“Take time to think, and then let me hear the steps you take in your reasoning.”
“You listened very attentively and patiently to the story, Dame Beatrice. May I believe that you were interested in it?”
“Certainly you may. It fascinates me. Please fire away.”
“I’m probably not going to be very logical. Putting all the pieces together, I think I would still have felt some concern for young Dave, even if Maverick and Gracechurchstreet had no connection with the gang which is running him. I mean, I know nothing about what goes on behind the scenes in the lower grades of professional boxing, but it seems to me to be plain idiocy to think you can train a professional boxer in the kind of outfit they’re employing. Surely the lad needs more than one sparring-partner, for instance? In any case, the one they’ve given him is so much past it that he’s no use, anyway. Neither, incidentally, is the trainer. Then, if I hadn’t been there, I don’t think the lad would have got any road-work. He’s agoraphobic, as I think I told you.”
“I think you said that he is particularly adversely affected by woodlands and belts of trees. That is not what is meant, broadly speaking, by agoraphobia. It is much more likely to be the result of some experience in early childhood, I fancy, but, of course, that is only a theory. Pray continue.”
“Well, I got the general impression that Dave was being exploited by this gang. I did not take to his manager, Gorinsky, and his trainer, as I said, is a dud.”
“I believe that exploitation of the innocent is not uncommon among unscrupulous promoters of professional sport.”
“Then I thought the Kid was rather young to be matched against plug-uglies who would know every dirty trick in the game. He is a fine, beautifully-built lad, but he hasn’t a clue about boxing. Even if he had, I didn’t like their idea that they’d got to get his weight down. He struck me as being as fine-drawn as a prize greyhound already, and it can be terribly weakening to get down to a lot below your natural weight. It’s not like an overweight person trying to slim a bit. That might be all to the good, but I’m convinced that this wasn’t. Well, so much for my thoughts about the set-up at the Swan Revived.”
“They seem to have been most reasonable and comprehensible, and do great credit to your kindness of heart.”
“Thank you,” said Toby, uncomfortably. “Well, add the other two oddities, Maverick and Gracechurchstreet, and the fact that I was given (which means Dave himself was given) wrong information about where the fight was to be held, and the whole thing looks to me somewhat more than fishy.”
“And your aim is to perform a deed of knight-errantry and rescue this unfortunate child from devouring monsters?”
“Put like that, it does sound a bit like Tom Brown and Little Arthur, I admit.”
“Nonsense! It does you great credit, as I said before. There is too little chivalry and selflessness in today’s materialistic world. Do you care to have me help you in your salvage operations? I have certain contacts and connections which might be put to some use if you would allow me to have a finger in this not uninteresting pie.”
“I say, would you really help me? You see, the trouble is that, now the Ironbridge Baths is a dead end, I don’t see how I’m to get on the trail again.”
“You know the manager’s name, and that his assistants are named Harry and Chris, and you have given a clear description of the three. They should not be difficult to trace.”
“Not if one knew the sleazy circles in which they probably move, but that’s the snag, isn’t it?”
“I will find out what my son can do to help us. He has successfully defended many persons of doubtful antecedents and dubious reputation. Pimps, trulls, and trollops, in short. Among them there should be those who would be willing to give him a little information of the kind we need.”
“Your son?”
“Sir Ferdinand Lestrange, Q.C. Another thing: one of my closest friends is an Assistant Commissioner of Police. Oh, I think we shall manage to trace the probably unsavoury Mr. Gorinsky and his associates, if you really think it would be wise to do so.”
Toby returned to his railway station and a week later he received a telephone call.
“Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley’s secretary speaking. Will you come to lunch at the Stone House, Wandles Parva, near Brockenhurst?”
“Thank you very much. When?”
“Today, if you like. If not, when will you be free?”
“I can come today.”
“Right. One o’clock for half-past. Do you need directions?”
“No, thanks. I can find my way. I’ll come by Wimborne and Ringwood and drop down through Burley. Thanks again.”
The Stone House was a squarely-built Georgian residence standing at the end of a lane which started as a footpath across a common and ended at a junction with one of the two roads to the village. It stood in its own grounds, which were not too spacious for a gardener and a gardener’s boy to cope with, and its stables had been converted into a double garage which had then been turned back into stabling and a new garage built, incorporating the old coach house.
Toby, who had allowed plenty of time for a drive of approximately forty-five miles, realized that he was too early for his one o’clock appointment. He identified the house, then drove past it, parked his car at the end of the lane and strolled over to the right bank of a little, brown, woodland river. There was a wooden bridge. He was standing on this and looking down at the water when, from the direction opposite to that which he had taken, there appeared an Amazonian, comely woman who was accompanied by a gigantic dog. As it walked with its muzzle apparently glued to the woman’s left hip-bone and showed no sign of abandoning this position as they crossed the bridge, Toby left them a clear passage by removing himself to a little wood of greyish, stunted oak trees which bordered the stream at this point.
“Good morning,” said the woman. “Sorry Fergus hasn’t the good manners to leave people room on the bridge.”
“Sticks to his job,” said Toby, raising his hat, “and in the circumstances, I can’t say I blame him.” At this, the woman stopped short.
“I say,” she said, “haven’t I spoken with you very recently on the telephone?”
“The only person who has spoken with me very recently on the telephone is somebody with your voice who called herself secretary to Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley.”
“That’s it. You’re Mr. Sparowe. I’m Laura Gavin. How do you do?”
“How do you do, Mrs. Gavin? Incidentally, during lunch at my aunt’s place, Dame Beatrice was persuaded to call me Toby.”
“All right, then, Toby it is.”
“And—Mrs. Gavin?”
“Laura is all right to any friend of Dame B. Come on. Time for the short snort before lunch.”
“I’ve got my car parked on the common. May I convey you?”
“Fergus knows his way home, but he won’t leave me, I’m afraid, so I’ll have to walk.”
“Doesn’t he care for riding in cars?”
“He adores it. Dogs do.”
“I shall be honoured to have him as my back-seat passenger.”
The Irish wolfhound was in favour of this arrangement. The moment Toby opened the back door of the car he gently entered and settled himself along the upholstery.
“You’re accepted,” said Laura, “but you’ve yet to see the slave mentality which lies behind those amber eyes. He tolerates and looks after me because he thinks I’m an adjunct (albeit an unimportant one) to Mrs. Croc. Otherwise, in his opinion, I wouldn’t exist.” She got into the car and Toby, grateful for this auspicious introduction to his visit, drove to the Stone House.
Laura had a key, but apparently their arrival had been noted, for, before she could insert it, they were admitted by a dark-eyed, black-browed servant whose Gallic shrewdness took in Toby with one quick head-to-shoes glance. She said,
“Madame is in the small drawing-room. I shall announce monsieur?”
“No, don’t bother,” said Laura. “This w
ay, Toby.”
“Ah!” said his hostess, from a small armchair. “So the mountain has come to Mahomet. Laura, dear child, give Mr. Sparowe a drink.”
“He’s Toby, so he told me,” said Laura, “and he may as well help himself and us, since I imagine that we shall soon know him as well as we know ourselves. He seems that sort to me.”
Toby bowed and went across to the small table where the drinks were set out. The wolfhound, who had once again glued himself to Laura, now left her and walked sedately across to the seated witch, at whom, before putting his head on her knee, he gazed with unstinted adoration.
“You’d think he’d been parted from her for at least a month,” said Laura. “Sherry for Mrs. Croc., Toby, and a whisky sour for me. It’s not as though she cares tuppence about him, either.”
“If that were true, it would be most ungrateful of me,” said Dame Beatrice. She fondled the hound’s rough head. “Like old brandy, he improves upon acquaintance. And now, my dear Toby, we have your affairs in hand, but will postpone discussion of them until after lunch.”
Lunch, prepared by a vast, smiling Frenchman whom Toby asked permission, when the meal was over, to congratulate, was served by the elderly maid who had opened the door to him and Laura. Coffee was taken in the small drawing-room where a pleasant fire blazed and through whose windows a thin, pale sunshine was creeping in as though unsure of its welcome.
“You mean you have some news for me?” asked Toby. “You haven’t tracked down Dave and Gorinsky yet, surely?”
“With curious and interesting results. I imagine you are far too young to remember the boxing booths at fairs?”
“A fiver, or whatever it was, if you could stay three rounds against some ex-professional? I’ve heard of them. But—good Lord! You don’t mean that’s the way they’re going to employ young Dave! A kid of his age couldn’t stand it! Do you mean he has to take on all comers, no matter what their weight, and lay them out in three rounds? Why, he might be asked to fight a dozen times or more in a single afternoon or evening! It’s a game for old professionals who may be past it so far as prize-fights are concerned, but who know every low trick in the game and can always win. It’s not for an untrained youngster of Dave’s age! Do they want to murder the kid?”
“Ultimately they want him to appear in a film.”
“Yes, I’d guessed as much, as I think I’ve told you. Then why the boxing booths?”
“Ah, that is where your acquaintances Gracechurchstreet (that is an assumed name, incidentally—he was born a member of the mighty clan of the Smiths) and Maverick come in. The manager, Reuben Gorinsky, is their employee and is aiding and abetting their enterprise. The boxing-booth fights are not what you imagine. They are merely exhibition matches and Dave always has the same opponent. He is carefully rehearsed in what he has to do, this is filmed and it will become part of the story they intend to portray, whatever that story may be. At least, so I am told. I reserve judgment.”
“Does Dave know that’s what’s happening and that they’ve no intention of letting him fight professionally?”
“I have no information on that score.”
“Has this boxing-booth business actually started?”
“I do not know. I understand that the contract (if such it can be called) was made in London.”
“Dave will be pretty sore about it when he finds out what’s happening. I suppose sooner or later it will dawn on even a bonehead like him that he’s simply being used for this film and that, as soon as they don’t need him any more, they’ll ditch him. I suppose you weren’t told whereabouts in London they are?”
“According to my information, they left London with a small travelling fair several days ago, and are now somewhere in Yorkshire. They were last heard of near Doncaster, but are hardly likely to be still in that neighbourhood, as the fair may well have travelled many miles since then, and may be heading for Leeds, if my information is to be relied on.”
“Well, I’ve a double interest in all this, Dame Beatrice. You remember, perhaps, that I told you about the visit Maverick and Gracechurchstreet paid me at my railway station? Well, I think this business of filming Dave’s sparring-matches ties up very neatly with their idea that I should write them this play. I wouldn’t consider the thing, so they’re going about getting what they want in their own way, and I’m not going to have it. My biography of William Heathcote is copyright, and I’m not giving them permission to muck about with it.”
“Or Dave?”
“Yes—or Dave. From what I’ve found out he’s not even a top-class amateur boxer, let alone capable of being trained as a likely professional. He’s done nothing but boys’ club boxing . . .”
“That’s not to say he isn’t any good,” put in Laura.
“Well, I’m afraid he isn’t, but they’re not concerned with that. They simply want to use him for this putrid film of theirs, and then they’ll ditch him. I know his type. He’ll go dumb mad and commit a crime, as likely as not, just to get his own back on a world which, he’ll feel, has let him down. I’ve got to get to him and hike him out of it before that happens. I’ve a friend living in Hawes who’ll put me up while I make a few enquiries. I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Dame Beatrice, for the information you’ve dug up.’
“No thanks are due to me. It was all done by . . .”
“Remote control,” said Laura, grinning. “What makes you think young Dave might turn to crime?”
“He’s inarticulate.”
“Is that germane to the issue?”
“It might well be,” said Dame Beatrice.
“I see. He says it in punch-ups,” said Laura.
“If it was going to stop at that, it wouldn’t be so bad. I’m afraid he might go haywire and really slug somebody,” said Toby.
“Oh, I see. Yes, that would be awkward.”
“So I think I ought to get along up there before he starts getting himself into trouble.”
“I don’t see what you can do.”
“I can at least go to Yorkshire and make some enquiries. It’s up to me, now. I can’t expect any more help from Dame Beatrice, and I don’t intend to ask for it. It’s a straight issue between Dave and myself.”
“He may have signed a contract with Gorinsky.”
“Well, I’m afraid he has. He told me so.”
“In law, Dave is classed as an infant until he attains the age of twenty-one,” said Dame Beatrice, “unless they change the age to eighteen.”
“An apprentice can be bound by contract.”
“Yes, he can, because the contract is held to be of benefit to him. Would a contract to accept Gorinsky as his manager be held to benefit Dave, I wonder? It could be so argued, I suppose. It is a nice point.”
“But if Gorinsky is guilty of false representation, what then?” asked Toby.
“The falseness of the representation no doubt would need to be proved. In any case, the contract would be rendered void if it could be shown that its terms were onerous and, in this particular case, I think those would be the lines to pursue.”
“Well, I’m going to begin by pursuing Dave himself,” said Toby, “and we’ll see where that will get us.”
“Tell me exactly what Gracechurchstreet wanted you to do for him and his friend. You mentioned a play. Can you be more specific?” asked Dame Beatrice.
“Yes, certainly. They found out that I’ve written and published a life of our local poet, William Heathcote, and that I belong—or did, until I moved out of London—to an amateur dramatic society for which I’d made a dramatised version of A Tale of Two Cities. They wanted me to do a play based on my Heathcote book. I’d have been quite willing if they’d been prepared to accept an authentic version, because, apart from the money, as a matter of fact his life-story wouldn’t make at all a bad play, but they wanted to include some fictional additions which were unnecessary and absurd, and to which I couldn’t possibly agree.”
“What fictional additions?” asked Laura.
“They wanted me to have Heathcote knock down Charles the Second in a pub brawl after compliments had been paid to Nell Gwynn.”
“Oh, dear!”
“Charles would have been incognito, of course, and Heathcote had no idea who his opponent was, but, for knocking him down, Heathcote was to be transported.”
“Was he transported?—in actual fact, I mean?”
“Yes, he was, and not for knocking anybody down, but for killing a man quite wantonly, and, needless to say, it was not Charles the Second. As for Nell Gwynn, she doesn’t come into the picture either.”
“No, one would surmise that. So you turned down the whole idea of writing them the play. Good for you!” said Laura.
“What else could I do? I wasn’t going to write rubbish like that and let them call it history!”
“Where were they proposing to produce the play?” asked Dame Beatrice.
“In America, as part of a mixed grill which included folk, morris, and sword dances, some phoney, pepped-up English local customs, and a lot of ballyhoo which wouldn’t have taken in a child of six. They must think the great American public needs its head examined.”
“Interesting,” said Dame Beatrice.
“Did you, while they were with you, conclude that it was a lot of ballyhoo?” enquired Laura.
“To be honest, no, I didn’t. I didn’t pay much attention to that aspect of it because I was so much exercised in my mind about the play. It was when I began to think about it seriously, after I discovered that they were in with Gorinsky and his mob, that it came to me how phoney the whole interview had been.”
“Not altogether, if their object was to present your young friend as a juvenile William Heathcote,” Dame Beatrice pointed out. “The connecting link between them and Gorinsky could be that, as you have indicated, they needed a good-looking young boxer and that he could supply that need. Would it really be such a bad thing for Dave? At least it would take him to America, where he wants to go.”
“Well, I had thought of that, as a matter of fact, and I suppose one could keep an open mind about it. A journalist friend of mine—a sports reporter—thought the set-up might be fishy, but he had nothing in particular to go on, except what I was able to tell him, and that, as you see, isn’t much.”
Gory Dew (Mrs. Bradley) Page 6