Black Eye (A Johnny Black Mystery)

by Neville Steed

  Tears again began coursing down her cheeks, leaving furrows in the powder.

  ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ I said quietly.

  ‘Yes. She took her own life. Because of him, I think. He left her when she wouldn’t do what he wanted.’

  ‘What did he want her to do? Was it about ... hanging?’

  She blushed with incomprehension. ‘Hanging? What do you mean hanging?’

  ‘Forget it, Dolly. Just go on. What did he want her to do?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know at the time whether to believe it or not-Maudie lived in a kind of dream world of her own. Full of fantasies, she was — but she told me he had asked her to go abroad and take some girls with her.’

  I frowned. ‘Go abroad? What for?’

  ‘The way she told it, he said she could earn a fortune in no time and then come back to England a rich woman.’

  The penny was gradually starting to drop. ‘You mean, help ship girls out to — ?’

  ‘His brother,’ she interrupted. ‘He said he had a brother. I think she said he was in Marseilles.’ (She pronounced it ‘Marsails’.) ‘And he’d arrange what happened to them after that. Some, she said, would work in France. Others would be shipped over to North Africa. It all sounded like out of some film to me. I didn’t really take it seriously. But Maudie was full of tales like that. She said some of Cochrane’s young ladies were no better than they ought to be. You know —’

  ‘On the game, as well as on the stage?’

  She nodded once more. ‘You don’t earn enough as a dancer, you see, Mr Black. And it’s all so expensive if you have to live near London. It’s different in Devon. That’s why I moved down here.’

  I downed the last of my Scotch, then asked, ‘And you mentioned all this to Daphne. Why?’

  ‘She became fascinated with Seagrave after she saw his picture in the paper. You know, after his wife had died in that car accident. Kept talking about him. Said now his wife was dead, he’d make a good catch for someone. Good-looking, well-off, and that. So I mentioned about Maudie — just in passing, like. Told her I didn’t know whether there was anything in the story, on account of Maudie being such a fibber sometimes.’

  Suddenly I saw the whole picture. It was only too easy for someone with Seagrave’s matinee idol looks. Pretty young girls earning a pittance as dancers, whether in hotels, restaurants, clubs or chorus lines would fall for his charm and patter hook, line and sinker. And the next thing they knew, he’d got them seemingly profitable engagements in clubs and theatres abroad. They would only learn the truth when it was too late. When they were stranded penniless in a foreign country, with starvation or jail the only alternatives to prostitution.

  ‘This brother Maudie mentioned,’ I picked up. ‘Did she ever mention meeting him?’

  ‘No. Never did. Never thought to ask, neither.’

  I wasn’t too disappointed. I was pretty sure I could describe him almost as well as a camera lens.

  ‘Dolly, you mustn’t go on feeling guilty about all this. You couldn’t ever, in your wildest dreams, imagine that ...’

  But I never finished. For, suddenly, I was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass. I spun my head round expecting to see I know not what. Over at the bar, Ted Shilling was making frantic signs to me, whilst picking up the pieces of two glasses he had quite obviously broken just to attract my attention.

  I glanced over to the door at which he was pointing. Just moving to a table were two figures I knew only too well. As I hesitated, trying to plot my next move, Dolly Randan got up and ran past me. I tried to restrain her, but too late. She was out the door, before I could reach it.

  ‘Having trouble with your women, Mr Black?’ Seagrave asked with a malicious grin across his too-good-to-be-true face. I ignored him, and ran past and out of the hotel. Way down the hill, I could just see Dolly Randan’s pillbox hat bobbing about as she ran. I was tempted to go after her, but then realised with some horror what I had already unwittingly done — drawn too much undesirable attention to an already very vulnerable girl.

  I strode back into the bar and said in a loud voice to Ted Shilling, ‘That’ll teach me to go out with nurses. She seemed fun when I was in the hospital, but outside ...’

  Good old Ted. He got the message and indicated with a nod that the couple at the nearby table had too. Pushing a giant plate of crab sandwiches towards me, he said with a smile that almost unseated his spectacles, ‘You’ve got a lot on your plate for just one.’

  I put my hands to my bandaged forehead and sighed. ‘You can say that again — whenever you like.’

  *

  Taking a circuitous route to try to avoid being followed, I was at the dancing school by the time I thought Dolly would have returned. When I asked for her all I got was the guttural Adrian Feather who looked most annoyed at anyone coming into his place with a bandage and a black eye.

  ‘Miss Randan has no wish to see you, Mr Black, or vatever your real name.’

  ‘But I must see her,’ I insisted. ‘It’s vitally important.’

  ‘Ze only thing zat is vitally important is zat you stop bothering my girls. I have told you vat she says — she von’t see you. So go avay.’

  ‘She must have said something else. She’s got to see me.’

  I made to go through the door at the back of the small dance floor, but he barred the way.

  ‘You can’t go in there. Miss Randan is busy with a client.’ He moved closer to me. ‘Now if you von’t go, I’ll have to call the police.’

  I toyed with the idea that it might not be such a bad thing, then realised that if I got detained at some police station for hours on end, then I would be no ruddy good to Dolly Randan or the headstrong Tracy. And time was the very essence.

  ‘Look,’ I suggested, tearing out a page from the notebook I always carried, ‘if I write her a message, will you give it to her? Tell her she must follow my instructions to the letter. She’ll understand why.’

  He shrugged. ‘All right. But then, get out of here. I don’t vish to see you round here again — ever. Do you understand?’

  I scribbled my message, folded the paper over and gave it to him.

  ‘Don’t bother to read it,’ I smiled. ‘You von’t understand vone vord.’

  *

  I went back to the office. It took at least ten minutes to calm Babs down when she saw the effect closed gates tend to have on people’s faces. 1 didn’t tell her about the cut brake lines — I think she’d have had a seizure. Instead she started to berate me about what I had said the other day — about any car she might drive needing bandages wrapped around it.

  ‘See, Johnny? You’re no better, are you?’ Smiling her peek-a-boo smile, she added, You should have me around with you. I wouldn’t let you drive as fast, I wouldn’t.’

  Her last remark gave me an idea.

  ‘Babs, would you really like to help me? I mean not just minding the phone and taking messages. But real ...’ I screwed my eyelids close together, ‘... detective stuff?’

  She lit upon my enthusiasm, like a starving sparrow on a crumb. ‘You mean it, Johnny? You really mean it? You want me to help you?

  ‘Yes. Really.’

  She started to jump up and down like a schoolgirl. ‘What do I have to do, Johnny? Tell me.’

  I told her. It was a job for Tracy, really. She would have been perfect for it. But I had rung the cottage, both before I left the hotel and before Babs had found me in the office and there had been no reply. So I still had no idea where she was and it was worrying me.

  So dear Babs was all I had. I briefed her like a Dutch uncle, going countless times over what I wanted her to do. She seemed to take it all in and repeated everything back to me parrot fashion — well, better actually, if Groucho is anything to go by. To my amazement and relief, she seemed to understand that she mustn’t ask too many questions as to the whys and wherefores of her mission, but just accept it as a vital necessity.

  The test run-through was interrupte
d by a ding-dong of Chinese swear words coming down the corridor outside. Babs immediately fled and hit the door knob with an almighty bang. She didn’t even wince -1 guess she felt detectives don’t.

  ‘See you spot on five past five,’ she blinked and then was gone.

  I sat for a while looking out at the gulls swooping on a dead fish on the quay and cursing myself for not having grilled Dolly Randan at length before, and secondly, for now, perhaps, having put her in some danger from Seagrave and what I had to assume could be his ginger-moustached brother.

  Her white-slavery revelations, however, did not exactly help me in nailing Seagrave. I still had no proof of anything that would impress a half-witted constable, let alone the tubercular Inspector Wyngarde. The latter, I reckoned, would need a hell of a lot of concrete facts before he changed his mind about the multiple-murdering convict, let alone about Seagrave’s wife’s death.

  I rang the cottage twice more, but still there was no reply. And Tracy hadn’t rung in. I was now more than a little disturbed about where she could be and what she was doing. But I took a crumb of comfort that at least she wasn’t with Seagrave and co. For I had seen them in Torquay at lunchtime and it would take them some time to get back to what I was now convinced was Murder Mansion.

  In the end, I couldn’t stand the waiting. I began having terrible visions of Tracy, having been followed back to Rose Cottage, lying in a pool of blood under Groucho’s cage, all his ‘Stick’em, ups’ and ‘Drop’ems’ having been of no avail. I looked at my watch. I had time to get there and back before I picked Babs up. I went out to the car. As I did so, a white bomb fell from a swooping seagull and splattered onto the Buick’s bonnet. I followed the bird’s flight, as it thermalled up and away. Its deposit had summed up my thoughts exactly.

  *

  But it was a fool’s errand. When I arrived, there was no sign of her SS at my cottage or anywhere around. The front door was still locked and inside Groucho was quite alone. I asked him if he had seen Tracy, but all I got was ‘Hello, baby’, followed by what I took to be parrot swear words. I gave him my finger to peck, then left.

  All the way there and all the way back, I kept my old eyes peeled for any blue cars. For I had spotted Seagrave’s new Lammas-Graham in the Imperial car park. Parked next to Ginger’s BMW. They looked like mother and son, both being an almost identical pale-ish blue. But no blue cars did I see tailing me. If I was being followed, then they were being more than clever about it.

  Back at the office, the notepad on my desk was still blank. So Tracy still hadn’t phoned in. I tried the cottage again and let the phone ring for ever, but no go. Either Tracy was punishing me for my obstinate refusal to let her get too involved, or ...

  It was the ‘or’ bit that was now putting yours truly into a worse spin than any aircraft had given me. The worst part was that there was really nothing I could do — and certainly not until Babs and I had returned from our expedition. So I brought the Seagrave file up to date, but even so, the next quarter of an hour was purgatory. And it was sheer relief when the watch on the wrist said five past five.

  Sixteen

  I pulled up just down from the house.

  ‘Now, you know what to do, don’t you, Babs?’

  She nodded, her goo-goo eyes glistening with excitement.

  ‘Take as long as necessary to convince her to come. I’ll still be here. Remember, don’t take “no” for an answer.’ I smiled encouragement. ‘“No” isn’t a word in the detective’s dictionary.’

  ‘Right,’ she grinned, then tidied her bubbly hair-do in the rear view mirror. ‘‘Do I look all right?’

  ‘A million dollars,’ I winked.

  She blushed, and let herself out. She kept looking back all the way to the front door of the neat little boarding-house where Dolly Randan had lodgings. Thirty seconds later, with a tiny wave, she disappeared inside.

  Whilst I sat there, tapping the steering wheel nervously, I prayed that Dolly would take to heart what Babs had to say and realise the danger she might now be in. After all, I wasn’t asking her to do too much — just move in with Babs’ parents for a day or two until everything was resolved one way or the other. The arguments I had rehearsed with Babs were, to me, pretty fire-proof, if alarming. I just hoped they weren’t so alarming that they scared her into paralysed immobility.

  My heart missed a beat every time a blue car went past me down the road, one blue drop-head Bentley (whose body style the Lammas-Graham aped) actually having prompted me to grab for my door handle. I even scrutinized every passer-by on the pavement, much to the consternation of one ginger-haired man in a pork pie hat who didn’t understand my stare at all.

  Nearly half an hour had gone by before I, at last, saw the boarding-house door slowly open. Gradually a bobbly head emerged and peered around in all directions. Babs was certainly taking her sleuthing seriously. Then the door opened fully and Babs came running out, clutching at the arm of Dolly Randan, who, in turn, was clutching at her hat.

  I got out and opened the back door of the car. Babs and Dolly were now half-way across the road. I extended my arm in greeting and as I did so, a shot rang out. Its deadly echo shattered the suburban stillness. Instantly, I ducked down by the side of the Buick and looked back in the direction the shot seemed to have come from. There was no one to be seen and no blue cars.

  I looked back towards Babs and Dolly. They were no longer running. Babs was kneeling on the ground beside a supine body and trying to cradle its head in her hands. A pillbox hat was still rolling towards the gutter.

  I ran up to them.

  ‘Johnny!’ Babs cried. ‘She’s been shot. Oh, my God, she’s been shot.’

  I knelt down. To my intense relief, Dolly Randan was still alive, her eyes open, but staring out in shocked disbelief.

  ‘You were right,’ she stammered. ‘I should have ...’ Her voice tailed away and I saw blood oozing through an obscenely neat hole in the shoulder of her coat.

  The sound of running footsteps alarmed me and I spun round. But it was only a man with a small dog, coming to see what had happened. As I was about to turn back to Dolly, I heard the roar of an engine and out of a small side turning came a blue BMW. It turned right, kicking gravel towards us, then sped off down the road towards Torquay.

  I grabbed the man’s coat. ‘Look, this lady’s been shot. Go and ring for an ambulance. And the police. Quickly.’

  I ran back to the car. I heard Babs shout, Where are you going, Johnny?’ as I climbed in and performed a faster U-turn than General Motors ever thought possible when they designed that Buick.

  *

  It was on the outskirts of Paignton that I lost sight of him. And all because of those new-fangled beacons Mr Hore-Belisha is installing across the land. An old lady took her life in her hands by challenging my Buick to stop. I slammed on the anchors and the car only missed her by a whisker of the Pekinese she was carrying.

  As I roared away up the road, a policeman on the pavement waved his arm in a ‘softly, softly’ gesture, I guess to remind me of another of our Transport Minister’s new motorist millstones — the thirty m.p.h. town speed limit. I slowed, but once out of his sight, gave the old straight eight its head once more.

  By the time I reached the Brixham-Totnes crossroads, there was no sign of the BMW. I had to stop to let an old steam lorry chug past, then took a right to Totnes on the hunch that the gun-happy driver would be on his way back to Murder Mansion. I was amazed how well old Briggs’ Buick coped with the multitude of bends on the undulating road, its knee-action suspension working like a Dervish. Except for a waggon that soon pulled into a field, its horses no doubt glad to be off the metalled road, I had no real obstructions until Totnes.

  To my intense relief, as I drove down into the town and across the old toll bridge, I spotted the blue of the BMW at the very top of Fore Street. Even though I kept my fist on the horn, it took an age to get up the High Street and by the time I was out of the town once more, the sports car was
nowhere to be seen.

  Cursing worse than any Mr Ling, I had no option but to follow my original instincts and turn left towards Kingsbridge. Once again, the Buick belied its stately appearance and must have appeared to the odd farm labourers toiling in the fields alongside the road, like a big, black bat out of hell.

  Despite the frenzy of my driving, there was still no sign of my quarry by Halwell, but having gone so far, I really had no option but to go on towards Kingsbridge. Besides, my dander was well and truly up and I was damned if I was going to fail now. It was my one chance to nail something on Seagrave and his blood relative but only if I could get to them in time — before they could get rid of the gun or concoct an elaborate alibi.

  It was just before the Churstow turn off that I saw it again, way ahead of me, glinting like the sea in the setting sun. But it had gained considerably on me now and as it turned off the Kingsbridge road and disappeared, I realised that once we were in the maze of narrow, wiggling roads that eventually run down to the sea, it would be only too easy to lose it for good.

  But curiously, just after West Alvington, when I had almost given up hope of ever sighting it again, I saw the BMW on the crest of the next incline. I could hardly believe my eyes, for it seemed to be almost stationary. But as I too began to climb, using every last ounce of the

  Buick’s acceleration, it disappeared again and I guessed I’d been wishful thinking.

  About a mile further, however, I came across a wheel lying on the verge beside the road — a distinctive centre lock wheel identical to the ones I knew were on the BMW. Whilst I was still puzzling over that problem, over the next rise I saw what could be its explanation. Way ahead, the rear of the blue sports car was sticking out from a small group of trees. And I fancied it was leaning at a bit of an angle.

  I slowed cautiously and pulled up about a hundred feet from the BMW, right by the edge of the copse. I waited for about a minute, but there was no sign of movement and when I wound down my window, the only car’s engine I could hear was mine.