Once more unnatural death had visited Crimea Buildings.
*
Towards noon, Vic and Anthony Bernstein were seated in Uncle Leo’s office looking grave as he imparted the news to them.
‘Some bastard has tried to kill Gina.’
‘Tried?’ asked Anthony with some alarm.
‘Yes, someone went to her flat last night and tried to strangle her.’
It was the word ‘tried’ that made Anthony’s heart beat and sweat begin to form on his forehead. He shot a wide-eyed glance at Vic who gave a slight shake of the head, warning him to keep his mouth shut.
‘Who did it?’ asked Anthony, his voice rasping as it emerged from a very dry throat.
Leo spread his fingers widely. ‘I don’t know. It’s very strange and very disturbing. She was left for dead, apparently. She has some spirit, that girl.’
Vic, who had been sitting quietly, examining his finger nails, rose suddenly and began pacing the room. ‘Will she live? Where is she?’
‘She’s in the Middlesex,’ said Leo. ‘I got that from the commissionaire at Parkway Mansions when I called there this morning. I don’t know how she is for certain. The commissionaire reckoned that she was unconscious when they carried her out. But at least she’s alive for the moment. But we’ve got to keep well away from the hospital. All of us. Is that understood? The coppers are buzzing round there like flies. I don’t want you getting tangled up with the law. Things are tricky enough as it is.’
‘What if she talks?’ said Anthony. ‘Blabs about our business. We’ll all be in the dung then.’
‘She won’t talk,’ said Leo. ‘She’s tough and resilient. Remember, she’s a Bernstein. They’ll not crack Gina. I’m just worried that we will lose her.’
‘I’d like to get my hands on the bastard who…’ Anthony thumped the desk angrily.
‘We’d all like that,’ said Leo. ‘And we will. All in good time. Meanwhile, we suspend all our operations…’
Anthony raised his hand to protest but Leo waved him down with an angry sweep of his hand.
‘We suspend all our operations,’ he repeated with emphasis, ‘and lie low until we have a clearer picture of events.’
‘How do we do that, if we’re not to go to the hospital?’ asked Vic.
Leo sighed. ‘I’ll get one of the boys to make discreet enquiries. The porters usually know all there is to know. But you two, stay away. It’s bad enough with Gina in trouble. Is that clear?’
Leo stared hard at the two young men. They nodded in reluctant agreement.
‘And,’ Leo added even more gravely, ‘watch your backs. There’s a killer about wanting to destroy this family.’
*
David Llewellyn stepped over the threshold of Flat 333 Crimea Buildings, the remnants of the crippled front door lying askew in the hallway. It had been kicked in with some force.
‘They’re in the bedroom,’ said Sergeant Sunderland, who had arrived ahead of his boss and was standing at the far end of the hall.
Together the two men entered the room. On the floor, flat on his back, his mouth agape and eyes wide open staring at the cracks in the ceiling was Archie Muldoon. Already his flesh was beginning to turn blue. The red wound on his vest clearly indicated the cause of death. He was not a pretty sight in life, thought David, but he was far worse dead.
The covers had been pulled back from the bed to reveal the body of the blonde-haired woman, curled in a foetal position. David could see the two bullet holes, one on her back and one in the neck.
‘Who is she?’ he asked.
‘Her name is Sarah. That’s all I could get from the neighbours. She was, to use their phrase, “Archie’s woman”: He wrinkled his nose with distaste as he said it.
David gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘It’s becoming far too familiar an occasion is this, Sunderland. Meeting up with you to view a body—two in this case.’
For some moments David Llewellyn stood in this dingy, stale-smelling bedroom with the two stiffening corpses and photographed the scene in his memory for further reference. He just wished that it wasn’t necessary.
‘I should have acted faster, but I never thought this would happen,’ he said, almost to himself, but the ever alert Sunderland queried him.
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Archie Muldoon’s been working a protection racket scam for the Bernsteins. Johnny Hawke advised that I pull him in for questioning but…it seems someone got there before me.’
‘The Bernsteins no doubt.’
‘No doubt. But prove it. Did the neighbours see anything, anyone? After all, some devil smashed the door in.’
‘Sir, this is Crimea Buildings. No one saw or heard a thing. They’re all deaf and blind here. Helping the police is tantamount to slitting your grandmother’s throat to this lot.’
‘I suspected as much.’ He sighed. ‘OK Sergeant, get these lovelies over to the morgue and have a thorough search of these delightful premises to see if you can come up with anything that has the slightest resemblance to a clue.’
‘What are you going to do, sir?’
‘Me? I’m going to the hospital.’
*
‘And who might you be?’ The bobby on duty outside Gina Bernstein’s room rose from his chair and stood in front of the doorway.
David smiled indulgently. ‘Good man,’ he said, plucking out his warrant card from his inside pocket. The constable immediately stiffened his stance. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Now, don’t be sorry. You weren’t to know I was from the Yard. I could have been an axe-wielding murderer for all you knew.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any change in the girl?’
‘Don’t think so, sir. Doctors haven’t said anything to me, but the nurse who brings me a cup of tea said there was nothing new to report.’
David pulled a disappointed face.
‘Still, sir, that also means she ain’t got worse.’
‘That’s true,’ he agreed, forcing a weak smile. ‘Well, seeing as I’m here, I’ll just take a quick look at her.’
The constable stood aside to let David enter.
The room was gloomy. The window shades were drawn. The girl looked exactly as she had the night before; her tiny drawn face just peering over the counterpane, expressionless and mask-like. To David’s dismay it looked like the face of a dead woman. However, the monitor that recorded her heartbeat indicated there was still feeble life in that vital organ.
‘C’mon love,’ he whispered, leaning over the bed, ‘you can do it. Struggle up towards the light, eh?’
The girl’s face remained immobile. Only the gentle bleep of the monitor and the almost imperceptible rise of her chest indicated that she was still alive.
David left the room and went in search of a doctor, although he felt sure that there really would be no news, no progress to report. This was going to be a long wait and in the end it could well be a futile one.
*
Despite the danger and seriousness of this ‘mission’ as he thought of it, he was quite excited by the task in hand. It was a new departure for him and he saw it as a way of developing, growing in experience. It wasn’t his plan, of course, but he had been happy to be the one to put it into operation.
He had combed his hair a different way and adopted a large pair of dark, horn-rimmed spectacles which he considered made him look older and ‘brainier’. Carrying his briefcase with a swagger, he approached the reception desk.
‘My sister was admitted here last night,’ he said, adopting a nervous urgency in his manner and voice. ‘The police brought her in, I gather. The poor girl had been attacked. Strangled. Gina Andrews is the name.’
The young girl at the desk, a pretty little thing hardly out of her teens, did not have to check her register. The hospital had been buzzing with the news.
‘She’s in a private ward on the second floor. But she’s not allowed visitors at the moment. There is a policeman on duty outside her room; perhap
s you had better report to him and find out more details.’
‘Thank you,’ he gushed, wiping his brow as a dramatic gesture.
‘It’s room 210. You’ll find the stairs to your left.’
‘Thank you miss,’ said the man in the tortoiseshell glasses.
On reaching the second floor, he sought out the gentleman’s lavatory. Once ensconced in one the confined cubicles, he removed his overcoat and withdrew a white coat, the sort worn by doctors, from his briefcase, into which he now placed his rolled-up overcoat. He slipped on the white coat, adjusted his glasses and left the cubicle. He checked his appearance in the mirror above the wash basin and was pleased with the result. ‘Good Day, Dr Jekyll,’ he said, smugly, to his own reflection and gave himself a brief salute before venturing out on to the corridor once more.
Believing now that his simple disguise gave him an invincible immunity, he swaggered through the hospital with great confidence. His next task was to effect a bit of sleight of hand. That should be no trouble to him. He had been an excellent pickpocket before he’d got out of short trousers.
He loitered in the corridor pretending to look at some notes from his briefcase, waiting until a suitable subject came along. He didn’t have to wait long. An elderly doctor, with a weary gait and stooped shoulders, came into view. He started to move towards him, and when they were almost abreast, he stumbled and collided with the doctor, knocking him against the wall.
‘I’m most awfully sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m such a careless oaf. Are you all right?’
‘No damage done,’ said the doctor with some irritation. He pulled himself up straight and dusted himself down.
‘Good, good. Well, sorry again.’ He moved off at haste, clutching his prize secreted in his hand.
‘Now for little Gina,’ he muttered.
Following the painted signs on the walls, he soon found his way down a narrow dimly lighted corridor to room 210. There was a uniformed policeman sitting outside reading a copy of the Daily Mirror.
‘Hello, Constable,’ he said cheerily, approaching the officer. ‘Any good news in the paper?’
The constable, a young man with wispy hair and a sallow face, glanced up in surprise. He had not heard the fellow in the white coat approach.
‘Er, no. Not really. Same old stuff,’ he said lamely.
‘Just got to see the patient for a moment,’ said the man in the white coat, tapping his briefcase. ‘Need to administer some drugs.’ He made a move towards the door but the young policeman rose from his chair.
‘Can I see your pass, please, sir?’
‘Certainly,’ he replied cheerily, presenting the policeman with the white card which he had taken from the doctor he had collided with some minutes earlier.
The constable barely gave it a glance. ‘All in order,’ he said, returning the card.
‘Thank you, I won’t be very long,’ the man in the white coat assured the policeman as he opened the door of room 210 and entered.
Twenty-Nine
Despite my instructions to the contrary, Benny let me sleep late the next morning. I just snored on beyond my usual waking hour. It wasn’t just my body that was tired, my brain was weary too. Sleep was the escape from the slings and arrows of my outrageous fortune. Benny brought me a cup of tea and an egg sandwich around nine o’clock. Both were most welcome and I hadn’t the heart to complain about him not rousing me earlier. And, bless him, he never enquired about the business that had brought me to his place in the early hours of the morning. He knew I was a detective with an unpredictable and erratic lifestyle—sometimes routines were disrupted and strange measures were needed; he accepted that and didn’t pry. I’m sure he felt more comfortable not knowing.
Even when I dragged myself from my crumpled pit, I felt sluggish. Sadly the tea and sandwich followed by a fag did little to revive my spirits. There were too many rough edges in my life at present, too many unresolved conundrums for me to feel at ease and full of vigour. On top of this, I was missing Max. It amazed me how in a few short months she had become such an integral and essential part of my life. I knew her absence would make me a little miserable, but I had not reckoned on the ache that not having her near had generated.
I dressed quickly and hurried home.
I’d had visitors. The lock had been broken and my place had been subject to a gentle ransack. They certainly hadn’t got what they wanted because that was me. I had been wise after all not to sleep at home. I rang for a locksmith and carried out my full morning ablutions, hoping a cold wash and a shave, along with a fresh change of clothes would perk me up a little. To be honest, I did feel a little better, more human I suppose, but my spirits still remained on the low side.
While I waited for the locksmith, I tidied up and decided what I ought to do with my day. I knew that really I should visit that photographic studio in Oxford Street in the hope that I would clean up one unpleasant mess, but I knew that particular errand could wait a while. My thoughts were really focused on the girl in the Middlesex—the mysterious Gina. I had a strong desire to see how she was. I really wanted to be around when she regained consciousness. If she regained consciousness. If I popped into the hospital first, I could easily make my way up to Oxford Street later. A few hours would not make any real difference. After my lock had been fixed, I ventured out once more.
It was one of those grey winter days which never quite see daylight. Pedestrians hurried along, huddled into their coats, their breath emerging in short puffs of steam into the chill air. I walked as briskly as I could towards the hospital. By the time I got there, I was frozen to the marrow and unusually glad to pass through the swing doors into the warm foyer.
I made my way up to the second floor and along the corridor to Gina’s room. There was a new constable on guard outside. The burly fellow from the night before had been replaced by a young chap who, as I approached, seemed to snap himself out of a daydream and rise quickly from his chair. His expression was not welcoming. Before he could say a word, I flashed my pass at him, the one they’d given me the night before.
‘I am a colleague of Detective Inspector Llewellyn,’ I said.
The constable looked askance at this fellow in a shabby overcoat with slit sleeves and eye-patch, but the pass erased any resistance. ‘I’ve come to see how the girl is,’ I added.
‘I don’t think there’s been much change,’ said the policeman, eyeing me with suspicion. ‘There’s a doctor in with her now.’
‘Good. I’ll get a progress report from the horse’s mouth,’ I said quickly with a brief smile and, before he could stop me, I swept past him and opened the door.
The room was gloomy. The shade was drawn and the only illumination was a small bedside light. Silhouetted against this was a figure dressed in a white coat bending over the patient in the bed. At my entrance, he jerked upwards and turned in surprise to face me, his features masked by harsh shadows. All I could tell was that he had dark hair and wore a large pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses.
‘Doctor,’ I said in greeting. ‘I’m John Hawke, associated with the police. I was the person—’
I got no further because I had to dodge a water jug that the white-coated figure had hurled at me. It crashed harmlessly against the wall.
So, my brain told me rapidly assessing this odd situation, this fellow is not a doctor, or if so, a very disturbed one. He tried to rush past me, heading for the door, but I stood my ground and prevented him. I grabbed hold of the fellow and we tussled in an ungainly fashion, like two gorillas attempting a waltz, ricocheting around the tiny room. With a concerted effort, I rammed him backwards against the wall. He was bulkier than me but not as agile and I was able to force him on to the ground, where I placed my foot firmly on his chest and pressed down hard to pin him in place.
‘Lie still,’ I said, ‘or I’ll crack all your ribs.’
Remarkably he did as I ordered. Then I noticed his shadowy face glance at something over my shoulder. Before I knew what was happenin
g, two arms grasped me from behind.
‘Don’t try anything funny,’ came a voice in my ear. It was the young constable. Doing his mistaken duty. With a sharp tug he pulled me backwards, releasing my assailant.
‘Thank you, Officer,’ cried the intruder, jumping to his feet. ‘He’s some sort of madman. He attacked me while I was treating my patient,’ he cried hurriedly, making for the door. ‘If you can restrain him for a moment, I’ll raise the alarm.’ He was out of the room in a flash.
‘You fool,’ I raged. ‘He’s not a doctor. He was trying to kill the girl.’
‘A likely story,’ came the reply. There was stupid arrogance in his tone. ‘Now you keep still, Mr Bloody One Eye or it will be the worse for you.’
That did it. Real anger overcame all my emotions. I thrust my arms outwards with great force and broke free of his grasp. Swinging round, I planted my fist hard on his stupid face. I heard his nose crack. With a yell of surprise, he fell to the ground, his body slithering across the floor, his head disappearing under the bed. I didn’t hang around to examine the state of his injuries, but sped from the room and down the narrow corridor into the main thoroughfare just in time to see Mr Horn-rimmed Glasses at the far end about to descend the curved staircase to the lower floor.
I raced after him.
It was the sound of my feet clattering on the stone floor that alerted my quarry that he was being chased. He speeded up and bounded down the staircase three and sometimes four steps at a time. He had disappeared from sight by the time I began to descend. As I reached midway and the floor below came in view, I spied him slipping down a corridor to the right. It would, I knew, lead him to the main foyer and freedom. Once out through those large revolving doors, I would lose him as sure as dried eggs is dried eggs.
However, luck was with me—or so I thought—for, as I turned into the corridor, it seemed that my violent friend had collided with a visitor, a tall man in a blue overcoat. The two of them were engaged in what appeared to be an animated conversation. This delay was a real bonus. Then Mr Horn-rimmed Glasses threw a glance back in my direction, said something in urgent rasped tones to the other man before legging it down the corridor.
The Darkness of Death Page 17
