Mask of the Verdoy (40 page)

‘Why ever not?’

‘Ludovico, if you wouldn’t mind?’

Girardi took a small leather holdall from Boyd, out of which he produced a chrome-plated hypodermic syringe.

‘The bite of the Rye Wolf!’ said Girardi, his leer stretching his scar.

Hamilton raised an unsteady head and tried to focus on the syringe being brandished in front of his eyes.

‘The latest formula,’ added Saint Clair. ‘The most ferocious to date … and, of course, nothing like the angel’s kiss of your ceremonial mead, Giles. You see, this stuff’s a hundred times the potency.’

‘But that’ll kill him!’

‘Oh—let’s not be melodramatic, now. I doubt that it will actually see the poor blighter off. But his mind will be ruined, of course. He’ll spend the rest of his days in an asylum; a dribbling, feeble-minded, cretin. And on the way to that unfortunate state, well—who knows? After all, we’re in uncharted waters … Of course, we’re hoping that the drug will act as a kind of truth serum, and that we discover exactly how much the authorities know of our plans. It should be an interesting experiment, whatever the outcome.’

Pembroke polished off his whisky, his hand beginning to shake a little. He placed the empty glass on the floor, noticing that Boyd had moved to guard the exit, his huge arms, with their biceps bulging in
the tight-fitting Blackshirt uniform, crossed menacingly over his chest.

‘Tell me something, Sir Pelham.’

‘What is it, Giles?’

‘Why exactly have you brought me here to witness this? After all, I’m sure we’d all agree that this strong-arm business, well—it’s not really my forte, is it?’

‘Oh, let’s call it a demonstration, old man. You see, it’s been reported that your feet might be getting a little cold; that for all the wonderful rhetoric that you bring to the wording of our Verdoy ceremonies you might not actually have your heart in it all any more. Perhaps it’s all becoming a little too rich for your blood?’

‘No, no, no!’ said Pembroke, sounding a little desperate as he shook his head vigorously. ‘I can’t imagine what you’ve heard, Sir Pelham, but I can assure you that I am as fully committed to the cause as I’ve ever been.’

‘Well, I’m jolly glad to hear that, Giles. Because, you see, the truth is that we couldn’t possibly do without you; not at this late stage of the game. And, besides, you know far too much, old man. After all, you’ve been involved from the very start, haven’t you?’

‘Yes … quite.’

‘We thought we might demonstrate to you just how irrelevant the old powers really are in the light of our brave new future. This man before you is an agent of a government that has squandered its authority, and will soon be a by-line in the nation’s history books. You will observe as we simply snuff out this threat. And, of course, if you’re a wise man, Reverend, there’s also a lesson to be learnt here about how the Verdoy deal with a traitor … Gentlemen—please continue.’

Boyd now took his place at the side of the prisoner and gripped his head in his powerful hands, turning it to expose the jugular furrow. The Italian flourished the syringe at Pembroke and then hunched over Hamilton’s neck, pushing the needle into the bulging vein.

‘Now feel the wolf
bite
, my friend!’

***

Having met up with Straker’s men in the darkened corridor Harley and Pearson were now quietly descending a curved flight of stone steps, smoothed and scalloped by centuries of use. At the foot of the steps Straker pointed to a closed door and indicated to keep quiet. After pushing his ear against the gnarled timber for a moment, the SIS agent placed his hand on the rusted iron catch and carefully lifted it. With their weapons drawn the men quickly spread out into the
vaulted cellar, with one particularly burly officer remaining at the base of the stairs to stand guard.

Pearson’s heart began to race as he gripped his Webley a little tighter to steady his hand. But it seemed that the room was empty—apart from a collection of old packing cases and tea chests. He took a moment to regain his composure and looked to find Harley, who he soon found moving swiftly and quietly amongst the shadows of the boxes stacked in one of the corners. It seemed to Pearson that the private detective had shed a decade or so since they’d made their entrance into the manor house, and his movements were as lithe and alert as any of the team of mostly younger professionals. He guessed that his colleague was probably running on some kind of feral instinct, picked up on the streets of the East End and honed on the battlefields of France.

Pearson now checked himself, realizing that he’d let his guard drop a little. He turned to the far end of the room where Straker’s right-hand man—a small, wiry individual he’d heard addressed as “Corky”—was crouching at another, smaller door and holding his finger to his lips to demand complete silence.

Even from where he was standing Pearson could hear the distinct sound of someone calling out in anguish from the other side of the door. Then came the scream.

In an instant Corky—with his colleagues amassing behind him—had forced the door with his boot and was inside, training his revolver on the centre of the room, at the source of the screaming … a Jackson Bell radio set, tuned to
Conrad Spalding’s Thriller Hour
.

‘What the bloody hell’s going on here?’ muttered Straker, pushing through the throng of men to look at the radiogram, which was perched on a stool in the otherwise empty storeroom.

Two of the Special Branch officers now raised their weapons instinctively as a shot rang out from the loudspeaker.

Harley raised a hand to check them.

‘Easy there, fellas!’ He pocketed his brass knuckles, walked to the radio set and switched it off, retrieving a small leaflet poking out from under the Bakelite case.

‘You can put those squirters away gents—I don’t think you’ll be needing ’em tonight,’ he said, holding up the flyer which read:
Money spent with Jews never returns to Gentile pockets—JOIN THE BBF!

‘What do you mean?’ asked Pearson.

‘Yes, come on, Harley,’ said Straker, taking a step towards the private detective. ‘Let’s have it.’

‘Well, it’s obvious, ain’t it? We’ve been set up.’

Straker thought for a moment; then nodding slowly, holstered his weapon.

‘I take it the tip-off from Hamilton was that the ceremony would be taking place at basement level?’ asked Harley.

‘Yes, it was … You know, I thought it was odd that there were no vehicles parked in the drive.’

‘Should we continue the search of the rest of the premises, sir?’ asked Corky.

‘Yes, Sergeant, but have someone inform Colonel Chesterton of what we’ve discovered here—as soon as possible.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Wait!
Quiet!
’ hissed Straker, drawing his weapon again. ‘Footsteps … on the stairs.’

Stealthily the men made their way back to the lobby area where a flickering light could be seen descending the steps.

The elderly Hilda Braithwaite—resplendent in her hairnet and winceyette dressing gown—held her candle up to illuminate the basement lobby. She’d expected to discover the vanishing tails of a few scurrying rodents, and so it was understandable that the sight of the eight service revolvers now aiming directly at her head came as somewhat of a surprise.

A few minutes later, as Corky was administering the smelling salts to the old lady, Straker pulled Harley away from the crowd of men who were beginning to break out their smokes.

‘Damned sorry state of affairs this, Harley! They’re obviously on to us—there must have been a leak somewhere.’

‘Certainly looks like it, Straker.’

Just then Chesterton called from the top of the stairs.

‘Down here, sir!’ answered Straker.

The Colonel descended, closely followed by Snip Taylor. He looked at Mrs. Braithwaite who was now beginning to mutter a string of oaths as she pushed away the bottle of
sal volatile
from her face.

‘Is she injured?’

‘No, sir,’ said Straker. ‘Just had a bit of a scare.’

‘I’m not surprised, poor woman. We’ve just been speaking to her husband. Plucky character—came at us with an ancient blunderbuss. Thought we were a gang of house-breakers. Taylor here had to disarm him, I’m afraid.’

‘Sounds dangerous,’ said Harley, lighting a Gold Flake. ‘Hope you didn’t do any permanent damage, Snip.’

‘Nothing that a swig from the Colonel’s flask couldn’t put right, Harley,’ answered Taylor with a smile. ‘Although he’ll probably have another go when he sees what you’ve done to his missus.’

‘They’re the caretakers, Mr. and Mrs. Braithwaite,’ said Chesterton. ‘And the only ones here, according to the old man. The men are doing
a final sweep of the top floors, but I’ve really no reason to doubt him. The place has been vacant for over a year now, apparently. But he says there have been a few visits recently by prospective buyers; including a couple this morning—who were apparently unusually interested in viewing the cellars.’

‘Do we have a description?’

‘Nothing we can go on, really. Braithwaite’s a little doddery, I’m afraid. We’ll pursue it with the real estate agents in the morning, but I doubt it’ll lead us very far.’

‘So that’s when they rigged the radio up,’ said Straker. ‘But they were taking a bit of a risk, weren’t they? I mean, the old couple could have discovered the trick at any moment during the day—all they had to do was wander within earshot of the cellar.’

‘Not a great risk, I fear,’ said Chesterton. ‘Old Braithwaite’s as deaf as a post.’

‘Nah,’ said Harley, shaking his head. ‘The couple would have been just scouting the place out, having a mooch around—
drumming the gaff
, as a screwsman would say. Then closer to the time they’d have sent another team to set the radio up. You saw how easy it was to crack the place. Besides, if the radio had been discovered, then so what? After all, we’d still all be here, wouldn’t we? Chasing our tails at the wrong address.’

‘Well,’ said Chesterton, looking a little crestfallen. ‘However it was done they’ve certainly made fools of us, wasting all these resources.’

‘Yeah, but it’s far worse than that, ain’t it?’

‘How so, Harley?’

‘Well,’ said the private detective, lowering his voice. ‘We got this little tip-off through Hamilton, right? They’ve obviously been feeding him false information. Which means …’

‘Which means he’s been compromised.’

‘Exactly. And now that they’ve shown their hand with this little stunt, well, I don’t much fancy his chances, do you?’

***

At that precise moment one hundred and fifty miles away—as Hamilton’s violent convulsions finally toppled him over to crash to the coal-strewn floor—the Reverend Pembroke took the opportunity to make a break for it, drawing the bolt with a fumbling hand and running off into the main vaults.

Billy Boyd made to pursue him but Saint Clair called the henchman back.

‘Oh, I’d leave him now, Boyd—he’s learnt his lesson, I’m sure.’

He turned to join Girardi, who was bent over the SIS agent, regarding the pink foam beginning to ooze from his pallid lips.

‘Hmmm … interesting. Do you think he’s damaged something internally, Ludovico?’

The Italian straightened up and brushed the coal dust from his hands.

‘No, no, my Lord—I have seen this in torture victims many times. He has bitten into the tongue … Billy, would you please untie the traitor and carry him up to one of the guest rooms on the top floor?’

‘Well,’ said Saint Clair, as they followed Boyd out of the basement with Hamilton slung over his shoulder. ‘That was enlightening; although we didn’t get as much useful information out of him as I would have liked.’

‘No, but this formula is very quick, yes? The Bite of the Rye Wolf—
magnifico!
’ Girardi now stopped and fervently grabbed Saint Clair’s arm. ‘And did you see it, my Lord?’

‘See what, Ludovico?’ asked Saint Clair, a little unnerved by the Italian’s sudden zealous energy.

‘The
horror
in the eyes—as if gazing into the depths of the inferno! As if he could see into the future, no?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

‘I see you’ve brought yer date with you again,’ said Harley, nodding towards the bald head of Swales’ bodyguard as he took a seat opposite the General in the small rear room of La Primavera.

‘Yes—following that fiasco down in Kent Fellowes has insisted that he shadows me wherever I go. Damn bad show at Nailbourne House, Harley. Puts us on a rather sticky wicket, I’m afraid.’

‘You don’t have to tell me, FW—I was there, remember? Any news on Hamilton?’

Swales shook his head and poured them both a glass of Chianti from the wicker-jacketed bottle.

‘No, but I think we both know what his chances are. I suppose the one saving grace is that he is of limited use to them as a source of information. After all, having been out in the field for so long, he wouldn’t be privy to the details of any other current operations.’

‘I’m sure that’s a great comfort to him right now.’

A twitch rippled across the General’s voluminous moustache.

‘Don’t be facetious, Harley! I’ll have you know I take the responsibility for the safety of the men in my charge extremely seriously!’

‘Sorry, FW—that was a cheap shot. I’m just cut up about it, you know? He’s a good man.’ Harley took a sip of wine. ‘So, any lead on where the leak might be? I’m guessing you only briefed essential individuals about Hamilton’s assignment—which means that the rat’s gotta be pretty close to the cookhouse—right?’

‘Most probably, George. But the truth is there seem to be Fascist sympathisers in so many key areas now—Whitehall, the War Office, the services. And with corruption so rife within the CID … Well, one doesn’t quite know where to start. Not knowing which of our colleagues can be trusted—it’s a rum do, and no doubt about it. I’m sorry to say that the only reason I arranged to meet you here, rather than at the Yard, was because we’ve just discovered that my secretary—Miss Chambers—has a flatmate whose fiancée is a card-carrying Blackshirt. Oh, a little tenuous, I grant you, but in the present climate one can’t be too careful. Talking of which—Detective Constable Pearson …’

‘What about him?’

‘Well, he was obviously there, at the Nailbourne raid.’

‘Yeah—along with another fifteen SIS and Special Branch men. Besides, it’s not as if the Verdoy meeting was ever gonna happen at that place, was it? It was a hoax from the start, fed to Hamilton before me and Pearson ever found out about it. No—I still haven’t seen anything about the lad to make me think he’s not kosher.’

‘Well, now …’ said the General, taking out his pipe.

‘Well now, what? Have you heard something to the contrary, FW?’

‘Oh, nothing concrete. But … well, I’m sorry to say that my man at Savile Row has seen DC Pearson go into Quigg’s office for a private conflab on two occasions now.’

‘Come on! Savile Row’s still his nick and Quigg is still officially his DI—there might be a thousand reasons for him to go into that office.’

‘That’s as may be. But I still think you should question him about it, George,’ said Swales, from behind a small cloud of aromatic tobacco smoke.

‘Alright, if you think there’s really a need. After all, you’re the boss.’ Harley looked over Swales’ shoulder. ‘I’ll tell you what—why don’t we both ask him, right now?’

Sir Frederick gave another puff on his pipe and twisted in his seat to see Pearson reflected in the long mirror behind the bar. A few seconds later the policeman was poking his head around the corner.

‘Evening, sir—is it alright if I join you?’

‘Of course, Pearson, come and take a seat.’

‘We were just talking about you, actually,’ said Harley, leaning back in his chair and smiling at the young DC.

‘Oh, really? Nothing bad, I hope?’

‘I dunno, Albert—you tell me. See, apparently you’ve been seen fraternizing with the enemy.’

Pearson smiled nervously, not sure whether Harley was pulling his leg.

‘What do you mean—
fraternizing with the enemy
?’

‘Well, to be specific Albert, you’ve been seen going into Quigg’s office for a secret heart-to-heart. What’s all that about then?’

The policeman’s smile fell from his face, his cheeks reddening as he straightened in his chair.

‘I hope you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, Harley?’

‘Which is?’

‘I hope you’re not insinuating that I’ve been leaking information from this investigation to DI Quigg?’

Harley glanced across at Swales, who was observing the exchange dispassionately whilst sucking on his pipe.

‘Well—have you?’

‘Of course I haven’t! And quite frankly, Harley, if you haven’t got the measure of me by now … then I wonder if we hadn’t better dissolve this partnership. Me? One of Quigg’s cronies? Pah!’

‘Well, think about it—you were with me that day in Stepney, you met Hamilton and Bryson, knew they were working undercover.’

‘But that doesn’t mean to say that I told anyone, does it? And what about you, then? After all, you’re the one who hangs around with all those shady characters—who’s to say you didn’t let something slip one night while you were out drinking with that bunch of villains at the Twelve Ten club, eh?’

Harley couldn’t help smiling now, watching the young policeman grow redder in the face as he moved towards fevered indignation.

‘Or maybe you mentioned it to Lady Euphemia when the two of you were canoodling the other night. Perhaps she went and told her uncle, Lord Daubeney—what about that for a theory, eh?’

Swales choked a little on his pipe smoke.

‘
Canoodling
, Harley? With Lady Euphemia Daubeney?’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous! No one was canoodling! It was after the dynamite had been sent to her place. She got a bit of a shock when I explained just how unstable and dangerous it was … I was just trying to reassure her, that’s all … I got some good leads, as it happens.’

‘I bet you did!’ said Pearson, tugging a little at his collar. ‘Sending me out of the room, like I was some kind of gooseberry on a—’

‘Alright, alright! That’s enough, gentlemen! Perhaps this can all be cleared up by you simply explaining to us what you were doing in DI Quigg’s office, Pearson, hmm?’

‘Of course, sir—nothing simpler.’

‘Well man? Come on! Out with it!’

‘Sorry, yes … Well, you see, I’ve been to see DI Quigg in his office on—let me see—yes, three occasions recently, and each time …’ The young Detective Constable glared at Harley. ‘Each time it has been to badger him about the results from Aubrey Phelps’ autopsy.’

‘Ah, well—that explains it then, doesn’t it?’

‘Well, it explains why I was in there, Sir Frederick—but not why Mr. Harley here immediately suspected me of being a collaborator,’ said Pearson, with an indignant sniff.

‘He didn’t,’ said Swales.

‘Sorry, sir?’

‘
I
insisted that Harley quiz you about your visits to DI Quigg’s office, which I’d had reported to me by my mole at Savile Row. I’m
sorry, Pearson, but in the present climate I need to be one hundred per cent certain of my team. For your information just before you arrived George here was actually displaying great loyalty towards you.’

‘Oh, I see … I thought that … Well, you see, when he said that—’

‘Apology accepted,’ said Harley, reaching for his glass of wine. ‘So, come on then—what was in it?’

‘In what?’

‘For Christ’s sake! The autopsy report, of course! Was I right about the kid being smothered first? Was there any toxicology? Any lead on that white powder at all?’

‘Oh no, there’s nothing.’

‘What do you mean—
there’s nothing
?’

‘There’s nothing. That is to say—there is no autopsy report; not that I can find, anyway. And the last time I asked Quigg, which was this afternoon, he basically warned me off from talking about it ever again. What’s more, when I went searching for it myself I discovered that the reports from the autopsies on the other two murdered male prostitutes have gone missing as well.’

‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Swales. ‘But I saw those reports myself. There must be copies in the coroner’s office?’

‘They’ve gone missing as well, sir.’

‘Well, if we were ever in any doubt that the three murders were connected—’ began Harley.

‘But it’s hardly subtle, is it, George?’ said Swales, with a frown. ‘I mean, surely it draws attention to the cases? I’d credit our rotten DI with a little more nous than that, wouldn’t you?’

‘But that’s just it, sir,’ said Pearson. ‘You see, I’m not sure DI Quigg cares anymore.’

‘Explain.’

‘Well, when I saw him today he was almost goading me about the fact that I’d never see the autopsy report. There was a sense that he wasn’t worried that we might think he was involved in the murders.’

‘It’s gotta be close then, hasn’t it?’ said Harley. ‘I reckon it’s stone-ginger that the coup is due to kick off on the fifteenth. Quigg probably thinks he’s untouchable now.’

‘Oh really? We’ll see about that!’ said Swales, his face darkening with indignation. ‘DI Quigg may have his contacts in high places, but—for the time being anyway—I am still the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. I will simply not tolerate such blatant dereliction of duty … such … 
filthy
corruption, in my ranks any longer! This bounder Quigg is obviously rotten to the core, and I mean to have him cut out before he corrupts the whole bloody force. The first thing tomorrow morning I shall have a warrant drawn up to search his home and
office. We’ll have the blaggard arrested and off the streets. Hopefully that will send a message to his co-conspirators. I’ve met his type before—a half an hour of rigorous interrogation and he’ll be singing like a canary in order to save his own skin; you mark my words!’

‘Great—that means you can arrange for Solly Rosen’s release at the same time then, FW. After all, the only reason he’s on remand is because of Quigg’s trumped-up charges.’

‘You know what, George? I might just well do that.’

‘Good! Because with us not knowing who we can trust anymore I’ve got a funny feeling we might be needing Smokey’s unique set of skills in the next few days.’

***

PC William Trent checked his watch: twenty-past-eight—forty minutes to the end of his shift; just enough time for a quick half and then a slow saunter back to the station. Tightening his cape against the damp night air, the policeman’s attention was drawn to a large sedan car parked up ahead of him, on Kingly Street. As he approached the vehicle—which he could now see was a stately black Rolls-Royce Phantom I—the driver switched off the headlights.

Now PC Trent’s professional curiosity really was aroused. After all, such a luxurious motor vehicle was the reserve of a very small percentage of the city’s population, and he couldn’t think of anything in the immediate vicinity that would warrant such a salubrious guest. Perhaps the car had engine trouble? But then, why wasn’t there anyone in attendance with his head stuck under the bonnet?

He took a few steps closer, withdrew his notebook, and was just about to take down the registration number when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

‘That’s quite alright, Constable—everything’s under control here.’

‘
What the blazes!
 … Oh! Mr. Quigg … I didn’t see you there, sir. Right-you-are then, I’ll just be on my way, shall I? Well … good evening then, sir!’

Trent tipped his helmet, buttoned up his notebook in his tunic pocket, and carried on past the parked limousine in the direction of Great Marlborough Street, whistling a short, tremolo-heavy rendition of “My Old Dutch”. When he’d reached the arch at the corner he stopped and turned to watch the CID officer getting into the rear of the Rolls.

‘Stuck up berk!’ he said, under his breath. ‘Someone administering him the
oil of angels
, no doubt. Sodding CID!’

Having delivered a gobbet of spit into the gutter—as a demonstration of his opinion of DI Aloysius P. Quigg, and of plain-clothes men in general—PC Trent turned and made his way towards the Argyll Arms, and the promise of a fortifying glass of porter by way of consolation.

‘Ah, Quigg … You do realize you’re late,’ said Earl Daubeney, as the Detective Inspector closed the car door behind him.

‘I do apologize, Lord Daubeney. I had a little trouble getting away from my desk—the burden of responsibility … I’m sure you know how it is.’

Unimpressed, the Earl drew on his cigar and added a little more to the cloud of smoke gathering above their heads.

‘You’re running out of time, Quigg. If you’re going to deliver on the promise you made to the Home Secretary then it needs to be done in the next forty-eight hours. Is that clear?’

‘I assure you, sir, everything is arranged.’

‘You said that at our last meeting—and yet Portas is still at large, nipping at our heels like a damned terrier. We need him eliminated, man!’

‘And I guarantee he will be. Why, this very night, my Lord, the last piece of the jigsaw will be dropped into place.’

‘Nothing that can be traced back to The Party, I hope?’

Quigg gave an obsequious smile. ‘With respect, Lord Daubeney, a man with my experience and contacts—’

‘Take me through the scheme.’

‘But I understood from the Home Secretary that you both wished to keep a certain distance between yourselves and the parties involved.’

‘Things have changed, Quigg—as they often do in matters of state. We are too close to our goal to be thwarted by a lack of preparation on your part. Granted, removing Max Portas from his public soap box is of lesser importance than some of the other necessary stages in the plan, but nevertheless, it still has to be executed in the appropriate manner. The Home Secretary insists you’re still the man for the job—I’m yet to be convinced. Now, tell me what you have planned. I trust you’ve included the Soviet angle?’

‘Indeed, my Lord.’ Quigg paused to brush off a little of Daubeney’s cigar ash from his knee.

‘Well, come on then, man—out with it!’

‘Very well, here it is … I have arranged that before this very night is out, Portas’ father—“Red” Jack, retired shop steward and Communist Party member—will be found dead in Soho in the bed of a common whore.’

Quigg paused, waiting for a suitable reaction from the aristocrat; when it wasn’t forthcoming he cleared his throat and continued.