‘It’s taken him six years to make up his mind,’ pointed out Mod. ‘I think he’s just ashamed of all the palaver yesterday. He very nearly brained the Greek.’
‘I’ll be getting complaints then,’ said Davies. He patted the dog while he had the chance, while the animal’s contrite mood prevailed.
Mod said he did not think so. ‘The girl, Venus, has got some sort of hold over the Greek. I hate to think what it might be. When the dog ran to her, the matter was over.’
‘Did the naughty Greek get in your way then?’ Davies said, bending close to the dog. Kitty had come to the end of his period of good temper and emitted a slow growl. Davies apologised and went to prepare his dinner.
‘Why do you think the Essex police told the Prenderley lady that you were coming?’ Mod called to him.
‘It was Joliffe, not the Essex police in general,’ said Davies. ‘And he only told her I might turn up. He didn’t tell her why. It was just a notion of his.’ He brought the large bowl to the door of the car and Kitty stepped down regally to meet his dinner.
‘Joliffe,’ continued Davies, ‘is a notion-copper.’
‘Like you,’ suggested Mod.
‘Only he’s got the clout to follow up his hunches,’ said Davies. Mod had filled the dog’s water bowl and they left the garage, solemnly wishing the animal good night. He did not glance up from his dish.
As they walked from the yard and into Furtman Gardens, Davies said: ‘In the back of Joliffe’s mind I think he believes there might just be something in all this. I only went over the basic facts and, whatever his notion is, it’s not directly concerned with the death of Billy Dobson, alias Lofty Brock. But a good copper has a sort of small section of his nose that smells out possibilities. The Prenderley family have been around for years in his division and I wouldn’t be surprised if their name hasn’t come up at times during the course of police business.’
‘Smoke and fire,’ said Mod.
‘Yes. I’ll bet you that once I’d gone, Inspector Joliffe called for all the records on the Prenderley family. He probably knows some of them pretty well if he’s spent all his police service on that patch. I’m sure he knew Mavis Prenderley previously. She sounded as if he was no stranger.’
‘So he thinks he might let you burrow around just in case you might turn up something. But he doesn’t know what.’
‘The outside busybody,’ agreed Davies. ‘After all, from what Mavis Prenderley said, the proceeds of half a dozen pre-War country house robberies might well be waiting to be found. That could have been the motive for Lofty Brock’s murder. I can’t get used to calling him Billy Dobson. He’ll always be Lofty to me.’ They had reached the door of ‘Bali Hi’. ‘Maybe one of the Prenderleys gave Lofty the final push.’
‘Maybe Mavis herself,’ suggested Mod.
‘Maybe her,’ shrugged Davies, giving the girl in the stained-glass door her evening kiss.
They went into the hall. Mod sniffed. ‘Curry,’ he said. ‘Oh, God, she’s trying to cook curry.’
Davies picked up a letter from the hall-stand. ‘It niffs a bit,’ he agreed.
‘A bit? This is the sort of thing that lost us India.’ Davies was reading the letter intently.
‘What is it?’ asked Mod. ‘From a fan?’
‘Sort of. It’s from Colonel Ingate in Yorkshire. He’s, after all, decided to come down for his ex-prisoners-of-war dinner. He wants to have a word. He says he might have come up with something.’
*
Not for many years could Davies remember being in a crowded room where he was the youngest person present. He was also keenly aware of the absence of medals on his hired dinner jacket. All along the tables they glinted like silver moons.
‘Did you serve?’ asked the thin and ancient officer on his left. Colonel Ingate had introduced him as Captain Barrett.
‘National Service,’ admitted Davies.
‘Ah, of course. I’m afraid one thinks of everyone having served in wartime. Too young, eh?’
‘Only by four years,’ Davies assured him. ‘I was called up in 1949.’
‘Pity. It wasn’t the same.’
‘No, I suppose not really. I never got out of Aldershot.’
Captain Barrett looked genuinely upset. ‘Good God. How dreadful,’ he said. ‘What bad luck.’
‘You had to go where they sent you,’ said Davies. Colonel Ingate was on his other side. He wished the conversation would change.
‘Damned bad luck,’ said the old man again. ‘Which regiment?’
‘Pay Corps,’ said Davies miserably. ‘Royal Army Pay Corps.’ He attempted to forestall the next inquiry with a joke. ‘I rose to lance-corporal.’
His neighbour looked as if he were making an effort to pull himself together. ‘Pay Corps,’ he repeated. ‘Not much chance of seeing action.’
‘Not in Aldershot. I fell off the desk once.’
The old man laughed. ‘Hard luck,’ he said, suddenly good-humoured. ‘Not everyone strikes lucky. Lance-corporal eh?’
‘Acting, unpaid,’ admitted Davies.
‘Well someone had to be. Pity to miss the War though. Quite an experience.’
‘I imagine. I was in the air raids on London. Our school was bombed.’
Captain Barrett nodded: ‘Probably saw more action than some of us,’ he said. ‘I spent the last two years behind wire. With Robin Ingate in fact. That’s why he put us together tonight. You have some interest in the events of those days, I believe. I was the medical officer of the prison camp.’
Davies shook hands with him, although they had already done so. ‘I understand now,’ he said. ‘He wrote that he had something that might concern me.’
The old officer said: ‘I probably knew more and remember more about individuals from those days than anyone else. You get to know a bit more as a medical officer, of course. When you’ve seen a chap with his trousers down, there’s not much he can hide. And they used to come to me with all their problems, trouble with the wife and that sort of thing, even though she was back home in England. You’d be amazed at the capacity of people to indulge in domestic quarrels by letter.’
‘Nothing would surprise me about husbands and wives,’ said Davies feelingly. ‘So you remember Lofty Brock in the prison camp.’
‘The big fellow. Oh yes. He’s one of the people you would certainly remember. When they went off to Silesia I had to stay behind. I can’t honestly say I was sorry. Brock died there, so I understand.’
‘And somebody else took his identity,’ said Davies.
‘Good God, did they? Well, I suppose that sort of thing happened. Who was it? Do you know?’
‘A man called Billy Dobson. A little chap.’
Captain Barrett stared thoughtfully at his soup. ‘That,’ he said, ‘does undoubtedly ring a bell. I have my records at home and I will need to check them. But, unless I’m mistaken, he was the little fellow who went around muttering to himself, picking up odd bits of paper and putting them in his pocket.’
‘That,’ breathed Davies, ‘sounds like him.’
‘He was Lofty’s pal. It was quite a joke because they used to walk around together, one tall, the other so small. He was brought to the camp with a bad case of what they used to call shell-shock, Dobson. He’d gone completely. He couldn’t remember his name half the time. I spent a lot of time with him but I didn’t get far. He couldn’t remember where he came from or anything. The Germans put him in hospital for a while, but with a war going on around you and getting closer every day, there wasn’t much opportunity for psychiatry. There was nothing much physically wrong with him. He was just sadly batty.’ He ate his soup in a studied way. ‘You say he assumed the name of Lofty Brock?’
‘Yes. After the War. He ended up in a hostel for homeless men. Walking about, as you say, muttering and picking up pieces of paper. And he was known as Lofty Brock.’
‘He’d probably forgotten his real name,’ said Barrett. ‘He was a very bad case. Sometimes they never re
gain any sort of recall, nothing whatever. What do you know about him?’
Davies took a deep breath. ‘He was drowned in a canal last October,’ he said. ‘Perhaps murdered. Before the War he was a successful burglar. He stowed away what could be a huge amount of stolen jewellery but never went back for it. Now, after what you’ve told me, I think I may know the reason. He couldn’t remember where he had hidden it.’
Thirteen
It was somebody’s birthday and Shiny Bright had got off with a suspended sentence; much had been consumed in The Babe In Arms that night.
‘Shiny,’ said Davies. ‘You told me the truth, didn’t you? About what went on that night on the tow-path?’
The small criminal’s eyes had clouded into a profound hurt. ‘Dangerous,’ he said. ‘Would I lie to you?’
‘He would,’ said Davies to Mod as they walked home below chimneys and moonlight. ‘But I don’t think he did.’
At the door of ‘Bali Hi’, Furtman Gardens, they each waited for the other to produce a key. Neither did. It had happened before. ‘God, that’s done it,’ said Davies. ‘If we get her up at this time …’
‘And with the beer and everything,’ continued Mod. He tried to smell his own breath by breathing on his hand.
‘She’ll go mad,’ said Davies. ‘She’ll have only just gone to bed. She’ll hardly have taken her teeth out.’ They backed away from the door. ‘We’ll go to Harry’s,’ decided Davies. ‘And think.’
They retraced their way along the street and turned two corners into the ghostly shopping area, lit and vacant except for Harry’s All Night Refreshments, a glow of habitation in an empty world. Only Venus, the Evening Star, was there.
‘Finished, love?’ asked Davies.
‘Didn’t start it tonight,’ sighed Venus. Her dyed red hair was hanging like a damp mop. Her eyes were smudged. ‘Don’t suppose you’d like to have a quickie, either of you, would you?’
‘You’re way beyond my price range,’ said Mod. He nodded at Davies. ‘And he’s going steady.’
‘So I’ve seen,’ said Venus. ‘She’s all right too, for one of them.’
‘Thanks for sorting out my dog,’ said Dangerous. He handed her a five-pound note. ‘He sent you a present.’
Venus simpered gratefully as she took the money. ‘Never had a present from a dog before,’ she said. ‘It’ll help me out. Give him a kiss for me, will you, Dangerous. On the lips.’
‘I will,’ he promised. ‘On the lips.’
She said a subdued ‘Ta’ and stretched down from the stool, her tight, cheap skirt riding up her thin thighs. ‘’Night, ’night,’ she wished them. ‘’Night, Harry.’
She clipped away on her stilted heels. ‘Poor little cow,’ said Harry.
‘She should get a proper job,’ said Mod piously.
Davies glanced at him sideways and said: ‘You should talk.’
They finished their coffee and wished Harry good night. Mod was about to move in the direction of ‘Bali Hi’, Furtman Gardens, when Davies caught his arm. ‘She’ll have hardly started snoring yet.’
‘What are we going to do then?’
‘Why don’t we go and have a chat with that little chap who’s supposed to be the security guard at the trading estate,’ suggested Davies. ‘He’ll probably be glad of the company.’
Mod sighed and turned with him. ‘If you ever solve this case,’ he said, ‘providing, that is, there is anything to solve, you won’t know what to do in all the spare time you’re going to get.’
They plodded towards the canal bridge, turned clumsily down the silent steps, and went alongside the buildings and the moping water. Even the moonlight, now clear and widespread, made only a vapid impression. The lamps glowed sullenly. Davies stood on the bank and looked down for a few minutes. ‘There’s always a chance that we’ve overlooked something,’ he said to himself. Mod waited until he had finished his rumination and then joined him as they continued along the tow-path and up the inclined alley. A right turn at the top brought them to the main gate of the trading estate. They could see the low head of Curl, the small security man, in his lit gatehouse. Davies banged his hand on the wire mesh of the gate several times without attracting the watchman’s attention. Mod settled it by heavily pressing a large white bell-button. The result was resounding.
Curl turned to view them suspiciously through his window, but then put on his elevating cap and came to the gate. ‘Mr Davies,’ he said in his pleased way. ‘It’s you.’ He unlocked the door set into the gate. ‘Bit late to be abroad, isn’t it?’
‘The police, Edwin, never sleep,’ recited Dangerous, taking the boy-sized hand and shaking it. ‘Neither should you.’
‘Just cat-napping,’ said Curl. ‘I have to while I can.’
‘This is Mr Lewis,’ said Davies. ‘He walks with me by night.’ With the same enthusiasm Curl shook Mod’s hand.
‘Like a little bevvy?’ he asked. He took an almost full bottle of Scotch from his shelf. ‘A present from a well-wisher.’
‘One of your several women?’ asked Davies. ‘He’s got three women,’ he explained to Mod.
‘Four now,’ corrected Curl, looking coy. ‘Well, one’s on the way out and a new one’s on the way in. She’s a fourteen-stone blonde.’
He poured generous measures of the whisky into three cups and they toasted each other and drank soundly. ‘Not from my women,’ said Curl. ‘From Blissen Pharmaceuticals. She brought it back from somewhere.’
‘A thank-you perhaps,’ suggested Davies.
‘Oh no. Just a present.’ He pointed a finger at Davies. ‘You’re trying to catch me out, you are, Mr Davies. You’re still making those inquiries of yours.’
Davies tried to look unconcerned. ‘Oh, that. Well it’s always at the back of my mind, Edwin. What time are you going on your rounds?’
Curl looked at the clock. ‘I ought to be now,’ he said. ‘But we’ll have another drink first.’
‘We’ll come with you,’ said Davies. ‘Keep you company.’
Curl looked half-shocked. ‘Oh, all right,’ he said eventually. ‘There’s nothing much to it. You’ve had a good look before. By yourself. But come if you like. After all, you are the police.’
He poured them further generous measures and since there was only a quarter left in the bottle, he poured that out too. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘If you can’t have a bit of pleasure, I always say, what can you have?’ They carried their cups with them. Mod began to walk like a polar bear on hind legs, one heavy foot planted after another, as he often did when he had taken a lot of drink. It had been a considerable night. Davies also felt his eyes were sticky and his steps uncertain. Only Curl seemed light-footed.
They walked with him down the road between the trade premises. He recited their names as he went. ‘Pax Papers … Hally’s Cast Iron Fittings … Bell’s Exhausts … Blissen Pharmaceuticals … you know them … Security Plus Safes … Shurrock Clocks … what a state he gets in, that Mr Shurrock …’ The recitation continued as they followed him through the dark ways of the estate, the beam of his torch bouncing before them. ‘All locked up, tight as a virgin’s legs,’ Curl said cheerfully. Mod grimaced towards Davies.
‘This is my favourite,’ announced Curl as they trudged up an incline towards a tall windowless shed. ‘Iverson Theatricals. It’s only a warehouse, a store really, so there’s hardly ever anyone here. But … come and have a look.’
‘I came here before,’ said Davies. ‘When I had a look around. But it was shut.’
‘Like I say, it nearly always is,’ said Curl. From his cluster of keys he selected two and turned the door locks. ‘They turn up now and again and take some of their stuff, or bring it in.’ He pushed the tall door and, as it swung inwards, turned on a powerful light. Davies and Mod stopped in astonishment. The copious building was hanging with coloured figures, dummies, some of them huge: Humpty-Dumpty, Pinocchio, a snarling giant, a massive duck; row upon row of rag figures, their legs and arms hanging boneles
sly.
‘Blimey,’ said Davies, ‘what a pantomime.’
‘Exactly right,’ enthused Curl. He threw out his small hands as though presenting the extravaganza to a great audience.
Mod said: ‘One of the Seven Dwarfs is missing.’
‘Sleepy,’ agreed Curl, moving towards the bright, bug-eyed group in a corner. They were hanging over a rail, their outsized heads propped up. The security man bent down into the dark part of the wall and pulled up the figure of Sleepy. ‘He seems to really doze off,’ he said, putting the head beside the others.
‘Where’s Snow White?’ asked Davies.
‘Ah, now you’re asking,’ answered Curl. ‘She used to be here and I used to come up and see her. Almost every night.’ He looked suddenly abashed. ‘I liked to give her a cuddle,’ he said.
‘I see.’
‘They took her away somewhere. I miss her.’
Mod coughed to clear his embarrassment and began to wander into the interior of the amazing shed. Some of the figures were gigantic, suspended like airships from the ceiling. ‘They supply people all over the world,’ said Curl, following him with some relief. Davies stood for a few moments studying the dwarfs and then followed them into the central aisle of the warehouse.
Curl was throwing his hands about. ‘Carnivals, Hallowe’ens, Mardi Grasses, all things like that. The big heads are very popular. They have huge special vans to collect them because they don’t collapse or come to pieces. Some of them do, but not many. Look …’ He strode out enthusiastically. ‘Look at Humpty-Dumpty … now you won’t tell, will you? Just watch.’
As they watched, he lowered the gigantic head by a pulley, manoeuvring it like an attendant with a balloon until he had it hovering above him. Another relaxation of the pulley and the great, grinning head dropped over his. Curl’s small body became even smaller under the monstrous shining cranium, his legs danced grotesquely. Davies and Mod laughed wildly at first as Humpty-Dumpty began to bounce around but then they stopped. The huge smiling egg had come to a standstill, and the small uniformed lungs underneath were panting. ‘All right,’ shouted Davies, not sure whether Curl could hear. ‘You can come out now.’
The Complete Dangerous Davies Page 41
