Mask of the Verdoy (22 page)

‘
Bugger me!
’ he said quietly and pulled Pearson out of sight behind a parked delivery van. ‘Stay down!’

Harley slowly raised himself up from his haunches and peered through the grubby back window of the van as the Italian and his minder walked up the steps of the Daubeney residence.

He ducked down again and turned to Pearson with a smile.

‘I think, Detective Constable Pearson, that we might have just discovered our connection between His Lordship and the late Aubrey Phelps—Old Mutt and Jeff there were the two characters that I disturbed in Piccadilly, trying to make a corpse out of the kid.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Italians?’

‘The little one is, but the big lump’s a local—I heard him goading the lad on in the alleyway. Well, well, well! So now it gets interesting … Say—what are you up to for the rest of the day, Albert? Got anything on?’

‘Why? I hope you’re not thinking of doing anything silly, now.’

‘What? No, nothing here. General Swales has given me a little lead that I need to follow up, and I’m just thinking that we may get some info on our mysterious Signor Girardi from the same source.’

‘What kind of a lead?’

Harley shook his head.

‘Not here—I’ll tell you in the motor.’

‘Motor?’

‘Yeah, it’s just around the corner. But let’s just wait here for a bit and see how this develops.’

***

As the new arrivals were shown into the Georgian drawing room of Number Six Belgrave Square they were greeted with the thunderous visage of an angry Lord Daubeney.

‘
Good God, Girardi!
This is all beginning to get out of hand! You do know that we now have Scotland Yard sniffing around down there in the street?’

‘Truly?’ said the Italian, with an amused look on his face. ‘
Polizia
?’

He moved to one of the large windows and tweaked the curtain back to get a better view.

‘Yes indeed,
polizia
. A Detective Constable Pearson, to be precise,’ said Daubeney, reading from Pearson’s card. ‘One of the weasels we had sniffing about Lady Augusta’s soiree last week, I believe.’

As the Earl moved over to a small drinks cabinet to pour himself a generous glass of whisky, Billy Boyd joined the Italian at the window.

‘Oi, Ludo—look who it ain’t! That’s our old friend George Harley, that is.’

The smaller man followed Boyd’s direction to where Harley was standing in the kerb, making a note of the number plate of the embassy limousine.

‘Harley?’ asked Daubeney, gulping at his whisky. ‘That private detective wallah that Box-Hartnell was complaining about?
Here?
’

‘Yes,’ said Girardi, his smile now reduced to just the half moon of his scar. ‘Here, and also at the Lady’s party—along with this Pearson … He is like a pig with the truffle, this George Harley …’

He turned to Boyd.

‘Billy, go down and follow Signor Harley; but use the back way—and not with the embassy auto … perhaps his Lordship has a car?’

Daubeney placed his glass down and rang for the butler who appeared within a few seconds.

‘Jensen—show Mr. Boyd here out of the back door and furnish him with the keys to the Vauxhall; quickly man! Time is of the essence. And Boyd—tread carefully, you understand? None of your roughhouse tactics—not yet anyway. We just want information at this juncture … Alright, away you go!’

‘Yus, sir!’ said the ex-prize-fighter rushing out with a look of childish determination on his face.

Daubeney joined Girardi at the window to look down to where Harley and Pearson were walking slowly away from the house.

‘Do you think they saw you?’

‘Probably.’

‘Well there’s no need to be so bloody sanguine about it, Girardi! This has all the makings of a serious cock-up!’ He rubbed at his palsied face. ‘If you’d have silenced that dirty little catamite on the
first attempt we wouldn’t have this Harley character to contend with … You know he was an SIS man, don’t you? Secret Intelligence? Holder of the DCM. … and he has the ear of the new Commissioner to boot,
godammit!
And now he’s snuffling around here—’

‘You forget, Lord Daubeney—we went after the
finocchio
to retrieve what had been stolen, not simply to silence him. Stolen from
your
son, you understand, while he was … 
playing his little games
.’

The Earl’s eyes narrowed. He crossed the room and retrieved his whisky, fuming silently. He emptied his glass in one gulp and poured himself another.

‘Hmmm … While you’re here, why don’t you tell me about this mess with the Russian, Girardi—what on earth was he thinking of? Blowing himself up like that? Damned amateurish, if you ask me!’

The Italian let the curtain drop and turned to regard the aristocrat. He stretched out his arms as though ready to perform an exercise and then walked briskly over to the drinks cabinet and picked up a fresh glass, holding it out for the Earl to fill. Still glowering, Daubeney splashed whisky into the tumbler. The smaller man gave a curt nod of gratitude.

‘You must understand, Lord Daubeney, Colonel Kosevich was a very brave man, a valiant soldier. To me he was—I think the phrase is
a brother in arms
, yes? A true warrior for the struggle. Il Duce himself held him in such high regard, did you know that?’

He brought the glass to his nose and swirled the spirit for a moment before taking an appreciative sip.

‘The reason the dynamite exploded, my Lord, was because it was not stable. Remember—
you
insisted on this explosive from Russia. As you know, it travelled to England in the hold of a fishing boat. The North Sea is a cold sea, a cruel sea. No doubt the dynamite, she freezes and melts, freezes and melts,
si
? This is not good for dynamite; at any moment she could …’

He mimed an explosion with his hand.

‘So, to answer your question—I don’t know what Kosevich was thinking when he was blown up by
your
rotten dynamite … but I do know that the Colonel was a professional, and it was certainly not his fault.’

Sensing the menace caged within the Italian’s taut frame, Daubeney tempered his tone a little.

‘Well, at least some of it was discovered at the scene, what? With the Russian stamp, and so on … not a complete waste of time, eh?’

‘No, my Lord, but a waste of a good man.’

The Italian drank some more whisky and walked over to inspect a handsome bronze of Wellington.

‘Tell me—is it really necessary to play such clever games?’

‘Well, Girardi—the games have to be complex, when the stakes are so high. Wouldn’t you say?’

‘Why not forget these little games? Muster your troops, march on Westminster.’

‘Like Il Duce did in Rome, eh?’

The Italian puffed out his chest and searched the Earl’s face for a hint of sarcasm.

‘And why not?’

‘Because, my good man, this isn’t Italy!’

Daubeney approached Girardi with a smile and an open box of Punch Double Coronas. The smaller man hesitated for a moment and then took one with a curt nod. Having cut, warmed and lighted the cigars, they sat on either side of the large fireplace to smoke. The Earl pointed at a series of prints depicting the British monarchy that flanked the walls of the drawing room.

‘You see, Girardi, we’ve had the pleasure in this country of enjoying a certain amount of consistency in our governing. And, although our armed services have been engaged throughout the years in many gruelling—and in the most part successful—campaigns on foreign soil, on the home front His Majesty’s subjects have grown rather used to
peace
. It has become a wholly alien experience for an Englishman to encounter the bloodied bayonet, or the sound of gunfire in the civilised streets of his Motherland.’

He drew on his cigar and allowed two ribbons of smoke to escape from his nostrils.

‘Here, in England, you’ll find things are done with a certain subtlety, intelligence. We can’t just go storming the palaces of Westminster in our jackboots; that would never do. Mind you, that’s not to say I’m not in favour of using the appropriate force when the time comes. But the skill is in the timing, you understand—to step into the ring just as the great British public are crying out for a champion, d’you see?’

The Italian was pensive for a while, slowly running his finger along the length of the thick scar on his cheek.

‘As you know, Lord Daubeney, my government has invested a significant amount of money and resources to help you to prepare for your campaign. Please understand that we see it as just that—an investment. We are expecting a handsome return … not financially of course, but in an outcome that is pleasing to
both
parties.
Si
? But I warn you to be careful, my Lord. While you Englishmen are relaxing in your clubs and your beautiful houses, planning your next move in this little game of chess, make sure that somebody else’s jackboots aren’t the ones marching on Westminster.’

***

A few hundred yards away in Wilton Crescent, Harley approached a small, battered van.

‘What are you doing, Harley?’

‘What do you mean? This is the motor.’

‘But it says “
Harris Brothers—Fishmonger
s” on the side.’

‘Yeah well, I borrowed it from a mate—he’s got a second-hand dealership in Warren Street.’

‘Is it safe? It looks like something you’d see the clowns getting out of at a circus.’

Harley laughed.

‘Yeah! Safe as ’ouses, this. Bullnose Oxford Morris—a great little motor, dead reliable. Come on—in yer get!’

Harley struggled with the door for a moment, finally yanking it open and reaching over to open the passenger door for Pearson.

‘
Good God!
’

‘Yeah. Sorry about the pen and ink. Smells like Billingsgate, don’t it? Don’t worry, you get used to it after a while.’

Pearson squeezed into the passenger seat holding his nose.

‘I’m not sure I want to. Where are we going anyway? Can’t we get there by tram?’

‘No—I think it’s best we use a motor for this one.’

‘I could have drawn out a pool car from the station.’

‘Yes, and where we’re going that would have stood out like a sore thumb,’ said Harley, feeling for something under the seat. ‘That’s the reason I didn’t use Mabel.’

‘Mabel?’

‘Mabel’s my motorbike—a Norton CS1.’

‘Think I’d rather take my chances in this old rustbucket—never been a great fan of motorcycles, damned dangerous if you ask me. Especially perched on the back of one.’

‘Oh, you’d be alright with Mabel—she’s got a sidecar.’

Harley’s hand reappeared from under the seat clutching a flat cap out of which he produced a woollen scarf which he now tied around his neck. He removed his trilby and exchanged it for the cap. Producing a small lump of coal from his jacket pocket he took a moment to dirty his hands and create a few smudges on his face.

‘There we go—how’s that look?’

‘Not bad … disguise, eh? Where’s mine?’

‘You don’t need one—you’re staying in the car. Just take yer ’at off.’

Harley threw the coal out of the window and tried the van’s ignition.

‘What do you mean—I’m staying in the car?’ shouted Pearson, above the tortured screech of the Bullnose’s starter motor.

‘You’re my back-up. You still got that squirter on you?’

‘Squirter?’

‘Your shooter, Pearson, your service pistol.’

‘Yeah, of course; but I thought you didn’t like guns?’

‘I don’t,’ said Harley, lowering his voice as the engine finally kicked in. ‘But where we’re going some of the locals do.’

‘So, what is this lead that General Swales has come up with then?’

The private detective rubbed his nose and turned to Pearson.

‘Listen, Albert—this is
you and me
, alright? What I tell you goes no further—no blabbing this to all and sundry back at the factory … like you did about Belgrave Square.’

‘Hey—come on now! All I did was ask Sergeant Hawkes how to—’

‘Alright, alright! Schtum! Now listen—FW has arranged a little meet with an old mutual friend of ours; someone who may be able to fill me in a little on this Wild Cat International mob.’

‘Really? So why has our investigation now widened to include the bombings? Surely that’s Special Branch business. I thought we were after the boy’s killer.’

‘We are, but I’ve now come to the conclusion that FW has suspected all along that there’s a connection between the two. He’s a cunning old cove that one, believe you me.’

‘Alright, so where are we going?’

‘To a dodgy part of Stepney. I’ll warn you now—it’s a bit like the Wild West, this place. There’s some right desperate characters there—real hard-nuts, lone-wolves, you know? And then there’s the political agitators, the European anarchists and such like, on the run from God-knows-what. You’ve heard of the Battle of Stepney, right?’

‘No—I don’t think so.’

‘Really? The Siege of Sidney Street?’

‘Oh yes, of course! I’ve seen the old newsreels … Didn’t Churchill turn up in his top hat?’

Harley laughed.

‘That’s right—and got a bullet fired through it for his trouble. Anyway, that’s the neck of the woods we’re talking about. It still attracts the more extreme elements of political agitation.
The Oracle
would probably call it “a breeding ground of alien insurrection”.’

‘Well, sounds like it might be.’

‘Yeah well, that’s where we’re off to—and that’s why you’re staying in the motor. That and the fact that this fella I’m meeting is working undercover.’

‘Well, I’m hardly going to blow a colleague’s cover, am I?’

‘This bloke ain’t a copper, Pearson.’

Pearson gave the private detective a long look.

‘Oh … I see.’

With a loud back-firing of the engine the old battered fishmonger’s van pulled away from the kerb and cluttered past the elegant Georgian buildings of Belgravia on its way to Stepney.

***

Pearson took off his hat and gave a low whistle as the van pulled into a narrow side street. The street was lined either side with a higgledy-piggledy row of decrepit houses with sagging roofs, whose bowed brick walls were shored up here and there with makeshift timber buttresses.