Mask of the Verdoy (24 page)

‘Of course, there’s always the chance that the information is coming from the Met,’ added Bryson, smiling sarcastically at Pearson. ‘We all know our boys in blue leak like a colander.’

‘And this Johann Most reference?’ asked Harley, ignoring Bryson’s comment.

Joe shook his head.

‘We’re almost certain there’s no connection with any of the German anarchist groups; most of them have their hands full back home dealing with the National Socialists.’

‘And what about any Russian connection? There’s the statement from the clippie about the bomber on the tram—he said the geezer had a Russian accent. And there’s the unexploded dynamite we found in Spitalfields, after the last blast.’

‘That was you?’

‘Me and Pearson, here. The stamp on the wrapper was Russian; but not Soviet Russia, pre-revolutionary—Tsarist.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Bryson.

‘Because I photographed it for evidence and then looked it up, that’s how!’

‘Well, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t supplied by the Soviets, does it?’

‘There’s another link to Russia,’ said Joe, refilling his glass. ‘We heard talk of this new character in town—a Ruskie, big bear of a man, a real presence apparently. He was going around all the local watering
holes, flashing his money, buying everyone drinks. The talk was that he was looking for recruits for some big job. Wanted to hear from any real ruthless types, anyone who’d risk a little danger for a big pay packet.’

‘And he was definitely Russian?’

‘Yes. Our source even pinpointed the accent—Ukrainian, apparently.’

Harley looked at Pearson.

‘Did this fella have a tattoo?’

‘Not that I know of. At least it was never mentioned—why?’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘A couple of weeks at the most. We were getting pretty close … in fact Bryson and I were waiting at a pub where he was due to meet a couple of possible recruits one night. But he didn’t show. Since then the trail has gone cold—he just disappeared.’

‘Did your man have a big beard?’

‘Yes, he did, as it happens … Come on then, Harley—out with it. Have you got a name for this character?’

‘From the sound of it, it could be our Daubeney chauffeur—the one that was blown up at the Spitalfields blast. He had a Ukrainian tattoo, the beard, he was a big man … And I’m also beginning to think that he’s our mystery man on the tram, as well.’

‘But he’s dead now?’

‘The chauffeur? Oh yeah—he’s dead, alright.’

‘Well, that doesn’t get us much further ahead, really then, does it?’ said Bryson.

Harley gave him a dismissive look, and went to tip his hat back—but on discovering he was still wearing his working man’s cap he settled for pushing the peak up a little.

‘Is there anything else that you can tell us about this Wild Cat mob, Joe?’

‘Wish I could, but we’ve been drawing blanks here, George. What I will say is that all the bombings attributed to them have stoked up some real bad feelings amongst the locals. Everyone’s looking for someone to blame, the usual suspects, you know—the Irish, the Jewish community … BBF membership has more than doubled around here in the last two months. God knows what’s going to happen if this Blackshirt march goes ahead. It won’t be pretty.’

‘No, I know … Talking of the BBF—am I right in thinking that Earl Daubeney is still heavily involved in the party?’

Harley noticed Joe’s quick glance over at Bryson.

‘We’ve reason to believe he’s an executive member.’

‘And probably Lieutenant General in their militia’s ranks,’ added Bryson.

Both agents were looking at him expectantly.

‘Why do you ask, George?’ said Joe.

‘Well, we’ve just come from giving his Lordship’s place in Belgravia the once-over. While we were there a diplomat’s motor from the Italian Embassy turned up.’

‘You’re certain it was the Italian embassy?’

‘No doubt about it—the bonnet had the little blue flag with the fasces on it.’

Harley watched as Bryson gave an almost imperceptible nod to his partner.

‘Looks like the connection might not be such a surprise to you boys … but there’s more. When the car pulls up, out get these two characters who just happen to be the two I fancy for a murder we’re investigating. One of them’s a big old lump … but my guess is he’s just the strong-arm—it’s the other fella I’m really interested in.’

‘Describe him,’ said Joe.

‘About five six in his stocking feet, wiry like an athlete, jet-black hair, sallow complexion … and a big old scar running up from the side of his mouth. The kind of cut they give a nark. Oh, and he’s nimble on his toes—I saw him scale a brick wall like a cat.’

‘
Girardi
,’ said Bryson to Joe, nodding his head.

‘Yeah, that’s the fella’s name,’ said Harley. ‘Signor Girardi. What can you tell me about him?’

‘Let’s see now,’ said Joe. ‘Ludovico Girardi … Italian national … Up until his twenties he was a gymnast in the circus; that was until the circus owner discovered Girardi giving a little private performance for his wife. He had Girardi beaten up and thrown out on the road with just the clothes he had on his back. Then the show moved on to the next town. Our man didn’t take too kindly to the humiliation. He made his way on foot to the next pitch, stole into the owner’s caravan and killed him by hammering a tent peg through his eye. For some reason—and we don’t know why—Girardi managed to escape the firing squad and was given twenty years. While serving his time he came into contact with the Cosa Nostra.’

‘Cosa Nostra?’ asked Pearson. He’d been sitting so quietly that the others had almost forgotten he was there.

‘The Mafia,’ said Harley. ‘You know—like in the movies. Only this lot are a real bunch of nasty cowsons, not a load of actors swanning around in makeup.’

‘Anyway,’ continued Joe. ‘Surprise, surprise—as soon as Girardi starts mixing with the families he has his sentence commuted and is released within two years. Back out on the streets he starts running errands for his new friends. Then he gets more heavily involved—
extortion, prostitution, you know the kind of thing. Before long he’s moved up the ranks … Then the Fascists came to power. As you know, that didn’t work out too well for the Cosa Nostra.’

‘Why?’ asked Pearson.

‘Mussolini cracked down hard on them,’ explained Harley. ‘He turned their own tactics on them—kidnapping their relatives, slaughtering farm animals, torturing associates into confessions. By the end of the twenties most of ’em were languishing in prison. So what happened to our little acrobat, Joe?’

‘Ah, well, little Ludovico is nothing if not a survivor, George. He quickly saw which way the wind was blowing and switched sides. He had no qualms about informing on all of his former associates.’

‘I’m guessing that’s where he got that little souvenir on his cheek?’

‘That’s right—some of the gang got suspicious and followed him to an assignation with a government agent; although how he escaped with his life is beyond me.’

‘Well, he climbs like a cat—maybe he’s got nine lives as well?’

‘You could be right. Anyway, the time spent with the Mafia had turned Girardi into a ruthless killer and enforcer, and his unique set of skills didn’t go unnoticed by the new boys in town. Before long the poacher had turned gamekeeper and he was recruited by OVRA.’

Harley noticed Pearson’s quizzical look.

‘Mussolini’s secret police,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘Listen, Joe, I’m guessing by the way you’re able to recite Signor Girardi’s life story, that you’ve read his case file a number of times in the last few weeks—so it’s no coincidence that we saw him outside Daubeney’s gaff?’

‘Hold on, Joe,’ said Bryson. ‘Can I have a word?’

The two agents left the room and closed the door behind them. There was murmuring from outside in the passage, and before long Joe returned and threw his cigarette end into the fireplace.

‘That’s it, George. I’m afraid we’ve given you as much as we can for today.’

‘Really? And it was just getting interesting … Listen, if you’re worried about Albert here, he’s staunch. I’ll vouch for him.’

‘If afraid that’s not your call, George.’

‘Lives are at stake here,’ added Bryson, returning to the room, ‘—
our lives
.’

Harley nodded.

‘Fair enough … Alright, Albert. It looks like it’s back to the motor then—if we’ve still got a motor, that is.’

‘Hold on,’ said Bryson, holding up his hand. ‘I don’t want you two just sauntering out of here together, as bold as brass.’

‘Yeah, I agree,’ said Joe. ‘If anyone did see you coming in that’s bound to give the game away. Karl, take Albert out the same way he came in—with a bag over his head. Harley, you walked in as though you were expected, so that’s how you go out as well; but give it a few minutes after they’ve gone.’

‘Come on then—let’s get your hood on,’ said Bryson, picking up the hessian sack from the floor.

‘What do you think, Harley?’ asked Pearson.

‘I’m afraid your mate doesn’t have a say in this, chum,’ said the agent, thrusting the sack into the policeman’s hands. ‘You’re playing with the big boys now. You’ll do as we say.’

‘Go ahead, Albert,’ said Harley, placing a reassuring hand on Pearson’s shoulder. ‘It’s not a bad idea.’

‘My, we are honoured!’ said Bryson, sarcastically.

‘Alright, if you think it’s best … Well, good to meet you Joe,’ said Pearson. ‘Hope I haven’t ruined the operation. No hard feelings, eh?’

Joe shook the policeman’s hand.

‘Alright, Albert. Take care.’

Pearson donned the hessian sack and was promptly thrust out of the door by Bryson and frogmarched across the square.

Harley watched them disappear into the alleyway and then closed the door and flopped down into one of the shabby armchairs.

‘Come on then, spill the beans’ said Harley. ‘What’s the job?’

‘Uh-uh, I’m afraid you’re not getting anything more, George. Bryson may be a pain in the backside, but he’s my partner, and I’ve got to respect his decision. He’s right when he says our lives are at stake.’

‘Really? Well then, my guess is that you’re up to more than just sniffing around after mystery anarchists; I reckon you’re—’

‘I mean it, George! Not another word!’

‘Alright, alright …’ said Harley, standing up and checking his watch. He wandered to the window and pulled back the net curtain to peer out. ‘It’s probably best to leave a decent gap before I follow on. I reckon we’ve got time for a quick cuppa, don’t you? Where’s the stove?’ he asked, making his way towards the door leading to the back room, ‘Out the back here?’

‘Whoa! Hold on! I know your little tricks, George Harley. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. You’ll be out the back rooting through all our gear whilst my back is turned. You stay put—I’ll make the tea.’

‘Please yerself! Nice and strong then, with two sugars.’

Once he could hear the sound of the kettle being filled Harley moved swiftly and quietly to make a quick search of the room. There was nothing to be found in the sideboard or in the pile of papers on the small occasional table, and a quick check under the cushions of
the two shabby armchairs was equally disappointing. However, a rummage through Joe’s overcoat proved most interesting.

‘Well, well, well! That’s the game is it?’ murmured Harley to himself, examining the British Brotherhood of Fascists membership card and another document which confirmed that a certain “Joe Schmidt” had been accepted as a candidate for the BBF’s Elite Bodyguard unit.

On hearing the clinking of mugs from the kitchen he quickly thrust the papers back into place, hung the overcoat up behind the door, and composed himself nonchalantly in the armchair to await Joe’s reappearance.

***

Billy Boyd moved further back into the shadows of the smoke-blackened room and watched the front door open in the house with the yellow curtains. It had been a good quarter of an hour now since he’d followed the young copper back to the van, and he’d begun to think that George Harley must have changed his disguise and slipped past him unnoticed. But no—here was the private detective now, being shown out into the quadrangle, still in his workman’s cap and scarf. Now, if only he could see the face of the character showing him out.

Boyd removed his billycock, crouched low, took a couple of shuffling steps closer to the window and slowly edged his face over the charred sill. As soon as he got a glimpse of the bearded face he dropped down out of sight.

‘Hello …’ he mumbled, under his breath. ‘
Joe Schmidt
, eh? Our loyal little Blackshirt! … Ludo’s gonna love this.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

From their vantage point in the shadow of one of the large lime trees that lined the suburban avenue, Girardi and Boyd watched across the street as the door to the semi-detached was opened.

‘Here we are now, Billy,’ said the Italian, winding down the passenger side window so that the larger man could get a better look at the middle-aged man who was exiting the house carrying two heavy suitcases. ‘Pay close attention.’

Having struggled through the garden gate, the man shuffled with his load to a family car parked in the road. He dropped the heavy cases on the pavement and rubbed at his lower back, before opening the back door and heaving the baggage inside. Wiping the sweat form his brow, he consulted his watch and then turned to the house and shouted in a Lancashire accent.

‘Come on, Gladys! Where the bloody hell are yer? We’re supposed to be at the rehearsal studios in twenty minutes, lass!’

Across the street Girardi handed Boyd a theatre programme, on the cover of which was an illustration of a stage magician in a top hat, his saturnine features illuminated from below by a mysterious green glow.

‘
Valentine Medini
—I believe he is becoming quite the star, no?’

Boyd looked back at the balding, non-descript character catching his breath on the pavement.

‘Blimey—he ain’t much like his mugshot, is he?’

‘The secret to his art is in the make-believe, Billy. With enough skill and imagination you can make the audience believe in whatever you wish—a little like politics. You understand?’

The front door of the house now re-opened and a blonde bustled out, laden with hatboxes and vanity cases.

‘Of course, Medini is just his stage name. Away from the theatre he is William Chadwick. See now, the woman? She is Gladys Chadwick—both the wife and the lovely assistant.’

‘I get it—the judy he saws in ’alf, right?’

Girardi smiled at the big man’s innocent enthusiasm.

‘Yes, that’s right, Billy. And that is their house,
si
? The home of William and Gladys … and
old
Mrs. Chadwick.’

Boyd looked a little puzzled.

‘The mother of William—
si
?’

‘Oh, yus! I see, Ludo. Very cosy-like.’

‘Now, Billy—look at their car, remember the model. You know this car?’

Boyd looked over to where the couple were stacking the remaining luggage into the vehicle.

‘Yeah, the blue Hillman 14—I got it.’

‘Good … You see, The Great Medini is getting ready for a show, the biggest show of his life—although, of course, he doesn’t know that yet. They will be rehearsing all this week, somewhere in the city. Follow them, my friend. Learn their routine, the route they take to the studio and so on. Try to get a look at the costumes they will wear and the … what is the word? Ah, yes—the
props
they will use. But be careful, Billy—no violence. Not yet. We don’t want to scare our little rabbits away, you understand?’

‘Yus—of course … But I don’t see what this has got to do with it all, Ludo. I mean, these showbiz sorts—what use are they to us, eh?’

‘Well, Billy, your work in Stepney—following Harley and the policeman—this was very good work, you know?’

‘Really? Was Sir Pelham very pleased?’

‘
Pleased?
Well, I don’t think what you discovered about the traitor Schmidt made Sir Pelham
happy
, Billy … but he does understand now just how useful you are to the cause.’

‘Who’d ’ave thought it, eh? Joe Schmidt, a copper’s nark … or probably a copper ’imself.’

‘Maybe something worse, Billy.’

‘Come again?’

‘Maybe
Secret Service
.’

‘The bastard! I always thought he was something special, you know? Good man to have at yer side … And he was gonna be promoted next week, weren’t he? Into the Elite Bodyguard.’

‘He still will be, Billy.’

‘What? How’s that work then, Ludo?’

‘Well, we shall be inviting Mr. Schmidt along to the ceremony … only his initiation will be something different to normal. You understand?’

‘Oh, I get yer—fix ’im proper, right?’

The Italian wound the window back up and watched now as the Chadwicks drove away down the avenue.

‘Now that we have discovered that the BBF has been infiltrated by this Schmidt, and with this George Harley sniffing around our
business … well, it has been decided that things must be speeded up. For me, this is good news. For me this is the reason I came to England.’

‘You mean the
Correction
, Ludo?’

‘Si, the Correction. Our moment approaches … and
this
is your next task to help it on its way, Billy—learn the routine of this Valentine Medini, for the party, for the cause.’

The big man sat thinking for a while, cracking the knuckles of his oversized hand.

‘But what
is
the Correction, Ludo? … Oh, I know the
idea
of it all, what we’re after. But
how
we’re gonna do it—that’s the bit that I don’t get.’

‘Not yet, my friend,’ Girardi said, his smile emphasising the cruel scar on his cheek. ‘All in good time. And when that time comes, I promise you—you will be there at the centre of everything, playing a starring role.’

***

Harley pulled open the lift gate and led Pearson out onto the top floor of the sleek, Art Deco apartment block. He thrust his hands into his pockets and gave a low whistle.

‘That’s some view,’ he said, looking at the vista of Paddington Recreation Ground. ‘Must be nice to wake up and see a bit of green like that every morning.’

‘Yes, it must …’ said Pearson, wistfully.

‘Hello! What’s all this then? Getting a bit homesick, are we?’

‘Oh, only every now and then. You know, you don’t really appreciate how important that stuff is when you’re surrounded by it—the countryside, the rolling hills, the trees. I’d hate to think that my littl’un might grow up not knowing what nature is all about.’

‘Well, there’s plenty of wildlife in The Smoke, Albert—you’ve just got to know where to look for it.’

‘Yes well, I don’t think that’s the kind of nature I was talking about.’

‘Never mind about all that, have a butcher’s at this,’ said Harley, handing Pearson an envelope.

‘What’s this then?’

‘A little note from our friend Gilby Siddons; came in the post this morning. It says that the missing dilly boy, Harper, has been in touch and he’s willing to talk.’

‘At the Green Fox—tomorrow night, at eight,’ said Pearson, reading the note. ‘That’s good news! But what does he mean by “don’t bring the sharpy”?’

‘Ah yes, well … that’s you I’m afraid.’

‘Oh bloody hell! Well, I’m not waiting in the car this time, that’s for sure. You can go on your own and report back to me later.’

‘You do realize this could be our big breakthrough, don’t you? If we manage to get our hands on whatever they stole from Freddie Daubeney … or even just find out what it is … And with a good agent like Joe managing to infiltrate the BBF; well, I reckon the tables could be turning for us, Albert.’

‘Blimey!’

‘What?’

‘Steady on there! It sounds to me like the hardened cynic might be getting a little excited for once.’

‘Well, I don’t mind telling you that this case is getting right under my skin. We could use a little bit of good luck.’

‘Amen to that … Let’s just hope this Harper comes up with the goods.’

Pearson turned to peer down the long corridor of the apartment block.

‘Now—what number is she at?’

‘Oh, I don’t think we need bother about that. Apparently she’s got the whole floor.’

Harley walked to the end of the corridor and knocked on the door. It was opened by a young girl in a maid’s uniform.

‘Is Lady Euphemia in?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. She’s at the hospital.’

‘Really?’ said Harley, looking concerned. ‘Is she alright? I mean—I know she got knocked about a bit by the blast, but, well … when we left her she seemed to be—’

‘Oh, no,’ said the maid, with a little nervous giggle. ‘Not like that, sir! It’s Wednesday, you see—she works at the hospital on a Wednesday, sir.’

‘Oh, yeah—of course,’ said Harley, looking a little embarrassed. ‘The family health clinic, right?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Listen, now—you don’t have to call me “sir”, you know. What’s your name?’

‘Violet, sir—oops!’

The maid gave another little nervous giggle.

‘There you go again. Well, Violet, my name’s George, George Harley … and this ’ere’s Albert Pearson, Detective Constable Pearson. We need to speak to Lady Euphemia, you see, about something important. You wouldn’t happen to have the address of this hospital, would you?’

‘Of course, Mr. Harley—I’ll get you one of the information leaflets.’

***

Harley and Pearson followed the nurse’s brisk stride through the freshly painted hospital corridor, the heels of their shoes clopping on the polished linoleum.

‘Get a lungful of that carbolic, Pearson,’ said Harley, sniffing at the air. He noticed the policeman’s face had turned ashen.

‘’Ere, you alright?’

‘Hospitals—they give me the collywobbles.’

‘Yeah well, try and keep on yer feet—I wasn’t planning on an overnight stay.’

He quickened his step to match the pace of the nurse.

‘It all looks very new and ship-shape, sister.’

The nurse stopped to push a trolley closer into the wall. She turned to Harley with a hint of pride in her eyes.

‘Yes, wonderful isn’t it? We’ve only been here a couple of months. Previously it was one of the old Poor Law Hospitals and, well, quite frankly it was a fright of a place. Dark and dirty—a breeding ground for infection.’ She started off purposefully down the corridor again. ‘Lady Euphemia has worked wonders, she really has. And it’s not just the facility, you understand, it’s the concept, the forward thinking—managing the future health of the patients rather than just administering to their current ailments. Attending to the chronic as well as the acute.’

‘By education? Dietary planning?’ asked Harley.

‘Yes,’ said the nurse with a toothy smile, stopping at a pair of double doors, ‘amongst other things … Now gentlemen, if you’d just wait here for a moment?’

She disappeared into the room briefly, and then returned to open the door wide.

‘In you come, gentlemen! As you can see, Lady Euphemia is just finishing up with a patient, but if you wouldn’t mind just sitting quietly over there she’ll be with you presently.’

‘Thank you, sister,’ said Harley removing his hat as they entered the consultation room.

They took a seat on a bank of metal-framed chairs lining the wall. On the far side of the room, caught in a diagonal swathe of buttery sunlight sat Euphemia. Harley’s heart quickened a little as he caught sight of her, poised and elegant in a crisp nursing uniform. Along with a young doctor she was attending to a small family group—a mother and two daughters, one around eight-years-old, the other in her early teens. The teenager had unusually long, flax-coloured hair and on hearing the door bang shut as the nurse left the room she turned her
head and stared at the newcomers … and continued to stare with drear, lifeless eyes—a bleak gaze that reminded Harley of the mannequins in the Oxford Street stores.

Maybe it was the trigger of seeing Euphemia again—her resemblance to Cynthia—but at the thought of shop window dummies Harley’s mind jumped now to an image of that naked, headless torso, lying like a waxen effigy in the pale moonlight …

‘Do you know her, Harley?’

‘Hmm?’

Harley dragged himself back to the present.

‘That girl. Look at her—gazing at you like that.’

‘I don’t think she’s all there, Albert,’ said Harley, smiling at the girl to see if he could elicit a change in her frozen expression; but the girl continued her lifeless stare until her mother placed a hand on her shoulder and drew her attention back to the conversation.

‘Shame, isn’t it?’ said Pearson. ‘Such a pretty girl as well.’

Across the room the consultation was coming to a close. The doctor wrote out a prescription and the family said their goodbyes and stood up to leave. As the eight-year-old dragged her sister towards the door the older girl once more turned to fix Harley with her bleak stare.

‘Blimey, Harley—if looks could kill, eh?’

‘Oh, I’m sure she don’t mean any harm—just a little
lakes
, ain’t she?’

‘Lakes?’

‘Lakes of Killarney—
barmy
,’ said Harley, smiling and tapping his temple.

But in truth the incident had unnerved Harley and he struggled for a moment to prevent his thoughts returning to the image of Cynthia’s butchered corpse … until Pearson nudged him in the side and they both stood up as Euphemia made her way over to greet them.

‘Gentlemen! What a lovely surprise.’

‘Miss Daubeney.’

‘Please, Mr. Harley, call me Effie. I feel that after our recent shared experience, that terrible explosion … well, we’re no longer exactly strangers, are we?’

‘I suppose not, Effie. And it’s George, by the way.’

‘Well, George—before we go any further I really must give you my sincere thanks for the way you looked after me that night.’

‘Oh, I don’t remember doing anything special …’

He paused as she stepped closer, bringing with her that hint of jasmine. She placed a hand on his arm.

‘Nonsense! I behaved like a silly little schoolgirl and there you were,’ she tilted her head a little and her closeness forced a smile to his lips. ‘Cool-headed, professional … 
decisive
.’

Harley shook his head.

‘I think you’re being hard on yourself. Anyone would have reacted the same, finding that thing, lying in your lap like—’

She hushed him with a finger to his lips.

‘
Thank you
.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Now, what can I do for you?’

‘We just have a few questions—about the bombing, Miss Daubeney,’ said Pearson, beginning to wonder if they realized he was still in the room.

‘Of course, Mr. Pearson. Shall we sit?’

She led them over to the consultation area.

‘You’ve got an impressive set-up here, Effie,’ said Harley.