On reaching Hawke Towers I found that there was a letter waiting for me from Max. This had a double effect: it cheered me up knowing that she was thinking of me, but also made me miserable realizing it would be ages before I saw her again. I penned a rather plaintive and somewhat soppy reply to post on my way out that evening.
I popped down the hall to the tiny icebox of a bathroom and indulged myself with a fresh shave and a hot bath. By the time I’d donned a clean shirt and my best black suit I felt fresh and eager for a night in fine surroundings. Eyeing my coat with the knife wounds, I realized that I couldn’t be taken seriously wearing that thing of shreds and patches. So, reluctantly I donned my other overcoat, the one that I reserved for special occasions, not that I recalled having been to any. I just hoped that no knife-wielding harpy would try taking a piece out of that.
The Bamboo House was situated on Kimble Street, up from the Aldwych on the edge of Covent Garden. Like many dubious establishments in London, it claimed to be a members-only club but that just meant you had to cough up a fair bit of cash to get in. Once inside the drinks were exorbitant, no doubt the gaming table was rigged and there were lovely ladies there eager to lighten your wallet further.
Going through life, as I do, like a Cyclops, one damaged eye socket covered by a black eye patch, has permanent disadvantages. You see the world in a slightly restricted fashion for a start and, as a detective, it is impossible to blend in with the crowd. People will always remember the one-eyed fellow with the patch. Therefore disguises are out. Whatever I wore, whatever accent I used, and whatever facial adornments I adopted to alter my appearance such as beards, moustaches, side whiskers, there would still be the damned patch to identify me. I was convinced that was why Sylvia Moore did a vanishing act. She had been told by two people that a curious cove with one eye had been asking questions about her and that had spooked her sufficiently to make herself scarce. If I’d been a nondescript two-eyed fellow, perhaps no alarms bell would have rung.
So, as I entered the Bamboo House—after paying my evening’s membership of a crisp pound note—I knew that I would be noticed and whatever I did it would be remembered by someone. In some instances, of course, this can be useful, but I doubted if that would be the case tonight.
Despite wearing my best suit—the one that causes Benny to observe, ‘nice bit of smutter—now you look a real gent’—I still felt a little shabby compared to the well-tailored suits and shiny dinner jackets the other male customers were shimmying around in. No off-the-peg ‘smutter’ here from the second-hand shop; it was all bespoke stuff. There was an oleaginous air of reckless and shameless wealth pervading the establishment. Despite the war and the deprivations it brought to the ordinary man in the street there were still those who made sure that nothing interfered with their unruffled lives. Here they were, those shady characters who, because of rather than in spite of the conflict, had garnered even more wealth: dishonest types, cheats, crooked businessmen, black-marketeers, gangsters and spivs. They were all in attendance at the Bamboo House in their well-heeled, ill-gotten splendour. Well, they say that scum always rises to the surface.
It’s strange that when I find myself in the sort of company that frequents this kind of dubious establishment, instinctively I begin to feel superior and strangely invulnerable. I know that I am better than they are. God knows I am no saint, but my soul remains untarnished and my intentions noble, if sometimes fallible. In that sense, they are beneath me.
I checked in my coat and hat and then passed through the gaming room with its steady hum of voices, the clickety rattle of the roulette wheel and the sea of sweaty, greedy faces with bulging eyes and nervous fingers eager to add more cash to their stash and wandered over to the large semi-circular bar. There were two barmen in attendance. I made signs to the older one of the two, who stared at the world through a pair of owlish tortoiseshell glasses. He looked less arrogant and more world weary. The younger one, with slicked hair and a challenging stare moved with a barely suppressed arrogance as though he owned the establishment. I didn’t fancy doing business with him.
‘What can I get you, sir?’ asked my barman pleasantly enough but without much enthusiasm.
‘A whisky and soda and have a drink yourself.’
‘That’s very kind, sir, but we are not allowed to drink while on duty.’
‘Save it for later then.’
That brought a slight smile. ‘Well, if you insist.’
I nodded to indicate that I did.
He brought me my drink in quick sticks along with my tab. Glancing at it, I thought I’d bought the whole bottle rather than the simple measure before me. ‘This is my first time here,’ I said, determined to retain the attention of my new friend.
‘I hope you enjoy yourself, sir,’ came the programmed reply. He was eager to be about his business. Obviously, he was not paid to chat to the customers.
‘I was hoping to see Gina here,’ I said, diving in at the deep end.
He frowned. ‘Sorry…who?’
‘Gina.’
‘Is she one of the waitresses?’
I shook my head. ‘Gina Bernstein.’
‘Bernstein.’ He seemed surprised. ‘The Bernsteins own this place but I’ve never heard of a Gina. Is she one of the family?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Sorry, I can’t help you. You’d better have a word with Mr Leo. That’s him, over by the door to the gaming room.’
He pointed. My eyes followed the direction of his finger and lit upon a portly gentleman encased in an expensive dinner suit that sprouted a white carnation at the button hole. He had a kind face with large expressive eyes and was for all the world the ideal image of a benign uncle. But I knew to my cost that appearances can be deceptive and one didn’t get to Leo Bernstein’s exalted position in the grubby world of crime without an iron will and a ruthless streak.
‘Maybe later,’ I said, taking a sip of my whisky.
My barman friend floated off to serve another customer.
I sat nursing my expensive Scotch and gazed across at Leo Bernstein. He was in conversation with a small rat-faced man. Everything seemed very relaxed, but every now and again, Bernstein’s eyes narrowed and he turned his gaze from his companion to survey the room as though checking everything was ticking along nicely in his profitable domain.
It was time to put my little plan in action.
I finished my drink and headed for the telephone cubicle and dialled.
‘The Bamboo House,’ a gruff voice said.
‘I need to speak to Leo Bernstein right away. It’s urgent. It’s about Gina.’
‘Who is this?’
I gave a raw chuckle. ‘You don’t expect me to tell you that, do you? Listen, this is urgent. If you value your skin, tell Leo. It’s about Gina.’
There was an uneasy pause and then the gruff voice came again. ‘Hang on a minute.’
I looked across the room, my attention focused on Leo. I did not have to wait long. A lanky individual with pale features and a limp moustache hurried up to Leo and whispered urgently in his ear. Obviously, this was Mr Gruff Voice. When he had imparted his information, he stepped back and waited. Leo Bernstein pursed his lips and looked a little uneasy. At length he made his excuses to his rat-faced companion and left the room. So the mountain was coming to Mohammed.
‘Leo Bernstein,’ said the angry voice in my ear some moments later. ‘Who is this?’
‘A friend,’ I lied. ‘I wanted to warn you about Gina.’
‘Gina who?’
‘Oh, come now, Leo. Gina Bernstein.’
‘Who is this?’ he said again, the voice rising in pitch. He was rattled now and his anger grew.
‘I told you, a friend’
‘What do you want?’
‘Just tell her to watch her back, Leo. She may be getting an unwelcome visitor any day now. They know where she lives.’
‘Who…who are you talking about?’
I chuckled my menacing chuckl
e borrowed shamelessly from The Shadow. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that, now, do you? Ciao, Leo.’
I put the receiver down and smiled. I was quite pleased with my little performance. I stayed put and awaited developments. Before long Leo Bernstein emerged wearing his overcoat and summoned the rat-faced man to join him. They had a brief hurried tête-à-tête before the pair headed for the exit. My little ruse seemed to be working very well. I followed post haste. I was only six feet behind them as they reached the door and I managed to catch a snippet of conversation.
‘I can’t get her on the telephone…I’ve got to check for myself.’
As quickly as I could I retrieved my hat and coat from the cloakroom and shot out into the street just in time to see Leo and his compadre get into some sort of slinky monster motor. I’ve always been bad on the makes of cars but it was a black monster motor. I hailed one of the waiting taxis lined up in readiness to take drunken punters home.
‘Where to, mate?’ came a cheery voice from the interior of the cab.
‘Follow that big shiny car up ahead. The one that’s just pulled out from the kerb.’
‘Really? You want me to tail him?’
‘Yes.’
‘You the police or something?’
‘Something, I guess.’
‘Right you are, sunshine,’ said the cabbie with childlike enthusiasm. ‘I’ll stick to him like glue.’ And with that, he revved his engine loud enough to wake the dead and we shot off into the night close on the tail of Leo Bernstein’s monster motor.
Twenty-Two
Gina was lying on her sofa listening to music on the radio when the doorbell rang. She gave a sigh of annoyance. Who could it be at this time of night? Whoever it was, they were damned insistent. The bell rang with a constant tone as though the caller was holding the bell push down. By the time she reached the entrance hall, her insistent visitor had resorted to hammering on the door.
Gina looked through the little spy hole and saw the distorted face of her Uncle Leo, staring back at her. He looked far from happy. She undid the bolt and opened the door. There indeed was Leo Bernstein, holding a revolver in his hand. He was accompanied by one of the club’s little tough guys.
‘Gina, are you all right?’ said Leo, pushing his way past her.
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Gina with some puzzlement, her eyes still staring at the gun. Leo quickly slipped it back in his pocket out of sight.
‘Do come in,’ she said, with tart irony. She really didn’t like being disturbed in this way.
‘Thank you,’ he said before turning to his companion. ‘You stay outside and guard the door.’
The little rat-faced man nodded. ‘Yes, boss,’ he said.
Gina led Leo through into the sitting room.
‘What is this all about?’
‘I…I had a phone call…at the Bamboo House tonight. Anonymous—but it warned me that you’re in danger.’
‘From who?’
‘Well, the caller didn’t say.’
‘Whoever it was, how do they know about me?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. That’s what puzzled me.’
‘Someone must have blabbed.’
Leo had not thought of that. ‘Blabbed! Who? Me and the boys are the only ones who know about you. Who you really are.’
‘Well, if it wasn’t you, maybe it was them. It must have been. Careless talk and all that. I think Vic is smart enough to keep his trap shut, but Anthony…he has a bit of a loose tongue, especially when he’s had a drink.’
It pained Leo a little to accept that this was the truth. ‘I’ll have words with him.’
‘Spilt milk, Uncle.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. The main thing is that your cover is blown and you need to do a disappearing act pronto.’
To Leo’s surprise, Gina seemed unperturbed.
‘It was only going to be a matter of time before my cover was blown as you put it,’ she said easily. ‘It’s happened sooner than I wanted but I certainly don’t intend to live in the shadows for the rest of my life.’
‘But now you’ll be their prime target.’
‘Whether it’s a police nark or some ne’er-do-well who’s been on the blower to you, I can look after myself, Uncle. Don’t worry about me. I’m on my guard. It seems to me that the purpose of the phone call was to scare us, to get me running scared. Well, I don’t do scared. I’m staying put.’
Leo shrugged. He knew it was pointless to argue. ‘So be it. But never relax, eh? Now you’re here, I don’t want to lose you.’
Gina smiled and ran her palm down Leo’s face. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now, seeing as you came all this way to warn me—how about a drink?’
Twenty minutes later Leo Bernstein with his rat-faced cohort left the building and returned to their motor car. Each of them seemed preoccupied, lost in his own thoughts and neither of them observed a man standing in a doorway across the street from the block of flats watching them. He was a tall, young man with a trilby pulled low over his face so that it was difficult to see the black eye patch he wore over his left eye.
On returning to the club, Leo went to his office to complete some paperwork before heading home. He was still concerned about the phone call. Gina may think she was invincible, but he could see that despite her chutzpah, she was very vulnerable. But there was nothing he could do about it.
He sighed deeply. He was tired. More tired than he cared to admit. The stresses of the last month had made him realize that he was not the young bravado he used to be. He knew that losing his brother, coping with the return of Gina and Paulo Ricotti’s death had put an undue strain on his heart. For the first time, he felt like an old man. Maybe it really is time to retire, he told himself, as he lit a cigar and slumped back in his chair. Time to get out of the circus while I still can and enjoy life. What more is there to achieve? And perhaps my hands are soiled enough…
He gently swept these thoughts way—he’d reserve them for another day—and turned his attention to the paperwork on his desk. Legit bills and invoices. What a bore.
A knock at the door put off the dreaded moment.
The caller was Mike Chadwick, the head barman, an old friend of Leo’s, who’d been with the firm in many roles since the early days.
‘What can I do for you, Mike?’
‘It’s something I thought you’d like to know. It may be nothing, but…’
‘Yes, what is it.’
‘One of the bar staff, Tom, the fairly new guy with tortoiseshell glasses…’
Leo prided himself on knowing the name of every member of his staff. He nodded. ‘I know him. What’s up? He been putting his hand in the till?’
‘No, nothing like that. It’s just something he told me tonight. I thought it’s perhaps something you ought to know. It may be something or nothing.’
Leo knew Mike was a shrewd fellow. He was au fait with most of the things connected with the Bernstein business and therefore he wouldn’t be bothering him if he didn’t think it was of some importance.
‘Go on then, spit it out.’
‘Well, Tom said there was a geezer in this evening asking for a girl called Gina…and when Tom asked, ‘Gina who?’ he said, ‘Gina Bernstein’. Does that make any sense to you?’
Leo averted his gaze and ignored the question. ‘Strange. Who was this man?’
‘Don’t know. Tom said he hadn’t seen him in the club before. I gather he was not the usual sort of customer. A bit frayed round the edges. Oh, and he wore a patch over his left eye.’
Twenty-Three
I waited until Bernstein’s car had disappeared from sight and then I walked casually across the street in to Parkway Mansions, the home of Miss Gina Bernstein. This was certainly a more upmarket block of flats than the one once occupied by Beryl Garner and Sylvia Moore. I checked the names of the residents on the board on the main pillar in the foyer. As I expected there was no Bernstein on the list—well, there wouldn’t be, would the
re? But there was a nameplate that looked relatively new advertising a G. Andrews. G for Gina I wondered. It was worth a try.
G. Andrews resided on the top floor in Flat 16. For a few moments I debated with myself. Should I just make a note of the address and pass it on to David Llewellyn when I saw him in the Guardsman the following lunchtime, or should I simply pay a call on Miss Andrews now?
My curiosity was too great. I headed for the lift. I am a detective after all, I reasoned, and I had been the one to discover where the girl hung out. I told myself, I really ought to check that this really was the little birdie we were after. I didn’t want to end up with egg on my face if David turned up at Flat 16 to discover it was inhabited by some fat businessman or a little old lady. I thought that highly unlikely. In truth, I wanted to meet this mysterious woman—get her measure. It was my prerogative.
On this occasion I trusted the lift, which looked sleek and reliable. It hummed efficiently and deposited me on the fourth floor in seconds. I stepped out on to thick luxurious carpet, my feet seeming to sink several inches into the pile. I actually left footprints as I walked. As soon as I reached the door of Flat 16, I rang the bell immediately. Any hesitation now may well have me chickening out of this venture.
I did not have to wait long before the door opened. I don’t know what I expected but what I saw took my breath away. Here before me was a tall, dark-haired girl with stunning grey eyes set on a smooth, beautiful face. She wore a long shimmering grey gown which clung alluringly to her slim frame. Both her stance and her expression were coquettish and beguiling.
‘Miss Bernstein,’ I said, raising my hat.
The Darkness of Death Page 14
