I studied the piles more and thought about it. I suppose it could be possible that this was a men-only charity. Even so, there were no shirts, cardigans or pullovers. I wondered why. But perhaps there was no call for those garments in Africa.
Connie said: “What do you think I should do?”
“As a journalist, I could ask Denzil about the charity. If there really is a group in Brighton collecting clothes for Africa, it would be worth a news item in the Chronicle. I wouldn't have thought Denzil could object to that. Most charities welcome all the newspaper coverage they can get.”
“You said 'if' there is a charity. Do you think there may not be?”
“At the moment, I don't know what to think,” I said. “The clothes in your back room are certainly very real. But are they destined for Africa - that seems unlikely to me. I'd certainly like to ask Denzil about it.”
“I suppose that would be best,” Connie said. “It would be good to know for certain what's happening.”
We stepped out of the room and headed into the hall.
There was a pile of old newspapers by the front door, mostly the Evening Chronicle.
I pointed. “I'm pleased to see you read our paper,” I said.
“Oh, those, they're waiting for the salvage man to collect. Actually, it was Lennie who used to read the paper most. I shall miss him sitting in his chair rustling through the pages.”
Connie had missed something else, too. People read newspapers in different ways. Some start at the front and work methodically through to the back. Others start with the sports pages at the back and read little else. Some turn straight to the crossword. Or the television and radio programmes. Or the women's pages. Whatever they do, they fold the paper's pages in ways that suit their reading habits. And those folds leave behind little clues about their interests. Lennie had been no exception.
He and Connie may have been stalwarts in the fight against gambling, but I'd lay short odds there were times when Lennie called a truce with the bookies.
Too many of the papers had been left folded open at the racing pages.
***
It turned out there were two houses in Pelham Square on the corner with Trafalgar Street - one on each side of the square.
Lennie didn't live in the first I called at. And when I knocked up the second, he was out. It looked as though the luck that had blessed me in the Grand National at Aintree was running out.
But I discovered from a fellow tenant that when Lennie wasn't at home, he'd often prop up the bar in a nearby pub called The Card Sharp.
I pushed through the swing doors into the public bar five minutes later. There were half a dozen punters in the place. A couple of old-timers were playing darts in the corner. Three solitary boozers sat at separate tables eking out their pints until closing time.
A Jack-the-Lad type leant on the bar. He was about twenty-three or twenty-four. He had a thin face with slightly bulging eyes which made him look as though he'd just had a fright. His brown hair was combed back from his forehead and slicked down with Brylcreem. He was wearing a tight-fitting jacket in a blue check - with three buttons done up - and drainpipe trousers. When he got dressed in the morning, he was the kind of bloke who'd strike poses in front of the bathroom mirror. Right now, he was chewing the fat with the barman
As I walked up, the barman said: “The trouble with your money-making schemes, Dennie, is that I never show a profit and always end up putting my hand in my pocket.”
“This one's sure-fire, Stan.”
So Jack-the-Lad was Denzil, the second-hand clothes king.
I caught the barman's eye and ordered a gin and tonic - one ice cube, two slices of lemon. The barman looked as though he'd just been asked to prepare a vodka martini - shaken not stirred - for James Bond himself. He fumbled behind the bar and produced the drink in a glass with a greasy rim.
I edged along the bar and made out that I was absorbed by the writing on a novelty beer mat, one of a series featuring “Fascinating Football Facts”. While noting that no country has ever won the World Cup during the papacy of a Pope from the same country, I tuned into the conversation further down the bar.
Dennie said: “In a place like this, you could clear thirty quid, no probs.”
“Yeah, but supposing the fuzz catch me at it. I could lose my licence.”
“You worry too much, Stan. Besides the chief constable is one of my best customers.”
Stan scratched his chin. “So when's the next big one?”
“That'll be the Derby. It's run in June so there's a good two clear months to sell tickets. I've got the next batch coming in next week.”
“I don't mind a flutter on the Irish Sweeps myself - but selling the tickets… I'd be taking a risk.”
“But think of the rewards,” Denzil said.
So Denzil was selling tickets for the Irish Sweepstake. It was the biggest gambling scam in the world. Bigger even than the football pools. And illegal in Britain. Even so, hundreds a sellers smuggled in tickets. Big-time racketeers controlled territories where they were the sole supplier. And beat up - or sometimes killed - interlopers who tried to muscle in on their market. Denzil was mixing in a dangerous game.
On the face of it, the Irish Sweepstake was run on the same principles as the Chronicle's office sweep which I'd won. You bought a ticket in a draw to back horses in a big race. If your ticket drew a horse that won - or passed the post in a good position - you could claim a cash prize. The Chronicle's sweep was run as a bit of fun for the staff. The Irish Sweepstake was supposed to raise cash for hospitals in Ireland - but most of the vast sums paid for tickets in Britain and the United States went into the pockets of the sellers and the organisers in Dublin. But the huge prizes - thousands of pounds - attracted millions of punters who bought their tickets in back-street pubs just like The Card Sharp.
I was pondering this when the phone behind the bar rang. Stan answered it. His body tensed. He listened for a moment, then said: “Hold the line.”
He held his hand over the mouthpiece as he passed the phone over the bar.
He said: “Dennie, it's for you. I've told you not to take calls here. Especially from him.” He nodded nervously towards the phone.
Denzil laughed and said: “Relax, Stan. Play my games and you'll be rich.”
He grabbed the phone and put it to his ear, listened for a few seconds. His grin vanished. He whispered quietly into the mouthpiece. I couldn't hear what he said. But from the way he shook his head the caller was delivering bad news. Whoever was at the other end of the line was giving Denzil a right royal bollocking.
Denzil handed the receiver back to Stan and said: “I've got to go. The big boss wants me.”
“Trouble?” Stan asked
“Nothing I can't handle.”
But the worried look on Denzil's face said otherwise.
He downed the dregs of his scotch and made for the door.
I gave him thirty seconds start and headed after him.
I spotted him turning into Gloucester Place. He sprinted across the road, through Victoria Gardens and headed off down Grand Parade towards the seafront. I had to move fast to keep up. I jostled through early evening crowds heading for a night on the town. The queue outside the Astoria cinema snaked down the road for fifty yards.
I hustled across the Old Steine to close the distance with Denzil. He turned left and hurried up Marine Parade like he was late for an appointment with the Devil. A hundred yards along, he stopped outside a squat building with flashing neon lights. The lights spelt out in yellow and red: The Golden Kiss.
The place billed itself as a nightclub. The kind of establishment where a gentleman-about-town might spend a sophisticated evening in agreeable company. A square of red carpet and a doorman dressed like a Ruritanian general tried to add a veneer of class. It probably fooled a few first-time punters. The place was a clip joint.
Denzil exchanged a few words with the doorman. Gave him a friendly pat on the back and stepped insid
e.
I didn't intend to follow.
In the pub, Denzil had said the “big boss” wanted to see him.
There was only one big boss at The Golden Kiss.
Septimus Darke.
***
I was standing in a bus shelter on the other side of Marine parade eyeballing the door of The Golden Kiss.
In the half an hour I'd been there, I'd watched half a dozen punters go in. Nobody had come out.
I was trying to work out what the link was between the Irish Sweepstake, a room full of second-hand clothes at Connie's house, and Septimus Darke, the man Frank Figgis had named as Brighton's number one villain. Selling illegal Irish Sweepstake tickets was just the kind of cash-rich racket that Darke would run. No doubt he employed minions like Denzil to do his dirty work around town. And, perhaps, Denzil fancied the idea of having a few sub-contractors himself. Hence his attempt to recruit Stan. All that made sense.
What didn't make sense was a room full of mouldering second-hand clothes at Connie's house. Could a street-sharp operator like Denzil really be a soft-hearted charity worker on the side? I didn't think so. So was the clothing collection another racket? And, if so, was Darke also at the bottom of it? I leant against the bus shelter and gave the questions some thought. If Darke was involved, and the clothes were worth big money, he'd store them on his own premises. No, I decided, the clothes collection and the sweepstake must be separate.
So could Denzil have an operation of his own which he was trying to keep from his boss man?
I still hadn't come up with an answer to that question when Denzil shot out of the door, like he'd just been fired from a cannon. There was a bruise on his cheek and a cut on his lip. Two buttons on his jacket had come undone and there was a tear in the knee of his drainpipe trousers. Whatever had happened inside The Golden Kiss, he hadn’t been invited to take tea.
For a second or two, Denzil looked around as though he wasn't quite sure where he was. Then he took off up the street like his life depended on it.
I rapidly detached myself from the bus shelter and hurried up the street after him. After a couple of hundred yards, Denzil turned into a side street. By the time I reached it, he was climbing into the driving seat of a battered Triumph Herald. It looked as though Denzil had been at the club earlier and left his car parked nearby. Seconds later, the Triumph's headlights flared, the engine roared, and the car shot up the street and turned the corner.
I stood at the far end of the street and cursed.
A couple of four-letter ones.
And then an eight-letter one because I was so frustrated.
I'd lost Denzil and the best chance I'd had of finding out what this was all about.
But, perhaps, I hadn't.
Everything about the last half hour suggested Darke had a bone to pick with Denzil. A bone the size of an elephant's thigh. The phone call at the pub. Denzil's nervous reaction to it. His high-tail round to The Golden Kiss. The rumble inside which left Denzil with a split lip. And now running scared - perhaps for his life.
Why had Darke suddenly turned on Denzil?
The only answer I could think of was that Darke had discovered Denzil's clothing racket. And, for some reason, didn't like it. But I wasn't sure. Only two people knew the answer for certain. One was Darke. He wouldn't be talking. The other was Denzil. If I could find him, perhaps I could force the truth out of him.
If Denzil was now running from Darke, he'd head for his lodgings to collect his gear before quitting town. As I'd followed Denzil on foot, I'd left my car in Pelham Square, when I'd called at his flat. So I faced a half-mile hike through town. I hoped Denzil wouldn't have scarpered before I cornered him.
But when I hammered on his door at Pelham Square, nobody answered.
I walked round the corner to The Card Sharp pub. The darts players had knocked off for the night but the three solitary drinkers still nursed their pints. No sign of Denzil.
But there was one other place Denzil might have run to. His pile of cast-offs.
And his Auntie Connie.
***
It was dark by the time I parked my MGB outside Connie's house.
Lights were on in several rooms. I rang the bell and waited. No answer. I knocked. Nothing. And then I noticed that the latch-key had been left in the lock. I was sure that was something Connie wouldn't have done.
But, I remembered, she'd given a key to Denzil.
I turned the key and the front door opened.
I pushed it ajar and shouted: “Connie, it's Colin Crampton. May I come in?”
No answer.
I went in anyway.
There were no sounds in the house. No radio playing. No television. No kettle whistling in the kitchen.
I called out again. “Connie, it's Colin Crampton.”
I stood in the hall and looked around me. The pile of old newspapers Connie had been planning to thrown out were still by the front door. The ones that Lennie had read - and left folded open at the racing page.
I was uncertain whether I should move further into the house. I didn't want to give Connie a fright if she'd been sleeping.
I looked again at the newspapers. Lennie's newspapers.
And shivered.
I felt as though a ghost had just run an ice-cold carving knife down my back. And the ghost was Lennie.
The clues had all been there but I'd been too slow to recognise them.
I stood still in the hallway as the pieces dropped into place in my mind.
Lennie supported Connie in her work with Fighters Against Gambling. But the folded newspapers showed he also had a fondness for the gee-gees. Perhaps he enjoyed a secret flutter. Denzil sold tickets for the Irish Sweepstake. What more natural than that Lennie should buy one for the Grand National from his nephew. “But let's keep this secret from your Auntie Connie,” he would tell the lad. So Lennie would put the ticket in a pocket where he knew Connie would never look.
And then promptly die.
A few days later, the horse he'd drawn won the Grand National. And if only Lennie could have cashed in his ticket he'd be worth a fortune.
Except that he was now dead. And within a couple of days, Connie had sent all his clothes to a jumble sale. The only person who knew he'd bought the ticket was Denzil.
Whoever had the ticket could claim the prize.
I imagined how devastated Denzil must have been to learn that Connie had given Lennie's clothes away. But he'd have displayed the acting genius of Laurence Olivier to hide his chagrin. And then he'd have schemed of a way to find the piece of clothing with the priceless ticket in the pocket. Perhaps it was still on sale. So Denzil would scoot round town buying up second-hand clothing that could have belonged to Uncle Lennie from jumble sales.
But Denzil also worked for Septimus Darke. The ticket Denzil sold to Lennie had been part of Darke's scam. And Darke hadn't taken over so many Brighton rackets without knowing what went on in his own backyard. So perhaps Denzil's uncomfortable meeting at The Golden Kiss had been to answer Darke's questions about why he now appeared to be in the clothing charity business. Perhaps Denzil had volunteered the truth. Or perhaps he'd had the truth beaten out of him. Darke wouldn't have been pleased to hear that Denzil could pocket a fortune if he could find Lennie's ticket. Darke would want the big pay-off for himself. And he'd make it clear that Denzil's life depended on it.
That was why Denzil looked like a man on a mission when he quit The Golden Kiss.
I called out again, louder this time: “Connie, are you in the house?”
Silence.
And then a faint moan from the sitting room.
I hurried in. Connie was lying on the floor. On her back, with her arms splayed at her side. Blood oozed from an ugly gash in her head.
The weapon - a heavy poker, lay a few feet away on the floor.
I knelt down beside her and felt for a pulse. It was as weak as a sparrow's heartbeat.
Connie sensed my presence and opened her eyes.
/> “It was Denzil,” she whispered. “I always knew he was no good.”
“I'll call an ambulance,” I said.
Her hand, cold and scaly, seized my wrist. “No. Not now. I want to be with my Lennie. We were together for fifty years - but it wasn't enough. Now it can be for ever.”
“Why did Denzil do this?”
“The ticket.”
My eyebrows lifted at that. “You know about the ticket?”
“I always knew about my Lennie's little weakness. But I couldn't stop loving him for that. It’s a sign of true love, isn't it? You allow each other to keep their secrets.”
“But Denzil wanted the ticket?” I said.
“He threatened me. I told him he was no good - a disgrace to Lennie's memory.”
“And he lost his temper?”
“I'd never seen him like that. He grabbed the poker and hit me.”
“Did he get the ticket?”
“I made sure he'd never have it.”
Connie gasped for breath.
“Rest, while I call the ambulance,” I said.
But her hand still gripped my wrist. She looked towards the table. The one by the side of her chair. The one with the wedding photograph. Her gaze rested on the photo. She smiled.
Then her eyes closed. He grip loosened. Her hand dropped away. And with a long lingering sigh, she died.
I stood up and looked around the room. Everything was where I remembered it being when I'd visited Connie earlier in the evening.
But one detail was different. There'd been a black ribbon tied above Lennie on the wedding photo frame. Connie had removed the ribbon.
I thought back to my meeting with her earlier in the day.
What had she said when I asked her about Lennie's clothes. “I gave away everything in his wardrobe. That's it. Nothing else.”
But what if Lennie had other clothes that weren't kept in his wardrobe?
When Connie took that last look at her wedding photo, was she trying to tell me something?
Women often kept their wedding dresses for life. Could Connie also have kept Lennie's wedding suit as well? Perhaps together with her wedding dress?
I slipped quietly upstairs. It took only a moment to find Connie and Lennie's bedroom. It led to a tidy little dressing room. There were three large wardrobes. One was empty. The other two held Connie's clothes. On the top of one of the wardrobes was a small cabin trunk. I heaved it down. There was no dust on the lid. The trunk had been opened recently.
Murder from the Newsdesk Page 2