‘I can’t,’ came a wistful echo from within. ‘You’ll have to help me. I can never get out of this one.’
Davies looked at Mod. They moved in together and, to Curl’s hollow-voiced instructions, they manoeuvred him below the pulley, turned the massive egg to the right and then half-left. Three tugs on the pulley and, like a swiftly rising moon, the head ascended leaving a perspiring, smirking Edwin Curl below. ‘I always get jammed in that one,’ he explained bashfully. ‘I was in here for hours one night, trying to get out.’ He looked at them, almost a plea. ‘It’s good fun though, isn’t it?’
‘Terrific,’ said Davies flatly. ‘Have you tried all these others, then?’ He began to walk deeper into the cavern. Painted faces grimaced and laughed from shelves and rafters. There was a line of trousered dummies hanging from a rack.
‘Death Row, I call that,’ said the little security guard. ‘It’s creepy, isn’t it?’ He opened a locker and produced another bottle of whisky. ‘I keep this in here in case it gets me down,’ he explained. ‘We’ll have to drink from the bottle, though.’ He handed it to Davies. ‘You first,’ he offered.
Davies took the Scotch. ‘From another well-wisher?’ he asked as he raised it. Curl shook his head. ‘I’m not sure where that came from,’ he said. ‘In the security business you often get stuff and you can’t remember where it turned up from.’ After he had taken a swallow, Davies passed the bottle to Mod. He kept his eyes on Curl. ‘You’re a bit of an actor, Edwin,’ he said. ‘In secret.’
‘A thwarted one,’ said Curl, looking down at his uniform. ‘I’d rather have a packed audience than a packed lunch any day. But I never will, not now.’
Davies patted him on his slight shoulder. The friendship immediately revived the little man. ‘Want to try?’ he asked. ‘Would you like to have a go, Mr Lewis?’
They had replenishments from the bottle and then Mod agreed to try one of the heads, and chose a wizard. The head was not as large as some, but was pinnacled with a tall, pointed hat. Davies and Curl helped him into the aperture and lowered it to his shoulders. They stepped back and Mod assayed a few clumsy and drunken steps. ‘Magic,’ said Davies. ‘Bloody magic.’
‘Now you,’ encouraged Curl. The whisky and the game had heightened his voice and his miniature face was earnestly pink. ‘There’s a big old policeman around here. He’s ever so funny. I’ve put him on before now.’ They walked down a wide aisle, leaving Mod incanting and making wizard movements in the background.
‘There,’ said Curl, pointing up. ‘Police Constable Fuzz. Isn’t that a lovely helmet he’s got?’
Davies looked up. The giant policeman looked down. It was like a threat of things to come. Curl handed him the whisky as if in encouragement. ‘All right,’ said Davies hazily. ‘I might as well get used to it.’
Curl lowered the head and demonstrated how Davies should manoeuvre himself into it. Still doubtfully, but egged on by Curl and the whisky, he pushed his head up into the massive head of PC Fuzz. He almost panicked. It was close, smelly and dark in there. But his eyes found the observation holes and he peered out into Curl’s gleeful face. ‘This way, this way, Mr Davies,’ enthused Curl. ‘Let’s go and see the Wizard.’
Relentlessly the liquor swilled within Davies’s stomach. He staggered a few steps, feeling the head wobbling over him. ‘We’re off to see the Wizard,’ he began to sing unreasonably. ‘The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.’
He could hear Curl chortling with delight. ‘Come on, come on!’ He rolled down the aisle towards the open area inside the entrance to the building. Mod was meandering under his disguise and Davies danced in to join him. It was as though the pantomime had given them a new and novel inebriation. They circled each other jovially and were joined by Curl wearing the gross features of Mrs Spratt, Jack’s wife who would eat no lean.
The swollen trio circled each other, letting out toots of laughter, stifled by their encumbrances. Mod and Curl collided and it was Mod who staggered back, tripped and was flung backwards on the boards. Davies and Curl gathered to view the felled Wizard whose seemingly small arms and legs kicked desperately. ‘Trust you,’ Davies called at him. ‘Spoiling the game.’ He struggled out of his head and was annoyed to find himself streaming with sweat. It was running down his face, his neck and down the front of his shirt to his stomach. Curl divested himself of Mrs Spratt and they went to Mod’s aid. They succeeded in righting him and then eased the carnival head from his shoulders.
‘God, I thought I was done for then,’ he trembled. His face was wet. ‘It’s just like drowning.’
It was four in the morning before they returned to ‘Bali Hi’, Furtman Gardens. They had accepted more of Curl’s Scotch to assist the recovery from their exertions in the theatrical warehouse and were now convivially and unsteadily carrying a square suitcase between them.
‘Not a sound,’ warned Davies. ‘Not a snort. All right?’
‘Not a sound,’ agreed Mod. He looked about them. ‘Good job they keep the street lights on.’
‘If anything goes wrong,’ said Davies, ‘just scarper.’
‘Scarper,’ confirmed Mod.
They paused outside the hushed silhouette of the house. Davies put his hand over his mouth. His eyes were shining like a boy’s. They carried the case below the window of Mrs Fulljames’s bedroom. Mod fumbled with the fastenings. Davies took over. The top of the container opened like two trapdoors and there slowly emerged a mechanical top-hatted clown. The head was on an articulated extension. Davies pulled a lever and it rose, two feet from its box, until he pressed the control again and it stopped. Another touch and it rose a further three feet so that its head was on a level with theirs, its fixed grin in their faces. The two drunks looked at each other and smirked. ‘Now,’ said Davies. He pulled the lever further and the clown’s garish head began to rise on its long mechanical neck. Entranced, they watched it ascend until the painted, grinning, top-hatted head was directly outside the landlady’s window. Their cheeks were puffed, their ribs shook.
Davies made a tapping motion with his hand and Mod pushed the supporting apparatus forward so that the brim of the clown’s hat knocked on the curtained glass. Three times they did it, and then withdrew the head until it was a foot clear of the window. The clown was looking directly at the curtains. Nothing happened. ‘Again,’ whispered Davies.
At that moment they saw the bedroom light go on above them, and then the curtains were fiercely pulled aside. There was a second’s pause and then the most terrible echoing screech, followed by a second. ‘Christ!’ exploded Davies, staring up. ‘Run!’
Taking the wildly waggling head with them, they scampered around the corner of the house. Mrs Fulljames’s screams still rent the night. Lights were going on in the house and in others in the street. Around the corner, Davies pressed the lever which lowered the toy head back into its case. ‘Hurry up, hurry up,’ he pleaded. Mod was already running, down the short garden and through the back gate into the narrow alley. Kitty began to howl hollowly in the garage. Windows were banging up and heads appearing. ‘Wait for me!’ gasped Davies. ‘This thing is heavy.’
He caught up with Mod and, both carrying the case, they lumbered along the alley and out into the main street. Everywhere was deserted. Panting and howling with mirth, they reached the shops and Harry’s All Night Refreshments.
‘Back again, Dangerous,’ said Harry, rising from behind a newspaper.
‘Take this, will you, mate,’ puffed Davies, offering the case across the counter. ‘It’s not nicked or anything.’ He had to wipe his eyes. Mod was doubled up over a stool. A police car siren was sounding easily in the streets.
‘You’re sure?’ said Harry.
‘Would I pass hot property on to you, Harry?’ asked Davies. ‘Two coffees, please.’ Still doubting, the stall-holder took the case. ‘As it’s you, Dangerous,’ he said. He regarded Mod. ‘What’s so funny?’
Davies leaned forward and opened the flaps. ‘Look,’ he invited. ‘It’s only
Topper the Clown.’ Mod again became convulsed.
Harry peered down at the clown’s hatted head. ‘How long do I have to keep him?’ he asked solidly.
‘Only till tomorrow,’ said Davies, breaking up again. ‘We’ll collect him then.’
Harry put the case at the rear of the premises where he cooked the food. ‘Anything else, gents?’ he called.
‘Two bacon sandwiches,’ Mod called. He was still wiping his eyes. He looked at Davies apologetically. ‘You don’t mind buying me breakfast, do you?’ They both began to laugh again. Harry looked over his shoulder and shrugged. Gradually they subsided. They drank their coffee. Mod picked up Harry’s newspaper and began to scan it idly. He put it down and then leaned over and re-read something closely. Glancing towards the back of Harry, busy at his frying pan, he carefully tore a small square from the newspaper. Davies was listening for noises from Furtman Gardens and did not see what he did.
‘And may I inquire where you persons were last night?’ Mrs Fulljames said between taut lips; pronouncing ‘persons’ so tightly that it emerged as ‘poisons’.
Having just entered the room, Davies and Mod looked innocently at each other and then at the occupants of the evening table. ‘Us persons?’ inquired Davies eventually. Cautiously they took their seats.
‘Indeed, you persons,’ repeated Mrs Fulljames.
‘You weren’t in your beds,’ put in Doris spitefully.
‘Mrs Davies,’ said Davies, leaning towards his estranged wife. ‘I hope you did not enter my room, or Mr Lewis’s.’
‘It wasn’t necessary,’ retorted Mrs Fulljames. ‘You didn’t appear when all the noise was going on. It was I who went to your rooms.’
‘What noise was this?’ asked Davies. He looked only briefly towards Mod.
Mrs Fulljames dabbed her eyes and paddled the ladle around. Steam joined her tears. ‘It’s disgraceful,’ she trembled.
‘Disgusting,’ put in Doris fiercely. She nodded her head like a hammer. ‘Look, you’ve made Mrs Fulljames cry.’
‘No he hasn’t,’ rejoined the landlady. She wiped the vapour from her face. ‘Take more than him. Terrorising women.’
Davies appeared stunned. Mod held out his hands. ‘Terrorising which women?’ asked Davies.
‘Us,’ replied Doris briskly.
‘Me, actually,’ said Mrs Fulljames with a short, hard look at Doris. ‘I was the one in terror.’
‘Screaming,’ said Minnie with a sort of satisfaction. ‘In the passage.’
‘Why?’ asked Mod. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘Nor me,’ protested Davies. ‘What’s it all in aid of?’
‘You understand right enough,’ said Mrs Fulljames. But now a little doubt sounded in her voice. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t put that terrible thing up at my window.’ Emotion engulfed her again and she half missed the next plate with a ladle-load of lamb stew. ‘Oh,’ she seethed, scraping it up. ‘Oh!’
Davies rose chivalrously and procured a cloth from the kitchen. ‘Here,’ he said with solicitude. ‘Let me do it.’ He passed the cloth to Mod who made one or two ineffectual dabbing movements over the spilled stew before it was forcibly reclaimed by Mrs Fulljames.
Uncertainty, Davies could see, however, had set in. ‘Do you swear to me, on your honour as a police officer, and as a man, that you had nothing whatever to do with what occurred in the night?’
‘I do,’ answered Davies blatantly. ‘I still haven’t been told what indeed did occur.’
Doris said tartly: ‘Somebody put a head, a head and a hat, up to Mrs Fulljames’s window. At four o’clock this morning.’
‘A head?’ inquired Mod. He looked askance at Davies. ‘A hat?’
‘Whose head?’ put in Davies. ‘What hat?’
‘Don’t, don’t,’ pleaded Mrs Fulljames. ‘Please start your meal. I don’t want to remember it.’ Sharply, she turned to Davies. ‘Never in my life have I been so upset,’ she said. Her voice began to vibrate again. ‘Not even when that horse somehow got into the house.’
‘Ah, that horse,’ said Davies, nodding at Mod.
‘That was a business,’ said Mod.
Mrs Fulljames, spoon poised, gave each of them an edged look. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘And so was this a business. A painted face … like a mad clown … tapping at my window.’
Davies appeared aghast. ‘Really,’ he remarked inadequately. ‘… A mad clown eh?’ His concerned eyes travelled to Mod. Mr Smeeton, the Complete Home Entertainer, had said nothing and was minutely trying to extricate a morsel of lamb from a bone.
‘Clowns,’ said Mod. ‘Sounds more like Mr Smeeton’s line of country.’
The entertainer raised profoundly injured eyes. ‘I was in my bed, Mr Lewis,’ he replied. He resumed his quest. ‘Asleep.’
‘So were most of us,’ said Doris with her sniff. ‘But you two weren’t.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Davies. ‘We were absent.’
‘Where?’ asked Mrs Fulljames.
Davies finished a piece of gravied swede and slid a carrot down his throat like a magician swallowing a goldfish. ‘Mrs Fulljames,’ he eventually told her, ‘I am sure you will appreciate that as an officer of the law I am unable to inform you about many things. Where I was, and indeed where Mr Lewis was last night should be one of them …’
‘He’s not an officer of the law,’ pointed out Mr Smeeton spitefully. ‘Not Lewis.’
‘Last night,’ reiterated Davies, ‘should be one of them. However, since my whereabouts, our whereabouts, seem to be so crucial to this matter, I think I would be permitted to tell you that I was at an all-night drug party. Mr Lewis was with me.’
‘Drugs?’ whispered Doris. Her eyes bolted about the table.
‘I was the undercover man,’ said Mod, attempting to appear mysterious.
Davies added hurriedly: ‘It was necessary for a witness to be present who was not a policeman.’
There was silence, apart from spoons and forks striking plates. ‘Are you sure?’ said Mrs Fulljames. ‘I could ring the station.’
‘That would not be advisable,’ said Davies quickly again. ‘If you so much as intimated that you knew something about this matter, the drugs squad would be turning this place over before we’d finished our pudding.’ Mrs Fulljames gasped. Davies pushed aside his plate, the bone of the single piece of lamb crouched on it like a skeleton in a desert. Reflectively, he knocked it about with his fork. ‘A mad clown,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever come across a mad clown.’
Edwin Curl was sitting in his gatehouse, his head just visible over the sill, when Davies unloaded the box containing the clown’s head from the Vanguard.
‘Ah, you’ve brought him back,’ he enthused, getting up and going to help. ‘I’m glad he’s come home. I can’t imagine why you wanted to take him.’
‘Nor me,’ admitted Davies. ‘It was the Scotch. I’m afraid.’
‘Oh yes, the Scotch. We drank quite a drop, didn’t we? Up there.’
‘It’s certainly an interesting place,’ said Davies. He sat on the edge of Curl’s table. ‘Never seen anywhere quite like it.’ He had fixed Curl with his eye. Curl tried to look away but was not strong enough.
‘Go up there more or less every night, do you, Edwin?’
The little security man looked abashed. ‘Now, Mr Davies,’ he said like a plea for fair play. ‘I don’t know how much I talked last night. It all got a bit out of hand. The drink and that …’
‘Do you go up there every night?’ repeated Davies. ‘To that store?’
‘No, not every … Not now.’
‘Not since they took Snow White away?’
Curl looked sulky. ‘Now you’re taking the piss,’ he said in a hurt voice. ‘That’s easy. I might have said something I shouldn’t have said but …’
Leaning towards him, Davies gently took the collar of the uniform shirt between finger and thumb. ‘Edwin,’ he said remorselessly. ‘You were up there, weren’t you, with Sn
ow White on the night last October when that man died in the canal? Lofty Brock.’
Misery crowded into the security guard’s miniature face. The little head nodded. ‘All right,’ he answered throatily. ‘I was up there with her. Nearly all night.’
Thoughtfully, he drove back to The Babe In Arms. Rain was coming down steadily but it lacked the discomforting edge of winter rain for the season was moving on. Mod was established at their table. Jemma came in from her choral practice.
When he had sat down with a drink before him, Davies said slowly: ‘Edwin Curl, the man who was supposed to be guarding the gate of the industrial estate, had absented himself on the night of October 6th last year.’
‘What was he doing?’ asked Jemma.
‘Embracing Snow White,’ said Davies simply.
Her expressive eyebrows arched, but before she could ask questions, Mod took a ragged portion of newspaper from his overcoat pocket. ‘I’d overlooked this,’ he said, leaning across the table. ‘I seem to remember taking it from a paper at Harry’s last night.’ He looked up. Their faces were only half-expectant. ‘I’ll read it,’ he said.
‘Please,’ invited Davies. ‘I’m on edge.’
Mod put his unwieldy glasses on his face. ‘It’s only a paragraph,’ he said. ‘It says: “Dorset Police have identified a body washed ashore at Chesil Bank, near Weymouth, on October 7th last year, as Sigmund Dietrich, an executive of the Becker Pharmaceutical Corporation, of Zurich, the resumed inquest at Dorchester was told yesterday. An open verdict was recorded.”’
‘October 7th. The same day as Lofty was found,’ breathed Davies. He reached for the scrap of newsprint. ‘And a pharmaceutical executive.’
‘It needn’t mean a thing,’ said Mod, but obviously pleased. ‘But it may.’ He wagged a fat and none-too-clean finger. ‘You know we’ve always thought of Frau Harrer, who also works for a pharmaceutical company, as German. But she could easily be Swiss. After all we call her the Jungfrau but where is the Jungfrau?’
The Complete Dangerous Davies Page 42
