by James White
“You’re on the right lines. Maybe if they turn out all right I could get you some copies.” Nick looked around furtively and moved closer. “Maybe we could sell some from here.”
“I’m always on the lookout for new stuff; the market is really demanding these days. It’s crazy. I think it’s the Depression. People are going mad for this stuff. Guess they can’t afford the real thing anymore.”
“That right? Well, okay, I’ll keep that in mind. So where can I get this stuff developed? It needs to be real discreet, Roberto, real discreet.”
Roberto’s forehead creased in deep lines beneath his gloss of black curls as he thought hard. He moved back to the counter and beckoned Nick over. “Okay, there’s a few guys, but some of them are bums. They’re not so honest, Nick, making extra copies, selling them on, ripping people off. I don’t send you there, Nick. There’s two guys who are straight up. They cost more, but that’s ’cause they’re not taking an extra prints, and they don’t say nothing. Even I don’t know who they deal with, unless I sent ’em myself.” He scribbled on a piece of paper with a stub of pencil and pushed it towards Nick. “Go see either then lose that paper.”
“Thanks, Roberto, you’ve been a big help.”
“No problem. Hey, Nick, seeing as you’re here, I can’t interest you?”
Nick looked down at the counter. From underneath some botanic prints, Roberto had slid the edge of a racy magazine. He had his other hand open on the counter.
“Sure, why not. You’ve been a big help. How much?”
“Two shillings.”
Nick gave a low whistle, dropped three in the man’s hand and palmed the magazine into his coat pocket. “That’s for the info, Roberto. I’ll consider the magazine a present.”
“Of course,” beamed Roberto. “It’s not illegal to give presents – not yet!” He gave Nick another pat on the back and scurried over to his other customer as Nick left the stuffy air of the bookshop behind.
Nick crossed the road and ducked through the passageway next to the Pillars of Hercules pub, bringing him back into Soho proper. He looked at the addresses. One was right around the corner, a basement in Greek Street. The other… His heart leapt. The other was on Bolsover Street, just round the corner from the Brigadier and Ramona’s love nest. He already had a gut feeling which one would be right, but he should check the closest one. In the event, the decision was made for him. There was no reply to the bell and when he pushed on the door, it was locked. He’d have to come back, if he got no lead at Bolsover Street.
The first pangs of hunger were beginning to play in his stomach, so he stopped at the Yorkshire Grey on Great Titchfield Street for a quick pint and a sandwich. The wood-panelled pub was quiet; a gloomy looking publican stood idly polishing the glasses, while a handful of drinkers sat quietly around the pub as if they were making a conscious effort to avoid each other. Nick drank and ate in silence and hated it. He knew it would be totally different within a few hours as the after-work crowd filtered in. Right now he felt washed up, one of the aimless and unemployed, drinking away last night’s hangover in solitude. He didn’t like the feeling, even though that was what he had become. It hadn’t bothered him so much before, but now, for the first time in a long time, he felt he had a purpose, however obtuse, and it rankled him that he was sat here so out of sync with the rest of the working world.
It took him less than five minutes to walk to the address. Another basement flat. Nick looked up and down the road: lines of residential buildings, the perfect place for a business like this. He rang the bell and a frail, furtive-looking, old man cracked open a chained door. He looked at Nick suspiciously over the top of small, wireless glasses, his eyes squinting in the daylight, a wisp of grey hair covering an age-mottled scalp. He wore a rubber apron and rubberized arm guards over an old blue shirt, and Nick could just make out one brown-slippered foot. Seeing the man, he was tempted to shoulder the door down, but decided he’d try the friendly approach first.
“What do you want?” rasped the old man, initiating a fit of coughing. Now the door was open Nick’s nose detected the faint smell of developing chemicals.
Nick smiled kindly. “Hello, Mr Aviv, Roberto told me you might be able to help me with some photographic development?”
The old man frowned at Nick. “Roberto sent you?”
Nick nodded and was relieved to hear the old man start rattling the door chain off.
“Okay, come in, come in, quickly!” he said irritably, slamming the door shut behind Nick.
The flat was dark, a small red bulb glowed dully in the hall light fitting with no shade and all the doors off were shut. The old man scuttled forward, muttering to himself and led Nick into a parlour. It stank of chemicals. Washing lines ran across the ceiling off the room at all angles; hundreds of photos hung clipped to them. Nick stopped and stared; there were naked women, men, women and men, women and women, men and men… The old man prodded him hard in the stomach.
“No looking! No touching!” he screeched.
Another door led off this dimly lit room. Nick figured it must be the developing room.
“Where is this film?” The man held out a wizened claw.
“You’ve already developed it.”
“What?”
“You heard. Take a seat.” Nick suddenly shoved the old man hard so that he fell back, sprawled onto the low sofa. He let out a cry of shock and pain. He began to kick his scrawny legs to scrabble upright but Nick was already on top of him. He pushed the man back down with one hand.
“Get out! Get out!” the old man screamed.
Nick slapped him hard across the face. The man’s glasses went flying and he was suddenly still and quiet.
“That’s better. Mr Aviv, I’m not here to hurt you. I just need some information.”
“You are a fool. I am protected. You can’t muscle in here like this.” The old man looked at him with rheumy eyes, but Nick could see the fear behind the bluster.
“Maybe. But I’m in here now. Look, I work with the police; they’d love to know about this place. I can have them down here in minutes. Some of these pictures, though, maybe I’ll have a word to a fellow I know at the British Union of Fascists; they’d like to know about you and this place. How long was it since you were run out of … where? Poland?” Nick hazarded a guess based on the man’s accent and saw he’d been right.
“I’m saying nothing. The police, they won’t do nothing. You go. I don’t want trouble.” He was trying to sound bold, but his reedy voice wavered.
“Don’t kid yourself. You’re looking at jail time for this, and they’ll sweat you, then some of your customers will be wanting to speak to you, that’s if they don’t decide to get you shut up in custody before you can sing. I’ll come to the point. You developed some pictures for a lady, right?” Nick saw the flash of recognition in the man’s eyes. There wouldn’t be too many broads in this side of the business. “Good, okay, we’re getting somewhere. She was Spanish, went by the name Ramona – black hair, good looking, nice clothes, just nod if you know who I’m talking about.”
The man swallowed and gave a nod.
“Okay, listen, you’re not going to be ratting anyone out, but you may be helping yourself. Ramona is dead.” Nick waited for this to sink in. He could see the man’s fear growing.
“Oh my God…” muttered the man.
“She was murdered. Now she had some photos in her possession, photos she may have been killed for, photos other people will be looking for, people who killed her and will think nothing of killing you.”
The old man nodded.
“I need to know everything about those photos then I might be able to stop these people.”
“I can’t. My reputation–”
“Will be a dead man’s reputation. You might be the only chance she has for seeing justice done and for stopping these people.”
Mr Aviv wiped a hand across his brow. “Okay, I tell you, but you tell no one, and you tell no one I told you. Dea
l?” The man held out a gnarled hand. Bemused, Nick took it.
“Deal.”
“She came here, maybe three days ago, said she had a film she wanted developed, shots of herself and a friend, said she was looking to break into the business. A nice-looking girl. I told her to go and come back, but she said no. She was shy. As it was her first time she wanted to stay and see the process, make sure there were no copies. I don’t normally work like that, but she was a sweet girl.”
“Go on.”
“She had a single roll of film.” The man stopped and swallowed then shook his head.
“What?”
“The pictures. There were only a few on the whole roll. I noticed this straight away, told her something had gone wrong, she didn’t seem bothered, just told me to continue.”
“How many sets did you make?”
“Just one. She only wanted one.”
“And what was on the film?” The man swallowed hard again.
“If I had known, I would never… I don’t want to get mixed up in this. This is my business.” He gestured around the pornography hanging all over his room. “Not spying.”
“Spying?”
“It was photos of documents, British military documents.”
“How many pictures?”
“I don’t know. Five or six.”
“About what specifically?”
“Didn’t you hear me?” The man’s voice rose. “I don’t want to know about it. I saw what it was, I didn’t read it, I cursed her, said I would destroy them. Then she pulled a gun! A woman with a gun! Can you believe it?” Old Aviv was incredulous. Nick could believe it.
“So you made four prints, each of a page of document?”
The man nodded.
“What about the negatives?”
“She took them, stuffed the lot in her bag, apologised for the gun and paid me five pounds! Five pounds! Can you believe it?” He chuckled, but the smile faded. “I knew trouble would come, though. I knew it. Now look.” He shot a baleful look at Nick.
“Did she say anything else? About the pictures, where she got them, what she was doing with them? Did she have a camera?”
“No, no, no! None of this. Why would she tell me?”
“Okay,” Nick stood back and let the man creak to his feet. Nick picked up the man’s glasses and handed them to him. “Thanks. Let’s keep this between us.” He peeled off a note and handed it to the man. The old man looked at it sorrowfully and shook his head.
“I knew she was trouble.”
“She was. If I were you I’d leave town for a bit.”
“What?” The old man’s face furrowed in concern.
“I’m not the only one looking for answers. I’d take a holiday, from all this.” Nick motioned to the pictures.
The old man looked around and sat down heavily in his chair with his head in his hands. Nick felt a pang of sympathy and turned to go. As he did so a photo caught his eye. It was a long-range slot, blurry. Brigadier Johnson and Ramona, hand-in-hand, entering a hotel. Nick looked at the next shot: the two of them holding hands at a bar, kissing. He looked down the line: more and more of them, different times, different places, all intimate moments. His blood froze. The last three in the row were different. Ramona and Carruthers talking at a café, Carruthers handing Ramona a dossier, Ramona and Carruthers in a passionate embrace. Carruthers looked flushed, Ramona had her back to the camera, his eyes were open over her shoulder, seemingly looking straight towards where the photographer would be.
“Where did you get these?” barked Nick.
The old man had been rocking and moaning to himself, his head shot up and he squinted to see the photos Nick meant. He paled and a look of abject terror came over his face. Nick crossed the room in one stride and pinned the old man to the sofa by his neck. Nick’s knuckles cracked as he tightened his grip. The old man’s spindly legs scrabbled ineffectually, his hands clawed at Nick’s arms and his face turned purple.
“I asked you if there was anything else!” Nick yelled.
“I don’t want to get involved, please!” spluttered the man.
Nick relaxed his grip slightly.
“Where did you get these?”
“A man, German, he dropped them off. I thought it was a private eye or a husband monitoring an affair.”
“Even though the woman that brought you these other pictures is in these ones? The woman I asked you about?”
“It’s better for me to say nothing,” the man replied miserably.
“The man who dropped these off, is he blonde, smart suit, moustache?”
The old man nodded without meeting Nick’s eyes.
“When is he coming to pick them up?”
“I don’t know. He dropped them here maybe five or six days ago. He said he would be back in a week.”
“Do you know his name?”
“I know the name he gave me – Platt.”
Nick nodded grimly. “How many sets of prints?” He began pulling them down.
“Just one. What are you doing?” The old man stood up and pawed at Nick.
“Taking them. Where are the negatives?”
“No! I cannot! My reputation–”
Nick backhanded the old man hard; he went down in a crumpled heap, blood streaming from his nose, his glasses smashed across the floor. He looked up at Nick in terror, his legs trembling as he tried to push himself away into the corner.
“The negatives!” Nick shoved the last of the prints into his pocket.
“There.” The old man pointed to a shelf stacked with small, brown envelopes. “It has his name on it.”
Nick flicked through until he found the one he wanted, shoved it in his pocket and strode out the room. He paused in the doorway. “Mr Aviv, I really would leave town. Permanently.”
The old man lay on the floor sobbing and watched him go.
Nick was angry and he needed time to think. He was no closer to Ramona’s negatives, but he’d uncovered something else, something altogether more unsavoury. Carruthers was still holding back. Holding back a lot. Nick had also underestimated him; he must be a cold fish to be showing so little reaction to Ramona’s death. The photos didn’t leave much room for doubt about their relationship. Was he using Nick to pursue some private vendetta? To find the killer without revealing his own relationship to the authorities? Whatever Carruthers’ reasons, Nick decided he didn’t like them very much at all. He hated being in the dark. Experience taught him that being in the dark was generally very dangerous.
Over a dark pint in The Fitzroy, Nick smiled to himself as he idly toyed with the idea of sending the print to Carruthers’ wife; the man wore a wedding band. He didn’t like the man, but it would get him nowhere. The more pertinent question was what did Carruthers know about Ramona that he wasn’t sharing? It had looked like the two of them shared a lot. Perhaps Carruthers knew or suspected about the photos? Maybe he was already being blackmailed? That would make sense, would explain why he was using Nick to try to get to the bottom of the mess. Was that all that he was after? Did he even know about the stolen plans? Nick’s head was spinning. He knew Carruthers would be able to find him easily enough, and so would Platt and Lucia. Even if they didn’t want to see him after last night, they would once they found their photos missing. He had to get shot of this stuff somewhere safe.
Leaving the pub, Nick made for the nearest telephone box. Stephen hadn’t answered his phone so Nick trudged the short distance to Euston station. It was nearing rush hour and already men were rushing by in their haste to get home on the departing steam trains. Nick could smell and hear the station long before he got to it; great clouds of smoke hung heavy overhead, the air thick with soot and commotion.
Unnoticed in the crowd, he found the locker area and slipped in the photos and film. He slipped the key into his trouser pocket and ambled out the side entrance of the station, up Exmouth Street. He paused momentarily at the pub then doubled round the block to satisfy himself he didn’t have a tail. A w
ry grin passed his face; it was becoming second nature again. Crossing the Hampstead Road, he carried on straight until he hit Albany Street at the Queen’s Head. Drinkers stood outside in the warm evening air and he was tempted to join them, but pressed on. He cut through the terraces into Regent’s Park and stopped a while beneath a tree on small rise. Certain that he wasn’t being followed, he dropped out of the bottom of the park, cut down Cleveland Street and was back in The Fitzroy within an hour of leaving, more than ready for a drink. He wasn’t hungry yet, but it could be a long night. He scrutinised the menu, deciding finally on a steak pie, and asked for it to be brought to one of the empty corner booths where he settled himself down with a discardedStandard. The evening news was all gloomy. He couldn’t see any mention of Ramona’s murder.
He was into his second mouthful of pie, savouring the rich chunks of meat, when he became aware of a presence looming over his table. Carruthers. This time he wasn’t alone; a burly man stood behind him looking at Nick with indifference.
“We need to have a talk, old man.”
Nick motioned to the empty seats around him. “Take a seat.”
Carruthers’ jaw twitched. “Not here.”
Nick chewed on a piece of steak. “I’m eating.”
Carruthers’ knuckles flexed, his fist clenched tight. Nick took another mouthful and Carruthers sat down with a look of exasperation.
“I’m beginning to think you’re bad luck, Mr Valentine.”
“Why’s that? You really should try this pie.”
“Damn the pie!” Carruthers yelled drawing startled glances from the pub’s other customers. He took a deep breath. “You and I need to go and have a chat, Nick, somewhere more private.”
“Sure, let me finish up,” Nick began.
Carruthers angrily pushed the pie away and the burly man moved closer, looming over Nick.
“You went to see one Mr Aviv did you not, Nick?” Carruthers leaned close, whispering.
“Maybe.” Nick looked longingly at his pie. He had a feeling he really wouldn’t get to finish it.
“Maybe,” mimicked Carruthers sarcastically. He motioned to the other man to grab Nick, but Nick held his hand up.
