Terror by Gaslight

by Edward Taylor

  6

  IT WAS A lively night at the Camden Alhambra. The place was not quite so full as it would be on Saturday, but the numbers were good for midweek.

  Talbot O’Reilly, the Irish tenor, was past the peak of his career, but still had a following, especially in north-west London. His name at the top of the bill ensured steady business.

  When Steele and Mason entered, only a few of the red plush seats facing the stage were vacant, and the bar, which ran down one side of the hall, was noisy and crowded with customers. Most of these people would have only one eye on the stage until O’Reilly came on.

  The two men took seats in the fifth row, at the end furthest from the drinkers. Steele lit a small cigar; Mason rolled a cheap cigarette.

  Nell Waters, billed as the Cockney Princess, was nearing the end of her act, which consisted of four of the songs that had almost made her famous, linked by a well-judged flow of cheeky chat. She was just finishing her third ditty, ‘You’d Better Put It Away Now, George’, with its telling second line, ‘Mother will soon be home.’ The song concluded, amid cheers and raucous laughter, with the revelation that the contentious item was the pipe that George was smoking.

  Nell had a melodious voice, not quite as good as it had been a thousand gins ago, but still appealing. It served her well in her comedy songs but it was beginning to be a mistake to end her act with a sentimental ballad.

  On this occasion, ‘He’ll Always Be There In My Heart’ didn’t go well. With no bawdy lines to enjoy, and the sound of a less-than-wonderful voice, the drinkers returned to their glasses and signs of restlessness began in the stalls. There were a few jeers, and the hubbub of conversation began to drown the singer.

  As the noise worsened, the need for fair play was aroused in at least one spectator and a powerful voice from the bar bellowed, ‘Give the old cow a chance!’

  So fierce was this command that the hubbub was hushed. Then the orchestra ground to a halt as Nell Waters advanced, with a sweet smile and a raised hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m glad there’s at least one gentleman in the house.’ After that, she murmured to the conductor to cut to the last verse; the orchestra struck up again and the Cockney Princess sang her way through to the end amid cheers and applause. There was almost an ovation as the curtains closed and Nell stepped out through the middle to take a bow. In fact, she took several bows, encouraged by gentlemen in the audience who appreciated the low-cut gown she was wearing.

  Over the applause, the orchestra did a brisk reprise of one of her songs as a bridge to the next act. Steele puffed his cigar and reflected, ‘It makes you proud to be British, doesn’t it? They’ll forgive you anything if you make them laugh.’

  The Camden Alhambra had taken up the new trend of dispensing with the traditional chairman. Here, acts followed each other without verbal introduction. So once the applause for Nell Waters had stopped, the orchestra abruptly ended the reprise of her song and set off in a totally different musical style, with an onslaught of dramatic Cossack music.

  This heralded the appearance of a speciality act, Vladimir and Olga. At first the stage was occupied only by Vladimir, a swarthy man with shiny black hair, a moustache, and a single golden earring. He set up a target at one side of the stage and then, against a low background of urgent Russian tunes, hurled knives at it from the opposite corner. All thudded into the bull’s-eye.

  It looked easy. So, to make it more difficult for himself, the man retrieved the knives and threw them again, this time propelling them backwards over his shoulder. Next, still facing away from the target, he bent forward and threw the knives between his legs.

  Only one failed to hit the bull’s-eye, the last knife, and that landed in the next circle. The man muttered a foreign oath, retrieved the miscreant, did a somersault and, as he completed it, threw the knife between his legs again. This time it hit the very centre of the target.

  Then, to a crescendo of music, Vladimir took a bow, after which he signalled towards the wings for his partner to join him.

  So far, audience reaction had been tolerant rather than enthusiastic. The man could throw knives, so what? This changed with the arrival of Olga, a voluptuous, large-eyed, black-haired beauty, in a white blouse and a long black skirt, slit up to her thigh. The act now had everyone’s full attention.

  ‘Bit of all right,’ said Mason.

  ‘Some Russian women can be very striking,’ Steele pronounced sagely, giving the impression of boundless experience of beautiful women throughout the world. ‘Note the fine cheekbones. Cossack blood, I daresay.’

  Stagehands had removed the target and replaced it with a white upright board. Olga stood with her back tightly pressed against this, clutching the sides with outstretched hands to keep herself still and steady.

  Now most of the orchestra were silent; the only sound was a series of drum rolls, each building up to a climax, as Vladimir’s knives embedded themselves in the board around Olga’s rigid body. They landed symmetrically, the first within inches of her left shoulder, the next on the opposite side, then one by her left knee and one by her right. The final two knives landed either side of her waist, the last one obviously nicking something vital, as her skirt fell to the floor, revealing long shapely legs clad in black fishnet tights. This brought a roar of approval from the bar area.

  Over the applause, Vladimir murmured a few words to Olga, apparently checking that she was ready for the act’s perilous climax. Bravely, she seemed to concur and Vladimir returned to his throwing position.

  Now there were more drum rolls, accompanied by gasps from the audience as Vladimir threw his knives to make a circle round the girl’s head. The first thudded home to the right of her throat, the next by her right ear.

  And then, as he worked his way down the left side, something went wrong. The fifth knife landed close to her left ear, but too close, it seemed. Olga let out a little cry and put a hand to the side of her head. Blood began to trickle down her neck.

  There was an uproar of alarm from the audience. Drinkers put down their glasses and peered at the stage, eager to get their money’s worth. If the man could get it wrong once, next time he might do something worse. This was exciting stuff. They didn’t know, of course, that Olga’s hand had squeezed open the small sachet of pig’s blood hidden in her hair.

  Vladimir rushed to his partner to check that she wasn’t seriously hurt. A few quiet words were exchanged. He seemed to be asking if he should go ahead with the last knife. With a nervous nod of the head, she appeared to say yes, and Vladimir went back to his mark.

  The tension was electric as he prepared to throw the final blade. This time he was slower and more cautious than before. But after ten seconds of suspense, during which the drum roll built up to a crescendo, Vladimir threw the knife and it landed safely, an inch away from Olga’s neck.

  The audience’s relief was audible and their applause generous as the orchestra struck up more of their exciting Cossack music, the curtains swirled together, and Vladimir and Olga trotted out to take their bows, Olga holding a discreet handkerchief to her throat.

  ‘A dangerous business,’ Steele observed.

  ‘Very dangerous,’ said Mason. ‘Pity they’re too lazy to learn a comic song.’

  ‘Still, it gives us a clue to your Angel of Death.’

  ‘How so, guv’nor?’

  ‘You were wondering how the Heath Maniac’s victims had no chance to defend themselves. These people remind us that the knife could have been thrown.’

  Mason stubbed out his cigarette in the little brass ashtray attached to the seat in front of him. ‘I suppose it could. But the Maniac would have to be as good as this Russian chap. And I don’t suppose this bloke is the Heath Maniac, or he wouldn’t be on stage showing everyone what he can do.’

  By now, the Cossack music had been replaced by a rumbustious English music-hall tune, obviously associated with the next artiste, the man they’d come to see, Cheerful Charlie Challis.

&nbs
p; Swiftly the curtains parted and there he was, ambling on to the stage and affecting a comic trip as he approached the centre. Behind him, the backcloth was painted to look like a brick wall, embellished with advertisements for local businesses.

  Charlie was dressed in a bookmaker’s loud check suit, and he wore a brown bowler hat with a curly brim. He greeted the audience as old friends.

  ‘How do?’ he said. ‘How are yer? All right? You’re in luck tonight, I’m going to sing for you.’

  This brought the expected groans and ironic cheers from the bar, none of them unfriendly.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charlie, ‘I knew you’d be pleased. I’ve got a nice little song I’m going to render for you … render meaning to tear apart. Ladies and gentlemen, a little song, a little song entitled “If You’ve Nothing On Tonight, Mabel, I Think I’ll Come Round for a Bit”.’

  There were more jocular moans from the bar but now they were mingled with genuine laughter.

  Charlie pretended to hear objections from the front rows. ‘All right, lady, I won’t do that one. I won’t do that one, in case the vicar’s in. Instead, I’ll do one you all know. It’s published by Sanderson Music, and it’s called “She Taught Me Lots Of Things I Never Knew”. He nodded to the conductor. Thank you, Maestro.’

  Then off he went into half a dozen verses, describing things girls had taught him, which all sounded as if they were going to be rude, but never quite were. He finished to good applause but as he went into his patter it seemed he still had critics among the drinkers.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charlie. ‘Now I’ve got to tell you about my neighbour. My neighbour, he’s a funny bloke—’

  A voice from the bar interrupted. ‘Why don’t you get off and get him on?’

  Charlie’s response was quick. ‘You wouldn’t want him near you, mate. He does pest control for the council.’

  Having earned a good laugh and a points victory, Charlie launched into his routine. ‘Yes, he’s a funny bloke, my neighbour. I saw him with his dog the other day, outside his front door. And he was holding his dog’s tail! He was! He was holding the dog’s tail!

  ‘I said, “Why are you holding the dog’s tail?” He said, “My mother-in-law’s coming, and I don’t want her seeing any sign of welcome.”’

  Once launched on the subject, Charlie did five minutes on mothers-in-law, before switching to wives, doctors and varicose veins. Then it was back to life in general. He finished on his current favourite joke.

  ‘This bloke at the pub, he drives me mad. He does, he drives me mad. Anything bad, he says, “Oh well, it could be worse.” “Terrible weather!” “Yeah. Still, it could be worse.” “But it’s been raining all day.” “Yeah, well, it could have been raining all week.”

  ‘I saw him last night, he said, “Have you heard about her at number eighteen?” I said, “What, Fast Annie?” He said, “Yeah. The one whose husband’s a commercial, away all week.”

  ‘I said, “What about her?” He said, “Big tragedy. Last week he came home Thursday instead of Friday, caught her with another man. He shot them both.”

  ‘I said, “That’s terrible!” He said, “Yeah. Still, it could have been worse.” I said, “He shot two people, how could that have been worse?” He said, “If he’d come home Wednesday, he’d have shot me.”’

  Charlie liked to end his act with a straight, heart-warming song to demonstrate that as well as being a funny man he was also a lovable human being. ‘There’ll Never Be Another Like My Mum’ was always well received, and so it was tonight. He concluded to a good round of applause, which lasted while the curtains closed, the band went into his play-off music, and Charlie came out front to acknowledge his reception.

  Mason looked at the next item on his list of acts. ‘The Parisian Sisters,’ he announced. ‘A Visit to the Ballet. I wouldn’t mind seeing that.’

  ‘Another time,’ said Steele, rising to his feet. ‘We need to catch Challis before he goes to the pub.’

  In his dingy dressing room, Charlie Challis sat down heavily on his chair and exhaled lengthily. It was a moment before he remembered to breathe in again.

  Once he’d done so, he found the energy to remove his coat, tie and collar, and finally, with a deep sigh of relief, his boots. Then he undid his shirt buttons, revealing a sweat-stained vest. On his dressing table stood two bottles of Guinness. Charlie opened one, put it to his lips, and took a long drink.

  He reckoned he’d gone quite well tonight. Slipping his mate Jim ten bob to heckle from the bar had been money well spent.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Hastily, Charlie used his make-up towel to hide the second bottle of Guinness. Then he called out, ‘Who is it?’

  The door opened and in came Gerald Timlin, manager of the Camden Alhambra, and a figure of authority to the likes of Charlie Challis. ‘It’s your manager,’ he said.

  ‘Evening, guv’nor,’ said Charlie, sitting up straight. ‘Went all right tonight, eh?’

  ‘Yes. All right,’ said Timlin. ‘They’ve heard that first song a bit too often. You need to give it a rest.’

  ‘But they love it,’ protested the comic.

  ‘Yes, Charlie, and you love the tip from your publishers. But never mind that now. There’s two gentlemen to see you.’

  ‘Gentlemen? To see me? There’s a novelty!’ Charlie gave a derisive laugh. ‘Listen, guv’nor, I’m tired. I don’t want to talk to no one just now. Unless it’s a rich widow, with a good figure and a nice little pub.’

  ‘You have to see these gentlemen. They’ve brought me a letter of introduction from J.G. Hurst.’

  J.G. Hurst owned the chain of music halls that included the Camden Alhambra, and was not a man to disoblige. He was a member of Henry Steele’s London club.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Charlie. ‘Bring ’em in.’ He swallowed the rest of his Guinness and did up his shirt buttons.

  The manager ushered in Steele and Mason and, having studied Hurst’s letter again, performed the introductions. The room seemed too small for four large men.

  ‘Would you prefer to move to my office?’ Timlin offered.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Steele. ‘I’m sure Mr Challis is a busy man. We shan’t take up much of his time. May we sit down?’

  Apart from the chair and dressing table, the only furniture was a shabby red sofa and, as Timlin withdrew, the visitors lowered themselves awkwardly on to this.

  ‘We are private investigators,’ said Steele. ‘We hope you may be able to tell us about a man called Luke Scully.’

  ‘Luke Scully?’ The comedian sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Yeah. I can tell you a lot about Luke Scully. We used to work together.’

  ‘So I’m told,’ said Steele. ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘Well … we’d been a double act for three or four years. And we split up about two years ago. Bit more, perhaps. I got sick of carrying him.’

  ‘Carrying him?’

  ‘Yeah. He weren’t no good no more. The demon drink.’ Charlie picked up the empty Guinness bottle for dramatic effect. ‘Drink’s a good whore, but a bad mistress.’ As his guests pondered these words of wisdom, he put down the bottle and continued. ‘Course, it weren’t the beer with Luke. Gin was his downfall. Mother’s ruin. Pickled himself in gin, silly bugger.’

  ‘And that affected his work, obviously.’

  ‘Not half. Forgot his words. Lost his timing. Picked fights with people. I had to give him the boot.’

  ‘How did he take that?’

  ‘Badly. Got very angry. And he could be violent, Luke Scully. Tried to fight me, poor sod. I gave him one little push and he fell over. Too sozzled to get up again.’

  Steele was silent for a moment, thinking of Scully’s tendency to violence. Mason took up the questioning.

  ‘After the split, did you keep in touch?’

  ‘Couldn’t avoid it at first. He kept turning up, saying he was sorry and looking for a handout. I usually gave him a quid and told him to cut o
ut the gin.’

  ‘Did he do any work?’

  ‘Not on stage, no one would have him. He was in the boxing booth at Hampstead fairground for a bit. He was quite handy with his fists, before the gin got him. He’d been a soldier once.’

  Steele was alerted. ‘He’d been a soldier?’

  ‘Yeah. Weapons was always his hobby. ‘Course, they don’t allow weapons in a boxing booth, so he didn’t last long. Got what was left of his brains knocked out.’

  ‘What sort of weapons was he interested in?’

  ‘All sorts. He’d kept his pistol from the army, which you’re not supposed to do.’

  Steele nodded. ‘Serious offence. We could hold him for that, if we need to.’ And then he added, ‘Once we find him. Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah. He used to mess around with some sort of bow and arrow. If he was somewhere like Clapham Common, he’d try to bring down a few birds. Oh yeah, and he had a knobkerrie. One of them things the fuzzy-wuzzies bash people with in South Africa.’ Charlie sniffed. ‘All a bloody waste of time.’

  ‘D’you know what he did after the boxing booth?’

  ‘He was working for some toffs up on the Highgate Road, gardening and odd jobs and such. I think he gave up drink for a bit; there was a girl up there he fancied.’

  ‘A girl?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, where Luke was concerned there was always a girl. Or two. Or three. But I heard this one was special. Then it all went wrong. The toffs give him the sack, accused him of stealing. Course, that was well out of order. Luke’s done a lot of silly things but he was never a tea leaf. They say he was very bitter about that.’

  Steele picked his words. ‘They say? You haven’t seen him yourself?’

  ‘Not for a year or more, eighteen months maybe. This is all gossip from the pub. The Black Swan, he still has a few mates there. They say he took it very hard, ended up hating all the toffs in Highgate. Started drinking again. Last I heard, he was living rough on the Heath.’

  ‘Can you tell us how to get hold of him?’