Blood Red Star

by Mark Walker

  Now if he didn’t play things very carefully, he might be finished.

  There was another knock on his door. “Places for Scene Three, Mr. O’Bannion.”

  “Thank you,” muttered Tex. A mixture of anger, disgust, and dread filled him as he rose from in front of the little table. But he was an actor and he masked his fear, only hoping that the man in the mirror wasn’t doomed.

  chapter twenty

  Close Calls

  THE FLYING SQUAD CARS containing Bellows, Brendalynn, and the children arrived at the Prescott home to find the constables already on duty outside. The attached house, like the others on the block, was a roomy, well-appointed, three-storied affair over a raised ground floor. It carried a stately air, its tall windows set in a simple Victorian façade. Rain poured off the steep gabled roof.

  As they shed their hats and coats in the front hall, Sergeant Bellows fiddled with his tie in a certain way, and it was then that Mandy knew who he reminded her of. At that moment a constable opened the door to admit Inspector Riggs, a lopsided smile on his face. Riggs gave a brief sketch of the situation as he doffed his hat and coat, but soon grew serious and reiterated the possible danger that might be lurking near. He was especially concerned for little Jenny.

  Jen, far from being apprehensive about this hint of danger, felt very important and proud to be the center of so much attention. Brendalynn asked the girls to accompany her to the kitchen. There they began preparations for their supper and, most importantly, discussed the resemblance of Fred Bellows to Oliver Hardy, the rounder half of the famous comedy team of Laurel & Hardy.

  In the front hall, Riggs outlined the steps that would be enlisted to protect the house. Michael listened intently. Suddenly he piped up and said, “I can sleep on the floor outside the girls’ room. I’ve even got something I can use to smash any old Black and Blue Hand that tries to get in. Why, just let ’em even try!” he cried, shaking his fist in the air.

  “Master Prescott, just what, may I ask, is this something you’re speaking of?” asked Riggs.

  “Why, it’s Dad’s cricket bat! I’ll smash ’em, I will!”

  “Michael, m’ lad,” said Riggs, “you are quite a sport!”

  “And if you do smash ’em, that’ll give ’em a black-and-blue hand for sure!” said Bellows. He and Riggs laughed, but then Riggs again turned serious, saying, “Now don’t forget, Michael, these are some of the most dangerous criminals in London—I dare say in all of England—so we must take them very seriously. If it comes to it, you let me or Sergeant Bellows here handle any hands that might get in. It’s a long chance, but we’ll be prepared. So,” he said, turning to Bellows, “let’s get the lay of the land and check for any vulnerable points. Young Michael here can be our guide.”

  They had soon covered the ground floor with its wide hall, front parlor, kitchen, and dining room, and mounting the steep stairs, on to the first, second, and third. Plans were made, and eventually Bellows took up a position on the second floor. Riggs and Michael went down to the kitchen to join Brendalynn and the girls. They ate their tasty supper in the kitchen and prepared a plate for Bellows. Riggs offered to wash up whilst Brendalynn put the children to bed. He checked the coffee supply, finding it of sufficient and acceptable quality. He then filled the receptacle of the dripolator, put the top on, filled it with hot water from the kettle, capped it, and set it on the stove with the heat turned down. Hopefully it would last him, Bellow,s and the two constables through the long night.

  At about 10:00 p.m., Riggs joined Brendalynn Welles in the front parlor. Outside it was beginning to drizzle steadily, and the old-fashioned over-furnished Victorian room felt cozy and warm. Brendalynn lit the gas fire and they settled in, the firelight dancing over their expectant faces and the wine-red walls. Alighting on the sofa, Brendalynn declined coffee as it was already so late. Riggs stood for a moment, taking in the room’s fine furnishings and the paintings on the wall. “I thought you had offered to play a game of chess with me, but I don’t see a chess board here anywhere. I’m thinking you have gotten me here under false pretenses.”

  “Actually, it was just a ruse to get you over here. I knew that nothing as important as protecting three beautiful children who never get into trouble and an innocent girl like me would ever tempt you,” she said facetiously. “So that’s why I came up with the chess excuse. To tell the truth, I’ve never learned to play chess. I guess I spend too much time wrapped up in my law books. But I’m keen to learn. Perhaps you’d teach me.”

  Kelly Riggs laughed and sat down next her. “Well, I’d be delighted, but perhaps checkers would be more my line. That is, if you can wrest yourself away from all the ifs and ands and buts of the whereto clause and the hitherto unknown party of the first part and the last half of the second part. Even though I enforce the law, sometimes I wish it were written in the King’s English where we mere mortals could understand it. I daresay it’s made so only members of a certain profession can keep themselves rather insular, shall we say?” He drank some coffee as his eyes twinkled.

  Now it was her turn to laugh. “All right, Inspector, I take it you have some professional animus concerning a certain profession? Well, let me lay your fears to rest! This champion of the law, this future councilor, always promises to work hand in glove with the police. Especially Scotland Yard! In fact, you have my complete cooperation, I assure you.”

  She leant forward, her blue eyes sparkling intently. Riggs, too, was leaning forward in his chair, their faces only inches apart.

  “Ahem, is it getting a little warm in here?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t know much about chess, but I do know one has to make a first move…”

  After they had finished kissing, they sat holding each other in silence for a few moments, until Brendalynn asked rather breathlessly, “So, do you really think there’s any danger?”

  “Yes, I do. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she whispered and kissed him again, lightly. It was 10:50 when they turned out the lights and the fire. He saw her up to her room, then went through the darkened house and double-checked that all the windows on the ground and first floors were locked. Then he took up his post to wait.

  The downpour that had begun earlier had not abated. It was drenching constables Dawkins and Dickens at the front and back of the house outside, as lightning cracked and thundered overhead. Upstairs in their darkened room overlooking the street, Mandy and Jen sat cuddled in a blanket on a window seat and peered through the water streaming down their window.

  Outside their door, which he had insisted he be allowed to guard, Michael snuggled up in a pair of blankets and a pillow, cradling the cricket bat he had found by rummaging through a closet. Two doors away at the end of the hall was Brendalynn’s room, and at the opposite end, past the long hall runner, near the top of the stairs, Kelly Riggs slouched in a chair. By the light of a small table lamp, he was reading an H and S 3’/6 thriller he had found.

  It was rare for detectives in England to carry weapons, but Superintendent Makepeace had authorized the detectives be armed, each with .38 Webley revolvers. Such was deemed the threat of the Black and Blue Hand.

  As the storm raged outside, Mandy and Jen could just see the dark shape of Constable Dawkins down below on the front stoop, the water pouring off his helmet and mac. Mandy said, “You know, dear, we really mustn’t be afraid. We have Inspector Riggs and Sergeant Bellows and the policeman outside looking after us. Miss Welles is right next door, and Michael’s outside in the hall. That’s awfully nice, isn’t it? You’re not afraid or anything, are you?” Little Jenny shook her head vigorously, first yes and then no and then yes again. After that she was thoughtfully quiet. Mandy hugged her and they cuddled more deeply in their blanket. They stayed by the window, listening to the rain for a few minutes before finally falling fast asleep.

  Sometime later, a crash of thunder shook the house, and shortly after, Ri
ggs’s reading lamp went out. “Blast!” he said, and reached into the small bag beside the chair, fumbling for an electric torch. What he did not know was that it was not the lightning that was responsible for his light being extinguished.

  After a while the rain began to let up, and Dawkins and Dickens were thankful for a respite. Water began to drip off their helmets and the eaves of the house, trickling down downspouts and gutters into the drains. Soon the fog began to creep in, swirling along the ground and reaching up with cool fingers, entwining the bases of the street lamps and iron rails, and snaking between the constables’ legs. Before long, Dawkins in front of the house could barely see across the street, and behind it, Dickens couldn’t see past the back gate.

  A deathly silence settled over the house, and the children were sound asleep. Upstairs, Riggs yawned at the sound of the clock chime: another hour to go before Bellows came up to relieve him. Thinking of Dawkins and Dickens, he was thankful he was no longer a constable pounding a beat. He picked up the extension phone beside him and checked in with the Yard. Nothing new to report. (Had he tried just two minutes later he would have found the line dead.) Riggs aimed his torch down the hall at Michael, and was amused to see him sound asleep, wrapped in the blankets, the cricket bat cradled lovingly in his arms. It was shortly after this that things began to happen.

  Unbeknownst to occupants of the house, two doors away Lonnie Dirkson of the Black and Blue Hand was making his way stealthily across a steep roof. Below him, his confederate Marley Slade had just cut the telephone line into the Prescott house, after doing the same to the electricity. Both gang members were donned in jet-black clothes with pullover caps. Things seemed to be going their way, as they had just missed the foot patrol at the top of the street and the earlier storm. As Dirkson slithered across the wet tiles he was pleased, and he looked forward to the deadly surprise they were about to give to three nosey nippers. And right under the nose of the nosey copper, too, standing so official at the front door!

  Marley Slade was in the small alleyway behind the houses, making his way carefully through the fog, trying to avoid making any sounds. As he slipped through the back gate in the fence, he stiffened at seeing the shadowy grey-black form of a bobby standing at the back door, the breath hanging like a wreath round his head. There was no way he could warn Dirkson without attracting the copper’s attention, but maybe some strong medicine was called for. He moved forward in a low crouch to await the signal from the Prescott’s roof, above.

  Lonnie Dirkson moved carefully between the neighbor’s steep roof and the Prescott house. Hugging the tall chimneys on that end, he sat upon the peak of the roof and cautiously raised his head. He knew of the bobby at the front door, but had no reason to expect any more police to be there. He looked back toward the alley, pulled his pencil torch from his pocket, and held it beneath his chin, making ghastly faces as he flashed three times in the prearranged signal. But as he tried to return the light to his pocket, it slipped and went clattering across the tiled roof and off into the back yard garden. Constable Dickens immediately ran into the yard, his torch blazing up toward the roof, but Dirkson had disappeared behind the chimneys.

  Now, Slade thought. Silently he crept across the wet grass, invisible in the fog. Constable Dickens was still shining his light on the house. Dogs in the neighborhood were beginning to bark. That was the last thing Constable Dickens remembered, for there was a whoosh of air behind him, and the heavy cosh wielded by Slade crashed down behind his right ear. The only thing that saved his life was his heavy peaked helmet. Slade stood over him briefly, panting in the fog.

  It was all or nothing now.

  At the front door, Dawkins, sensing something wrong, moved away from the house, shining his light about and around.

  On the roof, Lonnie Dirkson had been aware of a small disturbance in the fog of the yard below, and saw a signal flash back at him from Slade. He moved on quickly but quietly toward his goal: the skylight near the center of the house. He slipped his penknife out and proceeded to pick at the skylight’s latch.

  Inside, the children were sleeping quite soundly, with no hint of impending danger clouding their dreams. But in the third-floor hall, Kelly Riggs’s sixth sense for danger suddenly came alive. He rose quietly from his chair, eyes and ears straining for a motion or a sound. He was soon rewarded.

  A slight noise came from above and in front of him. A scratching sound. He evened his breathing and a hard smile came to his lips. He felt a whoosh of air and the cold draft that came with it as the skylight’s door came open, the light reflecting from the clouds adding some illumination to the dark hallway. Riggs watched intently as a rope was dropped into the space and a dark figure came snaking down it, landing on experienced cat-like feet, crouching, facing away from Riggs down the hall.

  The vibration of the feet hitting the floor was enough to awaken Michael, and his eyes strained toward a dark shape under the open trap of the skylight. He clutched the cricket bat and slowly began trying to peel the blankets apart.

  Riggs waited until the dark figure rose up, its left hand questing toward the doors of the bedrooms. He took two long strides forward and aimed his torch, saying in a normal voice, “Looking for something?”

  The startled criminal spun around as the light shone squarely into his face, and Kelly Riggs’s right fist found his nose. The blow sent Lonnie Dirkson sprawling down the hall in front of Michael, who was still shaking off his bedding.

  But Dirkson staggered to his feet, and then it was Michael’s turn, as he raised the bat and landed a mighty blow across Dirkson’s foot. This brought a gasp of pain from the thug, who went hopping back toward Kelly Riggs. Now Brendalynn was at her bedroom door. Dirkson charged into Riggs, sending him crashing into the table, lamp, and phone.

  They exchanged hard punches, as the torch fell to the floor, casting monstrous shadows. “Quick, Michael, the rug!” shouted Brendalynn. They dove to the floor, grasped the runner rug, and together gave a mighty jerk backward. On the slippery hardwood floor, the rug went right out from under Lonnie Dirkson, causing him to somersault, only to rise up into yet another punch from Riggs.

  But suddenly there was a click and a glint, as Dirkson pulled a flick knife with obvious expertise. Riggs reacted instantly, whisking up the Fox and Hound stick that had fallen to the floor. He lashed out with the weighted head, striking Dirkson hard across the arm. He hit him again, but Lonnie Dirkson was tough and again raised the dagger to strike. This time Riggs struck him straight across the face, and a spurt of blood exited his nose as he tumbled headlong down the stairs.

  He landed in a heap at the feet of Sergeant Bellows, who was just on his way up to see what the fuss and bother was about. He bent down and examined the head, which was at an odd angle. He then felt for the carotid artery at the side of the throat and looked up at Riggs, who was breathing heavily at the head of the stairs. “Well, this one won’t be doing any squeaking, sir. He’s dead.”

  Riggs looked glumly at the head of his stick before wiping it clean with his handkerchief. Outside, police whistles were beginning to blare through the neighborhood. Marley Slade came bounding round the house at the end of the block, pursued by three constables, only to run straight into the broad arms of PC Dawkins at the front gate.

  Inside the house, Brendalynn rushed into the girls’ room to find Mandy rubbing her eyes and exclaiming, “Oh, curses! You mean I missed it all?”

  Little Jen had just awoken and was asking groggily, “What’s going on? What’s it all about?” They had slept through the whole affair.

  Michael stood solemnly next to Inspector Riggs, looked over the bannister rail and contemplated violent death firsthand.

  chapter twenty-one

  Head of the Hand

  THE TIP TOP CLUB CLOSED at 2:00 a.m. It was 2:30 when a man with tall hair turned out the lights in the penthouse suite, just above the huge clubroom, and just below the giant cocktail glass sculpture in the center of the huge revolving roulette wheel o
n the roof. He pressed a section of paneling, which slid open, and he entered a secret, private lift. There he pushed the last unmarked button at the bottom of the row, and descended eleven stories, plus two more beneath the building.

  He exited into another world. He had built the club over his headquarters, and it was a perfect arrangement. Let the coppers search if they must, his place was clean. Well, clean enough. The Tip Top Club was outfitted with a special array of alarms and a system of lookouts to notify the gambling operation when to “turn the tables,” so to speak, and shift from illegal to legal. In the time it took the authorities to gain the upper floors and the main club, the entire décor could be changed to something resembling innocence. Even if everything seemed to be coming down round his head, he had worked too hard to let his kingdom be sacrificed for a woman. Even if she was a Babe. Or a Babe and a Half.

  Now, far beneath the streets, as he walked down the vaulted, carpeted hall, he never failed to be in awe of his own success in creating the kingdom of the Black and Blue Hand. It was certainly the biggest of the East End gangs, and maybe in all of London. He passed through a room that had once been connected to the city sewer system, but which had been bypassed when improvements were being made. Glazed black and white subway tiles covered the vaulted ceiling and walls; walkways and catwalks soared overhead, surrounding a central court that sloped down to sewer level, but where now no water flowed. The room was decorated with the finest in stolen paintings, gilded statues, tapestries, drapes, and rugs; spoil obtained through blackmail and coercion. It was thoroughly appropriate that the headquarters were located in the sewers. The man went to a hidden door, pressed a panel that hissed open, and closed after he passed through.