by Clara Benson
‘The police are here,’ came another voice; Freddy thought it might be that of Patience Neale.
‘What?’ said someone else.
And then stern orders were heard, and hands were laid upon Seymour Cosgrove, and he was pulled off. Freddy lay winded on the floor as people chattered excitedly all around him. It was only then that he noticed the music had stopped; he supposed idly that he and Seymour were the entertainment now. After a moment a policeman helped Freddy to his feet, and he glanced around warily, and saw that Seymour was being escorted towards the door under protest by two sturdy-looking bobbies.
‘Are you all right?’ said a voice next to him, and he turned to see Sarah Rowland staring at him in concern.
‘I think I should like to sit down,’ he said, and did so. His jaw was beginning to throb painfully, but as far as he could tell there was no blood. A little way away he saw Corky Beckwith scribbling busily in a notebook. He appeared to be in some sort of ecstatic trance. Freddy let out a small groan and closed his eyes.
‘Perhaps you ought to get home, sir,’ suggested the policeman.
‘Aren’t you arresting me?’ said Freddy in surprise.
‘Not this time. We have a number of witnesses who say the chap attacked you. He’ll be spending tonight in the cells, and if you want to bring an action against him, you’ll have plenty of evidence.’
‘No, no, I don’t think I do,’ said Freddy weakly.
Once they had ascertained to their satisfaction that order had been restored, the police departed, and the waiters were left to clear up the mess. The band struck up again, and soon it was as though the fight had never happened. Freddy sat, attempting feebly to brush himself down, but then gave it up. Robert Kenrick pressed a glass of whisky upon him, and he took a gulp and felt a little better. Then someone sat down next to him. It was Gussie.
‘I need to talk to you,’ she said in a low, urgent voice.
‘You’re not going to kiss me again, are you?’ he said in sudden fear.
‘Don’t be silly, it’s nothing to do with that,’ she said impatiently. Her manner had changed completely, and she looked worried. ‘Listen, you may as well take me home, then I can tell you about it on the way.’
Freddy was too tired to make any objection, and so a few minutes later they left.
‘What is it?’ he said, once they were out in the street.
She looked about her to make sure there was nobody nearby, then dug in her little tasselled bag and handed him something. It was a folded paper packet.
‘I found this in my handbag,’ she said.
Freddy unwrapped it carefully, although he already knew what he would find inside it.
‘Cocaine?’ he said, regarding the white powder.
‘I assume that’s what it is,’ she said. ‘But it’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Then how did it get into your bag?’
‘I don’t know, but I’d very much like to find out. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone was trying to get me into trouble.’ Freddy looked at her, and she went on, ‘I was looking for a handkerchief to give you after the police arrived, and found it then. You’ll think me silly, but after what you said about that reporter, my first thought was that this whole thing was a deliberate trap, and so I shoved it down the back of the seat cushion just in case the police decided to search everybody. Then when they’d gone I thought I’d better show you, so I got it back.’
‘When did you last look in your bag?’ said Freddy.
‘When Basil and Birdie were on, I think. I couldn’t remember whether I had my lipstick with me or not.’
‘And you’re sure the dope wasn’t there then?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean, yes, I’m sure. I don’t carry much in it, so I’d have noticed straightaway.’
‘But why would somebody plant it on you?’ said Freddy. ‘Do you have any enemies?’
‘Not that I know of. I mean to say, I’m sure there must be people who dislike me, but I don’t think anybody hates me enough to do something like that. And besides, everyone who was there tonight is my friend.’
Freddy said nothing for a moment. He was remembering the look on Corky Beckwith’s face as he scribbled in his notebook, and an awful suspicion was beginning to dawn. Corky had been at the Maypole tonight, and Gussie had found a mysterious packet of cocaine in her bag. He had also been at the Abingdon on the night Dorothy died—and a quantity of the drug had been found there, too. Freddy could not help thinking back to the night of Dorothy’s death, when he had discovered Corky scrabbling around in Cora Drucker’s dressing-table. Corky had claimed he was looking for cocaine, but was that really the case? Had he, in fact, been looking for an opportunity to plant it? There was no denying he had an idée fixe about the stuff—as did his paper, the Herald. Corky was certainly unprincipled enough to do something of the kind, even if he had never been caught at it before. And Dorothy’s friends had all seemed very surprised at the news that cocaine had been found among her belongings; they had had no idea that she took it, they said. Was the whole drugs angle a red herring, then? Did it have anything to do with Dorothy’s death at all?
Just then Freddy was struck by an even worse thought. Was it possible—might Corky have—but no; it was unthinkable! Corky was the most unscrupulous of men, but surely even he would not stoop to murder purely for the purposes of getting a story. And yet, now the idea was in his head, Freddy could not quite let go of it. He thought back to that fatal evening, racking his brain to try and remember what Corky had been doing during the period between Freddy’s catching him in Cora’s room and Dorothy’s death. Had he somehow managed to sneak out onto the terrace, creep up on Dorothy unawares and shove her over the edge? It did not seem likely. And yet—and yet it was such a beautiful solution to the mystery, if it were true.
One thing was certain: it was absolutely necessary that someone keep a close eye on Corky for the next few days. If he really was planting drugs all over London, then he ought to be stopped, before someone was unjustly arrested, or worse. It was late now, but Freddy resolved that tomorrow he should think of some plan to keep Corky in sight. For now, his jaw was aching and all he wanted to do was to collapse into bed and sleep for twelve hours, and so he took his leave of Gussie as quickly as he decently could and went home.
Corky must somehow have managed to get his copy in before the Herald went to bed, for the next morning the paper ran a story about the fight at the Maypole, which dwelt with great and malicious glee on the bad behaviour of the upper classes, and those in the film business who thought they could do as they liked without fear of consequences. Meanwhile Freddy, much to his disgust, was given a carpeting by his editor, Mr. Bickerstaffe, for bringing the Clarion into disrepute. In vain did he try to explain that the fracas had not been his fault, and that he had been attacked. His protestations did no good at all, for his red eyes and the swelling bruise on his jaw did not exactly speak of an evening virtuously spent—and indeed, he could hardly confess what had provoked Seymour’s attack on him without looking like the worst sort of bounder, for it did not do to make a public exhibition of oneself with another man’s girl, even if the couple were currently not on good terms. So he put his head down and muttered an apology, and was at last allowed to go back to his desk, where Jolliffe regarded him with sympathy and something like envy.
‘Fighting again, old chap?’ he said. ‘I don’t know how you get into these messes.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Freddy bitterly, feeling his jaw with care, for he was still not entirely sure it was not broken.
‘I must say, your life is much more interesting than mine,’ said Jolliffe. ‘I had a very quiet evening at the picture palace. They were showing one of Dorothy Dacres’ old films—as a sort of tribute, I think. All silent, of course. The new one was to be a talkie.’
‘Was to be a talkie?’ said Freddy.
‘Well, is, I suppose. But I don’t know when they’re going to start. It’s a dreadfully complicated business, you know. They don’t just grab any old person off the street and point a camera at them. That’s how they used to do it, but these days there are all sorts of things they have to consider. There’s a lot of money tied up in it now. It’s quite possible they might decide to start the whole process again, with a completely new script and cast.’
‘I see,’ said Freddy, thinking of Gussie.
Jolliffe went away shortly afterwards, and Freddy was left to his own reflections. His head was aching and he had little inclination to work, but he was feeling resentful after the carpeting he had received, and whether Corky were a murderer, an agent provocateur, or merely the most irritating man in London, Freddy was determined to get one up on him one way or another. But how to do it? Freddy’s chief concern was to discover whether Corky had, in fact, been planting drugs on innocent people in order to obtain copy. He might easily have done it at both the Abingdon and the Maypole. If he had, then presumably he had intended to call the police anonymously on both occasions and have them conduct a search. The first time he had been forestalled in his plan by the death of Dorothy Dacres; and there had been no need for him to call the police last night either, for the brawl had seen to that. The only flaw in Freddy’s theory there was that the police had not searched anybody at the Maypole, but had merely arrested Seymour and left, whereas surely Corky’s intention had been for Gussie to be caught with the cocaine. Perhaps everything had happened too fast, and events had overtaken him, leaving him no opportunity to point the finger at her.
After ruminating for a while, Freddy realized that he would not achieve anything by moping in the office, and went out. The Herald building was just along the street, and Freddy hovered outside it for a few minutes. It was raining, however, and he was hardly feeling his best, so in the end he went and sat in the window of a tea-shop across the way. After three cups of strong coffee and a cream scone, he was feeling better, and was just wondering whether to order a second scone when he saw Corky Beckwith himself coming out of the Herald’s offices. Quickly, Freddy threw down a few coins and left the tea-shop. Corky was walking briskly along the other side of the street, heading East towards St. Paul’s, and Freddy followed him at a discreet distance, wondering where he was going. At length, Corky turned left into Fetter Lane and Freddy hurried across the road after him, taking care not to be seen—although he need not have worried, for Corky seemed to have no suspicion he was being followed. Was he on the trail of the drugs gang, Freddy wondered.
Soon they arrived at Holborn Circus, and Corky stopped for a moment, looking about him. Freddy ducked into a doorway and waited. Then Corky was on the move again. He dived across Holborn, catching Freddy by surprise, and in through the door of Gamages. Freddy sighed as he noticed the unusually large number of people milling in and out of the shop, and saw the gaudy signs in the window, announcing the first day of the Christmas Bazaar. After a moment’s thought he followed Corky through the door. Perhaps he had come to buy something and would soon be on his way. But no; after fighting his way through the throng, Freddy eventually spotted the familiar tall figure, standing in among a crowd of excited children, looking at a display of model trains as they whizzed in and out of tunnels. He wore a camera around his neck, but seemed to have forgotten all about it as he gazed in a sort of rapture at the display, hands clasped together. Freddy rolled his eyes impatiently. A children’s toy fair was not what he had expected, but it looked as though this was what his quarry had come for—and sure enough, after a few minutes, Corky came to himself and began fiddling with his camera. He was shortly afterwards approached by a very dignified personage who appeared to belong to the store, and the two entered into conversation. Corky seemed to be explaining his purpose there, and evidently he passed muster, for the dignified personage immediately began to pick out the cleanest and most likely-looking children for a photograph. This process took some little time, but was eventually concluded to everyone’s satisfaction. By now, Freddy was convinced that he would find out nothing today, and was on the point of leaving, when Corky happened to glance up and spot him.
‘Hallo!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Have you come to see the trains too? Simply marvellous, aren’t they?’ Gone was his usual patronizing manner, and he seemed genuinely enthusiastic. ‘I always make sure they send me to cover the opening of the Bazaar. I find it quite thrilling—just like being a child all over again!’
A number of possible remarks sprang to Freddy’s lips, but he held them in, for he had suddenly had an idea.
‘Yes, I suppose it’s all very nice,’ he said. ‘Have you finished here? I want to talk to you.’
‘I think so,’ said Corky. ‘Let me speak to this chap again, then I’ll see you outside in five minutes if you like.’
Freddy nodded and fought his way through the sea of children until he reached the street again. Corky joined him shortly afterwards.
‘What is it?’ he said. ‘I hope you’re not going to be bothersome about that little piece this morning. You could hardly expect me not to print it. Why, you practically handed it to me on a plate!’
‘No,’ said Freddy. ‘At least, not exactly. Do you remember what you said the other day about a quid pro quo?’
‘Ye-es,’ said Corky, eyeing him speculatively.
‘Well, what about it?’
‘What have you got? And why are you so amenable all of a sudden?’
Freddy swallowed and prepared to lay it on with a trowel.
‘I dare say you won’t care two hoots about it,’ he said, ‘but I got a good wigging this morning from old Bickerstaffe about that “little piece,” as you call it. He as good as threatened me with the boot if I didn’t start toeing the line. It all got rather unpleasant, and now I need to come up with something pretty nifty—and soon, or I’ll be out of a job.’
‘I see,’ said Corky. ‘Does that mean you’re prepared to help me with this dope story? Do you know something, perchance? Has one of your friends mortgaged his title and blued his inheritance on a trunkful of happy dust?’
Freddy made a show of reluctance.
‘I can’t tell you at the moment,’ he said unwillingly. ‘Let’s just say I’ve heard something in the past few days that caused me to think carefully about what you said. Someone I know dropped something that caught me completely by surprise, because he’s not at all the sort to get himself mixed up in this kind of thing. Now, there’s no use in your asking me any more about it just yet, because I know perfectly well he won’t talk at present—in fact, he didn’t intend to tell me about it at all, but it slipped out when he’d had a few drinks. However, I’m due to go down to his family pile and stay with them in a week or two—it’s a yearly thing, you know—and I hope I shall be able to get him to say more about it then. I want to convince him to give the stuff up, and to give me the name of the person who’s been supplying it to him, but in the meantime, I thought you and I might work together on your end of the story.’
Corky was listening attentively.
‘This friend of yours,’ he said. ‘Is there any connection between him and the Dacres crowd?’
Freddy hesitated.
‘Only a slight one—but enough to make it more than likely that the supplier is the same one in both cases,’ he said.
‘Hmm,’ said Corky. ‘I should like to know the name of this person to whom you refer.’
‘I told you, I won’t say,’ said Freddy. ‘I’ll never betray a pal—and besides, he’s not the one we’re after, is he? Unless you were telling fibs when you said you were looking for the supplier. Heaven forbid you were just looking for some society names to print in that rag of yours.’
‘Heaven forbid!’ agreed Corky. ‘No, you’re right—it is the supplier I want. But I shouldn’t bank too heavily on your friend’s coming through this unscathed, you know. Once we catch the
fellow, I dare say all sorts of names will come out into the open.’
‘Not his name,’ said Freddy. ‘He’s been using a false one, you see. I think he’ll be safe.’
Corky directed an odd look at him, and seemed to be thinking. At last he came to a decision.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I accept your request to form a temporary partnership. It’s obvious you haven’t told me the whole story, but I rather think I’ve guessed the most important facts.’ Here he winked knowingly. ‘Still, the secret is safe with me—just so long as you play the game and don’t try and double-cross me. If you do, then I warn you: it’s every man for himself.’
‘Oh, certainly,’ said Freddy humbly. ‘I shouldn’t expect anything else.’
‘Very well,’ said Corky. ‘Then we’re agreed. Now, I suppose you’d like to hear about all the hard work I’ve been doing while you’ve been out living the high life every night. I’ve been waiting for the past few weeks to hear from an informant of mine who occasionally passes me useful information from his friends in the East End. He was under orders to communicate with me if he received news of a particular cargo having arrived safely at Tilbury without being intercepted at Customs. They’ve been on the alert lately, and have caught a good few consignments, so things have been quiet on that score in recent times. However, I finally had the signal from my chap this morning that something was about to happen, and so I propose we go along and keep a look-out.’
‘Do you mean the stuff has made it as far as London?’ said Freddy.
‘Yes, I think so—or it’s about to. There’s a concern just off Commercial Street that I occasionally make it my business to walk past, having had certain hints with regard to its real purpose, although I haven’t come up with much up to now—most likely because it’s always been the wrong time. However, now that we know for sure there’s been a consignment, I think it’s safe to say that something is going to happen, and soon.’
‘They’re going to divvy the stuff up and dole it out, you mean?’
