The Darkness of Death

by David Stuart Davies

  Paulo adjusted his bow tie, ensuring each wing balanced exactly with the other, and touched the carnation in the lapel tucked neatly in the buttonhole of his dinner jacket before brushing imaginary specks of dust from the sleeves. He must appear immaculate before entering the arena. Tonight he felt lucky and he wanted nothing to mar his chances. Besides he had his own standards and he was intent on maintaining them.

  Moments later he emerged from the lavatories and made his way to the main bar. It was quite early in the evening, not yet quite nine o’clock, but the Chameleon Club was already busy. There was a gentle hum of conversation as the wealthy customers, immune from the main deprivations of the war, chatted amiably in this cocoon of selfishness, clinking glasses, cigar and cigarette smoke and the gentle seductive rattle of the roulette wheel.

  Paulo managed to find himself a stool by the bar and ordered his favourite cocktail, a sidecar. While he waited for the drink to be mixed, he drew a cigarette from a silver case and lit it with smooth deliberation. After lighting it he allowed the smoke to drift before his eyes causing him to squint. To him this was a pleasant sensation and he felt good when it happened.

  When his cocktail arrived, he took a gentle sip allowing the alcohol to trickle slowly down his throat, savouring the taste and the gentle burning sensation it carried with it, and then turned around on the stool to survey the room. There were several women who caught his eye, flashy bright-eyed creatures with enticing cleavages and arresting curves, but they all seemed to be with someone. He hadn’t the patience this evening to try and seduce a girl away from her man—although he knew he could do it if he wanted. But it was so tedious dealing with hurt or outraged boyfriends or husbands afterwards. It took the edge off the conquest.

  ‘Can you light me?’

  The woman’s voice was just louder than a whisper and close to his ear. Paulo turned to find the owner standing very near to him, so near he could smell her perfume. She was a looker all right: tall, very slender, in possession of a boy’s body, with long blonde hair and grey expressionless eyes. Her mouth, however, turned up at the corners in a wry fashion suggesting humour and warmth. She held up a Dunhill before her.

  Without a word, Paulo slipped the lighter from his pocket and lit the girl’s cigarette. She blew the smoke to one side and then gently ran her fingernails across the back of Paulo’s hand as he retracted the lighter.

  It seemed that he didn’t have to go hunting tonight. Apparently he was the one who was being stalked.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked, pocketing his lighter.

  ‘Champagne,’ she said, with an amused nod of the head.

  ‘Expensive lady.’ He looked serious for a moment and then flashed her a broad smile.

  ‘I’m only interested in the best,’ she said, with no trace of humour.

  He beckoned to the waiter and ordered a bottle of champagne, ‘I’ll join you,’ he said, helping her on to the stool next to his.

  ‘Thank you, Paulo.’

  ‘You know my name.’

  ‘Of course. You don’t think this was a chance encounter, do you?’

  He shrugged his well-cut shoulders. ‘You tell me.’ He was more intrigued than amused now. Little surprises, however entertaining, did not please him. He spent his life in an attempt not to be surprised.

  ‘I’m a very particular lady and when it comes to the company of men friends, I like to pick my own.’ She blew out a stream of smoke which momentarily obscured her face and then she stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette in the glass ashtray on the bar top. Her lipstick had left a bright, blood-red blemish around the tip.

  ‘And you’re picking me.’

  ‘Let’s say I’m giving you an audition.’

  Paulo laughed out loud. ‘Well, you’re an original, lady, I’ll give you that. What’s your name?’

  ‘Mary. Named after Mary Pickford, you know, the film star.’

  Paulo nodded. He knew. He was a great fan of the movies.

  At this point the champagne arrived. The waiter made a performance of opening the bottle—well at £2 a time the price demanded a suitable fuss. Black-market booze wasn’t cheap. And the ostentatious cork popping ceremony was insisted upon by the manager of the club, who at this moment was watching it with hooded eyes from his usual vantage point near the gaming table. He hoped the theatrical display would encourage other punters to indulge themselves.

  Paulo raised his glass, the bubbles still dancing and shimmering in the subdued lighting. ‘Here’s to Mary.’

  ‘And here’s to us,’ Mary responded with a slight pout of the lips.

  They drank, each eyeing the other over the rim of their glasses.

  ‘OK, Miss Mary,’ Paulo said at last. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Want? What does any girl want? A good time?’

  ‘And you think I can give you one.’

  ‘I am sure of it. I’ve done my research.’

  This girl was certainly full of surprises. ‘And what have you found out?’

  Mary took another sip of champagne before replying. ‘Paulo Ricotti, aged thirty-three. Owner of several clubs in London—not this one at the moment, but maybe it’s next on your list. Now head of the Ricotti business after your father died of a heart attack last year. I know the police are interested in some of your activities but you manage to keep your nose clean. You have expensive tastes and can show a young lady a good time. How will that do?’

  The smile had faded from Paulo’s lips. ‘And who are you? What are you after?’

  ‘I told you. I’m Mary. Mary Sutherland. And I’m after a good time. That’s all.’

  ‘You speak the spiel like a copper.’

  Mary laughed. ‘What, with my record?’

  ‘What record?’

  ‘I like nice things. Nice things cost money. So I make sure I have the money in order that I can have nice things. I’m not too particular how I get it.’

  Paulo narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re a thief.’

  ‘That’s rather a harsh term. I don’t like to think of it in those terms, but what’s a middle-class girl got to do if she wants nice things, go to nice places like the Chameleon and meet nice fellows like Paulo Ricotti?’ She leaned forward and her hand slid across the bar top and touched his. ‘You see, I like you. I like you a lot.’ She lowered her lids as she spoke and stroked his hand, her finger cold and sensuous against his skin. Despite himself Paulo felt a tingle of electricity run through his body. The girl was intriguing, enigmatic, and something of a challenge and he liked challenges, even if he didn’t really trust her.

  Suddenly she pulled her hand away and lifted her champagne glass. ‘So, Paulo, where are we going to eat tonight?’ she asked brightly.

  *

  Despite or maybe because of his reservations, Paulo Ricotti took Mary Sutherland out to dine that evening. He knew she was a hot and dangerous package, but he reckoned he had enough savvy and guile to handle her. No bit of skirt had got the better of him yet. Over dinner she had been charming and witty, no longer the enigmatic siren she had presented herself as at the Chameleon. Following the meal they had visited a music club and danced. He found her slender boyish body remarkably erotic and held her tighter and tighter as the night wore on. She seemed not to object. To Paulo’s surprise he’d had a thoroughly good evening. She was a bright girl who had the ability to listen and to amuse him. And she was, as he had first observed, a looker. There was certainly something so alluring about her lithe figure and those grey seductive eyes of hers. One thing was clear to him: he intended that she should spend the night at his place. He certainly wanted to bed the girl. Whether she would last beyond breakfast was another matter, but dawn was a long way off at present.

  It was nearing one in the morning when they returned to his car. ‘I insist you come back to my flat for a final night cap,’ he said.

  She responded without hesitation. ‘Of course,’ she said.

  He grinned. She obviously wanted the liaison too.

&nb
sp; Some twenty minutes later, his car pulled up outside a block of flats in Kensington. ‘Here we are,’ he said, his voice a little weary with alcohol. ‘I have the penthouse.’

  ‘Sorry, but I’m afraid this is as far as I go,’ said the girl, her voice suddenly cold and hard.

  Paulo frowned and turned to her. What game was she playing? In the dim lighting provided by the glow of the dashboard, he could see that she now had dark hair. The blonde locks had disappeared. His brow creased with consternation.

  ‘I wore a wig, Paulo,’ the girl said in answer to his unspoken query.

  ‘Who the hell are you? What is this?’ His body stiffened with apprehension and to his surprise he realized that he was beginning to feel uneasy. It wasn’t an emotion he was familiar with and it unnerved and unsettled him. He shook his head in an attempt to alleviate the effects of alcohol and tiredness on his brain.

  It didn’t work.

  ‘I am the angel of death, Paulo, here to settle a score. That’s who I am.’

  Before he knew what was happening, the girl had produced a pistol from her handbag and thrust it hard against his forehead.

  Now he was scared. His stomach churned and for a brief moment he thought he was going to be sick. This was like a scene from a bad dream. Reality had faded into the shadows and he was adrift in a nightmare landscape.

  ‘The name is Gina,’ the girl was saying. ‘Gina Bernstein. Daughter of Michael Bernstein. You recognize the name. He was the man you murdered. My father. I’m here to avenge his death.’

  Paulo opened his mouth to speak but no words escaped.

  Gina smiled. ‘Time to say goodnight and goodbye, Paulo. Sweet dreams.’

  Without another word, she pulled the trigger. There was a loud bang, a strong smell of cordite and Paulo Ricotti’s head recoiled backwards in a sudden violent fashion. A ragged poppy-shaped wound materialized in the centre of his forehead from which two thin streams of blood dribbled down his face on to his jacket. He remained frozen, held like a waxwork dummy, eyes wide with shock, mouth slightly agape, and then slowly he slumped forward over the wheel, totally surrendering himself to the darkness of death.

  The girl sat some time, the gun held limply in her hands, staring at the dead man, his handsome face ghoulishly illuminated by the dashboard, the staring eyes now unseeing static brown orbs. She wore a mask of indifference, no emotions were registered on her smooth features until, at last, secreting the gun in her handbag, she reached for the door handle, and then she allowed herself a brief smile.

  As she began to walk away from the car, she suddenly found herself crying. The tension, anger and determination had now dissolved. She had been true to herself and to her father. Now she could grieve. Now she could cry her heart out.

  Three

  ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Mr Hawke?’

  I gazed in some surprise at the wiry little man who had posed this question. He was Brian Garner, an intense-looking fellow with challenging eyes, wiry of build with fine, wispy, sandy-coloured hair which was thinning and turning grey making him look, I should guess, somewhat older than he was, which I put around forty years of age. He sat in my office, his hands on his lap, exuding an air of mothballs and peppermints, making this enquiry about ghosts with all seriousness.

  Brian Garner was a potential client, a rare commodity in the fading weeks of 1943, and so I didn’t want to frighten him away with a blunt and brusque reply. I could have said, ‘No, I don’t believe in ghosts. I have enough trouble with the living without letting my imagination allow me to contemplate the ridiculous notion that dead people are walking about interfering with our lives. It’s mumbo jumbo. Fairground chicanery. Claptrap.’

  But I didn’t.

  Instead, I replied politely, ‘Not really. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I’ve seen one.’

  My heart sank. It looked like I’d caught a nutter in my net.

  I shuffled some papers on my desk. ‘I am a private detective, Mr Garner. I deal with real people and real incidents. This isn’t Halloween Investigations. Perhaps you would be better consulting a clairvoyant or a medium…’

  Or a psychiatrist.

  ‘No, no. You don’t understand,’ he protested, wriggling in his chair.

  My heart sank further. Oh, no, he was going to explain!

  ‘Let me explain…’

  I knew it!

  ‘My wife died two years ago in a car accident. And yesterday I saw her.’

  I did not respond to this statement simply because I didn’t know what to say. I thought it safer to remain mum and wait for more information. Garner took my silence as his prompt to provide it.

  ‘I was on the platform at South Kensington underground station yesterday morning when I saw this woman on the opposite platform. At first she had her back to me, but I’d recognize that shape and turn of the head anywhere. When you’ve been married to someone you get used to all their tics and movements and such. Eventually she turned round and…well, I can tell you, Mr Hawke, my blood ran cold. It was Beryl all right. No doubt about it. Beryl, my wife. Instinctively, I called out to her across the tracks. And when she saw me, her jaw dropped open. She looked terrified as though…well, as though she’d seen a ghost. And then she panicked. She ran. She took to her heels, rushed from the platform and disappeared down the stairs into one of the passageways. I raced down the steps from my side hoping I’d catch her but…there was no sign of her. She’d just disappeared.’

  Well, I thought, that’s what ghosts do. It’s part of their nature.

  I tried to reason with him. ‘Mr Garner, it couldn’t actually be your wife if she is dead. Isn’t it more likely that it was just someone who looked like her and when you shouted at her you frightened the poor soul and she ran away?’

  Brian Garner’s features tightened and his eyes bulged with fierce earnestness as he leaned forward in his chair. ‘Mr Hawke, there is no doubt about it. That woman was Beryl, my wife.’

  There was something powerfully convincing about this threadbare little man’s conviction. He really believed that he had seen his dead wife. Maybe he was deluded, but I no longer thought he was a crank. My instinct told me that the situation had possibilities. Could it be that I really had a case after all? I decided to find out more.

  ‘You’d better tell me about the circumstances of your wife’s death.’

  ‘As I said she died in a car accident. Things hadn’t been going well between us for about a year and she had taken it into her head to leave me. She said that she’d found someone else who was “more sympathetic to her needs”. Those were her exact words: “sympathetic to her needs”.’

  ‘What did she mean by that?’

  He gripped the arms of the chair, his face suddenly suffused with anger. ‘God knows. I certainly don’t.’

  ‘Who was this “someone”?’

  Garner shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Even now I haven’t a clue. I thought it was perhaps someone she’d met at work, but apart from her boss all her work colleagues were women. She worked in a ladies hairdressers in Camden.’

  ‘What about her boss?’

  Garner curled his lip. ‘Harold Crabtree is not the kind of bloke who’s interested in women if you get my drift.’

  I gave a nod of understanding; I got his drift.

  ‘After she’d left me, I did all I could to find out who this mystery bloke was but I drew a blank. It seemed as though he’d disappeared off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Or maybe he didn’t exist in the first place.’

  Garner’s surprised expression told me that he hadn’t contemplated that particular scenario.

  ‘Tell me exactly what happened,’ I said, lighting up a cigarette. I was interested now and I wanted to get the full picture.

  ‘Well, I came home from work one day—I run a little electrical shop in Harper Street, just off Russell Square—to find two cases in the hallway and Beryl waiting for me in her best fur coat. “I’m leaving you,” she says. “The mar
riage is over.” Just like that. Well, I can tell you it was all a shock to me, Mr Hawke. I knew things hadn’t been particularly harmonious with us for a while. We kept having rows, all about something and nothing, but nothing that serious. You know how it is.’

  I didn’t, but I gave him another nod of understanding.

  ‘But I’d never reckoned on this. That she would leave me. Then she tells me that she’s found someone new to love and care for her, someone who was “more sympathetic to her needs”:

  Old Garner was certainly fond of that phrase. It had engraved itself on his heart. I gazed at my tenacious little client and wondered in what way he had not been ‘sympathetic to her needs’. I decided to broach this subject as delicately as I could.

  ‘Be honest with me now, Mr Garner, what would you say was at the cause of the disharmony in your marriage?’

  His eyes flickered with irritation. ‘You’ll have to ask Beryl,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t know. Her leaving me came right out of the blue.’

  He was lying but I thought it best not to press the matter now. That could come later. I gestured that he should continue his story.

  ‘I tried to reason with her, but she was adamant. She was going to leave me and never come back. I asked where the hell she was going, but she wouldn’t tell me. She said she was taking the car and that I’d never see her again. I tried to stop her but she was a strong woman and I’m not a violent person, Mr Hawke. I couldn’t really attack my wife. So she grabbed her cases and…drove off, out of my life. Then, about four hours later I got the news. The police came to tell me there’d been a crash. The car had gone off the road on a narrow bend near Blackheath and hit a tree.’

  Here he paused, his eyes focused on the wall beyond my head where, no doubt he was witnessing pictures of the event projected from the imagined images in his mind.

  ‘Apparently,’ he continued some moments later, his voice strained with emotion, ‘the petrol tank exploded on impact and the vehicle went up in flames. Beryl hadn’t a chance. She…she was burnt to death. It was terrible, Mr Hawke. All that was left of my poor wife was a blackened shell.’