Blood Red Star

by Mark Walker

  “Any assistance that I can be, Inspector,” she said enthusiastically. With that agreed they parted company, and Toby left to go to his job as a properties assistant backstage at the Criterion Theatre. They said goodbye to WPC Hopkins for the day, and took the lift back upstairs. Almost as soon as the visitors arrived back in Riggs’s office, Mrs. Peach stuck her head round the door.

  “The latest GDR will be on in a minute, sir—you’d better listen.” With a frown, Riggs switched on his wireless set, and it hummed for a few seconds as the receiver to warmed up. They all gathered round expectantly. The hourly gloom-and-doom chimes were just beginning, bing, bang, bong, and the reporter came on, breathless.

  This is Crowley Caruthers of the BBC reporting from outside the tall, commanding gates of New Scotland Yard. On this dank, foggy evening, I’m here to report a new development in the case all of London is talking about. I’ve just learned from a very reliable source that three children are reported to have been eyewitnesses to the attack yesterday in St James’s Square. These children have been identified as a Michael, Amanda, and Jenny Prescott of London. Their nanny, as yet unidentified, was with them at the time, and all are thought to be right here, behind these gates. Inside Scotland Yard, they’re being interviewed at this very hour. It was only yesterday afternoon that a librarian from the London Library was accosted and attacked in St James’s Square. Scotland Yard is still seeking her assailant. A pickpocket, originally suspected to be that assailant, has been cleared, but held on other charges. We are revealing here for the first time, ladies and gentlemen, that these children are said to have seen the attacker first hand, describing her as a ”Lady in Black.” This woman has also variously been described as a ”Black Widow” or “Gran,” though her age is not known. Now rumors are flying that the Lady in Black may indeed be one of the women suspected in the theft of the famous Blood Star from the Royal Academy last month. Your reporter will stay on the case to try to get a personal interview with these young crime fighters when they leave the Yard.

  Exasperated, Sergeant Bellows was the first to speak, muttering, “Oh, no you won’t! Great Galloping Gollywhoppers!”

  Riggs hit the switch and turned off the wireless in disgust.

  “Where on earth do they get this stuff? How did they find out?” asked Bellows with exasperation.

  “It’s clear whatever we do, we can’t let news of the Blood Star leak out. They already suspect it. We’d never be able to recover it then.”

  “It may be too late already. And we can’t let the press get at them, it could jeopardize the entire case!”

  “We’ll have to get them out without being seen.’’

  “Yes, we’ll make a plan downstairs.”

  “There’s no telling who their “very reliable source” could be.”

  “I believe in a free press, but we can’t let them endanger the children’s safety,” said Brendalynn earnestly.

  “And yours, as well. They don’t seem to know about Mr. Knockknees, or your name, Miss Welles.” Riggs continued, “Yes, I think there may be some danger, and you and the children need some protection. If today has taught us nothing else, it is that these people are deadly serious. You have become a danger to them, so we’ll have to take strong measures. Fred, let’s send a team of four, two detectives and two constables. I like those odds much better.”

  Brendalynn Welles looked at him and bit her underlip, but there was mischief in her eyes. “I’d feel better if you were there, Inspector. I don’t suppose you could come and look after us, too?”

  Kelly Riggs’s eyes answered, and he said with aplomb, “Well, I suppose I could break away to assist our lads, though I have every confidence they’ll be up to the challenge.”

  “Well, we’ve plenty of room,” said Brendalynn. “Cook’s already gone for the day, but I could lay on a cold supper for us, we have some roast beef and potato salad. There’s a fresh cucumber, watercress, and lovely Bordeaux. Oh, and there’s the leftover blackberry crumble from last night. Cook was so upset she took a piece for herself this morning.

  “Then after supper, we could see if you are up to the challenge, too, Inspector, perhaps for a game of chess in the private parlor?” She smiled and her brilliant eyes challenged him coquettishly.

  Riggs was quick on the uptake, and said amusedly, “Or perhaps we could perform some linguistic gymnastics over some of the finer points of forensics?” Before she could answer, the intercom on Riggs’s desk buzzed, and the tinny voice of Mrs. Peach came through. It was Toby calling from the theatre wanting to know if they were still there. Riggs took the phone’s receiver and set it on top of his intercom. He flipped a switch, and it became a speakerphone.

  “Yes Toby, we’re still here.”

  His voice, with a slight tinny echo came clearly through the speaker. “They’re about to start the rehearsal, but there’s already some news, Inspector. Kitt and Trilby said they overheard some of the other girls talking about one of the shows’ backers. Her name is Ginger Vitis, and she’s the one who goes with the gangster, Bruno Stilton. She’s put a hefty sum into the show and will be coming opening night for the premiere. Here’s Trilby.” He handed off the phone.

  A melodious voice came over the line. “Yes, Inspector, it’s Trilby, and even though it’s supposed to be a big secret, of course everybody knows about it because this is a theatre, and believe me, if somebody doesn’t know about something—just wait a minute—then they will! Oh, faster than a fart these rumors fly!” she trilled melodiously. “Well, here’s the thing—they said supposedly Ginger Vitis will be wearing some impressive new piece of jewelry, but it’s a huge secret as to what. Oh, wait, just a moment—here’s Kitt, and she will tell you the other thing.’’

  “Hallo, Inspector, it’s me, Kitt. This Ginger Vitis is nothing but trouble. She’s a vamp for sure, and I ain’t talkin’ about a repeatin’ musical phrase, neither, if you know what I mean. She’s already been through half the chorus boys and some of the actors, and has more boyfriends than Wallace Simpson and Mae West put together. That gangster boyfriend of hers, Bruno Stilton, is supposed to be here, too. The whole place is simply buzzin’ about it! If I was you, Inspector, I’d watch my step round this bird, as she’ll charm the scales off a snake, she will!”

  She was interrupted by Trilby, and then there was a lot of commotion and shouting, and a loud bell clanged in the background. “The rehearsal is going to start,” said Kitt, “We’ve got to go!” She broke the connection.

  Riggs switched off the speaker and snapped his fingers. A hard glint showed in his eyes, and their color seemed to darken to intense pewter. “So! Her name is Ginger Vitis!” he exclaimed. “We were wondering just this afternoon who Bruno Stilton was seeing these days.”

  Fred Bellows shook his head. “Never heard of her, sir.”

  “Neither have I.” Riggs turned to Brendalynn. “Miss Welles, do you know anything about this Ginger Vitis?”

  She answered enthusiastically, “Well, all I know is what I’ve read and seen about her in some of the fashion magazines. She’s a very glamorous redhead, and a real man trap, just like Kitt was saying. Sometimes they called her the “Babe.” She dabbles in things like backing this play, but mostly it’s parties and clubbing, and just being seen in all her finery. She used to be a top-flight fashion model, but she could afford to retire, so she did, or she lives off her men friends. And from what I hear, there are plenty of those.”

  Riggs looked thoughtful. “We know now that Bruno Stilton is one of them. Shady character, probable gangster, and owner of the Tip Top Club. Well, well.” He stood up. “All right, Sergeant, it looks like you and I have a job on for tonight.” He turned to Brendalynn and the children. “Now we’ll get you safely home.”

  chapter seventeen

  The Creeping Hand

  EARLY THAT EVENING, as the identity parade was being held at Scotland Yard, there was another hastily called meeting convening deep under the streets of London. Under the same spare ligh
t as before, Marley Slade, Braggs Galloway, and Lonnie Dirkson sat at the same deal table, drinking, smoking, and waiting in dread for the phone to ring.

  After last night’s fiasco and the raid upon Pratt’s that afternoon, they were completely in the dark as to what was going wrong with their carefully laid plans. They had understood the boss’s instructions to the agent Tex, and he had gone to carry them out, yet someone had beaten him to the punch. His failure could not have been their fault. Everything had been in place on their end. Something was terribly wrong. And if it continued, the three frightened men in the little room might have to pay—possibly with their lives. Part of the fear the Hand held over the Underworld was in its cold, stealthy efficiency.

  Their job was to maintain that efficiency, it was to tie up loose ends. The private telephone rang and Marley Slade hesitatingly picked it up. There was a hollow sound, and the sonorous voice he knew too well spoke its deadly orders. He listened intently, eyes wide, gulping audibly. “Right, Boss, I’ll take care of it right now.” He looked at Lonnie Dirkson, then Braggs Galloway, saying nothing. The orders were clear: They were to tie up the loose ends—tonight. Braggs Galloway took out his A-Zed street map.

  Slade and Dirkson would strike the home of the Prescott children at midnight.

  chapter eighteen

  Tricks of the Trade

  THE BBC LIVE CREW AND DOZENS of reporters from every rag in Fleet Street were crowded outside the gates on both sides of Scotland Yard, anxiously awaiting the appearance of the young witnesses and their nanny. A newsreel crew set up their cine cameras to take film for tomorrow’s “Today in Pictures” presentation. Pictures were indeed taken: of the gates, the constables on duty, the crowd, and the other reporters. But the main subjects were nowhere in sight, so the reporters could only report on themselves and speculate. Crowley Caruthers was still on the job, trying desperately to fill time on the live radio broadcast. Each time a car came or went, the newshounds bayed, whipped, and pointed, camera flashbulbs popping, but there followed disappointed groans as they discovered their young prey was not in any of them. A further disappointment occurred when the dank evening turned to rain, and the crowd of dogged reporters soon pulled out their brollies and turned up their collars.

  Behind the tall gates inside the dry Yard, the detectives had quickly decided on a plan to get the children and Brendalynn Welles home without interference from the reporters or danger from the Black and Blue Hand. They stood huddled in the downstairs corridor. Double doors with mullioned windows opened to the inner courtyard, where rain pattered down heavily outside the small porte cochere. Riggs spoke rapidly. “We’ll do the ‘over-under-four-in-hand’.” He might have been discussing a football strategy, and indeed it was straight out of the playbook.

  Sergeant Bellows’ eyes lit up and he said, “Ah!” before turning to Brendalynn and the children. Riggs spoke hastily to the two constables on duty. One made a phone call and the other hurried outside into the downpour. A rush of cold air filled the corridor as Riggs dashed after him.

  Bellows explained. “This is one of the tricks of the trade. The whole plan for making our escape unnoticed is based on tying a necktie. The over-under is the first and most important move. There will be a van fitted out to look as if you are inside it, and a WPC in plainclothes doubling for Miss Welles. We don’t have any officers small enough to double the children I’m afraid, so we’ll have two more WPCs duck down and cover themselves with oversized macs. The rain will cover the rest. The van will have a motorcycle escort to make a big show of leaving through the rear gates. That will draw the crowd of reporters from the front gates to the rear, which is where the ‘over-under’ comes in.

  “Then, in case anyone is left at the front gate, Inspector Riggs will create another diversion for them and leave that way, followed by another decoy car. Now the rest of the ‘four-in-hand’ comes into play, as both distraction teams lead anyone following them on a merry chase straight back here to the Yard! While they’re following the Pied Pipers, we’ll get you home unobserved.

  “Two unmarked cars will be pulling up to the door in a moment. We’ll split up—the ladies in one car, and I’ll go with Master Michael in the other. Then it’s just a matter of sitting back and watching the fun.”

  Minutes later they were waiting in the cars in the courtyard, watching through the rain-streamed windows as the “over-under” went into play. The operation went off without a hitch, as the reporters at the front gates quickly took the bait.

  The decoy van and motorcycles proceeded as planned, dutifully pursued by the newshounds, only to wind up back at the gates of the Yard. By this time Sergeant Bellows, Brendalynn, and the children, along with Riggs, proceeded directly to the Prescott house without being followed.

  All this precaution may have fooled the press, but the gangsters already knew the address.

  chapter nineteen

  The Man in the Mirror

  THE MAN SITTING AT THE MIRROR in the dressing room of the Criterion Theatre pulled off his nose. He tossed the rubber prosthesis into a tray on the small counter before him. He then applied some base and powder to his real nose, and worked quickly over his entire face with a grease pencil.

  The eyes of the man peering intently into the mirror were narrow, black, and cruel, over a crooked nose that ended like a ski jump, hanging far over the short upper lip. The dark black brows were knitted into a half-frown that was accentuated by the long V of black hair combed forward over the center of the forehead, the rest being cut rather short. His cheekbones were pronounced, and sharpened by long sideburns that cut into their sides. Still he was handsome, in a darkly cruel way.

  His original assignment had been simple. He would disappear from rehearsal in a costume of street clothes, slipping out the back and over to St James’s Square. There he would meet the librarian and make the exchange. Yet somehow something had gone terribly wrong, and a day ahead of time, the woman had been attacked and the dingus was gone. Then, to make matters worse, the frail survives (not so frail!) and is in hospital. Then he’s ordered to act, and the whole business blows up in their faces. His face. The doctor’s coat hung unused in his wardrobe.

  He stared at himself for a full minute before resuming his preparation. The whole thing had become a disaster. Whatever may come, he simply had to ingratiate himself again into Boss Stilton’s good graces. He could not fail again. And what about his affair? He must have been insane to have even considered such a thing, but with her constantly being there due to her sponsorship and as one of the backers of the musical, it had been all too easy. And with the news already filled with stories of a Lady in Black, what must he think? Had she betrayed him? And why? The snatch job was over. Their brief affair was over. If Boss Stilton ever found out about it, they would both be toast. It was a creeping, gnawing fear. He continued applying his makeup, thinking furtively.

  The fact that the long fingers involved themselves at all in the theatre showed the length and depth of the reach of the Black and Blue Hand. That he, an actor, was caught up with the Hand was not entirely without precedent. He had always been a bit of crook, but had been a step up in his criminal activity. So far, he had been lucky. He had never served any jail time, but now it felt different. Ever since the theft of the Blood Star, he had lived in constant fear—of the police, and of him, and of her.

  He had been chosen because he was an actor and a quick-change artist, and because he had appeared on stage as a woman before. And just like everything he did, he was quite believable at it.

  The person sitting behind the dreary door with the faded star thinking these furtive thoughts was Tex O’Bannion, actor extraordinaire. It was said he was so talented as an actor he could play two different parts on stage at the same time. At that moment he was preparing to play three different parts and a walk-on (but not all on stage at the same time) in the all-star musical production of Hamlet.

  He was vaguely conscious of the rehearsal going on in the background, the dialogue
emanating from a speaker in the hall. There was a knock on the door. It was the stage manager. “Ten minutes, Tex,” he called.

  “Thanks,” he muttered in a low, textured baritone. Tex O’Bannion would be playing several roles, including Rosencrantz, and later the Clown in the famous grave-digging scene where Hamlet picks up the skull, contemplates it, and utters, “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio…” Thankfully, none of his parts called for him to sing full out, but rather he would speak the lines. He thought the whole business was horrid, but he welcomed the work.

  His long history in the theatre had earned him the moniker Tex when he had gone to America with an English theatrical troupe. The production had run short of funds and became stranded in New Mexico. The young actor had made his way to Texas, where he worked as a ranch hand for ten months. There, at the YOYOY Ranch, he had learned a wealth of character insights and vocal accents, and had fulfilled the actor’s own need to experience life. Back home, he had incorporated his newly acquired skills, along with a lasso, into his stage act, an English music-hall version of Will Rogers. As he could ride a horse like a Wild West expert, it was only natural for him to be called Tex. He even bought himself a black, ten-gallon cowboy hat, in the style of the latest American horse-opera cinema sensation, Hopalong-Cassidy, that he wore on the odd occasion when he was feeling extra eccentric. But it had been some months now since he felt up to it, not since he had fallen into the clutches of the Hand. As he put on the last of his makeup, a sudden dreadful realization came to him.

  His dark eyes widened and he stared into his reflection. It was she who was responsible. It was she who had played him the whole way, strung him along, and left him high and dry, after learning his carelessly revealed secrets about the plan to steal the Blood Star. She had even paraded a magazine in front of him, but he hadn’t taken any of it seriously. Then—the shock of a lifetime—she had suddenly shown up as one of the other thieves that day, dressed as a widow. And she had mocked him, threatening him with making their affair known. Why, just the day before, when he’d encountered her in the backstage hallway, she had made a remark about it. “You’re never late for a funeral, are you, Tex, dahling?”