Without Conscience

by David Stuart Davies

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ replied Eddowes.

  ‘Good show.’ The man disappeared behind the door again as quickly as he appeared.

  I grinned. ‘He’s like the White Rabbit. Who was that?’ I asked casually.

  ‘Oh that’s Bernard. Bernard France. He’s secretary to Sir Robert Gervais, one of the whizz-kids from the code-breaking section. Gervais has a first class brain. One of the unsung heroes of the war effort.’

  Ah young Sir Robert, the fellow with the flapping mohair over-coat who keeps Sergeant Broughton on his toes. I nodded and smiled my appreciation for the information.

  *

  I grabbed a bite to eat in a little café, girding up my loins before my next port of call. The Loophole Club was virtually deserted. Well, it was the early afternoon and no doubt most of the exotic regular customers would be at work at this hour. They would have to hold down a decent job in order to afford the expensive gowns and make-up they wore in the evening; and heaven knows what a decent pair of nylons costs these days on the black market – if you can get hold of a pair. Personally, I’d not felt the need.

  It was clear that like a vampire, the club only came alive at night. During the daylight hours, there was a ghostly air of funereal melancholy about the place. The room was still gloomy and dimly lighted but now it smelt of old fag ends, cheap perfume and stale alcohol. Somewhere a gramophone was playing some slow jazz tune which added to the dreary atmosphere. Despite the scarcity of clientele, which consisted of about four ‘ladies’ sitting around a table in the deep shadows at the far end of the room, I felt more uncomfortable than I had done on my visit with ‘Wilma’ Riley when the place had been crowded. Now I really was sticking out like a sore thumb; the only person in trousers in the place.

  However, it seemed that I attracted little attention. The ladies gave me a casual glance without comment as I entered, their faces hovering like indistinct clown’s masks in the artificial twilight, and then they turned away and returned to their hushed conversation. Relieved, I picked a stool at the bar and ordered a drink. The ‘girl’ who served me was broad-shouldered and stocky, wearing a tweed skirt and a tight-fitting cardigan, but she needed a shave.

  It wasn’t long before I had company on the stool beside me. My heart skipped something like a beat; certainly it behaved in an irregular fashion when I clocked the gorgeous individual smiling across at me. She had emerged from nowhere like a cunning spider waiting in the darkness for the unwary fly. And here I was at the centre of her transvestite web. This vision had all the sexual allure of Jean Harlow with some of the mysterious suppressed passion of Greta Garbo mixed in. She had flawless skin, seductive blue eyes and a delicious red-lipped mouth. All she had to say was ‘Could I have a ginger ale, baby’ in a husky voice and I’d be melting. Sadly, it took my brain a little time to catch up with my crotch. You fool, I eventually told myself, this isn’t Jean Harlow or Greta Garbo. It isn’t even a woman, Johnny. This was a gentleman in a frock! But what a gentleman. I never knew they could be so … convincing.

  ‘I’ve not seen you in here before,’ the vision said, the red lips parting into a gentle smile.

  ‘This is only my second time,’ I said shyly, as though I’d been caught doing something naughty behind the bicycle shed by the vicar.

  ‘I’m Amanda. Care to buy me a drink?’

  I nodded. What else could I do?

  ‘My usual, Jocelyn,’ Amanda called to the unshaven one.

  ‘I’d better warn you, I’m not here seeking company,’ I said. ‘I just … it’s a matter of … well, you see, I need …’ I felt my explanation spluttering and phuttering to a juddering, hesitant close like a car running out of petrol. I couldn’t really tell Amanda I was a private detective making enquiries into the death of one of the customers – that was guaranteed to drive her away pronto – and yet I didn’t want her to think I was in the club on the lookout for, how could I put it, an unconventional girlfriend.

  It was clear from Amanda’s expression that she had heard my kind of stuttering protestations before from novices, the curious and the desperate who had found themselves washed up in The Loophole. I tried to approach the problem from another angle.

  ‘I was in here a few nights ago with a friend of mine, Wal—Wilma Riley.’

  Amanda rolled here eyes. ‘Oh, her! I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but … Rank amateur, she was. Looked as though she hadn’t been near a decent clothes shop for years. The word fashion had passed her by. I’m sorry, I don’t wish to be rude about your friend, but she dressed as though she was a pantomime dame.’

  I nodded as though in agreement. It wasn’t a topic I wished to discuss. I was no expert. Women’s fashion is rather a closed book to me. I just knew when they looked nice and that’s about it. A simple soul am I.

  ‘Did you know her well?’

  Amanda shook her head. ‘Not really. She’d only been coming here a few months. She seemed a decent sort, I suppose. She usually met up with a dark-haired piece, sits in a corner in a huddled tête-à-tête, not much interested in anyone else. Not very sociable. You get types like that.’

  ‘Is this other person tall, slender with long dark hair?’ I remembered the creature with whom Walter Riley had an altercation just before we left the club.

  Amanda shrugged. ‘Yeah, that sounds like her. She’s called Helen. She’s not very friendly. Don’t know much about her.’

  I looked around the room. ‘Is she here now?’

  ‘She hasn’t been in for a few days at least,’ Amanda said, her eyes not leaving my face. ‘I should know, I manage the place. I’m here every night.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I’m one of the fixtures and fittings.’

  ‘Is there any way I could get in touch with this Helen?’

  Amanda smiled coquettishly, leaned forward and placed her hand on my knee causing a certain paralysis in my lower limbs. ‘Now why would you want the mysterious Helen when you’ve got me here and now and in the lovely flesh?’

  I tried to ignore the gentle squeezing of my knee cap. ‘I just need to see her, to ask her a few questions, that’s all.’

  The squeezing stopped, the hand pulled away sharply and the smile vanished. ‘You’re a copper, aren’t you?’ Amanda’s voice suddenly lost its sexual allure and was replaced with a deeper, more aggressive gruffness of tone.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I replied awkwardly, tugging at my tie.

  ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  I reckoned there was no point in prevaricating or coming up with some flimsy excuse. I’d peddled enough lies for one day. It was best if I told the truth now. ‘I’m not with the police,’ I said evenly. ‘I’m a private investigator. I’m trying to find out who was responsible for Wilma’s murder.’

  ‘You don’t think this Helen had anything to do with it, do you?

  ‘I don’t know. I just think that she might be able to help.’

  ‘Is this on the level?’ Amanda’s voice was almost masculine now, all the feminine artifice had evaporated. It seemed so surreal to hear a man’s rather coarse tones emerging from that beautiful feminine face.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You got a card? Some ID?’

  I flicked one of my business cards out of my wallet and passed it to Amanda. She scrutinized it closely as though normally she was used to wearing spectacles and then grinned at me coquettishly, as she slipped the card down her cleavage.

  ‘Well, Mr John Hawke,’ she said at length, the seductive female tones fully reinstated, ‘leave the matter with me a while. The girls here are quite a close knit community, for obvious reasons. We look after our own. I’ll see what I can ferret out. I’ll get in touch if I hear anything. OK?’

  ‘As soon as you can would be good.’

  Amanda touched the back of her wig. ‘Well, it shouldn’t take long to find things out. Say tomorrow late afternoon, around four. Come round to my place. It’ll be more private. This place has ears.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, with
a nervous smile. I saw the sense of her suggestion, but I was just a little apprehensive about being alone with her on her own territory.

  ‘Give me another of your cards, John.’ Her eyes flickered with amusement. She was actually enjoying herself. Now she knew exactly where she was with me, she was taking pleasure in playing with me, keeping me uncertain as to her motives.

  I passed her a card and she scribbled her address on the back and returned it to me. ‘Around four,’ she said, suggestively. ‘A secret assignation. I like that. Quite exciting, isn’t it?’ She wriggled with delight.

  I nodded with false agreement.

  ‘All right, Jonathan. I’ll get on the case and see you at my place tomorrow. Bring roses.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I said and slipped off my stool ready to leave, when Amanda leaned over, very close to me and smiled sweetly. ‘Take care of yourself, John, darling. I’d hate anything untoward to happen to you. Goodbye,’ she said, leaning forward and kissing me lightly on the cheek.

  SIXTEEN

  Despite Johnny Hawke’s strong assurances and protestations, Susan McAndrew was not really satisfied with his story about Peter. Her doubts nagged at her as she went about her duties at the Charing Cross Hospital. The niggling suspicion that perhaps he was not telling her the whole truth, that he was covering up for Peter, grew in her mind as the day progressed until it developed into a strong conviction that she had been sold a pack of lies. Why would the lad ring up Johnny rather than just land on his doorstep? Where else had Peter to go in London? She answered the questions herself, shooting holes through Johnny’s story in the process. By the time she had reached the end of her long shift at the hospital, Susan was not only convinced that she had been conned, but she was angry with herself for having believed Johnny in the first place.

  As she was grabbing her coat and bag from her locker, her friend Tilly approached with a weary sigh.

  ‘What a shift. I don’t think I’ve sat down since I arrived here at God knows what time this morning.’

  Susan responded with a sympathetic smile and nod.

  ‘Would you like to join me in a cup of tea and scone in the canteen before you hop off for some shut eye?’ said Tilly. ‘I’ve got some juicy tittle tattle about Dr Brewis and I’m bursting to tell someone.’

  ‘I’d love to, but something rather urgent has come up. I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Oh, not bad news, I hope.’

  Susan pursed her lips. ‘I hope so, too. Maybe tomorrow, eh? Save the Brewis story for me then.’ She leaned forward and gave her friend a peck on the cheek and then headed briskly for the door.

  As she might have guessed there was no one at home at Hawke Investigations in Priory Court. After ringing the bell for some time and then tapping on the glass panel, Susan tried the door on the slender chance that it might be open. There was no joy. Of course Johnny’s absence might well be quite legitimate: he could be out there on the streets of London trying to catch criminals or following up clues. She just hoped he wasn’t in a bar somewhere, soaking up the booze with a little boy by his side.

  Then she had an idea: Benny’s café. Where else would Johnny take a hungry young boy but his mate’s café, an Aladdin’s cave of paste sandwiches and iced buns? Well, it was a possibility, a strong possibility, she told herself and with a determined spring in her step she set off to find out if she was right.

  By the time that Susan had turned the corner into Dean Street she had convinced herself totally that Peter was with Johnny and he was deliberately hiding the fact from her. On seeing the illuminated windows of Benny’s café, she developed a strong desire for surprising that lying toad, John Hawke – to catch him red-handed with Peter. It would give her great satisfaction to see his jaw drop and then hear him try and splutter out some feeble explanation. The windows of the café were steamed up and despite pressing her nose against the glass, she couldn’t see inside. Disappointed, she entered.

  The place was quiet. The lunchtime trade had dispersed and there were only a few elderly customers inside. Sadly, there was no sign of Johnny or, more importantly, Peter.

  Benny was at the counter chatting with a red-faced fellow in a shabby raincoat who was settling his bill. Out of habit, the café owner glanced up to greet the new customer with a smile. When he saw who it was, the smile froze on his lips and his eyes flickered nervously.

  Benny’s behaviour was evidence enough to satisfy Susan that she was on the right trail. His obvious discomfiture at her arrival spoke volumes. She waited for the red-faced man to depart before she approached the counter.

  ‘Hello, Benny,’ she said. Her manner was friendly, but her eyes told a different story.

  ‘Miss McAndrew. How nice to see you. It’s been a long time …’

  ‘Where are they?’

  Benny frowned. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Johnny and Peter, the little boy Peter. I know they are together. Where are they?’

  Benny’s stomach began to churn uncomfortably. He hadn’t expected this. What was worse, he was no actor. He knew that he couldn’t handle subterfuge. Whatever story his mouth came out with, his face would tell the truth. And yet he was aware that he had to carry out the charade. He had to try at least for the sake of Johnny and Peter. This woman, nice though she was, represented authority and that meant that Peter would be taken away. He couldn’t allow that. Johnny would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t—’

  But Susan McAndrew, further angered by her belief that she had been right all along about Johnny and Peter, was in no mood for prevarications. She leaned over the counter, her face coming close to Benny’s. ‘You know exactly what I mean. Where is the boy?’ she snapped, loudly enough to attract the attention of the few customers in the café, their faces turning towards her in surprise and interest. ‘I am sure you don’t want me to bring the police here to get him.’

  It would be the last thing she would really do, but Susan wanted to scare Benny into coming out with the truth.

  ‘What boy?’ Benny asked lamely, still prevaricating because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘Look, Benny. You know who I mean. Peter Blake. I mean him no harm. Remember I was responsible for his evacuation to Devon, in the care of my sister and her husband. I need to know where he is.’

  In the back room beyond the counter, the subject of their conversation was spying on the scene. He had been disturbed from his washing-up duties by a woman’s raised voice and had opened the door slightly to see what was happening. Peering through the narrow gap, he was shocked to see Nurse McAndrew, Mrs Booth’s sister, in conversation with Benny. The scene froze his young heart. He began to shiver with fear.

  What was the nurse doing here? He answered his own question. She’s come to take me back. They’ve all lied to me. Even Johnny. They don’t want me here. I’m just a nuisance. They mean to take me back to Devon … or put me in another place. In an orphanage or maybe even a prison. He trembled at the thought.

  The mixture of fear and indignant anger prompted a silent flow of tears, misting his vision. He bit his lip hard in an attempt to stop his crying. And then the horrible truth came to him again but this time with greater clarity: Johnny had lied to him. The man he liked most in all the world; the man he trusted most in all the world; the man he had wanted to be with most in the world … had lied to him.

  It was all clear to him now. His contented little dream crumbled and he slumped to the floor in despair.

  Beyond the door, Benny was giving the performance of his life. His head was constantly shaking in the negative as he tried to fend off Susan’s allegations.

  ‘I really can’t help you. Honest. Why not sit down and I’ll get you a cup of tea. I can see you are upset.’

  ‘I don’t want a cup of tea. I just want to know where Peter is.’

  ‘Well, he’s not here and neither is Johnny. You can see that with your own eyes.’

  Instinctively, as if
to test Benny’s assertion, she glanced around the café. As she did so the customers who had been her rapt audience, swiftly returned their attentions to their own varied business.

  ‘What’s beyond that door?’ Susan said at length, after she had scanned the premises.

  Benny twitched. ‘That door?’ He felt his mouth go dry. ‘It’s just my kitchen.’

  Susan moved around the counter. ‘May I see?’ It wasn’t a question for which she was going to wait for an answer.

  ‘It’s just my kitchen’, mumbled Benny, making a feeble attempt to bar her way, but she brushed past him with ease and pushed the door open. The room beyond, the cramped little area where Benny cooked up his breakfasts and lunches, was empty. Two gas stoves were laden with empty pans and a pile of washed plates and dishes were stacked haphazardly on the draining board ready for drying but there was no one in the room.

  Benny squeezed into the room behind Susan and gave a little gasp when he saw that it was empty. Peter had done a disappearing act. He didn’t know whether to be glad or worried. Meanwhile, Susan had scooped something up from the shelf below the sink. It was a children’s comic. After a brief examination of it, she waved it under Benny’s nose.

  ‘Since when have you taken an interest in Tiger Blake and his comic book adventures, Benny?’

  Benny’s mouth opened but his brain had seized up. It was a question that he could not answer.

  ‘We both know that Peter is a great fan of Tiger Blake, don’t we?’ said Susan. ‘I think it’s time you came clean and told me the whole truth, my friend.’

  When Peter reached Tottenham Court Road, he stopped running and fastened up his coat properly. He’d had the good sense to take a ten shilling note from Benny’s coat which had been hanging at the back of the kitchen door. He felt a little guilty about that, but he reasoned that Benny hadn’t been straight with him, he had lied to him and so was a bad man.

  So here I am again, thought Peter ruefully, alone and unwanted in the great big city. Well, this time he would not make the mistake of trusting anybody. This time he really was on his own and he would stay that way. He turned right towards Cambridge Circus, walking briskly, as though he had a purpose, which he didn’t have, except perhaps, he told himself, to get as far away from Prior’s Court and Johnny Hawke as possible.