by Joyce Porter
Miss Jones watched the mound of cottage pie submerge under a blood red sea. ‘No, dear,’ she murmured.
‘You need a name like mine to open the doors,’ observed the Hon. Con smugly, ‘even in these egalitarian days.’ She concentrated on her cottage pie. ‘What’s for afters, Bones?’
‘Steamed ginger pudding, dear.’
‘Good-oh!’ said the Hon. Con. ‘Well, dish mine up now, will you? I’ve got a lot to do this afternoon.’
Miss Jones abandoned her barely touched plate and got up to fetch the Hon. Con’s second course. ‘Are you going out again?’
‘Not till this evening.’
‘Well, if I could have the car, dear? There’s an awful lot of shopping I want to do.’
‘Help yourself,’ said the Hon. Con generously. ‘I’ll need you to give me a bit of a hand first, though.’
Miss Jones looked pleased. ‘Oh, I’d love to help, Constance! I’ve never even seen a police file.’
‘No, and you’re not going to see one now, either!’ the Hon. Con informed her tartly. ‘The police didn’t give me their files so’s I could open a blooming lending library! I want you to help me with the spare room.’
Miss Jones sighed. What was that poor spare room going to be transformed into this time? A forensic laboratory? She soon found out. Immediately after lunch the Hon. Con led the way upstairs and under her curt direction Miss Jones piled all the PT equipment up in one corner and then hauled an old desk down from the attic to fill the resultant space.
The Hon. Con surveyed the result with some satisfaction. ‘Chairs,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a couple going spare in your room, haven’t you, Bones?’
‘But I need those, dear!’
‘Nonsense! They’re only cluttering the place up. Let’s have ’em in.’
Miss Jones fetched the chairs.
The Hon. Con nodded. ‘ It’ll do for now. We can have the phone moved up here later.’
‘Is that all, dear?’
‘Stationery,’ said the Hon. Con. ‘Paper, pens, ink, pencils – we must have some somewhere. Try the kitchen, eh? Well, come on, Bones! Don’t just stand there like a dead duck in a thunderstorm! Jump to it and show a leg!’
When everything was eventually arranged and Miss Jones had been dismissed to get on with her chores, the Hon. Con sat down at her desk and unwrapped her newspaper parcel. She felt very proud. Less than twenty-four hours since she’d received her first assignment and here she was in the thick of it! Tomorrow old Bones would really have to pull her finger out and make this place look more like a proper office. Perhaps they could transfer some of the stuff from the Advice Bureau? Ah, yes – and Bones could nip round and cancel that lease first thing in the morning. Now that she was a private detective, the Hon. Con wouldn’t have time to sit around listening to other people’s bellyaches all day. Lovingly she patted the police file. This was the fife, eh?
Promptly at four o’clock Miss Jones came up with the afternoon tea. She found the Hon. Con still ensconced behind her desk and looking rather sick.
‘Rodney Burberry,’ said the Hon. Con glumly, ‘was as disgusting a specimen of humanity as you’d meet in a long time.’
‘Was he really, dear? What a shame.’
‘I’ve got his police record here. Unbelievable! And the probation officer’s reports are even worse. He should have been strangled at birth.’
‘Now, now, dear – don’t exaggerate.’
‘Damn it, I’m not exaggerating! Here, you read it for yourself.’
Miss Jones obediently, even eagerly, stretched out her hand but the Hon. Con had already changed her mind.
‘Sorry, old fruit,’ she said as she grabbed the file back, ‘but I did rather promise the police. Anyhow, it’d only make you feel rotten. Honestly, that kid’s done the lot! Stealing, vandalism, desecrating churches, beating people up, defrauding the Post Office and bank robbery! That was when he was sixteen – the bank job.’
‘Good heavens!’
‘Oh, that’s just a rough outline. You should read all the sordid details.’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘Take this bank robbery – that was his last known exploit and he got three years in Borstal for it. It wasn’t just an ordinary, common or garden bank robbery – oh, dear me, no! There were two older boys involved and they squirted ammonia from toy pistols right into the eyes of the bank clerks – imagine that! They might have blinded them for life. Anyhow, one of the clerks managed to sound the alarm in spite of everything and our three young heroes scarpered – empty-handed. Two of ’em – Rodney and a boy called Perkins – dashed outside and jumped into a car that had just pulled up. There was a woman driving it, a middle-aged woman by herself. The lads pretended that they’d got a gun and forced her to drive off.’ The Hon. Con’s face was grim. ‘It was six hours before the police found the car, abandoned seventy or eighty miles away. The poor woman was still in it. She was more dead than alive. She’d been terribly beaten up, robbed, stripped and’ – the Hon. Con eye Miss Jones doubtfully – ‘raped.’
Miss Jones sat down abruptly. ‘Oh, no, Constance!’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Not here in Totterbridge?’
‘No, a place called Waterbridge. Not that it makes much difference.’
‘And Rodney Burberry …?’
‘Well, no, not Rodney, as it happens. It was the other boy. Rodney tried, apparently, but he couldn’t – er – manage it.’
‘They should have hanged the pair of them!’ said Miss Jones savagely.
‘Oh, well, you know what people are like these days. They did send the other lad to prison but Rodney was too young. Still, he seems to have behaved himself fairly well in Borstal and he’d not been in trouble with the police since he got out. Maybe he was a reformed character.’
‘I would never have trusted him,’ said Miss Jones with a shiver, ‘never.’
‘Can’t say I’d have felt too happy with him myself,’ agreed the Hon. Con, passing over her cup for a refill. ‘ Of course, he’d only been out of Borstal a matter of weeks when he was poisoned.’
‘Well, I’m not surprised he was poisoned,’ said Miss Jones, getting rather pink. ‘I think I might even have been tempted to do it myself, if I’d met him. Oh, Constance’ – she gazed appealingly at her friend – ‘ do you really think you ought to go on with this? He sounds such an undesirable person.’
‘’Course I’m going on with it,’ growled the Hon. Con, extremely irritated at hearing her own doubts being voiced by Miss Jones. ‘Promised, didn’t I? You don’t want me to back down at the first blooming hurdle, do you? I never thought it was going to be a picnic.’
Miss Jones restricted herself to a sigh. Further argument, she well knew, would only increase dear Constance’s pig-headedness. She changed the subject. ‘What time did you say you were going out tonight, dear?’
‘Oh, about half-past nine. The club won’t be open much before ten.’
‘The club, dear?’
‘This Kama Sutra place. Where young Burberry breathed his last.’
‘The Kama Sutra!’ Miss Jones’s eyes grew round with horror. ‘You’re not thinking of going there, are you? It’s a simply dreadful place! For heaven’s sake, Constance, do be sensible!’
‘Oh, stuff!’ said the Hon. Con without a great deal of conviction. ‘Got to inspect the scene of the crime, haven’t I?’
‘Couldn’t you at least go when it’s daylight?’
‘The place’ll be empty then. I want to soak in the atmosphere and question people. I imagine there’ll be much the same crowd there as there was the night Rodney was killed.’
‘Well,’ – Miss Jones began loading up the tea tray – ‘you certainly aren’t going alone. I shall come with you. No, Constance, it’s no good arguing with me! My mind is quite made up. I may not be much good in a fight but at least I can scream for help. I’ve got quite a penetrating voice, you know – especially when I’m frightened.’
T
he Hon. Con was touched by this display of loyalty because nobody could call Miss Jones brave. She was quite pleased, too, although she had naturally no intention of admitting it. The Kama Sutra couldn’t possibly be as bad as all that – but it would be nice to have a chum at one’s side, just in case.
It was half-past ten when the Hon. Con parked the Mini in Blueboy Street right opposite the entrance to the Kama Sutra. She and Miss Jones were not speaking to each other. There had been a terrific now after supper over what clothes they were going to wear. Miss Jones had come downstairs dressed as for a West End night club in her bottle-green silk, pre-war Japanese cultured pearls and black velvet bridge jacket. The Hon. Con, waiting impatiently in the kitchen, was arrayed in brown slacks with a matching hacking jacket. They stared at each other in mutual consternation.
‘Oh, Constance,’ wailed Miss Jones, ‘you can’t go like that! Couldn’t you at least put a frock on, dear?’
‘No, I couldn’t!’ snapped the Hon. Con. ‘And I can’t think what you’ve dolled yourself up like a dog’s dinner for. Where do you think we’re going? The bloody Ritz? Haven’t you seen all those pop show things on the telly? It’s all trouser suits and miniskirts. Well, I don’t happen to have a mini-skirt, do I? You’ll stand out like a sore thumb in that antiquated get-up. Why don’t you get with it, Bones? Stick a jumper and skirt on, if you’ve nothing else!’
Miss Jones, highly offended by the aspersions cast on her dress sense, refused to change one single stitch and a considerable amount of time was wasted in the exchange of reproaches. The Hon. Con wouldn’t budge either and eventually led the way out to the car in a fuming silence.
She was still mad when they reached the Kama Sutra and dragged the hand brake on with a rasping sound that was deliberately calculated to set Miss Jones’s teeth on edge. ‘We’re there,’ she announced with a bad-tempered scowl.
Miss Jones ignored the tone in which this statement was made and looked around her with an air of polite interest. ‘Oh,’ she trilled gaily, ‘ music! I wonder if there’ll be dancing?’
The Hon. Con ground her teeth. ‘ Going to sit there all night?’ she demanded.
Miss Jones turned the other cheek with a sweet smile. ‘Of course not, dear. I’m quite ready when you are.’ She opened the car door and got out.
‘Damned lucky for you,’ muttered the Hon. Con under her breath as she leaned across to snap down the lock, ‘that I’m not the sort that’d ever dream of hitting a woman!’
Outside on the pavement Miss Jones was staring, with some interest, at a long haired couple locked in a doorway in a passionate embrace. ‘I suppose one of them is a boy?’ she murmured doubtfully as the Hon. Con came stumping across to join her.
The Hon. Con tossed them an expert – if cursory – glance. ‘That one!’ she said, pointing to the smaller figure in the shiny pink pants.
‘But, how can you tell, dear?’
‘Bigger feet,’ said the Hon. Con shortly and led the way towards a dimly lit door with the words ‘Kama Sutra Club. Members Only’ painted on the fanlight.
Miss Jones, pausing only to clutch at her heart as a motorcycle roared past with four leather-jacketed youths clinging to it, trotted obediently after her friend.
The Hon. Con was already arguing with the door-keeper.
‘It’s no good you bawling your head off at me,’ he was saying as Miss Jones came within earshot. ‘The law’s the law. Members only it says and members only it means.’
It was a matter of principle with the Hon. Con never to take no for an answer from any member of the male sex. ‘Listen, you miserable little runt!’ she bellowed, towering over him and clenching her fists in an ominous manner. ‘ Don’t you give me that crap! I haven’t come all this way to be thwarted by a jumped up, tuppence ha’penny, little pip-squeak like you! Stand aside!’
The door-keeper, uninspiringly arrayed in dirty grey flannel trousers, an old RAF tunic and a pith helmet, tried to be helpful. From his reading of the situation it was either that or getting a punch up the nose. ‘No, honest, love,’ he said, ‘this isn’t your sort of place. You’ve come to the wrong town, you have. Hartling, that’s where you want – honest. The Jolly Sappho – that’s the name of the place. Just at the back of the Fishmarket, it is. Ask anybody in the centre of the town, they’ll tell you.’
‘I don’t want Hartling,’ said the Hon. Con slowly and deliberately,’ and I don’t want any Sappho – jolly or otherwise. I want the Kama Sutra and, come what may, I am going to have it.’
‘Here’ – the door-keeper backed smartly away – ‘there’s no call for getting violent. I’m an old-age pensioner, I am, and I’ve got a dicky heart, too.’
‘Fine!’ grinned the Hon. Con, continuing to advance. ‘Well, that settles it, doesn’t it?’
‘No, it doesn’t!’ The door-keeper, having reached the wall, was forced to stand his ground. ‘ I’ve got my orders. It’s more than my job’s worth to let you in, seeing as how you’re not members.’
Miss Jones caught the Hon. Con’s arm in mid-air and decided to see what somewhat more feminine wiles could achieve. ‘Oh, but couldn’t you just stretch a little point for us?’ she simpered. ‘You’ve no idea how important it is.’ A hushed reverence came into her voice. ‘This is the Honourable Constance Morrison-Burke, you know. Perhaps you didn’t recognize her in this poor light.’
‘Burke?’ The little door-keeper gave a grimace of exasperation. ‘Well, why didn’t she say so in the first place? Hang on a minute!’ He squeezed past the Hon. Con and opened the door leading down to the club. ‘ Sam!’ he shouted in an amazingly stentorian voice. ‘That Burke woman’s turned up!’ An answering and unintelligible roar came back from inside and the door-keeper turned to the Hon. Con. ‘He’s coming up.’
The Hon. Con stopped glaring at Miss Jones for her unwanted and unwarranted interference in a situation that was already well under control. ‘Who is?’
‘Mr Gorostiago. He owns this dump, and the snack bar upstairs. He’s been expecting you.’
Chapter Five
In spite of the fact that she was all but sitting in his lap, the Hon. Con could hardly hear a word of what Mr Gorostiago was saying. The walls of the tiny broom cupboard which, the proprietor of the Kama Sutra used as his office throbbed in harmony with the deafening music coming from the club next door. Miss Jones, who hadn’t managed to get either of the two available chairs, leaned back against a filing cabinet and waited patiently for one of her headaches to come on.
A howl of unrequited sex came ripping into the room.
‘What did you say?’ bellowed the Hon. Con, cupping one hand round her ear.
‘Fenner!’ Mr Gorostiago yelled back. ‘Sergeant Hand-on-youreffing-collar Fenner!’
‘And he phoned you up about me?’
‘Yerse! Woke me up, the selfish bleeder. Said you was sure to be coming round poking your nose in tonight and that I wasn’t to let you in.’
‘Oh?’ said the Hon. Con. ‘What did he say that for?’
‘Eh?’
The Hon. Con filled her lungs. ‘What did he say that for?’
‘Said he didn’t want you carved up by my effing kids.’
‘That was nice of him.’
‘Eh?’
‘I said that was nice of him!’ screamed the Hon. Con.
‘Don’t you kid yourself, missus! He’s just trying to save himself some work, the lazy bleeder!’
The music suddenly rose to a high pitched whine, nose-dived, slurred and – mercifully – stopped.
‘Oh, gawd,’ said Mr Gorostiago, speaking quite quietly in the blessed silence ‘ they’ve gone and pulled the plug out on the blasted juke box again. I’ll have to go and see to it.’ He made as if to rise to his feet.
The Hon. Con forestalled him by placing the palm of her hand flat on his chest and shoving him back in his chair. ‘Hang on a sec,’ she said.
Mr Gorostiago struggled feebly. He was a plump, sickly looking man with large dark eyes
and a totally bald head. The Hon. Con could have eaten two of him for breakfast without even noticing. She leaned a little harder and Mr Gorostiago began to experience difficulty with his breathing.
‘Oh, all right,’ he gasped, ‘ cut it out! You’ve made your point. Still, I’m warning you – if I don’t get out there soon, they’ll be in here looking for me.’
‘Shan’t keep you more than a couple of minutes,’ the Hon. Con told him pleasantly as she dusted off her hands, ‘ provided you’re sensible, of course.’
Mr Gorostiago eyed her warily. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean when it’s at home?’
‘I expect Sergeant Fenner told you that I am re-opening the Rodney Burberry murder case,’ said the Hon. Con. ‘Naturally I wish to see where it happened and have a chat with some of the eye-witnesses.’
‘Oh, naturally.’
The Hon. Con glared. ‘Don’t start coming the old sarcastic with me!’ she warned him. ‘ I don’t take that from anybody – and I don’t take obstruction, either.’
Mr Gorostiago shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who’s obstructing you, lady? I only told you what Fenner said to me. I didn’t say I was going to take any effing notice of him, did I? I don’t owe Sergeant Bleeding Fenner no favours, believe you me.’
The Hon. Con had no way of knowing that this bold statement concealed a major volte-face on Mr Gorostiago’s part. Originally be had been quite willing to comply with Sergeant Fenner’s sternly worded request. He didn’t want the Hon. Con poking round the Kama Sutra any more than the police did but, in his own way, Mr Gorostiago was a bit of a fatalist. If people came asking for it with both hands they could, as far as he was concerned, bleeding well have it. Besides – he squared bis already fairly angular conscience – this effing old battle-axe was more than capable of looking after herself.
‘The Hon. Con was beaming at him. ‘ Jolly dee!’ She turned to a rapidly wilting Miss Jones. ‘ Hear that, Bones, old chap? Mr What’s-his-name is going to let us in.’
