With relief, some time later I emerged into the throng of pedestrians on Tottenham Court Road. As I walked along, I began smiling to myself as I replayed the comic drama in which I’d taken a starring part at Studely Mansions. I felt sorry for the diligent commissionaire and for his busted nose and the headache he would no doubt be nursing now, but I was also pleased with myself for getting out of a tricky situation with Houdini-type élan.
On my way home, I considered my next course of action. I had to find out more about Mr Bernard France and to see if the mysterious Mr Webster was the real identity of the male femme fatale, Helen. I reckoned another visit to The Loophole Club was on the cards in the hope that I’d see Helen again.
However … what did that Scottish chap once write about the best laid plans?
On reaching the office of Hawke Investigations, I found my door slightly ajar. Someone had broken the lock. To be honest, this would not have been a difficult thing to do. The feeble Yale contraption could easily be demolished with a hair grip or a nail file. What surprised me was the fact that someone had taken the trouble to break into Hawke Towers in the first place. There was nothing of any value in there worth stealing. However, it struck me, as I peered through the crack into my darkened office, that perhaps my intruder had another motive other than theft.
What now, I pondered, as I slipped through the door quietly. I stood on the threshold of the room allowing my eyes to get used to the dim light provided by the fading daylight falling through one small grimy window while my nerves tightened and the hairs on the back of my head bristled. Nimbly I crossed to my desk and withdrew my gun from the top drawer.
I stood in the darkness and waited. And then I noticed the sound. A gentle regular whispering sound. It seemed to be coming from the armchair across from my desk. And indeed, as my eyes grew further accustomed to the gloom, I could make out a vague shape in the chair. That’s all – just a vague shape, sort of draped there. Whatever it was, this was the source of the sound and, as I drew nearer, I identified the noise: it was heavy breathing. Heavy breathing … or, to be more precise, gentle snoring. I leaned in close and saw that the chair was occupied by a young woman who seemed to be fast asleep.
Quietly, I closed the door and switched on the desk lamp. My visitor was undisturbed by my actions. I put my gun back in the desk drawer, relieved to dispense with it, slipped off my coat and then took a closer look at my visitor. In the harsh beam of the lamp I could see that she was more girl than woman. Now that I was able to observe her features clearly, I recognized her. She was the girl from Benny’s café. Her hair was different, lighter and done in a different style but there was no doubt in my mind that she was the nervous creature with the bully of a boyfriend that I’d spoken to in the café. And by Jove, he was a bully, if the bruises on her face bore witness of his treatment of her. I clenched my fists in a brief spasm of anger. There was nothing I hated more than a man hitting a woman.
She must have taken me up on my offer of help. Why else would she be here? I could imagine her turning up at my office in some state of distress, only to find it closed. In desperation, she broke in and waited for me to return. Whatever the circumstances, it was a refuge for her and, like Goldilocks, she had fallen asleep while the Daddy bear was out.
I slipped through into my living quarters and put the kettle on. Five minutes later I carried two mugs of coffee back into the office. My visitor was still snoozing contentedly. As gently as I could I nudged her awake. Her eyes flickered and then with a slight stretch of the body and a half-hearted yawn, they opened. It took a moment for her to remember where she was and who I was. Then she sat up with a start.
‘Oh,’ she said, with a mixture of surprise and despair, speech not coming to her readily in her still dazed state.
‘Coffee,’ I said cheerfully, proffering one of the mugs. ‘I took the initiative of putting some dried milk and one spoon of sugar in it for you.’
Gingerly she took the mug and cradled it between her hands. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured and tried to smile.
‘I don’t usually offer refreshments to burglars you understand, no matter how pretty they are, but then they don’t often fall asleep on the job in my office,’ I observed wryly.
‘Oh, I’m not a burglar. I … I didn’t take anything.’
‘I was only kidding. Relax. Take a drink and then you can explain everything.’
She struggled to manufacture a smile and almost succeeded before taking a drink of coffee. ‘That’s nice,’ she said.
Hot watered down chicory mixed with artificial milk has never approached the category of ‘nice’ to my taste but I know that in certain circumstances it can be sort of comforting and I reckoned for her this was one of those circumstances.
‘Now, you know my name, John Hawke, but I don’t know yours.’
‘It’s Rachel. Rachel Howells.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Rachel. Cigarette?’ I flipped open my pack and offered it to her. She took one and we both lit up. I could see that the coffee, the fag and the gentle treatment of male nurse Hawke were having the desired effect. She was mentally and physically relaxing. Her posture softened and the worry lines that creased her brow had eased.
I sat cross-legged at her feet. ‘Now then, tell me all about it.’
‘Oh, goodness. I don’t know where to begin.’
‘Well, at the beginning is usually a good place to start.’
‘I know … but when was the beginning? When did the nightmare start?’
‘I’m not good with nightmares. I’m more of a practical chap. When did the trouble start?’
‘I suppose when I met Harryboy.’
‘The bruiser you were with in the café? Harryboy … you mean Harryboy Jenkins?’
She nodded. ‘That’s the bastard.’
I thought I knew his face from somewhere when I saw him in Benny’s. Then I was unable to make a connection. But now that Rachel had mentioned his name … That triggered my memory. I’d seen his ugly mug on the blurred photograph that David had shown me, the one of the deserting soldier who had killed a policeman. I reckoned this girl was lucky to be alive.
‘Go on,’ I said gently.
‘I’ve run away from home, you see. From Wales. I was being stifled there. I could see myself heading for a boring marriage with a boring chap and never experiencing any excitement in my life.’
‘Excitement is over-rated.’
‘I’m beginning to think so, too. I realize now how stupid I was just arriving in London with nowhere to go and not knowing a single soul. I thought it would be so simple. Get a job, shop work or something, find a room somewhere and then enjoy myself.’
I reckoned girls like Rachel arrived in London every day. Despite the war or maybe in some perverse way because of the war, they saw the capital as a kind of Shangri-La. So much decorum and restraint had disappeared since the autumn of 1939 and ironically there was a strange sense of freedom pervading the streets of the city. It was legitimate to let your hair down and have a good time for you never knew when your number was going to be up. The crowds, the bombed buildings, the threat of air raids seemed attractive compared to the dull routine of provincial life. I understood that. Of course I did. Or I wouldn’t be here.
‘I met Harryboy in a café on my first day. I say met him, but really he picked me up. He seemed a nice enough chap at first … Well, not nice I suppose, but …’
‘Exciting?’
Rachel nodded glumly. ‘What a fool I’ve been.’ Her eyes moistened and she bit her lip.
‘It’s too early for tears, my girl. If you start crying now, I’ll never hear the end of the story.’
She sniffed and smiled.
‘He treated you badly, this Harryboy,’ I suggested, attempting to get her back on track again. ‘Rough stuff.’
‘Rough stuff, yes. At first he was kind to me. He had a wad of cash and didn’t mind spending it. But he could change in a minute. He’d smile and give you a hug and next thing yo
u know …’ The memory of what he had done made her catch her breath and her lips begin to tremble. I reached out and touched her hand, but she pulled it away sharply.
‘Don’t be nice to me,’ she said breathily. ‘You’ll only make me worse.’
I nodded, blowing smoke away from her towards the ceiling and waited for her to continue.
‘You see, Harryboy … well, he’s a crook. A killer.’
I said nothing and waited for her to continue.
‘When the money was beginning to run out, he tried to steal some more … from an off-licence in the Old Kent Road. There was this copper …’
‘PC Alan Reece, a young chap, married with two kids. Harryboy shot him.’
Her eyes widened with surprise and she leaned forward. ‘You know about it?’
‘Yes. Your boyfriend is a deserter from the army and he’s killed before.’
‘I knew it,’ she cried, burying her head in her hands. The sobs were silent but they shook her whole body.
I drained the last of the coffee down and waited for her tears to subside. ‘So where is he now?’ I said at length.
‘I don’t know. We were staying at a little hotel on Shaftsbury Avenue and he started getting violent and so I shot him.’
This girl was full of surprises. ‘You shot him!’ My voice went up a register. ‘You mean he’s dead?’
‘No, no. I just wounded him in the arm. But I wish he was dead. He’s an animal. I meant to kill him. If I hadn’t shot him he would have killed me. I could see it in his eyes. When he loses his temper there’s no controlling him. He has … he has no morality, no conscience. So I shot him … and then I ran for it. Now I don’t know what to do. I don’t feel safe. I feel terrified. I just know he’ll come after me. He wants me dead. I’m sure he won’t rest ‘till he’s done me in. And then I remembered you and your card. You offered me help.’
‘So I did.’ I said slowly, wondering exactly what kind of help this girl expected me to offer. This really was a police matter now. If her boyfriend had just been a nasty bully boy I could have given her some protection, but he was something more than that. He had killed at least two men. However, if she was right and Harryboy was after her, the police may well try to use her as bait to catch him. This was a situation I wouldn’t want to inflict on anyone.
Rachel looked apprehensive as I deliberated over these points. ‘Please help me,’ she said quietly without emotion.
‘This is a big city, Rachel, it’s very unlikely Harryboy will find you. It’s needle-in-haystack time. But there is one way you can be sure of being safe.’
Her face brightened and she looked eagerly at me. ‘What’s that?’
‘Go back home. Go back to Wales. You’d be safe there. Go back to your old life. You’ve had a taste of London and it disagreed with you—’
She shook her head wildly. ‘No! No, I couldn’t go back. Not after what’s happened. I couldn’t face it. Not there. No nasty creep like Harryboy is going to drive me away. If you won’t help me I’ll have to find some other way.’
I sighed wearily. Her response was the one I’d expected. Despite all that had happened to the girl she was still starry-eyed about the city as though this great mass of buildings and teeming population would somehow make life bearable, interesting and even fun.
I knew that I’d have to help her – I couldn’t leave her walking the streets while her maniac boyfriend was seeking her with a gun in his pocket but I wasn’t sure how.
As it turned out Fate took a hand in events.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘for starters, you can stay the night here and then we’ll sort out some plan of action for tomorrow—’
I was interrupted by the jangling of the telephone. I rose and reached for the receiver.
‘Johnny, is that you?’ The voice at the other end was breathless. I recognized it immediately. It was Benny. He sounded in some distress.
‘Yes, this is Johnny. What is it Benny? What’s the matter?’
Before I could catch Benny’s reply, another voice spoke to me. Not on the telephone –in the room.
‘Put the phone down. Put it down now!’ It demanded.
I turned in the direction of the voice and there in the doorway as large and as ugly as life was Harryboy Jenkins. He was grinning and pointing a gun at me.
TWENTY - SEVEN
I replaced the receiver slowly. As I did so I could still hear the tinny voice of Benny shouting at the other end until with an abrupt click he was silenced as the phone rested on its cradle. For some time the three of us in the room stood still like a bizarre tableau in an avant garde drama and then Harryboy turned to the cowering figure of Rachel. She had pushed herself as far back in the chair as she could, her eyes wide with terror as her worst nightmare came true.
‘Hello, darling,’ Harryboy said, a sarcastic leer staining his features. ‘I bet you thought you’d never see me again, did you?’
‘Would you care for a cup of coffee?’ I said nonchalantly, leaning casually on my desk. I wanted to direct his attention away from the girl in an unthreatening manner. I didn’t like the way he was pointing the gun at her, his finger taut on the trigger.
With a sharp, robotic movement, Harryboy turned and focused his baleful eyes on me. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a comedian, especially a pathetic comedian.’
‘Tea, then?’ I said, smiling enough to show my teeth.
He then did something I was just not expecting. He rushed forward. With the speed of a lizard he came towards me and struck me across the face with the gun. My head exploded and I literally saw stars. They whizzed and fizzed before me like they do in the cartoons before my knees received urgent messages from my brain to give way. With an inarticulate expression of surprise, I sank to the floor. Through the haze I saw Harryboy standing over me.
‘You shut your fucking mouth or I’ll shut it for good. I got unfinished business with this tart here and I don’t want any smart interfering nonsense from you. Is that clear?’
To emphasize his point, he hit me again. Boy, was I a glutton for punishment. And I remembered, inconsequentially, I was right out of headache pills.
Reluctantly, I said nothing. I just nodded and mopped the trickle of blood that was running down my cheek with a handkerchief. I was learning my lessons the hard way. Rachel had not been exaggerating when she had called this son of a bitch a maniac. He was top of his class in that department. I could see from his eyes that he had lost touch with reality. He was in his own righteous, immoral world where he was king and whatever he thought or wanted to do was the right thing to think or do.
He grabbed hold of Rachel’s arm and dragged her from the chair. At first she didn’t struggle. For the moment she had retreated within herself. Limply her body obeyed him as though she were a rag doll, but once she was on her feet she suddenly seemed to comprehend the danger that she was in. With a strangulated cry which seemed to be a complex mix of anger and fear, she flexed her body and brought her fist round and thumped Harryboy’s left arm with some force. He gave a snort of pain and released his hold of her. That, I assumed, was his wounded arm.
His moment of distress gave me an opportunity. Girding up what loins were still in working order, I struggled to my feet and lunged at him. Oh, but he was a slick one was this Harryboy. He had regained his equilibrium very quickly and, with great agility, he sidestepped my advance. I blundered into nothingness.
As I attempted to steady myself, I heard the sharp cracking sound of a gunshot and a bullet whistled past my ear. I was in no doubt, this was no warning shot: it had been meant for me. I did the sensible thing and stood still, raising my arms in surrender.
‘Get over there and sit at your desk or I’ll blow your stupid head off your shoulders,’ snarled my unwelcome visitor through gritted teeth. He was like an unpredictable wild animal who could charge you at any minute. I knew it would be foolish to disobey him or say anything smart. That would only enrage him further. This was a fellow who reacte
d emotionally to every situation, the thought processes following lamely behind. I was very keen to keep my stupid head and so, without a word, I obeyed his instructions.
Rachel had by now collapsed back into the chair and was quietly sobbing to herself. For her, it would seem, the bleak nightmare continued.
For a moment Harryboy stood perfectly still like an unpleasant exhibit in Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors. In the harsh half light provided by the table lamp his eyes glittered eerily in his pugnacious face. What he was thinking only a highly qualified psychiatrist could hazard a guess, but whatever it was, I knew it was something unpleasant. At length, he turned his attention back to Rachel. ‘Now lady, let’s see you on your feet and no funny business this time.’
Rachel raised her head a little and I could see from her pale complexion and fearful expression that all the fight had gone out of her. As far as she was concerned Harryboy had won. With the stiff limbs of an automaton, she got to her feet and stood by him.
‘That’s better. That’s a good girl,’ said Harryboy and suddenly once more his face broke into that wide unpleasant grin.
Rachel said nothing but just stared at her feet dumbly.
‘Right, you and I are going to leave now. We have a little unfinished business together. You’re coming with me, away from all the goodies, so I suggest you say your last farewell to your boyfriend.’ He spoke in a dreamy, childlike way which was somehow more frightening than his aggressive stance. His body relaxed and he shifted rhythmically from foot to foot like a little boy who was waiting for a treat.
Momentarily, Rachel flashed a frightened glance at me. A kind of desperation had taken hold of her. ‘Don’t hurt him, please,’ she begged.
Rachel’s plea served only to amuse Harryboy further. He knew now that he was complete master of the situation, him and his little gun. He almost rose in stature with pleasure at the thought of it.
Without Conscience Page 17
