Mask of the Verdoy (55 page)

‘No—it’s just the King, Queen Mary and myself.’

‘Good! Now, move away from the door—we’re going to force it.’

***

Down in the wings the Yiddish Thunderbolt had made his move. After a prolonged exchange of devastating blows Rosen now ducked under a flailing left hook, immediately bobbing up again to slam his elbow into Boyd’s cheek bone with a sickening crunch, splitting the flesh like a blood orange and sending him staggering back.

The old prize-fighter dipped his head and placed his hands on his knees, desperately fighting for breath. Smelling weakness, Rosen went in for the kill, grabbing Boyd’s bovine neck in a stranglehold. Boyd’s free hand began to blindly rummage in his jacket pocket, his battle-scarred fingers closing around the ivory handle of the flick knife in his final few seconds of consciousness.

Rosen howled in pain as the long blade plunged deep into his thigh. Boyd broke free and, spluttering to fill his lungs, stumbled his way over to the control board where he promptly flicked the switch to restart the clock.

‘Ludo!’ he shouted gruffly towards the stage, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve. ‘Two minutes!
We gotta scarper!
’ He then began to lumber off towards the backstage area.

Although unable to stand on his injured leg Rosen had managed to manoeuvre himself into position on the floor for one last assault. As Billy Boyd now lurched past he kicked out with his good leg, sending the old prize-fighter tumbling headfirst through the curtain to the crossover … and into the hands of Pearson and O’Toole.

On stage Girardi was just about to make his own dramatic exit when—during a cursory check that the dynamite was still in place—he caught sight of Harley, balanced precariously on top of the cage, working away at the catch on the door.

Still clutching the distraught Gladys close to him the Italian
moved forwards and fired up at the cage, the round ricocheting off the bars, briefly illuminating the gloom with a spray of sparks. Harley hunkered down, swore, and redoubled his efforts, finally forcing the catch and dropping through the small opening just as another bullet passed inches from his head.

The cage slewed as he dropped inside, the box of dynamite shifting a little to the left.

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness he could quite plainly make out the length of two-core cable running through a drilled hole in the side of the box of explosives and out through the cage, snaking away into the gloom. He turned to peer through the bars—and was dismayed to see the second hand of the oversized clock ticking past the three minute mark.

He quickly lay down and started to crawl towards the bomb, the cage listing dangerously to and fro.

Girardi now fired again; this time the bullet made it through the bars to clatter terrifyingly around the inside of the cage.

‘
Smith! You still there?
’ shouted Harley, feeling in his jacket for his penknife.

‘You betcha, guv!’ came a voice from the gloom.

‘Shine a spotlight down there on that cowson, would yer? Try and dazzle him for me. Make it sharpish, now! We’ve only got seconds before this bloody thing goes up.’

The stagehand moved stealthily to a follow-spot unit attached to the rigging nearby and threw the switch, swinging the intense beam of light around to pick out Girardi.

Down on stage the Italian turned away from the blinding light. He looked up at the clock just as it was ticking through the last five seconds of time. Realizing now that there was no chance he’d escape the blast he relaxed his grip on the magician’s assistant, calmly placed his arm across his face and held his breath …

Up in the cage George Harley also held his breath. He reached out with the opened knife in his trembling hand, mouthed a silent obscenity … and sliced through the trigger wire.

***

The Special Branch officer’s boot splintered the wood of the door on the second kick and Swales dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the Royal Box to find King George and Queen Mary sitting awkwardly on the plush carpeted floor.

‘Your Majesty!’

‘Ah! There you are, Swales,’ said the King. ‘Now would you care to tell me what the hell is going on down there? Most extraordinary—after all, these engagements are usually such dull affairs.’

‘It’s an attempted coup, sir. We believe Sir Pelham Saint Clair and the Fascists are behind it. It would appear that the plan was to poison the PM and assassinate Your Majesty.’

‘Good gracious! Is Mr. Ramsay MacDonald alright, Sir Frederic?’ asked Queen Mary.

‘Indeed, Ma’am. We managed to foil that particular part of the plot earlier this evening.’

Down on stage—realizing that Harley must have succeeded in sabotaging the bomb’s trigger mechanism—Girardi grabbed Gladys around the neck again and aimed his Beretta over her shoulder at the decorative coat of arms on the front of the Royal Box, sending a bullet screaming through the wood to thud into the wall just above Swales’ head.

‘I congratulate you on your success so far, General,’ said King George, brushing plaster dust from his shoulder. ‘But I’m curious to discover what progress has been made on foiling this second—and for those present, slightly more worrying—part of the plot … hmm?’

‘We have a full team of highly trained officers on site, sir; some of our best men, in fact. I’m confident the situation will be under control in no time at all. But the priority at this precise moment is to get you and Queen Mary to safety … Now, I, erm … I know it’s a little undignified, sir—but maybe you’d care to follow me out, adopting a similar technique to one I used to get in here?’

‘Good grief, Swales! I’m surprised at you, man! Do you really expect the King of England to skulk away from danger on his hands and knees? Do you realize the symbolism of such a gesture? No, sir—I’m damned if I will! We’ll walk out of here with our heads held high—or not at all!’

‘And Queen Mary, your Majesty?’ asked Godfrey-Faussett.

‘I’m afraid, Sir Bryan,’ said the Queen demurely. ‘That I shall be remaining here to accompany His Majesty in his vigil.’

‘Quite right, quite right!’ said the King, with a solemn, regal nod.

‘Very good, sir,’ said Swales, exchanging an astonished glance with Godfrey-Faussett. The Commissioner now drew his service revolver and struggled into a sitting position, unable to suppress a ripple of frustration from animating his voluminous moustache.

***

Knowing he had only one remaining round left in the Beretta—and little chance of being able to perform a swift magazine change with his injured left arm—Girardi now began to force Gladys into a slow backward shuffle towards the discarded Thompson gun. Peering through a gap in the backdrop Pearson had a clear view of the Italian’s movements and quickly guessed his intentions.

‘If he manages to get his hands on that Tommy gun it’ll be a bloodbath,’ he said to O’Toole. ‘He could take out dozens with just one spray at the audience.’

‘Can’t you have a pop at ’im yerself?’ asked the stagehand, stepping over the unconscious form of Billy Boyd, who lay gagged and handcuffed at their feet. He bent down beneath the policeman to take a look through the gap. ‘After all, we’ve taken his sidekick out of action.’

‘Not a clean shot, no—I’m scared the bullet will pass through him and into the girl.’

‘Well now—and don’t take this the wrong way—but ain’t it better to lose one magician’s assistant than a third of the audience, including the King and Queen of England?’

‘If you want to play God …’ said Pearson, offering the gun to O’Toole, ‘be my guest.’

‘Yes, alright—I see yer point. But we gotta do summit, right?’

Pearson gazed up at the ropes and flats suspended above their heads.

‘What if we dropped the safety curtain, or a backdrop, or something?’

‘Don’t see how we could do it quick enough, guv’—he’d just jump in front of it … But, ’old yer ’orses! Look where that Tommy gun’s lying—there! D’you see?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean look at the stage underneath it. See the outline? Come on—quick!’

Puzzled, Pearson followed O’Toole as he crept around to the wings and attempted to get Rosen’s attention.

‘
Pssst!
’

Rosen’s face appeared from behind the control panel podium; his skin was pale and waxy-looking, and he seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open.

‘Christ, Solly!’ hissed Pearson. ‘You alright?’

‘Lost a load of claret … managed a tourniquet, but … as long as that maniac don’t put a bullet through my ’ead, I s’pose I might make it.’

‘Listen, pal,’ said O’Toole. ‘D’you reckon you could reach the switches on that board?’

Rosen glanced up at the control panel above his head. ‘Yeah, I suppose so … But what gives? I’d figured that George had already managed to put the bomb out of action.’

‘He has,’ said Pearson. ‘But Girardi is making his way over to that Tommy gun—if he gets his hands on it there’ll be carnage.’

‘Alright,’ said Rosen, wincing as he tried to sit up a little. ‘What d’you want me to do?’

‘On the bottom left of the panel there’s a red switch,’ said O’Toole, ‘under a little metal cover. When we give you the nod, lift the cover and flick the switch.’

‘What does it do?’ asked Rosen.

‘
Trapdoor
.’ mouthed the stagehand.

***

‘Give it up, Girardi!’ shouted Snip Taylor from behind a column on the balcony of the upper circle. ‘We’ve got you surrounded, man! There’s only two ways out of this for you: either you surrender—’

‘Or what, Signor
poliziotto
?’ said Girardi, pointing his pistol in the direction of the SIS agent’s voice, his face a grinning demonic mask in its smeared greasepaint. ‘You shoot the woman to get at me? I think not, my friend! After all—this is not so very
British
, is it?’ As he spoke he dragged the sobbing Gladys back one more step and then probed to the side with his foot, soon making contact with the submachine gun’s muzzle.

‘
He’s gotta do it now, Albert!
’ hissed O’Toole, peering through the gap in the backdrop.

‘Now, Solly!’ shouted Pearson, poised in the wings, ‘
now!
’

With a roar at the bolt of pain that shot through his injured leg, Rosen heaved his heavy frame high enough to grab at the control panel. His fingers—slippery from the congealing blood—fumbled for a second to get a purchase, but soon they found the bottom row of knobs and he tore the metal cover up to flick the switch.

The trapdoor sprung silently open, sending the Tommy gun clattering down into the black hole just as Girardi was reaching down to retrieve it. He froze in his crouching position, his usually keen brain stalling for an instant as it tried to process what had just happened. It was just a few seconds of hesitation—but that was all that Pearson needed to launch himself onto the stage and charge at the Italian. Quickly regaining his wits, Girardi now spun around and pushed Gladys out of the way to get a clear shot at the policeman.

The two bodies collided … a pistol discharged … and the audience gave a collective gasp as they watched Pearson and Girardi tumble into the open mouth of the trapdoor.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

‘No pushing and shoving now, ladies and gentlemen, please!’ shouted the uniformed bobby as the audience filed past on their way to the exits. ‘I’m sure you’ll agree we’ve had enough excitement for one evening without having to deal with casualties getting crushed on the way out!’

Harley appeared on the staircase from the upper levels, fighting hard against the current of people, pushing his way through to get to the policeman.

‘General Swales—where is he constable?’

‘It’s Mr. Harley, isn’t it? You alright, sir? You look a bit peaky. Need a medic for that hand, sir?’

‘Not just yet, I need to see the Commissioner first.’

‘I’m afraid General Swales left with the Royal party, sir—armed escort back to the palace.’

‘Right … D’you know where Commander Taylor got to then, son?’

‘I’m afraid not, no.’

‘What about the Italian—that nutcase on stage—have they pinched him?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m just on the evacuation detail, Mr. Harley—the Special Branch lads are dealing with that side of things.’

Harley went to tip his hat back, but discovered that he’d left it up on the catwalk. He reached into his jacket for a Gold Flake—but the packet had obviously been crushed in all the excitement and all that was left of his cigarettes was a crumpled mess of torn paper and tobacco.

‘Here you go, Mr. Harley,’ said the policeman, offering a packet of Player’s. ‘Have one of mine—you look like you could do with a smoke.’

‘Blimey! That makes a change—very decent of you, son,’ said Harley, wearily, as he took the cigarette.

‘George!
George!
Over here!’

Harley went up on tip-toes to see above the tide of punters, spotting DS Bristow at the far end of the corridor.

‘Danny! What’s the score with Girardi?’

‘This way, George! You’re needed downstairs. I’ll fill you in on the way.’

Harley fought his way slowly through the crowd, finally making it back into the auditorium where the last remnants of the stalls were being evacuated.

‘It’s over here, George!’ shouted the Special Branch officer, striding down the aisle to an exit door at the right of the stage. ‘We’ll go down the back stairs.’

‘So, what about the Italian—did we get him?’ said Harley, following Bristow through the door and onto a wooden staircase leading down.

‘Oh, he shan’t be going anywhere fast—don’t you worry about that. It was your partner, DC Pearson who got him in the end, you know.’

‘Nice one, Albert! Cor, I bet the lad’s made up, ain’t he? Strutting like a peacock?’

Bristow stopped on the stairs and turned to Harley with a concerned look.

‘That’s the thing, George—the kid took a bullet; it looks bad, mate.’

‘
Shit!
’ said Harley, pushing past Bristow, taking the steps two at a time. ‘Where is he?’

‘Keep going! All the way to the bottom and then through the little door on the left … they’re in the under-stage area.’

***

Harley pushed through the door into a space cluttered with trunks and theatrical props, and dimly illuminated by a few spluttering gas fittings.

‘Albert!’ he shouted, quickly making his way through the teetering piles of equipment towards a group gathered around a figure lying on the floor.

Pearson lay motionless on an old ermine-trimmed robe, his head propped up on a sandbag. His shirt was ripped open to reveal a small angry wound an inch or so above the nipple.

‘What are you doing? You can’t give up just like that!’ shouted Harley at the bespectacled, balding individual who had just snapped shut his Gladstone bag and was being helped up off the floor by Colonel Chesterton.

‘Well, there’s nothing left to do. You see I—’

Harley grabbed the doctor by the jacket lapels and yanked him forward.

‘
What d’you mean, nothing left to do?
Have you even treated a gunshot wound before?’

Chesterton jumped between the two men, forcing Harley’s hands to his side.

‘That’ll do, Harley! Now just calm down a moment, won’t you? Let us explain.’

Harley pulled his hands free and took a step back, glaring at the physician.

‘That’s better … Now, listen,’ said the Colonel. ‘This is Doctor Wilkes. He was on duty backstage—a precaution in case the magician’s illusion went wrong. Slightly ironic under the circumstances, I know, but the point is—luckily for Pearson—Doctor Wilkes was on the scene within a couple of minutes at the most.’

‘Luckily for Pearson?’ repeated Harley, glancing down at his partner on the floor, who now emitted a low groan. ‘You mean he’s gonna be alright?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say it was quite as straight forward as all that,’ said Wilkes, straightening his jacket and then taking his glasses off to polish them. ‘But your friend
has
been extremely lucky. You see, the bullet passed through his shoulder holster—the thick leather considerably reduced the force of the shot. It was in an upward angle. The slug’s still in there somewhere, but the lung’s sound, and his hand seems to be getting a good blood supply—so it would appear that the subclavian artery was missed. Damned lucky, I’d say … But, of course, he’s not out of the woods yet. We don’t know what damage has been done to the brachial plexus—he may suffer some permanent nerve damage which could affect the use of that arm. I have him heavily sedated. The important thing now is not to move the shoulder too much before we can get him into theatre. The ambulance is on its way.’ The doctor replaced his glasses and grabbed his bag from the floor. ‘Oh, and in answer to your question, Mr. Harley—yes, I do know a little about gunshot wounds, thank you; came across one or two of them as an RMO at the front, you know … Now, if you need me, gentlemen, I shall be upstairs in the performers’ rest area. I assume you require me to certify the deaths of those not quite as fortunate as DC Pearson here?’

‘Thank you, Doctor—if you would; although I believe there’s someone from the Coroner’s Office on the way.’

‘Solly!’ shouted Harley. ‘What about Solly Rosen, Colonel? Don’t tell me he’s one of the ones who bought it?’

‘Rosen took a knife to the thigh, George,’ said Chesterton. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood, but the doc says he’ll pull through, no problem.’

‘I should say,’ added Wilkes. ‘The man has the constitution of an ox. They’ve taken him to St Thomas’s.’

‘Thank Christ for that! Can you get someone to let his wife Marni know?’

‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ said Chesterton.

‘Very well, gentlemen,’ said Wilkes, walking off towards the exit. ‘I shall make a start upstairs then.’

‘Yeah, thanks Doc!’ Harley called after him. ‘And sorry! You know—for earlier.’

The private detective now approached his injured partner, squatting down to place a hand on the unconscious policeman’s arm.

‘There he is—our little country cousin … What did I tell you about messing around with those sodding shooters, eh? Still, national hero now, ain’t yer, Albert? Wounded defending King and country … I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a gong in it for you. Don’t you worry now—they’ll patch you up alright.’

‘What about you, Harley?’ said Chesterton. ‘You’ll need to get that hand seen to.’

‘Oh, I’ve had worse. I’ll get the doc to have a quick butcher’s before I go.’

Harley stood up and massaged the back of his neck. ‘But I’m dog-tired, that’s for sure!’ He pulled up a large label-covered trunk to use as a seat and retrieved the bobby’s cigarette from behind his ear.

‘So, what about that cowson Girardi, Colonel? Has he shopped all his Verdoy mates yet?’

‘No … I’m afraid our Signor Girardi isn’t going to be of much help in that department, George.’

‘Oh, really? What—claiming the old diplomatic immunity bollocks, is he?’

‘Not exactly, no … Actually, he’s just around the corner if you’d care to take a look …’

The Colonel now led Harley through a tight passageway between stacks of chairs into an area where a set of props from a recent patriotic review was being stored. The uniformed PC, stationed amongst the plethora of union flags, lions and unicorns, quickly extinguished his cigarette under his boot and stood to attention when he saw the Colonel and Harley approaching.

Chesterton pointed to the ceiling to where the stage trapdoor still hung open, offering a framed view of the brightly lit theatre above. On the floor directly below the trapdoor was the upper portion of a large stage-prop statue of Britannia.

And there—impaled on the tines of her trident, staining the plaster-of-Paris forearm with a dark trail of congealing blood—was the lifeless body of Ludovico Girardi.

Harley gave a shocked laugh and walked around to the front of the statue to get a better view. He whistled and shook his head, then turned to the uniformed policeman.

‘Here, you got your patrol lamp there, son?’

‘Of course, sir,’ said the bobby, unhitching his Wootton lantern from his belt.

‘Give us a bit of light, then—shine it up there on matey, would yer?’

The policeman flicked the switch on the lamp and cast its beam onto the demonic painted face with its lifeless, glassy eyes.

Harley got his Leica out and crouched down to compose the picture.

‘
Say cheese, you Fascist bastard
,’ he murmured, clicking off a couple of shots. ‘Thanks, pal—that’ll do nicely.’

The bobby nodded and put away the lantern.

The private detective took one more look at the bizarre scene, shook his head, and turned to Chesterton.

‘
Rule Britannia
, eh Colonel?’ he said. And with that he was off to say his farewells to Pearson and then away home to Bell Street—for a fish supper and an early night.