The Tango School Mystery

by Peter Bartram

And there was a witness.

  Marilyn Monroe was propped on the side of the bed. She was missing the earring, but otherwise dressed as she'd been in Louis Tussaud's. As she'd been in The Seven Year Itch, when she'd stepped out of a cinema after watching The Creature from the Black Lagoon and stood over a subway vent to cool her ankles.

  I gripped the top of the ladder like it was my final handhold in an ascent of Everest. It felt like my heart was doing the eight-step tango basic. In double time. For a moment, I wondered whether my legs would have the strength to climb down. I took a couple of deep breaths to steady myself.

  Then I had a thought.

  The broken window meant Potter must have been shot by a sniper operating at a distance. Suppose he was still there. And I was lined up in his cross-hairs.

  I found some strength in my legs and scurried down the ladder. But by the time, I'd reached the ground, I'd thought again. No sniper hangs around after delivering his coup de main. He'd be long gone.

  But he must have fired from somewhere. Beyond the fence at the end of Potter's garden I could see the flat roofs of some single-storey buildings. I made my way through the undergrowth and looked over the fence. The roofs belonged to a compound of garages, deserted at this time of night and unlit. The garages had been built on ground that rose away from Potter's house. I estimated the roofs would have been at the same level as the window of Potter's bedroom. An ideal vantage point to line up a shot. Perhaps the sniper had left some trace. But I didn't think so. A marksman with enough skill to fell Potter with one shot didn't leave a mess behind him when he quit the scene of the crime.

  I made my way back to the front of the house. I knew I had to call the police. But I also wanted to alert the paper so that we could get a photographer on the scene.

  When Click-Click and I had been reconnoitering the area I'd noticed a telephone box two hundred yards down the street. I'd make a call from there, but first I had a job to do.

  Chapter 17

  The fact Potter was dead could make my breaking into his van look a bit suspicious.

  So I had to cover my tracks.

  There was no reason the cops should even suspect I knew Potter if I played my cards right. Chances were Brighton's finest wouldn't consider the van part of the crime scene. That meant no hunt for fingerprints. But, anyway, I'm a blameless citizen. My prints weren't on file.

  Even so, when there's a dead body around, it pays to be cautious.

  So I took down the ladder and shoved it back in the van. I took Marilyn's earring out of my pocket and left it on the floor of the van. Somewhere even the dimmest cop with pebble glasses would find it. Ever helpful, that's me.

  Then I scooted down the road to the phone box. I called the office and got through to Jake Harrison, the duty reporter. Jake was a night owl. He claimed he liked working through the wee small hours because he suffered from insomnia. I had something that would definitely keep him awake.

  I said: "Jake, I've got a favour to ask, but it's not something you'll have picked up on your National Council for the Training of Journalists course."

  Jake gave a throaty chuckle. "I thought it mightn't be."

  "I need you to find a public phone box at least a quarter of a mile from the office and make an anonymous call to the cops. Tell them you've heard what sounded like breaking glass coming from a house earlier this evening."

  "Which house?"

  I gave Potter's address.

  "What do I say if the cops ask why I didn't report it earlier?" Jake asked.

  "You could say you were on your way to do your cleaning shift at the bus depot and couldn't find a phone. That should also throw the cops off your scent."

  Jake chuckled again. "Consider it done."

  "One other favour, Jake. Contact one of the photographers and get him up to the street in about an hour's time. By then, the cops should be on the scene in force."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm planning to call on the neighbours," I said. "I need to pick up some background about the dead man."

  "Would you like a ginger nut with your cocoa, Mr Crampton?"

  Betsy Threadgold offered me biscuits on a willow pattern plate.

  Her husband Wilf sidled up to me with a bottle of whisky and added a good slug to the cocoa.

  "The lad needs a strengthener at this time of night, dearest one," he said to Betsy.

  I was sitting in their best parlour. A set of chintzy armchairs had lacy antimacassars and arm covers. There was a fireplace with a set of brass fire irons. There was an Ekco television set with a nineteen inch screen in the corner. There was a coffee table in the centre of the room. It held copies of the Radio Times, Woman's Weekly and couple of Alistair Maclean paperbacks.

  Betsy and Wilf reminded me of that old rhyme about Jack Spratt who could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean. Betsy was a plump motherly type with smiling eyes, pouched cheeks like a hamster's and a pair of double chins. Wilf had a body that was lean and whippy. He had a face that seemed set in a permanent smile. He had white hair with a bald patch at the back of his head..

  I'd waited at the end of the road until the cops had arrived before knocking on their door. Sooner or later, one of the brighter coppers would ask how I came upon the scene so soon after the alert was sounded. I'd say I just happened to be in the area and decided to see whether anything was doing. They wouldn't believe me. But, then, they rarely did.

  I said: "Good of you to see me so late."

  Betsy grinned. "Not often we have a bit of excitement in this street, is it Wilf?"

  Wilf paused from pouring a knockout slug of scotch into his own cocoa. "No, dearest one."

  I said: "From what I've heard, your near neighbour Mr Potter has been shot."

  "Is he dead?" Wilf asked.

  "Yes. I believe being shot between the eyes can do that to you."

  Wilf nodded. "Saw enough killing in the war. Hoped never to see any more."

  "And this used to be such a nice neighbourhood," Betsy said. "Now I suppose we'll all be in the newspapers."

  "Not all of you. Only Mr Potter. And he's in no position to complain about it. I'll keep your names out of the Chronicle. That's a promise."

  Betsy's chins wobbled with pleasure. "I told you he was a nice young man, didn't I Wilf?"

  "Yes, dearest one."

  I said: "What I'd like to do is get some background information about Mr Potter. Have you lived near him for long?"

  "About four years, since Wilf retired. He was on the railways, you know."

  "And Mr Potter was a decorator," I said. "And his son was in the business with him."

  Betsy leaned closer, the way people do when they're planning to tell you something they think is confidential. "That's what it said on the back of the van," she said. "Potter & Son. But he had no son. Never even had a wife."

  "Why did he call his business Potter & Son?" I asked.

  "Asked him about that once," Wilf said. "He told me it was because it made his firm sound more reliable. Like it weren't just him and a paint brush."

  "But I think there was more to it than that," Betsy said. "I think he was living a - what do you call it? - a fancy."

  "A fantasy," I said.

  "Yes, a fantasy. I think the truth is he wanted a son but never had the chance to have one. He just didn't have a way with women. Not like my Wilf. He'd have his way with them all if I let him."

  Wilf blushed. "You know you're the only girl for me, dearest one." He took a slurp of his cocoa.

  I said: "Was Potter's decorating business successful, even without the fantasy son?"

  Wilf said: "I think it was up and down, the way these self-employed decorators are. I remember about a year ago - it was a Sunday morning and I was out front washing the car - he came up the road with a pint of milk and his Sunday Express. We got talking and he seemed quite chipper. He'd just picked up a job to redecorate the flat of some toff who lived in a posh penthouse flat on the seafront at Kemp Town. I remember I sai
d to him, 'That's a step up in the world for you. Quite a few steps if it's a penthouse.' And he said, 'No steps at all, Wilf. The place has got its own private elevator.' It was the only time I ever saw him grin."

  "He didn't tell you who the client was, by any chance?" I asked.

  "He did but I can't remember the name. I think it was something to do with the church. Priest, possibly? Or Parsons?"

  "Could it have been Pope?" I asked.

  Wilf clapped his hands. "Yes, that's it - Pope."

  "Did he know this Pope well?" I asked.

  "Couldn't say," Wilf said. "Potter just seemed pleased he had a job that would pay well and give him the chance to know more clients in a higher income bracket."

  I guess I should have been surprised that Potter had known Gervase Pope. Perhaps I should have gasped. Slopped my cocoa over myself. Held my hands up and yelled: "I don't believe it." But I did believe it. After all, I'd already seen Potter at Maundsley's place snapping into a Nazi salute with Blunt. But the news that Potter had worked for Gervase added a new strand to the cat's cradle of connections I was trying to untangle. After all, Pope and Maundsley were hated enemies. So if Potter was helping them both out - Gervase with decorating, Maundsley with nicking waxworks - whose side was he on?

  I asked: "When did you last see Potter?"

  "Haven't set eyes on him for at least a couple of weeks," Wilf said.

  Betsy put down her cocoa. "I saw him a couple of days ago. I was just heading off to the shops when he came out of his house and got into his van. I called out 'good morning' to him, but he virtually ignored me."

  "Perhaps he was feeling under pressure," I said.

  "Perhaps. But common civility costs nothing," Betsy said.

  "Did Potter have any enemies that you knew of?" I asked.

  "We never knew him that well, did we, dearest one?" Wilf said.

  Betsy shook her head. "Glad we didn't now."

  I drained the last of my cocoa and put the mug on the coffee table.

  I said: "You've been a great help. Thanks for your time."

  "Don't mention it, dear," Betsy said. "I suppose at the end of the day Mr Potter was just an unlucky man who didn't have much success with the ladies."

  Wilf flashed Betsy a beaming smile. "We chaps can't all attract such a precious one as you," he said.

  This wasn't the moment to tell them about Marilyn Monroe.

  I arrived in the newsroom at the Chronicle before seven the following morning after barely five hours sleep.

  I was feeling about as fresh as a week-old halibut. I'd spent the previous night playing hide-and-seek with the cops. I was anxious not to get pulled in as a witness in Potter's murder. I'd be tied up at the cop shop for hours answering their damn fool questions. That would mean I couldn't turn out the front-page exclusive I was about to write.

  But that posed another problem. I couldn't use much of the information I'd garnered while up the ladder peering into Potter's bedroom without revealing what I'd done. So I had to find a way of persuading the cops to tell me what I already knew.

  I lifted the phone and dialled a number at Brighton police station.

  Ted Wilson answered with a yawn.

  I said: "Wakey, wakey. Anyone would think you'd been up all night."

  Ted said: "I have. The Hollingdean shooting."

  "You're heading the case?"

  "If only. Your favourite detective has decided he's going to crack this one."

  "Detective Superintendent Alec Tomkins."

  "I don't know how a man with an empty mind can be so full of himself."

  "Can I quote you on that?"

  "You dare and I'll arrange for something nasty to happen to you on a dark night."

  "Ooooh! I'm scared. But, seriously, I'd like some information."

  "You know the score. Turn up at the press conference this morning."

  "Haven't got time, Ted. Help me out. Perhaps we can help each other."

  "Why? What do you know that I don't."

  I grinned. "That list would take all day to read. But let me ask you one question. I gather someone was shot at a house in Garland Street, Hollingdean. What was the name of the victim?"

  "Can't tell you that until next of kin have been informed."

  "Was it Stanley Potter?"

  "How did you know that?"

  "By noting the house the cops had cordoned off and looking up the name in the electoral register. Besides, the neighbours also knew him."

  "And he was the same Potter whose van was seen in Pool Valley the night Louis Tussaud's was robbed?"

  "Where did you get that from?"

  "The van is parked at the side of his house. Anyone can see it - and the identifying paint splash on the tyre you told me about."

  "Yes, it looks like the same van," Ted conceded.

  "I believe Potter was killed in his bedroom?"

  "Who told you?" Ted said.

  "No-one but you can see the hole in the bedroom window from houses in the next street. Not hard to work it out. Any unusual features to the killing?"

  Ted put on his official voice. "Too early to reveal what we've found at the scene of the crime."

  "Was the shooting connected to any other crime?" I asked.

  "We're keeping an open mind on that."

  "As Potter's van was in Pool Valley, he could be connected to the waxworks heist. I wondered whether any of the stolen waxworks were in his house."

  "I can't comment on that."

  "If I were to speculate in my piece that Potter had at least one of the waxworks would you deny it?"

  "Er, not exactly deny…"

  "So which waxwork?"

  "Tomkins will have my lights for a clothesline if I revealed that."

  "A bloke of Potter's age is unlikely to have much interest in Yuri Gagarin or Winston Churchill. That just leaves Marilyn Monroe."

  I heard Ted sigh. I could imagine his shoulders sagging and his frown becoming deeper. He'd be stroking his beard for comfort. He'd have to explain all this to Tomkins.

  I said: "Don't worry, Ted. There'll be enough hints in my piece to suggest the information came from another source."

  "Which source?" he asked hopefully.

  "Detective Superintendent Tomkins," I said.

  I put the phone down before Ted could ask any more questions.

  And then I pulled my old Remington towards me and hammered out a story that would lead the front page.

  Twenty minutes later Frank Figgis bustled into the newsroom.

  He spotted me and hurried over to my desk.

  "Where is he?" he asked.

  I gave him my wide-eyed look and said: "Where's who?"

  "The man you're supposed to be tracing."

  I made a show of looking all around the newsroom and then stooped down and peered under my desk.

  "He's not there," I said.

  "This isn't a joke."

  "Too right," I said. "Two men have died so far and, if His Holiness is right, a third is in line for a trip to the Pearly Gates."

  Typewriters at nearby desks fell silent as fellow journos suddenly realised they needed to consult their notes. All the better to earwig the argument Figgis and I were having.

  Figgis picked it up immediately. "Come to my office," he said.

  He marched off across the newsroom. I followed with stooped shoulders like a slave being led into captivity. I could hear suppressed sniggers behind me.

  In his office, Figgis reached for his peppermints, ripped off the paper, and shoved three of the things into his mouth. His teeth crunched viciously on them.

  I slumped in the guest chair and said: "I've landed us an exclusive on the Potter murder. I've linked the killing to the Tussaud's robbery."

  Figgis asked me how and I told him how Potter had made Marilyn Monroe his bedroom playmate.

  Figgis's eyebrows arched in disbelief. "Good heavens. I can just imagine what Mrs Figgis would say if I tried that."

  "Would she notice?" I asked. />
  "As long as I kept Marilyn properly dusted, probably not." Figgis said. "But don't think you can change the subject. I want to know what progress you've made in tracing Gervase Pope. I've been ordered to report back to His Holiness this morning."

  I leaned back in my chair.

  "You can tell His Holiness, I've no evidence that Gervase has killed anyone - yet. But I've also got no lead on where he's hiding. If Gervase were plotting to kill Maundsley, it's possible the Clapham murder may have spooked him. Even the cops will discover that Clapham was linked to Maundsley. That means there will be an increased police presence around the old fascist."

  "A ring of steel?" Figgis asked.

  "Knowing the Brighton cops, it'll be more like a ring of rusty old tin. But it may persuade Gervase to back off - if he were planning an assassination attempt in the first place."

  "His Holiness can't think of any other reason for his disappearance."

  "Pope may not know as much about his brother as he'd like to think. When I visited his flat, it was clear he's still deeply involved in extreme right-wing politics."

  "But he hates Maundsley."

  "That makes no difference to fanatics like Gervase. They remain faithful to the cause and regard those who let them down as traitors."

  "So you're saying that Gervase looks on Maundsley as a traitor?"

  "Could be. But there's a broader picture here. The Clapham and Potter killings suggest to me that there's something big about to happen in Maundsley's organisation. I don't know what it is, but I'm beginning to wonder whether Gervase could be involved. Perhaps he knows what's going to happen and wants to be part of it. Perhaps he wants to stop it. Perhaps he just wants to find out more. If we could get to the bottom of that, I think we'd have a clue where we can find Gervase."

  Figgis swallowed his peppermints and reached for another.

  Before he could do so, there was a rap on his door. The door opened and Cedric's face appeared.

  "Urgent call for Mr Crampton at his desk," Cedric said.

  "Get the switchboard to put it through in here," Figgis said.

  Cedric disappeared and thirty seconds later Figgis's phone rang.

  I lifted the receiver and a voice taut with tension said: "This is Estelle Daventry. Something terrible has happened. It concerns Gervase Pope. I need to see you immediately."