by Lee Strauss
“Well, as you can see, I’m fine, and I can attest that Haley is too.”
Ginger huffed, and folded her arms across her chest. She wasn’t a china doll.
They drove along in tense silence until Canary Wharf came into view. A nerve in Basil’s jaw twitched, and Ginger waited. She’d come to know that as a sign that he was working through a mental exercise.
“I have something I want to tell you too,” he finally said.
His eyes were on the road ahead, but he glanced briefly at Ginger. She stared back, waiting.
“Yes?” Ginger hoped he wasn’t going to go on about her sleuthing without him. “What is it?”
Basil swallowed. “Emelia has left me again.”
Ginger couldn’t hold in her shock, especially after the big warning Emelia Reed had delivered only three nights ago. “Since Pinocchio’s?”
Basil nodded. “We got into a row afterwards. I saw her run into the ladies’ room after you, and I hounded her about what happened there until she confessed.” He glanced at Ginger apologetically. “I’m sorry she verbally battered you.”
Ginger stared out of the window. “She was defending her marriage. I could hardly blame her for that.”
“Yes, well. She didn’t spend a lot of time defending it to me, I’m afraid. She left that night and hasn’t been home since.”
Ginger swivelled to face him. “Where is she?”
Basil shrugged. “Wherever it was she disappeared to before, I suspect.”
Rather, whoever, Ginger corrected mentally. Mrs. Reed was, after all, an advocate for women’s health, a euphemism for birth control.
“I’m sorry.”
“You have no need to be sorry,” Basil said. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have taken her back. That was the last time, Ginger. I’m filing for divorce.”
Ginger felt her breath leave her. Basil was free once again, yet the news didn’t thrill her. When it counted, she had still been his second choice. All she could manage was a weak-sounding, “I see.”
Basil brought the motorcar to a stop and tugged on the handbrake. Ginger pulled the door handle and inhaled the crisp air tinged with the odour of the Thames. Birds squawked loudly overhead as they scavenged for scraps.
“Ginger, please,” Basil said, touching her lightly on the arm. “I know I’ve made an absolute shred of things, and I don’t expect you to forgive me today. But will you try? Try to forgive me?”
Ginger pushed the door all the way open. “There’s nothing to forgive, Basil. You were perfectly within your rights to do what you did, and I don’t hold it against you.” She closed the door in his face, a little harder than necessary.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The tension that filled the short space between them as they walked together was so thick, Ginger didn’t think her words could cut through. Her mind scrambled for what to say. Basil had torn her heart, bruised it badly, and she felt pain like she hadn’t felt since Daniel died. She’d sworn then, in that tarnished autumn of 1918, that she wouldn’t risk fully giving her heart away to someone again. And she hadn’t with Basil. Not yet. So why was she so upset that he’d done the honourable thing and given his marriage a second go?
“Basil,” she said.
But Basil was all business now. “When you were down here with Miss Higgins yesterday, did you learn anything?”
Ginger sighed inwardly. “We identified the second body. He was a dockworker by the name of Evan Jones.”
Basil gave her a sideways glance. “How did you manage that?”
“Haley took photographs.”
“I see. Who made the identification?”
“Marvin Elliott.”
Basil slowed and frowned. “One of the lads from the SS Rosa? Those two seem to show up a lot.”
“Yes, well, Marvin works here, and I confess, I’m not entirely comfortable with it.”
“It’s a tough crowd that works the docks.”
“He’s a tough lad,” Ginger said. She believed it to be true, but she couldn’t help but worry about him. There were all kinds of bad influences on the docks. Violence, drugs, prostitution.
“Do you think you could find him again?” Basil asked.
“Why do you want to talk to Marvin?”
Basil shrugged as he removed a silver cigarette case from his pocket. “It’s a place to start.” He lit the cigarette, inhaled, and then released the smoke from the corner of his mouth, opposite Ginger.
Ginger searched the docks for Marvin’s familiar figure. Men manoeuvred tall cranes to heft platforms of heavy products off the ships. “He was working over there, carrying sacks of sugar from the dock to that warehouse.” At least, she hoped that was what he’d been carrying. Her heart tightened with the thought that the sacks stamped with the word “sugar” might have actually been filled with a substance not nearly as innocuous. Something that could get Marvin thrown in prison. Ginger pointed to a brick building that had tiles missing from the roof and loose bricks that had fallen to the ground. The windows were opaque with grime and the wooden frames, dry and splintered.
Basil studied the warehouse and frowned. “That’s one of Sabini’s.”
A thick man in a good suit exited the building and talked angrily to one of the workers. Ginger touched Basil’s elbow.
“That’s Lorenzo Bugini,” she said softly. “Known as ‘Bugs.’”
Basil stared at her. “How do you know that?”
“Marvin told me. I first spotted him at Pinocchio’s, the night we were both there.”
Basil squinted. “Yes, I remember him. He was chummy with Sabini.”
“Haley believes he’s part of Charles Sabini’s gang.”
“Make’s sense. Pinocchio’s belongs to Sabini, along with several nightclubs in the area.”
Ginger gawked at him. “You knew that and still chose to dine there? I didn’t find out until after.”
Basil took a final inhale of his cigarette before dropping it to the dock and pushed it through the cracks with his boot. “The mortuary murders aren’t the only crimes that have crossed my desk, Ginger. The Yard is very interested in everything Charles Sabini has his hand in. Which is a lot, believe me.”
Ginger wondered if Emelia had been aware that her dinner date with Basil was also a ruse for him to spy on the place.
“If Sabini’s men are here,” Basil said, “then trouble’s not far away.”
Ginger rescanned the area in search of Marvin. Not finding him could be good news or bad. Her gaze went back to the warehouse just as a door opened, and Marvin’s lanky form stepped out.
Oh, mercy.
“There he is,” Ginger said. She raised her hand. “Marvin!”
Marvin stopped still, his eyes darting to Ginger and Basil and then to Bugs Bugini. He lowered his gaze and trotted off in the opposite direction pretending like he hadn’t seen or heard Ginger call for him. He disappeared between the buildings.
“That’s not a good sign,” Ginger said with a sigh. “Should we run after him?”
Basil shook his head. “I’ll get my men to pick him up later. Stay here.”
To Ginger’s chagrin, Basil headed over to Sabini’s henchman, Bugs. What on earth was he going to say to the big man? She had no intention of staying put and jogged after the inspector.
Basil flashed his identification.
“I could tell you were a copper a mile away. I ain’t breakin’ no laws.” He smiled at Ginger. “Hi, pretty lady.”
Basil scowled at the impertinent thug then glanced at Ginger. His eyes flickered as if he was annoyed and something else. Worry? For her.
He didn’t need to concern himself about her. She knew how to fend for herself—she learned self-defence tactics in the war. Plus, she had her Remington. She pressed a palm against her handbag, reassured by the weight and outline of her pistol.
“What business do you have at the docks?” Basil asked.
Bugs lit a stub of a cigarette and blew smoke from his nostrils. �
��Not that it’s any of your business, my boss has dealings with West Indies Imports. Sugar and coffee and the like.”
“And the like?” Basil prompted. “Other kinds of stimulants?”
“I know what you’re getting at, and we’re not dealing anything illegal. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
Bugs pulled on his cigarette then strutted across the yard with an arrogant confidence
Basil narrowed suspicious eyes as he watched the man walk away with an exaggerated swagger. “I don’t know what he’s guilty of, but he’s definitely guilty of something.”
Bugs drove off in a brand-new cherry-red Maserati, and Basil jotted down the registration in his notebook.
“We have three victims who’ve all been connected to Sabini’s stables, two through the soil under the nails, and one by your personal experience,” Basil said.
Ginger thought of the first victim, Angus Green, the man she might’ve saved. “Mr. Green had cocaine in his system.”
“No doubt Sabini is smuggling more than sugar and coffee into England. Cocaine. If your young friend Marvin Elliot is found to be involved, he could go to prison.”
Ginger’s heart clenched. For drug smuggling or worse, for murder.
Basil continued his musings. “The drugs are being imported from somewhere, Central America, most likely. Stored in this building before being transported. But to where?”
“Some of it to Saffron Stables would be my bet,” Ginger said. “Can you get a search warrant?”
Basil shook his head. “All I have is a theory. I need proof before a judge would dare go up against the Italian mafia.”
Ginger shivered at the implication. Charles Sabini’s reach went far and wide, even into Britain’s judicial system.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Emelia’s latest desertion and Basil’s recent apology rattled loudly in Ginger’s head. Even the rumble of the Austin 7’s engine couldn’t drown them out. The dead space sat like a medicine ball between her and Basil, and she wished there were something else that could fill it. Like music. Ginger wondered if, one day, a radio might be inserted in the dashboard of a motorcar. Wouldn’t that be splendid if one could enjoy the golden voice of blue’s singer Bessie Smith or the light-hearted catchy tune-maker, Eddie Cantor, to keep one company during one’s travels? She could hear “No, No, Nora” in her head now.
“What are you thinking about?” Basil asked.
“About how nice it would be if motorcars came with radios.”
“What on earth for? It’s not like you can get up and dance.”
“No, but you could tap your foot and sing along. And the BBC has more than music. News, opinion pieces, radio plays. Did you listen to Danger?”
“I’m afraid I missed that.”
“You did? The very first radio play in the world came out of London! I thought everyone in the city would have had their ears tuned.”
“Not me. I can’t imagine a radio contraption ever being small enough to fit in the dashboard of a motorcar.”
Basil had a point there. Ginger’s new Freshman radio was too boxy and oversized to ever fit in a motorcar.
The further north of the city they travelled, the bumpier the road grew. Ginger, for the first time, felt a twinge of sympathy for Haley. Being the passenger on a rather long journey wasn’t any fun at all.
London was a growing metropolis and villages were starting to grow into one another. They were linked by swathes of green pastoral fields dotted with herds of sheep and cattle.
Basil found the entrance to the long drive without hesitation. Had he been to Saffron Stables before? Fred appeared at the sound of the motorcar crunching up the cobbled drive.
“He’s the watchdog,” Ginger said. “He greeted Haley and me when we visited too. Not the friendly sort.”
Fred was stocky and muscular and looked strong enough to lift a horse. Not someone you’d like to get into a fistfight with. Ginger hoped Basil, in his sour mood, wouldn’t do anything stupid.
“Oi!” Fred said. “This ’ere is private property.”
Basil flashed his identification. “I’m Chief Inspector Basil Reed from Scotland Yard. I’m here on police business, Mr. Roach.”
Basil knew the man’s name. He had been here before.
“Righto,” Mr. Roach said. “But what about ’er? She was ’ere before, putting ’er nose in where it don’t belong.”
“This is Lady Gold. She’s a consultant. You’d be wise to show her some respect.”
Fred only snarled at that.
“What is your job?” Basil asked.
Fred grinned with one side of his mouth. “’Elping ’and.”
“As in security?”
“Exactly.”
“Do you know the whereabouts of Miss Jane Ellery?”
“Whatcha want with ’er?”
“Please answer my question.”
For the first time, the smug expression on Fred’s face slid off. “I don’t know. She’s usually ’ere by now.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” Basil asked.
“Yesterday. She was ’ere as always, looking after the ’orse.”
“The horse? Not horses?”
“The boss had ’er on one ’orse specific.”
“Silver Bullet?” Ginger said.
Fred dug a cigarette out of his pocket. He nodded and lit up.
“Who’s with Silver Bullet now?” Ginger asked. She noted another motorcar in the yard. Not flashy enough to belong to Sabini. A four-door Vauxhall Kington Tourer, last year’s model, splattered with mud like it spent a lot of time on country roads.
Smoke billowed out of Fred’s nostrils. “The vet. Now, why’re yer asking about Miss Ellery?”
Basil glanced at Ginger before making the pronouncement. “I’m afraid it’s bad news, Mr. Roach. Miss Ellery’s body was discovered yesterday.”
Fred blinked slowly as the colour drained from his face. “Dead?”
Basil nodded. “I’m sorry. Is there anything you can tell me about Miss Ellery? Was she close to Charles Sabini? Or a man known as Bugs?”
The emotion that had appeared briefly behind Fred’s eyes disappeared as the man’s expression hardened. “I don’t know nothing. Can’t ’elp ya.”
The watchman was afraid, Ginger thought. He didn’t want to be Sabini’s next victim.
The muscles in Basil’s jaw worked as he stared back at Fred. “Do you mind if we go inside to speak to the veterinarian?” Basil subtly opened his hand to remind Fred of his official police ID. It wasn’t a question. Basil was being polite.
Fred shrugged. “Knock yerself out.”
Basil and Ginger moved to the stable doors beyond where Fred stood in the mud, smoking his cigarette. Basil turned to ask him a final question.
“Mr. Roach, have you or anyone that frequents this stable, bought, sold or indulged in cocaine?”
The right corner of Fred’s mouth lifted again. “Of course not. That would be illegal.”
Ginger and Basil moved inside. Once again, the aroma of horse sweat, manure, and hay assaulted Ginger’s senses. All the stalls had equine occupants this time with some stable boys in attendance.
“He’s lying,” Basil said, looking over his shoulder at the stable doors.
“Clearly.” Ginger paused to stroke the Arabian. “But he did seem sincerely shocked to hear about Miss Ellery’s death.”
One of the stable boys with blond hair poking out from underneath a flat cap looked a lot like Scout Elliot. Thinking about the young waif reminded Ginger that she needed to check in on him soon. She smiled at the stableboy, and to her surprise, he smiled back. Then as if catching himself, he scurried off with his feed bag of oats.
Ginger guided Basil beyond the Arabian to Silver Bullet’s stable. Basil’s expression changed from indifference to awe as he took in the majestic beast.
He whistled. “That’s quite an animal.”
Ginger agreed. “Isn’t he beautiful?”
“I’ve never seen such a shiny coat,” Basil said. “It really does look silver.”
A man with thick grey hair and a matching hedge of a moustache squatted near Silver Bullet’s back legs, his nimble fingers examining the joints. He stood when he saw them, the lines in his rugged skin deepening into a frown.
“Mr. Sabini never mentioned visitors today,” he said. He had a Scottish accent that heavily rolled the “Rs.”
“I’m Chief Inspector Reed from Scotland Yard,” Basil said, “and this is Lady Gold. And you are?”
“Dr. Douglas Selkirk.” His gaze moved to Ginger, and his eyes scanned her with interest. “I can see why a lady might be interested in fine race horses, sir, but I’m stumped as to why the Yard sent you.”
“The body of Miss Jane Ellery was discovered yesterday.”
Ginger carefully watched the veterinarian’s expression. His eyes flickered with emotion. Of loss or guilt, Ginger couldn’t be sure. He stroked his thick moustache. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that. She was a fine lass.”
“How well did you know her?” Basil asked.
“Personally? Not at all. Professionally, our paths have crossed.”
“Who will care for Silver Bullet now?” Ginger asked.
“I suppose I will,” Dr. Selkirk said. “At least for the moment. The bigger question is who will ride Silver Bullet?”
“Miss Ellery was a jockey?” Basil asked, his voice betraying his surprise. “I wasn’t aware that women played the role?”
“They don’t,” the veterinarian said. “On the circuit, she was known as John Ellroy.”
“She impersonated a man?” Basil said, confirming.
“That’s right.”
“Even if she should win, wouldn’t disclosure of her gender trigger a forfeit?”
Dr. Selkirk stroked his moustache, which was thick enough to merit a name. “In most cases,” he muttered, “I suppose so.”
“But Mr. Sabini isn’t ‘most’ cases?”
“You’re a frightfully good detective, Chief Inspector.”
Had Miss Ellery’s deception got her killed, Ginger wondered? “I suppose Mr. Sabini is still keen on winning the Gold Cup,” she added.
