Mask of the Verdoy (15 page)

‘Who on earth is
George Harley
?’ said Sir Pelham.

‘Well, first reports had him as some low-life private investigator with criminal connections and socialist sympathies.’

‘Sounds easy enough to deal with,’ said Daubeney, massaging his palsied face.

Sir Pelham wasn’t so easily convinced. ‘But why on earth would General Swales be colluding with such an individual? There must be more to it, Ambrose.’

‘My thoughts exactly. So I did a little further investigation myself … It transpires that Harley served under Swales, at first during the war—in an elite trench-raiding outfit, where Harley picked up the DCM—and later as a field agent in the SIS.’

‘Hmm … Sounds like he could be a dangerous individual. Douglas, have your men look into it—but for heaven’s sake tread carefully. I don’t need to know the details—Lord knows I have enough on my plate as it is—but I do need these annoyances to disappear … and soon. After all, gentlemen—destiny awaits! Now … would you mind, Douglas?’

Sir Pelham handed his glass to Daubeney. The Earl poured a cognac for Saint Clair and himself and then offered the decanter to Box-Hartnell.

‘No thank you, Lord Daubeney.’

‘Ah—of course, you don’t indulge, do you Box-Hartnell?’

The Home Secretary checked his watch.

‘I must be getting along. I’ll be in touch … Good evening, gentlemen.’

Daubeney raised his glass mockingly as Box-Hartnell left the room.

Sir Pelham sat and nursed his balloon of cognac contemplatively.

‘These problems, Douglas; they really do need to vanish … Things were moving along so nicely.’

‘A couple of minor hiccups, Pelham—don’t trouble yourself with them. You just focus on the bigger picture and let me deal with it. You’ve got history to write.’

Sir Pelham brightened at this.

‘Yes, of course, you’re right …’ he raised his glass to Daubeney, leant across and murmured: ‘To the Correction!’

‘The Correction!’ replied the Earl.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Pearson pulled his collar up against the damp night. They’d been waiting outside the entrance to Murray’s Club in Beak Street for over half an hour, and with the weather still unseasonably cold, he was beginning to wish he’d worn his scarf like his wife had suggested. He checked his watch once again and turned to Harley.

‘What time did he say he’d be here?’

‘I told you—half-nine.’

‘It’s almost ten now.’

‘Don’t worry, he’ll turn up—this type of do is a big earner for Conrad.’

The policeman pulled a face to indicate how he felt about Harley’s contact’s particular line of work.

‘What—peddling dope?’

‘Stay focussed now, Pearson. Remember—we’re here to find out about Freddie Daubeney.’

‘Does he know I’m CID?’

‘Yup.’

‘And he’s alright with that? Given his line of work?’

‘I told him you were kosher.’

‘Probably thinks I’m in your pocket.’

‘Doesn’t matter what he thinks.’

‘Not to you, maybe …’

Harley regarded Pearson as he rubbed his hands together to warm them, and speculated on just how much of a hindrance his new partner was going to be. ‘By the way—did you manage to get your hands on Aubrey’s autopsy report yet?’

‘No, nothing yet. I’ll chase it up tomorrow.’

Just then a group of twenty-somethings appeared around the corner, some with fancy dress togas visible beneath their opulent overcoats. After a little horseplay they formed a straggling line in front of the stony-faced doorman, presenting their invitations to gain entrance to the club. As the large ornate doors opened to admit
the guests Pearson caught a blast of music and the sound of revelry emanating from the party within.

‘Do we really have to wait for this Conrad character? Surely I can just flash my warrant card?’

Harley shook his head.

‘We wanna keep it as low-key as possible; we can’t risk ruffling the feathers of Lady Augusta Daubeney. Remember—she’s organized this do, and she’s unlikely to give us the spiel on her brother’s whereabouts if we go storming into her shindig in our size tens now, is she? Anyway—here’s the boy Conrad now.’

Pearson turned to see a young, smartly dressed Chinese man approaching them.

‘George Harley! And there was I thinking you were dead!’

Conrad laughed loudly and pumped the hand of the private detective.

‘How are you, Conrad?’ asked Harley, extracting himself from the young man’s enthusiastic grip. ‘Conrad—Albert.’

It was now Pearson’s turn for a vigorous handshake.

‘You’ll need to watch yourself with this one, Albert—in my experience George Harley plays hard and fast … So George, Lily asks why you don’t come see the girls anymore—they miss their Uncle George, you know.’

‘Well, you know how it is—I’ve been busy.’

The young man put a hand on Harley’s shoulder and spoke a little more earnestly.

‘You know, that business with Cynthia, George … you know we all miss her so … what I mean to say is you really should come visit Lily. Can I tell her you’ll be over?’

Harley glanced at Pearson, plunged his hands back into his coat pockets and shuffled his feet, looking a little uncomfortable with the conversation.

‘No promises—I’ll see what I can do … Now, are you gonna get us into this gaff, or what?’

‘Sure thing!’ Conrad beamed as he produced three invitations from his inside pocket and pointed towards the door.

As they followed him in, Pearson turned to Harley and lowered his voice.

‘Blimey! Is he always so lively?’

‘Probably been sampling the merchandise,’ said Harley, tapping his nose. ‘If you know what I mean.’

***

Inside the lavish ballroom of the Murray Club the riotous party was already in full swing. Most of the guests were exactly as Pearson had imagined from the description of such gatherings in the gossip columns that his wife was so fascinated with: the socialite sons and daughters of the gentry and well-to-do, lounging around the dance floor in classical Greek and Roman fancy dress. However, he was a little shocked at how scantily clad some of the girls were—and how much alcohol they seemed to have consumed.

On stage with his Midnight Moochers, providing the swing for this stable of well-bred fillies to jump to, was Johnson Munro—the hottest act in town, and a personal friend of Harley’s.

Conrad gave Harley a slap on the back. ‘Righto, George! I’ll leave you to do your thing … Oh, by the way,’ he said with a sniff, ‘Gussy Daubeney’s the brunette in the corner, being fed grapes by the Lord Chancellor’s son. Tread carefully though—that one can breathe fire when she wants to, understand? Right! I’m off to mingle.’

He plucked a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and immediately slipped into conversation with a gaggle of attractive girls sporting cardboard lyres—within seconds he’d elicited a chorus of shrieks and giggles. One of the girls went up on tiptoe to whisper in Conrad’s ear and soon she was dragging him across the dance floor towards the side of the stage, where they both disappear behind a curtain.

Pearson looked on disapprovingly.

‘Off to peddle his poison, I suppose. And I’ve got to just stand here and watch him, have I?’

Harley tipped his hat back an inch or so—normally an indication that he was losing patience with someone.

‘Lighten up, Pearson! It wasn’t too long ago that you could buy cocaine over the counter in the high street … You know, in the war we had a couple of officers who used get these little kits from Harrods sent out to the front—syringes an’ all. It’s all about perception … You know both Shackleton and Scott took cocaine pills on their expeditions, don’t you? You ought to be more worried about all the booze this lot are chucking down their necks—guaranteed to cause more problems tonight; especially with all these posh bramas walking around in nothing but bed sheets.’

Pearson took another look at the partygoers, his eyes widening as a particularly ravishing blonde passed close by and blew him a kiss.

‘My God! Did you see that one? She was practically naked! And she can’t be a day over seventeen … Whatever would her mother say if she could see her now?’

‘She’d choke on her bedtime cocoa, I shouldn’t wonder. But this lot thrive on all that, don’t they? It’s what it’s all about—driving the older generation crazy.’

‘I’ve heard all about it, you know—
the Bright Young Things
. Mrs. P’s always reading about them in the paper. Gallivanting around town on treasure hunts … pogo-sticking up The Mall and the like …’

‘And a lot more naughty stuff besides,’ said Harley, lighting up a Gold Flake. ‘Yep, this is them, alright—although their heyday was in the twenties really; my guess is even they think it’s all a bit old hat by now. No doubt they’ll find something else soon, some new fad.’

Pearson turned to look over at Gussy Daubeney’s table, where the Earl’s daughter was shrieking with laughter.

‘What I don’t get though, Harley, is what the Lord Chancellor’s son is doing dressed as Ghandi, feeding grapes to a half-naked aristocrat? That’s what Conrad said, didn’t he? The Lord Chancellor’s son? I mean, you’d think they’d be … well, I don’t know … doing something
worthwhile
.’

Harley laughed.

‘I think he’s supposed to be an ancient Greek actually, Pearson, rather than Ghandi … I dunno, I suppose they all feel a bit lost, don’t they.’

‘Lost?’

‘Yeah. Think about it. The previous generation had it all mapped out for them, didn’t they? Their life was full of certainties—a beautiful, privileged life all laid out on a plate for ’em—smashing … But then the war came along and bolloxed it all up. All their elder brothers and cousins snuffed out overnight … the big gaff in the country sold off to pay the death duties … a Labour government getting into power. And now the old man’s probably lost most of their inheritance in the Crash. As I say, I think they’re all a bit lost, directionless … Bless ’em!’

Just then Johnson Munro launched into a solo on his horn. Harley drifted closer towards the stage, gently pulling Pearson with him by the sleeve.

‘
Jesus!
Listen to ’im play that thing!’ he shouted into the policeman’s ear. ‘It’s like he’s working a Lewis gun! … Jumpin’ Johnson Munro—lap it up, Pearson! You won’t have heard the likes of ’im before, I bet.’

‘It’s lively, I’ll give ’em that. But I’ll admit I’m having problems picking out the tune!’

Harley laughed again and shook his head.

‘You like this kind of thing?’ asked Pearson, moving in closer to be heard above the music.

‘Yeah, and Johnson’s a mate—he gets me all the latest recordings.’

Pearson turned to check on Gussy Daubeney, who was now standing and talking to one of the doorman. The bouncer turned and pointed over in their direction.

‘I think we’ve been spotted, Harley.’

‘Yeah well, we’re not exactly dressed for the occasion, are we?’ Harley gave a burst of enthusiastic applause as Munro came to the end of his solo, then turned to see the Earl’s daughter storming across the dance floor towards them.

‘Right, let me do the talking. Gently does it—we don’t want to buck the ’orse and get her all riled.’

‘Actually, I think
I
should question her, Harley,’ said Pearson, straightening his tie. ‘You know—polite, but in an official manner. If she’s a bit prickly we might get more out of her that way. After all, as a member of the aristocracy she should respect the law, shouldn’t she?’

‘You, my son, have got a lot to learn about the upper classes.’

Lady Augusta Daubeney was now standing before them, obviously a little drunk and somewhat peeved. A wan, bespectacled youth in sandals and toga gave a half-hearted attempt to restrain her; she batted his hand away and turned to Pearson.

‘My God! Have you people got nothing better to do?’

The policeman smiled and flashed his identity card.

‘Detective Constable Pearson, Miss Daubeney. I’d just like to ask you—’

With a tut she flicked the card to the floor.

‘It’s
Lady
Daubeney! And you had better have a warrant, Detective Constable—my father is a personal friend of the Home Secretary … and Rupert over there is the son of the Lord Chancellor.’ She turned to her nervous-looking companion. ‘Johnnie, tell Rupert to telephone his father immediately! I simply won’t stand for it! This is a private party—they have no right!’

‘I know it’s a private party, but we have invitations, Lady Daubeney …’ Pearson scrambled on the floor to retrieve his ID. When he stood back up he found himself in close proximity to the aristocrat’s ample cleavage.

‘Come on then, you priggish little man! What is it this time? Are we dancing too close to the niggers again? Are the togas showing too much flesh—is that it, eh? My God! They’re only tits! Surely even those bourgeois little suburban housewives of yours have tits?’

Pearson was momentarily stunned by this onslaught.

Lady Augusta clicked her fingers and the nervous Johnnie rummaged around in the folds of his toga to produce a cigarette. Before he could fumble his lighter into action Harley had struck a match.

‘Lady Daubeney, I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot,’ he said, leaning across and lighting her cigarette. ‘We’re not here to close anything down or make any arrests … we simply want to ask you a few questions about your brother, Lord Chantry.’

‘Oh Christ! What has the little fool been up to now?’

‘Nothing at all—quite the contrary, in fact. Our investigations have led us to believe that your brother may have been the victim of a burglary. Only … well, we’re having problems tracing his whereabouts. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is at the moment, would you?’

‘Tonight? Haven’t a clue.’

‘But you have seen him recently?’ asked Pearson.

Johnnie took a step forward. ‘Gussy, weren’t you telling me that Freddie had gone to—’

‘Shut up, Johnnie!
This instant!
’ Lady Augusta crossed her arms and drew on her cigarette. ‘When exactly is this burglary supposed to have taken place?’

‘We can’t be certain, but possibly a few weeks ago.’

‘Well then, it’s hardly urgent now, is it?’ Growing bored with the conversation, the aristocrat’s gaze drifted over to the entrance, where a group of new arrivals were waving at her. She gave a half-hearted wave back and turned to Pearson. ‘Oh, look—leave me your card and I’ll have him get in touch the next time I see him.’

‘And when do you think that’ll be, exactly?’ asked Harley.

She gave the private detective a withering look.

‘Tell me, Mr. …’

‘Harley.’

‘Tell me, Mr. Harley—are you the organ-grinder, or the monkey?’

Harley tipped his hat back and gave her a smile.

‘Oh—I suppose that depends on what tune you’re playing.’

She flicked her ash on the floor.

‘Goodnight, gentlemen! The exit is that way,’ she said, striding off across the dance floor.

‘But just a moment, Lady Daubeney!’ Pearson called after her. ‘It’s extremely important that we—’

Harley put a hand on the policeman’s arm.

‘Albert, you’re wasting your breath.’

‘Good grief!’

The look of frustration on Pearson’s face made Harley chuckle.

‘Well, really, Harley! She’s got no bloody manners, that one … and her a Lady as well! I’ve a good mind to run her in for questioning; give her a good scare—suspicion of possessing a controlled substance. After all, she’s bound to have some of that dancing powder on her.’

‘And what good’s that gonna do us? … More to the point—what good will it do your career? You’d be directing traffic at Marble Arch by Monday morning.’

Just then The Midnight Moochers came to the end of their number.

‘Listen, Pearson—I think it’s fair to say that we’ve drawn a blank with the sister,’ said Harley, raising his hand to catch Munro’s attention. ‘Let’s call it a day here … but first I want a quick word with Johnson.’

Harley left Pearson and pushed his way to side of the stage where Munro was waiting for him, mopping the sweat from his brow. The jazz man grinned as he approached.

‘Georgie boy! I see you standing there, your mouth hanging open like some lil’ girl—still a big ole alligator for them sounds, huh?’