Glancing at his watch, his heart sank. It really was time for the tube. With at least half the crossword incomplete, he stuffed the paper into his pocket, drained the glass of beer and left the pub.
It was a chilly night and he pulled up his coat collar against the cold. A bright, newly minted sharp-edged moon creamed the streets in a pale-yellow light. Knowing now that the best of his day was over, Arthur turned down the little side street that would eventually lead him to the Tottenham Court Road tube station, and eventually home.
He was preoccupied with his own miserable thoughts when he saw her – the solitary woman standing on the corner of the next street. Oh, no, he thought, not another prostitute. He hated being accosted by them because he never quite knew what to say. He had no desire to go with one – well, he had two women at home and that was enough for him – and yet he didn’t want to be rude to them because he was aware that many of them had turned to this profession out of desperation, by dreadful circumstances brought on by the war.
However, he knew he had to pass her to reach his destination and so he prepared himself to utter his usual polite but rather pathetic reply: ‘No thank you very much.’ When he was within ten yards of the woman, she began to sway and then stagger as though she was afflicted with some strange malady and then with a little cry, she collapsed to the ground.
Shocked, James Dolan glanced around him. There was no one else about. The street was deserted. He couldn’t just walk on by. The woman might be very ill and in need of urgent medical attention. It would be on his conscience for ever if he ignored her, that dark shape on the pavement.
With some trepidation, he approached the woman. She lay very still. He stood over her, just glimpsing her pale features. Her eyes were closed and her face was bruised. He could not tell if she was breathing or not.
‘Hello, my dear. Are you all right?’ he said, knowing it was a stupid question, but he really didn’t know what else to say. She made no response. His heart fluttered with apprehension and he knelt down beside the inert figure and attempted to turn the young woman round on to her back. As he did so, he heard a rustling movement behind him. He hadn’t time to turn around to see what had caused it before he felt a sharp stabbing pain on the back of his head. For a split second his world flashed white as though someone had shone a very bright light in his eyes and then darkness consumed him. He crumpled to the pavement unconscious.
Harryboy gave a guffaw of triumph. ‘Very neat. Very neat,’ he crowed, wiping the specks of James Dolan’s blood from the butt of his pistol with a handkerchief. ‘You can get up now, darling. Your performance is over.’
Stiffly Rachel Howells pulled herself to her feet while he rifled James Dolan’s pockets, extracting some loose change and a wallet. ‘Very nice,’ he grinned, pulling a selection of notes from the wallet before casting it aside into the gutter. ‘A very nice haul. There’s well over ten quid here. You did good, girl. A couple more of your fainting performances tonight and we’ll be set up for quite a few days.’
Rachel said nothing. She just gazed down at the unconscious figure of James Dolan. He lay on his back, his glassy, unseeing eyes staring up at her. He looked like a nice man, she thought.
NINETEEN
Strangely, despite the recalcitrant springs of my mattress, I slept well. In fact I had hardly closed my eyes before I drifted off into a thankfully dreamless sleep. However, I woke early feeling depressed and uneasy. I got myself ready for the day with zombie-like movements, determined not to switch my brain on until I’d got a clean collar around my neck and sucked in the first fag of the day.
When I was ready and all the woes, responsibilities and problems of my life began to seep back into my consciousness, I groaned. Above all, I felt desperate about Peter. This time around Fate or whatever that lottery which runs our lives is called, had not even allowed me the chance to really help the little blighter.
With a headache, a sour grin and leaden feet I took myself off to Benny’s in the futile hope that Peter had returned to his fold.
As I entered I could see that Benny had some other issue on his mind. After he had passed on the news about Peter that there was no news about Peter, my little Jewish friend leaned over the counter, and with a crooked finger drew me towards him.
‘They’re in again, Johnny.’
I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘What are you talking about?’ I murmured.
‘That couple I told you about. That poor girl and the bully of a boyfriend. You remember. I said that she was in trouble. Well, they’re in again.’
Vaguely I did remember what Benny was talking about but I could not see why he was making such a fuss. My expression must have reflected what I was thinking for he threw his arms in the air and spluttered in frustration.
‘They’re in again and you should see the girl’s face. It’s black and blue. I tell you, he’s been beating her. I am sure of it. The man’s a villain.’
‘You can’t be sure, Benny. She might have been in an accident.’
‘Accident! Oh yes, she ran into his fist. That kind of accident. I know these things.’
‘What do you want me to do? Arrest him?’
Benny threw his hands up again. ‘The girl needs help. Call your-self a detective!’
‘All right. All right. Show me where they are and you can get a full fry up on the go for me.’
Benny led me to a table and whispered in my ear. ‘They’re over there, in the corner by the window.’
Casually, I glanced around, my gaze quickly settling on the couple that concerned Benny so. The man had his back to me but I could see the girl quite clearly and Benny had not been exaggerating. Her face was a mess. She was heavily made up, but the make-up did not disguise the damage done to her face, which was puffy and bruised. Her nose was swollen and she had a black eye. Her expression was one of total misery. Her sad, darting eyes reminded me of an animal in the zoo, trapped in a barren cage far away from its own natural environment.
The couple weren’t talking, but from the man’s posture and actions I could tell that he was relaxed. He was eating with great enthusiasm, shovelling the food into his mouth at a rate of knots.
This first impression suggested that Benny was right. The guy was a bully and had been knocking the girl about, but she was still with him either by choice or under some kind of duress. However, there was nothing I could do about that. I had no powers in such a situation.
Suddenly the man stood up and without a word made his way to the lavatory, leaving the girl playing with her piece of toast. On his departure her face relaxed a little but the desperate sadness in the eyes remained.
Benny gave me a little push. ‘Now’s your chance. Go and speak to her.’
‘What am I supposed to say? Benny, whatever’s going on over there is a private matter until the girl decides to do something about it. I can’t just barge in like some tin pot knight in shining armour and save the day.’
Benny shook his head in frustration. He knew I was right and this inability to do anything to help the sad creature was upsetting to him.
‘Can’t you even offer her a lifeline?’ he said.
I sighed resignedly and rose from my chair. Checking that the bully boyfriend was not on his way back from the lavatory, I made my way to the girl’s table. She looked up in surprise. Close up I could see that beneath the puffiness and bruising she was actually very pretty.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ I said awkwardly, tugging absent-mindedly at my tie, ‘but I’m a private detective. It’s my job to help people, especially when they can’t go to the police. If … if you ever feel the need for such help.…’ I handed the girl one of my business cards. She looked at it and then back at me. I smiled and for a brief moment her features softened. It never struck me at the time what she made of this one-eyed fellow in a crumpled suit and dingy shirt leaning over her, offering help.
‘Keep it safe,’ I said. ‘Any time you need me.’
For a moment she looked apprehens
ive and then seemed on the verge of saying something, but suddenly her faced clouded with concern and eyes flickered nervously. Benny had been right. This girl was frightened.
I touched her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘I mean it,’ I said quietly. ‘Any time.’ With that I left her and returned to my table.
I had just sat down when Bully Boy returned from the lavatory. This time I was able to get a good look at him. He was indeed a nasty piece of work. He was short and stocky with a pug nose and a cruel basilisk stare. He swaggered rather than walked across the room. Apart from the unpleasantness of his demeanour, there was something else about his face that troubled me.
I had seen it before.
Somewhere in the back of my brain bells were ringing, but for the life in me, I couldn’t tell why.
‘What did you say?’ Benny whispered in my ear with some urgency.
I told him.
‘Well, I suppose it’s better than nothing.’
‘Under the circumstances that’s all I could do.’
Benny gave me a reluctant smile. ‘I guess you’re right,’ he said, placing his hand on my shoulder. ‘Thank you, Johnny.’
‘Now then, there was talk of breakfast …’
‘Coming up.’
Benny hurried off to the kitchen. I sat back and casually cast a glance across at Bully Boy and his girlfriend. He was hunched up staring out of the window smoking a cigarette. Even this simple activity had an air of aggression about it. The girl sat submissively, nervously fiddling with her cutlery. Briefly, our eyes met and a fleeting half smile touched her lips and then quickly she looked away.
Under normal circumstances I would have tried to follow them when they left to see if I could help the girl, but these were not normal circumstances.
I trudged back to my office and rang David Llewellyn at Scotland Yard. I gave him the registration number of the car that the White Rabbit had been driving that I’d noted down outside Sandra Riley’s bungalow the day before.
‘Can you get me details of the owner? I believe his name is Bernard France. I’d appreciate his address,’ I asked.
‘Ah, you’ve got a lead at last have you?’
‘I could have. I’m not sure.’
David didn’t press me for further details. ‘Well, I’ll do a bit of digging on your behalf and get back to you.’
I managed a weak grin. ‘Thanks.’
I spent the morning numbing my brain by tidying the office and sorting out some paperwork. I was also visited by a new client, a timid little fellow, who wanted me to find his daughter. Apparently there had been a row and she had walked out. I sensed that’s she’d be back after she’d cooled down but I took details and assured him that I would get on to the case as soon as my current investigation was completed.
Around noon, David rang back. It wasn’t good news.
‘It’s a government car. That’s all I can tell you. The rest is restricted information, so it must belong to someone fairly important. Who is this Bernard France? You want to tell me about it?’
‘Not just now. It’s a bit complicated. Have you heard of Sir Robert Gervais? ’
‘Can’t say I have. Sorry.’
‘I seem to be heading for culs-de-sac all the time on this case.’
‘You sound really down, man.’
I told him about Peter.
‘That’s a bugger,’ he said gently when I’d finished. ‘Let’s hope the boy has a change of heart and turns up on your doorstep again.’
‘Yes,’ I said, not wanting to extend the discussion. How likely was it that Peter would return when he thought I had betrayed him and was ready to turn him over to the authorities?
I thanked David again and replaced the receiver.
Well, I mused, the White Rabbit is involved in the Riley case in some way. I needed to find out more about him. No doubt I would not receive any further help from Sandra’s brother, Captain Eddowes. I’m sure Sandra would have told him that she had sacked me and he was not to have anything more to do with me. All I had to go on was the fellow’s name, the fact that he worked at the War Office and was private secretary to some chap called Sir Robert Gervais. Surely that was enough to set me going. However, there was obviously a ring of security around these fellows which would be hard to get through.
Well, I thought, as I reached for my hat and coat, perhaps I could put a hold on that line of enquiry until I’d seen Amanda. She or rather he might have some information that would take me further in this case. I reckoned I could do with a drink to help me sort my ideas out and hot water over tea leaves or chicory was not going to do the job: I needed something stronger.
The Velvet Cage is my favourite night-time haunt. I love the dim lighting, the smoke, the busy chatter and the jazz. They wrap themselves around me like some comforting security blanket, inducing a mild amnesia so that you can for a while forget all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and just enjoy the boozy, fuggy, toe-tapping moment before passing through the swings doors to grim reality once more. However, in the middle of the afternoon, the place is like a mausoleum. There are few customers, no music and little atmosphere. It lacks its night-time charm. It struck me then that this place had something in common with its strange sister, The Loophole Club. The place felt cold and lonely and smelt stale when I walked in. It could have been a different establishment altogether from its evening persona.
Well, I was here now: I’d better make the best of it.
I bought myself a double Scotch from a dull, uninterested barman whom I’d not seen before and slipped into one of the darker booths. I took a sip of my drink, allowing the liquid to roll around on my tongue before allowing it to slip away to warm my innards. It felt good. And after a couple more sips, I started to relax.
Nevertheless, my mind kept going back to the possible motive for Walter’s death – Walter’s murder. I was convinced now that it was a deliberate targeted murder. He knew something did old Walter. He knew something dangerous and so he was silenced. But what did he know? Some gossip, some secret he’d picked up at the War Office? Surely not, they were on our side. They wouldn’t kill a chap if they thought he might blab in the wrong places. Would they? I’d rather not let my thoughts wander down that particular thoroughfare at the moment; it was too dark, too unpleasant, too frightening.
I drained my glass. Time for another. I must keep the old brain cogs well lubricated. My glass replenished by the same dull barman, I returned to my booth and my cogitations.
I thought back to that evening in The Loophole and the tall woman with whom Walter had had an argument. There was something very serious going on there. It wasn’t simply a bitchy spat. This Helen creaure held a key to the mystery. I felt sure. Well, I had my own agent chasing up that particular strand of the case. I glanced at my watch. I was due to visit Amanda in a couple of hours. Hopefully, I would learn more then.
Amanda lived in a shabby block of flats in the area behind Kings Cross Station. I arrived five minutes before the appointed time and rang the bell. I had no idea how she would answer the door. Would she, I wondered, be dressed up to the nines in her cocktail dress all ready to skip off to The Loophole Club, or would I see the real Amanda in jacket, shirt and trousers as the man of the house.
As it turned out, I saw no one because no one answered the door. After several minutes of persistent ringing, I knocked loudly but this elicited no response either. She might be late, I supposed. (I couldn’t help thinking of Amanda as a ‘she’.) Her enquiries could have taken her longer than expected. Or she could have changed her mind about helping me and was refusing to answer, hoping I’d go away. Well, I wasn’t going to go away without finding out more. I peered through the letter box but all I could see was a small featureless dimly lighted hall. There was no sign of life. Then I simply tried the handle of the door and to my surprise it opened with ease.
Glancing about me to check there was no one about, no one to see what I was doing, I entered Amanda’s flat.
/> I found her in the living-room. She was sitting on a dingy settee, dressed in slacks and a cream blouse. Her eyes stared at me in surprise, shock even, as I entered. They were wide and glassy and they didn’t move. Neither did her tongue, which was lolling out of the corner of her open mouth.
Amanda was dead.
She sat erect on the sofa, her wig slightly askew and her face registering terror, looking like an exhibit in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s. The scarf tied around her throat clearly indicated that she had been strangled. A silent death.
Obviously in trying to trace this Helen character, she had got too near the flames and had been burned. A wave of sadness and guilt swept over me. It was my fault that she was dead. If I hadn’t asked her to find out about the mysterious individual I’d seen with Walter Riley she would still be alive, swanning around The Loophole Club in her finery. I was partly responsible for her death. That made me angry. Not with myself but with the bastard who had killed this poor, sad creature and valued her life so casually.
The growing feeling of anger was added to the mix of the emotions which were spinning around in my brain. No matter how corny or clichéd the sentiment, I wasn’t going to let them get away with this.
Then, luckily, my professional concerns took over from my theatrical pronouncements, and I began to search the flat for clues. It was clear that in a short space of time Amanda had discovered the whereabouts of Walter’s associate and indeed maybe more incriminating evidence. That was why she had been silenced. In searching her flat I might be able to discover something that would help me find her too. Obviously, the killer would have given the place the once over, but by necessity it would have been a hasty procedure and possibly not as thorough as it should have been.
Without Conscience Page 13
