I noted with chagrin that the bartender failed to earn his ten bob by giving me the nod to indicate that Helen had arrived, although I suppose I would have been a very dim fellow indeed not to notice such an entrance. I was still involved in a waiting game. I knew it would be too dangerous to try and speak with Helen in the bar. I was sure that if I did, a scene would ensue and before long I would be surrounded by a group of angry transvestites baying for my blood – the blood of a bloke in male attire invading their patch and causing trouble. I was relying on Helen’s bladder to give me a break,
It took fifteen minutes before she felt the need to visit the powder-room. Before then she had been approached by numerous customers, each paying court in their own way. Helen had a strange magnetism – I could see that even from where I was sitting. It was both alluring and excitingly dangerous. I remembered how I had seen the flash of anger in her eyes on the first night I had visited the club when she had the argument with Wilma Riley. Helen was not a creature to tangle with; and yet I had to tangle with her.
Eventually she slid off her stool and made her way to the powder room. I followed in what I hoped was a discreet fashion. Once inside the dingy, ill-lighted lavatory, I slammed the door behind me. Helen was just about to enter one of the cubicles but the noise caught her attention and she turned to face me. A sardonic smile twisted its way on to her flawless features.
‘I wondered how long it would be before we met properly, Mr Hawke.’ The voice was husky and feminine. Helen remained in character.
‘You know my name. I think it’s about time I knew yours. Your proper name, that is. The one you were born with. And it’s not really Mr Webster.’
The smile broadened. ‘I don’t think so. There would be no point now.’
‘Why did you kill Walter Riley?’
‘My dear Mr Hawke, I did not. I would never sully my own hands with murder.’
‘You’re lying,’ I said, though something told me that he was telling the truth – or at least a version of it.
‘You’ll have to prove it and quite honestly I don’t think that you are in a position to do that.’ He opened his clutch bag and pulled out a small pistol. ‘Dinky little thing, isn’t it. Petite but very deadly.’
‘So you’re going to kill me now, eh?’
‘Not unless I absolutely have to. I abhor violence and I certainly do not want to be directly involved in the unpleasant business of your demise … if at all possible. But of course that is up to you.’ The eyes flashed, clearly signalling the threat in that final phrase.
‘What are you going to do then?’
‘You and I are going to leave the club together. You will come along with me like a nice little detective.’
‘Where to?’
‘Ah, let’s say that will be a surprise.’
‘OK,’ I said amiably. ‘Let’s go.’ I half turned to open the door when I felt the gun in my back.’
‘Not that way, Mr Hawke. You are a naïve fellow, aren’t you? You don’t think I’d trust you to behave sensibly if we went back into the club.’ Suddenly his smile vanished and his features darkened. ‘This way,’ he snapped, tugging my arm and nodding towards the back of the room where there was a door marked ‘Emergency Exit’. Lifting his foot up he kicked hard against the push bar on the door and with a sharp crack it swung open allowing a blast of cold air to gust in.
‘Out we go, Mr Hawke. You first.’
I stepped out into an alleyway with Helen close behind me. It was very dark out there and the dim lighting from the open doorway and a pale moon provided the only illumination. I soon felt the stab of the pistol barrel in my back once more.
He marched me down to the end of the alley to where a Wolseley saloon was parked. I could see a vague silhouette on the driver’s side. As we drew nearer, the figure moved, the door swung open and someone emerged. Even in the gloom, I recognized the fellow. It was my old friend, the White Rabbit.
He, too, had a gun. He, too, aimed it at me. Now I was really starting to get worried, when suddenly the world exploded. I felt a searing pain on the back of my head and with flashing lights the world turned into a negative: the blacks were white and the whites were black. And then all was blackness as I found myself sinking down to embrace the hard wet pavement.
When I regained consciousness with a very neat throbbing ache at the back of my head, I found myself lying on the rear seat of a moving car. As all my senses returned, I realized that my hands had been tied behind me. Sliding my feet forward, with a determined effort I managed to drag myself up into a sitting position. While carrying out this awkward procedure, I gave an involuntary gruff exclamation which alerted the driver, the only other occupant of the car, of my return to consciousness. I could see his features in the driving mirror. They were illuminated ghoulishly by the dashboard lights creating a frightening reflection rather like an animated woodcut. As I suspected, it was the White Rabbit himself: Bernard France.
‘Ah, the sleeper awakes,’ he said smoothly, ramming the gear lever in to a higher gear. The car jolted and I almost slid sideways back into my recumbent position.
‘Where is Helen … or should I say Sir Robert Gervais.’
‘He is no doubt enjoying himself back at The Loophole Club. I have taken over his duties now.’
‘And what are your duties?’
‘Oh, don’t be so naïve, Mr Hawke.’
Those few simple words, spoken in a soft, lisping sarcastic manner not only informed me of the fate that awaited me, but blew away much of the fog that had surrounded this mystery. Within seconds, so much became clear to me. Not every detail of the picture was clearly in focus, but my tired mind could see the whole. If what I believed was true, it was a chilling scenario.
‘So it was you who killed Walter Riley, wasn’t it?’
‘Of course it was,’ came the smooth reply. ‘And now I’m going to kill you.’
THIRTY - ONE
Nurse Susan McAndrew peered through the porthole window into the small side ward and saw the flushed face of the little boy peeping over the white crisp sheets in the hospital bed. A lamp by the bedside illuminated his haggard features. There was no doubt: that was Peter all right. He looked so lost and tiny, so vulnerable lying there that Susan felt a lump materialize in her throat. But she reminded herself that she was a tough and experienced nurse and she soon dismissed it with a sharp shrug. Anyway, she told herself, as she entered the room, she should be rejoicing and happy. At least the lad had been found. It was only by chance she had overheard one of the other nurses saying that a young homeless boy had been brought in suffering from scarlet fever and that he had been living rough. Susan hoped against hope that it was Peter and now she saw that it was.
She ran her cool hand over his feverish brow. His eyelids fluttered momentarily but they did not open. She checked his progress chart at the end of the bed. His temperature was worryingly high. Slipping her hand under the covers, she found his wrist and took his pulse. It was slow and weak. ‘Come on, lad, fight it,’ she said, leaning over him. ‘You can do it if you really want.’ And then it struck her that he might not want to fight it. So far his short life had been one of disappointments and hardship, suffering what he saw no doubt as a series of constant betrayals by adults in whom he had put his trust. Maybe he’d had enough. This thought sent a chill of dismay through her.
She realized that she would have to inform Johnny about the situation, but perhaps she would wait until she’d had a chance to talk to the doctor treating Peter to find out what his chances of survival were. With a final glance at the sleeping boy, she left the room quietly with a bowed head.
In another part of the hospital, Harryboy had been propped up in bed by a sturdy nurse who was spoon feeding him some hot soup. The whole procedure was observed by a grim-faced constable who remained in the shadows at the far side of the room. Harryboy sipped the soup as a baby would, nodding his head forward automatically with each mouthful, apparently not fully conscious of his acti
ons. His mind was still fogged and the world was strange and threatening to him. However, simple but determined thoughts remained with him and were dominant: he had to get away, to escape from his captors, the goodies. He wouldn’t be safe until he made it back to his hideout. They’d never find him there. He would be safe. As he contemplated this simple idea he allowed himself a little smile between spoonfuls. He just needed to wait until he was strong enough to make a move. He was sharp enough to pretend he was more fragile than he was – another smile – allowing himself time to recover and then he would act – then he would escape.
He’d finished the soup and the nurse wiped his chin just as his mother had done. His eyes widened and he stared at the nurse. It wasn’t his mother, was it? No, of course not. What would she be doing helping the goodies?
‘All done. That’s a good boy,’ said the nurse, placing the tray on the bedside table, before turning to the policeman. ‘Would you give me a hand to settle him down? He’s quite a weight.’
The policeman nodded and strode over to the bed. He lifted Harryboy forward while the nurse pulled away the pillows and arranged them so that her patient could lie flat. Once down, Harryboy turned on his side and slipped very quickly into a deep sleep, heading for a dream in which he reached the dark and cosy confines of his hideout, safe from all those that wanted to hurt him. As he slept, his mouth shifted slowly into a grim smile.
THIRTY - TWO
‘So, you do all his dirty work for him then,’ I said with apparent calm, belying the fact that my heart was doing an energetic rumba in response to the notion that I was going to be killed by Bernard France, alias the White Rabbit, any time now.
‘I look after him,’ France replied, curtly.
‘Sir Robert Gervais … alias Mr Webster … alias the lovely Helen.’
I saw France’s head twitch nervously at the recital of these names.
I grinned because now I knew. The curtains had parted and revealed the truth. Now I understood the mechanics of their strange partnership. I had no notion of how it had evolved, but it was clear that France and Gervais were involved in a kind of dark and dangerous Jeeves and Wooster relationship. Gervais, headstrong and reckless, no doubt a trait fostered by his privileged background, followed his passion for dressing up in women’s clothing whatever the risk, while France trailed behind mopping up the mess and ensuring his noble master’s indemnity – even to the point of murder.
‘Sir Robert Gervais,’ I repeated, smoothly. ‘You are his protector. You make sure that his secret remains a secret. You “arrange things” when there is a danger of exposure.’
France did not respond, but his head twitched nervously.
‘You must love him very much,’ I said.
I was obviously spooking my captor. The truth when clearly expressed verbally was a little too close for comfort for him. ‘Shut up,’ he barked, and shifted awkwardly in his seat before stamping his foot down on the accelerator. The car jerked forward at speed and then suddenly, with a screech of tyres, swerved around a corner, throwing me down onto my side again.
‘I thought the idea was to kill me. Carry on driving like this and we’ll both end up dead.’
‘Shut up!’ he cried again, his voice strident and emotional.
‘Oh, that’s one thing I can’t do. And why should I? I’ve nothing to lose. If I’m going to hell in a handcart, I want all the answers first. Why did you kill Walter Riley?’
‘You tell me, Mr Knowall.’
‘I think Walter found out that the voluptuous Helen, the femme fatale of The Loophole was in fact one of the bigwigs at the War Office where he worked. This posed a threat that had to be dealt with.’
‘He tried to blackmail Sir Robert. The situation was untenable.’
I raised an eyebrow at this news. I had never taken Walter for a blackmailer; he seemed very much the victim. But then, of course, push a worm so far and inevitably he will turn. I remembered the altercation that first night in The Loophole Club when there had been such a heated conversation between Wilma and Helen. It all made sense now. Wilma had been demanding money to keep quiet. No doubt he had ideas about feathering his own nest so that he could leave Sandra.
‘And Amanda,’ I said, after a moment spent digesting these thoughts, ‘I suppose she came too close to discovering the truth as well, did she?’
‘She got in the way.’
‘And so you murdered her.’
‘She posed a threat to Sir Robert. I couldn’t allow that. He is much too important a person.’
‘As I said, you must love him very much.’
‘Of course I do. I don’t expect you to understand. He is a wonderful man and his work for the government is vital to the war effort.’
‘But your loyalty goes beyond that, caring about his welfare, doesn’t it, Bernard? You don’t just love him … you are in love with him.’
‘You make it sound so sordid. It is far from that. I don’t expect you to understand. It is not a sexual thing. It transcends all that bodily function stuff. But, yes, you are right: I care for him more than I can say. He is like a god to me. To be in the same room as him is a privilege. I would do anything to protect him and he knows that and relies on me.’
‘He orders you to kill people.’
‘He does not need to. I know instinctively what to do.’
The man was crazy, of course, but there was something disturbingly touching about his perverted loyalty. I never cease to wonder at the range and strength of emotions that can be harboured within the human breast.
‘And so now you know instinctively that I should be bumped off.’
There was a pause before France replied with a simple, quiet, ‘Yes, of course.’
The sudden lack of emotion in his voice chilled me to the marrow.
We picked up speed again and my captor swung the car down a narrow cobbled alley. The vehicle reverberated noisily as it thudded over the uneven surface as though it was being bombarded with rocks. We had long since left any main roads behind and had been driving down a complicated series of back streets. There were tall industrial premises closing in on us from either side and I could see the vague outline of something that looked like a crane up ahead, its silhouetted gantry reaching high into the night sky. I guessed that we were down somewhere near the docks.
‘And now I’m in the way,’ I said, attempting to maintain the flow of conversation.
‘Not for long, old boy. Not for long,’ came the sneering reply.
Without warning, the car slewed to a halt, the tyres crunching on the gravel. I looked out of the window and confirmed that I had been right. We were by the docks: there were cranes, warehouses and in the distance the murky glitter of the river, the ripples caught by the pale half moon.
Bernard France got out of the car and came for me. Gun in hand, he opened the back door and dragged me outside, my hands still tied securely behind my back.
‘Another body floating in the Thames,’ he said stoically, waving the gun in the direction of the water. ‘Come along, Mr Hawke, time for your midnight swim.’
‘You didn’t tell me Sir Robert would be joining us,’ I said, nodding my head in the direction of one of the warehouses in the shadows behind us. France was momentarily distracted by my desperate ploy and against his better judgement, he turned his head to look over towards the shadows as though he expected to see his friend, Sir Robert Gervais standing behind him.
This gave me just a second, but a second was all that I needed. I let fly with my foot with great force and, as it turned out, with great accuracy. My target was the White Rabbit’s genitals. My shoe hit bull’s eye. With a sharp yell, a kind of bizarre parody of Tarzan’s yodel, France bent double in pain and sank to his knees.
Within a heartbeat I was running for cover, towards one of the dark buildings to my left. I’d never thought about it before, but having one’s hands tied behind your back does slow you down. You run like a drunken man in a strange loping fashion because you can’t sw
ing your arms to help propel you along and steer a straight course. So despite all my efforts, I stumbled and zig-zagged rather than sprinted off into the darkness. I had just about reached the corner of the building when a shot rang out and a bullet zinged by me. It was too close for comfort.
I glanced behind me and saw that France was already back on his feet and heading in my direction. It gave me a little crumb of pleasure to see that he was limping badly. My blow must have been particularly accurate.
I slipped around the corner into pitch darkness. I was down the side of a low one-storey shed, with boarded-up windows. It had long been deserted. Keeping to the wall I felt my way towards the far end. The ground was uneven and littered with large stones and other unidentifiable debris. Once or twice I stumbled and nearly fell down, not being able to steady myself with my arms. If only they were free! And then I crashed into what I later surmised was some sort of water butt and winded myself. I ricocheted backwards and my cry of surprise helped France to pinpoint my location in the blackness and another bullet came my way. I ducked down and pressed on still using the wall as my guide. Within seconds I had reached the far side of the building and was out of the shadows and into the moonlight. I had to think fast. We could go on circling this particular building all night like characters in a cartoon until eventually France caught up with me and then … Bang! Bang! Goodbye Johnny. I could hear him behind me, his heavy footfalls and his even heavier breathing growing louder. He was gaining on me.
I crossed over to the next building, an exposed figure in the pale rays of the moon. Exposed enough for the White Rabbit to take another shot at me. His aim was getting better. I felt the bullet whistle past me. I struggled down the far side of the building, wading now through tall, damp grass which seemed to cling like tiny hands to my trousers, dragging me back. Halfway along there was a door. On the off chance, I gave it a shove. It responded slightly so I shoved even harder ramming the door with my shoulder. It creaked and moaned and then suddenly it gave way and sprang open. Pushing the door wide, I slipped into the pitch blackness, a crazy plan forming in my mind.
Without Conscience Page 20
