That Old Black Magic

by Cathi Unsworth

  “You can take my case,” Anna allowed. “But I never let anyone else touch the fiddle.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll put it in the boot for you and let you say your goodbyes. Thank you,” he said to Judith, “and I promise, I’ll do my best for her.” That at least was true. Spooner had no wish to intrude on their parting, so he made his way back towards the Rover. As he did, an engine started up a little further down the road behind him. Checking the wing mirror as he opened the boot, he saw a maroon Austin saloon nudging its way onto the street. Probably just a local resident going about his business, he reasoned. He put the case down next to his own bag and briefcase, turned and waited. Anna came out of the door without looking back, a big smile on her face. Judith stood behind her on the doorstep with a hanky in her hand.

  As Anna walked down the pavement, the maroon Austin accelerated. She heard it and turned round. At the same time, out of the corner of his eye, Spooner saw a shape moving from across the road, a shadow becoming animated.

  Anna turned back towards him, her mouth open and her eyes wide with fear. “It’s…” she began but the rest of the sentence was lost in the sound of squealing brakes as the Austin veered towards them. Spooner put his body between Anna and the car, tried to push her back as it swerved to stop a hair’s breadth away from him. He could see Judith’s face turn white as she stood on her doorstep and the black shape from across the street getting closer, taking on the form of a running man who was wearing a fedora – like the driver of the Ford Anglia had been. Before he could turn his head to see who was driving the Austin he felt a blow between his shoulders. Spooner’s knees buckled and everything went black.

  When he came to, he was lying on the pavement to the side of the Rover. Everything seemed a little blurred, but he could make out Judith standing over him and beside her, the man in black kneeling at his side.

  “He’s coming round,” he said. “Let’s get him upright.” Strong hands lifted him into a sitting position. Spooner’s head was throbbing and there were stabs of pain from where his hands and knees had grazed the pavement. “It’s all right,” his aide went on. “You’re safe, I don’t think there’s any bones broken. Just lean your head forward a bit. That was a nasty trick. All right, sit back up now, sir. How’s your eyesight? I think he’s probably got concussion.” Large fingers, like a pair of sausages, danced in front of his face. “How many am I holding up?”

  “Here,” he heard Judith say, “I think he’ll see better with these on.”

  “These your glasses? Lucky they didn’t get broken.” The same bulky digits replaced the spectacles across the bridge of Spooner’s nose. “How’s that?”

  Spooner’s pupils settled on a wide face, a pair of round blue eyes. The fedora was sitting on the pavement beside them but the man’s hair was equally as black, slicked back in brilliantined waves, the scent of which made Spooner start to feel nauseous. He had a neat pencil moustache over his top lip and it was this which made Spooner realise where he had seen the face before, glowering at him from in front of the fireplace in the Victoria on his first night in Birmingham.

  “I think I’d better get him to the hospital. Don’t worry, either of you,” the man continued, rummaging in his pocket, and producing a small document that Spooner recognised to his surprise to be a warrant card. “I’m a police officer. Here,” he passed it to Judith. “You better read it to him, I’m not sure he can see straight.”

  “So you are,” Judith sounded as surprised as Spooner felt. “Detective Sergeant William Houlston it says, Mr Spooner. What were you doing here, anyway?”

  “Following the villain that just coshed him and made off with your tenant,” Houlston said. “We’ll take my car, his will be safe enough to leave here, won’t it?”

  “I expect so,” Judith sounded doubtful. “You don’t think they’ll come back, then?”

  “I doubt it,” DS Houlston said. “They’ve got what they wanted. For now.”

  “Oh my,” Judith’s voice started to waver. “Poor Anna. No wonder she was so scared.”

  “Don’t you worry about her now, Mrs…?”

  “It’s Miss, actually. Miss Judith Atherstone. And why shouldn’t I be worried after what I’ve just witnessed from my own front doorstep?”

  “Because I’m going to sort it all out,” Houlston assured her. “The best thing you can do is go back inside and write down everything you just saw and heard while it’s still fresh in your mind. I’ll be back to take your statement as soon as I’ve had this one looked over.”

  “Well,” Judith drew in her bottom lip, “will you let me take Anna’s bag from the car?”

  “I dunno,” said Houlston, looking back at Spooner. “What do you think?”

  Spooner flapped his arm ineffectually. “Please,” he said, his voice sounding thick and slurred. “Let her take it. And get my briefcase too, will you?”

  “All right,” said Houlston. “Have you still got your car keys?”

  Spooner found that they were in his trouser pocket, where he must have stashed them by reflex as the Austin bore down on them. Houlston took them, let Judith retrieve Anna’s case from the boot, put Spooner’s briefcase down beside him and then locked the car up.

  “I’ll look after these ’til you’re fit to drive,” he said, putting the keys in his own pocket. Then he slid his hands underneath Spooner’s armpits and helped him up to his feet.

  His car was parked across the road. It was a grey Wolseley and not a black Ford Anglia.

  “Are you sure this is correct procedure?” asked Spooner, as he slithered into the passenger seat, putting his briefcase down between his legs

  Houlston rolled an eyeball. “You’re a talent scout, aren’t you Mr Spooner? How would you know what correct procedure is?”

  Spooner put his throbbing head in his hands. “You don’t look much like a policeman,” he said, realising how lame that sounded.

  Houlston gave the slowest wink Spooner had ever seen as he started up the engine. “Well, that’s all right, then,” he said, “’cos neither do you.”

  9

  BETTER THINK TWICE

  Tuesday, 18–Wednesday, 19 February 1941

  “It was me following you,” DS Houlston explained as he drove. “I’ve gotta hand it to you, you were pretty sharp trying to throw me off. That’s why I switched motors today. Two can play at that game.”

  “But why?” Spooner continued to hold his head, not sure whether he had actually come round at all or whether this was all some sort of nightmare.

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s coincidence or not, but your presence in Brum has flushed out some characters I’ve been after who had gone to ground – Miss Brown, Miss Hartley and their tightrope-walking friend, Mr Anders. What I’d like to know is, were you really trying to hire them to play the smart hotels in London? Or were you deliberately trying to attract attention to yourself to see what happened next?”

  Spooner knew he wasn’t dreaming. His subconscious could not come up with anything this precisely torturous. He had to start thinking clearly now. “Do you know who it was just coshed me?” seemed to be the most pertinent enquiry.

  “You answer my question first,” Houlston demanded, with an edge to his voice that cancelled any doubts Spooner might have entertained about breaking cover. He found his talent scout self took over from the dazed man in the passenger seat with surprising ease.

  “Well, as you may have gathered, I was just about to take Miss Hartley to London with me. I’ve contracts in my briefcase made up for her to sign, if you want to see them. She said it would have been the first break she’d had since she was bombed out of her home in November last year – which was that pile of rubble in West Bromwich that you followed me to on Sunday, if you don’t already know.”

  Houlston kept his eyes on the road. “I see,” he said. “That’s what she told you. And what about the other one. What did she say happened to Clara Brown? It was her you was really after, wasn’t it?”
<
br />   “Are you keen on music yourself, Detective Sergeant?” Spooner asked.

  “Very,” Houlston replied. “But what’s that got to do with it?”

  “If you were in my business and you’d heard Miss Hartley perform then you’d want to bring her to London too,” said Spooner. “Aye, so it was Clara Brown my boss was tipped off about. But Anna’s talent enough for the two of them, so I’m no’ going away empty-handed… At least, I didn’t think I was. Now, who was it just hit me?”

  “Clara,” said Houlston. “You never told me what happened to Clara.”

  “Anna doesn’t know and I don’t either. The last those two saw of each other was the same night she got bombed out. Unless that was Clara just now?”

  Houlston said nothing, just stared ahead at the road until they reached the hospital. He continued to keep his tongue and his thoughts to himself until he stopped in the car park. Then, he gave a deep sigh and appeared to relent his harsh manner. “No, it wasn’t Clara who hit you,” he said. “I only wished that it was so I’d know she was still here and I had a chance of getting after her. But I’ll tell you this for nothing – them three are rotten to the core. Maybe what happened today was a blessing in disguise. For you, anyway.” He took the keys out of the ignition and turned to look at Spooner. “It was Nils Anders who hit you. The circus clown – I mean, the tightrope walker. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him since January, when he fenced a load of phoney passports along with certain other items I’ve reason to believe he used his circus skills to acquire.”

  “You mean he’s a burglar?”

  Houlston’s upper lip curled and his eyes brimmed with disdain. “At the least.”

  “So what do the other two have to do with it? Why would he attack me and drag Anna off the street like that?” Spooner asked.

  “Did she tell you she was hiding from someone?” Houlston asked.

  “No,” said Spooner, but conceded what he knew Judith would later have to say. “But her landlady did and she’ll tell you the same thing. Anna was too scared to leave the house, which was why she was wary of letting me in. You’re not the only person round here who finds me suspicious.”

  “Well, you think yourself lucky I didn’t just leave you on the pavement and go after them pair like I should have done. I’ve probably lost them again by now,” Houlston opened his door. “But seeing as we’re here, let’s get you looked over. We can save the rest for later.”

  *

  “I think I’ve blown it, Chief.”

  Spooner was back at High View by late afternoon, alone in Janet’s office. His check-up at the hospital hadn’t taken long, but the doctor had warned him not to risk a long-distance drive until he had taken a night’s rest, adding that if his vision started to blur or he felt nauseous again, he must get medical help right away. Houlston had driven him back to his car via the police station, where he had obliged him to make a detailed statement of the morning’s events, which he managed without divulging anything more of what he knew about Anders, Clara and Anna.

  Fortunately, Janet was still pleased to see him. She hadn’t made any kind of fuss that he needed to stay another night; it wasn’t exactly high season. She gave him his room back, then left him in peace to make his calls. If she had noticed the fresh grazes on his knuckles, then she said nothing about it.

  “I’ve lost Anna and now I’ve a CID officer on my case who looks like a gangster and talks like a Brummie Cockney – if such a thing is possible.”

  This at least made the Chief laugh. “Tell me all about it,” he said, the voice coming down the line from London sounding not in the slightest bit put out. Spooner related the disastrous events of the morning, finishing with his own deductions about DS Houlston.

  “I’ve a feeling we’re both after the same thing,” he said. “He said Anders had passed off a load of fake passports here in January and I remember you telling me that was one of your failed parachutist’s special tricks. But he also said that was the least of Anders’ misdemeanours and suggested all three of them were up to something much worse, without revealing why or what he knew. And I wasn’t going to tell him anything either, so we reached stalemate. Though I did promise to let him know if I heard from Anna again. Don’t suppose I will, though.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” the Chief responded. “The main thing is, you got more from him about this Anders character than he got from you.”

  “Also,” Spooner offered the last crumb of comfort he could take from the whole affair, “he seemed to know nothing about the officer. A bit surprising that he was the only person not to mention him, but there you go. He’d much more of a bee in his bonnet about Anders, who I’d wager he’s been after some while.”

  “Well, I have better tidings for you on that subject,” said the Chief. “I think I’ve located this officer chappie for you. The good news is that he’s within driving distance of where you are now. The bad news is that he’s in a psychiatric hospital, apparently raving mad.”

  “Are you sure it’s him?” Spooner said, astounded. It went a long way to explaining why his boss sounded so genial, despite him losing Anna.

  “Well, what would you make of this otherwise? A man called Nicholas Ralphe, working in Intelligence at RAF Abbots Bromley, turns up on the fifteenth of January this year, blabbering about double agents and witches. Tries to blow his brains out all over his CO’s office, so they cart him off in a straitjacket. His home address in Edgbaston is searched and among the things they find there is a steamer trunk, German in origin, containing a fur coat, some expensive jewellery and a radio hidden inside an attaché case that’s the double of the one that fell out of the sky with our friend. Thankfully, they took these items away with them, because after they’d left, the flat was burgled, stripped of its contents from top to toe.”

  “Anders?” Spooner gasped, feeling faint again.

  “Sounds like it, doesn’t it? You did just say the last time your friendly local detective had sight of him was January, didn’t you?”

  “Aye,” Spooner tried to corral his spiralling thoughts. “And Norman was spot on too. He said the guy looked like he was in the RAF.”

  “Well, you can buy him a drink later, if you like, but before you do, I’ve made arrangements for you to visit the unfortunate Mr Ralphe, if you think you can manage it. He’s being treated at the RAF hospital in Lincolnshire, not so far from where our friend crash-landed, ironically enough. A draught of Belladonna seems to have turned both her beaux into invalids. You’re to show them that official card of yours when you get there and ask for a Dr Bishop, who will allow you to interview the patient if he thinks the man is up to it. Your ETA is fifteen hundred hours and you can at least congratulate yourself on saving a bit on petrol by staying where you are for an extra night. Then you can report back to me in London, I don’t think it would be prudent for you to stay in Birmingham any longer. You still have adequate coupons, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Spooner said quickly.

  “And your thoughts on Anna Hartley?” the Chief’s tone darkened. “Have you altered them at all since the last time we spoke?”

  Spooner felt his knuckles start to throb again as his insides churned. “I thought it was music lessons I could do with taking from her,” he admitted. “But perhaps it was the acting she was best at.”

  *

  Despite his protestations, Spooner decided against accompanying Bob for “just the one” at the Victoria. He was still feeling his injuries – and he didn’t want to risk running into Houlston again if he could possibly avoid it. Better to get a good night’s rest, as the doctor had prescribed, time to write his next report and go through everything he knew, or thought he knew, about Clara and Anna, so as to arm himself for what lay ahead – his meeting with the madman.

  He felt sorry to say goodbye to the Howells the next morning. Janet had made him some sandwiches for the journey, that sat next to his map on the passenger seat, wrapped in wax paper and giving off
a faint aura of her lavender perfume. He thought he’d save them for the journey back to London. He just had one last stop to make before he left Birmingham.

  Judith took a while to answer her doorbell, and while he stood there, checking for black Anglias, grey Wolseleys and maroon Austins down the street, Spooner wondered if she had changed her mind about seeing him, despite the assurances she had made on the telephone earlier. When she finally opened up, she looked so worn out that he immediately wanted to apologise. But she got there first.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr Spooner. Mother had a dreadful night after everything that happened. She’s worried sick about where Anna is and what sort of people will come knocking for her next. That awful policeman yesterday frightened the life out of her, telling her she’d given houseroom to a suspected criminal. Now I feel terrible for bringing so much trouble to our door. All I was doing was trying to help. I just can’t bring myself to believe Anna was a bad sort, can you?”

  Spooner shook his head. “No, me neither,” he agreed. Despite all the evidence that had piled up around the violinist, he couldn’t quite come to terms with the idea that she had knowingly consorted with Nazi spies. “I’ve met all sorts of strange people in my life,” he told Judith, “and usually, you’ve an instinct for the ones who are going to be trouble. Not Anna. I was just as taken in by her as you were. It was probably something to do with the music, you know, it’s a bond we both thought we shared with her. But you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. What sort of a person would you be if you hadn’t wanted to take in a bombed-out orphan with no one else to turn to in the world?”

  Judith put her hand up to her heart. “Bless you for saying that, Mr Spooner,” she said. “Will you come in for a cup of tea? I’ve got mother to settle now. We’ll be able to talk in peace.”

  She led him through to her kitchen. “I thought I’d never get rid of that policeman,” Judith said as she lit a gas ring. “He was round here for hours, asking about everything we’d ever talked about. Then he turned her room upside down. I told him she left with only what she’d arrived in, but he wouldn’t believe me.” She placed the kettle over the flame, and turned her attention to a big red teapot. “How d’you like it?”