The muscles of her face tensed. “What’s happened to him?”
“Roger Russell is dead.”
She would have fallen to the pavement if I hadn’t caught her.
Simon hailed a taxi and within fifteen minutes we had her back to her flat in Bloomsbury. Simon had recounted the bare facts of Russell’s murder without going into detail. “Are you feeling better now?” I asked.
“I think so. It was just a shock. I’d come over on the Underground with him and was waiting down the street.” She passed a hand uncertainly over her face as if trying to clear away a mist. “You’re the men Roger went to meet, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “We saw him at the fight last night.”
“I waited in the Square for him. Leather doesn’t allow women in the gym because the fighters walk around naked after they shower. Roger had some printouts of old newspaper and magazine articles he was going to show you. I think he had some with him, but most of them are still in my flat. Could you come up for a few minutes?”
“These are about Dragon Moore?”
“They’re about old fighters.”
She had Simon’s interest now, and we followed her up to a third-floor flat. It was a big room cluttered with a single girl’s furnishings. A double bed was visible in an alcove, and a small kitchen and bathroom completed the necessities. A bookcase held a surprising number of nonfiction titles, mainly memoirs written by journalists. One row was bookended by a statuette of a bare-knuckled fighter.
“Had you known Roger long?” I asked while she retrieved a laptop carrying case from some pieces of luggage in the alcove.
“We worked together at the Times for about six months, but then he decided to go back to his wife in America. He still stayed here when he was in town.” She unzipped the case and took out a folder of clippings and photocopies. “This Dragon business had become a crazy obsession with him. Maybe it led to his death.”
“In what way?” Simon asked.
She held up the folder. “Did you ever hear of someone living over a hundred and twenty years?”
It was an odd question to ask Simon Ark, with his own claim of something akin to immortality. “There have been cases,” he answered vaguely. “Do I assume that Dragon Moore claims to be that old?”
“Not at all. He only insists he has no record of when or where he was born. He grew up in New Orleans and that’s where Roger did much of his research. There were no birth or baptismal records for any Desmond Moore at about the time he should have been born. But he did find these things on some of those odd Internet sites." She handed Simon the folder.
I looked over his shoulder as he read through the computer printouts. The top one was an account of a wrestling match between someone called the Masked Dragon and a Mexican with the unlikely name of Pancho Willa in Galveston in 1939. “This man’s a wrestler!” Simon protested.
“But the story says he also boxed without his mask as Desmond Moore. That was Moore’s name before he started calling himself Dragon.”
“A mere coincidence,” Simon suggested, turning to the next newspaper article. This one was much older, from 1892, and the tiny print described a bout in New Orleans between Dragon Moore and Reefer Foxx, one of the first to be fought since bare-knuckle fights were outlawed under the newly adopted Queensberry rules.
“Look at the picture on the next page,” she instructed.
The picture was an old photograph of the sort often found in newspapers of the late nineteenth century. It showed a bald fighter with his boxing gloves raised in the traditional protective stance. The caption read, “The Creole Dragon Moore, one of the first to fight with gloves under the new rules.”
I had to admit the illustration bore a remarkable resemblance to Dragon Moore. “I suppose it could be his great-grandfather or something, but there’ve been a great many boxers named Moore.”
Tracy Kimball bent over the page and I caught a whiff of her perfume. “Look here. See this little birthmark on his left cheek? It’s just like Dragon’s.”
“That could be a shadow,” Simon told her. “It’s difficult to be sure.”
“Roger was sure.” She flipped the page, propelling us further back into sports history. “This is a page from an old history of the Battle of New Orleans in 1815. It describes bare-knuckle fighters entertaining troops before the battle. One of the most popular was named Desmond Moore. See? Right here!”
“These pages only show that there were several men who boxed briefly under that name.”
Tracy lifted her eyes to meet Simon’s. “Or one man who boxed forever.”
Later, when we’d returned to our hotel, I asked Simon Ark what he intended to do. “I think I owe it to Roger Russell to look into this affair further,” he said. “He was killed while fighting someone, and the most likely suspect would seem to be Dragon Moore. We must make a call on Mr. Moore.”
The Creole boxer had left London for his training camp near Brighton, and it was there that we tracked him down on that Wednesday evening. Up close he was even larger and more threatening than in the ring, a massive mountain of muscle that threatened to burst through the T-shirt he wore. “You the ones called from London?” he asked, meeting us on the porch of his cottage after dark. “What do you want?”
“My name is Simon Ark. We’re looking into the death of a journalist named Roger Russell.”
“I know,” the big man told us. “The police called from London. They want me back there in the morning for a statement.” His voice carried the Creole tones one associated with the French Quarter of New Orleans.
“Had Russell interviewed you?”
A shake of the head. “I wouldn’t talk to him.” He turned and the light from inside fell across the birthmark on his cheek. It did resemble a dragon, and it appeared identical to the photograph in the old newspaper.
“Why not?” Simon asked. “Do you have something to hide?” “He had crazy ideas about me.”
“How old are you, Mr. Moore?”
The big man smiled, showing a gold tooth in front. “Twenty-five, thirty. Age does not matter.”
“Did you ever box Roger Russell, even in fun?”
“’Course not! That would be a crime. My fists are classed as deadly weapons, at least in America. Probably over here too.”
“Somebody boxed Russell in the ring at Leather’s Gym today. What time did you and your entourage arrive here today?” “They came this morning,” he mumbled. “I drove down a couple of hours ago.”
“Alone?”
“Sure, alone. I wasn’t anywhere near Leather’s Gym, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Did you ever use a cestus?”
A sly smile played along Moore’s lips and 1 knew he was familiar with the word. “Sure did! Back when I was a gladiator.”
He was joking, playing along with us.
“Russell believed you fought in New Orleans a long time ago,” Simon told him.
“I fought there, yes. I was fighting on the club circuit when I was sixteen.”
“Bare-knuckles?”
“When I was a boy.”
“Russell couldn’t find any record of your birth or schooling.” The big man shrugged, wrinkling his brow in a frown. “Not unusual among my people. I was born when the time was right, and I was schooled in the streets.”
“Do you remember the Vietnam War?”
“I remember them all. Vietnam, Korea, World War Two. I remember the Battle of New Orleans. I remember the Roman gladiators.” But the smile was back on his face.
“Prove it to me,” Simon challenged.
“You are not the police. I have answered too many questions already.” He walked past us into the cottage, closing the door behind him. Our interview was over.
On the way back to London in our rented car, I asked Simon, “What’s his game? Obviously he knows about the rumors and is playing along with them. Is he just trying to kid us or what?”
“I’m not quite sure,” Simon admitted
.
“That bald head makes it difficult to guess at his age.”
He agreed. “If he has gray hair he might shave his head to hide that fact.”
“Why would he kill Russell? To keep his age a secret?”
“These days being older could be good publicity for him.”
“But two hundred years old?”
“I’m not ready to admit that,” he said.
By the time we returned to our London hotel and had a late dinner I was ready for bed. In the morning I phoned Shelly again to tell her the police had delayed our return. “What about the party?” she asked.
“I’ll be home before Saturday,” I promised, none too sure of it at that moment. Sergeant Willis had just phoned to invite us to assist with their inquiry at Scotland Yard.
Simon and I arrived there before ten and were immediately ushered into an interview room where Willis joined us. “We now have the autopsy report on Mr. Russell,” he said, flipping through the sheets of paper as he spoke. “It appears that he was hit at least twice in the right temple by this.”
“Cestus,” Simon Ark supplied.
“Cestus, yes, this studded hand covering. The initial blow would have knocked him out, and the second one killed him. You saw the shape his head was in. There was blood on his pants and even a spot on his right hand. It seems likely the killer must have been splattered too.”
Simon thought about that. “Did you find his shirt? The one he removed for the fight?”
“No,” the detective admitted. “I have a theory that the killer might have worn it to cover up blood on his own shirt.”
“Possible, but not likely,” Simon told him.
“Why not?”
“Russell wouldn’t have been bare-chested unless his opponent was too. And if the killer was bare-chested, he wouldn’t have had blood on his shirt.”
“Makes sense,” the detective admitted. “I’ve got Dragon Moore and Clayt Sprague both coming in here this morning. I hope to learn something from them.”
That puzzled me. “You don’t seriously believe he would have been boxing with either of those two heavyweights, do you?”
“They might have been sparring. I’ve heard of writers doing crazier things than that for a story.”
So had I, but I wasn’t about to admit it to Sergeant Willis. Simon had a question. “Tell me something, Sergeant. Who is Dragon Moore’s manager?”
“We’re looking into that. His manager of record is Sheldon Ames, a former middleweight boxer. There’s talk in fight circles that Ames is just fronting for Miles Leather.” He asked a few more routine questions and then said, “That’s all for now. Will you still be in London tomorrow?”
I nodded. “But we have to catch an evening flight back home.”
As we left the office I saw the Jamaican fighter Clayt Sprague waiting his turn. Simon recognized him too, and went over to his chair. “We saw you fight Tuesday night. Good job.”
“Not so good,” Sprague answered through lips still badly swollen from the fight. “I lost.” His speech carried the familiar Jamaican accents of an upper-class English education.
“Anyone would have lost against Dragon. He hardly seems human.”
The boxer snorted. “He’s human, all right. Next time we fight I’ll mop the floor with him!”
“There are strange stories about Dragon Moore,” Simon suggested.
“Sure! He’s a hundred years old! Two hundred! I heard the stories. He’s still human. And I’ve got a good right hand that can prove it.”
“Did you know the writer who was killed at Leather’s Gym?” “Russell? He interviewed me a week or two ago. Asked me about these stories he’d been collecting. It was mostly garbage he downloaded from the Internet. I told him that.”
“You didn’t arrange to meet him at Leather’s Gym yesterday?” “Hell no!”
Sergeant Willis came out of his office then, surprised to see us talking with the boxer. “In here, Mr. Sprague,” he ordered. “I’m conducting this investigation.”
Simon and I beat a hasty retreat to the elevator.
Back on the street I grumbled to Simon, “It’s a wonder you didn’t get us arrested with that trick.”
“I was only exchanging pleasantries with the man.”
“Do you think he’s involved?”
“Probably not. He’s right-handed. We saw it at the fight and he just told us again.”
“How does that exonerate him?”
“The killing blows were to Russell’s right temple. If the two were facing each other those blows would have been delivered by a left-handed man.”
“Meaning Dragon Moore,” I said. “But a right-handed fighter could still deliver a powerful jab with his left hand, and wearing that glove it might have been enough to knock Russell unconscious. The second blow finished the job.”
Simon Ark smiled slightly. “You’re getting to be quite the detective in your later years, my friend. I’ve trained you well. What would you suggest as our next step?”
“A return to Leather’s Gym.”
“And why?”
“Sprague said Russell was getting some of those documents about Dragon Moore off the Internet. I noticed a computer in Miles Leather’s office.”
“Very good. I won’t remind you that every office in London probably has a computer these days.”
“Still, Simon, I think Leather knows more than he’s saying.” It was after noon when we reached the Soho gym, and a few boxers were working out on the punching bags. I’d half expected to see police crime-scene tape circling the ring, but there were no reminders of the previous day’s killing. Miles Leather was in his office, wearing a brown turtleneck sweater. He rose from his desk and came out when he saw us enter.
“Mr. Ark, isn’t it?” he addressed Simon, with a nod in my direction. I’d learned long ago that people often forget my name. “Have there been any new developments in the investigation?”
“We’re following up some interesting avenues of investigation,” Simon told him. One of the young boxers, his body glistening with sweat, had started jumping rope almost on top of us. “Is there someplace we can talk?”
“In my office.”
Leather sat behind his desk while Simon and I took the other two chairs. Simon immediately produced the folded printouts from his pocket. “Do you know about these?”
“I’ve seen them.”
“It would make a compelling myth, wouldn’t it? A mysterious Creole heavyweight who might be two hundred years old, fighting for the championship of the world?”
“It might be good for publicity,” Leather agreed.
“You’re Dragon’s manager, aren’t you?”
His lips compressed into a hard line. “Sheldon Ames is his trainer and manager. He’s called Shell.”
“The police believe it’s you.”
“What difference does it make? I have a piece of him, sure. With the gym and all it’s best not to advertise the fact. Sprague trained here for a bit too, along with Dragon, so Ames manages Dragon and I stay on the sidelines.”
“You may have planted those stories on the Internet yourself.”
Leather shrugged. “Check them out if you want. They’re all real stories.”
I shook my head. “You’re telling us Dragon Moore is two hundred years old?”
“I’m telling you that in this age of the Internet the public will believe most anything, at least for a short time. Dragon Moore is going to be a nine days’ wonder.”
“Fifteen minutes of fame is all you get anymore, not nine days.”
“It may not last, but I’m going to make some money for him. And for me too, of course.”
I could only shake my head. “We can sink your whole scheme with just a few words to the press.”
He smiled. I almost expected a gold tooth like Dragon had, but there was none visible. “Tell them what you want. It’s just more publicity.”
“Did you kill Russell to keep him quiet?”
&nbs
p; “Hardly! I was counting on him to break the story.”
We left Leather in his office and were on our way out when we encountered a gray-haired man who walked with a slight limp. I remembered seeing him the night of the fight. “Hey, you blokes!” he called to us. “You looking for me?” His accent was decidedly Cockney, and he didn’t look too friendly.
“I don’t know,” Simon Ark replied. “Who are you?”
“Shell Ames. I manage Dragon Moore. You fixing to hurt my boy?”
“Not unless he deserves it,” Simon told him. “We’re looking into the killing of Roger Russell.”
“Dragon had nothing to do with that. He was at our training camp.”
“He was here in London earlier that afternoon. He could have met Russell before he left.”
“But he didn’t. I wouldn’t let him. We were eating at the Cafe Royal last week when Russell and his girl came over to the table. He wanted to talk to Dragon then but I told him to get lost.”
“What girl was that?” I asked innocently.
“Name o’ Tracy something.”
“Tracy Kimball?”
“1 guess so.”
“You see them around much?”
“Used to, when he was living over here. He was a collector then, had lots of old boxing stuff, a picture signed by Ali, boxing gloves used by Dempsey, a program from the Johnson-Jeffries fight in Reno. That’s how he found all that old stuff about my fighter. You stay away from him, hear?”
“We are only seeking the truth,” Simon told him.
Shell Ames reached down to touch his left knee. “That’s what I used to say in my younger days. I was a pretty good middleweight then. One night I refused to throw a fight. They broke my kneecap with a lead pipe and I been a gimp ever since. So what did it get me?”
“You think something like that happened to Russell?”
He shrugged. “It can be a dirty business. Watch your step.” I glanced back to see Leather watching us from his office door. Then Simon and I hurried out.
Once on the street I hailed a cab. “I think it’s time we gave up, Simon. I have to be getting home.”
Otto Penzler (ed) - Murder 06 - Murder on the Ropes raw Page 19