Fires of London (The Francis Bacon Mysteries) (6 page)

“Well, Inspector, will that be all?”

“Oh, not by a long shot,” said the inspector. “I have the suspicion that Miss Lightfoot might be more helpful. She is at this address, is she not?”

Clearly he didn’t know Nan! “Miss Lightfoot is a nearly blind woman in her sixties—not exactly a good candidate.”

“No, but I might fancy her for disposing of evidence and as an accessory after the fact.”

My lungs went into a spasm and I began coughing violently. The inspector watched me with his impassive face and small, hard eyes. I was just getting my breath when we heard the rattle of Nan’s key in the door. Why hadn’t she stayed away? Why hadn’t she gone for a cup of tea and one of those little cakes she likes? Or sat in the park and thrown crumbs to the pigeons?

I didn’t hear her cheery call of, “I’m home, dear boy,” just her characteristic footsteps with the slight shuffle that keeps her safely in contact with the floor, the ground, the treacherous unseen basis of life—how could I have forgotten the latter for even an instant? And with her, another heavier foot. A second uniform, short and bandy-legged as a jockey, came in with his hand on Nan’s arm. She gave me a stricken look and shook her head.

I jumped up. “Nan, what’s wrong? What’s happened to Nan?” I asked the officer. “Did she fall?”

“Just in a manner of speaking, dear boy.” Only a certain thinness in her voice suggested any distress. I hoped they didn’t notice; they’d go for any sign of weakness.

“We intercepted Miss Lightfoot this morning at the left-luggage room at Victoria Station,” said the inspector.

“He conducted an illegal search, and he shouldn’t have been here without a warrant, either,” Nan said stoutly. “I can see you’ve taken advantage of my sick boy, but I know my rights. Herr Hitler hasn’t landed yet.”

The inspector turned to me. I realized that his ponderousness was partly theatrical, a created gravitas. “Would you be surprised to know we found a roulette wheel in her possession?”

“He would not,” said Nan quickly, “for he intended to paint it.”

The inspector frowned.

“For a gambling subject,” I gasped. I looked rather desperately into the studio at the biomorphic form on the dark ground. “I was going to put the wheel in the background there, a rather abstract wheel, symbolic of chance and fate. Connected to the figure with—” There was the problem, my perennial one of relating figure to background, to the depthless abyss.

The inspector showed his strong teeth, as if he was not much interested in either the meaning or the technique of art. “You’ll not get much inspiration from a wheel in left luggage,” he said.

“It might have created misunderstandings,” said Nanny. “If you visited.”

“Oh, so we were expected. You managed to dispose of the chips, I reckon. We were just lucky we’d been following you.”

“Might as well live under the Nazis,” said Nan, who has a bit of a temper.

“That might be misconstrued,” the inspector warned. “But in any case, Jessica Lightfoot, I am arresting you on suspicion of running a gaming house.”

My lungs shrank to the size of a tennis ball. “You can’t do that. Nan had nothing to do with any of this.” I started to gasp and I put my hand on his arm.

“I can have you for interfering with a police officer,” he warned.

“But you can’t arrest Nan, not for this. She had nothing, nothing at all—”

“I thought that you were supposed to be a homicide detective,” Nan interrupted. “You should get on with that instead of following old ladies. We have men left lying dead in the street. What have you been doing about that?”

“Now, that’s another matter of considerable interest. Mr. Bacon was seen covered in blood shortly before the body was found.”

“My dear boy is often covered in blood. These frightful road accidents. It’s all been very badly planned. In the blackout, everyone’s as blind as I am, and what’s the point? It’s not as if you can hide London.”

“You admit, then, that you helped him clean his uniform?”

“Don’t think I’ll be of any assistance if you’re arresting me.”

“They’re not going to arrest you, Nan.”

The inspector nodded and Handsome took one of Nan’s arms.

“Don’t touch her.”

He gave me a shove and I started wheezing but blocked the doorway. “You’re not taking Nan. Not now.”

There was a brief, humiliating scuffle involving a kitchen chair and a great deal of shouting before I found myself in handcuffs with Nan beside me in the back of a police car.

“Did they find anything else?” Nan whispered.

I shook my head.

“Call Arnold,” she said.

My uncle had a phrase, “down the rabbit hole,” used as a synonym for disaster with strong suggestions of the surreal. More on that later. This uncle was a relative of my father’s and cut to the same physical mold: a big, robust, red-faced, strong-legged, straight-backed ex-soldier who liked eating, drinking, and smoking—preferably in swank hotels with underage boys. The latter was not known to my father when, after a little contretemps with my mother’s lingerie, I was dispatched to the Continent in the care of this bluff, deceptive old roué. The hope was that I’d come back straight and ordinary and fit for good society; didn’t happen. Instead, I spent time with Uncle Lastings in a fine old four-poster at a top-flight Berlin hotel, and when, tiring of my reformation, he left the city, he considerately left me penniless and on my own to continue my education.

I’ve kept the phrase, though, and here was occasion to use it. I’d gone “down the rabbit hole” from my studio, with a promising painting on the easel and (leaving aside my ARP duties and Herr Hitler and the possible onset of mustard gas) all right with the world, to a dank, insalubrious room furnished with a table, two chairs, a green-shaded suspended light, and a solid steel door. No window,
naturellement
. The room, like the rest of the station, was filled with an essence of anxiety, smoke, and sweat that lacked sufficient oxygen for my particular breathing apparatus. After my futile resistance in the flat, I had a throbbing head, courtesy of Handsome, and an inflated lower lip, which I owed to the bandy legged uniform who’d collared Nan.

I didn’t know what they’d done with her, a worry eased only by the conviction that I was their real interest. But for what? Footsteps in the corridor, the creak of the door: I was about to find out. In swept the inspector, bringing his storm clouds with him like some Wagnerian deity. I found it hard to think of him, subsumed as he was for me in his role, as a man with a surname, never mind some Christian appellation. He sat down without a word, had a good look at me, and lit a cigarette.

“You’re a bit the worse for wear.”

“I adore the masterful type,” I said, and winked. I couldn’t resist. I expected another smack, but the inspector merely frowned and said, “Your life could be made most unpleasant.”

Well, well. Could I hope for a nonviolent interview? Had something—or someone—cast a new light on my case?

“I thought,” he continued after a moment, “that we might come to an understanding.”

“Being birds of a feather?”

“Being rational, sensible men. Remember, I don’t have to put up with either you—or the old lady.”

“You queered the pitch when you involved Nan.”

“I think, rather, that we hit for a six. I can see you don’t want your old nanny confined.”

“Where is she?” I asked, betraying my anxiety despite all my resolution. “You’re not really going to charge her, are you?”

“That all depends on you.”

That’s what I mean about the rabbit hole: negotiating Nan’s freedom with a police inspector whom I had no reason to trust. “I’m not going to confess to murder, if that’s what you’re hoping. I had nothing to do with the man I found. Nothing. As for our previous encounters—” I left that dangling. I hadn’t a clue to what he wanted or whether I had any leverage.

“A confession is not expected at this time. You realize, Mr. Bacon, that we already have plenty for a prosecution. The roulette wheel alone, not to mention obstructing an investigation—yes, not giving your name was serious—and, of course, public immorality. There are people,” he said, dropping his voice into a Plutonian register, “who would be happy to testify against you—for some considerations in their own cases. Remember that.”

“So much for English justice.”

“Like it or not, we need to settle this case quickly—and by any means necessary.”

“But what does all this have to do with Nan? Would you release her today?”

“That could be arranged. But be assured she could be arrested on gambling charges at any time.”

And doubtless me, too. “If it’s not gambling and it’s not the murder case, what’s all this for, then? You came into my studio, knocked me around, arrested Nan—what was all that for?”

He hitched up his trousers and put his elbows on the table. “You have a number of interesting contacts. People of, shall we say, peculiar sexual tastes.”

“Everything about sex is peculiar when you consider it.” I do really believe that.

“I dare say we’d all be better off without it, but this isn’t a philosophical discussion. We’re looking for a sadist of a particular sort.”

“Ah. My gentlemen of the peculiar tastes were keen on riding crops. A few whacks on the bum, that sort of thing. I’m not such a fool as to deal with anything else.”

“Unlike Damien Hiller.”

“A boy of limited brain and delicate health. Desperately poor, too. But your airman—poor, maybe, but not destitute and probably clever and healthy.”

“He’s not your immediate concern,” the inspector said quickly.

“Are they not connected, then?” Wheels within wheels in this matter.

“Of course they’re connected.” He seemed irritated by the idea.

“But this man had his throat cut.”

“We don’t release all our information to the public,” the inspector said in a superior tone.

“You expect me to help you find whoever killed Damien?”

“We’re looking for a sex killer who operates in or near the park. And we think you can flush out our man.”

“Oh, right. Aside from risking the tender parts of my neck, how am I to do that with my nightly ARP rounds?”

“We’ll have a word with your post about tonight. A severe asthma attack with emergency assistance required is a plausible excuse. Beyond that, you’ll just have to cope. There’s a war on, you know.”

Didn’t I just! “What about Connie? I don’t know his last name, but he was Damien’s best mate. He told me that he knew how to get in touch with a good ‘prospect,’ the piece of luck Damien had just before he was killed.”

“We’re aware of Connie. Colin Williams. He hasn’t been seen around the last few days. See if you can find him. Maybe express an interest, a generalized interest in—well, you’ll know what to say. Maybe you’ve got a broken heart, maybe you’ve got a wandering eye, maybe you’re leaving the alderman—oh, yes, we know about him, too. And other things—so watch your step.”

“If I were you, I’d dangle Handsome as the bait. You’d catch a far bigger fish with him.”

The inspector grunted. “Handsome, as you call him, has other interests.”

“Lately some chaps have been discovering new interests.” Those were my favorites, but I didn’t go into that with the inspector.

“You’re exactly what we want, someone sophisticated, cultured. You can fit in places that boys like Damien and Connie and my officers can’t.”

“We’re looking up the social ladder then? Adverts in the
Times
?”

“You might try the Gargoyle Club, too.”

“Mostly dancing on tables and late-stage alcoholism there. Boringly safe otherwise.”

“I’m wondering about some sort of private offshoot,” the inspector said carefully. “Perhaps someone, or some group, that makes contacts at the Gargoyle.”

Possible, I thought. Well, off to the old Gargoyle. This might not be so bad after all. “I’ll need some pocket money if I’m to drink there.”

To my surprise, he stuck his hand in his pocket and hauled out a handful of guineas. “Don’t overdo,” he said. “Call me every day. And Bacon, don’t loiter on this. I might be lenient with the old lady, but I’ve got more than enough on you any day of the week.”

That’s how I became, thank you very much, an official police informant, a snitch, a grass, a traitor to the right thinking and free living. At a word from my cop, the steel door opened, a car was summoned, and Nan and I were transported back to the studio Wonderland-style. I was profoundly relieved to be burdened only with the prospect of drinking at the Met’s expense, but Nan was not best pleased. I had nasty bruises on the side of my face, plus the swollen lip.

“You’ve taken leave of your senses,” she said. “They had nothing that could be used in court, nothing. Isn’t that right?”

The law is a vast mystery to me. “I think they could have kept us locked up for quite some time, Nan. And what would my ARP post do without me at this time of crisis?”

She rolled her eyes. “Nonsense. Arnold has pull. He’d have gotten us out.”

“He could have. Whether he would have—”

“Ye of little faith,” said Nan. Like the inspector, she felt that my heroic resistance had been unnecessary. “Your devotion is the light of my life, dear boy, but you tipped your hand and put yourself in their pocket.”

“Mixed metaphors, Nan.”

“They had no evidence.”

“They have the wheel.”

“I just didn’t see them behind me,” she admitted. “Though it would have been worse if they’d found it here. They can’t link you to it and I doubt the evidence would hold up anyway without a warrant. And the chips were gone. You’ll paint out the table. They can’t hang us for a case of Champagne and artistic license.”

I agreed.

“Well, then. Something didn’t fit for you,” said my nan, the crime connoisseur, “time of death, manner of death, place of death.”

“Very likely, but they’d have gotten us for something just the same. Not to mention the horrors of the law’s delay.”

“They’d have nabbed you for the very thing they want now,” she conceded. “And how you’ll go on the town in this state is anyone’s guess.”

“Most likely they’re out of their senses and down the rabbit hole, Nan.”