Mask of the Verdoy (7 page)

‘Oh, come on Slater!’

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Quigg—you know I’m no sheeny-lover, but put the squeak in on one of Mori the Hat’s boys? That’s more than my life’s worth.’

Quigg took a sip of his soda water.

‘Well, what about anything else you might have on Harley? Surely this private detective caper is just a blind for more nefarious activities?’

‘I dunno really. Keeps himself to himself, ’cept when he’s sniffing around on one of his cases.’

‘Well, keep your eyes and ears peeled—if you get a hint of Harley being involved in anything dirty you send it my way. Understood?’

‘Believe me—it’d be a pleasure, Mr. Quigg. By the way—what did you haul him in for yesterday?’

‘None of your business. Now …’

The policeman took a folded newspaper from the pocket of his overcoat and placed it on the table.

‘Do you know who that is?’ he asked, pointing to a photograph on the front page.

‘Course—that’s Portas.’

‘Indeed, Max Portas—elected Member for the parliamentary constituency of Bethnal Green and Bow. Darling of the left-wing, champion of the people; working-class boy made-good. Makes you proud of our wonderfully democratic system, doesn’t it?’

‘If you say so, Mr. Quigg.’

‘And what do you know of his father?’

‘What, “Red” Jack? Commie, ain’t he? Stevedore, union man. Bit tasty in ’is day, by all accounts. He’s old school—’ard as nails. Retired now … likes a wet.’

‘My, my, Vernon—we are a little mine of information, aren’t we? I’m impressed. And would you say that son Max bears great filial affection for Portas Senior?’

‘Come again?’

‘Are father and son close?’

‘Couldn’t tell you, Mr. Quigg.’

‘Well then, let
me
tell
you
. You see, Mrs. Portas—Jack’s wife, Max’s mother—died six months ago. The Honourable Max MP pays for a charlady to visit the paternal homestead twice a week, to tidy up and to make sure that Pater is coping on his own. By all accounts he’s a little concerned about the old fellow.’

‘Touching.’

‘Yes, warms the cockles, doesn’t it? And, according to my sources, you’re quite correct in your observation that Portas Senior enjoys an alcoholic beverage or two. He drinks in The Star in Shoreditch—do you know it?’

‘Course I know it. And the funny thing is, that used to be Harley’s local as well—before he got too up ’imself to stay in the East End.’

‘Did it, indeed? How interesting!’

Slater lit himself a cigarette. ‘So why are you so interested in old man Portas then?’

‘Oh, I don’t think I shall be divulging that just yet Slater; suffice to say that I
am
interested in him. In fact, I’d like your Sally to become interested in him as well.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, I’d like Sally to befriend Portas Senior; work her way into his trust. Do you think she could do that?’

‘Well, Mr. Quigg, that might be difficult—she’s just got this job at The Cat’s Whiskers.’

‘Paladino’s new den of iniquity? Well, I don’t see that as being a problem. In fact, it might be a blessing in disguise—perhaps she could persuade Red Jack to change his drinking habits?’

‘Oh! I see where you’re coming from. ’Course, there might me some expenses …’

‘Don’t push your luck, Slater! You do realize I’m not actually
asking
, don’t you?’

‘Yes Mr. Quigg, sorry Mr. Quigg.’

‘Well, it’s agreed then. I’ll expect an update next week.’

‘Can we say a couple of weeks? This sort of thing takes a while to set up, you understand.’

‘Very well, Vernon—we’ll meet again in a fortnight. Mind you—I’ll be expecting progress,’ said Quigg, standing and pulling on his gabardine.

‘Of course, Mr. Quigg—I’ll do my best.’

‘Let’s just hope that’s good enough, eh?’

Quigg pocketed the coins from the table and made his exit.

Once the policeman had left Slater spat on the floor.

‘Bleedin’ bogeys!’ he cursed, finishing his beer and returning to the bar with the few coins he’d kept back from Sally’s pound.

With the wide-boy’s back now turned to him, Benny Whelks slipped out quietly to follow Quigg.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tess Mayhew fought back the tears as she strode purposefully up the street, determined to hide any sign of weakness from the twitching curtains of Chalfont Avenue.

She had managed to stop crying by the time she reached the tram stop at the Elephant and Castle, but her determined pace had left her a little out of breath. She placed her suitcase on the pavement, wiped the perspiration from her forehead with her handkerchief and rested a hand on the small bump stretching her floral print dress. She closed her eyes for a moment and relived the humiliation of pleading to stay in her uncle’s house.

‘
You’ve brought shame upon the household, girl
,’ her aunt had said, the Londonderry brogue adding to the self-righteousness. ‘
It’s a wonder he’s allowed you to stay this long. No, it’s best you go to the mothers’ hostel—there’s no other way. They’re good church people. You’ll be looked after until the bairn comes, and then they’ll find a decent home for the poor mite … I’ve heard that they even set girls up in service—those that show the aptitude. It’s an opportunity really, when you think about it. You’re eighteen now; your uncle’s done his duty by you. After all—your mother was only his step-sister
.’

An opportunity? Well, maybe it was—it surely couldn’t be any worse than living in that cold, loveless household.

Just then the No.10 rounded the corner. She grabbed her case and put her hand out to request a stop.

‘Up you come, love!’ said the clippie, showing her a toothy grin as he helped her onboard. ‘Plenty of room downstairs.’

Tess sat down on the long bench seat and placed her suitcase on her lap as the tram trundled off again.

‘Where to, my dear?’

‘I’m going to Clapton.’

‘Well then, we can get you as far as the City—’cross Southwark Bridge. But then you’ll have to change, I’m afraid. Best by Tube from there—’

‘Oh, I’d rather not … I—’

‘Don’t worry, love—the missus is the same; don’t like confined spaces, eh?
Clawlstrophobic
they call that—don’t they? Did you know that? There’s a bus you can take—I’ll see you alright for the changes. It’s a bit of a walk mind, in between.’

‘I don’t mind that.’

‘Right-you-are—that’s the spirit! So, that’ll be a tuppeny one, then.’

Tess handed over the money and the conductor produced the cardboard ticket before disappearing upstairs, whistling as he went.

She sat back in the seat and rested her eyes for a moment, unbuttoning her coat and placing a hand back on her bump. She thought about the breezy clippie, comparing him to her dour uncle, wondering whether he had any daughters of his own, and what their fate would be if they found themselves in her condition. But this line of thought threatened to bring back the tears, so she opened her eyes again to watch the world go by through the window opposite.

At the next stop a woman in a fur stole and horn-rimmed glasses got on. She sat on the bench seat opposite, and as she paid her fare, her eyes wandered to the bump beneath Tess’s floral dress and then to the ring-less third finger of her left hand. The woman stretched her neck and gave a large “tut” before grabbing her handbag defensively and moving to a seat nearer the front of the tram. This proved to be the last straw; Tess could no longer hold back the tears and she placed a hand over her mouth as she searched for her handkerchief again. This little exchange hadn’t escaped the clippie’s notice and as the tram turned a corner he grabbed the pole and swung himself onto the seat next to the pregnant teenager.

‘Bullseye?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Like a Bullseye?’ He proffered a crumpled paper bag under her nose. ‘They’re my little secret treat—a little pick-me-up, if you like. I always says there ain’t much that don’t look better after thinking on it over a Bullseye.’

‘Thank you—but I’m not sure that’ll help.’

‘Don’t know till you try though, do yer? Go on—give it a go!’

‘Alright, thanks …’ Tess blew her nose and managed a smile.

‘Oops—’ere we go again,’ said the clippie, standing again as the tram came to another stop.

Before long the lower deck had begun to fill up. At a stop on Southwark Bridge Road a large figure in a greatcoat jumped onboard and slumped into the bench seat opposite Tess, towering above the city gent next to him and bringing with him the aroma of stale tobacco and mothballs. His long dark hair was heavily oiled and parted in the middle. Coal-black eyes darted beneath a single, wiry outcrop of
eyebrow, and his bushy beard rested like a large hairy napkin across his chest. As the clippie passed Tess to take the man’s fare he pulled her a comical face that had her placing a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

‘What’ll it be, chum?’

‘Please?’

‘Where … are … you … 
going?
’

‘Whitechapel,’ said the man in a thick eastern European accent.

‘’Fraid we don’t go to Whitechapel, my friend. I’ll do you a penny one to the City.’

‘Have ticket!’ said the foreigner, offering up a piece of card to the conductor. Tess noticed a tattoo on the back of his hand; she couldn’t quite make it out, but it looked like some kind of dog.

‘No, no, no—this won’t do at all! This ain’t a valid ticket now, is it? Now, do you have a penny for the fare, chum, or not?’

The man said something in his native tongue, pushed the clippie aside and jumped off the speeding tram.

‘Well, I’ll be!’ said the clippie, rushing to the window to watch the man running back down the road. ‘The silly blighter’s lucky he didn’t kill ’imself. Doo-lally I reckon … ’Ere—look what he’s given me for a ticket.’

He handed Tess a small calling card, displaying the picture of a black cat arching its back, its fur standing on end.

‘I dunno—ruddy foreigners!’

‘Here, look …’ Tess pointed to a large, battered leather satchel on the seat opposite. ‘He’s left his bag.’

‘Well, there’s no catching ’im now—he’ll be long gone. Let’s see if there’s anything in here to identify ’im for the depot … Oops, hold on to it a mo’ would you dear? We’re just coming to the bridge—there’s a nice old gent upstairs that’ll be wanting a nudge to wake him.’

As the conductor stomped up the stairs, chanting: “Southwark Bridge” and winking at her, Tess started to undo the satchel straps, thankful to have this little distraction to take her mind off of her exile to Clapton.

CHAPTER EIGHT

From the
Daily Oracle—
March 6th, 1932:

TERRORIST ATROCITY

Southwark, London

At approximately 10:20 yesterday morning a terrorist bomb was detonated on the No.10 tram travelling from Tooting to the City as it crossed the Thames at Southwark Bridge. The huge explosion ripped through the lower deck of the tram, killing all on that level instantly. An eyewitness reported seeing the five ton vehicle “flipped like a playing card” onto the edge of the bridge, tossing some of the upper deck passengers into the river and crushing others beneath its mangled frame. A few fortunate souls were rescued by a passing brigade of British Brotherhood of Fascists volunteers who braved the smoke and flames of the ensuing conflagration to pull them from the wreckage—others weren’t so lucky. It is currently estimated that the explosion claimed twelve innocent lives and has left another nine passengers with life-threatening injuries …

‘Well, Box-Hartnell?’ said James Ramsay MacDonald, tossing the newspaper onto the table. ‘Have you read this?’

‘Indeed, Prime Minister,’ answered the Home Secretary, peevishly capping and uncapping his tortoiseshell fountain pen.

‘All of it? Even Sir Pelham’s little contribution?’ Ramsay MacDonald turned to address General Swales. ‘Our Home Secretary is a great admirer of Saint Clair, General … Well, Box-Hartnell? Why don’t you tell the General what the great Sir Pelham had to say about this dreadful business, hmm?’

‘I can’t be expected to remember his exact words …’

‘Then let me remind you …’ He picked up the paper again and inserted his monocle. ‘He says that the bombings are a
“testament to the lamentable moral condition of our contemporary society”
, apparently caused by the influence of “
liberal and egalitarian ideals”
. He blames such ideals for “
watering down the lifeblood of the nation
”—although what-the-devil he means by that is anyone’s guess.’ The Prime Minister looked up at Box-Hartnell to judge his reaction. ‘And, not surprisingly, it is all the fault
of our coalition government. According to Sir Pelham we are “
partial beasts
—
partial beasts, harnessed together, and yet pulling in different directions
”… Well—maybe he has something there … Then there’s the usual flannel about our political system being moribund and impotent … that the only way to prevent further terrorist atrocities—if not outright revolution—is for the nation to adopt his “New Politics” immediately.’

‘Damn bad form, if you ask me,’ said Swales, ‘capitalizing on such a cowardly act.
The Oracle
should never have published such an incendiary rant.’ He paused for a moment as he saw a furtive, disapproving look pass over Box-Hartnell’s face.

‘I agree whole-heartedly with you, General,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘But it’s the next part that I find the most interesting. Listen to this: “
Sir Pelham went on to suggest that he had it on good authority that the Home Office was in possession of an eyewitness report confirming that the bomber had been of Russian extraction. The Home Secretary was unavailable for comment”
. I assume that you’re available for comment now, Home Secretary? Well—do we have such evidence?’

‘We do, Prime Minster.’

‘And tell me—is it common practice for the Home Office to release such confidential information, willy-nilly, to anyone who might have an interest? My God man! It’s hard enough trying to make this coalition government work, without you lot leaking confidential information to your old boys’ network every five minutes!’

‘With respect, Prime Minister, I rather take exception to the insinuation that I—’

‘You and Saint Clair are members of the same private members’ club, are you not?’

‘If you think that I’m going to sit here,’ said Box-Hartnell, springing to his feet and gathering up his papers, ‘while you accuse me of—’

‘In the Home Secretary’s defence, Prime Minister,’ interjected Swales, ‘this intelligence may have been leaked from a number of places—Scotland Yard for example. I’m swiftly coming to the conclusion that our Metropolitan Police Force is, regrettably, somewhat lacking in discipline and professionalism.’

Box-Hartnell sat back down.

‘I’d advise you to be careful of where you air such views, General,’ he said, giving Swales another disapproving look. ‘After all, as the new Commissioner it would hardly endear you to the ranks. Besides, you’ve only been in the job a few days; I think you’ll discover the problem is far more complex than you’d imagine. The Met isn’t merely a brigade of conscripts at whom you can just bark an order for them to jump—there’s a bit more to it than that, I’m afraid.’

‘The General has served at an executive level in the SIS for a number of years now, Box-Hartnell,’ said Ramsay MacDonald. ‘I hardly think he needs a lesson in the psychology of the Metropolitan Police detective … And as you know, he comes with a personal recommendation from His Majesty.’

‘Let me assure you, Home Secretary,’ said General Swales, breaking out one of his most disarming smiles, ‘I’m not here to step on anyone’s toes. I look forward to working directly with you and your department … Maybe we can meet later on this week—at my club perhaps? They do a half-decent Beef Wellington, and afterwards you can give me the benefit of your experience over a rather interesting Armagnac the barman keeps aside for me.’

‘I took The Pledge at eighteen, General—I distrust the use of strong spirits. But I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming weeks; after all, as Commissioner of the Met you report directly to me, you understand.’

‘Indeed, Home Secretary.’

Old acquaintances of the General would have recognized the smoothing down of his moustache as a sign of his annoyance.

Ramsay MacDonald consulted his pocket watch.

‘Let’s get back to the matter in hand, shall we gentlemen? Tell me, General—can we really be so sure that this appalling crime was the work of these “Wild Cat” anarchists?’

‘Well, we have this …’ From a white envelope the General now produced the Wild Cat calling card, pasted at one corner to a bloodstained remnant of floral-patterned material. ‘Recovered from the tram. It’s identical to the one left at the Plaistow bombing.’

‘Is the scrap of material relevant?’

‘It comes from the dress of one of the fatalities, Prime Minister—a young woman, apparently with child.’

‘Good grief!’

‘We also have a partial statement from the conductor. As was reported in the paper, he escaped any serious physical injury, but was obviously traumatized by the experience. He’s still under heavy sedation at the moment, but when found at the scene he was babbling about a leather satchel and a bearded foreigner with a Russian accent.’

‘Yes, Russian—and yet in your report you say that the … where is it now?’ Ramsay MacDonald flicked through the contents of a buff-coloured folder. ‘Yes, here it is—
The Propaganda of the Deed
. This Johann Most was a German national—is that correct?’

‘Indeed Prime Minister, but I don’t think one should take the connection too literally. It’s merely a quotation. There are any number of small anarchists groups dispersed throughout mainland Europe;
many of them are harmless theorists, but there are a few capable of this level of organisation. Besides, we can’t be sure that it was definitely a Russian accent that the conductor heard.’

‘Well, I think it would make perfect sense,’ said Box-Hartnell. ‘I for one wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover that these Wild Cat Anarchists were, in fact, funded directly from the Kremlin.’

‘To what end?’

‘To what end, Prime Minister? Why, to encourage the English proletariat to adopt the tenets of Bolshevism and rise up against their betters, of course.’

‘Ridiculous, man! How? By blowing up that same proletariat on a No.10 tram? That makes no sense. These are anarchists—not Bolsheviks. Where’s your evidence for such a flight of fancy? Or maybe you have another convenient missal from Comrade Zinoviev to explain it all away?’

‘Anarchists, Bolsheviks, Jews, Communists—all real enough threats, and already right here in our capital city. We’ve fostered a nest of vipers, and mark my words—pretty soon they’re going to turn and bite us all.’

‘You sound remarkably like Sir Pelham, Home Secretary. I expect that kind of jingoist tosh from Lord Rainsworth’s rag here, but I don’t expect it from one of my cabinet ministers.’

‘I make no secret of the fact that I have great respect for Sir Pelham Devereux Saint Clair,’ said Box-Hartnell, furiously polishing his pince-nez. ‘As a colleague I always found him honest and forthright. He is an inspirational orator, with a brilliant and quick wit. I’ll remind you Prime Minister, that there were elements in your own party who courted him vigorously after he left the Conservatives. And as for the British Brotherhood of Fascists—well, I’m afraid I don’t share this liberal distaste for their affirmative action. The nation’s youth need strong role models just now. I see a lot of what the BBF stands for as truly British ideals—especially when they talk of restoring a sense of community, nationhood, kingship—’

‘Good grief man, spare us the sermon! You’ll be attending cabinet meetings in a black shirt next. I suggest you take advantage of the opportunity presented by the appointment of General Swales, with his unique set of skills, and get to work on finding out who really is responsible for blowing up innocent Londoners as they go about their daily business—rather than flying the flag for Saint Clair’s bully boys and fanning the flames of the conspiracy theorists and
Daily Oracle
fantasists. I expect results—and quickly … Now, I have a meeting at the Treasury to attend. Good day gentlemen.’

‘Good day, sir,’ said Swales, standing up as the Prime Minister left the room and closed the door forcibly behind him.

Box-Hartnell collected his papers and made to go as well … but then stopped with his hand on the door knob and turned to face Swales.

‘You’re an Old Harrovian, I believe, General?’

‘Indeed—and you, Home Secretary?’

‘Charterhouse.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘Did you know, our dear Prime Minister there—the man that you have just addressed as “sir”—is the bastard son of a Scottish farm labourer?’

‘Quite a remarkable achievement; he must be an outstanding individual to have made it so far up such a slippery pole, don’t you think?’

‘No Swales, that’s not what I think … Ah well, no doubt you’ll be in touch. Remember—he’s expecting results.’ Box-Hartnell opened the door to leave.

‘Shouldn’t we bash this out a bit, Home Secretary? Agree on a strategy?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so. I’ve read your report—you don’t seem wanting in inspiration. I’ll have my people contact you in a few days for an update. Don’t give out a press statement just yet—leave that to us … Oh, and tread carefully with this Police corruption nonsense; it’s invariably just a few bad apples in my experience. We don’t want to do anything too hasty. Make sure that you communicate any major findings to me before you act on them, is that clear?’

‘Perfectly clear.’

‘Well then, I’ll bid you good day.’

Once Swales was alone he took out his pipe and began to fill it from a battered leather pouch.

Hmm, Freddie
, he thought.
What the bally hell have you got yourself mixed up in this time
?