‘Mrs Coulson,’ I said softly.
Her eyes rolled open and with a sharp grimace she turned her head in my direction.
‘Who… are you?’
‘It’s Johnny Hawke… the private detective.’
Her eyelids fluttered and then closed. ‘Oh. You.’
‘What happened?’
‘I was attacked. He… came for Malcolm.’
Here voice was raspy and lazy like that of a drunk.
‘Malcolm Salter. He’s been here.’
‘His last refuge. But … he found him. He came for him.’
‘Who?
‘The man. The man that did this to me.’
‘Which man?’
Mrs Coulson’s brow creased with irritation and her eyes flickered open again. ‘Horsefield. He came for the money.’
The money. Like a rusty machine that had just been serviced and well-oiled, suddenly all the cogs slipped into place and began whirring with increased efficiency. Now it all became clear to me. Or most of it, at least.
‘I told him Malcolm wasn’t here, but he didn’t believe me,’ Mrs Coulson rambled on. ‘So, he hit me. Broke my skull.’
‘You’ll be all right,’ I said without any knowledge or conviction that this would be the case. At least I knew her skull wasn’t broken. She had a bad cut and her dignity had been bruised. ‘Let me get you a glass of water.’
‘A glass of water… yes. Put some gin in it too, would you?’
I reckon she’d survive.
I got her the water – without the gin. I didn’t want to waste precious time searching for booze in the kitchen.
‘Where have Malcolm and Horsefield gone now?’ I asked after helping to prop Mrs Coulson up into a sitting position on the sofa and handing her the glass of water, which she clasped unsteadily with both hands.
She took a gulp from the glass and then turned a puzzled face to me. ‘What did you say?’
‘Malcolm and Horsefield – the man who attacked you – where have they gone?’
At the mention of the attack, Mrs Coulson’s fingers wandered towards the wound again. ‘They’ve gone to get the money, of course.’
‘Where?’ I tried to keep the frustration and eagerness out of my voice, but I feel I failed.
Mrs Coulson looked at me crossly as though I was an idiot. ‘To Victoria Station. Malcolm said that he’d put the money in a left luggage locker for safe keeping.’
‘How long ago did they leave?’
‘How the hell do I know? I’ve been attacked. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, suffering.’ She took another drink. ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘there’s no gin in this.’
As I hurried for the door, I noticed the clock that had been on the mantelpiece lying on the tiled hearth, no doubt where it had fallen during the struggle. The glass face was cracked and the hands had stopped at ten to ten. I glanced at my watch. That was twenty minutes ago. Crikey, I had only just missed them. I reckon they had about a fifteen-minute lead on me.
In a trice I was out of the house and racing up the road in search of a taxi. I felt no guilt in leaving the wounded Mrs Coulson to her own devices. She was a tough old bird and I’m sure that she’d summon up enough strength to get to the gin bottle and comfort herself that way.
Despite the coolness of the morning, I had worked up quite a sweat before I managed to secure a taxi. They were thin on the ground in suburbia.
‘Victoria Station,’ I yelled as I jumped inside.’ As fast as you can. It’s a matter of life and death,’ I added for dramatic effort.
The cabbie gave a brief smile. ‘Yeah, it always is mate,’ he muttered and slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator causing the cab to leap forward and for me to be thrown with some force back into my seat. The fellow had taken me at my word.
As we travelled, I tried to assemble my thoughts and build a clear scenario of this troubled affair. I was making some assumptions certainly, but they were all based on things I knew for certain. Here’s how I read the riddle at that time. Malcolm Salter and Bruce Horsefield – i.e. Lance Corporal Marshall – had absconded from the army and formed a criminal partnership. Horsefield had experience in breaking the law, albeit a fairly unsuccessful one, and probably gave Salter a crash course in the mechanics of stealing. No doubt they carried out a few small robberies and then went for the big time with the bank job in Chelmsford. It seemed to me that it was at this time that Malcolm got greedy and somehow absconded with the loot. Big mistake. Horsefield had form for being a violent beggar and certainly would not take this lightly.
I reckoned that Salter had turned up at his mother’s place intending to hide out there while the heat died down. But Horsefield had tracked him down and he only managed to get away before his old partner came to call, finding the cupboard bare, as it were. Horsefield took it out on the old woman, hanging the poor old soul. Probably it was done partly as revenge and partly as a warning to Salter. He made it look like suicide so the police wouldn’t be suspicious of her death, but he knew Malcolm would know the truth.
Salter went on the run and that’s where I came in, tracking him down to Mrs Booth’s lodging house. Actually, I did him a favour for in giving me the slip, he did the same to Horsefield who was no doubt hot on his heels. As a last resort he went to Auntie Susan for shelter. I didn’t know to what extent she was party to all this, but she certainly wasn’t a whited sepulchre. Now Horsefield’s got him and is dragging him to where he secreted the loot – a left-luggage locker at Victoria Station. I had no doubt that when Horsefield had got his hands on the cash, he would have no compunctions about killing his traitorous partner.
Unless I could get there in time.
And getting there in time was proving a problem.
In the good old days – i.e. before the war – travelling around London was fairly easy. Of course, there were the usual snarl ups on the road at busy spots but, in general, journeys went rather smoothly without any serious delay. And then came the Luftwaffe causing all kinds of havoc: bombed buildings spilling across the thoroughfares, water and gas mains destroyed, rubble and debris blocking roads, craters causing diversions, a whole catalogue of obstructions which hindered the swift and easy passage from place to place.
While my cabbie was driving as fast as he could we did not seem to be making much progress. Once in the city, there were so many detours, down this back street, up that road, to just get a little bit further on the direct route. The only consolation was that Horsefield and Salter would have suffered the same problems. I assumed they had gone by road. If they had taken the underground, the odds on me getting there at the same time or even before them shortened. There were several changes on route and tube trains ran infrequently during the day between rush-hour times.
We jerked to a halt and the cabbie suddenly peeped his horn ferociously. We had got stuck behind a horse and cart, the driver of which seemed oblivious of other road users.
‘Deaf bastard!’ snarled the cabbie and leaned out of his window. ‘Shift your arse, mate,’ he yelled.
The driver of the cart was indeed deaf or impervious to such urging and maintained his snail-like pace.
With a grunt of anger, the cabbie wrenched the wheel to the right and mounted the pavement, while at the same time stabbing his hand down firmly on the horn to produce a loud and continuous blare of warning. Pedestrians scattered, but the cart trotted on calmly. With an extra surge of speed, the cab rocketed past the cart and we shuddered back down onto the road and continued our journey at speed.
The cabbie said nothing to me, but I could hear him chuckling to himself.
Soon the great edifice of Victoria Station hove into view. What, I wondered, would I find inside.
EIGHTEEN
He was used to pain. He could handle pain. In many ways pain was pleasurable. And in this instance it was necessary. He tugged even harder but forced himself not to wince, despite the fierce sharp electric shock waves that shot up his arm. The flesh was scraping off n
ow. Shredding like thin slices of uncooked beef.
He tugged again and this time, he could not suppress a cry and a curse. But as he cursed, he tugged even harder, the blood welling over the cold metal of the handcuff.
Now he was wracked with pain and wanted to curl up in a ball and sob. But he knew he couldn’t. He had gone this far. He had to go all the way. All the excruciating way. Before making another almighty effort, he gazed down at his damaged hand. It was almost down to the bone by the knuckles and the rest was raw flesh which glistened in the shadowy light.
Taking a deep breath, he bellowed loudly, bellowed until his lungs hurt, hoping the noise and the discomfort would help to mask the pain of one more violent effort. Contracting his fingers as much as he could, he wrenched his damaged hand further through the metal hoop of the handcuff. Without waiting for the full extent of the agony this caused to register in his brain, he did it again. Flames shot up before his eyes, bright red and yellow and his whole body rippled with agony.
But he was free.
He was free.
He looked down at the bloody mess that was his hand and tied to flex his fingers. Reluctantly they obeyed. Ralph Northcote smiled and then fell back on the bed in a dead faint.
When he awoke some twenty minutes later, he first became conscious of the throbbing ache in his right hand. Memory of his actions seem to aid the pain and as he sat up, it grew in intensity. Strangely, he smiled, his dry lips pulling back across his teeth in a feral grin. He could cope. The pain would lessen in time. The main thing was that he had not damaged the function of the hand – and that he was free. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand up. He did so for a few moments and then collapsed back down again. He was very weak and a little light headed due to a lack of sustenance. After a few moments, he tried again and remained upright this time. His first tasks were to bandage his hand and obtain some food and water. Then he could prepare to make good his escape.
Haltingly at first, he walked to the cellar door and with his good hand, he managed to pull it open. He sneered. Sexton had been so confident that his prisoner could not escape he hadn’t even bothered to lock the door.
Slowly in a shambling manner he made his way upstairs into the main body of the house and located the kitchen. In the larder he found a pork pie and a few sausages. He devoured them savagely, washed down with water. Then he attended to his hand, running it gently under the tap before using a tea towel as a makeshift bandage. In the sitting room, he found Sexton’s cigarette case on the mantelpiece, the initials F S engraved on the top. Extracting a cigarette, he sat in one of the armchairs and enjoyed a smoke. As he stubbed the tab end out on the arm of the chair, he smiled again. From now on things were going to go his way.
For hours, while he had lain on that filthy bed in the cellar, he had planned in meticulous detail what he would do when he got free and now he set about doing it. Only the strange geography of the house hindered him slightly. Upstairs, in the bathroom, he found a medicine cabinet and he treated his wound, dabbing Dettol onto it, and crying out in pain as he did so, and then dressing it with a crèpe bandage. The cabinet also offered up a treasure: a small neat case containing a set of surgical instruments. He opened the case and admired the bright metal tools of his trade and his hobby. They glistened pleasingly in the natural light.
‘Excellent,’ murmured Northcote, stroking the leather case. ‘That eliminates one of my perceived hurdles.’
This lucky find seemed to increase his energy levels. With enthusiasm, he washed, combed his hair and shaved using Sexton’s razor, an act that gave him great pleasure.
Moving into the main bedroom, he raided the wardrobe, taking a smart brown suit and a cream shirt and tie. Then came the shoes. He chose a nice pair of sturdy brogues. Sexton had small feet, but cramped toes were small inconvenience compared with the throbbing discomfort of his injured hand. Every time he thought of it, he moved his fingers to reassure himself that they were still working. He also found a small stash of notes and coins in the bedside drawer – around fifteen pounds. Northcote scooped it up and slipped it in his pocket.
He selected a smart overcoat, something dark and discreet, and checked himself out in the wardrobe mirror. He looked almost human. The face was ghostly white and haggard, the eyes bloodshot and the posture a little hunched, but he reckoned he would pass unnoticed in a crowd.
He was prepared to face the world once more, but before he did, there was just one more thing he had to do.
He moved back into the sitting room and picked up the cigarette case and slipped it into his pocket.
Now he was ready.
Within minutes, he was walking down the street, away from Sexton’s house and towards freedom and the city of London.
NINETEEN
I paid off the cabbie with a healthy tip. His kerb-mounting routine was beyond the call of duty, and without his ingenuity and bravado, I would, no doubt, be still stuck behind that crawling horse and cart.
I entered the portals of Victoria Station, not really knowing what was going to happen to me here. A wave of noise washed over me: a multitude of echoey voices floating round the great domed structure, built like some great industrial cathedral. The place was crowded, passengers of all sizes, shapes and ages criss-crossed and interwove with each other like a moving canvas of drab colours.
I knew where the left luggage lockers were situated, down the side of Platform One, and headed in that direction. I moved as quickly as I could, fighting against a tide of folk rolling the other way. The whole of London seemed to be squeezing their way past me. At last I reached Platform One, my hand clasped firmly on my revolver. I peered down towards the lockers and the various individuals hovering around them like expectant bees around the proverbial honey pot. I’d come face to face with Salter in the flesh, so I thought that I would recognise him, but Horsefield was only a face on an old sepia photograph. There was, of course, his hat, the large grey felt fedora.
And there it was! Large as life, bobbing towards me.
My heart began to race. I knew now that a confrontation was inevitable and certainly one of us would get hurt. I just had to make sure that it was not me. I pushed forward towards the hat, while at the same time trying to see if Malcolm Salter was accompanying it. It did not seem so.
The jostling crowd seemed to coagulate as I neared that distinctive titfer and then suddenly there was a gap into which I was propelled and faced the owner of the hat. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Horsefield. It was a gentle-faced fellow well into his seventies who was having great trouble hauling a large brown case along the platform. Under normal circumstances I would have stopped and offered assistance, but these were not normal circumstances.
I squeezed past the old fellow and moved further down the platform, feeling that now I was on a fool’s errand. The row of green metal lockers stretched for about twelve feet and about half a dozen passengers were installing or extracting luggage or parcels when I arrived. None of them was Salter or Horsefield. It looked like I was too late and my hopes of bringing this investigation to a swift conclusion were well and truly dashed. With sloping shoulders of defeat, I loitered by the lockers for a few minutes and turned to make my way back up the platform.
And then I saw it again. That hat! But it wasn’t the same one. Not unless the old chap with the big case had turned around and was making his way up the platform now. But no, this hat certainly belonged to Horsefield for there was his thin sallow face beneath the brim and at his side was my old sparring partner, Malcolm Salter who looked as cheerful as a fat turkey on Christmas Eve. He was almost being dragged along by Felt Hat Horsefield, whose face was set in a ferocious scowl, his hand thrust deep in his raincoat pocket. Unless I was mistaken that unpleasant bulge indicated there was a gun in there, a sinister little persuader.
As soon as I’d clocked them, I turned around to hide my face and moved to the side of the platform by the Gentlemen’s lavatories, and waited until they had passed me. T
hen I turned and followed them.
On reaching the lockers, I could see Horsefield snapping instructions to Salter, who very slowly retrieved a key from his wallet and passed it to his companion. Horsefield refused to take it and made Salter open the locker himself. Obviously he was taking no chances for Salter to do a bunk. Slowly, he opened the locker door and withdrew a dark maroon holdall. Horsefield snatched it from him and uttered some instructions and the two of them turned and began to retrace their steps. I turned sideways and appeared to be reading one of the railway notices on the wall as they went by me. They turned and disappeared into the gents’ lavatories. I reckoned that Horsefield was just going to check that the money was indeed in the maroon holdall. And then what? It seemed to me there was only one likely outcome. He would shoot Salter.
* * *
Taking a deep breath, I entered the lavatories a few moments later. At first sight, it was empty. There was no one there at all. It was as though the two men had disappeared into thin air. Had I been tricked? Had it all been a performance for my benefit? But no. I head a rustling noise from one of the cubicles and bending down I could see two sets of feet visible below the door. I pressed the door gently; it was locked. Without hesitation, I stood back and lifting up my leg I rammed it hard with my size nines. It sprang open and there were cries from within and to my horror the sound of a gun shot.
Horsefield spilled out, clasping the holdall to his chest with one hand and holding the smoking gun with the other. Behind him I could see the body of Malclom Salter. He was slumped on the lavatory, his head down on his chest.
On seeing me, Horsefield thrust the gun in my direction. I could tell from his distracted glances that things had evolved too fast for him to realise exactly what was happening. He had no idea who I was or what I wanted. For all he knew, I could be a chap in desperate need of a lavatory cubicle. I took advantage of his hesitation. With the gun still in my raincoat pocket, I shot him in the leg. He went down immediately with a cry. For some reason, I glanced down at my coat and saw the awful hole and scorchmarks that disfigured it. Damn!
A Taste for Blood Page 10
