting in the big show, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So many did. But as I overheard Ellie saying to Alfie the other day, if you can survive four years of that hell, you can survive four minutes of the Charleston with a pantomime horse.’

  ‘Best idea I’ve heard in years, that.’ Skins had arrived.

  ‘Pantomime horse?’ said Bertie.

  ‘Not half,’ said Skins. ‘How’s everyone getting on this fine evening?’

  ‘We’re all having a cracking good time. You musician chaps are worth your weight in diamonds, you r
eally are. I’ve no idea how you do it, you know. I had piano lessons as a lad, but I could never master anything beyond “Twinkle, Twinkle”, and here you are, night after night, week after week, making musical magic for the masses.’

  ‘You’re too kind,’ said Puddle. ‘But now you’ve mentioned “Twinkle, Twinkle” I remember what I came out for. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll be about my business.’

  ‘See you in a bit, Pudds,’ said Skins.

  ‘Fine filly, that,’ said Bertie when she’d gone.

  ‘She’s a lovely woman,’ agreed Skins. He indicated Puddle’s recently vacated seat. ‘May I?’

  ‘Please do, dear boy. Is she attached? I think she might be interested.’

  ‘You do? How’s that?’

  ‘Very encouraging about the contest, asked some personal questions. That’s a sure sign, what?’

  ‘It can be. What sort of personal questions?’

  ‘All sorts. Hobbies and whatnot. Even asked about my war service.’

  ‘You might be right, then. What did you tell her? Bit of advice there, mate – don’t over-egg it when you’re talking to Puddle. She can spot an empty boast a mile off.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about there, old boy. I didn’t say anything other than that I served. Didn’t even say where.’

  ‘And where did you serve, then? Out of interest, like.’

  ‘All in France. Started out in 49 Brigade, RFA.’

  ‘Howitzers, right?’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Bertie. ‘Were we neighbours?’

  ‘Noisy bleedin’ neighbours if you were. No, I knew a bloke from your lot. Played the cornet.’

  ‘Little chap? Lance Bombardier . . . memory’s trying to make me say Tucker.’

  ‘Davey Taylor?’ said Skins.

  ‘The very man. Used to play in a works band somewhere in the East Midlands.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the bloke. Nice fella.’

  ‘He was. He came with me to the RTR but he copped it at Cambrai, I’m afraid.’

  ‘The Tank Regiment? Blimey, that must have taken some guts.’

  ‘It all seemed like such a lark at the time. We were young and brave and fighting for King and Country. And we had those mighty machines. Nothing could stop us. Bosch artillery stopped his mighty machine, though, poor blighter. But you must have lost pals.’

  ‘More than I care to recount,’ said Skins.

  ‘Dark days. Dark days.’

  They sat for a moment in contemplative silence before Bertie said, ‘But we came to dance, old boy. And we can’t do that if I keep you here gassing. I don’t want to hold you up.’

  ‘Not at all. It was nice to meet you properly. Enjoy the rest of the evening.’

  ‘I shall. Thank you.’

  ‘Well?’ said Puddle as they were packing up. It was three in the morning, but she was still bubbling with energy.

  ‘Well, what, Pudds?’ said Skins. It was three in the morning and he most definitely was not.

  ‘When are we going to arrest Bertie?’

  Ellie was helping Skins put his temple blocks in the traps case. ‘Why would we do that? And you know we can’t, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, I know we can’t actually arrest him, silly. But he’s our man. Definitely.’

  Dunn, meanwhile, had made no progress on packing up and was distractedly plucking out a melancholy melody on his bass. ‘How do you reckon that?’

  ‘Diamonds,’ said Puddle proudly. ‘He has diamonds on the brain. He said that musicians are worth their weight in diamonds. Everyone knows it’s supposed to be gold, but he’s so fixated on his stolen Belgian diamonds that he dropped it in by accident. Like Dr Freud says. It’s one of his slips.’

  ‘He might just know more about how much things are worth,’ said Dunn. ‘I worked it out once.’

  ‘You worked what out?’ said Skins.

  ‘I worked out how much I’d be worth if I were worth my weight in gold.’

  ‘You worked it out?’ said Ellie.

  ‘I told you – I live on my own. I have lots of time on my hands.’

  ‘And how much are you worth?’ asked Skins.

  ‘Ten thousand, two hundred and twenty-four pounds, ten shillings, eleven pence-ha’penny.’

  ‘You’re worth every farthing,’ said Puddle.

  ‘But if I were made of diamonds—’ began Dunn.

  ‘You didn’t work that out as well?’ said Skins.

  ‘What did I just say about having time on my hands? If I were made of diamonds I’d be worth over five and a half million quid.’

  Skins whistled.

  ‘That’s enormous fun,’ said Puddle, ‘and you really, really need a hobby, by the way – but what’s it got to do with Bertie?’

  ‘All I’m saying is that anyone who stopped to think about it would know that “worth your weight in diamonds” is a lot more impressive than “worth your weight in gold”. I’m not saying you’re wrong, I’m just suggesting it might not be the clue you think it is.’

  ‘Well, maybe not. But I still think it’s significant,’ she said.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to say you’re wrong, though,’ said Skins. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Because you’ve worked out your value if you were rolled out, shredded, and woven into a Persian rug?’

  ‘Two pound ten and a tanner,’ he said. ‘But no, that’s not why. I carried on chatting after you’d gone off to powder your nose, and he never deserted from nowhere.’

  Ellie sighed.

  ‘He didn’t desert from anywhere,’ Skins said with a sigh of his own. ‘He’s pukka.’

  ‘And how are you so certain of that?’ said Puddle. ‘Did he give you some sort of secret signal only men can understand?’

  ‘In a way,’ said Skins. ‘You got him talking about the war, and I just encouraged him to carry on. He said he was in the Royal Field Artillery and the Royal Tank Regiment.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘I do. He knew a cornet player who Barty and I met at a concert party once. You remember Davey Taylor, Bart?’

  ‘Tall fella with a limp?’ said Dunn.

  ‘Short fella with a silver cornet.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Blimey, he was good. Came from Nottingham. Couldn’t pronounce the letter R.’

  ‘See?’ said Skins. ‘And Bertie knew about this bloke. Tried to call him Turner or Tucker or something, but when I reminded him, he definitely remembered.’

  ‘And this Taylor was a cornet player. Good, you say?’ said Puddle.

  ‘Unbelievably good,’ said Dunn. ‘The purest, sweetest tone you’ve ever heard. I saw grown men cry when he played “Long, Long Trail”.’

  ‘I’ve seen grown men cry when they hear “Long, Long Trail” on an out-of-tune violin,’ said Puddle, ‘but I take your point. So if you’d seen and heard him, you’d never forget?’

  ‘Once heard, never forgotten, definitely,’ said Dunn.

  ‘So, let’s say you’re Arthur Grant. The Third Disgusting Fusiliers or whatever lot he was in is behind the lines at a concert party. You hear this never-to-be-forgotten cornet player and you never forget him. Perhaps you meet him in a café later, share a bottle of wine. You get talking and you find out he’s in the Tank Regiment, transferred from the Artillery. You file that little titbit away. Why wouldn’t you? He’s a fascinating fellow, and so very talented. Years later when you’re on the run with a squirrel’s weight in diamonds, you need to construct an alias for yourself. You remember Davey Taylor so you decide you’ll be an officer in the Tank Regiment. If anyone starts asking questions you can casually remember the cornet player from the old days . . . What was his name? Tucker? Turner? Oh yes – Taylor, that was it. A trivial little detail that absolutely proves you were in the Tank Regiment.’

  ‘She’s got you there, darling,’ said Ellie. ‘Knowing a well-known person doesn’t prove anything.’

  ‘I brought up the cornet player,’ said Skins.

  ‘Even better. He was able to pass the tes
t without having to clumsily bring an irrelevant cornet player into the story himself,’ said Puddle.

  Skins smiled. ‘I admit defeat. Or at least I’m not so certain of victory. But we can add it all to the report we make to Sunderland.’

  ‘I thought you were making regular reports by telegram or some such,’ said Puddle. ‘Are you seeing him in person?’

  ‘We are,’ said Skins. ‘Monday. You coming, Barty?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Dunn. ‘I’ll stop off at your place and we can all go together.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Several minutes had passed since Superintendent Sunderland had sent a constable to fetch tea and biscuits for his guests, and he was growing agitated.

  ‘I’m so sorry to be such a terrible host,’ he said. ‘It’s not as though I’ve asked for anything exotic. Just a pot of tea and a few digestives. I swear the standard of our recruits is falling. It was never like this in my day.’

  ‘Please don’t fret, Superintendent,’ said Ellie. ‘We’ll be fine without tea and biscuits.’

  ‘But I like a digestive,’ said Sunderland. ‘Someone’s for it, I can tell you. This isn’t good enough.’

  Ellie tried another tack. ‘Have you tried the new chocolate-covered ones?’

  ‘Chocolate-covered digestives?’ he said incredulously. ‘Whatever on earth have they done that for?’

  ‘They’re really quite delicious. You should give them a whirl.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, thank you. Unlike Constable—’

  There was a knock at the door and the constable entered bearing a heavily laden tray.

  ‘Sorry for the delay, sir,’ said the young man. ‘Sergeant Pennick had emptied the urn making tea for the big Flying Squad meeting so I had to wait for it to boil again.’

  ‘All right, lad. Just set it down. Thank you.’

  With the constable gone, Sunderland began fussing about, arranging cups and pouring the tea.

  ‘Thirty-three sugars, wasn’t it, Skins?’

  ‘Six,’ said Skins.

  ‘He’ll have two,’ said Ellie. ‘He’s cutting down.’

  ‘I’m cutting down,’ said Skins. ‘Probably better make it two.’