The Sugared Game

by KJ Charles

That was true enough, and Will had been pretty damn discourteous to him in here, several times, mostly on the sofa. “I know. I just hadn’t seen the title in action before.”

  Kim’s brows drew together. “I’d like to say it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter to me, but that’s part of the privilege, isn’t it? It didn’t occur to me that it would bother you.”

  “I don’t know if it bothered me exactly,” Will began, and then, “No, it did. It made me think about Sir James back home. He owned the factory and most of the land, and all of us, boys and men, had to take our caps off when his carriage went by. I’m not saying you were doing that, but it’s the way you weren’t doing it, if that makes sense.”

  “My father’s the same. He doesn’t make his staff stand facing the wall when he passes but he’s not far off. I don’t choose to follow in his footsteps, but I suppose it’s foolish of me to think others can ignore it.”

  He sounded bleak enough that Will gave himself an internal shake and said, “Well, I’ve ignored it before, and I dare say I will again. And if you think I’m taking my hat off to you, now or ever, forget it.”

  “I should be devastated if you did. My Lord Arthur performance is nothing but cheap tinsel, but I’m sorry it disturbed you. I have a bad habit of assuming your feet are so firmly planted on the ground that you can take whatever damned thing I throw at you.”

  “Who says I can’t?”

  “Not I.” Kim’s eyes glimmered. “I shouldn’t dare.”

  “It’s not like a title makes you better than me. You’re still a bloody unreliable twisty liar.”

  “A dab hand with a cocktail shaker, though,” Kim countered.

  “A ruthless son of a bitch.”

  “It takes one to know one.”

  Will stepped forward, bringing them close, watching Kim’s face. “And you’d still suck me off the minute I asked you to.”

  “Why would you have to ask?” Kim said, and dropped to his knees.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was a late night, and Will awoke far too early the next morning to the insistent ringing of the telephone. He made his way downstairs, cursing the device, and answered without charm. “Darling’s Used and Antiquarian. What?”

  “It’s Beaumont,” said the hurried, tinny voice at the other end.

  They were to meet him and the returning Mrs. Appleby this morning. Will said, “Everything all right?”

  “No. We can’t meet you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I’m afraid, that’s bloody why! That brute Fuller has been shouting in all our faces since you pulled that stunt the other day. Those hostesses you were with have both been sacked—I hope you’re proud of that—and I had Mrs. Skyrme interrogating me about you. She knew I’d had dinner with you, she wanted to know what we’d talked about—”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I said we were in the show together, that’s all, that I didn’t know anything else. And she asked me if I was going to meet you again, and whether I’d bring my girl! What the hell is going on?”

  It sounded like Mrs. Skyrme was abreast of Kim’s interest in her activities. “She’s got the wind up,” Will said. “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Means we’re on the right track. Still, we’d better not meet at my place—”

  “We’re not going to meet at all! Aren’t you listening? I can’t risk my job, and I can’t risk her setting Fuller on me. Whatever Brabazon’s problem is, it’s his problem. Leave us alone.”

  “Don’t be a damn fool,” Will snapped. “It’s your problem because your girl’s in it up to her eyebrows. Mrs. Skyrme is afraid of being found out, and if I were Mrs. Appleby I’d be very worried about that. Or do you think Mrs. Skyrme will trust her not to talk?”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. Will pressed his advantage. “You’ve got two choices here. Let Mrs. Skyrme carry on doing as she pleases, or help Brabazon go after her. I hope you’re not giving in.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Beaumont snapped. “This isn’t Flanders, and you should have kept your nose out of my business. Just leave us alone.”

  Will had walked back from Kim’s at two in the morning through dark streets, and for all the afterglow of extreme discourtesy on the carpet, he’d been aware of every shadow and every footstep behind him. It was barely six now, his bare feet were freezing, and the kettle wasn’t even on. “You turn up or I’ll report her,” he said flatly. “The police can find out what Mrs. Appleby’s been smuggling, and deal with it. No skin off my nose.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “I’ll find a place to meet that isn’t here. Call me back at nine. If you’re late, I’ll ring the Old Bill.”

  THEY MET IN THE PRIVATE room of a small hotel, swiftly arranged by Kim.

  Mrs. Appleby was a pretty woman in a fragile china-doll way, with big blue eyes that were swimming with tears before they’d even started. Beaumont was a sullen, resentful presence, his eyes ringed heavily with sleeplessness. They sat across a table from Kim; Will stood by the door and ignored Beaumont’s looks of loathing.

  “Thank you for coming,” Kim said. “Mrs. Appleby, what do you know about the goods you’ve been smuggling for Mrs. Skyrme?”

  “Nothing! It was only furs. Nothing important—the duty is iniquitous—Theresa made me—”

  “Mrs. Skyrme has been using you.” Kim infused his voice with sympathy. “Abusing you, even. I quite understand why you agreed to take the furs, but I believe you have unknowingly been carrying something else, which has put you in grave danger. Can I have the cigarettes and chocolates, please?”

  She hesitated. “If Theresa finds out you’ve opened them, she’ll be furious.”

  “I’ll be very careful,” Kim assured her. “She won’t be able to tell.”

  She reluctantly passed over a shopping bag. Kim extracted two elaborately wrapped boxes of chocolates and a carton of cigarettes. He opened the latter first, rolling a couple of the cigarettes in his fingers, sniffing them, weighing up the box in his hand.

  “Cigarettes,” Beaumont said, with some sarcasm. “What were you expecting?”

  “Have you opened these? Tampered with them? Replaced the original cigarettes with innocent ones?”

  “We haven’t done anything,” Beaumont said.

  “I haven’t done anything.” Mrs. Appleby’s voice thickened. “All these accusations—these terrible things—”

  “Darling, don’t,” Beaumont told her. “It will all be over very soon.”

  “It won’t!” Mrs. Appleby said shrilly. “Theresa told me not to tell anyone. You don’t know how frightening she can be, how ruthless.”

  “I do understand.” Kim turned to the chocolate boxes and examined the ribbon, stiff and gold. He pulled one bow undone, very carefully, and eased the top off the box, instantly filling the room with the trapped scent of chocolate.

  There were two layers. He lifted the top layer out, and picked up first one then another chocolate from the bottom layer, turning and weighing them. Will watched his hands. Beaumont’s breathing was harsh.

  Kim put a chocolate on the desk, and brought his palm down hard.

  Mrs. Appleby shrieked. Kim lifted his hand revealing thick shards of chocolate and an oozing liquid with the cloying smell of Parma violets.

  “What have you done? You said she wouldn’t know!”

  “And what have you achieved?” Beaumont demanded. “It’s a chocolate! What the devil is wrong with that?”

  Kim put the other chocolate on the desk and pushed the heel of his hand down, applying more force this time. When he lifted his hand, the sweetmeat was barely squashed. He picked it up, applying his nails, and broke off a chunk of chocolate, then another, revealing something dark.

  “What the devil is that?” Will said, coming closer.

  “Some sort of filling,” Beaumont retorted. “What do you think it is?”

  Kim rapped it on the desk with a sharp tap. “You�
��d break your teeth.” He cracked off another piece of chocolate and turned what remained so it caught the light.

  “Bloody hell!” Will said. “Excuse my French.”

  Kim was holding a faceted red stone the size of a thumbnail, smeared with brown grease. Beaumont’s jaw dropped. Mrs. Appleby stared. “But—but—what is it?”

  Kim picked out another couple of chocolates, assessed them, put one back, and broke chocolate off the other. This time, the stone was blue. Will picked it up. It was about the size of his little fingernail, cut to a roughly oval sort of shape. When he rubbed the chocolate off and held it to the light, it sparkled.

  “Is this what I think it is?” he said.

  “Those are jewels!” Mrs. Appleby said shrilly. “Are those jewels?”

  “Russian, I expect,” Kim said. “The Bolsheviks came up with this trick back in 1920. They had chocolatiers looking for work after the Romanovs fell, plenty of jewels lying around, and a powerful need for foreign currency. During the Revolution and then the civil war, Tsarist jewels were stolen by the sackload, stripped from their settings, washed clean of blood—metaphorically or literally—and brought out through Eastern Europe to be sold on. Stolen jewels, ripped from Russian throats and reset to decorate European or American ones, helped fund the Red Terror. It’s no longer a State-run business to my knowledge, but there are several private enterprises still taking loot through Eastern Europe into the West. Hoarding jewels which were previously owned by the wealthy, which now should benefit the Russian people, and which certainly do not belong to Mrs. Skyrme.”

  He smiled mirthlessly at Mrs. Appleby. “Why, you’re probably one of the nation’s most lucrative smugglers. Four trips carrying two boxes of Tsarist loot each time?” He clicked his tongue. “You face a significant gaol sentence. Mr. Appleby will be dismissed in disgrace if he’s lucky. I expect your personal affairs will be spread across the papers as well. And since any defence you make will incriminate Mrs. Skyrme, she will want to silence you before you can testify. You will be gaoled or dead within weeks.”

  “Stop it!” Mrs. Appleby almost screamed. “Stop! Michael!”

  “You said you’d make sure this didn’t touch her!” Beaumont said furiously.

  “The man who came to ask you questions was an agent of the British security forces, Mrs. Appleby,” Kim said. “You gave his name to Mrs. Skyrme and now he’s dead.” He picked up the chocolate-smeared ruby. “Over these.”

  She had gone fish-belly white. “I said, stop!” Beaumont shouted, leaping to his feet.

  Will swung an arm across his chest. “Don’t.”

  “You—”

  “Enough,” Kim said, so coldly authoritative that they all froze. “Luckily for you, Mrs. Appleby, I want Mrs. Skyrme more than I want to see you face the consequences of your actions. So you are going to make an appointment to see her at the High-Low under my direction. If you give me your fullest assistance, I will deal with her, I will not name you to any investigation, and if need be I will testify that you cooperated. With a bit of luck, you two can carry on with your lives and forget this ever happened.”

  There were tears running down Mrs. Appleby’s face. “And without luck?” Beaumont demanded.

  “Then she’ll have to see whether the police catch up with her before Fuller and Skyrme do.”

  “Michael!” Mrs. Appleby whimpered, clinging to him.

  “For God’s sake, you damned swine!” Beaumont said. “Can’t you see you’re scaring her?”

  “Good,” Kim said. “Your best hope to avert all this is me. Cooperate or face the consequences. And don’t even think of playing the fool. If—when—Mrs. Skyrme finds out that the cat’s out of the bag, she will want you dead. Telling her what’s going on would be digging your own grave.”

  “But if Flora helps you, Mrs. Skyrme will realise that anyway!”

  “Indeed,” Kim said. “So I suggest that as soon as Mrs. Appleby has made that telephone call, you leave. Don’t pack, just go. Get on a train somewhere and stay away. It might save you from Mrs. Skyrme while the law catches up with her.”

  Mrs. Appleby’s eyes rounded in shock. “Run away? Together? What about my divorce?”

  “Not my problem,” Kim said, with something of a snap.

  “Darling, leave it to me,” Beaumont told her. “This is the devil of a web that’s been spun around you but I won’t let it touch you.” He turned on Will. “And you. I had your word. If you had left all this alone—”

  “Mrs. Skyrme would have kept on using Mrs. Appleby and then got rid of her, probably for good,” Kim finished. “Let’s make that telephone call now.”

  “I SUPPOSE YOU HAD TO put the frighteners on them,” Will said once arrangements had been made and the miserable couple had left.

  “They were more afraid of Skyrme than me. That had to be remedied.”

  Will picked up the ruby and turned it in his fingers. “They put in some real chocolates in case of inspection, I suppose. What do you think, half of these are jewels? More? What would you get in this lot?”

  “Who knows. There’s forty-eight chocolates. Thirty stones, perhaps? At this size, and depending on where you could sell them—I don’t know. Six or eight thousand pounds?”

  “Per box?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s enough to leg it to the south of France and live in luxury,” Will said. “Not saying we should, of course.”

  “Just that we could? Tempting.”

  “Mrs. Appleby must be kicking herself she didn’t help herself to a chocolate before. I should never have promised we’d try and get her off. If you think it’s best to go to the police, or your Bureau, I’ll understand.”

  Kim gave him a narrow look. “Is this some sort of coded message? Or have you got the real Will Darling stashed in a cupboard somewhere?”

  “I’m serious. You were right: I oughtn’t have promised Beaumont. I was trying to play your game my way, and that was stupid. There’s a dead man and crimes to be accounted for here. I can’t ask you to cover up for her.”

  “I don’t give a damn for Mrs. Appleby, who I hope has learned her lesson, and I don’t have to because I’m not in the police force. Cover-ups are what the Private Bureau does.”

  “Maybe they shouldn’t.”

  “If we’re to get at Zodiac, it won’t be through the courts,” Kim said. “This game is not played in front of an audience. Look, if you don’t want to do the next part, I understand. It’s tantamount to a declaration of war.”

  “Who’ll be backing you up then? You can’t go in alone and you’re not telling the police. Will you bring in people from this Private Bureau?”

  Kim hesitated. “I could, but I am taking it on myself to let Mrs. Appleby get away. I can’t swear that DS would do the same.”

  Will stared at him. “You’re going it alone because of my promise. You are, aren’t you? Jesus, Kim. I—”

  “Don’t. For Christ’s sake don’t say anything,” Kim said harshly. “It’s absurd, considering how much I’ve done to you. And don’t feel obliged to be involved. You really aren’t.”

  Will still wanted to acknowledge this. He wanted to say You’re doing this for me because you care, and for it to be true, and then...

  Then what? He didn’t know how to push beyond that, or where it might take them. He only knew that Kim was thinking of him in this damn fool dangerous business, and how much that mattered.

  “Of course I’m coming,” he said in lieu of the words Kim didn’t want. “Wouldn’t miss it. Shall we go?”

  Kim checked his wristwatch. “I think so. Got your knife?”

  NOON ON A SUNDAY WAS a bloody stupid hour to have a confrontation with a criminal, in Will’s view. There was a reason that people did these things under cover of night.

  He made a remark to that effect. Kim countered that Fuller would be asleep, the club didn’t open on Sunday evenings, Mrs. Skyrme was expecting the soggy Mrs. Appleby so would not be surrounded by support, and mainl
y, they would be best off not giving that lachrymose lady a chance to change her mind and betray them. Mrs. Appleby had choked out a description of how she met her nemesis to hand over the jewels in the empty surroundings of the High-Low. She’d also sobbed on the telephone while setting up the meeting, but hopefully Mrs. Skyrme would consider that normal behaviour.

  Kim had given Beaumont forty pounds to cover the costs of vanishing with his lover. Will very much hoped they would be safe, and also that he wouldn’t see them again.

  It was a cold grey day. Kim held the bag with the boxes of chocolates—that was something, carrying five figures’ worth of jewels around London—and made his way silently down the stairs to the club’s basement area, Will at his heels. Even from outside it stank of cigarettes and stale alcohol. At least they weren’t too exposed from the street, since they were below ground level, but Will still felt horrendously conspicuous.

  Kim knocked on the door. They waited several moments, and then it opened.

  “Good—” Mrs. Skyrme began, before her eyes caught up with her mouth.

  “Good morning,” Kim said.

  The door began to slam shut, although it didn’t get very far because Will had a grip on the handle. Kim said, urbanely, “I have your special delivery of chocolates.”

  “What chocolates?” Mrs. Skyrme demanded. “I didn’t order any chocolates.”

  “That’s odd, because I have a witness who’ll state the opposite. I tried one, by the way, I hope you don’t mind. Delicious, but the centres are a little hard.”

  There was a tiny silence.

  “If you wish to speak to me, Lord Arthur, I must insist on you making an appointment,” Mrs. Skyrme said. “Will you let go of this door or must I call a policeman?”

  “You’re welcome to call a policeman. Would you like to talk to him about Leinster, or about Mrs. Appleby?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What is it you want?”

  “To talk. Let’s do that now.”

  Will took that as a hint and put his weight into the door. Mrs. Skyrme stumbled back with a curse, and they were in, facing up in the dark interior of the empty night-club. She inhaled sharply.