With that she slipped her coat on and left the room.
TWENTY - TWO
On leaving Amanda’s flat, I walked for some time, cudgelling my brains, trying to sort out what I should do for the best. I was reluctant to get the police involved. Involved in what? All I had was an address. That wasn’t exactly water-tight proof of anything, was it, Johnny? Oh, well, there was a body, of course. I had to do something about that. I didn’t want Amanda, poor pale dead Amanda, to be left undiscovered for days. She deserved better than that. I slipped into a telephone box and adopting a croaky cockney voice, I made an anonymous call to the police informing them of Amanda’s murder. Before I was bombarded with questions, I replaced the receiver and wandered out into the dusk.
One thought burned itself into my brain as I lay in bed that night. Surely, I told myself, I had got my hands on the address of the murderer. The crumpled slip of paper that I had taken from Amanda’s dead body bore the words ‘12 Studely Mansions, Kensington’. It must be that whoever dwelt here had not only done in Amanda but had been responsible for Walter Riley’s death also. Could it really be Helen, the creature I had seen arguing with Walter that first night at The Loophole Club? Another transvestite? This case grew crazier by the minute. What on earth could have been the motive? Why would a little clerk with an unusual peccadillo become the target for a murderer.
However, while that area of the investigation was still shrouded in fog, it certainly seemed clear that in trying to discover more about the lovely Helen, poor Amanda had found herself in shark-infested waters. She had come across something that she wasn’t meant to know, had got too close to the truth and for her pains had been bumped off before she could tell anyone. And the truth was …? Well, that was a question I wasn’t as yet capable of answering.
The previous evening I had pored over my A to Z of London and had eventually located Studely Mansions at Bedford Gardens, Kensington. As a detective I was pleased with my deductions, but I wasn’t certain what I was to do with the information. My immediate thought was to gallop around there, storm the citadel and then.… Well, yes, Johnny, what follows the ‘and then’? What do you do ‘then’? Break the door down and stomp in there guns blazing? I think not. This is not a Hollywood movie. You are not Tom Mix. Remember, the killer is likely to have guns too. And for certain they’d be bigger than mine. The situation needed handling with more subtlety, and sadly that’s not a commodity I have in great quantities.
I needed to sleep on it to help me gain some perspective. Unfortunately, eight hours of tossing and turning in a darkened room didn’t help. The morning light brought no clarity to my uncertainty. So I did what I always do in these circumstances: I followed my gut instinct.
I dressed hurriedly, swilled down a scalding cup of coffee and was out on the street in quick sticks. On an impulse I hailed a taxi and told the driver to take me to Bedford Gardens, Kensington.
I sat back enjoying the luxury of a taxi ride. My usual mode of transport was the bus, tube or, inevitably, shanks’s pony. The income of a young private eye in London does not allow one to use a taxi cab as a matter of course. But this was a special job and I had been paid for my services. Also, as I had allowed my instincts rather than any carefully conceived plan to dictate my actions, I could give my brain a rest and view the world from the back of a moving vehicle. I must admit that the grey panorama of London which swept by me at speed was no less depressing seen through the window of the cab than it was when I pounded the pavements. It was just slightly more surreal as though I were watching a depressing newsreel film on a very small screen.
However things did improve a little as we entered the environs of Kensington. There were fewer buildings boarded up or damaged and fewer pedestrians crowding the streets. When we drew up on the corner of Bedford Gardens and I emerged, the air did smell a little sweeter. After the taxi roared away, I stood on the pavement taking in my bearings. It was a short, quiet road with a few smart cars, shiny emblems of wealth, parked neatly by the kerb, and some very grand-looking town houses at one end – the end where I was standing. Just before the corner at the bottom of the road I spied an imposing block of flats – very modern, very chic, built less than ten years ago. This must be Studely Mansions. Elementary, my dear Watson.
I sauntered along in a casual manner, puffing on a Craven A, making my way towards this compartmentalized Xanadu. I wondered how much it would cost a month to rent one of these fur-lined hutches. Probably what I paid annually for my place. I passed through the impressive revolving door and found myself in a large marble hallway. A concierge in a claret coat was standing at a mahogany desk and on seeing me he raised a deferential eyebrow.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘I’m here to visit someone. A business acquaintance. He lives in flat twelve.’
‘Ah, Mr Webster.’
I beamed. ‘That’s the fellow.’
‘Shall I buzz him to let him know you are here?’
‘Oh, no. I want this to be a surprise.’ I gave my deferential friend a knowing wink. His expression suggested that such facial tics were not appreciated in Studely Mansions.
‘His apartment is on the first floor, sir. The elevator is over there to your right.’
‘Thank you. I’ll take the stairs.’
I wasn’t a fan of lifts at the best of times – stale smelling, confined, claustrophobic cages – but they certainly were to be avoided when making forays into enemy territory.
The place was starkly modern with clean lines and a touch of Hollywood glamour – the sort of place Fred Astaire would visit in his attempts to woo Ginger Rogers. Less elegantly than Fred I tripped up the staircase and found myself on the first floor. Flat 12 was easy to locate. A large cream anonymous door with the gold number twelve emblazoned on it gave the game away. Now I was here, what was I to do? I was reminded of the times as a little boy when I would go to the sweet shop although I had no money and gaze through the window at the tempting confectionery beyond my financial grasp. Here I was with my face up against the pane again. It really would be foolish to press that shiny but discreet doorbell. It could lead me into a lot of trouble.
And so what did I do?
I pressed the doorbell.
A discreet mellifluous ring resounded somewhere beyond the door. I scurried away to the end of the corridor, dropped to my knees and hid behind a large mahogany stand which supported a luxuriant display of artificial flowers. Peering around the side of the stand, I waited. The door opened and eventually a head appeared, glancing up and down the corridor for a fleeting moment before disappearing again. I had only the briefest glimpse of his features but recognized them. It was my old friend the White Rabbit. I felt a tingle of excitement.
In my brain I heard the sound of a satisfying click as another piece of the jigsaw slotted into place. As I was pondering the implication of my discovery, I heard the elegant wheeze of the elevator and the gentle clunk as it reached its destination: this floor.
With speed, I swivelled round the mahogany stand, changing position so that now I couldn’t be seen by anyone leaving the elevator. The doors swished open and one passenger emerged: a smart-looking gent wearing a grey belted raincoat carrying an impressive briefcase. He made his way along the corridor, fishing out his door key and entered the flat next door to number 12.
Well, I told myself, with some satisfaction, either the White Rabbit lived a double life as a Mr Webster, or he was using his flat for some reason. Either way he was heavily involved in the Riley and Amanda murders. Oh yes, I was making headway. I was about to smile at this thought when I felt an arm grab me tightly around the throat.
The pressure on my windpipe was so great that for a moment I thought I was going to pass out. My eyes watered, my vision blurred and I made a strange involuntary gagging sound with my mouth as my knees began to sink beneath me. It is at times like this when your brain screams at you, warning you not to give in. Fight back, you dummy, it yells. Fight back or you’re a gonner. The panic and adre
nalin that this call to arms stimulates combine to give you a brief moment of superhuman strength. With a force I didn’t know I had, I gave my unknown assailant the mightiest thump in the ribs with both my elbows. I heard a sullen grunt in my ear and his grip lessened. That was all the leeway I needed. I thumped him again and managed to pull myself free of his fierce embrace. Spinning round I found myself facing the red-coated concierge. Now his complexion matched his uniform.
‘I know your sort,’ he gasped, his eyes aflame with anger. ‘I got you tagged the moment I set eyes on you. A ruddy thief. Sniffing around for booty, eh?’
He rushed me, but I sidestepped him.
‘You won’t get away, you bastard. I’ve called the police.’
He said no more because I smashed him as hard as I could in the face with my fist. Blood fountained from his nostrils and he fell backwards, eyes flickering wildly, his head crashing against the mahogany stand. His mouth moved silently in some unspoken curse before he slithered to the floor, out cold. I rushed forward and saved the artificial flower arrangement from tumbling to the ground. Wincing from the pain of my bruised knuckles, I made a quick exit. I raced down the marble staircase – more like Groucho Marx than Fred Astaire – and through the revolving doors to fresh air and freedom. I couldn’t help but be amused. I’ve lost track of the number of scrapes and tight corners I’d found myself in, but I had never been accused of being a thief before. Despite the throbbing knuckles, I found myself chuckling at the comic irony of the situation.
As inconspicuously as I could, I hurried down the street. I had just reached the corner when I saw a police car swing round the bend, no doubt on its way to Studely Mansions to apprehend a potential thief.
TWENTY - THREE
When Harryboy Jenkins slowly regained consciousness, he became aware of a fierce throbbing pain in the upper region of his left arm. It was a pulsing ache that seemed to be in rhythm with his own heartbeat. It took him some time to remember exactly where he was and what had happened before he had blacked out, but as the ceiling above him gradually slid into sharp focus it all came back to him; the gunshot, the pain, the enveloping darkness. Without moving from his prone position on the bed, his fingers gingerly sought out the source of his pain. He grimaced when he felt the dampness of his shirt over the wound. He was still bleeding.
With a throaty rasping curse, he slowly raised himself from the bed and moved over to the wash basin. He gazed back at himself in the pitted mirror: his face was ashen and dark circles had formed beneath his eyes, but what concerned him most was the large spreading badge of blood on his sleeve.
Carefully, he removed the shirt and examined the damage. The skin was ruptured and was weeping blood gently, but the wound was not deep or serious. He was convinced there was no bullet in there. Luck had been on his side and he’d survived with just a nasty gash. He heaved a sigh of relief and grinned back at his own reflection.
He bathed his arm, wiping away all the blood, patted it dry with a towel and then poured a little whisky from his flask into the wound as a form of antiseptic, before taking a swig himself. The burning liquid made him choke and his body shook with a coughing fit. He swore. Then, tearing a strip from one of the bed sheets, he made himself a rough makeshift bandage which, after several attempts, he managed to tie around the damaged area, using his teeth to pull one end tight.
He sat on the edge of the bed as a wave of weariness swept over him. It was as though his brain needed to shut down. Without thinking, he curled himself up into a tight ball and surrendered himself to sleep once more.
When he awoke, it was morning. Slowly and stiffly he raised himself up from the bed and splashed his face with cold water. His arm still throbbed but it bothered him less now that he knew it was just a flesh wound and that no serious damage had been done. He shaved and got dressed. Now that his concern for the injury had evaporated, a new emotion began to grow within him. Anger. Incandescent fury. Again he swore, this time with loud vehemence as he remembered Rachel and what she had done to him.
He paced around the room like a caged animal, calling her all the foul names he could muster from his extensive lexicon of swear words. It wasn’t his wounded arm that preoccupied him now but his wounded pride. By God, she was not going to get away with it. No one messed with Harryboy Jenkins without paying dearly for it. Oh, yes, she would pay and pay in fucking spades. As his frustrated anger grew, beads of perspiration began to drip from his brow.
He would find her. Wherever that bitch had gone to earth, he would find her.
He picked up his gun from the floor where Rachel had dropped it. Holding it again gave him pleasure and calmed his racing heartbeat. He felt whole once more and the furrows faded from his brow and his lips curled into a satisfied smirk. He picked up his jacket from the back of the chair and put it on, slipping the gun into his left inside pocket. It was then that he noticed his wallet was missing. A chill of panic ran up his spine. In desperation, he searched the jacket, pulling out the linings of all his pockets. It was to no avail. The wallet was not there.
He swore and sat on the bed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Then, remarkably, he spied it, on the floor beside the dressing table. He snatched it up and examined it. It was empty. All the cash was gone. For a while he stared at the compartments where crisp notes had once nestled and then suddenly he laughed. It was a strange, sneering laugh which was layered with menace rather than humour. This was another nail in Rachel Howells’ coffin. Not that she needed one. She was gonna be dead meat anyway. He would see to that, no danger.
He felt in his trouser pockets and dragged out some coins and a crumpled ten shilling note. Well, he wasn’t completely broke and, best of all, he had his gun. That would solve most of his problems.
Some ten minutes later Harryboy Jenkins was out on the streets of London. He walked with determination, his pugnacious face set in a cocky smile. He had a very busy day ahead.
It was early afternoon when Harryboy walked into the little tobacconist’s shop in Felshaw Court, a narrow thoroughfare up from the Embankment near Waterloo Bridge. He’d been watching the premises for fifteen minutes or so. Trade was desultory. Three customers only in the time he’d been on watch. No doubt early mornings, lunchtimes and evenings were the busy periods when the workers would pop in to stock up on their fags. Now was the quiet time. He was sure he’d picked the right target. Everyone smokes. Tobacconists were little gold mines.
With his hat pulled low over his face and his coat collar up, he bustled in, turning the sign round to ‘Closed’, before drawing down the blind on the door. The tobacconist’s shop was of the old type with glass cases displaying various kinds of pipes as well as racks of cigarette packets, pouches of tobacco and little tins of snuff. The air was filled with the rich aroma of strong tobacco and the feeble gas lighting bathed the tiny premises in a pale yellow light which lent the place a quaint Victorian atmosphere.
The woman behind the counter, a plump lady in her late forties, hadn’t looked up at first when Harryboy had entered for she was concentrating on her knitting, but when the light dimmed with the closing of the blind, she jerked her head in his direction. She saw the silhouette of a short, broad-shouldered man, standing near the counter, his face in shadow.
‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ she demanded indignantly, climbing off her stool and leaning forward over the counter.
‘This is what I’m doing,’ said Harryboy, pulling the gun from his pocket and aiming it at the woman.
‘Jesus wept,’ cried the woman with annoyance rather than fear. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’
‘Shut your mouth and empty the till.’
‘Empty the till,’ she repeated the words slowly, as though she wasn’t sure she had heard them correctly.
‘That’s it, missus,’ snapped Harryboy, advancing on the counter. ‘I want your money.’
‘Well, you can’t have it. It’s mine. Hard-earned cash and it’s mine. So take your little gun, cowboy, and sli
ng your bloody hook.’
‘This is no joke, lady. I said empty the till. Now be quick about it or I’ll shoot you dead and take it myself.’
‘Shoot … me … dead.’ Again she repeated the words in a derisory mimicking fashion. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? Al bloody Capone?’ She gazed at the gun and sneered. ‘You little bastard,’ she snapped. ‘Do you think I’m going to hand over my takings to a slimy little spiv like you?’ She emitted a harsh, rasping laugh. ‘Shoot me dead then. Go on, you’d better get on with it, sonny boy. ‘Cause you’ll get no money out of me while I’m still standing. If Hitler’s bombs can’t shift me, I damned if I’m going give in to a spineless creep like you.’ She glared at Harryboy, her pale features suffusing with indignant anger. Suddenly she thumped her fist down on the counter. ‘Go on,’ she cried, ‘get out of it, before I call a policeman.’
Harryboy hadn’t expected this reaction. Usually the gun brought instant submission, but the lady tobacconist had chosen the wrong day to retaliate, to challenge him. He had already been humiliated by his girlfriend and his ego was still smarting about that; he wasn’t about to take another dose of the same from this old bag. Her defiance only inflamed his anger.
‘You talk too much,’ he said matter-of-factly before pulling the trigger.
The lady tobacconist gave a gurgling cry of surprise as, her arms flapping wildly, she fell backwards, crashing against the shelves, dislodging a small avalanche of cigarette packets as she did so. Briefly her eyes widened with shock and surprise behind her spectacles before they closed forever as her body slumped to the floor.
Harryboy gave a little satisfied chuckle as he moved around the counter to reach the till. It was brimming with cash. There were few notes but handfuls of silver coins. He began scooping up his spoils and filling his pockets. When the till was empty, he added a few packets of cigarettes to his haul, stuffing them in his overcoat pockets. As he was about ready to leave he gazed down at the dead body of the lady tobacconist, her features now in twisted repose, her spectacles halfway down her face.
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