“I wonder why he didn’t go straight to the police the minute that lot had cleared off? He had nothing to lose, had he?”
“He may have had something to gain. I wonder what happened to the hundred one-pound notes which Gracechurchstreet once showed you?” said Laura. “I expect he was both bribed and threatened. Of course, he never expected to be the one person asked to identify the body. It was the merest chance that that man who first saw it lying in the stone-quarries immediately connected it with the inn.”
“Of course, I can see why the others didn’t go to the police, but cleared out of the neighbourhood instead. If they were dope-peddling, the last thing they would have wanted was an official investigation. They would have warned Harry to keep his mouth shut unless he wanted a life-sentence, and I suppose they knew that Dave would stand by Harry. What I don’t understand is how you ever got on to the idea that they were smuggling dope—or anything else, for that matter,” said Toby.
“First, there was the story of the unknown woman,” said Dame Beatrice. “It seemed strange that nobody except Smetton claimed to have seen her, and, of course, she does not exist. It was a rather clumsy scheme to get two extra suitcases into the inn without arousing the landlord’s suspicions. Up to that point, you see, Smetton was not implicated.”
“More painting of the lily?—the clumsy scheme, I mean.”
“Yes. I cannot see any reason why they could not have brought the suitcases in openly, but, of course, they were needed so that the tubular posts in the gymnasium could be exchanged for innocent empty ones as soon as the party moved on. They did not, of course, expect to have to move on quite so soon. The death of Gorinsky settled the date of their departure.”
“Then was Gorinsky implicated in the dope business?”
“Oh, I’m sure he was. Sponsoring a young boxer gave him a wonderful excuse for travelling about in this country and abroad, and so peddling the dope with impunity,” said Laura. “The clever part of the business was that both parties—Gracechurchstreet and Gorinsky—had perfectly legitimate reasons for making journeys, and could prove that they had.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Moonrocket Kid
“Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand?”
William Shakespeare—Sonnet 128
“Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end.”
William Shakespeare—Sonnet 60
“It’s been a long time,” said Laura. “What have you been up to, the last two years?”
“Nothing shady,” said Toby. “I’m awfully glad you agreed to come. Do you often attend boxing-matches?”
“I’ve never been to one before, but when you wrote and told me Dave was having an important bout I thought I’d like to cheer him on. Congratulations, by the way, on Virginia Creeper.”
“I really owe it to Gracechurchstreet, I suppose. If he’d never propositioned me, as he called it, and made all those ludicrous suggestions, I don’t imagine I’d ever have thought of making an acting-script from my book. Of course, the theatre people have altered it a good bit, but I’ve been allowed a certain amount of liberty in passing or not passing the alterations, and I’m pretty fairly satisfied with the result. Did you really like it?”
“Yes, so did Mrs. Croc. It was very nice of you to send us tickets. What about the result of tonight’s fight? If Dave wins, is he going to America?”
“Oh, yes, he’s set on it, and there’s no reason now why he shouldn’t, if that’s what he wants. There’s a fellow who’s come over especially to watch him, so he tells me. Well, now, what shall we eat before we go to cheer on the gladiators?”
The audience, for the most part, was young, enthusiastic, and noisy. There were, however, a number of quiet, hard-eyed, stiff-bosomed older gentlemen in the ringside seats who were there on the business of talent-spotting. Some moderately interesting bouts were concluded, there was a great deal of ear-splitting partisan applause and then Toby straightened up a little as a middle-weight bout lasting eight rounds was announced.
“Want to bet?” asked Toby. “I’ll give you six to five on Dave.”
“No, my conscience won’t let me accept a bet at those miserable odds,” said Laura.
Two dressing-gowned figures ducked under the ropes and took opposite corners. They were introduced to the crowd, there were the usual preliminaries, and the fight began. It was a middleweight contest because Dave, now twenty years old, had filled out and become heavier, although he was not yet at his full strength. He was less graceful than he had been at eighteen, but still beautifully built. His jaw had an over-confident, aggressive tilt, and he had faced the cheers and counter-cheers which greeted his name with a degree of aplomb and complacency which caused Toby to entertain some serious misgivings.
The opponent, who was billed as Wattie Lyon, was a sandy-haired young man with a round, expressionless face, a remarkably small nose, and outstanding red ears. He was more stockily-built than Dave, and was an inch or two shorter, but he made up for this by possessing unusually ape-like arms, so that he actually had the longer reach of the two contestants.
“How do you size them up? I know nothing about this,” murmured Laura, as the boxers began, rather cautiously, to test each other out.
“I think Dave may have his hands full. If I’m not mistaken, the other boy knows his way around. I just hope Dave doesn’t think this is going to be a walk-over, because it isn’t.”
“He seems to be going carefully enough at present.”
“At present he’s doing as he’s been told, I expect, and I’m not sure it’s the right advice to give anyone of Dave’s elementary intelligence. He’s probably telling that other chap more about himself than he realizes. It might have been better policy to go for the fellow baldheaded as soon as he heard the gong.”
The first round came to an end amid some cat-calling from the back of the hall. The boxers took their one-minute rest, swilled water round their mouths and spat into ceremonial buckets, had their faces and necks sponged, had their gum-shields restored, and were given rapid-fire, emphatic advice by their seconds. The advice was continued or contradicted by their supporters as they faced one another for the second round.
Here the exchanges were brisk and lively. There was no hard punching because, although Wattie attempted to use his longer reach, Dave’s footwork was good enough to keep him out of range until he could see a chance to get in close and jab a left, a right, and a left again to the body. A little of this, and Wattie each time went into a clinch from which, when they were separated by the referee, Dave danced away until he could make a wasp-like attack once more, venomous, but not lethal.
There was applause at the end of the round. There had been no fireworks, but the fight had begun to satisfy the crowd by providing plenty of action although of an insignificant kind. The gong went for round three, and suddenly the fight woke up. Dave, obviously convinced that he had the measure of his man, went in to make a quick kill with a combination of science and ferocity which had the audience whistling and yelling. Time and again he got his opponent on the ropes and only just failed to find the punch he needed, but each time his flailing adversary managed to break away. In the end, however, probably nothing but the bell saved him.
The fourth round opened quietly. Toby muttered to Laura that one or other of the fighters would make it the conclusive round, he thought.
“One or other of them? I thought Dave was easily on top,” she protested.
“The other fellow is giving Dave the needle. Notice how he keeps talking to him? It’s the old Cassius Clay trick of trying to make the other chap lose his temper, and, with a bone-head like Dave, it may very well work. Once he begins swinging he’ll leave himself wide open, and that will be his lot. This Wattie has the name for possessing an ox-felling punch if only he gets the chance to use it. He took a lot of punishment in that last round, but it
hasn’t shaken him. I offered you six to five on Dave, but I don’t feel even that much confidence in his chances if once he starts going wild, and that’s what’s going to happen.”
A vicious right to Wattie’s mouth and nose cut short that warrior’s conversation, and blood began to trickle down his chin.
“That was with the open glove,” said Toby. “Dirty work at the crossroads. The referee dosn’t seem to have seen it. The other chap’s been using the same tactics, though, so, although I hope I wouldn’t emulate him, I don’t blame Dave all that much.”
The round continued tamely, on the whole. Both men were warned, Dave to keep his head up, Wattie for low punching, and the bell broke up one of the many clinches into which the contestants had fallen. The advice of the crowd was now coloured by blasphemous criticism. The seconds, busy on their principals’ faces and torsos, were becoming urgent in their advice. The boxers nodded grimly and allowed their gumshields to be put back. Then the gong sounded for the fifth round.
The crowd shouted and booed as the boxers, adopting a crablike stance, circled primitively round one another, neither offering to lead off. Suddenly tension was on and electricity filled the air. Wattie was seen to make a remark as he side-stepped a halfhearted swing from Dave’s right. Dave, still on balance, although the swing had missed Wattie’s head by at least a foot, suddenly seemed to gallop at his opponent as though he were a stampeding bull. Wattie lunged at him, but a feint to the head, a bang in the ribs, a left lead and a right cross, and Wattie, like one battling against a cataract, found himself on the ropes. He tried to push Dave away, but the younger man almost contemptuously brushed him off before he came at him two-handed and bored his way in. A devastating left into Wattie’s body was followed by a crashing right-hander to the side of the jaw; then, as the man’s head slewed sideways with the cruel force of the blow, Dave stepped in with his left and knocked his opponent clean through the ropes.
“Well, fanks, Tobe,” said the Moonrocket Kid, magnificent in a brand-new golden dressing-gown on which his chosen title was embroidered in peacock blue. “It’s nice you comed to see me fight afore I wented to the States. I got sponsors, Tobe, a sight bettern vem uvvers I ’ad.”
“You mean Gracechurchstreet and Maverick? You may meet them again some day, when they’ve done their bit of time. Give them my love, if you do.”
“Onless I’m billed to fight over on vis side, Tobe, I don’t reckon I’ll meet ’em. Vey wasn’t too bad to me, you know. I mean, when vey could ’ave shopped me for doin’ Gorinsky vey never. Vey stuck up for me all vey could.”
“Only because they regarded you as a valuable property, Dave. You were no good to them in quod.”
“Wot did you fink of the fight, Tobe?”
“I thought you put your man away in masterly fashion. We were afraid, at the beginning of the fifth, that you were going to sleep, both of you.”
“You see as in the forf ’e was needlin’ me, Tobe, did yer? Gabby all froo the rahnd.”
“Yes. I also saw you hit him with the open glove. Just as well the ref didn’t spot it, wasn’t it?”
“Well, I warnted to shut ’is bleedin’ marf. Wouldn’t you ’ave warnted to shut ’is bleedin’ marf, Tobe? ’E just kep’ narkin’ on at me all the time.”
“Well, you shut his mouth with your open glove all right, but, apart from that, it was a pretty slow round, I thought.”
“’Cos why? ’Cos I was tryin’ to figger aht where I’d met ’im before, and it warn’t ’til the fiff I rumbled ’im. It was wot ’e said to me in the fiff as mide me rumble ’im, Tobe—just somefink ’e said.”
“Yes, I spotted that. He must have said something extra special because, suddenly, you got busy. What did he say to stir you up like that?”
“’E said, ‘Oo killed Krika?’ And ven, Tobe, I cottoned on. I reckon vat skinny old broad, wot come to talk to me in the nick two or free times, told you abaht me and wot I done when I was a nipper? Well, vis bloke, vis Wattie Lyon, vat ain’t ’is real moniker, so vat’s why I never reckernized ’im at first. It’s like me callin’ meself the Moonrocket Kid. ’Ow ’e warnts ’is nime said is sort of Wot a Lion. See wot I mean?”
“Yes, I see. Quite clever, really.”
“Well, ’e didn’t look so clever when I put ’im froo the ropes. did ’e? ‘Oo killed Krika?’ ’e says. And ven I cottons on. ’E’s the same bloke told on me arter we bin in vem woods, ’im wiv a skirt and me wiv vat bleedin’ keeper. ‘Oo killed Krika?’ ’e says. So I done ’im, on’y, vis time, I didn’t need no bottle, like when I done Gorinsky.”
“You don’t mean that, Dave!”
“Don’t mean wot? A-course I done Gorinsky, Tobe. Vat skinny old broad, she knowed, vough she never let on. I never meant to do ’im, but ’e pushes old ’Arry aht the way and come at me bald-’eaded with a dirty great bottle, so I takes it outer ’is ’and—’e was on’y a liddle pip-squeak of a feller—and I crahns ’im, and dahn ’e goes, and the uvvers, vey tikes ’im away and locks me in again. And ven vey comes for me and tells me the tale abaht tikin’ ’im to the ’orspital, and ’ow we gotter scarper ’cos the landlord wouldn’t ’ave us vere no more, ’cos ’e was fritted Gorinsky might croak, and vat put the wind up me proper, ’cos of wot I done.”
“But I thought it was Harry Biddle, not you, who hit Gorinsky on the head!”
“Nark it! Old ’Arry wouldn’t never ’ave dared to crahn the boss. Besides, ’e don’t fink quick enough, not ’Arry don’t. It tikes me to fink quickly, Tobe. You can see vat nah.”
“But Harry, later on, hit Chris with a bottle, too. You couldn’t have done that, because you were still in custody, so why do you say you did the other?”
“Old ’Arry, ’e’s on’y a copy-cat, Tobe. ’E seen me crahn Gorinsky, don’t you forgit. ’E seen me crahn Gorinsky, so, when ’im and Chris ’ad an up an’ a downer, ’e follered suit, didden ’e? Vat’s wot ’e done—’e follered suit. ’E ain’t a quick finker like me.”
“Well, I don’t know what to make of this, Dave.”
“Did you fink the old broad told you ’Arry done it?”
“Yes, I thought she did, complete with chapter and verse—although come to think of it—” He looked accusingly at Laura, who grinned.
“Say, Tobe . . .”
“Say on.”
“If you’d a-knowed as it was me, would you ’ave stood my friend, like?”
“I suppose so. Well, I’m not sure. Look, Dave, I really don’t know.”
“I reckon the old broad saved me from the jacks, Tobe, ’cos she cottoned on all right, vough ’ow she knowed I dunno.”
“Perhaps she’s a quick thinker, too, Dave. There must be more than one of you in the world.”
Acknowledgment
My thanks are due to The Clarendon Press, Oxford, for permission to reproduce the quotation from “Byzantium” by Norman H. Baynes and H. St. L. B. Moss in which they control the copyright.
About the Author
Gladys Mitchell was born in the village of Cowley, Oxford, in April 1901. She was educated at the Rothschild School in Brentford, the Green School in Isleworth, and at Goldsmiths and University Colleges in London. For many years Miss Mitchell taught history and English, swimming, and games. She retired from this work in 1950 but became so bored without the constant stimulus and irritation of teaching that she accepted a post at the Matthew Arnold School in Staines, where she taught English and history, wrote the annual school play, and coached hurdling. She was a member of the Detection Club, the PEN, the Middlesex Education Society, and the British Olympic Association. Her father’s family are Scots, and a Scottish influence has appeared in some of her books.
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Gory Dew (Mrs. Bradley) Page 23
