‘The hatstand?’
‘The coat,’ Mod corrected, pointing to it. ‘You couldn’t buy a coat now that would last you twenty years. And it wasn’t new when I obtained it.’
‘The owner so recently dead,’ remembered Davies. They headed for the door. The London rain was like a gauze over the main exit.
‘And consequently with no further use for it,’ provided Mod. He looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder if they have overcoats in the Hereafter.’
‘They wouldn’t need them in Hell,’ ruminated Davies. ‘I suppose it’s my turn to buy the beer again.’
‘I’m afraid so, Dangerous. But tomorrow is glorious giro day. Tomorrow I push the boat out.’
They paused at the library door, like men unwilling to break their cover, but then, collars up, heads down, headed out into the damp and gritty evening street. Yellow-windowed buses sizzled by, cars with peering drivers, headed for firesides, wives and televisions; damp grit smeared the pavements and they could feel it in their soles. People hurried stoically by, West Indians, Africans, Indians, who had adopted Willesden’s rain as they had adopted the place itself. Paler faces floated past, huddled under hats and anoraks. Three Irishmen approached arguing violently, hesitated and genially greeted Davies, before continuing both their journey and their dispute. The lit sign of the Babe In Arms appeared through the gloom. Davies quickened his step and Mod grunted like an old dog scenting home.
They stumbled gratefully down the two steps that were inconveniently placed directly inside the public bar door. People regularly fell both in and out. The Irish barman, called Pat Mulcahy, looked up with no surprise. The place was otherwise empty.
‘First in,’ said Davies rubbing the rain off his hands.
‘Ah, are you not a policeman, Dangerous?’ said the bartender shaking his head admiringly. ‘You see things the rest of us would not notice.’
‘I’ll like to notice your grasp on the beer handle,’ suggested Davies. He left Mod puffing in a chair, still bundled in his sogged overcoat. ‘Mod’s had a hard day,’ he nodded. ‘Two of the usual.’
‘Never mind now,’ said the Irishman soothingly. He leaned and called to Mod. ‘Is it not giro day tomorrow? It is for me.’
He pulled the pints while Davies pondered the ramifications of the remark. ‘You just do this for a hobby, do you, Pat?’ he asked.
The Irishman remained untroubled. ‘I’m only learning. A late entrant to the Youth Opportunities Scheme, sir.’
‘Are you old enough for me to buy you a drink?’ asked Davies.
‘I am, sir, just.’ Davies bought him one and carried the two pints of bitter back to the table. Mod was making the effort to get out of his coat. His arm was stuck and he began to flail about. Davies had to assist him. They sat down and sniffed at the beers before, after deliberation, lifting them to their lips in unison.
‘I think,’ said Mod quietly, ‘that the persistent rain has penetrated the roof of this pub and is dripping into the beer. You ought to investigate.’
‘Serious crime is not for me,’ Davies replied truthfully. ‘I’d have to get the big boys in.’
‘What has been occupying you today?’ inquired Mod. His interest was only mild, his eyes studied the dartboard as if it were the Rosetta Stone.
‘Theft of newspapers from Pemberthy’s, newsagent and confectioner, Ricketts Lane, NW10,’ muttered Davies. ‘It appears that over the course of the past few weeks, certainly since Christmas, up to a dozen newspapers a day have been disappearing from outside Percy Pemberthy’s shop. They’re delivered in the early hours and left outside his door. Somebody helps themselves.’
‘The work of an organised gang, you think?’
‘Could be,’ said Davies. ‘But I’ll get them, don’t worry.’
‘Dangerous Davies strikes again,’ nodded Mod. ‘There’s quite a lot of crime in the library, you know.’
‘There is?’ Davies looked interested. ‘Somebody pinch that sullen girl’s bum?’
‘Nothing like that. She might even welcome a little attention. No, books stolen, books vandalised. Do you realise that in this area is someone who defaces books by cutting out the sexual contents with scissors? Now, I don’t hold with obscenity or pornography, as you well know, Dangerous, but this is censorship. Censorship allied to vandalism. The Nazis all over again.’
‘Might be worth looking into,’ Davies sniffed. ‘Once I’ve nicked the newspaper thieves.’
Mod was regarding his almost empty glass mournfully as though wondering where the beer had gone. Davies detected the look. ‘One more and then we’ll have to go,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the European Friendship Dinner and Dance tonight.’
‘In Brussels?’ inquired Mod dully. A smile ruffled his face as he handed over his stained glass. ‘Look at the design the froth’s made,’ he pointed out appreciatively. ‘As though an engraver had etched clouds on the sides. Just beautiful.’
‘Cricklewood,’ said Davies going towards the bar.
‘What about Cricklewood?’
‘That’s where the European Friendship Dinner and Dance is. Not Brussels. It’s friendship and co-operation between European nations. Krauts, Frogs, Wops, the lot.’
‘One of Jemma’s endeavours,’ guessed Mod. ‘That lady has certainly done her bit to pull the world together. But, I ask myself, is it enough?’
‘This will have to be,’ said Davies setting down the pints. ‘We’ll have to go. I must look nice for the dance.’
Davies’ two most prized possessions, his dog and his car, were accommodated in a garage in a yard at the rear of the boarding house where he and Mod lived, Bali Hi, near the Jubilee Clock in Willesden. At the time the clock was put there, to celebrate Queen Victoria’s sixty years in 1897, the yard had been occupied by stables and the dray horses of a local brewery. There still remained a touch, a smell even, of the hops and horse dung.
There were even the bones of a gas lamp in one corner, long unused, although once a man had tried to hang himself from there, saved by Davies going to feed his dog at the accustomed six o’clock. The man had not been suspended long and recovered completely when taken down and helped into the public bar of the Babe In Arms. He said later he had much to thank Dangerous Davies for, a sentiment echoed by a few in that gritty outer region of London. Everyone knew the detective by his nickname – the police, the criminal fraternity, those with a foot in both camps, and the stoical people who lived their lives among the old, ordinary streets and the new bleak estates and blocks of flats. His sub-title had, long before, become the Last Detective because, as everyone acknowledged, including Davies himself, he was only dispatched on an assignment if there was no one else to send or if there was such an element of danger that other officers were unwilling.
In the drizzling dusk Davies took the substantial evening meal to his dog Kitty, an animal of great size and unsteady temper. He had been described as a yak in a bad mood by a frightened sergeant who had experience with killer dogs. He always welcomed his food, however, his eyes lighting behind his shaggy fringe and his tongue hanging out like a great pink pennant. He gave a growl as his comfortable, warm and well-lit quarters alongside the ancient car were invaded by his owner and the shuffling Mod, but it was only a token.
The car, a Vauxhall Vanguard (once Davies had owned an ancient Lagonda), was rarely taken out into daylight now, although Kitty was walked regularly both by Davies and by a black boy called Valentine to whom the dog had taken a protective fancy. The lad was hardly taller than the animal but Kitty was placid and amenable in his company.
Davies gave the car a pat first and then diffidently put down the food dish (delicacies from the left-overs at the police station canteen, so famous for its cuisine that wrongdoers had been known to surrender there purposely to get a good meal, a favourite place for reporting from parole and surrendering to bail). He then added a pat for the dog.
‘I have never understood,’ muttered Mod who had watched the performance many times, ‘why you pat
the car first.’
‘For good luck,’ said Davies. He looked at the huge dog wolfing his dinner. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘You’d better tell him about tonight while he’s in a good mood,’ suggested Mod.
‘Not while he’s eating.’
They stood at a decent distance while the animal cleaned the large bowl with his great tongue. ‘Kitty,’ said Davies carefully, ‘I’ve got to go out tonight, so Mod will be taking you for your walk.’
The dog stared at them as though framing a reply. ‘We’re going to the pub, Kitty,’ put in Mod. ‘You like the pub.’
‘What a treat,’ encouraged Davies still staring at the dog which stared back. Kitty lay down and growled gently. ‘He seems to be all right,’ muttered Davies. ‘Don’t let him wreck the bar again.’
‘They haven’t got that cat now,’ said Mod. ‘It ran away after that.’
Each waved to the dog, who ignored them, and left the garage. ‘I’m surprised Mulcahy lets him in there, though,’ said Davies as they walked towards Bali Hi. ‘There was a fair amount of damage.’
Mod was reassuring. ‘Since they’ve been doing that bar food, it’s much better,’ he said as they trudged. ‘Kitty gets plenty of titbits. And it’s handy for the customers because they can wipe their fingers on him.’
‘Put your beer on my tab tonight,’ said Davies. ‘That’s beer, singular.’ They paused before the stained-glass front door of the boarding house, each waiting for the other to produce a key. Eventually Davies found his lock-pick and opened the door into the dim hall. ‘Don’t go buying for all and sundry,’ he added.
‘I got carried away last time,’ confessed Mod. ‘Fulham winning like that.’
Mrs Fulljames, the landlady, always required that they washed their hands on entering the house.
‘I’ll have to nip up and get myself shining for the dance,’ said Davies.
‘I shall retire to my room,’ said Mod. ‘I can’t stand the pre-dinner cocktail chatter in this house.’
Some of the guests at the Bali Hi boarding house had been in residence for years. There was Davies himself, Mod, and Minnie Banks, a famished-looking lady schoolteacher, who sometimes could be heard weeping alone in her room. There was also Doris, Davies’ estranged wife. Although parted in every other sense they each defiantly refused to leave Mrs Fulljames’ establishment, albeit occupying separate rooms. Their meetings were confined to the dinner-table.
This evening, Davies caused a stir by appearing in his elderly dinner-suit. There was a scraping of chairs as those at the table turned to look. Mrs Fulljames emerged from the steam of the kitchen to see what had happened. ‘Well,’ she said.
Davies straightened his saggy bow tie and shot his grubby cuffs as he sat at the table. He wished all the diners a polite good evening, especially some new residents, a Mr and Mrs Phelan from Ireland who were staying until Mr Phelan’s mother either did one thing or the other in Central Middlesex Hospital.
Mrs Fulljames served the soup and while he waited for its surface to clear Davies turned a tight smile towards his estranged wife. Doris, likewise waiting for her soup to settle, sniffed: ‘Doing a magic show tonight are we?’
‘No. No. Completely wrong,’ said Davies shaking his head as though the misconception was understandable. ‘No, tonight I’m conducting the Berlin Philharmonic. Wagner and Beethoven.’ He paused. ‘Gladstone Park bandstand.’
‘Such wit don’t you think, Mr Phelan,’ suggested Mrs Phelan looking directly at her husband.
‘Such wit,’ he agreed. ‘Wit has come to be very dull in Ireland.’
‘It has too,’ she confirmed. She turned her attention to Mod as though he might know. ‘The days of Oliver St John Gogarty are gone,’ she said.
‘Oh, they are,’ agreed Mod glancing quickly around the table. ‘Long gone.’
‘You’ve got a lump of something on your lapel,’ observed Doris nodding at Davies. ‘Dried something.’
Davies lowered his eyes to the stain. He picked it off with his fingernail and sampled it. Disgust crossed Doris’ face. ‘Leek soup,’ her husband concluded. He glanced towards Mod as if for support. ‘St David’s Day Dinner at the Gwalia Club?’ he suggested.
‘Leek soup it was,’ agreed Mod admiringly. He shook his head towards Mr and Mrs Phelan. ‘No wonder he’s a detective.’
‘St David’s Day is in March,’ said Doris.
‘The first,’ nodded Mod.
‘Last year,’ said Minnie Banks, always glad to join in the repartee, ‘one of our infant class tried to eat a bowl of daffodils.’
They waited but she added nothing. ‘It’s been on there nearly a year,’ said Doris with a shudder. ‘That leek soup.’
‘Ten months,’ nodded Davies. Mrs Fulljames came from the kitchen and collected the dishes, examining each as if attempting to trace even a smear of anything left. ‘What wonders have you performed tonight, Mrs Fulljames?’ inquired Davies.
The table of faces looked up questioningly. Mod’s cheeks beamed in the single light of the room. Mrs Fulljames, who habitually suspected a trap, examined each expression and then returned to Davies’. ‘Lamb stew,’ she announced. ‘It’s perfection.’
‘And it will be,’ said Mod informatively to Mr and Mrs Phelan.
Mrs Fulljames brought in two dishes of vegetables and a large earthen tureen of rumbling stew. From her place at the head of the table, which she now assumed, not having taken the soup, she doled it out onto the plates. The vegetables followed. They began to eat silently. Diffidently Minnie Banks fished a piece of paper from hers. It hung on her fork. Mod examined it. ‘It’s the sell-by date,’ he guessed.
Mrs Fulljames looked abruptly anguished and made a move across the table. ‘No, tell a lie,’ amended Mod. ‘It’s the price.’ He took Minnie’s fork and handed it across to Davies. ‘Don’t you think so, Dangerous?’
‘It can’t be the sell-by date,’ said Davies dubiously. Mrs Fulljames coloured as he spread the scrap of paper across the rim of his plate. ‘Bargain meat …’ he read carefully. He looked up. ‘Well there you are.’
‘It’s perfectly all right,’ snapped Mrs Fulljames. ‘If you don’t like the food here, you know what to do. What you get is what you pay for.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Davies.
‘Absolutely,’ said Mod.
‘So true,’ murmured Minnie Banks. ‘Very, very true indeed.’
‘Of course,’ said the Phelans in unison.
Obediently they all began to eat.
The following morning, after the European Friendship Dinner and Dance, Davies was lying sorely in his hospital bed, wondering what sort of fate brought him back there so frequently. Jemma had, of course, accompanied him in the ambulance, her luminous eyes loaded with pity and puzzlement. Mod arrived in the morning;, nodding in recognition to nurses who had been there during Davies’ previous confinements. He rubbed his chin, so stubbled that it sounded. ‘You spend more time in here than most of the staff,’ he observed to Davies.
‘This’, countered Davies, his jaw hurting, ‘is no bloody time for wisdom.’
‘You’ve got to stop doing it,’ said Mod with grim emphasis. ‘One day you’re going to get yourself killed. Somebody will end up in prison.’
He opened his scraggy overcoat, revealing a scarred and bulging waistcoat, held by three buttons, and sat at the side of the bed. His eyes went briefly sideways towards the bedside locker.
‘No grapes yet,’ muttered Davies. ‘I haven’t been in long enough.’
‘I was not seeking grapes,’ put in Mod mildly. ‘I was trying to ascertain the time by your watch.’
‘They won’t be open for another hour.’
‘You’ll be requiring something to read.’
Davies squinted towards him. ‘Thanks. When I can manage to focus on anything. Something classical.’
‘The Decline and Fall of Dangerous Davies,’ Mod said thoughtfully. ‘Jemma told me how it happened. Only you could be beaten up at a Fr
iendship Dinner. A European Friendship Dinner. What hope has the Prime Minister got, I ask myself?’
‘This Kraut called Jemma a Schwarzer.’
‘It never was a pretty language. So you struck him.’
‘He was striking me at the time,’ corrected Davies.
‘Very hard too, by the look of it,’ said Mod scrutinising the damaged face and the pneumatic lip. ‘You ought to take some leave, Dangerous. Go to the seaside.’
Davies grimaced. ‘It’s January.’
Mod turned his bulbous eyes towards the grey window. ‘Spot on, as usual,’ he observed. ‘Why not go somewhere distant, exotic? The East, the Caribees, Mozambique?’ Doubt again clouded his expression as he surveyed his friend’s injuries. ‘Providing, of course, the medical facilities were adequate. On the other hand, I believe that Bournemouth can be most recuperative. Robert Louis Stevenson went there.’
‘Did he get better?’
‘No. He went to the Pacific and died. You’ll be familiar with his famous “Requiem”.’
‘I’d have to take the dog,’ said Davies.
‘Ah,’ responded Mod. ‘You’d consider it, then. Bournemouth.’
‘Was Kitty all right last night?’ asked Davies anxiously. ‘He didn’t wreck the pub did he?’
Mod became evasive. ‘Not the pub,’ he answered carefully. ‘No, the pub was more or less intact. But there was some minor bother when that silly old woman, Mad Maggy they call her, you know the one with thin ginger hair …’
‘I know her,’ frowned Davies with a creeping unease. ‘And what was the …’
‘Minor bother,’ completed Mod. ‘Well she had a big hairy handbag and Kitty must have thought it was a cat. It looked like a cat …’
‘Yes, Mod,’ said Davies sadly. ‘Go on.’
The Complete Dangerous Davies Page 48
