by Mark Walker
The interrogation of Slade had started soon after he had been taken in. Two officers had worked on him till dawn. After a long break, during which he was allowed tea, the questioning started up again, this time helmed by Sergeant Bellows, who had arrived very early. He was joined by Inspector Blaney in the spare, ugly, green-painted room. They hammered him with questions over the unfortunate Constable Dickens, and berated him for the assault. But the gangster was made of sturdy stuff, and even the arrival of Riggs could not budge him from insolent silence, peppered with snide and wise-acre comments in the interim. The only tiny crumb of information that was spilled was an aside from Slade, who mumbled something that had to do with a “Tex.” Although both Riggs and Bellows noted the name, they said nothing, merely giving each other a look only they themselves could fathom.
It was then that one of the Hand’s solicitors, a greasy, toad-like Shell Pettifog, KC, fondly known to law enforcement as “King’s Councillor to the Crooks,” showed up eager to protect his client. His presence ensured that Slade would remain silent, and the detectives had to leave the interview room.
Over a lunch of canteen sandwiches in the office, Riggs, Bellows, and Blaney discussed the case. “Dickens should pull through, but he’s not out of the woods yet. Last night’s attack makes it clear: the Black and Blue Hand is involved in this business, even if we still don’t understand exactly how. The librarian, if nothing else, was acting as a banker or paymaster for the Hand, and possibly she had possession of the Blood Star.”
Blaney shook his head. “I got in at seven and spent most of the morning in the Incident Room with Saunders and Girard. They’ve both been hunting down the whereabouts of Miss Ginger Vitis. There’s nothing that’s gone unchecked, and we could find no address listed under her name.”
“Probably bought and paid for by Boss Stilton, with no record of the tenant,” said Bellows. “More likely by one of his underlings, Sergeant, so as not to leave any traces. Let’s let the lads run that down, too, but I doubt we’ll find any reference to Bruno Stilton. He’s quite too cagey for that.”
Blaney continued, “I also had the Flying Squad in Section E pay an early morning call on Boss Stilton’s club, but there was no life to be found there. They tried to raise him in his penthouse apartment, too, but the boss was out.’”
“I’m not surprised. Right, then. Gentlemen,” he said, eyes sparkling, “I’m thinking we might try an old-fashioned ambush at tonight’s premiere.
“As outrageous as it may seem, if our Miss Vitis is actually going to be wearing the Blood Star, we might be able to arrest her on the spot. However, if we’re wrong, it would be a major disaster! The chances are, it could be an imitation jewel, or the whole business could be misinformation altogether. At any rate, we shall be there.”
“I’m thinking we ought to have a look round the Criterion before the performance tonight. Maybe there is something there,” suggested Bellows.
“Yes, but don’t forget, they’ve a show opening tonight, so it will be a madhouse,” added Riggs.
Twenty minutes later, they stood under the semi-circular awning that bore the announcement:
OPENING TONIGHT—WORLD PREMIERE!
“Blaney, you take care of the perimeter and assign a squad for tonight to cover it from six o’clock on. Bellows and I will nose round inside the theatre. We’ll meet you in back here in about thirty minutes.”
They entered, and Riggs inquired at the Will Call window about his tickets, which he was able to collect. Then he asked if he and Bellows could check out the theatre.
“Oh no, sir, they’re in final rehearsals for tonight’s big opening. I’m afraid there’s no admittance.” But Riggs showed his warrant card, and they were quickly admitted downstairs to the theatre.
It had been rather an accident that the theatre came to be located downstairs at all. Originally, as designed by Thomas Verity in 1870, the basement was to house a large galleried concert hall for the great musical acts of the day; but during construction, the owners changed their minds and decided on a smaller galleried theatre instead. This had presented another problem, for the basement was lit by gas, which threatened the safety of the public. The Metropolitan Board of Works demanded a solution before granting a license for the theatre to open. Engineers came up with the solution by pumping fresh air into the basement, making the Criterion one of the first air-conditioned spaces in London. The new theatre opened in 1874, with the first program consisting of a bill of An American Lady and another piece so forgettable that even the former half of the team of Gilbert and Sullivan who penned it couldn’t remember having done so, entitled Topseyturveydom.
The Criterion has a long history, rich with theatrical tradition, and a repertoire ranging from music hall variety acts to musicals, operettas, avant-garde plays, comedies, and gritty dramas. Many of the leading lights of the English theatre had trod the boards there over the years. At this point, it was still unclear whether Hamlet: The Musical represented the avant-garde or the musical comedy aspects of legitimate theatre.
The interior of the Criterion was decorated with glazed tiles and Greco-art nouveau mosaics of mythical muses, musical and theatrical figures, brass rails, and rich carpet. It was a maze of confusing twists, turns, steps, and corridors. The detectives finally made their way to the stalls and opened the swinging double doors onto a scene of seeming chaos.
Opening day at any theatre is barely contained, crazed insanity, and this was no exception. A man with a goatee was frantically calling for lights up, and, as they did, he was running toward the stage shouting, “Hold it, hold it, hold it!” The actors onstage were in costume, and obviously exasperated. Behind them the set was being moved in and out, and stagehands and wardrobe assistants were scurrying here and there. Riggs managed to find someone who resembled a person in charge and, after showing his warrant card again, was shown the way backstage. Another maze of corridors finally led to a door, and the detectives found themselves in the stage-right wings. The rehearsal had resumed, and suddenly they were plunged into darkness before the stage lights came on.
They had to let their eyes adjust before being able to make out a chorus line forming up in front of them, getting ready to go on stage. Trilby Warbler spotted them and made her way over. She was clad in a bizarre costume of shimmering white, consisting of fur, sequins, rhinestones, and feathers over a draped affair of satin that revealed her legs and parts of her arms. The fabric was gathered tight at her waist, and she wore rhinestone bracelets on her wrists, ankles, and throat. Fur with sequins and rhinestones surrounded her face, and from the back of her head trailed five feet of what appeared to be shredded silk.
Riggs looked startled, and Bellows could only whisper, “Great Galloping Gollywhoppers!” Then Kitt Sparrow, dressed in the same type of costume, came over and joined them.
“Danish modern,” explained Trilby dryly in her melodious whisper. “We’re the Ghost’s Chorus. At least this costume fits. Wardrobe’s still doing last-minute fittings for the grave scene. And as it’s an AG Day, at least our feet won’t hurt as badly at the end of the night. Well, we haven’t heard anything more, but the talk is still that Ginger Vitis and Bruno Stilton will both be at the opening. And they still say she is going to wear something fabulous, something they say you’ll talk about for years to come, if you can believe that. There’s one thing you should know, Inspector. The best chance to get close enough to see if she’s really wearing the Blood Star would be after the show. The backers always come backstage to congratulate the cast and open a bottle of champagne. That is, even if the show’s only halfway good. Keeps the morale up, you know. They never like to think they’ve thrown their money away. So you should be able to get near her then.”
“Just don’t get too near, Inspector,” added Kitt with a wink.
Music started and the assistant stage manager was calling for the girls. “Oops! We’re on!” The two girls hurried to get into the queue, before turning on the charm and waltzing onstage with the
other girls, moving in strange gyrations Riggs could hardly describe.
He looked at Bellows in wonderment. “Let’s move on.”
“Yes, let’s don’t spoil the show!” replied Bellows.
They made their way out of the wings, following the “Way Out” signs, but ran into Toby Knockknees on their way to the backstage door. Riggs inquired if there were any new rumors or developments. Whilst he and Toby were thus engaged, Bellows was examining the callboard.
“Sir, look here.” He pointed at the sign-in list. Down the list was a name that seemed to almost jump off the sheet: Martin “Tex” O’Bannion.
“Tex!” said Riggs excitedly. “Toby, who is Tex O’Bannion?”
“Why, he’s one of the cast. One of those character actors that can play anyone or anything. He’s so good, you almost don’t recognize him if he’s in makeup. And get this: they say he’s a brilliant quick-change artist. He’s got a private dressing room, and most of the other actors stay well clear of him because he’s a gruff sort. Doesn’t seem to socialize. In fact, there he goes now!” Toby pointed to a figure crossing to the wing. He was wearing a magnificent costume of shimmering robes. Due to the dim lighting backstage, they couldn’t tell much about his face, but Riggs decided it could wait; they could look him up in Records when they returned to the Yard. They collected Blaney, and did just that.
chapter twenty-four
Bullets, Misses, and a Final Warning
BACK AT THE YARD, BLANEY PLIED through the Records in search of a Tex O’Bannion, but to no avail. He checked all the O’Bannions in the approximate age range, and still came up short. He called up to Riggs with the news.
“I guess that’s not a total surprise. Probably someone who’s operating just below the surface. Then again, it could be another Tex altogether, though I doubt it. That name is so unusual, though, it can hardly be coincidental.”
Bellows piped up, “And we all know how we feel about coincidences here at Scotland Yard.”
“Any word on Constable Dickens?”
“He’s stable and under sedation, now,” replied Blaney. “The doctor says he hopes he’ll come out of it tonight. He’ll let us know.”
“Thanks, Dick,” said Riggs, breaking the connection and jiggling the cradle.
Riggs called the Prescott home, where the phone lines had been put right, and found everyone doing fine after the excitement of the previous evening. They were thrilled about the prospects of going to a big West End premiere. Brendalynn was getting an outfit together with the help of the maid and occasionally Mandy, and despite Jen. Michael was more interested in pestering the constables who were watching the house. Riggs would call to collect them in the Dasher at 6:30 a.m.
“We’ll want to be at the theatre well early, Sergeant. We don’t know when or where Stilton and the Vitis woman may arrive. My guess is they’ll want the spotlight and red carpet routine in front. But they might slip in the back, or come in late.”
“What about bodyguards, sir?”
“We have to assume they’ll be well-guarded, and without an arrest warrant we can’t touch them without some probable cause. Now, if we actually see the stolen Blood Star, then we have cause. But we’ll just have to play it by ear and see how things play out. Without testing the ruby, it may be impossible to tell. Snuffy Franks says a synthetic stone can fool even an expert. How’s Mrs. Bellows coming with the alterations?”
“She promises she’ll have it ready, if I promise to lose some weight!”
Riggs left the Yard around four-thirty, with assurances he would be back to pick up Bellows at six-fifteen. In the court behind the tall gates he paused before getting into the Dasher. He remembered he had to readjust the pressure in the left front tire, since it had seemed a bit squishy as the AG Day progressed. Riggs did not see the dark heavy figure lounging casually against the lamppost across the street on the Embankment opposite the tall gates. Moments later, as the Dasher growled past, the man signaled his confederate.
Riggs was fully occupied with negotiating the traffic, which was already beginning to thicken on a Friday afternoon. He was now pleased with the tire pressure, and the Dasher’s ride felt just about right. As he paused for a light, the other part of his mind was wondering how Tex fit in, and what their chances would be of recovering the Blood Stars that night. He put the odds only at about two to one against, but he hoped he was wrong. He had started forward, downshifting to pass cars loitering in the left-hand lane, when the giant, roach-like Rolls Phantom I Coupé came roaring up on his right, threatening to cut him off. Who’s this idiot? thought Riggs, as he applied the brakes to keep the Dasher from crashing. It was then that shots rang out, one of them pinging off the chrome edge of the windscreen. Riggs screeched to a halt, inspiring a chorus of hooting and tooting horns behind him. The black Rolls thundered on past, a final shot being fired that missed and hit a parked car’s headlamp.
Kelly Riggs quickly took stock. After ascertaining that no pedestrians had been injured, he called in the incident on the radiophone and motored on his way, a grim expression on his face and a steely look in his eyes. It was virtually unheard-of for criminals to make an attack like this on an inspector from Scotland Yard. The affair had become deadly serious now, and it meant war. Well, he’d take the fight right back to them. It occurred to him that the AG Day might have affected the flight path of the bullets, but he’d have to consult with Snuffy Franks on that. His eyes were wary as he turned into Bloomsbury Street, and he took in every detail of his surroundings before switching off the motor and entering his flat.
He closed the door behind him and latched it. He expected more tricks, and if caution be a virtue, then Kelly Riggs was virtuous. Past the entryway the downstairs hall was empty, and his eyes noted the mail in the large basket on the sideboard. There was a package. Riggs approached it warily. He stooped and listened. No ticking. He prodded it with a pencil. Not heavy. He finally picked it up and examined it carefully. Postmarked Euston Station that morning. He opened it gingerly. Inside the packing tissue he found a black leather glove with a blue satin face. The mark of the Black and Blue Hand. In the palm was a note on plain white paper, scrawled in a hasty but legible hand.
The Black & Blue Hand says—
We’ve been missing you.
If you’re reading this, we missed again.
But next time we won’t.
Butt out, or else.
This is your last warning!
So! The mailing of the warning was made before the attempt on his life just a few minutes before. They had stepped up their campaign. Someone was getting nervous. Boss Stilton? The hair prickled on the back of Kelly Riggs’s neck as he contemplated his reflection in the hall mirror. It would be good to finally get a look at Stilton tonight. It helped him to take stock of his foe. And for that matter, what was Boss Stilton thinking about right now, and was he thinking about him? Riggs brushed his fingers through his hair and the matter from his mind, as he trudged up the stairs to his first floor flat.
His mind turned to the rich ache in his left shin, brought on by his long-ago war injury and aggravated by the AG Day. He never felt it otherwise, but there was some atmospheric anomaly that caused the old injury to flare up. In all these years, he had told no one about it. It was his secret. Some aspirin would calm it down, and the Fox and Hound stick certainly helped.
His smart and comfortable flat awaited him, and after a brief and thorough check, he found no new tricks from the Black and Blue Hand. Mrs. Wiggins had laid out his evening clothes in her usual perfect way, and left a note that coffee was prepared and to just start the kettle. Riggs sighed at his good fortune. He threw off his hat, coat, and tie, kicked off his shoes, lay down on his sofa, and dozed for exactly twenty minutes, waking, refreshed, by his internal alarm.
He put on the small kettle and, soon after, the delicious aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafted into the bathroom, as he completed washing up and grooming himself. He dashed in some whiskey and drank the strong, black
brew, thinking of Brendalynn Welles and what she might be wearing tonight.
But then he was thinking again about something that had been nagging him, far back in his mind. Something about the case that he simply couldn’t put his finger on. Best let it lie, it would come to the surface eventually.
It was almost dark, and the dying rays of the setting sun lanced through the blinds, casting blood-red stripes on the wall behind him. He had just buttoned his waistcoat and was starting to tie his Black Watch bow tie, when the phone on his bedside table rang. He caught it on the second ring. It sounded like the voice of Toby Knockknees, though it seemed far away, as though it was coming from a hole.
“Inspector! I’m glad I caught you. Listen, I haven’t much time. After I saw you and Sergeant Bellows, I overheard some of them talking—the stagehands talking, that is—and they said after the show, that Tex…“
Riggs heard Toby’s voice become muffled, and there was a sound like a rustle, then a hollow, final click. “Toby? Toby?” Riggs frantically jiggled the cradle.
What to do? Was Toby now in danger? Had he even called from the theatre? It was still too early by more than fifteen minutes for the police presence Riggs had asked for. Should he try to have the premiere of a new musical cancelled on opening night? Based on what evidence? A call that might or might not have been Toby. A call that had been too short even to trace.
No, he would just have to trust the lad was all right, and proceed with the plan. It might even have been a ploy to get him to change the night’s routine. He was right on schedule, so he finished tying his tie and then checked his shoulder holster hanging on a nearby chair. The small, ugly .32 Colt Detective Special was snugly in its place. He donned the holster and then his evening jacket, rechecked that the gun was secure, and examined his profile in the mirror. Even if he didn’t think so himself, Riggs cut as dashing a figure as had ever been brought to the silver screen. Ronnie, David, and even Errol had nothing on him, really. He grabbed his top hat, overcoat, the Fox and Hound cane, and made for the hall.
