The Tango School Mystery

by Peter Bartram

  Shirley and I danced a few steps away from the table and the bag. We ignored that move where you snap your head back and forward like you're doing a double take. We kept our gaze on Montez and Dolores.

  At the far end of the room, the pair now squared up to one another. Pointing fingers. Shaking heads. Rolling eyes. The argument had begun. They didn't want the rest of us to know. But they couldn't help themselves.

  Montez wagged his finger at Dolores and spat out a few words. She shook her head angrily and stamped her foot. Turned her back on him. He grabbed her shoulder and forced her to face him. She slapped his face. He raised his fist. Thought better of it. Stomped back through the room. Grabbed his bag from the table and went out.

  The door behind him slammed as the music ended.

  Dolores moved away from the gramophone. There were pink spots on her cheeks. Her eyes flashed but she was trying to hide her fury. She stood in the room and motioned for everyone to gather around her.

  Dolores held up her hands. "Lo siento. I'm sorry. Tonight, we must end the lesson early. We have more dancing next time. I see you all next week. Buenas noches."

  She turned and marched swiftly out of the room.

  We all stood around and gawped at one another.

  "Well, it was only a matter of time," Ralph said.

  "What did you mean, 'it was only a matter of time'?" I asked.

  Shirley and I were sitting opposite Ralph and Maudie in The Jolly Boatman, a pub round the corner from the Tango Academy. The dance class had broken up in confusion after Montez and Dolores had left. We'd looked at each other in an embarrassed kind of way. As we'd filed out through the hall, we could hear Montez and Dolores arguing in the office. In the room with the barred windows.

  I'd invited Ralph and Maudie to join us for a drink. They'd accepted with the enthusiasm of a couple who have a thirst which needs urgent refreshment.

  Ralph raised his pint of Harvey's best bitter and said: "That pair have had their knives out for each other since the day Conrad Montez turned up. I don't understand it. Dolores told us he'd been her tango partner in Buenos Aires."

  "But we don't think they'd ever danced together until he came to the Academy," said Maudie. She raised her glass and took a refined sip of Advocaat. It left a pencil moustache of yellow along her upper lip. "When we first saw him, he stumbled over the eight-step basic, let alone any of the more exotic moves."

  "When did he turn up?" I asked.

  Ralph took a good pull at his beer and sighed. "It was a couple of months ago. But if he was Dolores's dancing partner in Argentina, I'm the Queen of Sheba."

  Maudie giggled and had another dainty sip of her drink.

  "What does the guy do there?" Shirley asked.

  "He dances with some of the older women who come, one in particular," Ralph said.

  I nodded. That would be the Widow. She wouldn't care whether Montez could tango or not. She was after a husband, not a dancing partner.

  "So why do you think he's there?" I asked.

  Ralph shook his head. "No idea. But I do know the pair can't stand one another. It's as though Dolores has Montez there against her will."

  "Could he have some hold over her?" I said.

  "It's possible," Ralph said. "I haven't considered that. But I suppose he must have something that prevents her throwing him out."

  Maudie drained the last of her Advocaat. "Don't forget to mention that other man who's turned up a few times, Hunky Boots," she said.

  Ralph patted Maudie's arm. "Thanks for reminding me, Pinky Petals. Large geezer. Fancied himself. Ex-army, I think. Maudie heard Dolores call him Captain Blunt. But what a Captain wants at a tango school, I can't imagine. He didn't join in any of the lessons."

  "Just used to disappear into the office and gossip with Conrad Montez," Maudie said.

  "That's another thing," Ralph said. "That office is always locked now. It never was before Montez turned up."

  "And you never saw Blunt at the school until Montez arrived?" I asked.

  "No," Ralph said.

  "And you don't know what they talked about?"

  Ralph shook his head. "No. But there is something. Last week, I happened to step into the foyer just as Blunt and Montez were coming out of the office. They had their backs to me. I heard Montez say, 'I'm ready'. And then he shook Blunt's hand and said 'Auf Wiedersehen, mein Freund'."

  "What did you make of that?" I asked.

  Ralph raised his glass and drank the last of his beer. "I don't think Conrad Montez is Argentinian at all. I think he's German."

  "What do you make of that?" Shirley asked after Hunky Boots and Pinky Petals had left.

  "I'm not sure," I said. "It certainly looks as though Montez has some kind of hold over Dolores. Plainly, she doesn't want him there - but she's got no choice. Perhaps it's something to do with Dolores's life in Argentina."

  "Yeah," Shirley said. "I've known whackers like that back in Oz. They're slime-balls."

  "I think Montez may be more dangerous than a slime-ball."

  "You do?"

  "If Ralph is right and Montez is German, I think he could be a fugitive."

  "From what?"

  "From justice. After the Second World War, some Germans who'd committed war crimes escaped to South America. Remember Adolf Eichmann who was captured in Buenos Aires in 1960?"

  "Sure, the guy was one of the worst Nazis. You think this Montez could be one also?"

  "Perhaps. But if he is, why has he come to Britain? He'd be more likely to be exposed and captured than in South America."

  Shirley shrugged. "Beats me."

  "It must be because he has some job to carry out here."

  "Not dancing the tango, that's for sure."

  "No," I said. "And whatever it is, the fact Montez meets with Blunt must mean that Sir Oscar Maundsley is behind it."

  Chapter 16

  "I'd have hated to be a locksmith," Click-Click said.

  "Why's that?" I asked.

  We were in my MGB driving up the Ditchling Road in Brighton. Half an hour earlier I'd dropped Shirley at her flat in Clarence Square after our drink with Ralph and Maudie. I'd then picked up Click-Click from outside a breaker's yard in Portslade. He was sitting in the passenger seat nursing a large canvas pouch in his lap. He smelt of brown ale.

  He said: "Why'd I hate being a locksmith? It's because if you're a locksmith, you know you're going to be a failure."

  "Not if you were Jeremiah Chubb. He patented the detector lock and made a fortune."

  "Money made on a false promise. He claimed the lock couldn't be picked. He challenged people to do so - and someone did. A few years later. It was a geezer called Alfred Hobbs. So, you see, Chubb failed. He hadn't built an unpickable lock."

  "What's all this got to do with opening a rusty old van, Click-Click?"

  "It's like a philosophical puzzle. You see what locksmiths don't get is that the real winners in life are not the ones who set the puzzles. It's the geezers like me who solve them."

  I turned off the Ditchling Road and drove towards Hollingdean. We were heading for Potter's house. I'd looked up the address in the telephone book.

  Crampton, the master researcher.

  I reckoned Potter would keep his van close to his house. Not exactly a brilliant deduction, but probably a reliable one. Not too close to the house, I hoped. We would need a bit of cover while Click-Click exercised his talents. In lock-picking rather than philosophy.

  I said: "Why were you hanging around that breaker's yard when I picked you up?"

  Click-Click rubbed his chin. "Just keeping an eye out for anything that might be useful."

  "Such as?"

  "Odd bits of wire. You see, some of your lock-picks buy their kit ready-made or, even worse, second hand. But when you buy, you don't learn. That's why I've made all my own picks from selected bits of wire. I've learnt what kind of wire works when you're opening a car, what kind cracks a safe or just trips the lock on one of them fancy bureaux you see
in posh houses. You understand how the wire works and you're way ahead of the others."

  "Let's hope you've got the right wire for this van."

  Click-Click patted the pouch on his lap. "It'll be in here," he said.

  I turned off the main drag leading through Hollingdean into a side street of well-tended council houses.

  "Potter lives near here. We'll drive by a couple of times to see if we can spot the van," I said.

  Potter's house was a semi-detached place with a small front garden. He'd fixed a notice to his garden gate which read "Potter & Son, Builder & Decorator. Enquire Within."

  The power of advertising.

  We didn't notice the van when we drove by and I wondered whether my deduction had been wrong. But we spotted it on the way back. It was on a piece of rough ground at the side of the house. And, most importantly, in the shadows.

  "Even better," Click-Click said. "I hate it when there are bright lights everywhere. Makes me feel like I'm doing a turn at the Brighton Hippodrome."

  I drove the MGB a hundred yards down the street and parked.

  I looked at Click-Click. "Are you ready for this?" I said.

  "Ready and willing."

  "Let's hope you're also able."

  "Never failed yet."

  "Before we start, if we're spotted, you leg it and leave me to talk my way out of trouble."

  "Now that sounds like worth hanging around to hear. But, I'll accept your offer. It's not long since I was last up before the beak and I want to give him time to forget my face before I put in another appearance."

  "Come on," I said.

  We climbed out of the car and headed down the street. It was deserted. There were lights on in a few houses, but most residents had already gone to bed. Somewhere a dog barked. An angry voice shouted and the barking stopped.

  As we approached Potter's house, I looked up and down the street. Decided nobody was watching us. Stepped smartly onto the rough ground beside Potter's house. We crept round to the back of the van.

  Click-Click whispered: "I'm going to try the back doors rather than the driver's or passenger's."

  "What for?"

  "Curious, aren't you?"

  "It's my inquisitive nature."

  "Reason is that where you've got two doors coming together like this, parts of the lock are on each door. Over time, the hinges of the door sag a little and this creates more give in the latch part of the lock which holds the doors together. Sometimes, I don't even need one of my wires - by shifting each door more tightly onto its hinges I can get the catch to release."

  "Will you be able to do that this time?"

  "I'm going to try something else first."

  Click-Click reached for the handle on the left-hand door. He turned it. Something clicked softly. And the door opened.

  "How did you do that?" I asked.

  "Door wasn't even locked. About one time in five it isn't. Makes it easy for me. But less fun."

  "I could've opened that myself."

  Click-Click looked worried. "I still want my fee."

  "And you'll get it." I took out my wallet and handed Click-Click a pound note. "Now you'd better beat it," I said. "This next bit's down to me."

  "You not giving me a lift back into town?"

  "The exercise will do you good. If you walk down to the Ditchling Road, you should catch a late bus."

  Click-Click shrugged. "Glad to be of assistance."

  He turned and I watched his jaunty swagger as he headed down the road.

  I turned back to the van. Took a small torch from my jacket pocket. Switched it on and looked inside. The van contained a couple of ladders, three buckets, half a dozen pots of paint (two green and four crimson), a couple of bottles of turpentine and a box of brushes. There were also two rolls of wallpaper (one sprigs of climbing roses, one regency stripes), a paint roller and tray, and a stack of dust sheets.

  I climbed into the van and pulled the door behind me, but made sure it didn't shut. If Potter found me trapped in his van in the morning, it would test even my ability to talk myself out of trouble. "Er, well Mr Potter, I thought I heard the plaintive meow of a trapped moggy and climbed in to rescue him." No, I didn't think that would work. The best way to avoid being caught was to search fast and get out.

  So I crouched down and shuffled to the front so that I could have a look around the driver's and passenger's seats.

  The first thing I found resting on the dashboard was a thick notebook. Its cover was stained with paint blotches. I rested against the back of the driver's seat, opened the book and shone my torch on the pages. The book seemed to be a record of Potter's jobs. He'd recorded the name of the client, a brief note on the work they wanted, and the date he planned to do it. When he'd completed the work, he wrote "DONE" in capitals against the job and entered the price he'd charged.

  I flicked back over his last couple of weeks' work. Not surprisingly, there was no reference to stealing three wax models from Louis Tussaud's.

  But Potter had painted the front door at a house in Tivoli Crescent. "Awkward customer," he'd noted.

  He'd wallpapered the front bedroom in an unoccupied top-floor flat in Brunswick Road, Hove. "Passed on duplicate key," he'd written.

  He'd mended a gutter and downpipe at a fish and chip shop in Moulsecoomb. "Free chips!" he'd added.

  He'd repainted the front of a house (but not the sides or back), the hallway and one other room in a house at 29 to 30 Brunswick Road. He'd marked the job "Urgent. Complete by Friday 25th September." He'd added a note: "Booked after they saw board outside Brunswick Road flat."

  I noted down the addresses where Potter had worked just in case I needed them. But it was small pickings for the risk I'd taken in searching the van.

  I'd hoped to find hard evidence I could use in print to link Potter to Blunt. Even better, direct to Sir Oscar Maundsley. But there was no mention of Blunt or Maundsley in Potter's job book. No incriminating note from either of them in the van. Not even a business card. And nothing which suggested Potter had taken part in the Tussaud's heist.

  I scrabbled back through the van. I'd knocked the pile of dust sheets over as I'd climbed through to the front. I had to pick them up and repack them in the pile I'd found them. I shoved them up against the ladders and went to move forward. The torch light glinted off something on the floor.

  I leant forward and picked it up. It was an earring. A white earring. And not any old white earring, either. It was the same kind that Marilyn Monroe wore in The Seven Year Itch. The same kind Marilyn's waxwork had worn at Louis Tussaud's.

  It was proof that Potter had had the waxworks in his van.

  Mr Potter had some questions to answer. And I didn't plan to waste any time asking them.

  I climbed out of the van and closed the rear doors.

  I didn't bother to check that everything in the van was just as I'd found it because I would have to admit having had a shufti inside. Potter would no doubt start hurling accusations of illegal searches at me. But I wasn't the police. And, besides, he had more pressing questions to answer.

  The front of Potter's house was dark. At this time of night, a man who spent a good part of his life climbing ladders would be in bed. Perhaps he was having a pleasant dream. Maybe it involved Marilyn Monroe. Perhaps it included her earrings.

  If so, a nightmare was about to arrive on his doorstep. Me.

  A short path led up to Potter's front door. I rapped on it loudly. Like I was a bailiff come to collect a debt.

  No answer.

  I knocked again. This time with the ball of my fist so that the door shuddered in its frame. It was a knock that would have raised Rip Van Winkle. But not Potter.

  I leant down, pushed open the letter box and peered through. The hallway provided a narrow passage to the rooms at the back of the house. To the right was a staircase. A finger of light from an upstairs room filtered down the stairs. Presumably from a bedroom.

  The fact there was a light on meant Potter was
still up. Unless he left it on for security. But that didn't make any sense, because you couldn't see it from outside the front of the house.

  Perhaps Potter was cowering in his bedroom. Perhaps he had good reason not to open the door. Especially when the knocking was so urgent. Which made me wonder whether Potter had good reason to be scared of person or persons unknown. Perhaps persons connected with the Tussaud's robbers. Perhaps persons who were part of Maundsley's stage army of Grey Shirt thugs.

  I walked away from the front door and back to the rough ground at the side of the house. Potter's back garden was behind a high wooden fence. I walked along outside the fence and looked at the back of the house.

  The rooms on the ground floor were dark. But in one of the rooms upstairs a light was on. The curtains were open. And something was wrong.

  There was a hole in the glass.

  I went back to Potter's van, opened the back doors, and took out the extendable ladder. I pushed open the gate leading into the back garden and carried the ladder through. I set it down and pushed up the extension so it leant on the wall just below the lighted window.

  Then I climbed up feeling a bit like a sweaty voyeur looking for a cheap thrill.

  As I neared the top of the ladder I could see the window had been broken in one place. A jagged hole about six inches across had been punched in the centre of the glass.

  I climbed the final three steps of the ladder and looked into the room.

  It was a sparse room with an ugly lump of a wardrobe, a small chest of drawers and a bed.

  Potter lay spread-eagled on the bed.

  He had a hole in the middle of his forehead.

  He'd been shot as precisely as if he'd had a bullseye tattooed between his eyes. There was a smear of blood on the bed's headboard, but none of the usual carnage of violent death. No brains splattered on the wall. No pool of blood on the carpet. No face contorted in a final agony. Potter's eyes were open and his lips were parted as if he'd just been promised a nice surprise. If death can ever be tidy, this was as neat a slaying as anyone was ever likely to see.