No Ordinary Killing

by No Ordinary Killing (retail) (epub)

  He motioned to him to hurry.

  “Carriage around the corner.”

  Finch could barely walk, Brookman saw and lent assistance while Finch carried his boots.

  “Thank you, Inspector. Thank you.”

  “Thank your little friend.”

  As they rounded the corner, Finch saw Annie sitting in the back of the buggy.

  “Nurse Jones!” he exclaimed.

  The inspector helped Finch up beside her. She made him comfortable, took a handkerchief and gently wiped his face.

  “Did you save me a pastry?” she asked.

  For the first time in a while Finch smiled.

  Brookman climbed up to the driver’s seat, twitched his whip and the dapple grey horse took off.

  The docks were coming to life. A crane was winching up a netted pallet. Along the cobbled dock byways, they wound past piles of crates and boxes.

  Brookman yelled back over his shoulder.

  “Lady Verity … You were set up …”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell them.”

  “Though she was roughed up.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She will be. Is keeping tight-lipped about it. Scared to talk.”

  “It was him, the red-haired man?”

  “Don’t know. But from what Miss Jones has told me, he’d be the number one suspect … he was after something. Information. But was disturbed. The household staff put two and two together—”

  “And I made four.”

  “Afraid so.”

  He urged the horse on.

  “There’s a high-stakes game being played here,” said Brookman. “Something you … the pair of you … have got yourself caught up in. Me too for that matter.”

  “Inspector, who the hell is Moriarty?” asked Finch.

  “That would seem to be the question of the hour.”

  They came off the dock road up towards Strand Street.

  “Right, heads down,” said Brookman. “You can’t afford to be seen. And I certainly can’t afford to be seen with you.”

  They ducked as he wheeled the buggy off to the right, crossing the oncoming lane. Up ahead were Military Foot Police, an unusual sight so early in the day, their presence generally aligned with drinking hours.

  “I have reason to suspect this lot are in on it,” he added, nodding in the their direction.

  Brookman slowed to a trot as they edged up an alley behind some coachworks and came to a halt. He sprang down and opened the door.

  “What the hell’s going on Inspector?” asked Finch.

  “I don’t rightly know, Captain. But I do know you need to make yourselves scarce.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t explain. I really wish I could.”

  He helped Annie out then both extended their hands to Finch.

  “Trust no one,” Brookman added. “The MFPs let you go – for now – but they’ll be watching out, ready to reel you in at any moment. There are others out there too who would mean you harm. You already know that.”

  Finch reached for his left boot. He prised up the inner and was relieved to find what he’d been looking for.

  “Inspector, what’s this?”

  It was no longer in its envelope.

  “You mean other than it being a key?”

  “It was given to us by Lady Verity. Something to do with Cox. Maybe what her assailant was looking for.”

  Brookman examined it.

  “One thing I do know is locks.”

  He pressed it back into Finch’s hand.

  “It’s a barrel key. A modern one. No more than about five years old.”

  “A latch key? A locker?” asked Annie.

  “Desk or bureau. Small compartment or drawer.”

  The tension returned to his face.

  “But there’s no time. Please go, hide, lie low. Keep out of sight. If you must move, do it in a crowd or after dark.”

  “Why?”

  Brookman ignored him. He reached inside his jacket and pulled something from under his jacket.

  “Here …”

  It was a Webley, like the one Finch had lost, though a more recent model, shiny and oiled.

  “… you’ll need this.”

  Finch clutched it.

  “You took it from me, threatened me,” said Brookman. “Are we clear?”

  “No. Not clear at all.”

  “Disappear for a day, maybe two. If you can find out anything in the process, anything to do with this Moriarty, any of this business, then please do. But by all means, be careful.”

  “Cox and Lady Verity. You knew they were—”

  “I did … High society is small society, Captain. People talk.”

  Finch felt relief, at least, that his failure to disclose the letters had not prevented Brookman’s knowledge of their affair.

  “Now go. Please. Keep out of the way. I will find you. I promise.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Finch and Annie watched Brookman depart as silently yet dramatically as he had arrived.

  The coachworks smelt of wood and resin. There were cartwheels stacked behind a chained metal gate at the alley’s dead end; the rest of it comprised shuttered lock-ups. Opposite the entrances ran a grubby brick wall. By a puddle, a stray black and white cat picked over the carcass of some small bird or rodent.

  It was still early. They would be conspicuous until the rush-hour crowds and the cover that they would afford.

  “So what now?” asked Annie.

  “I wish I knew.”

  He leaned against the wall and pulled on his boots. She offered to help but he insisted he was okay.

  “Don’t know about you, but I don’t much fancy hiding out for two days,” she said. “Brookman said something about finding out as much as we can, if we were careful. His hands must be tied.”

  “Thank you,” said Finch.

  “For what?”

  “Saving my bacon.”

  She was evidently not an easy recipient of praise.

  “Only thing I could think of. Had enough money to get a taxi cab from the hotel to the tram terminus. Hung around for the dawn service to start up.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Brookman said that the Military Foot Police used a number of hidey-holes around town for their more high profile ‘guests’, as he put it. We’ve been calling at them one by one. Taken hours. You know he hasn’t slept in God knows how long … He mentioned another name … Hartson, Harrison?”

  “Harmison.”

  “That’s it. Raised him on the telephone. Used him to buy you some time. Brookman was supposed to deliver us, both of us, straight to Harmison, that was the deal, all part of the ongoing investigation, which is now in MFP hands … I got the impression this Harmison was not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

  Finch laughed.

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So what do we do?”

  Finch went to the end of the alley and looked round the corner. There were still two Military Foot Police on the seaward end of the main drag.

  He wasn’t sure how efficient the lines of communication were. They still might be on the lookout for him as the supposed assaulter of Lady Verity. The problem had been compounded by the fact that, in the past few minutes, courtesy of Brookman, he’d also been reinvented as a hostile, armed fugitive, one also absent without leave.

  Though the alley was a cul-de-sac, its line extended across the other side of the road running through to the street that ran parallel to the thoroughfare of Buitengracht.

  “How’s your knowledge of the city?” he asked Annie.

  “Better than yours probably.”

  “The next road over, what is it?”

  “Bree … Yes, Bree Street.”

  He rubbed his face. His cheek still smarted.

  “Do you know Bloem Street? It’s around here somewhere, I think.”

  “Few blocks inland.
”

  “You sure?”

  “Pretty.”

  “In that case, I do have one idea.”

  He sensed scepticism.

  “What?”

  “The RAMC’s official headquarters are at the Cape Town Castle, but the bulk of the work, the day-to-day admin stuff, is conducted from an office on Bloem Street. Cox was based there before hostilities broke out. I know he would have reported there again on return to Cape Town on the 24th. He still kept a desk there.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “That we go in and take a look around.”

  Her expression conveyed that she didn’t concur with it being a good plan.

  “Why not?” he urged. “RAMC personnel in an RAMC building? It’s not illogical. ‘Hiding in plain sight.’ Remember?”

  “Look where that got us last time.” she said

  “If there are MFPs outside the building, or anything looks out of the ordinary, then we’ll steer clear. I promise.”

  “Surely they’ll have posted someone there?”

  “Not the sharpest knives in the drawer. Remember?”

  It was her turn to smile.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Quarter past seven.”

  “Right, follow me.”

  He led her to the end of the alley.

  The odd cart and wagon had begun to clop past. They heard the clang of a tram and the fizz of electricity in the overhead cables. It was trundling downhill towards them.

  “Right,” said Finch.

  He grabbed her hand.

  “Let’s go.”

  As the tram drew close, they saw it was packed with workers headed for the docks. As it passed them, obscuring their view from the MFPs on the corner, Finch dragged Annie across the street.

  He was more incapacitated than he thought. He caught his foot in the track and stumbled. The tram had continued on, leaving them completely exposed, but the MFPs hadn’t looked their way. Annie helped him up. They ducked into the alleyway opposite.

  “Thank you again,” he panted.

  They followed the alley, past a line of refuse bins, to Bree Street. It, too, was exhibiting the first signs of life. Sure that there were no Military Foot Police, Cape Police or anyone else of obvious threat, they hastened north, keeping close to the storefronts.

  Onto Bloem Street and the block was dominated by a gleaming modern office block, all cement and glass that could only, estimated Finch, have been built in the 1890s. It had about ten storeys and the ground level, the reception area, was nothing but plate glass with a revolving door situated in the centre. Above it were the words ‘Warwick House’. Again, there seemed no evidence of danger.

  “The RAMC haven’t got the whole building,” said Finch. “It’s shared with other businesses, some tied to the services, some commercial. I came here once, but that was it.”

  A woman of about 30 years of age was walking in their direction on the other side of the street. She had a long skirt, white blouse, a dark bolero jacket and a straw boater. She stopped outside the building, wrestled some keys from a leather satchel and began unlocking a glass door, starting with the lock at the top.

  “This is our chance,” said Finch.

  He led Annie over to the woman.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning,” she replied, still reaching up.

  “I wonder if you could help us?”

  She crouched to undo the bottom lock set in a metal bar at the foot of the door, then stood and eyed them up and down. Lord knows how they presented, wondered Finch. He alone hadn’t shaved for three days.

  “I’m afraid we’re not open till eight, sir. There won’t be any medical corps here till then.”

  “Which is why we need your help. You see, the nurse and I, we’re due to leave for the Front this morning.”

  The woman shook her head.

  “Just terrible, this business. Just terrible …”

  She fumbled with the keys and put them back in her satchel.

  “… My brother, Terrence. He was at Colenso. What he wrote to me … It’s just shocking.”

  “It must be difficult for you,” soothed Annie, touching her elbow.

  “Not knowing’s the worst,” said the woman, her voice a little shaky. “You spend every day hanging on the footsteps of the postman.”

  Annie extended her hand and introduced herself. The woman reciprocated.

  “Daisy,” she said. She jabbed a thumb towards the inside. “The receptionist.”

  “Daisy,” ventured Finch. “I’m afraid we lost a dear colleague of ours recently, a Major Cox.”

  She shook her head again and exhaled loudly.

  “I heard,” she said. “Saw him only the other day. He was home on leave, the day … the day he was …”

  She gazed off into the middle distance.

  “… Such a nice man … Oh, it’s just so awful.”

  She pushed the door open and let them in. She proceeded behind the front desk.

  “If you want to leave a note for someone here, I’ll be sure—”

  Finch pulled his most sombre face.

  “It’s more personal than that,” he intoned. “You see Cox was my commanding officer. We served together at the Front … Magersfontein.”

  He hoped that the word would add resonance.

  “In these unfortunate circumstances I’ve been charged with taking care of his personal effects … to forward them on to his dear wife and children. I’m afraid I’m only in Cape Town very briefly.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Finch delved in a pocket. Yes, he still had it – the requisition order Brookman had filled out, intended for Ans Du Plessis, but worded to the same ends. Daisy glanced at it but didn’t read it, accepting it at face value.

  “We were wondering if we could take a quick look,” added Annie. “See if there’s anything that ought to be included. Photographs, mementoes ..”

  It was obvious they had placed Daisy in an awkward position.

  “But honestly, if it’s an imposition, we understand,” Annie continued. “The police will be able to do the same. It’s just that his things will probably end up in storage somewhere.”

  She turned back towards the street, nodding discreetly for Finch to follow.

  It worked.

  “Look, I shouldn’t really be doing this,” whispered Daisy. “If the caretaker were here.”

  She went to the glass door and locked it from the inside, then returned to the desk. She rifled through more keys, unlocked a case on the wall and removed yet another bunch. She went towards a door in an internal wall and unlocked a latticed cage screen, which she slid back on concertina hinges. She beckoned for them to follow her into a confined space.

  “What’s this?” asked Annie.

  “An elevator … a passenger lift,” said Finch. “See …”

  On the wall next to it, Finch pointed to the brass signs for the assorted outfits that occupied each floor of the building – several shipping companies, an accountancy firm, a telegraphy company and, on the eighth floor, Royal Army Medical Corps.

  The lift was an Otis, Finch read off the floor plate. The Otis Elevator Company had done very nicely out of the new mania for building upwards, such devices commonplace in cities like New York, and proliferating elsewhere. He had ridden in them a few times in London.

  Daisy slid the caged door back across, threw a large lever and punched a button. With a jolt, they took off. Annie grabbed Finch’s hand reflexively, then let go when she realised what she was doing.

  “My stomach!”

  Daisy laughed.

  “It does that the first time.”

  They followed Daisy down a corridor past closed doors to the Excelsior Shipping Company and Masthead Telegraphic Incorporated. The third door along door was adorned with the letters RAMC. She found the key, then opened it.

  Within were several desks each piled with papers. There were a couple of telephones. On the w
all was a large map, buried under a forest of coloured pins.

  “Through there,” said Daisy, pointing to a side room. “The Major used to park himself in there.”

  “Thank you,” said Finch.

  “Ten minutes. Please don’t dally. The caretaker clocks on at quarter to.”

  “We’ll be as quick as we can,” assured Annie.

  Daisy prised the key off the ring.

  “Lock up after yourselves and bring this back to me. Have to use the stairs, I’m afraid.”

  Said Finch, hamming up the sincerity: “Major Cox’s family would appreciate what you’ve done for them.”

  When her footsteps had retreated down the corridor, Finch closed the main door and locked it from the inside. They then went into the small office. They felt the receding hum of the elevator.

  Inside there was one desk with a telephone. Unlike the ones in the main room it was remarkably uncluttered – just a blotter, some pens and a large, lined desk notepad. The pad was devoid of any writing whatsoever, with the exception of the bottom right-hand corner which, given the impression on the page beneath, had had something scrawled on it before being torn off.

  Finch went behind the desk and sat in the wood and leather swivel chair. Turning round, he saw there was another building of similar height on the opposite side of the street off to the left. But straight ahead, unobstructed, lay an impressive view over the docks and the sweep of Table Bay. The sky was a clear blue, the morning sun already shimmering on the water, a haze blurring the horizon.

  Down one side of the desk were three drawers.

  “Brookman said a desk, right?”

  Annie watched as he pulled out the key Lady Verity had given them. He tried it in each lock.

  “Nope. None of them. Too small.”

  He tried to wrench the top drawer open but it remained fast, as did the second. When he pulled on the bottom drawer, the largest, it jolted open to reveal nothing but a half-drunk bottle of Mount Gay rum.

  He eased out the cork, sniffed it and took a swig.

  “Medicinal purposes,” he said. “Here …”

  He handed it to Annie and she did the same. She stood for a moment gazing out of the window.

  “Great view,” she said.

  Her momentary drift was shattered by the sudden shrill ring of the telephone. Finch looked at her.

  “You think it might be Daisy? We haven’t long.”