Lady Marmalade Cozy Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3)

by Jason Blacker

  "A Windsor cap perhaps."

  "If you say so. Listen, like I said, I did it. This man wasn't one to do a dirty job like 'at. He was too well dressed."

  "Alright then, how did you kill this man?" asked Frances.

  "I shot 'im."

  "With what?"

  "A gun."

  "What kind of gun, Mr. O'Malley?"

  "It was one of 'em Tommy guns like Machine Gun Kelly."

  O'Malley said it as if it was the truth, and he had actually used a machine gun to kill Mr. Meda amongst a group of witnesses.

  "Not only did you not shoot Mr. Meda," said Frances, "but you're too dimwitted to realize that a machine gun like that would easily seen by just about anyone with any eyes."

  "I ain't dimwitted, I hid it under a long coat, just like the one that the other men 'ad."

  "Which other men?"

  "Well the man that got me that ticket, he 'ad a mate with 'im who was there too. Both of 'em 'ad on these long coats."

  "And where is the machine gun now?" asked Frances.

  "I got rid of it."

  "How?"

  "I just got rid of it."

  "Mr. O'Malley," said Lady Marmalade, "if you'd like us to take your story seriously, you're going to have to produce the weapon."

  "I can't."

  "What do you mean you can't?"

  "I gave it to some bloke who wanted it."

  "That's an expensive weapon just to give away."

  "Well, 'es been good to me."

  Frances looked over at Davison.

  "You can't seriously be entertaining the idea that this man shot Mr. Meda with a Tommy gun?"

  Davison looked over at her and shrugged. Frances looked back over at Mr. O'Malley.

  "How many times did you shoot Mr. Meda?"

  "I dunno, a bunch of times. I just pulled the trigger for a bit. Maybe a second or two."

  "I see, and what did you do about the shell casings?"

  "The wot?"

  "The shell casings, Mr. O'Malley, the casings that are ejected once the bullets have been fired."

  Mr. O'Malley looked away for a moment.

  "I didn't do nothin' with them. I ran off as soon as I'd done what I'd set out to do."

  Frances looked back at Davison who wasn't looking very comfortable anymore.

  "Did you find out what kind of bullets killed Mr. Meda?"

  Davison looked up at Pearce. Pearce started flipping through a few pages of his notebook back and forth until he found what he was looking for.

  "The cartridges extracted by Dr. Williams were .38 Special."

  Pearce looked back up at Lady Marmalade and then at Davison.

  "Did you know, Mr. O'Malley, and this hasn't been shared yet, that there were no shell casings found at the scene whatsoever. So what do you suspect might have happened to them?"

  "Couldn't say. I guess the police aren't as good as we'd like to think."

  Frances turned to look at Davison again.

  "If I were a betting woman, Inspector," she said, "I'd put money on the bet that the Tommy gun doesn't shoot .38 Special bullets."

  Davison looked at her again and shrugged.

  "I don't know about that, Frances," he said. "I'll have to get my men to look into it."

  "Please do that."

  "That won't be necessary, my Lady," said Alfred, standing back against the wall. "I took an interest in the St. Valentine's Day Massacre that happened in '29 in Chicago."

  Alfred looked at Davison and then at Frances who had both turned around to face him, to see if they recalled the gangster massacre. Frances nodded her head.

  "I remember hearing about it vaguely," she said.

  Davison shrugged.

  "Well, I was quite intrigued by the whole idea of mobsters and gangsters at the time in America. But what's relevant to this conversation is that the Tommy gun or more specifically the Thompson Submachine Gun uses .45 Auto caliber bullets. Those are quite different to the .38 Specials that killed Mr. Meda."

  O'Malley looked up at Alfred and his face grimaced. His mouth turned upside down and he glared at him. Frances and Davison turned around and looked back at O'Malley.

  "Looks like your story is unraveling, Mr. O'Malley," said Frances.

  "Well, I woulda done it. And I'm 'appy for whoev'r did do it. We've got too many of 'em Indians 'ere anyway."

  "Let's see if we can't dig ourselves out of the lies, Mr. O'Malley, and shine some truth on this whole event. Can we get your cooperation?"

  O'Malley tried his hardest to glare at them some more. But he was a popped and deflating balloon. The whole facade he'd created about being a murderer had just blown up in his face. He was defeated. He lowered his head in defeat and shrugged.

  "Now listen here, O'Malley, if we don't get full cooperation from you, from this point on," said Davison, "I'll lock you up just for wasting our time. Do you understand?"

  Davison was squinting and his eyes were furrowed. He was starting to get upset for having been mislead. He slammed his hand back down on the desk.

  "Do you understand me, O'Malley!" he exclaimed.

  O'Malley looked back up at him and nodded.

  "Yes, Inspector, I understand."

  "Good!"

  "So why were you really there?" asked Frances.

  "To make a scene like I told you. That man who bought me the ticket 'e said 'e wanted me to make a scene after the talk when people were gathered around that Indian."

  "Why did he want you to do that?"

  "He didn't say, an' I didn't ask. He said 'e liked my attitude about 'em Indians and 'e wanted to know if I'd be interested in causing a disturbance. I told 'im I was."

  "And you said you only met him three times is that right?"

  "I think it was twice."

  "No, Mr. O'Malley, you told us you met him the first time at the Bare Knuckles pub when he asked you and your mates if you wanted tickets to Mr. Gandhi's lecture. Then you met him again the next day or shortly after to get the ticket where he told you he only had the one for you. Then you said you saw him at the lecture with another man also in a long coat."

  O'Malley started to nod his head.

  "Yes, that's right. I remember now. It was those three times."

  "Have you seen him since?"

  O'Malley shook his head.

  "No, it was jus' those three times. Yes, I'm certain of it, just those three times."

  "Did you speak to him when you saw him at the lecture?" asked Frances.

  "I tried to, but he seemed all 'igh and mighty then. I waved at 'im from across the room but he jus' turned away. Same with 'is friend."

  "Did you see them after the lecture, were they amongst the audience who were gathered around Mr. Gandhi after the talk was over?"

  "Yeah, they were both there. I don't know why, 'e didn't seem like a bloke that wanted to talk to any Indians."

  "Did you see him shoot Mr. Gandhi or anyone else for that matter?"

  "No I didn't. He didn't have a gun, 'e was just waving 'is cane around. But I wasn't that close to 'im. I started yelling things to 'em Indians, so I was looking at 'em when I 'erd the shots go off."

  "And what happened to this man and his friend at that time?"

  "I didn't really take a look, I ducked my 'ed and ran off."

  "Tell me what this man's friend was like. Was he tall like the chap who bought you your ticket?"

  "No, 'e was much shorter. 'Bout my 'ight, but slim like I'm, the tall one."

  "What did he look like?"

  "'Ard to say, I didm' take a close look. He 'ad a beard if I recall."

  "And the man who bought you the ticket, did he have a beard or mustache?"

  "Yes 'e 'ad a mustache."

  O'Malley turned around and looked at Pearce and then back at Davison.

  "But not like 'em. His mustache was thick but stuck to his lip, not twirled out."

  Frances nodded.

  "What did he sound like when you heard him speak? Did he have an accent? Was
he working class or posh?"

  O'Malley shook his head.

  "No, 'e didn't 'ave an accent much. I didn't see 'im as a working man but he fancied 'imself as a bit of dandy, but 'e didn't 'ave a posh voice."

  "Thank you, Mr. O'Malley. Wasn't that much easier?"

  O'Malley didn't say anything to that.

  "I woulda killed 'em Indians if I'd 'ad a chance."

  He was trying to sound determined and committed but his heart didn't seem into it.

  "I wouldn't go around saying things like that, Mr. O'Malley, especially not in a police station. If you want to get yourself locked up for life then you're going about it the right way. But I can promise you, that's no life for any man. Worse than what you think you're going through now."

  "'Ow would you know anything 'bout that?"

  "I've been around the poor, Mr. O'Malley, and I've been around those locked up. The poor have it better, because if nothing else, they can change things in time."

  Frances stood up.

  "I don't have any further questions for Mr. O'Malley. Do you, Inspector?"

  Davison stood up and shook his head. Pearce closed his notebook and came over their side of the table.

  "There's the other chap we have next door that you might like to speak to then."

  "I would, Inspector."

  "Wot about me, do I get out now?" asked O'Malley.

  Davison turned around and looked at him for a moment before speaking.

  "If you behave yourself, I might let you out today."

  "Listen, I told you everything I know, I told the truth I did."

  Davison opened up the door and led everyone outside into the hallway where he closed it behind them again.

  "As you can imagine, I haven't had a chance to speak with this Godse chap, what with O'Malley confessing when we got him in."

  "I quite understand, Cameron. I don't expect that Mr. Godse did it either, though he might be someone to watch. No, I think who we're looking for is a pair of Englishman. One tall one and one shorter one. Just like Mr. O'Malley said, I think they used him as a diversion for carrying out the murder. I imagine it likely that everyone was focused on the racialist, thus giving them a chance to shoot Mr. Meda, or to try and shoot Mr. Gandhi as the case may be."

  "Very well, let's go and see if he can add anything to the scene of the crime."

  TWENTY

  Chapter 20

  THEY walked into an almost identical cell to the one that had just held Patrick O'Malley. It had the same table in the middle of it with two chairs on the side opposite to the one that seated the prisoner. Davison pulled out the chair for Lady Marmalade and held it while she sat down. He took the one next to her. Pearce went and stood behind Godse as he had done with O'Malley, and Alfred stood up against the wall behind Frances.

  "Nathuram Godse?" said Davison.

  The thin Indian looked at Davison and nodded ever so slightly. He appeared to be of average height with a reasonably nondescript face. His mouth though full was hard and straight. His eyes were flat without much emotion and his nose was hooked and pinched with a slim bulbous end that drooped towards his upper lip, much like a hawks beak. He was a young man, barely having entered adulthood and his face had not yet discovered it could grow facial hair. The hair on his head was black, short and slightly wavy.

  "Why am I here?" he asked.

  He spoke with the accent of his people but his intonation was good and his command of the language excellent.

  "You're here because we are investigating the murder of Mr. Ravi Meda."

  "I had nothing to do with that," said Godse, shaking his head back and forth quite vigorously.

  "That's what they all say," said Davison.

  "I swear to you, I had nothing to do with it."

  "Are you denying that you were there at the lecture that Gandhi gave?"

  "No, no, no. I was there, but I did not do these things. I did not shoot Mr. Meda."

  "So you knew he was shot?"

  "Yes, of course. You would had to have been blind and deaf not to realize what had happened."

  "Let's get back to the beginning, Mr. Godse. Why were you at Gandhi's lecture?"

  "I wanted to talk to him, it was the only opportunity I had to speak with him of late."

  Davison held Godse's gaze until Godse looked away, down at the table. Godse fiddled with his fingernails in his lap.

  "As I understand it, you have written of your displeasure with Gandhi before, have you not?"

  Godse looked up and his eyes closed a bit and his mouth turned into the smallest snarl.

  "You people have no idea what it's like for us. I'm not going to tell you about it, but Mr. Gandhi is on the wrong path and he needs to understand that."

  "Quite," said Davison. "And you were the one to put him onto the right path or to kill him if he didn't change."

  Davison, sitting here listening to Godse, started to think that Frances could be right about who the real target was. Namely Gandhi. Perhaps Ravi Meda wasn't who those bullets were meant for, but rather they were meant for Gandhi.

  "Kill him, you must be joking. I didn't plan to kill him at all."

  "We have those letters, Mr. Godse, and they clearly suggest that you were threatening to kill Gandhi if he didn't repent from his approach towards Indian independence."

  Davison was reaching, he didn't know exactly what the letters had said, he was hoping they had indicated such threats, but it was a bluff he thought worthy of pursuing.

  Godse smirked and looked at Davison.

  "You don't have those letters. Because if you did, you'd know that I never mentioned killing Mr. Gandhi, only that he was losing a lot of support amongst a good majority of Hindus, and that it was dangerous for him to continue on the path he was taking. That's all. That is in no way a threat upon his life."

  Davison looked over at Frances, and she shrugged at him. She leaned in and whispered in his ear.

  "I'm afraid, Inspector, that he has called your bluff. We don't know exactly what those letters said."

  Davison nodded.

  "Very well, Mr. Godse, what was it exactly you wanted to say to Gandhi that couldn't wait for India?"

  "You don't understand, Inspector. It wasn't that it couldn't wait, but rather that Mr. Gandhi would not speak with me face to face. I have tried for months now to have a meeting with him, but he won't meet with me. He thinks I am too young and foolish. But he doesn't know that there are lots of young Hindus who are very interested in a different direction for India. We belong to the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, or RSS…"

  "Which is?"

  "We are a group of seriously concerned Hindus who are opposed to Muslim separation and determined to develop a free and independent India for all Indians, Muslims included, but not a separate Muslim state."

  "Tell me more about this group, Mr. Godse? Why does Mr. Gandhi not wish to talk with you?" asked Frances.

  "I don't know why. That is part of the problem, we are trying to get him to see that the RSS is an upcoming group that should be party to the independence talk. Maybe it is because I am young and he doesn't think I have very much to say, but it is us young Hindus who will go on to lead a free India, and day by day the RSS is growing in strength. Already we have over one hundred thousand members."

  "Are you a militant organization?" asked Frances.

  "No, no, our founder. Dr. Keshav Baliram Hedgewar is a peaceful man. He is a doctor dedicated to helping the poor. Yes, it is true that he has been involved in the struggle for independent India, but he has only done so by non-violent methods. This is our way, our approach. We are made up of volunteers who are working for a free and independent India, but not with a separate Muslim state."

  "And did you have a chance to talk with Mr. Gandhi?" asked Frances.

  Godse shook his head.

  "No, I did not. There was a quite a large group gathered around Mr. Gandhi and I was not amongst the first to be asking the questions. Additionally, there were a couple of Afric
ans who were taking a long time to discuss the politics of South Africa with him. It seemed they would never stop, until this Englishman started yelling racialist slurs at Mr. Gandhi, and then moments later there were these two gunshots, very close together."

  "Did you see anybody with a gun who might have shot Mr. Meda?"

  Godse looked steadily at Lady Marmalade.

  "No, I'm afraid I didn't. It might have been that Englishman who was yelling terrible things at them, but I didn't see him because I was in front of him. It sounded to me as if he was behind me and to my right. I was just behind the Africans, on the right of the one who was long winded."

  "So you would have had a good view if it was one of them then?"

  Godse nodded.

  "But it wasn't. They were gesticulating with their hands, both of them, as they took turns talking to Mr. Gandhi, and neither of them had anything in their hands."

  Davison looked over at Frances.

  "I thought you just said, before we came in here, that we were looking for a tall Englishman?"

  Frances smiled and nodded at him. She had her hands folded over her handbag in her lap, and she was sitting straight as a bolt.

  "You are correct, Inspector, but one must never rest one's laurels until the suspect is caught and confessed. In the meantime, Mr. Godse might have additional information that could be of great help. We have no weapon, we've only just found out the caliber of the bullet, and we're narrowing in onto who he or they were, but we should still keep a broad view in mind."

  Davison looked away. He was more like a bulldog than a terrier. When he got ahold of something he wanted to get right at it, and perhaps that was both a blessing and a curse. But what he wanted to go for right now was to find out who this tall Englishman was. But he looked back at Godse and rested his hands on the table in front of him and let his mind chew his patience into a tired and tight ball.

  "Mr. Godse, as the inspector has mentioned, there were a few Englishmen around. You've mentioned the one, the racialist. I'm wondering if you happened to notice two others. One of whom would have been tall and the other shorter. Both of them appeared to be wearing long overcoats. Do you recall seeing anyone like that?"

  Godse looked off towards the corner of the room and fiddled with his fingers. His eyes looked up towards the ceiling. He slowly nodded his head.