A Cozy Beatles Mystery: Larceny in Liverpool (A Cozy Beatles Mystery Series Book 1)

by Kal Smagh

"Look, this whole thing is a roller coaster, and it's out of control. Whatever we do has to work."

  I had no earthly idea how I would approach the Splinter Bar, but I was pretty sure if it went wrong, I would be fired swiftly. Who was I kidding? I was already on the thinnest ice. For all I knew I’d be fired tomorrow anyway. But I didn’t want Freda to be fired along with me. She didn’t do anything to deserve the mess I’d gotten into reflecting on her. Still, she was alongside me, trying to fix it so that the boys could go forward. I needed a miracle to come forth to help me generate ideas for my attack.

  I said, mustering as much false bravado in me necessary to rally my fellow soldier, "Time to go full-on Joan of Arc. Joans of Arc."

  "Poor example."

  "Why? She charged into battle."

  "Right. Never mind she was burned at the stake. But I can't let you go alone, not into that rat infested place."

  "I'm trying not to get fired."

  She set several letters down, "We may both be fired before this is over."

  CHAPTER 25: THE SPLINTER BAR

  Later that day white flyers with black lettering started showing up on telephone poles and bulletin boards all over Liverpool. They advertised that a singer was going to be at the Splinter Bar with a new hit song. It shouted out in bright and bold exclamation points that ‘all the teenagers from across the city are talking about the sensational lyrics and the opportunity to hear a new hit unveiled publicly’. It was ‘a show that no one should miss’. There was a generous assortment of exclamation marks to imbue a sense of excitement to the drab paper.

  I pulled one of the flyers down from a light post and brought it to Freda in the office.

  "There is our cover. We are teens and they are asking for teens."

  "They can’t ask for teens. It’s a bar. Alcohol will be served. They’ll get shut down by the police before they open the door to the first teenager."

  I looked back down at the flyer and in print across the bottom it said in small letters "no alcohol will be served on premise." I pointed it out to Freda.

  She shrugged. And then nodded her head slightly.

  Was she game to go over with me?

  Then she said, "What time is the show?"

  "It’s at 7:30 PM. Tomorrow evening."

  She breathed deeply and then said, showing me with a furrowed brow it was against her better judgment, "Our job is to be helpful to the Beatles. If everything you told me about the lawsuit and stopping them from recording is true, then we owe it to them to go and see what this is about."

  I loved her more in that moment than I thought possible.

  #

  Outside the Splinter Bar at least fifty teenagers were milling about on the sidewalk. Inside there were even more people, packed in like sardines. I felt a creeping dread the place smelled like fish. People held drinks that I had to assume were not alcohol.

  Sure. Right.

  The group was not as boisterous as outside the Beatles concerts, however the boys were out of town again tonight and Brian was with them. This was the only show in town.

  Freda and I walked down the long line and then back up the other side. Then in a stroke of more false bravado I said, "Come on, we’re going in."

  "They won’t let us cut in front of all of these people."

  I shot back, "Bollocks! I said follow me, we’re going in." I was surprised at how brave I was acting. Inside my heart was fluttering.

  At the door the bouncer stopped us, holding up a calloused hand, his muscles on full display under his black vest, wearing no shirt underneath though it was near freezing outside.

  In a gravelly voice he said, "Hold there, girls. You can’t cut this line." He pointed down the sidewalk where angry stares were directed back at us.

  My heart leapt into my throat. It was him! The man from the car who’d chased me on foot. It was the voice. I checked his feet; he had on heavy boots, just as I'd heard clopping heavily behind me. I shuddered inside and looked hard at his face, trying to memorize if he had any scars.

  He stared back at me, then glanced at my body.

  I shot back, "We’re talent scouts, here looking for new members of the Beatles."

  His eyes narrowed, weighing my words. That seemed to make a difference to him. He waved us through and into the room, and Freda paid our entrance fee, only a few quid. But as usual I was flat broke, and Freda was accepting like a sister.

  Inside it smelled just as awful as it had in the days prior. I’d hoped they’d been better at cleaning.

  Freda said, "Is this whole place a loo? It smells like a toilet."

  I nodded my head agreeing with her but my sights were set on identifying who was in the room. At the far end by the office, heads and heads of people in between me and that door, was Melanie Bumpus in a golden blouse. On tiptoes I saw the door opened just briefly and inside were both her husband Earl Henry, heavy in his jacket and her affair partner, Wayne Prescott with that dreadful blonde mustache. Also in the office was Marcus Jacobs, the wanna be Beatle.

  I said to Freda in the loud room, as she gazed in the other direction, "Marcus Jacobs is the singer."

  She looked at me with a bemused grin. "Every dog in the neighborhood will come running when he opens up his mouth."

  An obviously inebriated teen boy came up to Freda and I, asking, "How are you beautiful ladies this evening?"

  Freda said, "Fine, how are you?"

  I ignored him.

  He put his hand on my shoulder and stated loudly, "You didn’t answer me, Beatle Girl."

  I grabbed him by the wrist and pulled his arm off of me, "Get lost, creep. I’m working."

  He lifted both hands up, surrendering, and backed away.

  Freda said, "My, you are spicy tonight."

  I pointed briefly at the office door. "Did you see who’s back there?"

  "I can’t see anything for all these people."

  "It’s all of them. Every one of them is back there."

  Someone stepped on my foot and I shoved them off of me into the crowd of people. Damn, it was loud in here.

  CHAPTER 26: TO CATCH A THIEF

  Freda shook her head at me, "So what? What difference will it make? We’re just here to see if they play one of the boys' songs. Right?"

  "Right." I didn’t know what I would do if they did play Please Please Me. She was right. What difference did it make if I did hear that song? It had been played in concert before.

  The volume of the evening grew further as the crowd mingled and more kids filled the room. There had to be at least one hundred fifty people in this room that could only comfortably fit seventy-five. And there had to be alcohol involved. It was too loud to be a sober room. It grew hotter and the smell grew more rank and finally the door to the office opened again.

  Mild clapping greeted the beginning, finally, of the show and one or two cheered as Marcus Jacobs ascended to the small stage and began strumming his guitar, checking his tuning in the stage lights. Assembled outside of the office door were Wayne Prescott, Melanie Bumpus, and the rotund banker, Earl Henry, who looked like he'd just eaten another meal.

  Marcus Jacobs strummed and began playing a cover of a Buddy Holly song called Peggy Sue. He was not a failure yet, strumming his three chords and singing in a basic monotone. It lacked dynamics but did have the effect of bringing some emotion to the crowd that had already been imbibing spirits from some source either behind the bar or snuck in through flasks in coats.

  Freda tilted her head, saying, "He’s actually not half bad." This was a very high compliment from the woman who had denigrated him in front of the Cavern and again in Birkenhead.

  I said, "None of this matters."

  He finished the song and the crowd actually applauded with some spirit. Then he broke into his next song strumming another three chords and singing a cover to Elvis Presley’s Heartbreak Hotel. The crowd sang along and drowned him out, knowing the lyrics. This was a gift to him because his vocals were strained but still entering the room en
ough to carry the song along. Where he lost time, the crowd carried him forward and he picked up the song where it had been played in fits and starts. At the end the crowd again cheered and grew in energy.

  Shocked, Freda's mouth hung open, "Astounding."

  "Agree."

  I couldn’t rest. The fake song had to get played or else Brian and the boys would get hammered out of their dreams.

  "I think he’s actually winning over this crowd."

  I felt my teeth grinding and tried to release my lips from where they were pursed.

  In the next song, he began with a few chords and an upbeat, the crowd was going along with him and it looked like this was going to be the breakout performance that Marcus Jacobs had hoped for while playing out on the street, paying his dues, as it were. He went into a rendition of It’s Late.

  "Who's he? Ricky Nelson now?"

  I was miserable. The crowd seemed to sway together, undulating back and forth in alcoholic stupor, making me suddenly nauseous from the smells and the sways combined.

  Afterward again the crowd applauded and I felt downright sick. He paused for a moment to bask in the adulation, beaming a smile across the room.

  Freda said, "He’s never felt so popular." Her eyes ran down my face, "You look sick."

  "I feel sick."

  "Let’s get you out of this sewer." She pulled my arm and led toward the door. Marcus Jacobs played a few chords while my feet felt heavier than lead, and my stomach was on the verge of lurching.

  I heard him sing, slowly,

  "I know you keep a secret just for me,

  I know your mother paid her money but for you it’s free,

  Come on, come on,

  I know when they’re not home it’s time for glee,

  I know it’s pretty panties for me."

  The crowd burst out in laughter. I looked back towards the office and Earl Henry and Wayne Prescott were shaking hands. Melanie Bumpus was looking over the crowd with a bright smile and what seemed to be pound signs flashing in her eyes. And then I saw her face darken. She was looking towards the entrance.

  I turned to see where she was focused and there entering the building was Inspector Tuffle in full uniform regalia, the bobby helmet made him taller than everyone and his black overcoat meant business. He walked through the room in his authoritative police gear, his eyes landing on me, and even the drunken crowd parted.

  Was he here to arrest me for real this time? I had a role in the lyrics, that was true. But it was fake. Fake!

  He leaned down, saying in a half shout, "Follow."

  I couldn’t follow. The crowd swayed as he continued on, closing off my path. "Inspector!"

  He turned, saying to the drunken mob, "Clear a path," and then came back cupping his hand around my upper arm. The way he grabbed my arm it felt that he was definitely in charge, and I was definitely in trouble. He led me towards the office and Melanie, Mr. Prescott, and Mr. Henry. Freda followed along in support, her hand around my other arm, probably hoping I wouldn’t vomit on her.

  Meanwhile, on stage, Marcus Jacobs continued singing the lyrics and the crowd was now laughing out loud at the thought of how inappropriate and sexy his song was. John’s song.

  Inspector Tuffle stood in front of the three while still holding me by the upper arm and pointed at the office door. The crowd joined in the chorus, shouting, "Pretty Panties for Free!"

  Mr. Prescott's eyes grew wide and with a key he opened the door and we walked in.

  Mr. Prescott said as the inspector closed the door, the noise in abeyance if only a small amount, "What is this about, inspector?"

  "I would hope that you would be able to tell me."

  "I’m at work. I have a singer on the stage and a crowd of fans who have come to watch him."

  "What song is he playing?"

  "It’s an original."

  "Is it? Where did it come from?"

  Mr. Henry spoke up, "That one," pointing at me, "she sold it to us."

  CHAPTER 27: THE ACCUSED

  Freda whipped around toward me; her eyes stricken.

  Blood rushed to my ears, and I found myself roaring, "I did not!" In shock, my ears suddenly ringing, I added, "I did not sell that song!"

  "Yes, she did." Melanie shook her head emphatically, and pointed at me with a long, bony finger. "She sold us that song he is singing right now. We don’t know where she got it from."

  The inspector turned to me, "Where did you get that song from?"

  Mr. Henry piped in, "She didn’t write it herself."

  I said, "It’s from John Lennon."

  "...and then she sold it to us." Mr. Prescott pointed down into his palm. "She asked for a lot of money."

  "Did you sell them this song?"

  I felt Freda’s eyes boring into me. Her visible discomfort nearly equal to my own.

  "I did not sell them this song. I have never sold a song to anyone."

  Melanie continued, "She needed money. She doesn’t have enough money to even pay for a Chinese lunch. She’s an opportunist taking advantage of others."

  She’d seen me at the restaurant after all. Never mind smacking myself in the face for nothing.

  The Inspector probed, "Well then how did Marcus Jacobs get this song to be singing it on the stage right now?"

  I shook my head just a small bit at the next words, "I put it in an envelope outside the door for the postman."

  All three of them looked at me and the inspector held a steady gaze as he looked in my eyes. The inspector said, "And how did it get into the hands of Marcus Jacobs?"

  "I don’t know."

  Mr. Prescott pounced, "You sold it to us. You came into this establishment and offered it. You spoke to my bouncer and tried to find where my house was. You sought me out."

  The inspector asked, "Is it true you came in here before tonight?"

  Mr. Prescott said, "I told her she was under age and had to leave. But it wasn’t before she offered to provide us a song from John Lennon."

  The inspector repeated his question, "Have you been here before tonight?"

  I attacked back against Mr. Prescott, "I didn’t do that. I offered you nothing." I felt the anger welling up inside of me, my fists balled up, "I asked if you knew where my stolen purse was."

  "I have no idea where a stolen purse is. I had been knocked on the head, how do I remember that and you don’t?" He turned addressing the inspector, "You were there. You saw I had been injured."

  "And how is your head today, Mr. Prescott?"

  "Completely healed."

  The inspector’s eyes narrowed, a wave of skepticism settling on him, staring at Mr. Henry.

  Melanie added, "He’s a fast healer."

  "That’s strange," The inspector said, "Because the handkerchief that was used, that the young lady here held to your head, didn’t look like blood."

  "It was most certainly my blood."

  "And it looks like you don’t even have a scab over the spot."

  "Like she said, I am a fast healer."

  "Doubtful. Then your bouncer out there," He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "He is a fast runner."

  Mr. Prescott said, "What does he have to do with anything?"

  "He’s been involved in petty theft before. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was the purse snatcher."

  "Why would you say that?"

  "Because he’s the same person who took that envelope off of the door at the office where these young ladies work."

  The three looked at one another, not sure what to say.

  The inspector continued, "We saw the young lady put the envelope up and we were surveilling the building based on a tip from Mr. Epstein. It seems John Lennon had written some bogus lyrics and given them to the girl. When the girl placed them up for the post we were watching. Then Mr. Epstein had her clear away, and we saw your bouncer take the post and deliver it to you."

  My jaw fell open. I turned out of the corner of my eye and saw that Freda's jaw had fallen open as well.r />
  "And I will bet if we look around in this office, we will find a missing envelope from this young lady’s purse from when she was helping you from your fake injury out on the street."

  Mr. Prescott now had his turn to be at a loss for words. "I… I…" then he pointed hard, his hand shaking, at Melanie and Mr. Henry, "They are trying to steal my Bar. It wasn’t until tonight and they saw this large crowd that they changed their minds."

  Melanie said, "I’m not stealing any bar. Least of all this filthy place."

  Mr. Prescott said, "You have this charade of having an affair with me but we haven’t even had sex. As a mistress you leave a lot to be desired."

  Earl Henry said, "Don’t speak that way about my wife."

  The inspector put a hand to both of their chests and held them apart, shouting at them to stop. They both settled back, scowls on their faces. The inspector added, "You have a number of drunk and underage teens outside this door right now. That’s a violation. As such I am shutting down your establishment."

  Mr. Prescott, exasperated, shouted, "You can’t do that."

  "I can and I will. And also, I will arrest you. All three of you. And your bouncer."

  With that the three tried to go for the door but Mr. Henry tripped over his wife and fell forward into the inspector. The inspector pushed him off and put him face-down on the floor, a heavy boot on the small of Mr. Henry’s back. He blocked the door as Freda and I were pushed to the corner in the struggle. There was another knock at the door, a sharp rapping.

  The inspector said to me, "Open the door, that's my reinforcements."

  CHAPTER 28: MARCUS JACOBS

  I turned the handle and in came three more uniformed Bobbies, while several drunk teens shouted in the loud bar room, "Pretty Panties!"

  They placed Mr. Prescott, Mr. Henry, and Ms. Bumpus into handcuffs. Outside in the bar area the music abruptly stopped and I heard a policeman addressing the rowdy teens over the microphone.

  "Show’s over." He waved his arm broadly toward the door as the crowd shuffled out, dimmed in their desire, and voicing halfhearted protests. A few jeers rang out, but the show was indeed over.