‘Gordon.’ The voice was low, almost a whisper, and strangely devoid of humanity.
‘Who is this?’
‘I know what you did, Gordon. You have blood on your hands, Gordon.’
Moore gripped the receiver tight. ‘What are you talking about? Who is this? What do you want?’
‘What do I want? I want justice, Gordon. I want you.’
And then the line went dead leaving the searing sound of buzzing in his ears.
Like a man in a trance, he replaced the receiver. He sat on the couch and put his head in his hands, not caring this time how much he disturbed his make-up. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said despairingly. ‘Oh, my God.’
seventeen
Here I was back in Bermondsey, but this time I wasn’t going to venture into Mr Leo Epstein’s emporium – I’d had enough of the old smoothy yesterday. However I was reminded that I ought to get in touch with Dirty Knight to let him know of lovely Leo’s involvement with Pammie – not that I suspected that he would be the least bit interested in the information now that he’d made an arrest. I felt sure that if someone walked into Knight’s office and confessed to the crime, offering up the weapon with the girl’s blood on it, he’d smile and say, ‘Thanks for your help, but we have the matter in hand already. Just leave your name with the desk sergeant.’ It was characters like Knight, coppers with closed minds and naked ambition, who made me glad that I was no longer on the force. I couldn’t work like that. Thanks to the army, I didn’t have to. Although it would be nice to have the regular income that came with the job. And both eyes, of course.
I found myself a cosy doorway virtually opposite Epstein’s place in which to wait. I wanted to catch Eve as she left work and see if I could convince her that fate, rather than my own fecklessness, in the form of a bloke with a blunt instrument had stepped in the way of my meeting her the previous evening. At least I had a sound piece of evidence in my bandaged head. She could take off the dressing and inspect the wound if that’s what was needed to do the job.
I lit up a Craven A and leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply. It was just after quarter to five. I reckoned Epstein would release her about five or maybe half past. On reflection it would be half past. He was the type to keep ’em at the grindstone as long as possible. Before making the trek to Bermondsey – by tube this time for not only was I beginning to feel my old self again but I also had an inclination to rub shoulders with living breathing humanity after being alone in the murder flat – I’d traipsed round to the corner of Berner’s Street and Boynton Street to visit my suspect phone box. It didn’t have much to say for itself. It was just a normal red phone box, rather shabby inside with the usual mechanical gubbins. Out of a childhood habit I pressed button B a couple of times but it just clanked in a negative fashion and failed to release any of its treasures. Typically there was an interesting selection of tab ends littering the floor and the air stank of sweat and other unpleasantnesses. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. So at first glance it looked rather like a dead end. Then I got to thinking why Pammie had written the phone number down in the first place. Surely the only reason was that so she could contact someone in the box – someone who was waiting for the call. There couldn’t have been anything random about it. But why here? Why a public phone box?
The buildings in the area housed offices – there were no private dwellings – and down Boynton Street there was the Corona, a gentleman’s club. In other words, all establishments in the vicinity would have their own phones for the use of employees and members. There would be no need to pop out to a telephone box – unless, of course, you needed to be sure of absolute privacy, to be sure that you were not being overheard, overheard telephoning a prostitute.
But, wait a minute – she rang him. Or more likely rang him back because he ran out of coppers. Oh, John Hawke, you beamish boy, you are functioning on all cylinders again. My eye turned towards the green canopy which advertised itself as the Corona, a club for gentlemen who carry cheque books rather than cash and the only folk around at night.
Snap. I heard another piece of the puzzle snuggle into place.
I wandered along the pavement and approached the club. As I mounted the steps, a green-liveried commissionaire stepped forward out of the shadows. He looked as though he was chewing a sour lemon especially for my benefit.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ His tone was sepulchral, carrying its own tomb-like echo.
I felt like clutching my forelock and mumbling, ‘I’ve come to see the young master’, but instead I said, ‘How does one get inside?’
‘One becomes a member, sir.’
‘Ah. And how does one become a member?’
‘You must be proposed by two existing members.’
I nodded judiciously. ‘Sounds fair. Could I see a list of existing members so I can choose who I’d like to recommend me?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. That information can only be divulged to existing members.’
I frowned. ‘Then how…?’
‘You need to be personally recommended, sir.’
‘Couldn’t you recommend me?’
‘But I don’t know you, sir.’
‘Well, I don’t know you, but I don’t mind. You look like a decent sort of bloke.…’
The eyes flashed with irritation. I knew it was time to leave.
‘Never mind,’ I said casually. ‘I bet you never get Tommy Carter’s group in to blow up a storm. I think I’ll stick to The Velvet Cage.’
Rather like a dignified, elderly cuckoo in a Swiss clock the commissionaire slipped back into the shadows.
It was now 5.15 and the lights were still blazing in the Epstein empire. I was here for the duration. As I lit up my second cigarette, I pondered on the telephone box and the Corona Club. Certainly Pammie Palmer was more high-class courtesan than common prosser, providing sexual favours to the well heeled rather than the likes of me – in fact, just the sort of bloke who hibernates behind the doors of the Corona Club. And wasn’t it likely that if Corona Charlie wanted to arrange a liaison at Pammie’s place, he’d rather do it in private? In the protected confines of the nearest call box? You never know who might hear you in the club. Sound may well travel further in a refined atmosphere! I knew I was constructing this scenario with a fair amount of supposition but it worked logically. However, if I were correct in my assumptions, where did that leave me? Not a lot closer to learning the truth about the girl’s death. Even if Corona Charlie had rung her on the night of the murder – run out of change and then asked her to ring him back – that’s not to say he saw her that night or visited the flat … or murdered her. He could only be a vague suspect, no more.
It was 5.30 and quite dark now but still slave-driver Epstein had not shut up shop. The blackout curtains had been drawn, but I could still observe the suffused glow of the electric lighting at the edges of the window. Suddenly I felt tired and depressed. For all my efforts over the last couple of days, in reality I was still on the starting line waiting for that damn pistol to go off.
At 5.40 the office lights went out and I waited with apprehension for Eve to make her appearance. When she did so, she was accompanied by another girl, a tall blonde-haired, full-bodied young lady whose face, I could tell even at fifty paces and in the gloom, had not been spared the full make-up treatment – she was coated in it. Of course, I realized, she must be Pammie’s replacement, chosen specially by Leo for her office skills and typing speed – naturally. The two girls appeared to be in animated conversation.
I crossed the road and approached the pair. God knew what I was going to say. I certainly didn’t. I hadn’t a clue. In the end I came out with the highly original, ‘Hello, Eve.’
For a moment she was nonplussed, as I suppose I would be if I had been approached in the dusk by someone I’d only met twice before. However, she soon regained her composure.
‘Goodbye,’ she snapped in response to my greeting, and grabbed hold of her companion’s arm. ‘Come on, Dawn.’
<
br /> I stepped in front of them. ‘Look, I’m sorry about last night but I can explain.’
‘Chasing another fugitive from justice were we?’ She arched an accusative eyebrow.
‘Well, no.…’
‘Whatever the reason … the excuse … I just don’t want to know. Now leave me alone.’ She was very angry and very beautiful.
‘Please, don’t be like this, Eve. At least let me explain and then if you want me to go … I’ll go. I’ll never darken your doorstep again.’
‘I’m just not interested, Mr Hawke. To be stood up once is bad enough, but twice.…’
Dawn eyed me up, fluttering her heavily mascaraed eyelids like batwings. ‘Oh, give him a chance, Evie. He seems ever so nice.’
Thank you for the vote of confidence, painted lady.
‘That’s what I thought the first time I saw him. Appearances can be deceptive. Now do come on, Dawn.’
It was time for drastic action. I whipped off my hat and swivelled round so they could see the dressing on the back of my head. ‘I was nearly killed last night,’ I cried.
It did the trick. I heard both women gasp at the sight of the wound.
I turned round to face them again. ‘I was on my way to meet you, Eve, when I was hit from behind by a vicious blow and left for dead.’ I placed extra emphasis on the words ‘vicious’ and ‘dead’.
Eve’s features softened, while Dawn was almost in tears. ‘You poor man,’ said Dawn, reaching out and touching my arm.
‘This isn’t some kind of trick is it?’ asked the more canny Eve.
I shook my head violently and then feigned another grimace of pain. ‘You can check with the Charing Cross Hospital, if you like. I spent the night there in Ward 14.’
‘I may well do that,’ replied Eve with a glimmer of a smile.
‘Please let me make it up to you. Could I take you for a meal tonight and a club afterwards?’
What was I saying? The moths in my wallet were old enough to vote.
Dawn came to my support. ‘Oh go on, Evie, give the little hero another chance.’ She beamed at me, her broad crimson lips leaving a lipstick trail across her teeth. ‘I would.’ She gave me a look. That look.
Gently, Eve disentangled her arm from Dawn’s. ‘There’d better be no running off this time, Johnny Hawke or.…’ Really she was lost for what suitable consequences would result from such an eventuality but I didn’t care now, I’d got another chance.
‘If Hermann Goerring came into the restaurant, I wouldn’t give him a second glance,’ I said.
Both girls laughed.
‘Very well,’ said Eve with mock reluctance, ‘if Dawn doesn’t mind. We were going for a drink and a sandwich at the pub down the road.’
More fluttering of batwings. ‘Oh, don’t be silly. You get off with your young man. I’ll make do with some Spam and chips at home,’ said Dawn generously. Very generously, not only was she giving up the chance of having a girlie chat over a nice gin and tonic and a nice sandwich but she was prepared to go home eat Spam instead! Greater love hath no girl but to give up her night out for a plate of processed meat.
And so, ten minutes later, Eve and I were speeding in a taxi towards the West End. I’d had to do some rapid thinking in the meantime. I had blurted out my invitation to a meal and a club in desperation without consulting my brain or, more importantly, my wallet. The only way I was going to work this was to head for The Velvet Cage. I was on friendly terms with Tony the head waiter there and with luck he’d let me have a couple of dinners buckshee, and similarly I could wangle a few drinks from Jimmy the bartender. I knew all this would cost me later, but looking at Eve’s face again, I reckoned it was worth it.
eighteen
On our taxi journey I told Eve about the boy Peter and my visit to the hospital and how I had been attacked. By the time I’d finished my tale of woe she was looking sympathetic and concerned and, although she didn’t hold my hand, she sat very close to me. She was warm and smelled fresh with a faint hint of perfume. I wanted to kiss her.
‘Why do you think you were attacked?’
I gave a shrug – the sort that Jimmy Cagney gives when he wants to indicate that something is of no consequence. ‘Hazard of the job,’ I said drily.
‘But there must be a reason. Don’t you have any ideas at all? A list of suspects.’
If I did, darling, your boss may well be top of the list.
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Things are a little vague at the moment.’
‘Has this anything to do with Pammie’s murder?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ I lied. At this stage of the investigation I intended to keep all my cards clamped tightly to my chest. ‘Look, Eve, let’s forget about this business for tonight and just enjoy ourselves. I need a little break from crime for an hour or two. What d’you say?’
‘If that’s what you want, but I am interested … concerned.’
Concerned! My heart did a flip.
* * *
As expected, Tony the head waiter at The Velvet Cage turned up trumps. I had a whispered word with him while Eve was depositing her coat in the cloakroom. The little Italian grinned. ‘For you, this once. But once only. If the boss find out he’ll have my guts for gasmasks.’
I grinned back. I loved the way Tony mangled the English language. He would have been a wow on the radio. In fact he sounded like a character from ‘ITMA’.
‘You couldn’t throw in a bottle of Chianti, too?’
He closed his eyes in mock disgust. ‘How far you like me to chuck it? If you like I arrange a Royce Rolls to take you home as well!’
‘Good man.’ I put my arm round his shoulders and gave him a squeeze.
He disentangled himself at speed. ‘One thing, Johnny One Note. I expect a good tip.’
‘I’ll do what I can.’
At that point, Eve came into view. She was wearing a neat little two piece costume. It was her work clothes, but she had the sort of figure and presence that transcended the simplicity of the outfit.
Tony’s eyes widened. ‘Your date?’ He nodded in Eve’s direction.
‘Yup.’
‘She’s some lady. Very classy. I make sure the meal is extra good.’
‘You’re the tops, Tony.’
‘I know,’ he said, bowing as Eve joined us. ‘Good evening, madam. Come this way Mr Hawke and your lovely lady, I have a very special table for you.’
This was Tony’s usual routine. According to him, every table in the joint was ‘a special table’.
The club wasn’t particularly full that evening, although it was still early and the richer clients dined later. There was a group of officers enjoying their leave in a lively fashion and several middle-aged couples struggling to converse with each other, along with a few dodgy characters, some of whom I knew by sight and some I knew personally. One, Soapy Sam Dawson, king of the spivs – ‘you want it, I can get it, my son, for a consideration, of course’ – made a point of passing by the table. ‘Looks like a nasty knock to the bonce you got there, Johnny boy,’ he leered.
‘I got out of bed too quickly this morning.’
He glanced at Eve and then back to me. ‘Now that was a very rash thing to do, my boy. I hope you didn’t disturb the lady.’ He winked and was on his way.
I looked at Eve and gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘Characters you meet in my line of business,’ I said sheepishly.
She just giggled at my discomfort.
The meal was the best I’d had in ages. It wasn’t particularly good but nevertheless it was the best I’d had in ages. At least the gravy wasn’t transparent and the chicken did not have the consistency of a raffia mat. But the food was incidental to my real enjoyment of the evening which was being with Eve Kendal. I am too inarticulate to explain why exactly I found her so attractive, apart from her looks, but I felt completely at ease with her which for a fellow who is usually uneasy and ham-fisted around good-looking women is just short of a miracle. How can you have pleasant c
onversations without actually saying anything of consequence? I couldn’t say, I just know that we did that evening.
However after the plates were cleared and we were on to the coffee and brandies, a little professional light went on in the back of my head which alerted me to the idea that I really should be doing a little detective work here. I was aware I’d said that I didn’t want to think about work for a while but despite how much I was enjoying myself, the whole matter of Pammie Palmer’s murder kept slipping into my mind. And, apart from being absolutely scrumptious, Eve was a valuable source of information.
‘Has Lustful Leo Epstein ever made advances to you?’ I asked, as casually as I could, while I lit my first post-prandial cigarette. I was conscious that this was a severe conversational gear change and Eve’s frown informed me that I had somewhat dampened the mood. What was I saying about being ham-fisted?
She gave me a wry smile. ‘I’ve been there four years and Leo approaches me on average once a year. But then he approaches all the girls he employs at some time. Some have left because of his pestering.’
‘Not you though.’
‘I can handle him.’
‘You’ve never been tempted.’
‘He’s not my type.’
‘You have a type?’
She grinned and gave me a knowing look. ‘Possibly.’
‘What about Pammie? Did she fall for the charms of Mr Epstein?’
‘Rather the other way about. He was besotted by her.’
‘Really? How did she react?’
‘Pammie always went with the flow if there was money involved.’
I nodded. That was as accurate a character reference as you could get on dear Pammie. ‘Would it surprise you to know that on one occasion she slept with Mr Epstein?’
Eve raised her eyebrows. ‘On one occasion? It would surprise me. I think the phrase is “quite frequently”.’
Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows. ‘They were having an affair?’
Eve rolled her glass in a circular motions, swilling the brandy around inside and then taking a gentle sip. ‘I’ve never quite understood the word affair and what emotions are involved. I do know that Pammie went with Leo on a regular basis but I’m fairly sure it wasn’t for love.’
Forests of the Night Page 10