Mask of the Verdoy (25 page)

‘Thank you. Yes, we’ve made good progress in the last few months. It has not been easy though, I must admit.’

‘Tell me,’ said Pearson, taking a seat at the table. ‘That young girl just now, with her family …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, was she quite … quite normal?’

‘Feeble-minded, I’m afraid, Mr. Pearson; an interesting case. Actually the family were not here regarding the girl. We’re treating the mother’s bronchitis with a sulphonamide preparation—one of the compounds that I helped to develop with my father. But as you know, we’re concerned here at the clinic with hereditary conditions. The mother’s brother is also feeble-minded, and yet both the mother and younger daughter seem to be of roughly average intelligence—for their social class and education, that is.’

‘So you think the condition is hereditary, but isn’t always passed on?’ asked Harley.

‘Exactly. What Gregor Mendel described as a
recessive trait
. So, in exchange for treating the mother’s bronchitis for free, we’ve persuaded her to allow us to make a study of her family—to see if we might identify some shared factor, a marker that might help us determine the likelihood of the condition manifesting itself. You see, although the younger daughter remains unaffected, there’s a high probability that the mother is acting as a carrier of the trait. And, of course, as she’s now pregnant again …’

‘Do you advocate birth control at the clinic, Effie?’ asked Harley.

Euphemia glanced over at Pearson before answering.

‘In the right circumstances, yes, we do. Most of these families are extremely poor, you understand, living in deprived conditions. Multiple pregnancies take such a toll on a woman’s body living in such conditions … not to mention the additional strain on the family’s
resources … However, maybe this isn’t the time and place to debate such a controversial topic?’

‘You mentioned Mendel, he’s the fella with the pea plants, right?’

‘I think, George,’ said Euphemia, with a smile, ‘I shall make it a personal mission of mine to discover a topic of conversation of which you have no prior knowledge.’

‘I wish you luck with that, Miss Daubeney,’ said Pearson. ‘My theory is that he swallowed an encyclopaedia when he was a youngster.’

‘We’ve just had a wonderful new X-ray apparatus installed in the basement, maybe we should admit him for an examination, Mr. Pearson—what do you think? Anyway, apart from diagnosing Mr. Harley’s intelligence, what else can I do for you?’

Harley pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket. He opened it out and placed it on the table.

‘Do you recognize this, Effie?’

‘Why, yes, of course—how could I forget?’ she said, glancing at Harley’s sketch of the Ukrainian tattoo. ‘The bombing … the severed hand …’

‘That’s right. But
before
that? Have you ever seen it before? Take your time, have a good look.’

Euphemia studied the drawing of the tattoo.

‘No—not before that night. Not that I recall … It belonged to that poor man, the chauffeur?’

‘That’s correct,’ said Pearson, pulling out his notebook. ‘Although we’re having great difficulty discovering anything about the man himself. Did you know him well, Miss Daubeney?’

‘I’d never met him.’

‘But I thought you said that Earl Daubeney leant you the use of his driver whenever you were in London?’

‘And so he does. But my uncle’s regular man was away that day—off visiting relatives in Birmingham. I assume this unfortunate man was a temporary, from an agency.’

‘You’ve spoken to your uncle about it?’ asked Harley.

‘Only very briefly, when he telephoned to see that I was unhurt. We’ve both been rather busy lately, I’m afraid. We haven’t had chance to meet up since the explosion.’

‘And do you have a name for this temporary driver?’ asked Pearson. ‘Do you know what nationality he was?’

‘Nationality? Why, English I’d have thought—wouldn’t you? I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it, Mr. Pearson. I would imagine my uncle’s private secretary will have all of the details.’

‘How did you get to Spitalfields, Effie?’ asked Harley. ‘Didn’t the temporary fella drive you?’

‘No, Giles gave me a lift—Giles Pembroke. Remember you met him that night, in the office?’

‘The vicar?’

‘Yes. You see, Giles normally gives me a lift to and from the drop-in, but for some reason that night he had to rush off early.’

‘Really?’ said Pearson, making a note in his book. ‘Do you recall what for?’

‘I don’t think he said. Is it important?’

‘Probably not. We’ll ask him when we interview him.’

‘You’ll be interviewing Giles?’

‘Just a formality,’ said Harley. ‘We need to speak to everyone we can who was there that night, to see if they remember anything significant.’

‘But, surely, the bombing didn’t have anything to do with the welfare drop-in? These anarchists are choosing their targets at random, aren’t they? That’s how it’s been reported in the newspapers.’

‘We can’t discount any motive at the moment, Miss Daubeney,’ said Pearson. ‘Now, can you think of anyone who you’d class as an enemy? Anyone who might have reason to cause you harm? You mentioned the clinic’s stance on birth control. As you say, it’s a highly controversial subject—have you had any direct threats regarding it?’

Euphemia looked perplexed for a moment at the question.

‘Surely you don’t believe that
I
was the intended victim, Detective Constable?’ she turned to Harley. ‘George?’

‘Just before the explosion we saw Pembroke driving off at speed in a maroon Austin 7. Is that his vehicle?’ asked Harley.

‘I’m afraid I’m no motor car enthusiast, but I believe it is maroon-coloured, yes … a rather small affair—a sit-up-and-beg type.’

‘And does he always drive so erratically?’ asked Pearson.

‘Well, Giles is a little inconsistent in most things practical, but I wouldn’t say his driving is erratic exactly. I’m sure he’s not a danger to anyone … And there’s simply no way that he could be involved in any kind of anarchist group, if that’s what you’re implying. He’s a man of the cloth. The C of E is hardly a hotbed of extremist politics, is it? No, no—the whole things laughable.’

‘Listen, Effie, we don’t know for sure that this last explosion has got anything to do with politics, but can you think of any association with Russia or the Ukraine that your uncle might have—any business ties, foreign nationals on his staff?’

‘Russia?’

Euphemia thought hard for a moment.

‘No, there’s nothing that springs to mind. I’m sure you are already aware that he was Viceroy of India for a while, and my aunt has some
French relations I believe, on her mother’s side … Russia, you say? You think there’s some connection with the Soviets?’

‘I can’t say at the moment, I’m afraid. But think now, Effie—is there anyone that might want to do you harm? Have you noticed anything untoward lately? Any strange characters hanging around?’

Harley saw the flash of concern in Euphemia’s eyes.

‘What is it?’

She put her hand to her cheek and shook her head.

‘No, it’s nothing. Just me being silly.’

‘Please, Miss Daubeney,’ said Pearson, his pencil poised over his notebook. ‘If there’s anything you’ve noticed—no matter how insignificant …’

‘Well—and I know I shall sound like a frightened spinster—but yes, I have noticed someone loitering, actually. On three occasions … all in the dark. Once here, as I was making my way to the taxi rank, and twice outside my apartment in Maida Vale. A man, wrapped up in a scarf and a large overcoat—loitering, or so it seemed … I’m afraid I’ve never seen his face.’

‘Then how can you be sure it’s the same man?’

‘Because, Mr. Pearson,’ said Euphemia, with a look that suggested he should laugh at the comment at his own peril, ‘he
whistles
.’

‘Whistles, Miss Daubeney? To you?’

‘No, not
to
anyone, he whistles … a tune. The same one each time.’

‘Do you know what the tune is?’ asked Harley.

‘No. But I do think that it’s possibly foreign. Oh, I’ve never been very musical, but to me it sounds Oriental … or, perhaps more Indian. Yes, that’s it—the tune he whistles sounds like some kind of Indian melody … If you can imagine such a thing.’

‘To tell you the truth, I can’t,’ said Harley. ‘But we’ll give it some thought, make some enquiries.’ He gave Pearson a nod, grabbed his hat and stood up preparing to leave. ‘Listen, Effie, we don’t want to keep you from your work any longer. Thanks for your time—it’s been helpful. If anything else springs to mind just give DC Pearson here a call at Savile Row station.’

‘Of course I will … Now, I wonder if I might have a quick word with you before you go, George?’ She stood and laid her hand gently on his arm.

‘Yeah, no problem. Albert?’

‘Hmm? Oh, right! Yes, of course … I’ll just wait outside, then.’ Pearson exchanged a brief puzzled look with Harley before making his way back out to wait in the corridor.

‘Well?’ said Harley, dropping his hat back down on the table and taking a seat. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I think the question is what I can do for you,’ said Euphemia, appearing to lose a little of her natural composure. ‘That is to say … Oh, gosh! This is probably going to sound a little forward of me … You see, I’ve been thinking about that night, that dreadful explosion …’

‘Listen, Effie, no good’ll come of dwelling on it. It’s best just to—’

‘
Please
, George—hear me out.’

‘Alright. Go on.’

‘Well, what I mean to say is that I’m not sure you realize just what it meant to have someone there to support me; someone strong, caring.’ She placed her hand on his. ‘Oh, I know I might appear confident and resilient to most, but beneath it all somewhere there still lurks the timid little girl I once was… is that so hard to believe?’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ he said with a smile.

‘In that moment of sheer terror I was somehow stripped of all of my layers of defence … all that seemed to remain was that frightened little girl. But, you see, when you held me …’ She pulled her hand away, as the nurse popped her head through the doors.

‘You’re one o’clock is here, Lady Euphemia.’

‘Thank you, Sister. I shan’t be a moment … I wonder if you might give her the questionnaire whilst she waits?’

‘Of course,’ said the nurse, disappearing back out into the corridor.

Euphemia gave Harley an embarrassed smile.

‘I fear I’ve been prattling on like a schoolgirl, George. To get to the point, I wonder if you might allow me to show my gratitude for your conduct that night by joining me for a drink, or perhaps a bite to eat?’

‘Well … yeah—I’d love to.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course!’

‘Wonderful! That’s settled then. I’m afraid I’m rather busy this week, but maybe we could arrange something for the following week? I’ll be in touch some time after the weekend.’ She stood up, and checked her watch. ‘Oh dear! I’m afraid I really should be getting on now.’

‘No problem,’ said Harley, following her to the door. ‘Well, next week then?’

‘Indeed, George—next week,’ said Euphemia, drawing close to give him a gentle kiss on the cheek, bringing with her that subtle perfume.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Harley jolted awake as something heavy landed in his lap. He struggled for a moment to place his surroundings, glancing down to discover one cool green feline eye staring back at him.

‘Jesus Christ, Moloch! You’ll give me a coronary!’

But Harley knew there was another reason why his heart was playing a rumba in his chest. It was the remnants of his dream—
that
dream: the peppermint stripe of the wallpaper … the mud on the carpet … opening the door to the bedroom … turning back the bedclothes …

He tipped Moloch onto the floor. The old tom stood for a moment treating Harley to one of his darkest glares before padding slowly out of the parlour.

The clock on the mantelpiece showed twenty-to-eight. Harley swore under his breath—he’d only intended to take a short catnap, but he’d been asleep for over an hour and a half—which left him just twenty minutes to get to the Green Fox for the rendezvous with Siddons and Harper. It was a good job that Moloch had wakened him when he did.

Harley dashed upstairs to change his collar then down again to grab his hat and coat. He took a moment to spark up a Gold Flake, searched out his Leica camera in the hallway drawer and then flung open the door to make his exit.

He was presented with the sallow, pockmarked face of Benny Whelks. Behind Whelks were “Big” Terry Lampton and Pony Moore—a little welcoming party, care of Mori Adler.

‘Is Georgie coming out to play?’ said Lampton, sarcastically.

Even though he was standing one step down from Whelks, Lampton was still a good two inches taller. Pony Moore gave a smirk at Lampton’s little joke, although he didn’t say anything himself. Moore hardly ever said anything himself, but then playing sidekick to Terry Lampton he didn’t have to—Big Terry always had enough mouth for two.

‘Benny,’ said Harley, with a nod to Whelks. He ignored Lampton’s big-jawed grin. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

The chiv-man’s sickly features rippled with a flurry of tics and twitches.

‘Mori wants a w-w-word, George.’

‘Listen boys, can this wait? Only I’ve got an important meet, and I’m running late as it is. Tell Mori I’ll be straight over as soon as I’m done.’

‘’Fraid yer boyfriend’s gonna have to wait, Harley,’ said Lampton, moving up to the top step where he loomed over Whelks. ‘The Boss says you’re to be there by yesterday—and he told us to ignore any of yer old madam, an’ all.’

Harley tipped his hat back and drew on his cigarette.

‘He thought it would take three of yer, eh, Big? I’m flattered.’

‘Well, apparently you’re a bit tasty.’

Lampton looked back over his shoulder at Moore and sniggered.

‘Where’s Solly?’

‘Solly don’t kn-kn-kn-
know
about it,’ stuttered Whelks.

Now Harley began to worry.

Just then the front door to Violet Coleridge’s house opened and she appeared in a rabbit fur coat, all done up for her regular Thursday trip to the cinema.

‘Hello, what’s all this then?’ she said, peering at the small group standing on Harley’s steps.

‘Is that you, Terry Lampton? And Pony too? Well, no surprise there, I suppose. Where there’s one, there’s always the other—like a fart and its linger!’

Lampton—who by now had lost his grin—backed down a step.

‘Evening, Mrs. Coleridge.’

‘What are you boys doing here then? Not making trouble for George I hope. I’m sure you’d have more respect than to come and cause a ruckus on my doorstep—what with my Eric having paid yer wages for all those years.’

Whelks removed his hat and took a step towards Violet.

‘There’s no trouble here, Mrs. C—we’ve just come to have a chat with G-G-
George
.’

‘Benjamin? Benjamin Dalston? I didn’t recognize you there, dear, it’s been so long … Oh, listen—I was sorry to hear about your dear old mum. Last year, wasn’t it, ducks?’

Whelks’ face contorted with another wave of tics.

‘D-d-d-december.’

‘What a shame! With Christmas spoilt an’ all, no doubt … I hope she didn’t suffer too much. What was it, dear, in the end?’

‘S-s-s-s … s-s-s …’

‘Cirrhosis? Yes, well, Betty always did like a drop of the sauce, didn’t she?’

‘S-s-
stroke!
’ said Whelks, dropping his head and clenching his fist.

Recognizing the warning signs of one of Benny’s mood swings, Harley looked at his watch.

‘’Ere Vi, won’t you be late for the flicks? I thought Thursdays you went to the Astoria with Eva.’

‘Oh, I see—like that is it? All hush-hush, mum’s the word, eh? Well, I know when I’m not wanted … Anyway, it’s
Bulldog Drummond
tonight—I’d much rather be gazing into Ronald Coleman’s eyes than looking at your ugly mugs. Ta-ta, then—you boys play nicely now.’

With that she tottered off down the steps and away along the street, off to the Astoria, Charing Cross Road, her generous backside swinging the fur coat like a lazy metronome—Vi Coleridge, a force of nature, the scourge of toffee-wrapper-rustlers and back row whisperers.

‘Bloody nightmare, that one!’ said Lampton. ‘Always has been.’

‘She’s all woman though, ain’t she?’ said Moore in a hoarse whisper, still gazing at Violet as she sauntered down the road.

‘Blimey—it speaks! Listen, Pony, she’d ’ave the likes of you for breakfast, my son. They’re insatiable, old buricks like that—ain’t that right, Harley? After all, you should know. Pop round to tuck you in at night, does she? Come to think of it—she was probably the little meet you were telling us about, eh?’

‘Very funny, Big,’ Harley killed his cigarette with the heel of his shoe. ‘Come on then, Benny. If we’ve gotta do this then let’s get it over with—I really am supposed to be somewhere.’

***

Without its crush of punters the Twelve Ten looked denuded and morose. The house lights were turned up full, revealing the hidden workings of the conjuring trick—the rash of mould exposed behind the peeling strip of wallpaper with its endless chorus line of flapper girls; the cigarette burns in the worn plush of the velveteen curtains; the damp yellow stain on the ceiling from a cracked pipe in an upstairs bathroom.

Harley glanced around expectantly at the smattering of men in shirt-sleeves, who sat at the rickety tables smoking, or reading the
Racing News
 … but there was no sign of Solly Rosen anywhere.

He felt a prod in the back from Lampton and walked on, following Whelks who was approaching the bar.

‘Is he in?’

The barman gave a quick glance at Whelks then went back to funnelling a brown coloured spirit into an empty scotch bottle.

‘Yeah. He’s upstairs, with Fayvel.’

The small group made their way through to a back staircase and up half a flight of steps. Whelks knocked at the door.

Mori’s raised voice could be heard from within. Harley listened closely, fishing for a clue to the reason behind his summoning.

‘
And for this idiot’s advice I’m paying you my hard-earned gelt? You think I’m meshuggener? Sign over such a sum to Esther? For what? So she can fly off to sunny shores with some ginney dance instructor?
’

The reply from Fayvel Greenspan, Mori’s long-suffering accountant, was measured, with just a hint of anxiety—the tone of a keeper trying to calm a raging bear.

‘
Not sign over, Mori—just put her up in a little business. Make her the director … It’s either that or a quarter of it goes to the taxman. Once it’s established there are all sorts of advantages—expenses, write-offs … And as for the dance instructor, you and I know Esther’s such a martyr to her bunions—it’s never gonna happen
.’ Presumably this was added to lighten the mood. It did not have the desired effect.

The small group waiting outside on the stairway flinched as a heavy ornament pounded against the wall. The door was flung open and—with the aid of the hand-stitched sole of Mori’s Jermyn Street brogue—a bespectacled Fayvel Greenspan came flying out to land face-first on the floor, followed shortly by a clutch of black ledgers, one of which struck him on the back of the head. The door slammed shut behind him.

The accountant scrambled to his feet, dusted off his trousers, picked up the scattered books and cleared his throat.

‘Gentlemen, I wish you luck,’ he said, nodding to them as he descended the stairs.

Lampton clapped Harley on the shoulder.

‘He means you, Georgie boy.’

With the slightest twitch of the cheek, Benny Whelks now knocked at the door again and opened it, poking his head through the gap.

‘We’ve got Harley here for you, B-B-B … 
Boss
.’

Whelks retracted his head and motioned for Harley to enter—something that Lampton was more than happen to assist with.

Adler was standing with his back to the door, gazing out of the office window at the twinkling curve of Regent Street. The sepia gauze of London fog transformed the streetlights and car headlamps of the busy thoroughfare into a shimmering chain of jewels. However, both occupants of the room knew the dubious provenance of such a West End trinket—certainly paste rather than Asprey.

‘Shut the door, George. Take a seat.’

Harley obliged and sat on the hard-backed chair in front of the large leather-topped desk, leaving what he felt was a respectable period of silence before he spoke.

‘I take it you’ve done this on purpose?’

‘What’s that then, George?’ said Adler, continuing to gaze out of the window.

‘Chosen a chair that’s slightly too small for the desk; makes the visitor feel like a little kid going into the headmaster’s office. What did you do—saw a couple of inches off the legs? I’m guessing yours is the perfect height? Or maybe a little taller than it need be?’

Mori now turned to show the private detective a generous smile.

‘You’re a clever man, George. Cleverer than most. Always have been—even when we were kids.’

‘What’s all this about, Mori? Only, I really should have been somewhere ten minutes ago. You see—’

Mori put a be-ringed forefinger to his lips.

‘Schtum, George! We’ll be getting to that in a bit.’

He went to sit at his chair, then thinking better of it, smiled at Harley again, hitched his trousers up at the knees and perched himself on the edge of the desk.

‘I’ve always admired that brain of yours; puts you apart from the crowd, don’t it? You know, in a way we’re similar you and I, George—we stand out from the rest of the mugs. Wouldn’t you say?’

‘If you say so, Mori.’

‘Take my word for it—we do. Yeah, you’re smart, alright—a real clever
mamzer
, I’d say. Then there’s your politics.’

‘My politics?’ Harley raised his eyebrows.

‘Yeah, you know—Socialism ain’t it? That’s the thing with you, right?’

‘Well, not exactly. I—’

‘Oh, don’t be embarrassed about it, George,’ said Adler, cutting him off. ‘It’s admirable, in a way. After all, a lot of good Jewish boys are wrapped up in all that bolshie schtick, ain’t they? Although, of course, it ain’t quite the thing for this particular yiddisher boy, if you know what I mean.’

With a hearty laugh Adler eased his not-inconsiderable backside off the desk. He opened a box of Romeo y Julieta and offered one to Harley. The private detective shook his head and produced in turn his pack of Gold Flake, offering one to Adler. The big man laughed again, took a cigarette, placed it in Harley’s mouth and lit it for him with a large onyx lighter. He then took and cut a cigar for himself.

‘And there’s another thing that I admire about you, George,’ he continued, heating the end of the double corona with the flame of the
lighter. ‘You ain’t yiddified, are yer? Not a bit … never have been, as far as I can see. Why, you and Solomon—best pals, ain’t yer?’

With a few measured puffs Adler lit his cigar.

‘Has this got something to do with Sol, Mori? Is that it? Is he in some kind of schtuk?’

‘Oh no, Smokey’s alright, George—he’s a survivor, that one.’ Adler walked behind Harley’s chair.

Within seconds there was a metallic click by his ear and the cold muzzle of a gun on the back of his neck. ‘Smokey’s just fine, George—
this is about you …
’

Adler’s whisper came direct into Harley’s ear, bringing with it the aromas of Havana tobacco and expensive cologne.

‘You see, George, as well as the things that I admire about you, just lately there’s been something that’s started to bug me about you, an’ all.’

‘Oh yeah? What’s that then, Mori?’

‘I’ll tell yer, shall I? It’s this faint air of
smugness
. It’s started to hang about you somehow, like a bad smell … And the thing is, I’ve just heard something that might account for it.’

Harley heard Adler draw on his cigar as the gun’s muzzle bit deeper into his flesh.

‘You see, a little bird’s just told me something that at first I thought was so crazy that it just couldn’t possibly be true. But then, just on a whim, I did a bit of digging, and—what-do-you-know? Against all odds it turns out this bit of info is kosher. You see, this little bird informed me that a certain George Harley was on good terms with none other than General Sir Frederick Swales, the same General Swales who just happens to be the new Commissioner for the Metropolitan Police. And not only that—it also turns out that this George Harley is working in tandem with this chief bogey on some secret mission in the nefarious underworld of Soho.
Soho?
Well, that’s
my
particular bit of Hades, George—in case you needed reminding.’

‘I’m impressed with the reference, Mori—never knew you were a classicist.’

‘
Shut it!
You ain’t the only one that reads books, you jumped-up git! Now, you tell me why I shouldn’t put a bullet through that smart brain of yours, you dirty stinking nark! Go on—deny it! I dare yer!’

Harley swallowed hard and gave as measured a response as he could muster.

‘Swales was my CO in the war … And, yes—I am working for him on a special commission.’

Adler moved in front of Harley, and pointed the muzzle of the pistol at his chest. The mobster now leant back against the desk and took another puff on his Romeo y Julieta.

‘Clever boy! You’ve just talked your way into another couple of minutes of life. Maybe even long enough to finish yer smoke—who knows? … If you’d have denied it I’d have popped yer then and there. Now, come on—spill those guts! And I don’t want any of yer old gammon, neither. What’s the job?’