The Darkness of Death
Page 9
‘Too damn right…’
‘Surely Vic isn’t happy about this.’
Anthony gave a derisive laugh. ‘Vic thinks he’s playing it cool—giving Gina her head for a while. If it were up to me, I’d punch her in the face and tell the cow to get lost, but he reckons that could make more trouble for us. So, for the moment, we play along with her. Do as she says like good little boys. It makes me sick.’
‘So, all this…this protection business is her idea?’
Anthony tapped Muldoon lightly on the shoulder. ‘I always said you were a bright boy. Yeah, it’s our Gina’s idea. Now what I’ve just told you…forget it, eh? It’s in our interest that no one knows about Gina. That way when she disappears no one will be the wiser. No connection. Get it? So…mum’s the word, right?’
‘Certainly,’ said Muldoon, slurping his tea.
‘Right. Have you got your gun?’
Muldoon tapped his breast pocket and nodded.
‘Right, drink up, soldier. Let’s be about our business. We’ve got a few shopkeepers to scare the shit out of.’
Thirteen
I grabbed hold of Peter’s sleeve and, dragging him to one side, I shoved the lad unceremoniously into a chair in the far recess of the room. Out of harm’s way—hopefully. He gave a yelp of surprise, but then he was sensible enough to remain silent. The two men moved into the café, slamming the door behind them.
‘I see you’ve got company, grandad,’ said one, leaning on the counter. As soon as he spoke, bells rang in my head. I knew that voice, surely. I gazed at those pale-blue, watery, Peter Lorre eyes, the skin that looked like a wrinkled bed sheet and the faint raspberry-coloured ring of acne round his neck and chin. I knew that face as well.
I stood up and moved into the light. ‘Bit out of your league, aren’t you, Muldoon? Snatching purses is more your thing.’ I thought the phrase modus operandi might confuse the ugly brute.
The face twitched and his eyes swivelled in my direction, narrowing as they took me in. Then the mouth gaped in surprise, or was it shock? I hoped that it was the latter. ‘Hawke. PC bloody Hawke,’ he gasped.
‘You know this fellow?’ asked Benny.
‘Indeed, I do. When I was on the force, I pinched him more times than I’ve had hot dinners. The term ‘petty criminal’ might have been coined especially for Mr Archibald Muldoon here. Looks like he’s moved on from grabbing old ladies’ handbags to threatening old gentlemen in their cafés.’
‘Less of the old gentleman, if you don’t mind,’ said Benny indignantly.
‘Now, Archie, my boy, if you know what’s good for you, I reckon you and your silent partner should turn on your heel and leave Mr Samuels alone.’
‘Oh, do you now. Well, you’ve got another think comin’,’ growled Muldoon and his hand reached inside his overcoat pocket, but I was too quick for him. I had my gun trained on him before he could drag his out.
‘You’ve made a mistake coming here,’ I said, with what I hoped was quiet menace in my voice. ‘A big mistake. Accept the fact and walk away undamaged. You’re bound to have one or two failures in your line of work. Mark this down as one of them. I’m sure you can come up with a suitable excuse for your masters. If you try to get tough, I’ll shoot you. Simple as that.’
That shook the cowardly Muldoon. And coward he was. He had as much backbone as a flounder. In the past when he was nabbed he spilled out a confession at the mere shake of a truncheon. It flowed from him like a gushing fountain.
I held my gun higher, aiming at his spotty mush. ‘Go on, get out. And there must be no repercussions. You get out now and never return, or I’ll make sure that you suffer personally. You know that I can find you as easy as pie if I want to. You know I can, Archie Muldoon.’
Muldoon’s partner leaned forward. ‘We’re not about to leave it.’ His bombastic stance was false. I could tell that he too was unpleasantly surprised by encountering some serious opposition.
‘We have to,’ croaked Muldoon, severely rattled by my threat. ‘I’ll sort it. Vic and Gina need never know.’
‘Shut your mouth, you stupid bastard,’ cried his companion, his face flushed with anger. Not only was he angry, but nervous as well. I noticed a trickle of sweat emerge from his sideburn and roll gently down his flushed cheek. Not a tough guy either, then.
‘I think it’s time you were on your way,’ I said, still maintaining the quiet edginess in my voice, but thrusting my gun a little closer to Muldoon.
‘Come on,’ said Muldoon, moving backwards towards the door and pushing his companion in the same direction.
‘Goodbye, gentlemen,’ I said.
‘Watch your back, Hawke,’ was Muldoon’s parting shot of sneering bravado as he slipped out into the night.
After the two thugs had gone there was a moment’s silence and the three of us remained like exhibits in a wax museum. Then Peter broke the spell by rushing forward and slapping me on my back.
‘Johnny, you were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.’
‘You got any whisky on the premises, Benny? I could really do with a drink,’ I said, sinking into a chair.
‘For you, Johnny, anything. I can only echo Peter’s words: you were brilliant.’ He disappeared into the kitchen in search of the booze.
To be honest, I felt more drained and tense rather than brilliant, but my pale imitation of Humphrey Bogart in The Big Sleep seemed to have worked.
‘I thought you really were going to shoot him,’ grinned Peter, with naïve enthusiasm. I was very sorry that he had to be there to witness what was a big sham. No way would I have shot Muldoon. That would have got me into a whole load of trouble with both the goodies and the baddies. I didn’t want the boy growing up thinking that a man with a gun was brave and heroic, but in this instance my mock tough-guy act had worked.
Benny returned from the kitchen clutching a bottle of Johnnie Walker and some glasses. He poured me a large measure, which I downed quickly, and served smaller measures to himself and Peter.
‘It is all right if the boy has a little nip, isn’t it, Johnny?’
I nodded. In for a penny…I suppose.
Peter grinned. Long trousers, gun play and whisky all in one day. My, I thought, he must be feeling really grown up now.
‘So you knew that ruffian with the gun, eh?’
‘Yes. He’s been in trouble with the law since he was a kid. He’s not terribly bright and was always getting caught. It’s clear this protection racket is not his idea. As I said, he and the other fellow must be just worker ants for some gang.’
‘That Muldoon character mentioned someone called Vic. Perhaps he’s the boss,’ said Peter.
‘Yes, I clocked that.’
‘Anyway, the main thing is you got rid of the pests,’ grinned Benny.
I nodded. ‘Yes, I don’t think you’ll be bothered again; but that doesn’t protect the other poor devils on their list. It’s obvious that you’re not the only place they’ve targeted for their dirty little scheme.’
With this sobering thought, we all drank up and then Peter and I wended our way back to my place.
The telephone was ringing fit to bust when we got back. It was Max. Diplomatically, Peter made himself scarce while Max and I indulged in a rather soppy exchange. She had made contact with the folk at the theatre and was ensconced in her digs—her home for the next three weeks—and she was excited at the prospect of working on the show, helping to design and make the costumes for both the principals and chorus. However, she admitted that she was feeling rather lonely and missing me. I told her about Peter’s new trousers which amused her greatly but edited out the incident at Benny’s. We chatted some more and then finally blew kisses down the phone, said our ‘I love yous’ and wished each other a good night.
Replacing the receiver, I felt a strange mixture of sadness and pleasure. I was missing Max like mad, even though she’d only been gone a day, but it was good to know I had someone like her in my life, someone who cared for me.
‘I am determined to beat you this week,’ he grinned.
‘We’ll see about that,’ I said, pulling up a chair. ‘Just because you’ve got long trousers doesn’t make you a keener player.’
And so the tough, cold-hearted, gun-toting one-eyed private detective sat down to play a game of draughts with a fourteen-year-old boy.
*
Sunday morning and we had a lie-in; Peter in the cramped campbed in my living room and me in my cramped single bed in the cramped bedroom. We breakfasted on toast and coffee.
‘You know, I reckon I’ll be needing to shave soon,’ said Peter, while crunching on a crust and rubbing his chin at the same time.
‘One thing at a time,’ I smirked. ‘Get used to the new pants first.’
I was relieved that the lad was wrapped up in thoughts of his new-found maturity and not dwelling on the incident in Benny’s café. However, it was very much in the forefront of my mind.
While Peter washed up, I rang my old friend David Llewellyn for a chat.
‘Got to be quick,’ he said rather breathlessly down the phone, ‘I’m on Yorkshire pudding duty this morning and the batter needs my full attention.’
As quickly as I could I told him what had happened at Benny’s café the day before.
‘That’s very interesting,’ he said. ‘This protection business is new. It’s very Yankee. You say someone called Vic was mentioned.’
‘Yes, and a woman called Gina.’
‘Don’t know about her—but I do know a Vic Bernstein. He’s a canny sod. He’s usually been involved with illegal hooch and crooked gambling—his family run the Bamboo House in Covent Garden. Maybe he’s stretching his wings a little—trying out the protection racket. What did the other chap look like, the one with Muldoon?’
‘Young—early twenties. Chubby, arrogant features.’
‘Red-faced with slightly bulging eyes?’
‘Sounds like the fellow,’ I said.
‘Well that would be Anthony Bernstein, Vic’s younger brother. They’re the Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee of the black-market booze trade.’
‘That’s a fairly soft option in this naughty world. They’re really stepping out with this protection lark.’
‘It’s all very interesting. I wonder where this Gina woman fits in.’
‘So do I. Listen, David, allow me to follow this up myself for a couple of days, will you? With them threatening Benny, they’ve stepped into my domain. I’d like to have a crack at sorting things out.’
‘Ah, ah, this is police business—’
‘Only because I told you about it,’ I insisted. ‘I think I can get to the heart of the matter much quicker than you official bods.’
David chuckled. ‘I’ve never been called an official bod before. Is that rude?’
‘As a favour…’ I wheedled.
‘Oh, very well. I haven’t got time to argue. I’ve got to go now and see to my Yorkshires. But, for God’s sake, don’t do anything rash. Let’s meet up for a pint at the Guardsman on Tuesday lunchtime and you can report any progress.’
‘It’s a date. I’ll wear a carnation in my buttonhole so you’ll recognize me.’
The rest of Sunday raced by. I hate Sundays. They are grey, soulless days when the world shuts down. The streets are empty, the shops are abandoned and a strange muffled silence wraps itself around the city. It is as though some great spaceship has hovered over London and sucked most of the people and traffic up into it—only to release them on Monday morning.
Peter and I had a kick about in the park, but it was a more genteel affair than usual as the lad didn’t want to spoil his new trousers by getting them muddied up. Then we had lunch with Martha and Edith, the two spinster ladies he lived with during the week and who looked after him as though he was their own. I instructed Peter, on pain of death, not to mention a word about the incident in Benny’s café. I didn’t want to worry the old dears, or have them thinking that I was irresponsibly exposing their charge to danger.
The sisters always made a fuss of me when I came for Sunday lunch. I’m not sure how they coped on their rations, but somehow they always managed to get me a piece of meat. It was a very simple and civilized occasion, the sort that I’d never known as a youngster in the orphanage. We drank sherry before the meal and toasted the King and said grace at the table. It was good to be in such a civilized atmosphere of caring, affection and normality—or as much normality as the war could afford.
I left as it was growing dark and walked home, calling in one of the pubs en route for a half pint of beer and a cigarette while I juggled with my thoughts concerning the Garner case. Tomorrow I needed to visit Madame Rene again in the hope that I’d finally meet up with Sylvia Moore. However, in truth, I was keen to follow up on this protection-racket business and reckoned that a private tête-à-tête with Archie Muldoon would clear things up nicely. But that would have to wait.
Fourteen
Monday morning loomed, grey, damp and unforgiving. She lay on her back staring at the ceiling for a long time. She hadn’t slept much. The pain, fear and misery had all contributed to her wakefulness. She had survived another terrible weekend. Just. But one of these days…she might not. He might just go too far.
She shuddered under the covers with misery. At least he had gone. The beast had departed. Again she asked herself, as she had done countless times in the last few months, ‘How on earth did I get myself into this position?’ There was no sensible, no rational, no reasonable answer. It was like she had stepped into quicksand without noticing it and was now sinking slowly but inexorably to the bottom.
Oh, yes, he had gone.
But she knew that he would be back.
With some difficulty, she dragged herself from the cold bed and, pulling back the curtains a few inches, she examined her face in the dressing-room mirror. It was a mess. She looked as though she had done a few rounds with Gene Tunney. Gingerly she ran her fingers over the contours of her puffy, darkened flesh and the cut lip. Once she had been pretty, but now she reckoned she looked like a ghoul from a horror film. At this thought she began to cry. Softly and slowly the tears flowed. Her chest heaved gently as she tried to rein in her emotions, but they were too strong for her, so she relented. It was almost a pleasure to let out some of the anguish.
It wasn’t just the physical pain and the facial scars that hurt, it was what he had done to her self-esteem and her spirit. At first he had seemed charming—so considerate to her every wish. But those smiles and courteous gestures disguised the demon that he was. As soon as she had given herself to him, he had changed. The mask was ripped away to reveal the neurotic bully beneath. But then it was too late. He had wormed his way into her life and become part of the fabric of her existence. She knew now that it was planned and carefully plotted.
Once there he had slowly but inexorably picked away at her confidence and self-esteem: a sneer here, an accusation there and an increasing barrage of criticisms. Then there were the bouts of jealousy interspersed with the intervals of smooth charm and remorse. The mental torture was more cruel than the blows. Once she had been a confident, happy woman. Once…before she had met him.
Now she was trapped.
Tears were her only comfort. In a way, she felt it was a kind of luxury to give vent to her feelings; to wail and moan. She was able to do so unchecked, without any kind of restraint. With an agonized sob she dropped her head into her arms on the dressing-table top, her body shaking gently.
An hour later, she had dressed and tidied up her face as much as she was able. A cigarette and a cup of hot tea had not only helped to calm her down, but filled her with resolve. As she sat at the small kitchen table, she relived the incidents of the previous night. The brutish irrational behaviour, the demands, the jealousies, the blows. Above all, the blows. She flinched at the thought of
them. The crazy devil could have killed her. Killed her.
Killed her.
She clutched the edge of the table as tightly as she could, deep, hot anger welling up inside her.
‘He could have killed me,’ she told herself, out loud this time, in a dry, hoarse voice, the first time she had spoken that morning. She repeated the thought as dark, fierce hatred flared in her heart ‘He could have killed me. And maybe next time he will.’
*
It had been a very ordinary Monday morning until she arrived. He was surprised to see her. She looked a little strange and was behaving oddly.
‘What do you want?’ he snapped. It was the second time of asking. He would not be afforded a third opportunity, for then the unexpected happened.
The knife flashed briefly in the dim light before beginning its rapid downward descent. However at first the blow seemed to him to be unreal, cutting through the air as if in slow motion. Unable to move from the shock, he let out a gruff yell as the blade scraped his face before entering his chest. The sudden searing pain caused his whole frame to contort as though reacting to a violent electric shock. As he staggered backwards, his legs almost giving way, he saw the knife, now red with his own blood, raised against him once more. This time he made a clumsy effort to avoid the blow but failed. Again searing pain racked his body. His arms flailed wildly as his vision began to blur and he fell to the floor. The third stab caught him in the neck and now he knew he was going to die.
As he lay twitching involuntarily on the ground, his attacker knelt over him and continued to rain blows down upon him, but he was no longer conscious of them. The darkness of death had spread its pall upon his damaged and blood-sodden corpse.
Fifteen
‘She’s gone.’ Madame Rene’s eyes fluttered nervously. ‘She called in the salon this morning. Picked up some of her belongings and said she wouldn’t be back. She gave no explanation. It is most inconvenient.’
My heart sank. Inconvenient was not the word. It would seem that Sylvia Moore had slipped through my fingers again—and with her the undead Beryl Garner.