Mask of the Verdoy (3 page)

Harley now squatted down and leant further over to get a better look—yes, there was a gap in the top course and he could just make out what looked like broken fragments of house brick in the street below.

Just then he heard a shriek from the direction of the fire escape.

He dashed back across the roof and lowered himself carefully onto the ironwork, shuffling as quickly as he dared back to the open window.

‘
George … George!’

It was Vi. But her shouting wasn’t coming from Miss Perkin’s room, it was coming from further along the fire escape—from his own house. He made the extra few yards and then yanked up the sash window and threw himself awkwardly into the room.

Harley took in the scene with a professional’s eye: the dark puddle congealing on the floorboards; the mother-of-pearl-handled razor gripped loosely in the grubby, nail-bitten fingers; the leaden pallor on the boyish cheek.

There was a call from the floor below.

‘
Police!
Anyone there?’

‘Up here, Burnsey! Top floor!’ shouted Harley, already at Aubrey’s throat, searching for a pulse.

A thump of heavy footsteps announced PC Burns’ arrival.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’ said the policeman, removing his helmet and rushing over to crouch down beside the bed. ‘Any luck?’

But as Harley drew back the only sign of life Burns could see in the boy’s face came from the two tiny facsimiles of the guttering gas mantle, dancing in the dull pupils.

CHAPTER THREE

PC Burns drew up a chair to join Harley by the bedside of the dead boy.

The two men sat for a while without talking, their gaze drawn to the wound on Aubrey’s wrist, showing as a thin black bangle in the paltry light.

Harley offered the bobby a Gold Flake and took one for himself.

‘Not a pretty sight George, is it?’ said Burns, lighting Harley’s smoke for him. ‘I don’t care what they say—no matter how many you see, it’s not something you get used to. I mean—don’t get me wrong, I know it’s all part of the job, but still …’ He paused to drag on his cigarette. ‘Suppose it’s different for you—after what you saw over in France?’

‘It’s not something anyone should get used to, Perce,’ said Harley, giving the younger man a smile.

‘Poor bastard; why d’you think he did it?’

‘I’m not so sure he did.’

‘Come again?’

‘Hold on, I think that’s Vi on the stairs. I’ll tell you when CID get here—don’t want her getting any more spooked than she already is.’

‘Well, alright—if you say so, George. But I’m curious to hear what you have up your sleeve. Looks like a clear case of suicide to me. By the way, I phoned from the box again while I was down there—they should be here any minute.’

‘Who do you think we’ll get?’

‘From CID? Anyone’s guess. With the new Commissioner visiting the local stations tomorrow everything’s topsy-turvy.’

‘New Commissioner? What happened to Byng then? I didn’t see anything in the papers.’

‘Retired—and he was only there a couple of years. It’s all this corruption nonsense; it’s not been the same since the Sergeant Goddard business. This new bloke’s another army wallah by all accounts. Don’t see why they can’t have a copper myself. Still, at least this one’s doing the rounds—wants to meet the rank and file apparently. You should
see them down at the station, George—the top brass are running around like headless chickens and the rest of us have been reduced to chamber maids. Not seen much of CID though—they’ve been keeping their heads down.’

‘Typical bogeys—dodging the hard graft no doubt,’ said Vi, appearing at the doorway with a tray containing two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. ‘There you go Percival—there’s a nice hot cup of rosie for you. I shan’t come in mind, not with …’ she made a discreet nod towards the bed. ‘Ooh, George! Can’t you at least pull the sheet up over the poor bugger’s face?’

‘We shouldn’t disturb anything, Vi—not before CID get here.’

‘A lot of use they’ll be, I’m sure.’

Burns pinched out his cigarette and stashed it behind his ear before standing to take the tray from Vi.

‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs. C—but I shouldn’t really.’

‘Oh, get away with yer! I’m sure you’ve been on your plates most of the day, and that young lad’s beyond being offended. Three sugars—just how you like it. Drink it while it’s hot.’

‘Well, I won’t say no, then,’ he said, downing the tea in a few noisy gulps.

Vi glanced at Harley and raised her eyebrows.

‘Smashing that—hit the spot!’

‘Yes, so I heard. Go on—take a digestive, Percival. After all—you’re a growing lad.’

‘Well, don’t mind if I do.’

Burns handed Harley his tea and then greedily set upon the plate of biscuits.

‘How’s Miss Perkins, Vi?’ asked Harley.

‘Not so good, George. She’s still with Dr Jaggers, but he reckons there’s not much he can do for her. He’s given her something to calm her down a bit though. She’s stopped barking at least—that’s one thing.’

‘I hope he’s not knocked her out—it’s important that CID hear her side of the story.’

‘Well, I couldn’t get anything out of her at all, George,’ said Burns, through a mouthful of digestive. ‘You think she was poisoned?’

‘Could be. She was talking about the intruder blowing something in her face. It reminded me of something.’ Harley took a sip of tea and then placed it on the floor and returned to his smoke. ‘I pitched up in Venezuela once—when I was in the Merchant Navy after the war. Puerto Cabello—two days shore leave, plenty of dough in my pocket, you know … Me and a pal ended up in some dive run by an old river-boat captain. Real character he was—made his dough gun-running
on the Orinoco. I forget his name now. Anyway, amongst other things, he told us about a tribal ceremony he once went through where the medicine man blew some kind of hallucinogenic powder in his face. He said the effect was immediate … Mind-bending stuff—monsters, angels. He was delirious for hours, apparently.’

‘Oh lor, George! First it’s Spring-Heeled Jack, now it’s some pygmy assassin with a blow-pipe.’

‘No Vi, not a blow-pipe, what I said was—’

‘And that poor lad lying there in that state. It’s like a sodding penny dreadful with you around, George Harley; enough to give a soul a case of the screaming abdabs, I swear it is. I’m off to check on Miss Perkins—give us your cup, Percival.’

‘Don’t go too far, Mrs. C—I’m sure the detectives will want to have a word with you when they get here,’ said Burns, brushing the biscuit crumbs from his uniform.

‘
Ooh—I can’t wait for that little treat, really I can’t!
’ called out Vi as she rattled the teacup down the stairs.

Burns took his seat again next to Harley.

‘’Course, you don’t have to travel to the jungle anymore for that kind of thing.’

‘What kind of thing?’

‘All that pygmy malarkey and such.’

‘Oh yeah? And how’s that then?’

‘Just go up the West End on a Saturday night—you’ll find plenty of Negro Jazz bands banging out the jungle rhythms whilst pretty young things blow powder up their noses—most of it courtesy of your pal Limehouse Lil’ of course.’

‘Come on now, she was acquitted of all charges. What was it her brief said?
Just an honest widow restaurateur, trying to scrape a living to provide for her daughters
.’

‘Honest? What Lilly Lee? Pull the other one, George! She’s responsible for most of the cocaine coming into the Port of London.’

‘All just nasty rumours, Percy. Besides, I’m guessing that whatever was blown into Miss Perkins’ face was a little stronger than just a puff of happy dust.’

‘Well,
I
wouldn’t know about that kind of thing, George,’ said PC Burns, arching his eyebrow.

‘Not a Jazz baby yourself then, eh?’

‘Nah, just sounds like a row to me. I prefer a good ol’ comedy song—your Harry Champion, Gus Elen, that sort of thing. How ’bout you?’

‘What, Jazz? Can’t get enough of it, can I. Jelly Roll Morton, King Oliver—I’ve just picked up the new Midnight Moochers’ platter if you want to hear it later.’

Burns smiled and shook his head. ‘You’re a queer one all right, George Harley—what with all your travelling, your politics and such. I mean—look at all them books you’ve got downstairs. You can’t have read ’em all, surely?’

Harley chuckled and drew the last from his Gold Flake.

‘Not all of ’em, Perce.’

‘What about that big old motorbike and side car—still got her?’

‘The Norton, Mabel? Course! She’s in the lockup.’

‘Well, it takes all sorts I suppose. Tell me something—I was having a drink with a DC once, and he reckoned that …’

‘What? Come on—don’t be shy.’

‘Well, it’s probably gonna sound a bit stupid now, George, but … well, he was saying that there was some rumour that you’d done a bit for the SIS after the war. You know—a bit of the old cloak and dagger stuff. There’s no truth in it, is there?’

‘The Intelligence Service? They’re all your Oxbridge types, ain’t they? What would they want with my kind, eh? I dunno where that came from, Perce—load of old gammon. When I was demobbed I went straight into the Merchant Navy for a few years; saw a bit more of the world. Then my Uncle Blake left me this gaff and I came back to The Smoke and started the agency.’

‘Yeah well, I must say, I thought it sounded a bit far-fetched at the time. Hold on … Here we go—that sounds like the Q car now.’

Burns hastily replaced his helmet and then ducked out onto the landing. There were voices below, and then footsteps on the stairs.

‘Up here, sir!’ Burns shouted over the banister. He returned to the room and mouthed the name of the CID officer to Harley.

‘
Quigg
?’ repeated Harley. ‘Bugger me! That’s all we need.’

‘Well then, and what do we have here?’ asked Detective Inspector Aloysius P. Quigg, as he appeared in the doorway. He entered and made a brief tour of the room, ignoring Harley as he passed him. ‘The light’s impossible in here, Constable! Is this all we have?’

‘Yes, sir—but I may be able to—’

‘Too late now, you should have thought of it before. Let’s get on with it, shall we? Well?’

‘Well, sir … I was called to the premises by Mrs. C—sorry, sir! Mrs. Violet Coleridge, the next-door neighbour.’

Quigg turned to the young detective constable who had followed him in.

‘Are you taking all of this down, Pearson?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good—go on, Constable.’

‘As I say, I was called to the premises by Mrs. Coleridge. On arriving I—’

‘Time?’

‘Sir?’

‘What time did you arrive, Constable?’

PC Burns fumbled for the notebook in his breast pocket.

‘At approximately ten-past-nine, sir.’

‘Very well—carry on!’

‘On arriving, I came up here, where I discovered the deceased in the attitude that you find him now, sir.’

‘Nothing has been disturbed?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘Continue.’

‘Previous to my arrival there had been an incident with a Miss Perkins, a tenant of Mrs. Coleridge’s. Mrs. Coleridge—and Mr. Harley here, sir—had been summoned to Miss Perkins’ top floor room by the sound of her screams. On entering her room they discovered the said Miss Perkins in a state of some distress. She reported that she’d seen …’ Burns once again consulted his notebook, ‘…
an unknown male on the fire escape outside her room. The individual was wearing a mask. He said something in a foreign tongue and then blew a powder into her face
. I believe that was all the sense they could get out of Miss Perkins at the time—but Mr. Harley should be able to fill you in on that, sir.’

‘Have you interviewed this Miss Perkins, Constable?’

‘I attempted to take down her statement, sir, but was unable to extract anything coherent from the witness,’ said Burns, finally getting into his stride.

‘And where is she now?’

‘She’s next-door, with Dr. Jaggers and Mrs. Coleridge.’

‘Very good. Come, Pearson! Let’s see if we can fare any better with this hysterical female.’

After the two detectives had left the room Burns relaxed his shoulders and removed his helmet again.

‘Christ, that bloke’s got too much starch in his collar,’ he said, retrieving the cigarette from behind his ear and lighting up.

The young constable sat back down by the bed, smoking and silently contemplating the corpse. The room fell to silence again, apart from the occasional pop from the gas mantle.

‘Who’s the lackey Quigg’s got in tow?’ asked Harley, after a while.

‘DC Pearson—some new boy up from the country. Bit of a yokel by all accounts … I see the DI’s got a soft spot for you though, George. Blimey! The look he gave you—I take it you’ve got history with him?’

‘With Quigg? Who hasn’t? Plus, he knows I know.’

‘You know what?’

‘That he’s as bent as one of Sonny Gable’s watches.’

‘You can’t be telling me things like that, George—I ain’t listening.’

‘Yeah, well—Quigg’s gonna have to listen to what I’ve got to say.’

‘About what?’

Harley nodded towards the bed.

‘About this—the kid didn’t top himself; he was murdered.’

‘Come on now—you must admit it looks like a classic suicide. And knowing Quigg’s form I wouldn’t bank on any special effort on his part, not for a lavender … Look sharp! Sounds like they’re coming back.’

Burns sprung to his feet, hurriedly extinguishing his cigarette and donning his helmet.

On his return, Quigg walked over to the gas fitting and fiddled with the valve; the light flickered and spluttered a little, but didn’t improve on its sickly illumination.

‘Hmm,’ he said, removing his gabardine and brushing it down before handing it to DC Pearson.

‘And so—
Mister George Harley
.’

‘Detective Inspector.’

‘We meet again.’

‘So it seems.’

‘And how exactly do you fit into this sordid little scene?’

‘Sordid?’

‘Indeed—the deceased here was known to us. Only two weeks ago I arrested him for soliciting in Piccadilly. He was a sodomite, Harley—and I’d be interested to know how he ended up sleeping in your bed.’

‘
Sleeping in my bed—
you’re priceless, Quigg. And there’s me thinking you’d be interested in finding out how the poor kid died. For the record, my bedroom is on the first floor—this is a spare room. I discovered Aubrey—that was the sodomite’s name, Pearson, make sure you take that down, won’t you? I discovered Aubrey last Friday, being assaulted in an alleyway off the Dilly. These two characters were giving him a serious going over—real professional job. You can still see the bruising round his ribs. I managed to get him into a cab and brought him back here to recuperate. He refused to see a doctor or let me report the assault.’

‘And I suppose you did all this out of the kindness of your heart, did you?’

‘What other motive would you suggest, Detective Inspector?’ asked Harley, sitting up and squaring his shoulders.

‘Ooh, I don’t know, times are tough—maybe you’ve turned your hand to a little part-time poncing?’

Harley began to rise from his seat, but was promptly pushed back down by Burns’ hand on his shoulder.

‘With respect, sir,’ interjected the bobby. ‘I’ve known Mr. Harley to give shelter to others in need in the past—old soldiers and the like.’

‘Thank you, Constable—most enlightening … I’ll warrant these aren’t religious sentiments, Harley. So what are you—one of these bleeding-heart liberals? Or are you a socialist?’

Harley gave a glance at Burns standing behind him. He thought for a moment then relaxed his shoulders, choosing to ignore the taunt. He scratched at his stubble and inspected the sole of his shoe.