“Well!” he exclaimed. “And what can I do for you gentlemen?”
“May we come in?” asked Gracechurchstreet. “We’d like to proposition you, if we may.”
“If it’s anything like your last proposition, let me assure you that you’re wasting your time. You’re also wasting mine. I’m particularly busy at the moment planning my new book.” Toby did not move from the doorway and was holding the door only half open. His aspect was as unwelcoming as his words. He found himself treated to Gracechurchstreet’s death’s head smile. “I really do mean it,” he said. “I’m up to my eyes in research.”
“Well, I’m real happy to hear you’re at work again, Mr. Sparowe,” said the American, with unforced cordiality. “We won’t keep you more than five minutes—well, say ten. You can spare ten minutes while we put you in the picture, I guess. You’ll realize what we’ve come about, so we need not lose time over that.”
“As I haven’t the slightest idea why you’re here, I can’t even spare ten minutes,” said Toby flatly.
“Tobe,” said Dave, pushing his way to the front, “Tobe, it’s me chance. It’s come!”
“That’s right, Mr. Sparowe, sir,” said Harry Biddle, in his hoarse, East London voice. “The Moonrocket’s chance ’as come. Give ’im an ’earin’, sir, do.”
“Sorry,” said Toby. “No dice. So now—good afternoon, all.” He shut the door and went into the station living-room from behind whose deplorable lace curtains he could keep an eye on the platform where his visitors seemed to be holding a confabulation. There came another knock on the door. Toby opened the window. “Look,” he said, “honestly, chaps, do go away and leave me in peace. I’ve really nothing to say to any of you.”
“Mr. Sparowe,” said Gracechurchstreet, advancing to the window, “I will take the liberty of quoting French to you. It is this, sir: as they used to say in French France in the days of le Roi Soleil and those kind of mighty monarchs and such, ‘Le roi est mort. Vive le roi!’ Now, sir, do I make myself clear?”
“Just as clear as mud, so now push off, or I’ll set the dog on you.”
“You are pleased to jest, I perceive, sir,” said the American courteously.
“But, Tobe,” said Dave, joining Gracechurchstreet at the window, “you don’t dig it, mate. The Moonrocket’s bin in a car crash over in the States. ’E’s a write-off. ’E may croak. ’E’s ’urt awful bad, Tobe. ’E won’t never box no more, not even if ’e lives. So, don’t you see, Tobe? I’m truly the Moonrocket nah. You gotter train me, Tobe, and then you gotter be me manager. Vere ain’t nobody else I can trust, Tobe. You gotter gimme me chance.”
“You’d better come in,” said Toby, “just you and nobody else.”
“O.K., Tobe. Just me. You uvvers,” Dave went on, with a wave of the hand which amused and astonished Toby, “go and wait in the car ontil I jines you.”
“O.K., kid,” said Gracechurchstreet. He signalled to Harry and Maverick and the three walked down the platform. Not until they were out of sight of the window did Toby thrust it fully open at the bottom.
“In you come,” he said. “I’m not opening the door again to that lot. Now, then, what’s the big idea? Where did you get to when the magistrates let you go?”
“Vat’s what I come for to tell you, Tobe. Vere’s vis big news, see. It’s in all the pipers. The Moonrocket Kid, ’e’s bin at a party, see, and vey’re all—well, you know— screwy, and the jacks is arter ’em, see, and when vey pulls up, ’cos the jacks ’ave put a van acrorst the road, the Moonrocket, ’e offers to fight ’em, see, and ’e do, see, and because ’e’s all done up like a dog’s dinner wiv a tuxedo and a smart titfer and creases dahn ’is ’ornets, and ants, vey don’t reckernize ’im, see, and one of the cops ’e ketches ’im a doughboy wiv ’is dirty great night-stick, see, and vat makes the Moonrocket start in pickin’ daisies, see, and ’e picks one right up aht of the grahnd, see, and ahts the cop wiv it, see, ’cos it’s the uppercut ’e kay-owes the Roarin’ River Tiger wiv, see, so vem rozzers vey all starts in on ’im and give ’im a right goin’ over, and nah ’e’s in the penitentiary ’orspital, see, and vey says as ’ow ’e’ve ’ad ’is chips and ’e won’t never fight no more, so vat mikes me the Moonrocket, see?”
“Good Lord!” said Toby. “Do you think it’s true? About his never fighting again, I mean.”
“It’s true, I reckon, Tobe, because, before vere was vis up an’ a downer wiv the cops, vey’ve ’ad two smashes wiv the car, and the jacks, well, vey just put a polish on the damage ’e done ’isself already. Vat’s the way of it, Tobe, so I’m the Moonrocket nah, and you gotter ’elp me. Chris is gorn, and ’e wasn’t never no good, nohow, and Gorinsky, ’e’s gorn, too an’ all, so vere’s on’y old ’Arry and you. Come on, mate! Show a bitta sympafy! It’s me chance!”
“Come and sit down. Where do Gracechurchstreet and Maverick come in?”
“Vey’ll put up the money to tike me and you and ’Arry to the States.”
“Like hell they will!”
“Not strite awiy, Tobe. You gotter coach me first.”
“To knock people cold, the way you did Gorinsky?”
“Cor, Tobe! Cheese! Vat wasn’t nuffink to do wiv ’im croakin’. You knows vat. Look, mate, let’s ’ave ’em in and Gracechurchstreet ’ull tell you the tale.”
“I’ve no doubt he will. No, no, Dave. You’ve got a straight choice. Gracechurchstreet or me. Not both. You can stay here for a bit while you make up your mind what you’re going to do, but I’m not getting myself mixed up with that lot again. I’ll teach you all I know about boxing, if that’s what you want, but then you’ll have to fend for yourself. It won’t take me long. I was never anything but a fairly good amateur, you know.”
“It won’t take long? ’Ow long, Tobe?”
“Call it a month. Could be less. It certainly won’t be more. I can’t afford the time, for one thing, and I’m hanged if I want a lodger, for another.”
“I’ll go and chew the fat wiv Gracechurchstreet.”
“Out of the window, then. I’m still not opening the door. I’m not having those two misfits swarming all over me, or I’ll never get rid of them.”
“You’re ’ard of ’eart, Tobe, ain’t you? I fought you got sympafy, but I see you never.”
“Don’t repeat your effects. They lose force.”
He pushed up the window and Dave scrambled out. Toby closed and fastened it and settled down to wait. He wondered what the surprise visit was all about and why Gracechurchstreet and Maverick, who must surely realize that the police were now looking harder than ever for Gorinsky’s murderer, were showing themselves so openly at what was near enough to the scene of his death. Then another thought struck him. He wondered whether the police still suspected Dave of the murder and had had him released in the hope that he would later incriminate himself and present them with an open and shut case.
It was not a pleasant thought. Little though he approved of Dave’s foolishness in teaming up again with Gracechurchstreet and Maverick, he did not want the boy to run into more trouble. That the two had some game on foot which was certainly not intended to lead to Dave’s advantage he was absolutely certain, but what part they wanted the boy to play this time was more than he could fathom. On an impulse he went to the telephone with the intention of ringing up Dame Beatrice, but, even as his hand went out to pick up the receiver, the whole idea struck him as pointless and puerile. What was there to tell her, after all?—that Gracechurchstreet and Maverick had Dave and Harry in tow? It was no business of hers. It was no business of his own. He had refused to allow them to enter his house, and that was the end of it. He returned to the sitting-room window, pulled up a chair and settled down again. After he had been there for a full quarter of an hour and had begun to think that the men, Dave included, had decided to take themselves off, the telephone rang.
“It’s me, Tobe. Mr. Gracechurchstreet got me and ’Arry fixed up ’ere at the Swan. Vere’s everyfink ’ere as we wan
ts—the ring and the rest of the gear. Stoppin’ ’ere a munf, like you said, so come on over.”
“Are Gracechurchstreet and Maverick staying there, too?”
“No, vey ain’t. We got it to ourself, me and ’Arry. Come on over, Tobe. I gotter git some ’elp. You can mike me a champ, Tobe, I knows you can. I’ll do everyfink like you warnts it.”
“Are Gracechurchstreet and Maverick still with you?”
“No. Vey paid for our lord and dodgin’ and ven vey went orf in veir noo car.”
“Nothing doing, Dave. I’ve changed my mind. Sorry. I shall come over for a drink, as usual, but that’s my lot. I don’t intend to train you if you’re mixed up with that push, I don’t trust them.”
“Cor, nah, look, Tobe . . .” Hardheartedly, Toby rang off. He returned to his work, but the Bastard family had lost its charm. He compelled himself to make a few notes, but then found himself alternately looking at the clock and across the platform to where, on the other side of the road, he could see an end gable of the Swan Revived. At half-past twelve, remembering that the inn could offer him a ploughman’s lunch of bread, cheese, and beer, he shut his books, replaced them in the bookcase, brushed his hair and walked briskly along the platform and across the road.
Smetton was behind the bar and, as it was the dinner-time break, several labourers were standing about drinking beer. They made way for Toby, and Smetton, without being asked, pulled him a pint of draught bitter.
“I’ve got company again, Mr. Sparowe,” he said.
“Yes, so I’ve heard.”
“Surprised you, I daresay.”
“Well, I thought it was getting a bit near Easter. Won’t you want your attics for your summer staff?”
“Not just yet, and these two are only staying a matter of three or four weeks. I suppose—I hope it don’t matter me mentioning it, Mr. Sparowe—but I suppose young Holley really is in the clear, like? I wouldn’t want the police keeping an eye on the place.”
“I shouldn’t think there’s any fear of that. Have you any bread and cheese?”
Toby retired to a small table with his ploughman’s lunch to which Mrs. Smetton had added a small dish of home-made chutney, and the labourers drifted out to go home to the midday meal. As soon as the bar was empty, Smetton came over to where Toby was seated.
“Mr. Sparowe,” he said, “I couldn’t say nothing before, seeing there was others standing around, but, now we’re on our own, I have to tell you I don’t much like it, sir. I don’t much like it at all.”
“Well, you needn’t have had them here, I suppose,” said Toby.
“I was talked into it, sir. That Mr. Maverick—well, the Irish blarney, as they call it, isn’t nowhere in it, once he gets started in talking. Then, what with Mr. Gracechurchstreet backing him up and arguing a donkey’s hind leg off . . .”
“You’re not being very complimentary to yourself, are you?”
“Compli—Oh, I see! Very ’umorous, Mr. Sparowe, I’m sure!” He laughed unconvincingly and repeated, “Arguing a donkey’s hind leg off! Very funny, that is, Mr. Sparowe. Still, I said it me own self, didn’t I? Seriously, though, sir, you don’t think I’ve done wrong, do you? I have doubts, meself, but I didn’t see no way of getting out of it.”
“I don’t think at all,” said Toby, “because I’m as bad or as good as you are, so far as Dave Holley is concerned. I told him I’d have him over at my place for a week or two, while he decided what to do with himself. It can’t have been much fun for him to have been remanded in custody for so long, knowing that a charge of murder might be tacked on the end of it. How does your wife take to the idea of having a couple of lodgers again?”
“She’s out, sir, at the moment. Her and Daffy planned to do a bit of shopping in Poole and do a bingo session this afternoon. I’ll have to break it to her when she gets home.”
“Where are Dave and Harry now?”
“Having a bit of bread and cheese and a pint up in the gym, sir. Do you want a word with them?”
“No, thanks.” Toby finished his bread and cheese, called for another pint, drank it and rose to leave. He had reckoned without his host in both senses of the word. Nobody else had come into the bar and Smetton had left it. Before Toby reached the door Smetton came back, followed by Dave Holley.
“Half a minute, Mr. Sparowe,” he said. “Dave would like a word with you.” He lifted the flap of the counter and Dave came through.
“Look,” he said, “vere’s somefink I never told you. I was goin’ to tell you over the phone, but you cut me orf. Listen, Tobe. Mr. Gracechurchstreet knows the uvver Moonrocket. ’E’s bringin’ ’is trainer over. ’E’s goin’ to train me, Tobe, to take on the Moonrocket nime. Only you gotter gimme a break, see? You gotter git me ready for ’im. I knows I ain’t no good. You showed me vat, didden you? So now you gotter do somefink abaht it, see? Come on, Tobe! I’ll do everyfink you say. I’ll even do trainin’ spins, ’cos I ain’t got me foby no more. Vat skinny old broad as got me vat lawyer, she ’ad it all aht of me, and it’s gorn, Tobe. I could sleep in vem bleedin’ woods nah.”
“Look, Dave,” said Toby, “I’m not getting mixed up with Gracechurchstreet and Maverick. I don’t like them, and I don’t trust their little games. So it’s them or me, but not both. If they show up here, that’s the end of it.”
“Vey won’t come, Tobe, honest vey won’t. Vey’re orf to the States to fix up wiv the Moonrocket, on’y ’e ain’t the Moonrocket no more, ’cos I am.”
“Now look here, Dave, you’ve been in enough trouble. If you have any sense you’ll have no more to do with those other two. Listen, I know a sports reporter, a very good chap, who’ll put you on to a decent club. You’ve never fought for money, have you?”
“Not for a purse, Tobe, on’y for me keep wiv Gorinsky.”
“I don’t think that would count. I think you’d still qualify as an amateur. Join this club, as I suggest, and then, later on, when you’ve had some bouts which really count—you know, inter-club competitions and perhaps a national championship, well, then turn pro, if you want to, and jolly good luck. How’s that for an idea?”
“Bloody lousy. I ain’t fightin’ no more as no flippin’ amacher. I’m the Moonrocket Kid, ain’t I?”
“You’re a perishing young fool.”
“Well, look, Tobe, if you won’t do nuffink more, will you come over tomorrow morning?”
“Just to give you a work-out, but nothing more. If you’d agree to chuck those two I’d take you on, as I said, but if you’re going to tack on to Gracechurchstreet and Maverick, I’m through, so what do you say?”
“Fanks a lot, Tobe. I’ll fink abaht it.”
“You see, if you think Gracechurchstreet and Maverick are intending to do you any good, Dave, I can tell you here and now that you’re dead wrong. I’d drop them like something red hot, if I were you. Can’t you ever learn sense? These chaps have already done their best to land you in the soup over the murder of Gorinsky—because, even if the police haven’t yet found out who did it, it was murder, you know—and if I were you I’d cut out having anything whatever to do with them.”
“You talk like a creepin’ cheese, Tobe. Vey can’t ’urt me! I bin acquitted, ain’t I?”
“No, Dave. I don’t know much about the law, but this I do know: you haven’t been acquitted, for the simple reason that you’ve never been brought to trial. You could be re-arrested tomorrow if the police thought they had found any fresh evidence pointing to your guilt. They’re still on the trail, you know. They never give up a case. They only file it.”
“Is vat the troof?”
“Yes, Dave, I’m afraid it is.”
“But I fought vat lawyer got me orf.”
“So far, yes, and, of course, so far, so good. But if you begin going into a huddle again with the same gang, you’re putting yourself in Queer Street. Can’t you see that?”
He returned to the station house and put through a call to Dame Beatrice. On the following morning h
e breakfasted an hour earlier than usual, then put on shorts and sneakers, picked up a towel and went across to the inn. Dave was waiting for him in the gym. He said, without preliminaries:
“Mr. Maverick bin on the phone.”
“Oh, yes?” said Toby. “I thought he and Gracechurchstreet had gone to America.”
“Said ’e was speakin’ from the airport. Vey missed veir plane.”
“That was clever of them!”
“You don’t mean vey done it a-purpose, Tobe? Why would vey?”
“Did they say anything else?”
“Vey warnts me to go up to Yorkshire again.”
“What on earth for?”
“I dunno. Vey’re sendin’ me the money for me fare and vey’ve booked me a room.”
“In Leeds ?”
“Vey didn’t say where. Vey’re writin’ a letter, but I knows it wouldn’t be Leeds.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Vey ’ad to scarper from Leeds p.d.q., Tobe. Vey never didn’t want to take it on the lam like vey did, and leave me and ’Arry be’ind, but I reckon somefink cropped up, Tobe, as none on ’em ’adn’t expected.”
“What cropped up was the report of Gorinsky’s death, Dave.”
“What I better do nah, Tobe?”
“Don’t ask me. I’ve given you my advice.”
“If I gives ’em the air, Tobe, I’m outer a crib and me bleedin’ chance goes for a burton. Besides, I’m frit of vat Gracechurchstreet. Vem teef of ’is, when ’e grins at yer, vey gives me the ’eebies, Tobe.”
“Me, too. Let’s forget it until the letter comes with your fare and the address they want you to go to. Where’s Harry?”
“Up in the gym.” They mounted the stairs in silence. The old prize-fighter, who was over in the opposite corner of the room beating a lifeless tattoo on the punching-ball, came shambling over to them.
“Harry,” said Toby, “how did Scouse get into that quarry? Who knocked him on the head and pushed him in?”
“Scouse?”
“You heard. Don’t hedge. I’ve been on the telephone, and I was told to ask you to come clean. So now, what about it?”
Gory Dew (Mrs. Bradley) Page 21