Archie gave him a crumpled grin. ‘Sure.’
They found a quiet corner in the main bar and Vic bought Archie a pint.
‘I suspect that you could do with some loot at the moment. Is that right?’
Archie, who had no artifice, nodded eagerly. ‘Too true. I’d be down on my uppers if I had any uppers to be down on.’ He chuckled at his own conceit. Vic responded with an indulgent smile.
‘I’m back with Sarah,’ continued Archie, ‘at the old spot in Crimea Buildings—so there’s two mouths to feed and things have been a bit rough.’
‘Well, I’m here to offer you a job, Archie.’
Archie’s face brightened. ‘Really? That’s great. Is it in my usual line?’
‘Not quite—but you’ll soon pick it up. You still got a shooter?’
Archie glanced around nervously and then nodded. The Bernsteins had never asked him to carry a gun before. This was a turn up for the book.
‘Good. You’ll need it…just as a frightener you understand.’
‘What’s it all about?’
*
Vic left the fug and the noise of the Dog and Duck some twenty minutes later having briefed Archie fully on the protection scheme. Archie was enthusiastic—well, he would be as there was money involved—but Vic knew that he’d be good at it. Despite Archie’s rough simplicity he was reliable, as steady as a rock, unlike Anthony. Ah, Anthony! thought Vic. Now I have to tackle him. Bring him aboard. But that should be no problem. He knew how to play Anthony. It should be fairly easy to convince him that for the moment at least he should sail under the same flag as Gina. It really was in their best interest. Vic knew he had to bide his time with her. She was formidable, ruthless and wily. But she would not triumph in the end. He was determined about that.
Eleven
It was clear to me that Sylvia Moore’s little holiday from work—her period of being ‘rather unwell’—was simply an excuse to give her time to re-establish new quarters after she had done a bunk from Cartwright House. It was also apparent that she had been living there with the supposedly dead Beryl Garner. It was now clear that there were more dark twists to this affair than had first appeared. There was a strange conspiracy here that I had still yet to uncover.
I was sure that I was the reason for this hurried move. Sylvia had caught wind that I was on her trail—probably from the fragrant Harold Crabtree. And so the pair of them, determined not to be found, had upped sticks with alacrity and moved elsewhere. Undoubtedly I was on the right track and whether my client Brian Garner believed that he had seen a ghost or not was of no consequence; he had certainly unearthed some kind of mischief. Beryl and mate Sylvia had pulled off an act of deceitful, unlawful chicanery and were now on the run. All I had to do was catch them. However, discovering the whereabouts of two ladies who were desperate not to be found was not going to be easy. While the facts of the case were now somewhat clearer in my mind, my task remained a tough one.
After leaving Madame Rene’s, I popped into a call box and rang Brian Garner at his shop to tell him that I was making slow but positive progress. ‘You’ll have to be patient,’ I warned him. ‘It is a case of softly, softly catchee monkey, but obviously my enquiries have stirred up the muddy waters.’ I was conscious that I was overusing metaphors even as I spoke, but Garner did not seem to mind. He was pleased with my news. ‘I’ve waited two years, I reckon I can wait a bit longer,’ he said.
‘I’ll be in touch early next week,’ I said before replacing the receiver.
My stomach told me it was lunchtime, so I called in a café on Kensington High Street for a sandwich and a cuppa before heading back to the office.
*
The following morning was the big shopping trip. Peter arrived early and refused both tea and toast, so eager was he to be off down Oxford Street to purchase his long trousers. I can’t remember how many times he used that phrase ‘long trousers’ but it almost became like a mantra for a new sartorial sect. We ended up in the menswear department of Bourne & Hollingsworth where a bald-headed Pickwickian gentleman with a long tape measure flapping around his neck took Peter under his wing.
‘I think sir would find these charcoal worsted trousers an ideal choice,’ he said, with practised charm. Peter swelled with pleasure at being addressed as ‘sir’.
Indeed, they were an ideal choice. They fitted him perfectly but what to me was so remarkable, magical even, was the change they brought about in Peter’s appearance. He entered the changing cubicle as a lanky schoolboy and emerged as a young man. Even his face, wreathed in smiles, seemed more mature, more defined—the puppy fat of childhood having melted away.
‘Can I have these?’ he said with admirable restraint.
I nodded.
‘Your son looks quite the grown-up now,’ said Mr Pickwick.
I was about to correct him but didn’t. In so many respects Peter was my son and I was proud to be considered his father.
‘How about a lunch at Uncle Benny’s? You can show off your new pants to him,’ I suggested after we had left the store, with Peter now in his transformed long-trousered guise.
Peter’s face lit up at the prospect. ‘He might not recognize me,’ he chuckled.
As always Benny was delighted to see us. Duly impressed with Peter’s new image, he made a great play of feeling the trousers and praising the cloth, but I was aware that there was something muted, something restrained about his behaviour. Peter didn’t notice it, but I’d known Benny for many years and seen all his moods and I could tell when he was upset and attempting to hide it.
We grabbed a table and having made our selection from the menu, Benny scurried off to the kitchen to attend to our order. It was then that I noticed that the glass was missing from the case on the counter where he displayed his cakes and buns.
‘Won’t be a sec,’ I said to Peter, resisting the habit of ruffling his hair as I left my seat. Such an action now to this grown-up long-trousered fellow would have been to him the height of indignity. I had to accept the fact that I no longer had a little boy for a companion but a burgeoning young man. I suppose it had been happening for quite a while but this had been the catalyst which had alerted me to the fact.
However, for now it was Benny who concerned me most. I made my way across the café, behind the counter and slipped into the steamy kitchen. Being Saturday and a quiet day for the café, it was his helpmate Doris’s day off, but remarkably the old fellow coped on his own.
‘Hey, you’re not allowed in here. This is for staff only.’
‘What’s wrong, Benny?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong: you’re in my kitchen.’
‘Don’t prevaricate.’
Benny raised his eyebrows. ‘Prevaricate? I don’t even know what that means.’
‘Something’s upset you. Is it the broken glass of the confectionery case?’
At this, his face darkened and he grew hesitant.
‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re trying to cover something up—’
‘Look, you want to eat today? If so, get out of my kitchen so I can prepare your grub.’
I grabbed hold of his shoulders and shook him gently. ‘Tell me, Benny.’
His body sagged and he sighed heavily. ‘Ten years I’ve been in this place. Ten years there has been Benny’s café. Ten years and there’s been no trouble. Until now.’
‘Trouble. What kind of trouble?’
Benny sighed again and ran the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Protection. They came first thing this morning, just as soon as I’d opened. There were two of them.’ He shrugged. ‘If I want a quiet existence with no problems, I pay them twenty quid a month for the privilege. If not there’ll be some upset. They smashed the glass to prove their point.’
‘Do you know these men?’
Benny shook his head. ‘Never seen them before.’
‘And you paid...?’
‘No, I didn’t pay. I don’t hav
e that kind of money on me first thing in the morning. But I said I would pay after I’d been to the bank.’
‘When?’
‘They’re coming back this evening at closing time.’
‘We can get them then.’ The excited voice came from the doorway. Benny and I both turned to see Peter grinning like a clown.
‘How long have you been there?’ I asked.
‘I heard it all. We can rough these fellows up when they come back, can’t we, Johnny?’
Before I could reply, Benny responded. ‘I don’t want to involve you, Johnny. It’s not your problem.’
‘I am involved, Benny. You’re my friend, so it’s my problem as well.’
‘Mine, too,’ piped up the junior Sexton Blake by the door, but we both ignored him.
‘What were these fellows like?’ I asked.
Benny shrugged. ‘One was quite young—in his twenties I should say. Bulky but smartly dressed. The other chap was older, scruffier—mean-looking. He said nothing.’
‘Did they have guns?’
‘Don’t know. They didn’t show them if they did.’
‘Well, you’re not going to pay, Benjamin, my friend. That way madness lies. I’ll not see you starting to slide down that slippery slope. What time are they due to call?’
‘Around six this evening.’
‘I’ll be here.’
‘We’ll be here,’ said Peter.
Benny and I ignored him again.
‘Don’t bother to protest, Benny. I’ve made up my mind.’
I left the matter there and returned to the café area, pushing the reluctant Peter ahead of me. As we waited for Benny to prepare our food, I had a serious word with my young friend.
‘Look, Peter, this isn’t a game. It’s not like the pictures. People can get injured…shot. These are real criminals who won’t think twice about hurting anyone. I am not having you anywhere near this caper. You’re too young and too vulnerable, and besides you’ll probably get in the way. So any notions that you’re nurturing about being promoted to my deputy need to be squashed right now. You are a fourteen-year-old schoolboy, not Dick Tracy. Is that understood?’
Peter, who had been staring diligently at the tablecloth during my diatribe, nodded his head sullenly.
‘Good. Now we’ll go to the pictures this afternoon as promised and then you’re to go back to my flat and wait for me there. I hope that’s clear.’
Peter continued to stare at the tablecloth, his lower lip protruding in a disconsolate fashion.
‘Is that understood?’ I repeated, more harshly this time.
‘Perfectly,’ he muttered.
What I didn’t tell Peter was that another reason I wanted him well away from Benny’s when the two thugs came calling, was I didn’t want him to think that taking the law into your own hands was the right thing to do. As a private detective this was sometimes necessary, but it was always done with reluctance and in the pursuit of fairness and justice. Nevertheless I wasn’t about to provide an example for my easily influenced fourteen-year-old companion.
Peter and I did go to the pictures that afternoon. The main feature was Who Done It?, a disappointing Abbott and Costello farrago set in a radio station. To be honest my mind was not really on the film, it kept going back to Benny and his dilemma. If the protection racket had moved into this part of London, there must be a pretty big force behind it. I wasn’t sure I was up to the job of saving his bacon. However, with Benny being Jewish, that really is that last thing he would want me to do.
I had eventually persuaded Benny that I should be with him in the café when these two thugs came for their money. What would happen then was anyone’s guess, but I was going to give it my best shot.
It was dark when we emerged from the cinema and I sent Peter off with some money to buy himself fish and chips and instructed him to go home to Hawke Towers to wait for me. I would ring him if there were any problems.
When I had watched my young companion disappear into the gloom of a December evening in the direction of Tottenham Court Road like the proverbial schoolboy slowly and reluctantly on his way to school, I made my own way back to Benny’s café. I arrived at 5.30. There were just a couple of customers now, a soldier and his girl, huddled over their empty tea cups, gazing into each other’s eyes, conversation all spent.
I was reminded of Max. The first time I’d thought about her since this morning, my mind having been filled with thoughts of Benny’s dilemma. I wondered how she was getting on in Nottingham and when I would hear from her. I hoped her digs were respectable and comfy. In thinking of her now, I suddenly became aware how much I was missing her.
As I took a seat at the back of the café, in the shadows, Benny emerged from the kitchen and gave me a nod of greeting. I could tell from his jerky movements and pale complexion that he was very much on edge. This was far from the relaxed witty Benny I knew. Here was a man with his stomach in knots. And who could blame him?
‘I don’t think you should be here, Johnny. Let me pay the devils. I’m all for a quiet life.’
‘Do that and you’ll go on paying until they bleed you dry. We’ve got to try and sort this out tonight.’
Benny shook his head in despair but made no more protests.
After ten minutes the soldier and his girl departed and Benny turned the sign in the window round to indicate that the café had closed.
‘Douse the lights at the back here,’ I said. ‘I want to be in shadow.’
Benny did as I asked without comment.
And then we waited. The minute hand of the clock crept to the hour of six with infuriating slowness. With every tick and tock, I felt my nerves tightening.
We sat in silence, Benny and I. After all, there really was nothing to say.
At five minutes to six a dark shape appeared at the door, peering through the finely frosted glass. After a few moments, the figure shook the door hard. Benny and I exchanged glances. The man rattled the door again and then his head turned to the window and saw the Closed sign and with some mumbled comment disappeared into the darkness.
Benny gave a sigh of relief. ‘I’d better unlock the door,’ he said quietly. ‘If they can’t walk in, they may smash it down.’
I nodded in agreement.
Then we heard in the far distance the chimes of Big Ben heralding the hour. Before they had faded away, the door burst open with heart-stopping suddenness. Benny’s hand flew to his mouth to stifle a gasp and I clenched my fists in anticipation of trouble. There on the threshold stood a tall, gangly figure.
It was Peter.
He stepped into the café, his eyes scanning the room until they lit upon me in the shadows. As he stepped towards me, his hand wriggled momentarily in his raincoat pocket before it finally emerged holding a gun. I recognized it: it was mine. He held the weapon out towards me on the palm of his hand.
‘I thought you’d need this,’ he said sheepishly.
‘You fool. What are you doing here?’ I cried angrily.
‘I said…I thought you’d need your gun.’
I snatched it from him and slipped it into my own pocket.
‘Now, get out of here, Peter. Go home this instant.’
He turned hesitantly, but it was too late. There in the doorway were two burly men in dark overcoats. They matched the description that Benny had given me: one chubby, well-dressed, young, in his early twenties; the other scruffy and nearer forty. Indeed, they were nasty pieces of work.
They had come for their insurance money.
Twelve
Earlier that day, as instructed, Archie Muldoon had turned up at Anthony Bernstein’s flat ready to start his new job. When Anthony opened the door, Archie stood to attention and gave a mock salute. ‘Muldoon, Archibald, reporting for duty, sir!’
‘Come in, you pillock,’ growled Anthony, tugging at Muldoon’s sleeve. Anthony knew Muldoon of old. He had worked for his dad when Anthony was just a teenager. Archie was not the possessor of the brightest intelle
ct but he was reliable and that made him OK in Anthony’s book. He led him down the hall to a small untidy kitchen and poured him a mug of tea which he thrust in his hand.
‘Get that down you,’ he said, not unkindly.
‘Ta,’ said Archie.
‘I gather you know the drill.’
‘Well, I know what Vic told me. Seems simple enough.’
‘Simple? Yeah, it is to Vic—but he’s not doing it.’ He pulled a sheet of paper from his inside pocket. ‘This is the list of premises we’re supposed to target.’
Muldoon glanced at the sheet. There were five addresses there. ‘Mmm, they’re all small concerns by the look of it—all within a mile radius, I should say. Who chose them? Was it you, or Vic?’
Anthony’s plump face twisted into a sneer. ‘It was her ladyship.’
‘Who?’
‘Our new lady boss. Gina.’
Muldoon was puzzled. He knew of no Gina. ‘Who’s she?’
Anthony hesitated a moment. The thought struck him that perhaps he had said too much and then the reckless devil within him whispered, ‘What the hell.’ After all Archie Muldoon was one of their cohorts and it would be good to voice his anger and frustration. To get his beef off his chest. Certainly his dad and Vic were not prepared to listen to him. They were all for ‘biding time’, playing a waiting game. He didn’t want to wait. ‘She is our cousin,’ he said. ‘She’s crawled out of the woodwork after twenty odd years. She is the bitch who thinks she’s going to take over the Bernstein family concern’.
Muldoon shook his head and frowned his crumpled frown. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘She’s Uncle Michael’s daughter. His bloody secret daughter. He hid her away so that she wouldn’t get contaminated by the dirty goings on in the Bernstein family. Didn’t want the dainty lady to get her fingers soiled with crime and corruption. She’s been living in Ireland all this time. Well, now her dad’s dead, she’s turned up again on our doorstep ready to queen it over us. Ready to take charge. As Michael’s daughter she’s claiming the bleedin’ throne.’
‘Blimey! You’re not going to let her.’
The Darkness of Death Page 8
