Mask of the Verdoy (21 page)

‘Nu, George—is this just a social visit? Or maybe I can help you with something, eh?’

‘Sharp as ever, Nate. Yeah, there is something. But first—you wouldn’t have a pair of scissors, would you?’

‘Of course, here somewhere …’

The old man fished around in the desk drawer for a moment and then handed Harley the scissors.

Retrieving the photograph from his pocket, Harley turned his back and cut around the centre part, screwing the rest up into a ball.

‘Here you go,’ he said, placing the detail of the tattoo on the table. ‘I was wondering whether you could tell me the significance of this.’

Uncle Nate tended the wick of the oil lamp on the table to give a bit more light, pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and studied the image.

‘Well, let me see now … the text is in Cyrillic, Russian of course—but you would have known that already. You want I should translate?’

‘Please.’

‘It says the army, or the
pack
, of Gerovit
…
no, wait … 
horde …
Yes, that’s it:
“Gerovit’s Horde”
.’

‘Who’s “Gerovit”?’ asked Rosen, leaning over to get a look at the photograph. ‘’Ere, is that someone’s tattoo, George?’

Harley nodded.

‘Whose?’

‘Don’t you think, Solomon, that if George wanted we should know that, he would have shown us the whole of the photograph, eh? In answer to your question, Gerovit is one of the old Slavic pantheon, a warrior god—someone to fear and respect … you should approve.’

Harley took out his notepad and licked his pencil.

‘How are you spelling that, Nate?’

‘G-E-R-O-V-I-T. But I believe he was also known as
Jarilo
, there is some link to Sun worship, I think, and fertility … But as I understand it, Gerovit was primarily a god of war.’

‘And you said Slavic,’ said Harley, making notes. ‘So that would cover the Ukraine, right?’

‘Ah! Very good! So you’ve already identified the “tryzub”.’

‘The what?’ asked Rosen, grabbing at the photograph.

Harley pointed to the symbol at the top of the tattoo.

‘This trident thing here—it’s the national symbol of the Ukraine.’

‘Looks a bit like a crown to me. And a wolf’s head … not yer usual pair of swallows or naked judy you see on the jack tars down Limehouse, is it?’

‘What is it, Nate?’ asked Harley, noticing that the old man had pushed his glasses up onto his head and had scrunched up his eyes.

‘
Gerovit’s Horde
 … Ukraine … I’ve heard this before somewhere. Something to do with Cossacks … Oy!’ He rapped his head with his knuckles. ‘I’m sorry, George—this old brain, doesn’t work so good, now. But listen, I have a good friend, from Ivankiv—near Kiev—a survivor of the nineteen-nineteen pogroms, no less. For sure he will know the meaning of this Gerovit’s Horde, the wolf’s head and such. You want I should take the picture and show him?’

‘Please, Nate—that’d be a great help. But, listen, I’d like you to keep schtum about it to anyone else who may ask. I ain’t sure exactly what’s involved here; it might be dangerous. That goes for you too, Sol—Mori and the boys don’t need to know about any of this, alright?’

‘Frankly, George, I’m offended that you think you need to mention it.’

‘You’ll get over it.’

Harley looked at his watch, finished his tea and stood up.

‘Well, Nate—it was good to see yer, as always. And thanks for your help with this.’

‘What help? Nothing as yet … but I feel sure that my friend will have an answer—if there’s an answer to be had.’

‘What are you doing, Sol—you staying?’

‘No, I’ll walk with you … Uncle—always a pleasure.’

‘Nu, nephew—you want I should draw a map so you don’t get lost next time?’

‘You’re a funny man, a funny man!’

‘Seriously though, Solomon, these Blackshirt
meshuggeners
—be careful, yes? And don’t let the hatred eat you up, either. Remember what they say—“
don’t be bitter, lest you be spat out”
.’

‘But “
don’t be sweet, lest you be eaten up”
; they say that, an’ all, don’t they, Uncle?’

With a look of surprise Uncle Nate turned to Harley and tapped his head.

‘Well, George—maybe there
is
something in the barrel, after all. All those times I thought he wasn’t listening.’

‘
Abyssinia
, Uncle!’

‘
Zay gezunt
!’

Outside in the street Rosen placed a large bear-like arm across Harley’s shoulders.

‘So, George …’

‘Solly?’

‘How’s your new boyfriend, Mack?’

‘I was wondering when this was coming.’

‘Detective Constable, up from the West Country.’

‘Someone’s been doing their homework.’

‘Yeah well, you know Mori—lots of fingers, lots of pies … So I thought you weren’t gonna do that no more.’

‘Do what?’

‘Work for Scotland Yard.’

‘I’m not—they’re just giving me a little help with this murder case.’

‘Really?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Now, I would ask why on earth they’d help you with one of your cases, but …’

‘But?’

Rosen stopped walking.

‘Well, a little birdie told me that George Harley is in bed with the new Commissioner of the Met.’

‘Did he, now?’ said Harley, turning back to face his friend.

‘And knowing you, George—I’d say it’s so crazy it’s probably true … Well?’

Harley started walking along the road again. Rosen trotted to catch him up.

‘Well?’

‘General Sir Frederic Wilberforce Swales.’

‘That’s what it said in the papers.’

‘Swales was my CO in France; it was saving his arse that landed me with the DCM.’

‘Fuck me, George! So it’s true?’

‘It’s true.’

Harley stopped walking again.

‘Tell me, Sol—does Mori know?’

‘Not yet—but it’s only a matter of time. And when he finds out, he’ll …’

‘He’ll what?’

‘You know, George—I haven’t a clue. But one thing’s for sure—he ain’t gonna leave that alone, is he? Could go a number of ways.’

‘Well, I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it, won’t I?’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Harley sprinted through the torrential rain towards the Post Office telephone box on the corner of Goodge Street. These bright red kiosks had begun to pop up all over the capital, and as he darted inside and searched his pockets for the tuppence to make the call he thought of how the teenage George Harley would have marvelled at the prospect of what was once a luxury of the privileged and elite being made available to the masses for the price of a cup of tea. What’s more, with the new automatic dialling system you no longer had to endure the snotty attitude of the exchange girls.

He shook the rain from his hat, dialled the number and waited for the call to be answered, idly observing the blue-grey smoke of his Gold Flake filling the damp atmosphere of the kiosk.

‘Savile Row Police Station.’

Harley pressed button ‘A’ and removed the cigarette from his mouth.

‘Ah, good afternoon,’ he said, disguising his voice. ‘I wonder if I might have a word with Detective Constable Pearson.’

‘Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Oh—just tell him it’s a friend of Mack’s.’

As he waited Harley doodled in the condensation on one of the small windows, and found his mind wandering back to that exquisite moment … on the steps of the church … when Euphemia had placed her head on his shoulder …

‘DC Pearson.’

‘Albert? It’s me—don’t say my name out loud! Can you talk? Is anyone in earshot?’

‘We’re fine. There’s no one around, not close anyway,’ said Pearson, lowering his voice. ‘But this is all a bit cloak and dagger, don’t you think?
A friend of Mack’s?
’

‘Well, you can’t be too careful, can yer? You never know who’s earwigging in the factory. So, tell me—how did you get on with Aubrey’s autopsy report?’

‘Nothing doing—still no sign of it.’

‘You’re kidding! What’s the chances that Quigg’s already had it, d’you think?’

‘What, and he’s keeping it from the rest of us? Well, it’s possible, I suppose.’

‘Well, keep trying won’t yer? It’s bound to be important later on … Now, listen—what are you up to later on this afternoon?’

‘Nothing I can’t put off. Why?’

‘I thought we might pay a little visit to Earl Daubeney; he’s in town at the moment, apparently. I’ve got the address—a big gaff in Belgravia, surprise, surprise. Can you meet me in Belgrave Square, say … four o’clock?’

‘Yes, that should be alright. How d’you want me dressed this time? Any special instructions?’

‘Very funny! No, I reckon you should look as much like a bogey as possible for this one.’

‘But listen, Harley—’

‘Shush! I told you—
no names!
’

‘Alright. But listen, I thought Lady Euphemia said that we should go through the official channels to contact the Earl?’

‘What, and give him the heads-up? Not likely! Let’s start by surprising him, see what he lets slip about Freddie’s run-in with the lavenders. If it doesn’t work, then we’ll try another tack. And then, of course, there’s the little question of that Russian driver of his.’

‘Oh, that reminds me. I’ve been doing a little digging on Lady Euphemia’s side of the family.’

‘Good boy,’ said Harley, extinguishing his cigarette with his shoe. ‘Let’s have it then.’

‘Well, it seems her father—the scientist chap—made a fortune before the war on a patent for processing food to extend its shelf-life. His sudden death was reported as being due to a freak accident in his laboratory at Chantry Hall, the family estate; but after the inquest the coroner returned an open verdict. At the time there were rumours in the village of suicide. Apparently one theory is that he never recovered from the grief of losing his son Rupert in the trenches.’

‘Well, he wouldn’t have been the first.’

‘Anyway, when he died—even after paying the death duties—Lady Euphemia inherited a very tidy sum indeed; by all accounts she’s an incredibly rich woman.’

‘So now we’ve got something else to question the Earl about.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, maybe the family fortune accounts for the attempt on Lady Euphemia’s life. I wonder who inherits it if she dies.’

‘Oh, come on, now! You don’t honestly believe a senior member of the British aristocracy would blow up a close relative—for money? You’ve been watching too many movies, Harley.’

‘You’d be surprised what some people would do for a bit of gelt. And that’s all they are, you know, Albert—just people, just like you and me; with the same flaws and weaknesses—more in some respects. After all, the likes of you and me know there’s always someone to answer to. I’m not so sure with that lot.’

‘But we don’t even know that the Earl would inherit the money if she dies. It far more likely that explosion was linked to these anarchist bombings … What about the Russian connection? That stamp on the dynamite, and the tattoo—have you got anywhere with that?’

‘Well, there’s good detail in the photograph. There’s a possible link to the Ukraine and the Cossacks … but I’m waiting for more info; should know in a couple of days.’

‘Cossacks? There you go then: Russians, anarchists, Bolsheviks—it all fits, doesn’t it? It’s got to be this Wild Cat International Brigade. And I’m sorry to say that Sir Pelham’s theory about the Soviets being involved looks like it might have some substance.’

‘Well, no, it doesn’t actually, Pearson. For your information the Cossacks fought with the counter-revolutionaries—the White Army—who were against the Bolsheviks. So let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet, right? And for Christ’s sake, don’t go blabbing about this to anyone.’

‘Oh come on! Give me some credit.’

Pearson’s protests were cut off by the pips.

‘Listen—that’s the money run out. I’ll see you later. Four o’clock, Belgrave Square.’

After he had put the phone down, Pearson checked to see who was around and then walked briskly to the door at the end of the corridor and rapped on the glass vision panel bearing the title ‘
Detective Inspector Quigg
’.

‘Yes? Ah, Pearson—do come in.’

‘I wondered if you had a minute, sir—for a quick chat?’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Pearson slumped down onto the park bench and looked at his watch: five-past-four—not too bad, considering how lost he’d been. He made a mental note to put a little more practice in on the London Underground system and then searched the grand square of elegant stuccoed buildings for Harley. Seeing no sign of the private detective the policeman leant back on the bench and gazed up at the dappled foliage above him. A pair of city starlings—seemingly oblivious to the thin veil of smog beginning to descend in the late afternoon—began to chatter away merrily in the uppermost branches of the large plane tree. Pearson closed his eyes, transported for a moment back to rolling hills of the West Country.

‘That’s what I like to see,’ said Harley, having crept up behind the bench, his footsteps softened by the grass, ‘the great British copper—forever vigilant!’

‘Very funny!’ said Pearson, once he’d recovered from the shock. ‘If you must know, I’ve been up most of the night—the littl’un’s suffering with the colic.’

‘Yeah well, his old man’s likely to have belly-ache, an’ all, after this little meeting. I’ll warn you now, Albert—Earl Daubeney is likely to have as much respect for the law as that charming daughter of his. If he deigns to see us at all, that is.’

‘Well, we can but try. Which one is it?’

‘Over there—number six … That’s healing nicely,’ said Harley, looking at the scab on Pearson’s forehead. ‘What did the missus have to say about it all? Did she read about the blast in the papers?’

‘To tell you the truth I had to play it down a bit. You don’t know Mrs. P—she’d worry herself sick if she knew I was that close to a bomb going off. She already thinks that London’s full of murderers and rapists; she’d have our bags packed and be buying the tickets back home if she knew the truth.’

‘Sounds like a sensible woman … Right, come on then—let’s get going.’

‘What have you got there?’ asked Pearson, noticing that Harley was carrying a small wooden box with a brass handle.

‘Ah, yes. Well, you see, I don’t reckon Earl Daubeney’s likely to be very forthcoming in his responses to our enquiries. The best we can probably hope for is to rattle his cage a little, force him to make a few moves that might indicate to us the other individuals involved in this caper.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, Albert, while you’re knocking at his front door, asking your awkward questions about Viscount Chantry and the lavender boys of Soho, I shall be out the back with this little baby …’ Harley patted the lid of the box. ‘Eavesdropping on any telephone conversation that our little visit may prompt.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘It’s an engineer’s receiver set—it’s what they use to test the lines when they install them. Somewhere at the back of Daubeney’s gaff there’ll be a Post Office terminal box—the connection to the exchange. All I’ve gotta do is get in there, tap in with the test leads, and Bob’s yer uncle! I’ll be able to hear everything that’s being said over the household appliance.’

‘Is that strictly legal, Harley?’

‘To tell you the truth, probably not … but if anyone ever asks just tell ’em you didn’t know what I was up to.’

‘So that means you want me to do all the questioning—what particular line of enquiry am I to follow? And don’t tell me you think I should put it to Lord Daubeney that he might be involved in an attempt on his niece’s life!’

Harley chuckled.

‘Don’t worry, Pearson—you can keep it civil. Start with his son’s current whereabouts, make sure you mention the name Aubrey Phelps, and I think you should also refer to the bombing in Spitalfields. He’s hardly gonna spill the beans, but what I’m banking on is that as soon you’re gone he’ll get on the blower to our man Quigg.’

‘You still think there’s a connection?’

‘That’s what my gut tells me.’

‘Alright, I think I’ve got it … Oh, hold on! How am I supposed to address him?’

Harley raised his eyes.

‘You can call ’im what you like, Pearson—no one’s gonna lock you up in the Tower for it.’

‘I know but … well, I’d just like to do it right. We might get more out of him that way, don’t you think?’

Harley sighed.

‘As an earl you’re supposed to address him as “Lord Daubeney”. If the missus is there, she’s Countess Daubeney, but you address her as “Lady Daubeney”. Right, that’s enough of the etiquette lesson—let’s have a butcher’s around the back, shall we?’

Harley started to stride across the green.

‘I thought you were dead against all this aristocracy business, Harley,’ said Pearson, following on behind. ‘How come you know so much about it? The correct forms of address and the like?’

‘“
Know your enemy”—
Sun Tzu,
The Art of War
,’ said the private detective, with a smile.

‘Oh come on, now! I’ve seen enough of you to know you’re not fighting some class war, Harley. You know, you really need to do something about that chip on your shoulder—you’re so bitter.’

‘It’s an energy, Albert—keeps me ticking over, you know?’ He held up his hand. ‘Alright Dr. Freud, enough of the analysis, already … Let’s slip down here—it should lead us to the back of the Daubeney’s place.’

A few minutes later Harley and Pearson were pushing their way through the dense undergrowth at the bottom of the walled garden belonging to the Earl’s residence.

‘I’m really not happy about doing this, Harley!’ whispered Pearson, attempting to free his gabardine from the grips of a particularly tenacious bramble.

‘You worry too much—that gate was unlocked, wasn’t it? It’s not as if we broke in … Look—that’s what we’re after.’ Harley pointed to a small metal box attached to the back of the building. ‘I just need you to hide in the bushes over there and keep nix for me while I climb up on that coal shed. Once I’m up there I can keep tight to the wall—even if they look out of the window they won’t be able to see me. As soon as I’m in place you can scarper.’

‘Alright then, but let’s be quick about it.’

They made their way stealthily up the garden without incident. Pearson settled down beneath a dense evergreen which offered him a good view of the back of the house and, a little anxiously, watched Harley as he crept across the lawn towards the coal shed.

It was just as his partner began to haul himself up onto the coal shed roof that the policeman heard a door open at the back of the building, closely followed by what sounded like the clicking of clawed paws on flagstones.

‘
Harley!
’ hissed Pearson, pushing himself further into the shadows of the evergreen. ‘
Problem!
’

Both men looked towards the corner of the scullery courtyard where a Great Dane had appeared, the height of a shetland pony.
The huge dog stood with his ears twitching, taking puzzled sniffs at the air.

Harley immediately scrambled up onto the roof and searched frantically in his jacket pocket, soon producing a small package wrapped in a handkerchief.

By now the Great Dane had picked up Pearson’s scent and was snuffling his way slowly, but surely, towards his hiding place, prompting the policeman’s hand to creep towards the butt of his revolver. Just as Pearson had resigned himself to the fact that he was about to cut short his nascent CID career by shooting dead a favoured pet of the British nobility, the dog’s huge head snapped around to regard a gobbet of meat that had landed a few inches from the edge of the lawn. The hound gobbled up the titbit in seconds and then returned to its scrutiny of the intruder’s trail. Before long Pearson was staring into a set of monstrous, growling jowls.

‘
More meat! Throw more meat, Harley!
’ hissed the terrified policeman, drawing his gun and backing away as far as he could into the space beneath the shrub’s canopy. But for some reason Harley just sat watching blithely from the coal-shed roof, seemingly unperturbed by the latest turn of events.

The Great Dane’s growling intensified, and convinced that it was about to attack, Pearson cocked his revolver and took aim at the threatening muzzle.

But to his great relief the dog now pulled back out from under the evergreen, gave one great doggy sneeze, cocked its head quizzically … and promptly collapsed onto the lawn.

‘Blimey!’ whispered Harley, who’d dropped down from the roof and had made his way over to inspect the unconscious animal. ‘Didn’t think that was ever gonna kick in, what with the size of the brute. Come on! Give me a hand to get him undercover, before someone spots him.’

‘Have you killed it?’ asked Pearson, holstering his pistol and grabbing the dog’s rear legs to help Harley drag it under the evergreen.

‘No, he’ll be as right as rain in a couple of hours. I’ve just “puddinged” him; it’s an old screwsman’s trick—a scrap of drugged meat.’

‘Screwsman?’

‘A housebreaker. This ain’t the first time I’ve done this sort of thing—there’s invariably a pooch mooching about; it pays to be prepared … Right, as I thought, that is the terminal box up there. Just keep a lookout while I get back up and then make your way around the front and give ’em a knock.’

Having seen Harley successfully set up his phone-tapping apparatus, Pearson returned to the square and mounted the steps to
the elegant townhouse. He took a moment to catch his breath and then pounded the door with the heavy brass knocker.

He shuffled his feet as he waited … adjusted his collar … shot his cuffs … but still no one came. Then he spotted the bell-pull.

Just as he was pulling at the black iron ring the wide door opened to reveal an austere looking butler.

‘Yes?’ asked the servant, looking down his aquiline nose.

‘Ah!’ said Pearson, taken off-guard a little. He struggled for a moment to retrieve his ID card from his jacket. ‘DC Pearson—Scotland Yard. I, erm … I wondered if I might have a word with Earl Daubeney?’

‘
Police?
’ said the man, with a slight, quizzical tilt of the head.

‘Yes,’ replied Pearson, feeling as though he were admitting to a rather distasteful habit.

‘I’m afraid Lord Daubeney is otherwise engaged at present. Do you have an appointment, sir?’

‘Well, actually I don’t. But maybe you could ask Lord Daubeney if he would see me anyway? I’ll only take up a few minutes of his time.’

‘In regard to what, exactly?’

‘In regard to a murder enquiry—the murder of a young man by the name of Aubrey Phelps.’

The butler disappeared behind the door for a moment. When he reappeared he was holding out a small silver tray in his gloved hand.

Puzzled, Pearson looked at the empty tray, then at the butler, who now closed his eyes and drew an exaggerated breath in through his nose.

‘Your calling card, sir?’

‘Ah! Right—hold on …’

After eliminating two old tram tickets and an assortment of Player’s cigarette cards that he’d begun collecting for when his son was old enough to appreciate them, Pearson finally produced his card and placed it on the tray.

‘Would it be possible to wait inside, do you think? It’s beginning to get a little nippy out here,’ said Pearson, rubbing his hands.

The butler gave him a supercilious smile and promptly shut the door in his face.

‘Charming!’ he said, walking back down the steps to looked up at the first floor windows. He just caught sight of someone regarding him from behind a curtain—someone with a full set of mutton chop whiskers and a palsied drop to one side of his ruddy face.

Pearson returned to the doorstep and after a few minutes’ wait the door opened to reveal the contemptuous face of the butler.

‘I fear, sir, that His Lordship is unable to receive you without an appointment.’

‘Well, can you make me an appointment, then?’

‘I’m afraid that would lie beyond the remit of my duties, sir.’

‘Well, who
can
make me an appointment?’ asked Pearson, beginning to get frustrated. ‘This
is
police business, you know; I’m not here selling clothes pegs!’

‘I believe the correct form is to apply in writing to his personal secretary …’ he broke off to consult the business card in his hand. ‘…
Detective Constable
Pearson. But His Lordship did ask me to point out that he will be dining with the Home Secretary tomorrow evening—I’m sure if it is anything of great importance they might discuss it then, don’t you think? Good day, sir,’ said the butler, smiling as he closed the door.

Five minutes later Pearson met Harley in the side alley by the back of the house.

‘Well? Did he telephone DI Quigg?’

‘No, Albert, he did not telephone DI Quigg.’

‘Well, there you are then, I told you that—’

‘Daubeney didn’t ring Quigg, but he
did
ring the Italian Embassy,’ said Harley, with a satisfied grin.

‘The Italian Embassy?’

‘Yes. And he asked for someone called
Signor Girardi
. And do you know what he said to this Signor Girardi?’

‘Go on.’

‘“
Come here immediately, I think we may have a problem”
.’

‘But who on earth is this Girardi?’

‘I haven’t a clue. But most of the embassies aren’t too far from here. If we hang about for a bit I reckon we’ll find out.’

‘That’s right—the sarge told me there were a number of foreign embassies in Belgravia.’

‘Which sarge?’

‘Dick Hawkes—the station sergeant at Savile Row.’

‘Christ, Pearson! Why have you been bleating to Dick Hawkes about what we’re up to? You’re supposed to be keeping schtum about all this.’

‘Calm down! I didn’t tell him that I was meeting you, or what I was up to at all. But I needed to know how to get here, didn’t I? Remember—I’m not a bloody local like you. As it was I missed my stop and then got lost.’

‘Can’t you buy a map? Or just jump in a cab? God give me strength!’

***

‘There you are,’ said Harley, a quarter of an hour later, nodding towards a large black limousine that had turned into the square and was now pulling up outside the Daubeney residence. ‘I told you it wouldn’t be long. That’s an embassy car, alright—see the flags on the bonnet? Hold on, here we go …’

The back door of the limousine was opened by a uniformed chauffeur and out onto the pavement sprang a lithe figure dressed in black. Then the back door on the road side opened and “Iron” Billy Boyd hoisted his gigantic frame out. As the henchman joined the diminutive Italian it was obvious to Harley that he’d last come across this double act one foggy night in an alleyway off Piccadilly.