by J F Straker
Dead Letter Day
J F Straker
Copyright © J F Straker 1971
The right of J F Straker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1971 by Harrap as A Letter From Obi.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
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1
She had long straight hair, blonde with copper glints, that sprayed like golden rain from beneath a ridiculous fur cap. She had a snub nose and faintly freckled cheeks. The lower part of her face was hidden by a high fur collar, but Johnny knew that the chin just had to be dimpled. There would be dimples in her cheeks too, he thought, when she smiled. Unfortunately she wasn’t smiling now. Her forehead was creased in a frown, and there was anger as well as pain in the blue eyes as she leaned against the wall and massaged her ankle.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Johnny said. ‘Did I do much damage?’
‘You did.’ She wore a midi-length coat over a mini-skirt. Her legs fulfilled the promise of her face. ‘Why the hell can’t you look where you’re going?’
He might have said that it was difficult to see round corners. He didn’t. He said lamely, ‘I was in a hurry. I wasn’t expecting on-coming traffic.’ He watched anxiously as she tested her foot on the stone floor. ‘All right?’ She hobbled a few paces. Then her ankle seemed to give, and she grabbed at the wall. He winced in sympathy. ‘Not broken, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ He glanced quickly up and down the wide stone corridor. Bare walls, with a heavy oak door to the street, and high windows opposite the corner where they had collided. ‘That’s really grim. Look! Hang on a minute while I get you a chair. Then I’ll ring for a doctor.’
Her chin lifted as she looked at him. He saw he had been right about the dimple.
‘Not the ankle, you idiot. The shoe.’ She took it off. The heel hung drunkenly. ‘The ankle’s just bloody sore. What do you use for shoe leather? Cast iron?’
Johnny ventured a grin. The tone had been less acid than the words.
‘I used to be a copper. It hardens the feet. Shall I get you a taxi?’
Yes, she said, he could get her a taxi. She permitted him to put an arm round her waist as she hobbled to the entrance, and for Johnny it was a delicious experience. At thirty-one his arm had already encircled a healthy number of waists, but each time it encircled a new one it was like the start of a fresh adventure. One never knew where it might lead, but one hoped. The promise was always there.
He propped her in a corner and ran the short distance to the High Street, where he flagged down a passing taxi. ‘It’s on me, of course,’ he said, as he helped her into the cab.
‘Of course.’
‘How about the shoe? Would you like me to get it repaired?’
She declined the offer. Bond Street, she said, when he asked what address to give the driver. Johnny paid the man, and felt cheated; he had hoped for her home address. He did not even know her name. If she worked in Bond Street well, with a bit of perseverance he should be able to locate her. But if she were merely going shopping for new shoes, perhaps he had lost contact for good.
Penbury House was old and cold and bleak. An office block in the nineteenth century, it was still an office block, with no lift and few other amenities. Johnny and his partner rented an office on the top floor; not from preference, but because rents in Penbury House decreased with height. There were rumours that the building was destined for demolition in the near future. Johnny hoped that by then business would be sufficiently brisk to warrant a more modern and luxurious office.
He ran down the corridor and up the stone steps, giving the corner a wide berth. At the top he paused to regain his breath, then opened a door marked Nicodemus and Inch — Private Inquiry Agents’, and went in. The room was small, with yellowing paint and faded wallpaper. The window space was meagre. Although now nearly ten o’clock on an October morning, light shone garishly from a naked bulb suspended from the ceiling.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m late.’
Humphrey George Verity Nicodemus, ex-detective sergeant in the Metropolitan Police, looked up from the plain deal table that served as a desk, and frowned. He was a handsome, dark young man, a few months older and several inches taller than his partner. His lean face, aquiline nose, and high cheekbones gave him a patrician air; his muscular frame, loose-joined, suggested an athleticism he did not possess. He dressed soberly, avoiding the flamboyance to which Johnny had succumbed when the two of them had resigned from the Force to set up in business together.
‘It’s getting to be a habit,’ Nicodemus said. ‘You want to watch it.’
‘I know, I know. Any suggestions?’
‘You could try parking your birds earlier the night before.’
Jasmine Jones, the plump teenager who made the tea and answered the telephone and mistyped the letters and ran the occasional errands, was bent low over the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. Johnny gave her rump a friendly smack. She squealed and straightened.
‘Really, Mr Inch! That’s mine.’
‘Agreed,’ Johnny said. ‘Every splendid acre of it.’ He parked his own rump on the table, which swayed precariously. ‘You know something, Knickers? Old age is crabbing you. What does it matter if I’m late occasionally? Nothing’s likely to crop up that you and the girl here can’t handle.’
Nicodemus’s frown deepened. He had been ‘Knickers’ to Johnny almost from their first meeting, when they were detective sergeants together in a special police team set up by the Assistant Commissioner to investigate a spate of bank robberies. Like Johnny, he indulged in the occasional wisecrack at Jasmine Jones’ expense. But although familiarity had resigned him to a nickname he had initially resented, it seemed to him that his dignity as an employer (a product of Eton and Brasenose, Nicodemus was hot on dignity) was impaired by its use in front of the girl.
‘‘Occasionally’ is something of an understatement,’ he said. ‘Anyway, that’s not the point. One of us has to be on time. I don’t see why it should always be me.’
‘Now you’re being petty.’
Jasmine moved from the filing cabinet to her seat at the typewriter. Her massive legs and thighs, fully displayed beneath the miniest of mini-skirts, contrasted sharply with the slender limbs Johnny had so recently damaged. He said petulantly, ‘Thing is, life’s too bloody dull. Who’s going to bound out of bed bright and early to help sour old bags catch up on their errant husbands? Not me. I need an incentive — like excitement, man, or a spot of glamour. And talking of glamour, I bumped into a right dolly downstairs just now. God knows what she was doing in a dump like this. But talk about scenery — you name it, she had it. Why don’t we get clients like that? It’s just possible I might make it on time if we did.’
‘I doubt it. What was she like, anyway?’ Johnny’s description was so lyrical that Jasmine listened open-mouthed, her podgy fingers at rest on the keyboard. Even Nicodemus looked impressed.
‘Highly rhapsodic. You say you bumped into her?’
‘Literally. Hacked her on the shin.’
‘H’m! Not the most subtle means of effecting an introduction. Not very clever, either, seeing as she happens to be our latest client.’
‘She does?’ Johnny slid from the table so fast
that it was propelled backward into his partner’s stomach. Nicodemus grunted, and pushed it away. ‘Jesus O’Grady! Don’t tell me that one’s got husband trouble. The mind boggles.’
‘It can cease boggling. She wants us to locate a man who used to lodge with her parents. Chap by the name of Bullock. Obadiah Bullock.’
‘Obadiah?’ Johnny gaped at him. ‘Did you say Obadiah Bullock?’
‘I did. Why? Do you know him?’
‘We’ve met.’ Johnny slumped on to the only vacant chair. It was upholstered, and reserved for clients. ‘He’s an ex-con. Now, what would a chick like that want with an ex-con?’
‘She didn’t say. Would you know where to find him?’
‘No. You could try the jails, I suppose.’
‘Thanks. How did you come to meet him?’
‘Oh, it was years back. Ever hear of the Slade brothers?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘You want I should tell you?’
‘Provided you keep it clean,’ Nicodemus said. ‘Don’t let those Amazonian proportions fool you. Our Jasmine is still in bud.’
Johnny looked at the girl. ‘Make with the tea, gorgeous. I’ll need lubrication.’
It had happened shortly after he joined the Force, he said. Two brothers, Martin and Joseph Slade, had attacked a security van outside a City goldsmith’s, knocking out the guards and escaping with gold bullion to the value of thirty thousand pounds.
‘I remember,’ Nicodemus said. ‘They were nicked, weren’t they?’ Johnny nodded. ‘Where does Obadiah Bullock come in?’
‘He drove the get-away car. But the Slade brothers tried to bilk him, so he turned Queen’s evidence to spite them. Or that was his story. They were arrested a few days later. The judge reckoned Martin was the ringleader, and gave him a twelve stretch. Joe got eight, Obadiah three.’
‘Was the bullion recovered?’
Johnny shook his head. ‘No. The Slades had cached it, waiting for the heat to cool they admitted that in court — but they weren’t saying where. Even Obadiah didn’t know. Or said he didn’t. That was what really creased him.’ Johnny paused. ‘Odd thing is, I saw Martin Slade about a month ago. In hospital.’
‘What was wrong with him?’
‘Cancer. He was dying. He’d finished his stretch in the prison hospital — full remission — and gone straight into Westleigh General.’ Johnny reached for a directory. ‘Let’s see how the poor devil’s making out. If he’s still alive he just might give us a line on Obadiah.’ He dialled as he talked. ‘But don’t bank on it. He’s a surly bastard.’
Jasmine poured the tea. Both men liked it strong, and she gauged the milk carefully. Nicodemus sipped and listened. Before the receiver was back on its cradle he had guessed the answer.
‘He’s gone, eh?’
‘Last week. And thirty thousand quid’s worth of bullion with him. Unless he coughed. Which I doubt.’
Nicodemus was disappointed. Johnny had given him cause to hope for near-instant success in their assignment. Now, it seemed, they would have to work at it. ‘What made you visit him in hospital?’ he asked.
Johnny shrugged. ‘I’d heard he was there, and I happened to be in the neighbourhood, so I decided to look him up. I’d met him, you see, when he was arrested — he was charged in my nick and I was curious to meet him again.’ He sipped his tea, and nodded approvingly at Jasmine. ‘Besides, I felt sorry for the poor devil. He was supposed to be all sorts of a bastard, but he’d had a pretty raw deal himself.’
‘How come?’
‘Well, there was Obi grassing on him, for a start. A couple of years later his missus got tired of waiting and shacked up with some Italian fellow. But it was his brother’s death that really knocked him. He and Joe were pretty close. He went berserk when the news reached him. They had to put him in the cooler.’
‘What happened to Joe?’
‘Someone worked him over a fortnight after his release. A real thorough job; he never recovered consciousness.’ Johnny shrugged. ‘No-one got booked. Slade swore he knew who’d done it, but he wouldn’t say. He’d get the bastard himself, he said, when he came out. He didn’t, of course. The cancer put a stop to that.’
‘Did he know he was dying? When you saw him, I mean?’
‘Lord, yes! He’d known for weeks.’
‘He didn’t mention Bullock, I suppose?’ Nicodemus asked hopefully.
‘He didn’t mention anyone except his wife. He’d heard she had left the Italian, and wanted her new address. I said I’d get it for him. I did, too; posted it a few days later.’ Johnny grinned. ‘When I asked him why he wanted it he told me to get stuffed. But one thing’s for sure; he wasn’t thinking of mentioning her in his will. From the way he spoke I got the notion she wasn’t exactly his favourite woman.’
Nicodemus finished his tea. ‘Well, it’s a pity,’ he said. ‘Slade dying, I mean. Now you’ll have to find Bullock the hard way.’
‘Me?’
‘Who else? You’re the one with the contacts.’
‘True.’ Engrossed in his memoirs, Johnny had temporarily forgotten that it was the chick who had induced them. Now he remembered, and the remembrance cheered him. ‘I’d better get cracking, then. What’s our client’s name?’
‘Frazer. Polly Frazer.’ Nicodemus pushed a memo pad across the table. ‘That’s her phone number. She didn’t leave an address.’
Johnny dialled the number. It was a business number, and he had to wait while Miss Frazer was called to the telephone. He introduced himself, explaining that he would be handling her case, and suggested a meeting. He did not mention that they had already met; she might elect not to renew the acquaintance. Miss Frazer said she had given Mr Nicodemus all available information, and could see no purpose in a further encounter with Mr Inch; the first had been painful enough. Oh, yes, she said, patently gratified by Johnny’s mortified surprise, she had recognized his voice; she was good on voices, even over the telephone. Johnny apologized again, assured her he did not make a habit of assaulting clients, and suggested she might care to exercise magnanimity by allowing him to give her lunch. That would at least show her a profit. After a pause she admitted he had a point. She would meet him at twelve-thirty in the saloon bar of the Cricketer, in Piccadilly.
Johnny spent an unprofitable hour inquiring into the possible whereabouts of Obadiah Bullock, and then caught a bus for Piccadilly. Up on the top deck he reviewed his last meeting with Martin Slade. Curiosity and pity had not been the only reasons for his visit to the hospital. Stashed away somewhere — presumably only Slade knew where — was thirty thousand pounds’ worth of solid gold ingots. Or that had been its worth ten years ago; by now it would probably almost have doubled in value. ‘You can’t take it with you,’ he had told Slade, ‘so why not let me return it to the Bank?’
‘To hell with the Bank!’ Slade had retorted, ‘and to hell with scoffers. I’ve had you bastards breathing down my neck ever since I came out. What I do with the gold is my business; I did my bird for it, didn’t I?’
Johnny had explained that he was no longer a member of the Force, that he was now in business for himself.
‘So it’s the reward you’re after, is it?’ Slade had said.
Johnny had admitted that, although his primary concern was to return the gold, the reward would not come amiss; the agency was definitely short on capital.
‘Well, you’re not getting it, mate.’ Slade had told him. ‘So sod you!’
It had not been a happy reunion.
He was two-thirds of the way through his first pint when Miss Frazer arrived. She came into the pub laden with paper carriers, joined him at the bar, elected for cottage pie and a half of bitter, and settled herself at a table. Johnny was pleased about the bitter. Birds addicted to the hard stuff came expensive.
He carried the drinks and their lunches to the table. ‘I’ve been shopping,’ Miss Frazer said unnecessarily. Her accent was basically Cockney, but was well trimmed at the edges. ‘For a start, I
needed a new pair of shoes.’
Johnny gulped. ‘I ought to pay for them.’
‘You ought. But I’m not grasping. I’ll settle for the lunch.’
When they got down to business she added little to what she had told Nicodemus. Obadiah Bullock had come to lodge with her parents about a year after being discharged from prison — oh, yes, she knew he’d been in prison. He seemed to have no regular employment, but he was never shy with the rent; he had worked mostly in bars and clubs, she thought. Then, about six months ago, he had left; a job out of Town, he had told them. They had not seen or heard from him since.
‘Why are you so anxious to find him now?’ Johnny asked.
She had been talking freely and easily. Now her tone changed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘It’s a private matter.’
Johnny shrugged. If she wanted to play it cool, so be it. Odd, though.
‘O.K.,’ he said. ‘I only asked.’
He rather liked the phrase ‘a pregnant pause’. It conjured up a vision of puny words seeking to emerge from the womb of uncertainty. That was the atmosphere now. But when the words finally emerged they were out of context.
‘I’m thirsty,’ she said. ‘May I have another beer?’
He welcomed the break. When he returned from the bar he said, ‘Have you tried advertising in the personal columns?’
She shook her head. ‘Obi wouldn’t see it. He only reads the racing news.’
‘A pity. Private inquiry agents can come expensive. Did my partner fill you in?’
Yes, she said, Nicodemus had filled her in. She wasn’t rich, but she had a bit put by; he need not worry about his fee. Johnny protested that his concern was for her, not for himself. All right, so she could find the money. But whatever it was she wanted from Obadiah Bullock — well, was it worth it?
‘For him, Mr Inch, not from him. I’m in possession of something he could use to considerable advantage.’ You’re right there, Johnny thought. I could use it to some advantage myself. ‘I owe it to Obi to see he gets it.’
