"I briefed them this afternoon," Ted said. "Told them we had a big name visiting, but didn't say who."
"Good man. Keep the location secret as well."
"They'll be told forty-five minutes before the arrival at eleven o'clock, guv."
All four feet moved and running water suggested they were washing their hands.
"Remember, secrecy is everything," Tomkins said.
"With all the preparation, I'm amazed we've kept it under wraps," Ted said.
"Keep it that way," Tomkins said.
The feet moved towards the door. It opened and they went out.
I left it a couple of minutes before standing up, pulling the chain, leaving the cubicle, and washing my hands.
I'd cracked cop secrets before and I was determined I'd discover this one.
But an hour later it looked like this was the one secret I wouldn't crack.
I was sitting at a table in Prompt Corner opposite Shirley. I'd zipped back to my apartment and changed into fresh clothes before meeting her at the restaurant.
I was busy getting myself on the outside of my second large gin and tonic while Shirley sipped at a Campari and soda. I'd told Shirley what had happened. I'd tried to make light of my brush with death. Shirl's hand had reached across the table to stroke mine when I told her about the ducking stool and my trip in it.
"Jeez, that's barbaric," she said.
"Sure, but only if the witch floated. Then she was taken out, dried down, and burnt at the stake. I sunk without trace."
"But you came back up again."
"You can't keep a good man down," I said. "Let's order. Being nearly drowned gives you an appetite."
Shirley grabbed my wrist to stop me opening the menu.
"Just a minute, whacker," she said. "You haven't heard my news yet."
She grinned the way she did when she had a secret. She reached under the table for her bag and rummaged inside it.
"You remember you asked me to find out about that hat box," she said.
"The one Freddie Barkworth photographed in the back of Maundsley's Bentley?"
"Sure. It came from that posh milliner in Paris. I asked Tom Arkwright who's been the lighting guy on that West Pier photoshoot I've been in. He'd just been in Paris working on a fashion shoot, and had brought back a couple issues of Paris Match."
"Great magazine," I said.
"Tom hadn't heard of Pascale Dubois but he said he'd have a quick look through them for me. He came up with this."
Shirley opened her bag, reached in, and pulled out a press cutting. She unfolded it and passed it across the table.
It was a cutting from the magazine dated two weeks earlier. A colour picture showed a tall woman with blonde hair stepping into a first-class railway carriage. I'm no fashion expert but I'd be willing to bet the canary yellow twin-set she was wearing hadn't come from Woolworth's. If I'd seen this picture in any magazine I'd have dismissed it as a filler. Woman climbs into train. Big deal.
But not this time. Because the woman was carrying a hat box from Pascale Dubois.
The caption below the picture read: "Françoise Dior a l'air d'avoir fait ses courses avant de prendre la Flèche d'Or à destination de l'Angleterre."
Shirley leaned over and translated: "Françoise Dior seems to have done her shopping before taking the Golden Arrow to England."
I said: "This could be important. Do you know who Françoise Dior is?"
Shirley shrugged. "Something to do with the famous fashion house, I suppose. The one started by Christian Dior."
"Françoise is Christian's niece. Her own father Raymond was the heir to a fortune from a family fertiliser business. But wealth didn't stop him being an ardent communist."
"So Françoise is a red?"
"Not at all. She swung the other way. She's a fanatical Nazi sympathiser. Was during the war and still carries the swastika with pride. If she was coming to England, there's one man she'd want to see."
"Sir Oscar Maundsley."
"You've got it."
"And I think I know why," Shirley said.
"You do?"
"It's obvious. Look at the photo again, bozo. Dior is carrying two boxes. And the other one's not her hat."
I picked up the cutting again and studied the picture.
I said: "I can just about read the name on the other box. Couture Mon… something."
"That's Couture Monique," Shirley said. "It's the best bridal shop in Paris. World famous. And if that box doesn't hold Dior's trousseau, I'll eat Ned Kelly's daks."
I leant across the table and kissed Shirley. A real loving plonker on the lips.
"You're brilliant," I said. "If Maundsley and Dior really are planning to get married, it changes everything we know."
"It doesn't change the fact I'm starving," Shirl said.
This time Shirley didn't stop me passing her the menu.
"Let's eat first and talk later," I said.
I pushed away my plate, lifted my glass, and took a last sip of my wine.
I put down the glass and said: "It's strange how childhood memories stick in the mind. I remember a day one summer when I was sitting in the garden wondering whether to go to the park or read a book. I was watching an ant scurry along the edge of the path. I noticed a second ant run down the trunk of the apple tree. Then I noticed a third ant crawling over the watering can outside the greenhouse.
"I sat there for a few minutes watching them. Just thinking there are three random ants, each unaware of the other two. But eventually they all headed for the same destination - a large stone slab at the foot of the rockery. They all scurried under the stone. I went over and lifted it up. There was a whole colony of ants under it. There was a tracery of passageways and tunnels and a queen ant at the centre of it all."
Shirley finished her chicken and put down her knife and fork.
"Except in this case the queen ant is a king ant - Maundsley," she said.
I grinned. "You're ahead of me."
"So what's new?" she said.
"I started off looking for an ant who'd gone missing."
"Gervase Pope."
I nodded. "I discovered three more ants - Wellington Blunt, Unity Box-Hartley and Conrad Montez. At first I thought they weren't connected. Now I'm not so sure. Besides, apart from these three, there are other ants in the nest. Some are also players and some are victims."
"Like Derek Clapham, the poor sap who was killed above Antoine's Sussex Grill."
"Yes. I'm sure Clapham was killed by Blunt and now I think I know why. There was a pile of old newspapers and magazines in Clapham's apartment with a couple of Paris Match among them. If Clapham had seen the photo you've discovered, he'd immediately understand the significance of it. Maundsley has always tried to give his brand of fascism a patriotic British slant. But if it became known he was having an affair with an unapologetic Nazi, and a French one at that - even planning to marry her - it would wreck any last vestiges of credibility he had."
"But if Maundsley married a bad girl like that everyone would know about it," Shirley said.
"Not if the wedding was in secret. In the 'thirties there were all kinds of weird Nazi wedding ceremonies between fanatics. Swearing life-long devotion over Mein Kampf. Mingling of their blood and stuff like that. If I'm right, Maundsley wouldn't be walking his bride down the aisle of some ancient country church. This would be a secret ceremony in a back room somewhere."
"So anyone who knew about it - or who'd worked it out for themselves, like Derek Clapham - would be a big threat to the old fascist," Shirley said.
I nodded. "I saw letters in Clapham's flat which showed he was strapped for cash. I think he was blackmailing Maundsley over his connection with Dior. Maundsley had to silence him - and Blunt was the faithful follower who completed the job."
"So you think Blunt is Maundsley's hired killer?" Shirley said.
"One of them."
Her eyes widened in surprise. "You think there's more than one."
&nbs
p; "Remember that Potter was murdered."
"By Blunt?"
"I'm not sure, but not in person. I think he may have subcontracted the job."
Shirl's eyes lit up with an idea. "To Conrad Montez, the tango instructor with two left feet."
"You've got it."
"But why should a tango teacher turn to murder?"
"I don't think he is a tango teacher. Remember that Wilf and Betsy told us he turned up at the school only a month or so ago. They also said the relationship between him and Dolores was strained. We saw that ourselves when he barged in half way through the lesson and they had a row in their office. And that's another point. Wilf said the office was rarely locked before Montez appeared on the scene. Now it's always locked."
"Because he's hiding stuff in there?"
"I guess so."
"But what?" Shirley asked.
"Stuff that reveals who he really is."
"You don't think he's Conrad Montez?"
"It's not the name his mother and father knew him by. We know that Montez came from Buenos Aires, where he originally knew Dolores Esteban. After the war, a lot of Nazis fled to Argentina to escape justice for their war crimes. If I'm right, Montez is one of them."
"A real live Nazi?"
"I'd prefer a real dead one."
"So what's he doing in Britain? Surely he risks being exposed and put on trial."
"He must be here for a reason. I think he killed Potter the night we visited the tango school. That's why he arrived late with that bag - it had something warm in it. We know Potter had been shot with a rifle - I think the warm item was a silencer."
"I don't see why Potter had to die."
"He'd been mixed up in the heist of those waxworks from Louis Tussaud's. A cop spotted a van like his on the night of the theft. I saw the van the following day at Maundsley's country estate. I guess Potter was a worker ant who had to die because he knew too much."
"Too much about what?"
I shrugged. "I don't know, but it must be something big because Montez has to be a key player in it. And he wouldn't risk exposure for a minor caper. Which just leaves the third ant."
"Unity Box-Hartley. How does she fit into the picture?" Shirley asked.
"She seems to be the ant who stays in the background but knows what all the others are doing. We know she's pally with Blunt because we saw them together at Maundsley's rally. She knew Clapham because he'd asked her for a loan. I've remembered that Clapham had scribbled a note about it on the bank manager's letter he'd been using as a bookmark. And Unity must know Montez because there was a business card for the Tango Academy on her corkboard. To top it all, she also knows Gervase Pope and Felix Delaunay."
"Little Miss Popular," Shirley said.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, I'll have a few questions for her to answer tomorrow morning."
"I'll come with you," Shirley said.
"Sorry, you can't do that. This is official Chronicle business. Figgis would have my press card and ritually burn it if he knew I'd taken a guest along to an interview."
"I'll take another look at the Tango Academy, then."
I reached across the table and took Shirley's hand. "Don't do that. Please. We don't know what's going to happen next, but I have a feeling it will be dangerous. I couldn't bear to lose you."
Shirley grinned. "For a minute, I thought you almost meant that."
"I do," I said. "I do."
The notice in the front window of Box-Hartley's shop read: "Closed for annual holiday."
I stamped my foot and cursed under my breath. It was nine o'clock the following morning. I'd spent a restless night turning over and over in my mind the questions I needed to ask Box-Hartley. Now I was fired up to ask them. I was determined not to leave until I had some straight answers.
But Unity Box-Hartley was not on the premises.
I discounted the blarney about a holiday. Box-Hartley was away from her business because she was up to no good. No doubt with Maundsley.
I hung around outside the shop wondering what the hell to do next. Random thoughts were racing through my brain. The vision of some terrible atrocity haunted my mind. But I had no firm evidence to support that idea. Nothing I could take to the police.
Perhaps I would've been able to prise the information from Box-Hartley. Perhaps I could have tricked her into an indiscretion which would have led me to the truth. But Box-Hartley had vanished. Made herself scarce while Maundsley and his storm-troopers - no doubt cheered on by Françoise Dior - went about their evil business.
But wait a minute. Had Box-Hartley vanished? I looked again at the small shop window and the signboard above it. "Reproduction Antique Furniture" it said. Box-Hartley had a thick catalogue of the stuff. I'd seen it on my visit. She wouldn't keep all that in the shop. There simply wasn't room. She had to have some storage space somewhere. Perhaps a warehouse. One without a sign over the door. A private place where she could keep her cabinets and commodes as well as the Nazi junk she didn't want everyone to know about. If she was mixed up in nefarious business, that's where she'd be.
It took me ten minutes to find the address of the place by asking around the nearby shops. An old boy running a second-hand book store just around the corner had once mistakenly taken delivery of an item meant for Box-Hartley. The package had the address of Box-Hartley's shop as well as a place on an industrial estate off Carden Avenue. He couldn't remember the exact address.
But I knew that there was only one industrial estate off Carden Avenue. The estate had fewer than a dozen units. It wouldn't be difficult to trace Box-Hartley's. It would be the one without any sign on the outside.
Fifteen minutes later, I pulled the MGB onto the forecourt of a small warehouse.
The place had walls which looked like they'd been built out of breeze blocks and whitewashed. There were large double doors at the front. I suppose that made it easier to deliver the big stuff. There was a wicket gate in one of the larger doors.
I climbed out of the car, walked towards the door and tried the handle.
To my surprise, the door opened. I stepped inside.
The place was arranged in aisles lined with repro furniture, much of it covered with dust sheets. There were no windows but my eyes squinted at the glare from the fluorescent lights which hung low beneath a metal vaulted ceiling. Somewhere towards the back of the warehouse, I could hear Housewives' Choice playing on the radio. Pete Murray was introducing the next record. Apparently, Doreen from Scunthorpe was celebrating her fortieth birthday and was desperate to hear Herman's Hermits singing I'm into Something Good.
Perhaps Doreen was. I had the distinct impression I wasn't.
I headed towards the back of the warehouse. A door off to the right led into a small office. A sign on the door read: "Private".
I ignored that, opened the door, and stepped into the office.
Box-Hartley was on the far side of the room behind a desk. She was shuffling some papers and putting them into a file.
She looked up as I entered the room. Her eyes were wide with surprise. Then she recognised me and the look changed to hate.
Did I say hate? I should have said deep visceral loathing. Her eyes flashed like they'd just loosed nuclear missiles in my direction.
But I didn't have more than a moment to take that in. Because my attention was riveted on the figure standing in the corner of the room.
I felt like my stomach had just gone into orbit and circled the earth. I forced down something warm and sticky that rose in my throat. I felt light-headed, like I'd just drunk a whole bottle of champagne at a single gulp.
And I knew that I'd just stepped into a horror beyond my darkest imaginings.
Chapter 23
The figure in the corner was Winston Churchill.
He was standing upright with a cigar between the second and third fingers of his left hand. His right hand was raised in his trademark V-sign salute. He was wearing a black jacket, striped trousers, and a blue bow-tie with whi
te spots.
And he had a bullet hole right in the middle of his forehead.
Just like the hole Potter had had in his.
I counted seven other bullet holes in Churchill - three in the chest, one on each shoulder and two towards the back of his head.
He was the wax model stolen from Louis Tussaud's.
He'd been used for target practice.
And now I knew why.
I turned to Box-Hartley. She stood behind her desk frozen like another waxwork.
I said: "You're part of a plot to assassinate Churchill." My voice sounded thin and reedy - like it was coming over short-wave radio from the middle of Australia. I realised I was shaking. I tensed my muscles to get a grip.
Box-Hartley's eyes fired off a couple more missiles in my direction. Then she lunged for a drawer in her desk.
She yanked open the drawer and rummaged furiously in it.
I raced across the room. I thrust my left hand onto the desk and jumped.
I vaulted the thing, knocking the telephone and a glass bubble ornament of the Royal Pavilion in a snowstorm to the floor. The telephone came loose from its wire and crashed into the wall. The bubble smashed sending splinters of glass in all directions.
I slid across the desk and crashed into Box-Hartley.
She fell backwards, stumbled across a chair, and landed in an ungainly heap on the floor. Her arms waved. Her legs flailed. She screeched like a banshee.
The dagger she'd grabbed from the drawer had a vicious six-inch blade. It flew from her hand and skittered across the floor. I picked myself up and leapt after it.
I grabbed the dagger from behind a filing cabinet and turned back towards Box-Hartley.
She was flat on the floor. She was dressed in a tight grey business skirt and a white blouse. Her skirt had ridden up her legs and she fumbled furiously to pull it back. Now she was screaming with a high-pitched shriek. It sounded like the kind of alarm that would go off to warn of a nuclear attack.
I moved towards her and brought my fist down on the desk with the force of a pile-driver.
The desk shook and a calendar and a couple of pens fell off.
I shouted: "Shut up. Listen to me and you may just avoid hanging by the neck until dead in Holloway Prison."
The Tango School Mystery Page 19
