“My valet, Cuthbert,” I made the introductions. “Cuthbert, this is-”
She cut me off before I could name her. “Let’s just say I’m a friend.” She sent me a look.
“Mr Mortlake has already named you, Miss Pepper,” grinned Cuthbert. If there was ever a ball in the vicinity, you could be sure he would be on it. “I don’t need to know anything more than that.” He nodded courteously.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” Miss Pepper simpered, giving rise to a twinge of some dark sentiment deep within me. Jealousy, I suppose you might call it. I decided to distract her from ogling my valet with an observation that the rain was bucketing down and a suggestion that we ought to vacate our present, precarious position.
“There’s a fire escape over yonder,” said Cuthbert. “That’ll get us down to the street.”
“Well done!” I patted his upper arm. The white cotton of his shirt sleeve was soaked through and clung to the muscles showing pinkly beneath.
“Go ahead, gentlemen; for me the only way is up!”
With that and a second jaunty salute, Miss Pepper bounded away across the slates, as nimble as a mountain goat in roller skates. Within seconds, the rain obscured her from sight, like a curtain.
“Lor’,” said Cuthbert. “She was full of spunk.”
“Quite,” I muttered.
We climbed down the metal steps, flight after flight, zigzagging our way to street level. The rain was easing off at last and a troop of policemen - genuine ones this time - was converging in the main entrance.
“Dear, oh dear,” Cuthbert shook his head. “I suppose we’d best get back in there and straighten things out.”
I pulled him into a recess lest he be seen. We were nose to nose, so close that his eyes appeared to blend into one, giving him a Cyclopean appearance. If Polyphemus had been so damnably handsome, Odysseus might be in that cave with him still.
“Rather,” I countered, “we should repair to our hotel and gather our belongings. I have a terrible aversion to setting foot in the Johnsonian Museum ever again.”
* * *
I detected a certain lack of urgency in Cuthbert’s packing of my trunk. Since I had first taken him on, he had come on in leaps and bounds where the folding of shirts and the starching of collars was concerned. In fact, I’d wager that no one could stiffen a dicky like my Cuthbert; but it was not meticulous care for my clothing that was the root cause of this delay. His slowness served to augment my anxiety. I was keen to leave the city with as much celerity as we could muster but when I impressed this desire upon my valet, he merely blinked and said, isn’t that the green crunchy stuff and asked why I should want to put mustard on it.
I castigated him for being deliberately obtuse and ordered him to get a shimmy on.
“A chemise, sir?”
“Stop being so damned fatuous! I want to be on the first train out of here.”
“Oh, well, sir,” he sat on the edge of the bed, abandoning every pretence of packing. “The thing is, I don’t want to go, sir. Not just yet a while at any rate.”
He was the very picture of distress and it took every iota of my self-restraint not to throw my arms around him. Instead, I perched beside him and asked in a gentle tone for an explanation.
“You see, sir; it’s Bobby, sir.”
“Ah,” I nodded. “The late Master Hawkins.”
“That’s just it, sir. He was never unpunctual, sir.”
“That’s not what I meant but, please, continue.”
“We was close, sir, me and Bobby, and when I heard he was dead, sir - the first time, I mean - well, I was devastated, sir. It was like my heart had been ripped out and stamped on right in front of my face, sir. Do you know what that’s like?”
I remained tight-lipped. I had experienced emotion of the nature he described on an occasion when I believed he had met his doom but - dash it all - I didn’t want to extend this exposition any longer than was necessary. Time, tide and trains wait for no man.
“So, when I learned that Bobby wasn’t dead, sir, that he’d been alive all along, well, I was knocked through a hoop - only, of course, it was too late and Bobby really was dead this time, sir.” He interrupted his discourse with a loud, wet sniff. I handed him one of my better handkerchiefs without a second thought. When he had composed himself sufficiently to carry on, he pinned me with those large, blue eyes of his and pleaded to be allowed to stay in New York and discover what had become of his former friend. “I’ve got to find out, sir, for Bobby’s sake. You understand that, don’t you?”
“But - but-” I blustered. “My book tour! I have an engagement in Boston five days hence.”
“You’ll be all right, sir.”
“But - but - No! It’s unconscionable. Oh, damn it all, Cuthbert; I cannot leave you here to face untold peril alone.”
“What?” he blinked away tears. “You’re staying with me?”
“Why, yes! I suppose I am. Dash it all to hell.”
“Oh, sir!” he jumped up and pecked me on the cheek. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure together we shall get to the bottom of it.”
“Quite. I suppose I should inform the booksellers of Boston of my postponement.”
“No need, sir,” Cuthbert gave a crafty wink. “I’ve already wired ahead.”
* * *
Of course, I could deny Cuthbert nothing and so I put aside concerns for my own safety - there was a bally Aztec deity running around, remember - and elected to stay in town with him. Cuthbert clearly had something from his past he needed to resolve, believing he owed some kind of debt to the late Bobby Hawkins.
“I put myself in your hands,” I told him.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he winked.
Our first port of call was not Helen’s Kitchen, as I had assumed, but a disreputable thoroughfare called Broadway where playhouses, music halls and other dens of iniquity jostled shoulders on either side of the street. I failed to see how such low diversions might assist us but then we plunged into a foetid alleyway between theatres and I thought Cuthbert had an altogether different form of entertainment in mind.
At the rear of one of the buildings, a cracked and dirty lantern glowed dimly over a featureless door. Cuthbert raised his fist and beat his knuckles against the wood in the old shave-and-a-haircut rhythm. The time-honoured ‘two bits’ response was not forthcoming. Instead, the door opened wide enough to reveal a face and a hand bearing a candle. The visage, thrown into grotesque relief from the low angle of the illumination, contorted into a mask of shocked recognition.
“Cuthbert!” The voice was shrill with surprise. “My boy!”
The face withdrew and the door opened wide enough to admit us. “Come in, come in!”
Cuthbert stepped over the threshold and pecked the countenance on its smooth and shiny cheek.
“So good to see you, my dear!” the figure’s free hand cupped Cuthbert’s chin fondly. I cleared my throat, for I was still outdoors and yet to be invited in.
“Oh, yeah,” Cuthbert was reminded of my existence. “Come in, sir. This is my boss,, Mr Mortlake. He’s a writer.”
The hand that had caressed Cuthbert’s chin was now extended to me. It was cool and limp.
“Welcome, Mr Mortlake. Do, please, enter.”
I touched the brim of my topper as I entered. Cuthbert closed the door behind me.
“Sir, this is Poppy. Poppy runs this place - or as good as, don’t you, Poppy?”
‘Poppy’ emitted a trill of amusement. “I’m afraid, Mr Mortlake, our mutual friend exaggerates my importance when in point of fact, I am two rungs below Moriarty, the theatre cat.”
“That’s codswallop and you know it,” Cuthbert nudged Poppy playfully. I was utterly revolted. “Take no notice of Poppy, sir. Without Poppy,
this place would tumble into wrack and ruin.”
We moved to a space of greater illumination and what I saw of the general decay and disarray led me to believe that Messrs Wrack and Ruin had already taken up residence. I also saw that Poppy was wearing a long silk robe of a deep shade of blue. Poppy’s hair was piled high beneath a headscarf and Poppy’s features were at once strong and feminine. The more astute reader will have observed my negligence in the use of personal pronouns; the plain fact of the matter is it took me a considerable while to determine whether the creature before me was Tony or Joanie, and I did not like to ask. I opted for the former, for Willis rather than Phyllis, and neither Poppy nor Cuthbert said anything to contradict me. Oh, the theatre is home to all sorts of strange people!
We were in some kind of ‘green room’, as the Thespians would have it, although the only thing of that eponymous hue as far as I could see was the mould colonising the abandoned tea cups that littered every horizontal surface. The room was dank and stank of mildew and neglect. I could not envisage a great deal of backstage bonhomie taking place between its walls.
I was as yet ignorant of the reason for this detour and I itched under the hostile appraisal of Cuthbert’s acquaintance, who stood me beneath a flyblown lamp and circled me with one hand on his cheek; its little finger he sucked on as an aid to thinking. Both Poppy and Cuthbert made humming sounds and I wondered what the nature of their relationship had been.
There is so much of my valet’s life prior to his coming into my purview that I do not know and perhaps it is better that I never find out - but, like a wobbly tooth that one’s tongue just will not leave alone, my mind keeps worrying at it and I wonder if it would not be better to have the whole thing out once and for all.
“The height,” murmured Poppy, with a disparaging pout.
“He can stoop,” countered Cuthbert.
“The hands.”
“He can wear gloves.”
“The nose.”
“Ah, now that’s where your expertise comes into it, Poppy old love. I’m sure you can work your magic on Mr Mortlake’s boat race.”
Poppy’s lips pursed, glad of the flattery. “I’ll give it a damned good try. Bring him through.”
Cuthbert encouraged me to follow Poppy along a gloomy corridor and into a dressing room. I was invited to sit in a chair before a cracked and smeared mirror. Electric bulbs around the edge of the glass glowed feebly, emitting the low buzz of invisible bees. I know, I know: electricity is becoming ever more prevalent in our modern age but, frankly, I can’t see it ever catching on big time.
“Just you sit tight, flower,” Poppy smiled but there was an undercurrent of threat. I felt like one of Sweeney Todd’s customers. A grubby sheet was cast around my shoulders and my eyes searched those of Cuthbert’s reflection.
“You’ll be right as rain, sir. You’re in safe hands.”
“Yes,” said Poppy. “I’ve had them all this chair. Cheeky Charlie Chuckles. Inga Lovegood, the Scandinavian songbird. The Flying Fazackerleys. You name ’em, I’ve had ’em.”
The roll call meant nothing to me but I presumed the names belonged to worthies of New York’s cultural scene.
Poppy produced an object akin to a tradesman’s toolbox. When the lid was opened and the contents revealed, I felt a little more at ease but no less confused. The box was a make-up kit. Sticks of greasepaint in a range of hues vied for space with pencils and false moustaches.
Evidently, Poppy was an artist of sorts. But why his services were being called upon at Cuthbert’s behest, I did not know. I was about to pose the question there and then but I was shocked into tongue-tying terror by the sudden appearance of a cutthroat razor.
“Going to have to shave you first, petal.” Poppy ran the blade up and down a leather strop. “Or else the slap won’t stick. Those lovely sideburns of yours will have to go.”
“Now, look here-”
A hand from Cuthbert pressed me gently but firmly back into my seat. “Relax, guv,” he whispered. “And sit still. For me?”
I let out some kind of incoherent noise of capitulation. Beneath the sheet, my hands gripped the armrests but, as Poppy lathered my chops and applied the razor with even, gentle strokes, I began to relax a little.
“Yes, yes,” Poppy spoke as he worked. “Had them all in this chair, haven’t I, Cuthbert? Did I ever tell you about old Whatshisname? The Great Fantoni? No? Right, well, you sit still and I’ll tell you. And when I’m finished, so will you be.”
And so I sat back. In the corner of my eye, I saw Cuthbert pull up a stool. As Poppy’s soft, if nasally voice told the tale, I even closed my eyes.
* * *
Presto Bongo
When the Great Fantoni changed his act, he came to me. No more the top hat and cane. Gone too were the cloak and the white gloves. “I’m beginning to resemble too much of the audience,” he blustered. “A stage magician should be distinctive. Exotic!”
With that, he rifled the wardrobe department, opening every trunk, every armoire, and tossing costumes over his shoulders in his search for his new outfit. No prizes for guessing who would have to tidy that lot up, I thought.
He settled on a floor-length robe of midnight blue silk, suggesting, with an arch look in my direction, that it would look even more resplendent if ‘someone’ were to stitch on a moon and some stars... He fashioned a turban from a length of gold fabric, for which I found a jewelled brooch and a feather for decoration. He seemed delighted with the overall effect as he admired himself in the mirror but then, his face fell.
“I look too much the gent,” he said. “My face is still the Great Fantoni’s. I need a new face.”
I got to work on him with the crepe hair and the spirit gum. He fidgeted in the chair. “There hasn’t been anyone asking for me? At the stage door?”
At first I took this to be a rather desperate query. The man was hungry for admirers and recognition, I thought, but the truth turned out to be quite the opposite.
“You must let me know if anyone asks for me - for the Great Fantoni, I mean. Especially if they sport suspenders and flat caps. And if they have Irish names. Promise me, you’ll let me know right away.”
I gave him my word. He examined his new reflection. I had given him a long, drooping moustache, like a Chinese mandarin. And he nodded in approval.
As well as his appearance, the Great Fantoni, overhauled his entire show. I was recruited to stand in the wings and while he, having dispensed with his white-tipped wand, wiggled his fingers around over his props, it was my job to shake a sheet of metal suspended overhead, simulating rolls of thunder. It was a thrill for me, a step up from the wardrobe department - for I had always wanted to be in show business. But, up close to his act, I could see what he was doing. How he misdirected attention so he could stash playing cards in his voluminous sleeves. How he stored doves and rabbits in compartments in his table. How, in fact, the whole thing was rigged. It was all built on lies and deception and, from this close angle, seemed to me tawdry and vile, and lacking in the glamour I had craved all my life.
But as I watched, I learned. I even took to practising in my spare time, developing my sleight of hand and my patter. I would out-magic the Great Fantoni, or Presto Bongo as he was now calling himself. Every night he demanded to know if anyone had asked for him. I pieced things together: Fantoni owed money - gambling debts, most probably - to one of the gangs that operate in this side of town.
One night, two roughs in suspenders and flat caps appeared at the stage door. They gave old Jim a lot of hassle until I placated them with two complimentary tickets and directed them around to the front entrance of the theatre. I hurried to Fantoni’s dressing room. “They’re here!” I gasped. He nodded; he had been expecting this for weeks.
“The show must go on,” he said. I think he was attempting to sound noble.
Two men in the front row got to their feet. Two gunshots rang out and the magician fell to the floor. Quickly, the curtain was closed. The gunmen tore from the building. I dashed to Fantoni’s side. His robe of midnight blue had fallen open. There was the sheet of metal, strapped to his chest.
But the magician was dead. I had told the men in flat caps to aim for the jewel on his turban. After all, we McNallys must stick together.
And then I was top of the bill.
* * *
Poppy told the tale well and so absorbed in it did I become that I closed my eyes, and it was only when he reached the denouement that I recalled what was happening to me.
“Ta-dah!” Poppy sang a fanfare and, blinking, I beheld a portrait of One-Eyed Helen gawping back at me. My initial reaction was to believe the mirror had been whisked away and the old hag was peering in at me through a hitherto concealed window.
“You’ve done a grand job there, Poppy,” Cuthbert enthused.
Poppy, make-up brushes in hand, bobbed in a curtsey.
It was a startling transformation. The attention to detail was so meticulous I had to lift the patch from my eye to check that I still possessed the full complement. Of course, my acquaintance with the old bat had been only fleeting but Poppy had worked miracles with cosmetics, bits of rubber and lashings of spirit gum.
“But why have you done this?” it occurred to me at last to ask.
“The only person who gets into Helen’s private quarters without question is Helen herself,” Cuthbert explained. “But you know and I know, she ain’t never coming back.”
I trembled at the memory - I had seen first-hand what the dog-headed god had wrought, and although we hadn’t stuck around to witness what he had done to Helen and Lummox in the smoke-filled office but it was safe to bet it would not have been pretty.
Understanding continued to elude me.
Xolotl Strikes! Page 5
