Mask of the Verdoy (5 page)

‘Well, I’ll tell yer this for nothing,’ said Vera. ‘Sir Pelham will be getting my vote next time round. The rest of ’em are a complete shower if you ask me. It’s what we need—a bit of pride again in the nation.’

‘Be careful what you wish for there, Vera—you may be throwing the baby out with the bath water if you let that lot in. Don’t forget that it weren’t so long ago you didn’t have that vote—and it was hard fought for, an’ all. Saint Clair believes that women’s suffrage is an alien, revolutionary belief. He also reckons that democracy is enfeebling our nation. He’d have us all back working the land as serfs tomorrow if he could.’ Harley looked at his watch. ‘But listen, as much as I love a bit of political debate, I need some information.’

‘You paying, ducky?’ asked Gracie.

‘Maybe—it depends on the quality. What do you know about a young kid named Aubrey?’

‘You’re a sly one, George Harley! Didn’t know you had such exotic tastes!’

‘Very funny! Come on, this is serious—the kid’s dead. I need to find out who his oppos were, where he hung out—anything about him at all.’

‘Aubrey, you say?’ asked Gracie. ‘Young streak of lavender, shoulder-length hair, pale skin, bit heavy-handed with the Devon Violets?’

‘That’s sounds like him.’

‘That’s the milky kid we saw in the Dilly the other night, Veer,’ said Gracie.

Always quick to spot an opportunity Vera leaned towards Harley and lowered her voice. ‘I can tell you the who and the where, George. It’ll cost you a dollar though.’

‘Bit strong, Vera. How about we say half-a-crown?’

‘Let’s see the colour of yer money, then.’

Harley placed the coin on the table.

‘Right, well … There’s a little gaggle of lavenders that work Soho Square. You’ll find ’em upstairs at The Green Fox, Charlotte Street, most nights, fawning over their Queen Bee—Gilby Siddons.’

‘What, Gilby Siddons the actor?’

‘You heard of ’im? Well, I don’t think he does much acting now—bit of an old soak, if truth be told. But he tells a good yarn. And the irons love ’im—bit of glamour I s’pose. ’Course, he loves having all that young chicken-flesh around him, too. Go and see Gilby Siddons—he should have the lowdown on your boy Aubrey.’

‘Much obliged, Vera.’

‘Any time dear—for the right sweetener of course,’ she said, pocketing the half-crown.

‘They’re a bit tight, mind,’ said Vera. ‘Don’t take kindly to strangers, that lot; especially with what’s been happening recently.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘
Murder
—that’s what,’ said Gracie. ‘Two of them Green Fox boys have been creased in the last month.’

‘Now, hold on Gracie,’ said Vera. ‘You don’t know that. It’s just hearsay, George. I heard that they topped ’emselves.’

‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Harley, getting out his notebook. ‘Let’s start again from the beginning, shall we? Who topped themselves?’

‘Oh,’ said Sally a little nervously, suddenly looking up at the window. ‘Here’s Vern now. Come to pick me up, I expect.’

Harley turned to see Vern Slater entering the café. Slater was a skinny individual with hollow, pock-marked cheeks. He stopped at the mirror by the door to check the knot in his gaudy silk tie, before striding up to the table.

‘What’s all this then, gel? You should ’ave been home an hour ago.’

‘Oh, don’t fuss so, Vern—I’m just having a chinwag with the girls.’

‘Really? A chinwag with the girls, eh? That’s nice, ain’t it? And what’s
he
doing here, then?’

‘Oh, don’t be silly, love. George is an old friend, we were just—’

‘Shush!’ said Slater, placing his finger against Sally’s lips. ‘You know the rules—everything through me or the club, right? I don’t wanna see mugs like this sniffing around outside of business hours.’

‘I see what you mean, Sal,’ said Harley. ‘He’s a regular gent, ain’t he?’

‘Cheese it, Harley! No one’s talking to you.’

‘Well, well, you’ve certainly grown some balls since we last met, Slater.’

‘Yeah well, you ain’t got that big Yid Rosen with you now, ’ave yer? No offense, Johnny,’ said Slater.

‘None taken,’ said Johnny the Turk, who had twisted in his seat for a better view of the entertainment.

‘Wind your neck in Slater, before you make a mug of yourself,’ said Harley. He took a sip of his coffee, keeping one eye on Slater’s right hand which had begun to twitch in anger. ‘Oh, hold on—looks like
you may have been saved by the bell,’ he said, nodding towards the door. ‘Bogeys, if I’m not mistaken … You been a naughty boy again, Vern?’

Slater turned towards the two men in gabardines who had just walked in.

‘Oh, come on, Mr. Webbe!’ he said to the lead detective, putting his hands up in submission. ‘Give a bloke a break—I ain’t done nuffin’.’

‘Stop your whining, Slater! For once we’re not interested in you.’ He turned to the table. ‘George Harley?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Detective Sergeant Webbe,’ said the policeman, flashing his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Quigg requests the pleasure of your company down at the station.’

‘How lovely! Am I being arrested, Detective Sergeant?’

‘Not at the moment—but I’m sure it could be arranged. Now, are you going to come quietly?’

‘A little tête-à-tête with Mr. Quigg? How could I resist? Just let me settle up first.’ Harley collected the newspaper and his cigarettes from the table and walked up to the counter. He handed Pietro some money and the folded newspaper, in which he’d secreted his brass knuckles.

‘Thanks for the lend of the paper, Pietro,’ he said with a wink.

The silent Italian gave a curt nod and placed it under the counter.

Harley walked back to the table and raised his hat.

‘Ladies.’

‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Vera, offering her hand to be kissed. Harley gave it a peck and turned to Slater.

‘Always a pleasure, Vern. You look after yourself now, won’t you?’

‘Ha, ha—you mug, Harley.’

The policemen escorted Harley out of the warmth of the café and into the grey drizzle of the London morning, steering him towards a large black Wolseley parked at the kerb.

‘You be careful now, Mr. Webbe!’ shouted Slater, enjoying himself immensely as he stood watching from the café doorway. ‘He’s a bit of a wide-boy that one—he’ll be a hard nut to crack!’

CHAPTER FIVE

Harley stood at the Station Sergeant’s desk, flanked by the two plain-clothes detectives who had brought him in.

‘George Harley! Long-time-no-see. And to what do we owe the pleasure?’

‘Search me, Dick. There I was, minding me own business—’

‘I’ll stop you there, George, if you don’t mind—I’ve heard that particular song before … Well, Detective Sergeant, what’s the charge?’

‘No charge, Dick—not as yet, anyway. Mr. Quigg asked us to bring him in for a chat.’

‘Right-you-are—number two’s free. Mind how you go, George. I’m sure one of these nice gentlemen will bring you a cup of tea once they’ve got you settled. And I’d be grateful if you’d keep the language clean this morning—and that goes for you two as well—we’ve got a VIP on the premises. Off you go then lads, let’s be having you.’

Harley was shown into an interview room, bare apart from a scuffed deal table and two metal-framed chairs.

‘Take a seat, Harley. The DI will be with you in a little while.’

‘How about that cup of tea then?’

‘Don’t push your luck, sherlock! And no shouting, now—you heard the sergeant.’

Harley waited for Webbe to leave and then dropped his hat on the table and took a seat. He quickly flipped through his notebook, searching for anything that might be compromising to either himself or his associates if found by Quigg. Having erased a couple of surnames he replaced the book in his jacket and lit a smoke. He leant forward on the table and played with some loose strands of tobacco whilst pondering why Quigg might have pulled him in. After a while Webbe returned.

‘Look sharp, Harley—you’re wanted in the Chief Inspector’s office.’

‘Chief Inspector? What about Quigg?’

‘There’s no time to argue about it. And put that fag out! He’s got the new Commissioner in with him.’

‘
Commissioner?
’

‘Yes. The new Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. I know, I know—I’m as surprised as you are; but believe me, you do not want to keep them hanging around. Come on—look lively now!’

Now Harley really was puzzled, and more than a little concerned. Quigg he could handle, up to a point—but an interview with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police? Well, that was an altogether different proposition. As he was escorted down the corridor his mind scrambled through his most recent cases, trying desperately to think what he’d done to warrant interest on such an executive level. He was still struggling to make sense of it all as Webbe knocked on the frosted glass of the Chief Inspector’s door.

‘Come!’

‘George Harley, sir,’ said Webbe, pushing Harley in and closing the door behind him.

To Harley’s left stood Quigg, for once devoid of his supercilious sneer, but still failing to acknowledge his presence in the room. Seated next to Quigg was a portly, balding man with a ruddy complexion, wearing the three pips of a Chief Inspector. Directly in front of Harley, sitting behind the Chief Inspector’s desk and sucking on his trademark Hungarian saxophone pipe, was General Sir Frederic Wilberforce Swales. Harley tipped his hat back in surprise.

‘Bugger me!’

The General kept his face set in mild consternation as he released a small aromatic cloud of pipe smoke up to the ceiling.

Quigg glanced at Swales, then at the Chief Inspector, and then back at Swales, trying to ascertain the mood of his two superiors.

Harley shook his head in disbelief.

‘
FW?
Don’t tell me they made
you
the new Commissioner.’

This was too much for Quigg, who now launched himself across the room and started to bundle Harley out of the door.

‘
Wait!
’ roared General Swales.

He slowly removed his pipe and placed it in a large onyx ashtray on the desk. ‘At ease, Inspector,’ he said, lowering his voice with a small nod at the policeman. ‘Bring him back, if you would.’

‘With respect, Sir Frederic—’ began Quigg.

‘
Sir
Frederic?’ said Harley. ‘Impressive!’

Quigg turned to Harley, incredulous at his impertinence. He took a moment to compose himself.

‘With respect, sir, this man … this man is an impudent scoundrel, with Bolshevik tendencies. You’ll get nothing but insolence from him. He has set himself up as some kind of champion of—’

Swales put his finger up to silence Quigg.

‘With respect to
you
, Detective Inspector, I don’t recognize your rather defamatory description at all. I know this man as Corporal George Harley DCM. That’s the “Distinguished Conduct Medal” if you’re not
au fait
with the terminology—a superior decoration awarded to this particular soldier for—amongst other things—rescuing three wounded comrades during a trench-raiding sortie; with complete disregard for his own safety. One of those wounded comrades, I might add, is now sitting before you as your new Commissioner. And, alas, that wasn’t the only opportunity this “impudent scoundrel” had of saving my life. My experience of Mr. George Harley, Detective Inspector …’ Swales consulted a piece of paper on the desk in front of him. ‘…
Quigg
, is of a man of integrity and intelligence. And if certain reports are to be believed, those are two qualities that the Metropolitan Police Force could do with holding in a little higher regard.’

Harley diplomatically hid his smirk behind a quick rub of his chin.

‘Now, Chief Inspector,’ continued Swales, turning to Quigg’s superior. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like the exclusive use of your office for twenty minutes or so—I have a little confidential business with Harley here.’

‘Of course, Sir Frederic,’ said the Chief Inspector, ushering the astonished Quigg towards the door. ‘Come on, man! You heard the Commissioner—stop dallying about!’

Once they were alone Swales stood up and offered his hand across the table, beaming at Harley.

‘George Harley—my God! How long has it been?’

‘Seven years—or there abouts.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

‘Sir? So it’s
sir
now, is it? In front of the ranks it’s
FW
this and
FW
that.’

‘Yeah, well I’m sorry about that—it was a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

‘I mean—
sir
—not exactly living up to your reputation now, are you George? How did he put it?
Bolshevik tendencies
, wasn’t it?’

‘Well,’ chuckled Harley. ‘As you well know, you’ve
earned
my respect.’

‘And you mine George, and you mine. So since we’re alone, let’s revert to FW, shall we? I like it—it’s … 
nostalgic
. Now, sit down man. Sit! Sit! One thing I’ve learnt in my brief term as Police Commissioner,’ continued the General, beginning to hunt through the desk drawers, ‘is that one can usually find a … Ah—here we are!’ He produced a bottle of Dewar’s and two glasses. ‘Scotch?’

‘A small one,’ said Harley, pulling up a chair.

‘To the Thirteenth Battalion!’

‘The Thirteenth!’

Swales savoured his mouthful of whisky, making his generous moustache dance a little, and then relaxed back into his chair.

‘I hear you went travelling after leaving the Service, George—Merchant Navy wasn’t it? Anywhere exotic?’

‘Oh, come on now, FW—you would have known exactly what I got up to.’

‘Oh, for the first few months maybe—but nobody ever really considered you a serious threat. Seven years, eh? I suppose it must be … That damned Zinoviev affair! We were sorry to lose you, you know—with your unique set of skills you were a perfect asset to the SIS.’

‘Maybe.’

‘But?’

‘Let’s just say I lost sight of what I was supposed to be doing there. It was easy at first, just after the war; but towards the end … well, as I said at the time, I started having trouble recognizing the Firm’s definition of the enemy. Anyway, there’s no need to go over old ground.’

‘No, quite … By the way, George, I heard about that dreadful business with your fiancée, Cynthia; my condolences, dear boy. How on earth that madman Morkens escaped the hangman’s noose is beyond me.’

‘Well, it’s no mystery to me, FW—he got to the judge. No way of proving it, of course. They all closed ranks, didn’t they? After all, he was one of their own; the old boys’ club—you know how it works.’

‘Well, George—maybe … But he was diagnosed psychopathic—a danger to the public, correct? He’s still in Broadmoor?’

‘Yeah, that’s right. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about it.’

‘No, of course … Although, surely there must be a way—’

‘I mean it, FW—I don’t wanna discuss it!’

‘Apologies, George—I understand completely.’

Harley took a drink. ‘But look at you—
Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police
? Christ on a bike! How did that happen?’

‘Steady now, Harley!’

‘No disrespect—what I mean is … well, you’re a man of action, FW. I can’t see you wading through all the endless committees and paperwork that must go with this kind of job. I take it you didn’t just volunteer—why on earth did you accept?’

‘I could hardly refuse,’ said Swales, relighting his pipe.

‘Higher authority, eh?’

‘The highest.’

‘The
King
? You’re joshing me! What’s His Majesty doing appointing the Police Commissioner? Isn’t that the Home Secretary’s job?’

‘Usually. However, it wouldn’t really be appropriate to—’

‘Come on, you can trust me, you know that—besides, I’m still bound by the Official Secrets Act, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, well, I suppose that’s true …’

Swales got up and opened the door, making sure nobody was within earshot. He returned to the desk and sat back down amid a small cloud of pipe smoke.

‘Well, let me start by saying that over the last few years His Majesty has become increasingly concerned about the political future of this country. Remember now—he saw a powerful empire fall to revolutionary forces in nineteen-seventeen … and one can only imagine the guilt he must still feel at refusing asylum to his cousin Tsar Nicholas. But, you understand, that difficult decision was made with the sole intention of ameliorating the frustrations of the British working man. Now, I don’t have to tell
you
George, that since then conditions for that working man have become a damn sight worse. Why, he’s even lucky if he’s a working man at all nowadays. This bally Depression—The General Strike, hunger marches, the unions flexing their muscles … our friend Quigg isn’t the only one checking for Bolsheviks under the bed, I can tell you. The fear, one might even call it paranoia, of a British revolution has spread to the very highest echelons.’

‘Of course it has—it’s those highest echelons that have the most to lose,’ said Harley, offering his glass up for a refill. ‘Including His Majesty.’

‘Hmm,’ said Swales, frowning again at Harley as he topped up his whisky. ‘Look, we all know your feelings on class, George; but I would argue that we would
all
have something to lose. And if we take Russia as an example, it might be that in the long run it’s our poor old British working man who loses the most.’

‘Oh, come on!’

‘Just hear me out. I don’t know how closely you keep your eye on international affairs nowadays, but however misguided Comrade Lenin may have been—and for all the crimes committed in his name—once he’d opened the stable door at least he kept a firm hand on the reins. But, alas, I fear his death has helped reveal the true nature of the Soviet state—one with a thick Georgian moustache and a soul as black as pitch.’

‘Sounds like you’re swallowing your own propaganda.’

‘Nothing of the sort! From the intelligence I’ve seen, I’d say Mr. Stalin’s five year plan will have the sole conclusion of starving his own peasants!’ He gave a puff on his pipe by way of emphasis. ‘Now, some will tell you that Benito Mussolini has the right idea—that his new Roman Empire is forging a vanguard against the communist tide infecting Europe. Lord knows he has enough fans in the corridors of Westminster. But I’ve had the pleasure of being a guest at the Palazzo Venezia, and I can tell you, George, I don’t like the way that
Il Duce
is flexing his muscles—don’t like it at all. I’d say he has serious intentions of giving the cartographers a little overtime in the near future … And then, of course, we come to our old foe Germany—bitter and snarling in its cave, licking its wounds all these years since losing the big one. It’s looking like old President Hindenburg will regain his seat—but only just. I fear it’s only a matter of time before the old guard gives way to the new, and then we’ll be dealing with that jailbird Hitler and his nasty little band of SA thugs. And if that happens, then let me tell you—that’s when we throw the rulebook out of the window.’

‘You paint a depressing picture.’

‘Desperate times, George, desperate times. It’s as if the world is on a knife’s edge. And so, with this grim backdrop, you can imagine the panic caused by this recent spate of anarchist bombings.’

‘The Wild Cat International—you think they’re really responsible?’

‘It would seem so, yes.’

‘Never heard of them before I saw it in the paper.’

‘No, but that may not be significant—after all, these maniacs all have to start somewhere. It may be a splinter group; there are always schisms within these extremists’ ranks.’

‘It’s a little out of date though isn’t it?’

‘What is?’

‘Their rhetoric. I haven’t had chance to check the reference, I’ve been otherwise engaged—being bundled into the back of Q cars, that kind of thing—but I’m sure that their letter published in the
Daily Oracle
was quoting directly from Johan Most.’

‘Correct—I see that brain of yours is still as sharp as ever. Yes, it’s Most’s “The Propaganda of the Deed”. Annoying individual, Most; he would keep publishing instruction pamphlets on bomb-making and his delight at the latest assassinations—Tsar Alexander, President McKinley and so on.’

‘For which he did time, I seem to remember.’

‘Indeed—incarcerated in his native Germany, here in the Britain for a while, and finally in the United States.’

‘Still, that was almost half a century ago, wasn’t it?’

‘Died in nineteen-hundred-and-six, I believe.’