by Hannah Howe
I stepped into the corridor. George was yelling now; I could have stampeded a herd of elephants along the corridor and he wouldn’t have heard them. With my gun in my right hand, I placed my left hand on the door handle. The handle turned. I glimpsed through the crack in the door frame and spied George and his lady friend. Naked, he was chained to a beam while his lady friend, who was dressed in a basque and fishnet stockings, beat him with a leather whip.
They were so engrossed in their flagellation that they failed to notice me. Indeed, I had to slam the door to capture the woman’s attention. With the tableau frozen, I whipped my fake ID badge out of my pouch and waved it at the woman.
“Drugs Squad,” I said in a deep, authoritative voice. “Beat it; I need to talk with him.”
She hesitated, then nodded. After dropping the whip, she scurried from the room. If you look authoritative and sound authoritative, it’s amazing how many people will regard you as a figure of authority.
As the woman ran downstairs, I removed my phone from my pouch. I set my phone to camera and took pictures of George. Despite the uneasy feeling that my phone was turning into a porn channel, I clicked away merrily while George gathered his senses and scowled at me. He went from tungsten steel to floppy marshmallow in seconds, which just about says it all when it comes to yours truly and men.
“Why did you shoot Peter Vanzetti?” I asked, getting down to business.
Silently, George swung on the beam, his arms fully extended, his naked body twirling in the air. The torque on the chain pulled George away from me, so that I was talking to his backside, not an interview technique I would recommend.
“Why did you shoot Peter Vanzetti?” I repeated, my voice harsh and demanding, my gun snug in my right hand.
George twirled on the chain. He swung round and gazed at me, his eyes wide as he focused on my gun hand. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he insisted.
“You shot Peter Vanzetti. Why?”
Even though I’m petite and have an angelic face, I can look like a mean daughter-of-a-bitch when the occasion merits and I gave George that mean look now. Something within his cold mind clicked and he sensed that I meant business, because he replied, “Orders.”
“Who’s orders?” I demanded. “I want to talk with your boss. I want to phone him, arrange a meeting. What’s his number?”
George shook his head and the movement sent him twirling around on the chain, until he came to rest, offering me his whiplashed behind. “No dice,” he mumbled.
With my left hand, I raised my camera and took more pictures. I hummed tunelessly to myself as I completed the task, a woman at one with her work. “It would be a shame if these pictures reached the Internet. They would make you the laughing stock of Assassins Anonymous.”
“No dice.” George twirled again so that he faced me. In truth, it was difficult to decide which view was more offensive.
“I need answers, Georgie Boy, and I need them fast.” I levelled my gun at George’s belly. “I think it’s only fair to warn you that I’m not a very good shot. I’m aiming at your midriff, but the weight of this gun tends to drag my aim down and make me shoot a little lower...”
His stern features registered fear and beads of sweat formed on his brow. Valiantly, and unsuccessfully, he tried to cross his legs, to hide his manhood. Then the chain twirled again and I was left with a view of his whiplashed behind. Oh, the delights of my job.
“I want a name.” I extended my arm, balanced my gun and wrapped my finger around the trigger. “I’m playing for keeps, George, I’m not fooling. I’ve had it up to here with you and your type. I’ll count to five. One, two, three, four...”
“Rudy Valentine!”
“Where can I find him, this minute?”
“He’s at a party. On the waterfront. On a yacht, Cordelia.”
“How do I get close to him?” I narrowed my eyes and took careful aim. “Answer me!” I demanded. Then, more menacingly, “I really am a lousy shot...”
George twirled again. He came to rest, facing me. Sweat was running down his face now and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “He’s got a hooker on order, she’s due to arrive at midnight to service him.”
I nodded, then slipped my camera and gun into my pouch then headed for the door.
“Hey!” George called out. “Aren’t you going to untie me?”
I shrugged, then shook my head. “You look as if you’re enjoying yourself. Why should I spoil your fun?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I left through the front door. There was no sign of the lady of the house so it was safe to assume that George would remain tied up for a while yet.
From Adamsdown I drove south into Butetown, heading for my office. Time was pressing, but I had to check my files before meeting with Rudy Valentine. His name rang a bell beyond the fact that, like Vincent Vanzetti, he was a career criminal. If Rudy Valentine had ordered Gorgeous George to murder Peter Vanzetti, then I assumed that he had good reason. I was hoping that my newspaper clippings would offer a clue and, after fifty minutes of searching through them, I hit the jackpot.
Next, I drove home and changed into something suitable, and by suitable I mean something tacky. I rummaged through the back of my wardrobe and found a leather miniskirt, a see-through top and fishnet tights, relics from my teenage days. What I was thinking when I bought these items, God only knows, and it’s little wonder that my mother used to say, ‘Samantha, you can’t go out dressed like that’. Fourteen years on, I have to concede that she had a point.
I slipped into a clean black bra, padded and offering plenty of lift, then tried on my teenage clothes. They were size eight and I still managed to squeeze into them. Initially, I wasn’t sure whether to be delighted or mortified and concluded that I really must construct a sensible eating programme for myself and put on more weight.
Then I sat at my dressing table and applied a touch too much make-up to my eyes, lips and face. I layered my eyelashes with mascara and paid careful attention to the grazes and rash on my cheeks, disguising them the best I could. I overdid the Coco Chanel Mademoiselle then looked in the bedroom mirror. If Mickey Anthony could see me now, it would confirm his suspicion that I was a whore, which suited my needs for this evening.
I ordered a taxi – expenses were mounting up and I wondered if I’d be able to justify all of them – and arrived at Cardiff Bay eighteen minutes before midnight.
I wasn’t sure what I found more disconcerting –playing the part of a prostitute or having to step aboard another boat. After a long, strenuous day, I was functioning on adrenalin. The dip would come when this was all over and then I’d slip into weary, melancholy thoughts. But there was no time to dwell on that now; I had to get close to Rudy Valentine and establish that he did order Peter Vanzetti’s murder.
I found the Cordelia in the bay. She was a large vessel, a lot bigger than Vincent Vanzetti’s boat and, I hoped, a lot firmer under foot. This evening, the Cordelia was lit up like a Christmas tree and, as I approached, the steady beat of dance music filled the air.
The party was in full swing and, along with the music, laughter drifted down to the quayside. I paused beside the gangplank and placed my hand on a rope rail.
“I’m with Mr Valentine,” I shouted up to the burly minder who was guarding the gangplank. He nodded briefly, then disappeared, presumably to check my bona fides.
Within two minutes, the minder returned and gave me the nod. I set foot on the gangplank and walked aboard the vessel. The uneasiness in the pit of my stomach suggested that I was about to meet Captain Hook.
I was standing on deck, looking round, admiring the smartly dressed, well-heeled gentlemen and the impossibly beautiful, well-groomed ladies, when a tall man of West Indian origin lumbered into view. He was in his early sixties with a bald, shaved head, dark rheumy eyes and handsome, noble features. His jaw was strong, his shoulders broad while his fingers were very long. Despite walking with a slight stoop, this man had an imposing prese
nce, a natural air of authority.
“Mr Valentine?” I smiled.
He nodded, then bowed gracefully. “Yes.”
“I’m Abigail, your escort for the evening.”
Rudy Valentine flashed me a polite smile, then he checked his gold wristwatch. He frowned. “You’re early.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” I replied with a flirtatious flutter of my eyelashes. Surreptitiously, I checked my own wristwatch. Although the Cordelia was firmer under foot than the Esmeralda, the gentle rocking of the boat still made me feel queasy. In addition, the real escort was due any minute, so I was doubly keen to get Rudy Valentine on to dry land and away to somewhere private.
“You’re new.” Rudy Valentine continued to frown. He appraised me through his rheumy eyes. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
“I’ve got a very familiar face; I’m often confused with other people.”
He reached across and caressed my cheek, my left cheek, the one with the rash developing. Apparently, the rash didn’t bother him because he said, “You’ve got a very beautiful face.”
His touch induced an acid burst in my stomach. I smiled while swallowing bile and concluded that my limited skills did not stretch to playing the part of Mata Hari.
“Give me two minutes,” Rudy Valentine said, his hand still on my cheek. “I have to talk with Desmond.” He blew me a flowery kiss. “Don’t go away.”
I watched as Rudy Valentine engaged in animated conversation with Desmond, a younger man, also of West Indian origin. The two men glanced at me and from their coarse laughter and wide smiles, it was easy to guess what they were thinking. Just grit your teeth, Sam, you’re nearly there; get Valentine off the boat and you can crack this.
Valentine made his excuses to Desmond. He patted the younger man on the shoulder then he took hold of my hand and escorted me towards the gangplank.
We walked towards a black limousine where a young man in a purple, braided uniform was waiting for us. He opened the near rear door and we slipped into the car. Once seated Valentine smiled at me and placed a hand on my thigh. He leaned over to kiss me, but I pulled away.
“The boat has made me feel queasy,” I told him truthfully. “Wait until we get back to your place, okay?” I offered him an encouraging, seductive smile, a smile of hidden mystery wrapped in the promise of undreamt of delights.
Rudy Valentine paused. He appraised me, then he nodded, slowly. Apparently, I was safe, for the moment. All the same, I placed my shoulder bag on my lap, in a defensive position.
As we pulled away from the bay, we passed a taxi heading in the opposite direction. The taxi contained a young woman in a fur coat. She glanced at me and I caught a flash of her diamond earrings. Presumably, that was Rudy Valentine’s true escort; if so, it had been a close call.
We travelled through the city, north towards Caerphilly. Halfway through our journey, Valentine loosened his bow tie. He reclined on the leather seat, his hand constantly on my thigh, his mellow features melting into submission as he dozed fitfully.
Just short of Caerphilly the chauffeur, who I suspected doubled as a bodyguard, pulled into a long drive. An imposing house stood at the end of the drive. The house had an attractive cream facade, a maroon tiled roof that curved curiously at the eaves and a kidney-shaped swimming pool at its side. The pool was brightly lit and those lights illuminated the drive and the house, casting long shadows as we stepped from the car.
Rudy Valentine took hold of my elbow. He escorted me to a large, arched, oak door, then turned to his bodyguard. “Thank you, Terry, that will be all for this evening.”
Terry nodded, then climbed into his own car, a stylish-looking Scimitar, before speeding away into the night.
“After you.” Valentine extended a long arm and invited me into his house. I smiled then stepped into a spacious room, a room decorated with maroon walls and a matching central carpet covering highly polished floorboards. The furniture was cream, modern and slender. French windows opened on to a verdant, secluded garden. In the living room, I noticed a statuette of a boxer, an autographed cricket bat and a collection of 1960s soul CDs. The room was tastefully decorated and stylish suggesting that for all his faults, Rudy Valentine had a touch of class.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Valentine asked. While walking towards a mini bar, he removed his bow tie and cast it casually on to a sofa.
“No thanks. But you can sit down and place your hands on your head.”
Valentine turned, slowly. He arched a grey eyebrow and paused, the tip of a Drambuie bottle touching the rim of a fine cut glass. He blinked, then stared at my extended arm and my Smith and Wesson .32. “What is this?” he asked. “Who are you?”
“I’m a private investigator and I want to talk about Peter Vanzetti’s murder.”
We circled the maroon carpet, the Smith and Wesson in my right hand, the Drambuie bottle and cut glass in Valentine’s hands. His movements were slow and deliberate, revealing the true nature of the man.
“You ordered the murder, didn’t you?”
Valentine frowned at me. He placed the bottle and glass on the mini bar. “You got a wire?” he asked.
I gave him a twisted grin while my left hand outlined my skimpy skirt and see-through blouse. “Under this outfit?”
Despite the situation, Valentine smiled. He nodded, slowly.
“This is just between you and me,” I promised, “no one else.”
Apparently satisfied, Valentine walked over to a sofa. He sat, extending his long legs, placing his hands behind his head. Mr Cool, Mr Calm. My gun didn’t bother him.
“You know who I am?” he asked, his left hand adjusting a gold bracelet as it slipped along his right wrist.
“I know that you’re a career criminal.”
He nodded, making no attempt at denial. “Then you know that you’re in serious trouble.”
“I’m already in trouble over my head. Believe me, even you couldn’t make my troubles any worse.” With my gun still trained on Valentine, I walked around the room, until I was standing directly opposite him. “Shall I tell you why you ordered the murder? You ordered the murder because a year ago your granddaughter, your daughter’s daughter, Celeste Croft, was murdered. I checked my newspaper files. The case is still open; no culprit was found.” I glanced at a framed picture of an attractive, smiling, seventeen-year-old girl. “Is that Celeste?”
Slowly, Rudy Valentine nodded.
“She’s very pretty. I reckon you or your people investigated the murder and pinned it on Peter Vanzetti.”
“Peter Vanzetti murdered Celeste.” His tone was unequivocal. “We are one hundred per cent certain.”
“So you murdered Peter out of revenge.”
Again, he nodded. “We administered our own form of justice.”
“Why did Peter murder Celeste?”
Rudy Valentine inched forward until he was sitting on the edge of his seat. He adjusted a gold signet ring, set with a diamond, then stared at me through sad eyes. “It was a racial attack, unprovoked, mindless. Peter Vanzetti was a racist. His head was full of racist thoughts.”
We must seek the elimination of the less fit in our society, and that includes the promotion of a pure race at the expense of the weaker races. I recalled Ruth Carey’s words at her lecture and wondered at the level of Ruth and Peter’s pillow talk. She sowed the seed, he carried out the deed.
To Valentine, I said, “Vincent Vanzetti thinks that I killed his brother, Peter.”
The mobster shrugged. “Tough break for you, a good one for us.”
“I want you to inform Vincent Vanzetti that you ordered Peter’s murder.”
“And invite reprisals?” Valentine mocked me with a sanguine smile. “You must be out of your mind.” He stood, then walked over to the mini bar where he poured himself a generous measure of Drambuie. Raising his cut glass, he toasted me before sampling his drink. Then, bravely, he walked towards me with confident tread. “You’re not goin
g to shoot me, if you do, you’re dead.”
I tightened my finger on the trigger and raised my gun. “Vincent Vanzetti figures me for Peter’s murder, so I’m dead any way you look at it. I’ve got nothing to lose.”
Valentine paused. He stared at my finger, at my gun. I was tense, trembling inside, trying hard to fight a sense of overwhelming desperation. And I guess my body language betrayed that sense of desperation because, for the first time, Valentine’s features wrinkled and his face took on the countenance of a worried man. He craned his neck back, gulped his Drambuie, then asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Handwrite a confession. Sign it, then I’ll deliver it to Vincent Vanzetti.”
Rudy Valentine pursed his lips. He shook his head. “I’ll be signing my death warrant.”
“If I’m going down, I’m not going down alone.”
His fingers tightened on the empty glass, threatening to crush the crystal. For a moment, I thought he was going to throw his glass and the liqueur bottle at me; if so, I had no option but to fire my gun. Then his fingers relaxed and his features softened as he said, “I’ve clocked you now...you’re the loose cannon who put four bullets into Lady Fiona Grimsley.”
“That’s me,” I nodded tersely, “the loose cannon. And I’m very jumpy and very edgy, so no false moves or this thing is liable to go off.”
Valentine placed his glass and liqueur bottle on the mini bar. Then he walked through an open archway into his study. With my gun still in my hand, I followed.
From a bureau, Valentine produced a sheet of cream writing paper. He picked up a gold pen and scribed a note on the paper. Then he stepped away from the bureau while I read his confession, written in a neat, stylish hand.
“If you deliver that,” he said as I folded the paper and placed it in my shoulder bag, “I will kill you.”
“You mean George will kill me.”
Valentine scratched his forehead. As he leaned forward, I realised that I’d spent too much time in his company because I was becoming over-familiar with his weary, lumbago-suggestive stoop.
