The Dancing Horse

by Angus MacVicar

  The Dancing Horse

  Angus MacVicar

  © Angus MacVicar 1961

  Angus MacVicar has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1961 by John Long Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  To James Crampsey

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  ONE

  Aristide Voisin, of the oiled black hair and curling moustache, was accustomed to dead meat in many guises. Among other delicacies aimed at fastidious palates, his shop in Soho supplied customers with brawn and jellied veal and a species of red sausage dauntingly tinged with purple.

  That May morning, however, as he clumped drowsily downstairs and unlocked his door to another day’s business, he found more dead meat than he had bargained for. In a shadowed corner of the entrance lay the body of a man. A man with a broken skull.

  In the midst of a luxurious yawn Aristide became immobile, like a character in a tableau. His eyes widened and appeared to protrude. Then he thrust powerful arms above his head and uttered a shout of horror. Lumbering back into the shop, he overturned a pyramid of soup tins in his bull-like rush to dial 999.

  Minutes later the wail of a police car brought the tired grey street to life. Officers of the law emerged from its interior and gathered round the crumpled heap in the doorway. Patiently, as they examined it, they did their best to dam the tide of Aristide’s talk.

  As time passed a small crowd gathered, converging, as it seemed, from nowhere. At first it was a somnolent crowd, its members apparently roused from dusty corners. Their clothes were unkempt in the hard morning light, their thoughts concealed behind stubbly beards and streaky make-up. Then an ambulance, clanging a determined way into the picture, caused sleepy eyes to become wideawake and alert.

  ‘We’re through,’ said the uniformed sergeant of police, as the ambulance driver quirked an eyebrow. ‘You can take it away.’

  ‘Right-oh.’ The driver gestured to his mates; and as with professional decorum they eased the body on to a stretcher, he turned again to the sergeant. ‘When did it happen?’ he asked.

  ‘At a guess two hours ago. Just before daylight.’

  Aristide butted his way into the dialogue. ‘I find him!’ he cried for the tenth time, waving passionate arms to heaven. ‘I come down to open my shop, and here I find him, stiff against my door. There is no fairness, no justice — ’

  ‘All right, all right.’ The sergeant soothed him. ‘We’ve got your statement.’

  ‘But already — see, so early — a crowd is coming! I am ruined, because a man is murdered on my doorstep.’

  Self-pity cracked his powerful voice, and he subsided, shaking his head and muttering sadly to himself.

  The laden stretcher slid into the ambulance, accompanied by a little sigh from the crowd.

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ said the driver, inured to death. ‘We’ll take him to the Middlesex. What’s this address?’

  ‘Twenty-nine A, Peter Street.’

  ‘Twenty-nine A, Peter Street, Soho.’ Carefully he noted it down in his log-book. ‘Fine. Be seeing you, Sergeant. Looks like a warm day coming up.’

  ‘Yes, you may be right.’

  He was right. The sun rose in a cloudless sky, blinkered by a muslin haze. Half-way through the morning thermometers were climbing towards seventy; and in spite of the many air-conditioning gadgets installed in the glass-fronted office of the Daily Echo in Long Acre, the heat promised to have its normal effect on Bulldog MacPhail’s temper. When he strode into his room at ten o’clock, blasting in uninhibited terms the chaotic state of the Underground, Miss Kelly was fairly certain that for the next few hours her secretarial duties would prove less bright and hopeful than the weather. His broad face, red and crumpled, clean-shaven as to chin but with a bristle of close-cropped grizzled hair above the polished forehead, oozed perspiration. His bright eyes, of a greenish colour and sunk beneath black, bushy eyebrows, looked hot and suspicious, like a lion’s. Miss Kelly, in fact — in her private thoughts — often compared her job to that of a lion-tamer.

  On this occasion, however, the omens proved false. Thirty minutes after his arrival, when he had dealt with the mail, glanced at a number of agency messages and made lengthy telephone calls, his attitude became, to her surprise, reasonably serene and calm. Something had caught his interest.

  Hunching broad shoulders, he swivelled round towards the open door of his sanctum and bellowed ‘Boy!’ at the pitch of his voice. The steady beat of typewriters in the main office momentarily faltered, as if the editorial staff, hearing the voice, had taken a communal deep breath to steady and encourage itself.

  A small, freckled child of about fifteen, with uncreased grey flannels which he might have slept in, appeared abruptly at the door, propelled by unseen hands. ‘Y — yes, sir?’ he stammered.

  ‘Get me Mr. Grant. Mr. Donald Grant.’

  The boy gulped. ‘P — please, sir, I’m new in the office — ’

  ‘Canteen,’ barked Bulldog, looking up without rancour. ‘Big red-headed chap with a crooked nose. I want to see him. Personally. At once.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  The child had almost regained merciful obscurity when another shout reined him in: ‘Boy!’

  He sighed and came back.

  ‘New, eh?’ said the Bulldog, with an intimidating scowl which only a seasoned campaigner would have recognized as being kindly meant.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right — I’m the News Editor. When I give an order you don’t argue. If you’re not sure what I mean go and ask someone who’ll explain. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And don’t “okay” me!’ roared his inquisitor, with real menace. ‘We’re not in films. If you want to stay on the Echo keep your nose clean. Get it?’

  ‘Y — yes, sir.’

  ‘Good! Now, scram. Give Mr. Grant my message.’

  ‘Okay, sir.’

  The boy disappeared like a frightened grouse, and Bulldog turned to Miss Kelly with a shrug and an unconvincing expression of patient long-suffering. Donald Grant, whose presence was so urgently required, occupied an unusual position on the Echo. He had been engaged as a reporter, under Bulldog; but his wide interest in sport had come to the notice of the Sports Editor, and for the past year his main task had been to write a daily column on various athletic activities. Only at infrequent intervals was he called upon to do duty for the News Department, for the circulation manager had a touching faith in the sports pages, and on a modern newspaper the circulation manager is not only a Mede but also a thorough-going Persian.

  On this particular morning, unaware of the approach of fate in the person of a freckle-faced boy, Donald Grant was drinking coffee in the canteen with Harry Schwab, the cartoonist, and giving it as his opinion that what a successful athlete needs is ‘spunk’.

  ‘What d’you mean — spunk?’ said Harry, pronouncing it ‘schpunk’.

  ‘A Scots word meaning fire in the belly. Look at those who had it. Rocky Marciano, Von Nida the golfer, that wrestler we
went to see last night — College Boy. I’m writing a piece about him tomorrow.’

  ‘You should know, Donald. Didn’t you do some wrestling yourself?’

  ‘Once upon a time — at Highland Games in Scotland. I couldn’t earn enough for cigarettes as a freelance journalist, so I commercialized my muscles. But even in the Games racket muscles are not everything. In the long run it’s spunk that counts.’

  ‘Mr. Grant, please!’ piped a small voice at his elbow. ‘Mr. Donald Grant!’

  He swung round, surprise on his ruddy, high-boned face. ‘Yes, boy?’

  ‘The — the News Editor. He wants to see you. At once,’ he said.

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ He rose to his full six feet, grinning down at his companion. ‘What’s up now, I wonder? Not often he’s so spry at this time of the morning.’

  Racial memories of persecution made Harry a pessimist. He shook a pale head. ‘You never know with the Bulldog,’ he said, adding a wishful rather than a hopeful thought: ‘I heard he was going away for a holiday?’

  ‘So did I. But no such luck, apparently. See you later.’

  Meanwhile, in his room, Bulldog was roaring for another messenger, but none was forthcoming. Experienced boys knew better than to hang about in the danger area.

  ‘Ach!’ he exclaimed, in disgust. ‘Blasted kids! Never around when you want them! Miss Kelly!’

  She paused in her task of typing a letter. ‘Yes, Mr. MacPhail?’

  Get me the rest of the agency stuff on the Peter Street killing. Quick as you can. From Squires — third desk from the door.

  Her auburn hair glinted in the sunlight from the window, and a less-hardened bachelor than Bulldog would have noticed how well her simple frock of grey linen suited her figure. She wore glasses, it is true, but they only added to the piquancy of her face.

  As she walked towards the outer office she said: ‘I know exactly where Mr. Squires has his desk. Shan’t be a minute.’

  He looked after her with a slightly puzzled frown. Then he shrugged the matter aside, snatched up the telephone and jiggled with the receiver-bar. ‘Exchange,’ he demanded, ‘give me the Art Room. What? The Art Room, I said. Were daft enough in this place in all conscience, but as far as I know we don’t run a bakery — or a brothel! H’m. Hullo there, Davies. That picture of Aristide Voisin’s shop — send a boy up with it. Yes, the Peter Street killing. Right?’

  He parked the receiver and looked up just in time to see a large figure looming at the door.

  ‘Morning, boss. How’s it going?’

  Bulldog waved an irritable hand. ‘Dammit, Grant, you’re as bad as the copy boys!’ he complained. ‘Don’t call me “boss”!’

  ‘Comes naturally. You have the leader complex.’

  ‘And none of your smart cracks, either! Can’t stand them before lunch. Sit down.’

  Donald did as he was told.

  ‘Cigarette?’ said Bulldog, opening his case.

  ‘Thanks. Why the unusual hospitality? Am I for the high-jump?’

  ‘Not yet.’ The News Editor accepted a light. ‘But don’t bank on immunity just because we both come from Scotland! The fact is, I want your views on this Peter Street affair.’

  Bulldog paused as Miss Kelly returned, carrying a small sheaf of papers. ‘Here are the agency messages you wanted, Mr. MacPhail. They’re all here.’

  ‘Morning, Madge,’ smiled Donald. ‘You look very nice.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Grant,’ she replied primly, but with an exciting movement of eyelids behind her glasses. ‘Oh, and this picture,’ she went on. ‘I met the boy from the Art Room.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Bulldog. ‘Now, go and have a cup of coffee, there’s a good girl. Be back for dictation in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Morning, Mr. Grant.’ Again the eyelids flickered.

  Donald took a deep breath and tried to restore his thoughts to mundane reality. ‘Peter Street, you said?’

  Bulldog nodded. ‘There’s been a murder. I’m wondering what to do about it.’

  ‘That’s not quite typical.’

  ‘Eh? What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing.’

  ‘Look, here’s the point,’ the News Editor went on, his mind so thirled to the subject in hand that irony passed over him like ill-directed bullets. ‘On its face value the story’s punk. It’s not the first time a down-and-out has been murdered in Soho, and — well, Scotland Yard appears to be indifferent.’

  ‘No angles?’

  ‘No angles,’ affirmed Bulldog, handing over the papers on his desk. ‘Look at this agency stuff yourself. Approximately thirty years of age, stubbly beard, dirty finger-nails. Scruffy suit, down-at-heel shoes, empty pockets.’

  Quickly Donald glanced through the flimsies. Summarizing, he said: ‘Struck on the head, but no sign of a weapon. Somebody getting tough with a mouthpiece?’

  ‘Could be. Probably what Scotland Yard wants us to think.’

  ‘How d’you mean “wants us to think”?’

  ‘I have a feeling,’ said Bulldog, his frown changing into a hideous look of cunning. ‘Look, Grant, why have I to teach all you writer guys how to use your common sense? Ten minutes ago I did the obvious thing — I rang up the mortuary attendant at Middlesex Hospital.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You don’t see! But skip it. I rang up this bloke and asked for a complete list of the dead man’s clothes. Right. Below the scruffy suit and ragged shirt he was wearing a vest and pants of good quality. And they were clean, definitely clean.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘Aye. And as far as I know it’s a piece of information exclusive to the Echo. Thanks to me! But we shan’t print it yet.’

  ‘What about laundry marks? Makers’ tabs?’

  Bulldog appeared to be slightly surprised. ‘Good!’ he said. ‘Very good indeed! I asked, of course. But there weren’t any.’

  ‘What do you think, then?’

  ‘I don’t think. I’m feeling my way. The thing is, I want you to go to that shop in Peter Street. What’s the bloke’s name?’ He riffled the papers. ‘Aye — Aristide Voisin. He found the body early this morning on his doorstep. Find out what you can from him — and take a cameraman with you, just in case.’

  ‘Why me, particularly? I’m a sports writer, not one of your tame reporters.’

  ‘You’re on my staff, eh?’

  ‘Yes, but — ’

  ‘All right. Let’s put it that I consider you less of a moron than some of the others.’ His face broke into an unexpected, daunting smile.

  Donald grinned back. ‘Thanks. I’m honoured.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself! But I have a feeling. There’s a story in this — a real story. And before I go on holiday I want it for the Echo. Here, take the stuff with you.’

  ‘Right, boss. Be seeing you.’

  TWO

  He took Sid Green to look after the pictures. Sid was a thin-cheeked Londoner, with quick humorous eyes and an accent which people born away from the sound of Bow Bells found difficult to follow. The prospect of photographing the scene of a murder always appealed to his macabre fancy.

  They walked from Long Acre, threading their way along the hot dusty pavements until at last they turned into Peter Street, with its low skyline and secretive little doors.

  ‘Dead right for a killing,’ remarked Sid, cheerfully.

  Donald rubbed his chin. ‘Is anywhere dead right for a killing?’ he asked, unusually sombre.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so ruddy Caledonian! Look at those beards, those duffle-coats. Perfect. Like a studio set.’

  ‘You see everything in pictures, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s what I’m paid for.’

  Outside Twenty-nine A they stopped. Through the plate-glass of the window they saw the proprietor behind his counter, meditatively working a bacon-slicer. His stout figure was wrapped in a blue striped apron, and though at this moment his mo
ustache was inclined to droop and the quiff of black hair sagged limply on his forehead, nevertheless his general appearance suggested to them both a Giles in Paris cartoon.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Sid. ‘You go in, Donald — do your stuff. I’ll get hold of one of these types, lay him down in the doorway here and take a few pictures — what’s called a dramatic reconstruction. Then I’ll come in and do Aristide.’

  ‘Suits me. But don’t go holding up the traffic.’

  Donald made his way into the shop, to the accompaniment of a clanging bell. The bacon-slicer sighed to a watchful stillness.

  ‘Good morning. Monsieur Aristide Voisin?’

  ‘Oui. C’est moi.’

  ‘Here is my card.’

  ‘Ah! Reporter, eh?’

  ‘From the Echo. I’ve come about the murder.’

  The bulging shoulders shrugged, sullenly. ‘Ach! I have told everything. To all reporters, all police. There is nothing more.’

  ‘I sympathize with you. Finding the body like that must have been quite a shock?’

  Aristide fingered a roll of Kubitzer sausage, as if its smooth feel provided comfort. Suddenly he thrust himself forward, stomach creasing against the polished counter. ‘Shock!’ he cried. ‘Mistaire Grant, I will not sleep tonight! His head, it was — incroyable! The blood, the splintered bone — ’

  ‘He was struck down from behind, they tell me — with some kind of club?’

  ‘Oui. One swift blow in the dark and — pouf! — he is gone. It is a tragedy not only for that man, but for me also.’

  ‘Why for you?’

  ‘You are blind, perhaps? While you stand here talking, how many customers come in?’

  ‘I see. People are scared they may be questioned?’

  He nodded, gloomily. ‘In Soho there is much to hide.’

  There was a little pause. Then, with a casual air, Donald put in: ‘Tell me, Monsieur Voisin, while you were waiting for the police did you by any chance investigate the body?’

  Stout red cheeks grew redder still. There was menace in the flex of his hairy hands. ‘Is it that you would call me a thief!’ he exclaimed. ‘Have I not for one day suffered enough — ’