The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade

by Trow, M J

  Lestrade flashed his identification. The doorman hesitated, then stepped aside. He showed Lestrade into a perfectly white interior – the walls, ceiling, even the furniture gleaming with ivory. Against the far wall was a piano, without ebony keys. One or two young men lounged about in white suits. Lestrade explained who he was and asked if any of them had known Edward Coke-Hythe. After a few in-suckings of breath, murmurings of ‘Jolly bad form’ and ‘Chuck him out’, the inspector was finally introduced to Hartington-White, the club’s president. Fellow of Peterhouse and all stations west.

  ‘Look here, Inspector, I mean arriving in a black tie is one thing, but asking personal questions about a member …’

  Lestrade’s mind turned for a moment on the exact meaning of the word ‘member’, but this was merely a club for eccentrics. He need look no further into an innocent and unconscious double-entrendre, unless, of course, Hartington-White knew that Coke-Hythe’s member was now lying black as the ace of spades along with the rest of him on a slab in Cannon Row Morgue.

  ‘Edward Coke-Hythe is dead, Mr White. A police officer in the course of his enquiries is entitled to ask any questions, personal or otherwise. The fact that the deceased was a member of your club does not interest me one jot … Alternatively, it could be very illuminating.’

  ‘Meaning? And that’s Hartington-White, by the way.’

  Lestrade noticed the other man nodding in the direction of a few other club members.

  ‘What is the aim of your club, Mr Hartington-White?’

  ‘Aim? Why, recreation, of course. Any member of the University is eligible.’

  ‘And no one is black-balled?’

  ‘That’s not a term we care to use.’

  ‘Don’t you like the colour black, Mr Hartington-White?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The decor, the black tie, even the piano keys. Isn’t the purpose of this club to remove what you consider to be the black peril from white society?’

  ‘Really, Inspector. Isn’t this a little preposterous?’ But Hartington-White was uneasy, his grin very fixed.

  ‘Wasn’t Edward Coke-Hythe running an errand for you? Isn’t that what he was in London, in fact, since he kept his rooms in the north of the town here? Wasn’t he furthering the cause of white supremacy by attempting to humiliate the ex-slave Atlanta Washington?’

  ‘That’s insane, Inspector.’ Hartington-White was on his feet, shouting. ‘Now, I really must ask you to leave. Y … you do not have a white tie?’

  ‘Neither do I have my answers,’ Lestrade shouted in return. Then, quieter, ‘Nor blood on my conscience.’

  Instinctively he heard the whirr as the billiard cue hissed through the air. He ducked and drove his shoulder into his opponent’s groin. Grabbing the corner of the rug as he went down, Lestrade overturned a second attacker and kicked Hartington-White in the pit of his stomach. When he finally got up, Lestrade realised that his speed and his boot had eliminated only one permanently. The man with the billiard cue lay gripping his crotch with a distant look on his face. In front of Lestrade were four members and a footman, two of them armed with billiard cues. It had been some time since Lestrade had had to defend himself from such an attack – not since he was a sergeant at Wapping New Stairs, in fact. The device he had used then, though hardly regulation police issue, was still in his pocket now. He was never without it. He deflected the sideways swipe of Hartington-White’s cue, gripped the man’s arm and jerked him forwards, twisting him round so that his arm locked under his jaw. Lestrade’s left hand produced the Apache dagger, a needle-sharp stiletto with brass rings that went over his knuckles. The tip of the blade rested an inch away from Hartington-White’s left eardrum.

  ‘A step closer, gentlemen, and your revered President will be bleeding all over the carpet.’

  They stopped, hesitated, looked at each other.

  ‘For God’s sake, do something,’ screamed the President. ‘The maniac will kill me,’

  ‘The door, gentlemen,’ hissed Lestrade, tilting his adversary’s head further back. ‘I want it shut with you on the other side of it.’

  ‘Do as he says,’ Hartington-White’s voice was strained almost to inaudibility.

  One by one, they dropped their guard and backed towards the door. One by one, they left the room. Hartington-White was a big man and Lestrade knew now, if he had not known before, of his somewhat murderous tendencies. He was taking no chances. He spun round and drove knee and knuckleduster simultaneously into the pit of his stomach. The Club President went down, vomiting as he did so.

  Lestrade knelt to one side of him to avoid the mess and flicked his switch blade under his chin. ‘Now, Mr Hartington-White, where were we? Ah, yes, you sent Coke-Hythe to London, yes?’

  Hartington-White nodded, gulping for air.

  ‘To bait Atlanta Washington?’

  Another nod.

  ‘To kill him?’

  Hartington-White’s head remained still. Lestrade’s knife edged closer.

  ‘If necessary,’ the Club President whispered.

  Lestrade put his weapon away, found his boater and looked around the littered room. Furniture lay in disarray. The member with the damaged member lay moaning in the corner. The President knelt, furious and shaking and in pain in the middle of the floor.

  ‘Expect a visit from your local constabulary, Mr Hartington-white. The charge will be incitement to riot and attempted murder. By the time the police, the Church, the do-gooders and the press have done with you, there won’t be much left of the Albino Club.’ He glanced at the door. By now there would be reinforcements outside- a little army of racialists bent on preserving their anonymity behind the gleaming white walls of an eccentric gentlemen’s club. Even an Apache knife wouldn’t serve well against all of them.

  ‘Don’t bother to get up, I’ll see myself out.’ And the inspector threw himself bodily through a plate-glass window.

  When Lestrade came out of hospital three days later, events had moved apace. McNaghten was far from pleased at the ruckus at the Albino Club and one of the members had demanded a full apology. Lestrade refused and countered his principal’s intervention by ordering the arrest of those present the day he had been attacked. All in all, it was unfortunate and had not got Lestrade much further. He assured McNaghten that he was on top of the case but could not promise him an imminent arrest.

  There were still stitches in the inspector’s face when he called in expert advice by visiting the studio at St John’s Wood. Studio it may have been, but to Lestrade it resembled a palace, vast and sprawling, each room hung with paintings, expensive tapestries and filled with lavish furniture. As luck would have it, Lestrade arrived in time to feel very out of place at a garden party in the grounds. A shifty-looking, rather neurotic man with furtive eyes and thinning hair pinched his sherry. Lestrade recognised him as Mr Burne-Jones, the Pre-Raphaelite. He and the name were all Lestrade remembered from a crash course in modern art five years ago when he was involved in the Frederick Leighton Fake Swindle. His quarry that day in St John’s Wood he had never heard of, but a footman pointed him out.

  ‘Mr Adma-Talema?’ said the inspector.

  The host of the party turned to the enquirer. He adjusted his pince-nez and responded. ‘Something like that. No, don’t tell me. You are a reporter from the Daily Graphic, an art critic and your last piece so provoked an artist that he smashed a canvas over your head?’

  ‘Something like that?’ replied Lestrade. ‘Actually, I am from Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Really?’ said Alma-Tadema. ‘I have never met a real detective before. Apart from … oh, but he doesn’t count.’

  ‘May we talk in private, sir?’

  The artist took leave of the admiring circle around him, took two drinks from a passing tray and thrust one at Lestrade. They walked through a cloud of white peacocks on to a broad terrace and into the vast sunlit studio itself. An enormous canvas rested on three easels in the centre of the room. Partially draped
, it was an ancient scene, classical and grand.

  ‘Do you like it?’ the artist asked, and grinned.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lestrade, hoping he would not be lured into a conversation on the merits of gouache or the traps of chiaroscuro.

  ‘So do I.’ Alma-Tadema replenished his own and Lestrade’s glasses with the finest claret cup Lestrade had ever tasted. ‘Tell me something; I thought you police-chappies never drank on duty.’

  ‘Most of us don’t, sir. But if I may say so, most of us don’t get offered claret of this vintage.’

  ‘My dear … er … Inspector, is it? Not only have you a discerning eye for art, but you are also a connoisseur of the vine. A lucky day for me indeed.’

  ‘I hope so, sir.’ Lestrade produced a tin from his pocket. ‘Be so good as to have a look at the contents of this.’

  Alma-Tadema opened, sniffed, peered closely through the pince-nez, placed an exquisitely manicured finger in and licked it. ‘Enamel,’ he said. ‘Black enamel. Aspinall’s probably.’

  ‘Is enamel paint unusual, Mr Ala-Tameda?’

  ‘Indeed it is. It’s not readily available yet and of course quite unsuitable for canvas. But the French are using it a lot on their blasted bits and pieces.’

  ‘Don’t you like the New Art, Mr Mala-Teda?’

  ‘Oh, in its way, it’s all right, but you can’t build an Underground Station that looks like a peacock. There isn’t enough of the classical in art nowadays. Not like the Romans,’ he said, waving in the direction of his canvas. ‘You know where you are with Romans.’

  ‘You said Aspinall’s enamel?’

  ‘Yes, that is the firm that produces it.’ Alma-Tadema buried himself in a bureau. ‘It’s deuced expensive; even I only have …’ He stopped. Lestrade crossed the room to him.

  ‘Something the matter, sir?’

  ‘They’ve gone. Six pots of Aspinall’s black enamel. Gone.’

  ‘When did you last see your enamel?’

  Alma-Tadema chewed his thumb. ‘Well, let’s see, it must have been – Tuesday last, or Monday.’

  ‘It may be crucial, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course, Inspector. Monday, week before last. I’m certain it was Monday because I had one of my sitters cancel at short notice. I was not too displeased. I hate painting portraits. Give me Romans every time.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Inspector, may I ask why you came to me with this paint?’

  ‘My chief recommended you, sir, as a prominent man in paint-consistency.’

  The artist laughed. ‘Well, I’m flattered. But what is this in connection with?’

  ‘You don’t read the newspapers, Mr Alma-Mater?’

  ‘Only the art reviews, I’m afraid. Shockingly narrow of me, isn’t it?’

  ‘Had you read the headlines, sir, over the past ten days, you would know that three young men were found dead in Battersea Park. Each one had been painted black from head to foot. It was that very act of painting which killed them.’

  ‘Good God!’ Alma-Tadema sat down with astonishment. ‘But that’s incredible.’

  ‘What is more incredible, sir, is that the paint seems to have come from your studio.’

  Realisation began to dawn on the artist.

  ‘I see,’ he said, the smile leaving his face for the first time that day. ‘So you came to me for expert technical advice and I end up as a suspect.’

  ‘Not such a lucky day for you after all then, Mr Alda-Tamer?’

  ‘Indeed, no,’ replied the artist.

  ‘Who has access to this studio?’

  ‘Oh, almost anyone. It’s locked at night, of course and only the butler and I have keys, but during the day it’s always open. Unless I have a finished canvas. The place is always full of people. You saw for yourself. It’s open house. My hospitality is renowned, I blush to admit.’

  Lestrade walked to the glass doors. ‘I am sure you have no plans to leave Town, sir, but please contact the Yard if you do.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Inspector. I am only too anxious to clear this matter up.’

  ‘May I suggest you take better precautions, sir? This little piece, now…’ and he indicated the Roman canvas, ‘what might that be worth?’

  ‘I have been offered eight thousand for that one.’

  It was Lestrade’s turn to be astonished. It was more money than he would make in a lifetime, if he continued straight.

  ‘Pounds?’

  Alma-Tadema guffawed heartily. ‘Don’t be unrealistic, Inspector … guineas.’

  The family of Spender had aristocratic connections, but they themselves lived in a tawdry house in a tawdry suburb in Notting Hill. They were more anxious for blood than the Coke-Hythes and had been infinitely less polite. With his customary ease, Lestrade was able to defend himself and the Yard against the oft-heard cry from the deceased’s grandfather in the corner: ‘What are you fellows doing about it?’ A combination of wheedling and bluff on Lestrade’s part provided all he was ever likely to know about the late William Alphonse Spender. He was twenty-four, single, without a post (‘job’ was far too common a word for the Spenders) and kept unfortunate company. No one in the family seemed really upset to see him go; no one in the family seemed very surprised that he had met so ‘sticky’ an end. If only they hadn’t sent him to Harrow in the first place, this would never have happened. Still, it was probably for the best. No, William had no real aversion to blacks, it was just that he enjoyed tormenting people. Coke-Hythe was obviously the instigator of the recent notoriety. But it was such a minor incident. Only the radical press would be so common as to blow it up out of all proportion. Enemies? Well, even the family conceded that William was an unlovely lad, but they could think of no one, no real individual, who stood out. Except of course for that ghastly black person. He had a motive. Why hadn’t he been arrested?

  Arthur Fitz had no immediate family. His parents had died in an avalanche some years before while visiting Switzerland and the boy had been bounced around various distant aunts who ended up cursing themselves for not being distant enough. It was this very distance which gave them an air of guilt. They had failed the boy. The least they could do now was to ensure that his murderer was brought to book. But Arthur spent most of his time in clubland, in disreputable company and his various aunts suspected that he was very horribly in debt.

  Clubland proved chilly and unhelpful. Lestrade tackled some – Arts, Army and Navy, Crockford’s. Bandicoot tacked others – White’s Boodle’s, Naval and Military. Dew held the horses. Their collective enquiries yielded almost nothing. A lot of shoe-leather worn, a lot of frosty silence, a lot of angry letters about police intrusion to McNaghten and the Commissioner. Lestrade’s reputation began to sink in the mire of accusation and inefficiency. It was turning, slowly but surely, into a nightmare.

  Lestrade was shown into the expensive suite of rooms occupied for the past four months by Atlanta Washington, the ex-slave. The inspector had not really known what to expect. Before him stood a handsome, dapper man about his own age, immaculately groomed with a rose in his button-hole. On each arm he wore an incredibly beautiful white girl, one of whom Lestrade thought he recognised as a former courtesan belonging to Lord Panmure.

  ‘You sure took your time.’ The Negro grinned, displaying a row of pearly white teeth. ‘Honeys, run along now, Atlanta wants to talk to de man.’ He swung his body across the floor, as though to an imaginary tune, shooing the protesting girls out of the door in a flurry of feathers and furs.

  ‘Well, now, Inspector honey, to what do I owe de pleasure?’

  ‘I am pursuing a murder enquiry.’

  ‘Right on. Why don’t you siddown dere an’ I’ll have some mint julep sent right up, y’hear.’

  Lestrade sat.

  ‘I hope you won’t take long. I’s expectin’ ma hominy grits in a liddle while an’ I sure hates to be kept waitin’.’

  ‘Atlanta Washington,’ Lestrade stood up again, ‘I arrest you in the name of the law. Y
ou are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down …’

  ‘Now, hold it, man,’ the Negro interrupted. He looked squarely at Lestrade for a moment, ‘Aw, shit.’ He pulled off his elaborate thick, curly hair to reveal a much less impressive balding pate underneath. Next, he unhooked his immaculate false teeth to reveal a few scattered brownish ones beneath.

  ‘All right, Mr Lestrade, the show’s over.’ Even the phoney plantation accent had gone. ‘What am I charged with?’

  Lestrade sat down, triumphant. ‘You’re not,’ he said. ‘But I had to get through that barrier somehow.’

  Washington grinned. ‘You’re smart and no mistake.’

  ‘Why do you do it?’ asked Lestrade.

  ‘What, the lingo? The teeth? The rug?’

  Lestrade nodded.

  ‘It’s a long story, Inspector.’

  ‘Take your time, sir.’

  ‘My father was Booker T. Washington, a slave. Maybe you read his book, Up From Slavery?’

  Lestrade had not.

  ‘Well, I was born a slave, like he was. Momma used to wash the Massa’s cloths on the plantation – Georgia. Poppa was what they call in the States an “uppity nigger”, but like all Negroes, he knew how to hide it. The lingo I was just using – and not fooling you with – is plantation jive. You see, the way to stay out of trouble and to stay alive is to act dumb, to play Sambo. Jig around a lot, roll your eyes and talk …’ and he broke into it again, ‘like de whities expec’ a Sambo tuh talk. That way,’ he said, lapsing back, ‘you don’t get noticed. When the Lincoln soldiers came in ’65 we were all told we were free. I was lucky. I went North with Poppa and learned what freedom really meant. It meant the brothers living like pigs in Harlem while the white folks get the jobs and the handouts. You know how many black police there are in the great United States? How many black doctors, lawyers, judges, teachers? None, Inspector, none. Even the nigger minstrels on the stage are whities blacked up with burnt cork. That’s the freedom Lincoln gave us. And the killed him for it. So I decided to hit back. Poppa wrote his book and got famous – and rich. So I became a celebrity – an educated nigger. Popular? No, I’m not. Whities hate me ’cos I’m black. But they’re fascinated, too. They can’t keep away because they’re afraid of me. They’re afraid that one day all my kind are going to be smart and sassie and it scares the shit out of them. So, it’s all a front, Inspector. The hair, the pearly teeth, the jive, it’s what people expect. And who am I to let them down?’ A pause. ‘Tell me, do you think my secret is safe with you?’