No Ordinary Killing

by No Ordinary Killing (retail) (epub)

  “You know I could turn you over to the authorities,” said Rideau.

  His hands appeared to be trembling.

  “But you won’t,” said Finch.

  “And why not?” huffed Rideau.

  “Because you and I know there’s something completely bent about Cox’s death. Brookman admitted as much.”

  “It was he who saved us and put us on the run,” said Annie.

  Rideau’s brow furrowed.

  “Brookman? Really?”

  “At the police station, did you see him?” asked Finch.

  “Actually no. Said he was away. Some urgent business or other.”

  “It’s tosh. He’s gone to ground, too, minding his own back till he can pull us back in.”

  The parcel had fallen to the floor. Finch prodded it with his boot. It rustled.

  “Plus, there’s this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Have a look.”

  Without removing the gun or his gaze, Rideau crouched down. He undid the string and ripped open the paper. He pulled at it and saw the epaulettes.

  His brow wrinkled with curiosity again.

  “Cox’s?”

  Finch nodded.

  “How on earth did you come by it?”

  “I see you’ve just had lunch,” said Finch, nodding to Rideau’s moustache. “Rustle us up some food, put the kettle on, and I’ll reveal all.”

  Rideau stood. His voice was firm.

  “I need to know I can trust you. I’m not joking.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Mine, too,” added Annie.

  He didn’t seem convinced, but Finch could sense intrigue getting the better of him.

  “Finch, you profess to be a gentleman. This business with Lady Verity. I admit, I just can’t square that with you. You don’t strike me as the type. But I want you to look me in the eye and say it again. Promise me that I can trust you or, by God – and it brings me no pleasure to say so – I’ll use this thing.”

  He waved the gun for emphasis.

  Finch was under no illusion that, ultimately, Rideau would shoot if he had to. He did as commanded.

  “Then all right,” said Rideau. “Come in.”

  He pocketed Finch’s gun and, at the point of his own, motioned them towards the sitting room.

  “Stop right there!” Rideau yelled.

  Finch froze.

  “Your shoes … boots.”

  “What?”

  He pointed the gun at their feet.

  “House rule.”

  Only then did Finch see that Rideau wore a pair of pointed, soft-leather Moroccan slippers.

  “Yours too, Miss Jones.”

  She shrugged, caught Finch’s eye, and they both attended to their laces. Rideau lowered the weapon but did not relinquish it.

  “Lapsang Souchong, Darjeeling, Earl Grey …?” he asked

  “Beg your pardon?” said Annie.

  “Tea. What kind of tea?”

  “Rooibos?” enquired Finch.

  Rideau nodded.

  “And for you, Miss?”

  “Just tea. Tea tea.”

  * * *

  Rideau went through to the kitchen, leaving the stocking-footed pair perched on the divan. There were further paintings – one over the fireplace of something French and impressionistic, of genteel folk lazing on a riverbank. It would have been at home at La Rochelle, thought Finch.

  There was a bookcase crammed with leather-bound volumes, a large wooden globe from a bygone age with misshapen continents and Terra Australis not yet charted. There were potted ferns and an antique barometer.

  The mantelpiece contained some ornaments – small nudes, mischievous plump boy cherubs. Finch did not recall Rideau making any reference to a wife.

  In the corner, he could see that the piano was standing on a folded tarpaulin. The lacquer had been almost completely removed to reveal rough, raw wood. Sandpaper, a wooden sanding block and a plane lay on the floor.

  “Nice place,” said Annie.

  “Thank you,” came the voice from the kitchen. “A useful pied-à-terre. Just an apartment. My main home is at Bathurst, in the Eastern Cape, near the cannery.”

  “Cannery?”

  “Fruit, Miss Jones. Pineapples mainly.”

  Rideau returned with a tray bearing two teapots, the necessary crockery and some French-style baguettes sliced up and lined with some thin, holey cheese. Annie did not wait to be asked and began devouring with gusto. Finch followed.

  Rideau exited and returned again, rather proudly, with a plate of fresh sliced pineapple and two small forks. The smell was potent.

  Annie put down the remnants of her sandwich and tried a slice. The juice ran down her chin.

  “God, this is delicious.”

  “My sentiments entirely,” Rideau smiled. “It is my personal mission to share the produce of Eden with the world.”

  Finch poured the tea and explained, as succinctly as he could, all that had happened to them since they had last met. Rideau stood and listened intently. When Finch came to the part about the red-headed man, Rideau interjected.

  “Wait … I’ve seen him. Burly fellow, had on a blue suit. He was there, loitering around the police station … that day you and I met.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, yes … he was right there on the corner. You know, when I got into the cab … And I’ve seen him since. Damn, where was it …?”

  “He’s very dangerous, Mr Rideau,” urged Annie. “If you see him again …”

  Rideau was lost in thought.

  “Cox’s guest house, that’s right. The old dragon. What’s her name …?”

  “Du Plessis.”

  “I don’t know if I’m imagining it but, now you mention it, I think I saw him around there too. That road that slopes up to the house. Yes, he was at the bottom. Not doing anything, just standing there, by a lamp post. I’d gone, like you, to pay my respects. Get a look at where poor old Coxie met his maker.”

  He turned mournful.

  “He looked pretty athletic, I must say, a military type. I thought he was something to do with the police investigation. A bit of muscle. Keeping tabs.”

  “Definitely muscle. It was he who turned over Cox’s room.”

  Rideau mulled it over. Though it had happened two days previously, this particular piece of information had been kept from him, he said, though probably because there was no Brookman around to keep him up to speed.

  “So he’s this Moriarty fellow, then? If he’s instrumental in all this business, what does he know? What does he hold?”

  Finch shook his head.

  “He’s not Moriarty.”

  “No?”

  “Unless he’s playing an elaborate game of bluff. He’s on the trail of Moriarty as much as we now are. If we are.”

  “And you’re no closer to finding out who?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Finch finished off the remainder of their story, bringing them right up to the moment they had knocked on Rideau’s door. Their host silently processed the information, nodding his understanding.

  When he was done, Rideau came and sat in the armchair opposite them. He perched on the edge, then gave a theatrical cough.

  “Captain Finch … Ingo?” he said. “I’m afraid it is me who now has to be honest with you … with both of you.”

  “How so?”

  He paused for a moment, assembling his words.

  “That day we met. Lunch. We were being frank, open, sharing information. I suspected that you were telling me almost everything, but not completely everything.”

  Finch and Annie threw each other a look.

  “You let something slip, then checked yourself. You said that you’d been present at Kilfoyle’s interrogation. I purposely didn’t pick you up on it.”

  Finch knew there was no point in denying it.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Rideau waved a hand, as if flicking away a fly.

 
“Really, it’s fine. Totally understood. We’d only just met. It was a big ask but, as a consequence of your doing that, I thought I ought to keep something back for myself, too.”

  He turned to Annie, then Finch.

  “I would like to offer a most sincere apology. What you went through to get to Lady Verity … being chased, shot at and all … and now all this business. I feel a great burden of responsibility. You see, I did know about Cox’s affair … with Lady Verity. I deliberately chose not to reveal it … to confirm that she was ‘V’. I mean, Cox had told me in confidence, for one. I simply hadn’t fathomed on you figuring it out and tracking her down like that. Had I known—”

  Finch exhaled.

  “Albert, it’s fine. There are certain things about which one should be circumspect. We only made the dash to Stellenbosch on learning of Kilfoyle’s death. But now you mention it, who else knew? Brookman suggests it wasn’t quite the amour secret they believed. Small circles and all that.”

  Rideau shrugged.

  “Very few, I would imagine. I think I was the only one he actually confessed it to. Well, that was my understanding. I suppose, try as they might, there must have been suspicions, tongues wagging. Her staff, etcetera, as you’ve already intimated. But the pair of them, they’d have done their darnedest to keep the lid on it. There was too much at stake. Although, might I add, I believe they genuinely loved each other. Whatever you’ve heard about Vesta Lane or any other strumpet …”

  He turned to Annie again.

  “Forgive my language, Miss Jones.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “… they were just silly schoolboy fascinations.”

  “I hear you,” said Finch.

  “Lady Verity was not the half of it, though. This trouble that Cox had got himself into. Remember I said he was in way over his head. It was something big, I tell you. Something explosive. I believe something to do with state secrets. Of that magnitude. Something that came as a consequence of dipping his toes in these new forbidden waters. I’m guessing this is where our friend, this mysterious Moriarty, comes into play.”

  “It would be the assumption—” said Finch, checking himself too late.

  “You know, Brookman loathes that word.”

  Rideau smiled, Finch did the same. Rideau then turned serious again.

  “Remember the two Coxes I spoke of – one the honourable family chap, the other the womaniser, gambler, drinker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well this is a case of the bad Cox for you. From what I deduced, Cox knew the value of the information he had come across. He knew it would be devastating. But rather than place that information in the correct hands – those of the authorities – he tried to profit from the situation …”

  Finch and Annie caught each other’s eye again.

  “… Had debts, you see. From what he’d hinted, he was about to sell the information to a newspaper. To a journalist—”

  “Shawcroft.”

  He nodded.

  “Maitland Shawcroft of the Evening Post. I never heard Cox’s direct mention of that name, but once you start making deals like that, word gets out … If I knew, then others certainly did … I must add here again that I’ve told all this to Brookman. He knows way more than he’s letting on, as we’ve already determined. Detective’s prerogative. It’s probably why Cox was silenced … why Shawcroft himself has now been silenced.”

  “What about the coat?” asked Annie.

  “Yes,” Finch added. “The coat. It was handed over as if Shawcroft were trying to tell us something.”

  “And it was found at the Somerset Road Cemetery, you say?”

  Annie nodded.

  Rideau rubbed his chin.

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “That it was tossed out en route,” said Finch.

  “By your second Good Samaritan, the one you described? The one who knew about the laudanum bottle in the pocket?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And so you now think it is he who killed Cox?”

  “There’s a strong chance.”

  “Not Kilfoyle?”

  Finch shook his head. Rideau exhaled sharply.

  “My word, if you’re right … and I say if you’re right … that would be a colossal embarrassment for the police. I mean Kilfoyle dying in custody and everything. I told you, the whole thing, it was too neat, too tidy, too quick. But even if he wasn’t directly involved in Cox’s murder, I can’t believe Kilfoyle didn’t have something to do with it.”

  “I’m not so sure, Albert. I’m not defending him. Don’t get me wrong. But the more one looks at it …”

  Finch stood. He eyed the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost a quarter past three.

  “Albert, I have a plan. But I must hurry.”

  Finch had already thought through a course of action but had wondered how to go about it. Now they had a safe haven from which to operate, he could proceed. He would head to the chemist, he explained, to the Kaapstad Druggery, in the city. He would find out just who it was with whom Cox had co-signed for the purchase – if not a name to hand, then an identity, work it backwards from there.

  “I say, steady on old chap,” blurted Rideau. “You’re a marked man. Can’t go waltzing about like that. Lie low here. Wait for Brookman to seek you out. He said he’d come and find you, didn’t he? Don’t play the sleuth. Let him deal with it.”

  “It’s Brookman I’m worried about, too. The Military Foot Police and the Cape Police seem to be pursuing separate agendas. Something’s not right. He’s caught in the middle. It’s pretty extreme what he did. If people are being eliminated in the hunt for Moriarty, or this so-called privileged information, and he knows more than we do, then he’s a prime target.”

  “Sir, are you sure?” blurted Annie.

  ’Sir’ he noted.

  Now Rideau stood, too.

  “No. Listen. This is preposterous. You two stay here. Rest. Freshen up. Help yourself to some more tea, more food. Let me go. I can be there within the hour. No one will think twice.”

  “Won’t work,” said Finch. “You don’t have the credentials. Won’t know what questions to ask.”

  “You can brief me. I’m a fast learner … Seriously, you need to keep your head down.”

  He gestured across the room.

  “The minute you step outside that door—”

  “He’s right,” urged Annie.

  “I’m sorry,” said Finch. “But Albert, you’re a marked man too. Anyone who’s had a brush with this thing is. I’m going. And going alone. That’s the end of it. Nurse Jones. You stay here. That’s an order.”

  Rideau grabbed Finch’s arm.

  “Think for a minute. What difference does it make if we get this information now or tomorrow? I repeat, let Brookman handle it. The more I hear, the more I believe we should stick together. Safety in numbers. This is reckless.”

  Finch was already at the front door.

  “But, blast you, if you are intent on playing the hero,” he admonished, “don’t use the front door … And don’t, for God’s sake, go dressed as you are!”

  Rideau disappeared off down the hall and into what Finch supposed was the bedroom. He returned with a beige suit on a hangar.

  “Might come up a bit short in the leg, but it’ll do.”

  He held it up against Finch. It was double-breasted with a fine, chocolate pinstripe.

  “Don’t worry, not one of my best.”

  Finch got changed into it right then and there. As much as he liked Rideau, he felt no urge to experience his boudoir.

  “And don’t forget this,” said Rideau.

  He reached in his pocket for Finch’s Webley, handed it over, then stood back to admire the new attire.

  “Not bad, Ingo. Not bad at all.”

  He tucked a chocolate brown silk handkerchief with cream polka dots into Finch’s top pocket.

  “There …”

  Finch transferred his personal ef
fects, then pulled on his boots. He took the empty laudanum bottle from Cox’s coat and slipped it into his new jacket pocket.

  Annie appeared.

  “Good luck,” she said.

  Rideau steered Finch down the hall passage. At the end he unlocked a door that led across a small garden to a wall with a wooden gate. Rideau went ahead and unbolted it.

  “Left,” he said. “Go to the end. Once you hit the street, turn right. It looks like the road is taking you away from the main drag, but it curves back 100 yards down. Cape Town tram stop’s opposite.”

  Finch looked him in the eye.

  “Thank you, Albert.”

  “And for God’s sake be careful. Get back here as quickly as you can. Take no risks.”

  Rideau extend a hand. Finch shook it. Then he was gone.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The Kaapstad Druggery was a ramshackle affair – an explosion of bottles, jars, boxes and packages that blocked out a good portion of light from the window to the street. Finch was thankful for that. There were MFPs out and about. He had seen two on a street corner not 100 yards away. A civilian suit – even one as finely tailored as Rideau’s – could only provide so much cover.

  The owner of the chemist shop, a small Indian man, stood behind a desk, barking instructions to somebody out the back in a sub-continental tongue. He wore a white coat, had pomaded hair and bore the scowl of someone habitually disaffected.

  The bell over the door jangled but the man did not look up as Finch approached, continuing his instructions to the person behind while checking off items on a list. When, finally, he did acknowledge Finch, it was not with the countenance of someone keen to offer assistance.

  “Excuse me,” Finch began. “I wonder if you can help me?”

  “Very busy,” he said, stripping the English language down to its basic components.

  The man’s unswerving discourtesy made Finch smile.

  “There is something funny?” asked the man.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Being chemist, serious business. Serious business.”

  He went back to his list.

  Finch cleared his throat.