by J F Straker
‘Yes.’ She went to the mantelpiece, took a lipstick from her bag and turned to the long, ornate mirror. ‘He hit you with his gun. Did you know?’
‘It felt like a bloody girder.’
He eased himself out of the chair. With the weight transferred to his feet he was painfully reminded of the assault on his ankle. It was stiff as well as sore, and he hobbled about the room to relieve the stiffness. There was nothing he could do about the pain.
Her face redecorated, the woman turned to watch him. ‘Who was he?’ she asked. ‘Do you know?’
Johnny said he didn’t, and remembered not to shake his head. ‘My name’s Inch, by the way. Johnny Inch.’ He stopped hobbling. ‘What happened after I passed out?’
He had searched Johnny’s pockets and wallet, she said, and then he had left. ‘Soon as he’d gone I fetched this from the bathroom.’ She lifted the damp cloth from the mantelpiece and put it down again. ‘I sort of thought it might help.’
‘Thanks. I’m sure it did. Didn’t he say anything?’
‘Well, he said he’d followed you here and heard you tell me about Martin’s letter. He seemed to think it was funny.’
‘I can imagine.’ Johnny frowned. Salt in the wounds, he thought. ‘I’m sorry about this, Mrs Slade. I let you in for it, didn’t I? Didn’t do much to help you out of it, either.’
She shrugged. ‘You couldn’t, could you? Not with him having a gun.’ She seemed to have recovered completely. Johnny was impressed. It must be her way of life, he thought. Men aren’t always gentle with prostitutes. ‘You said you wanted to see me about Martin’s letter. How did you know he’d written to me?’
‘I told you, I saw him in hospital. I got your address for him.’
‘Here?’
‘No. Finsbury Park. A friend suggested I might find you here.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Did Martin tell you what he wrote in the letter?’
‘No.’
‘But I thought — I mean, why are you here, then?’
That wasn’t easy. He had come for the same reason as her other visitor had come: to learn what was in Martin Slade’s letter — and not for her benefit, or Obi Bullock’s or Polly Frazer’s, but primarily for his own. He could not tell her that. She would not take kindly to his intention of recovering the bullion and handing it over to the police, she would want the share Slade’s letter had seemed to promise. He told her he could guess the substance of her letter because, as no doubt it had indicated, her husband had sent similar letters to at least three other people. Did she remember Obadiah Bullock? After a moment’s thought she said she did. Well, Obadiah was one of the three, Johnny said, and he was acting for him. It might interest her to know that Alan Bagiotti was another.
That shook her composure. ‘Oh no! Not them two, surely? I mean, Martin hated them both. It was Obadiah who shopped him; Martin swore he’d get him when he came out. And Alan —’ She paused. ‘You know about Alan and me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then!’ Momentarily she was stuck for words. ‘I can’t believe it, really I can’t. Them two! I mean, he really hated their guts. Why would he want to leave them his money?’
‘I don’t know.’ He hated you too, Johnny thought. Which makes a pattern. And it wasn’t his money. ‘But that’s how it is. And I suspect the fourth letter was sent to Curlylocks.’
‘Curlylocks?’
‘The gentleman who just left. He seems to be one of a gang who are out to beat the off. They’re trying to collect the other three letters, hoping to lift the bullion before the rest of you get around to it. Well, they’ve got yours. Bagiotti burnt his he thought it was a hoax — but he told them what was in it. That just leaves Obi Bullock’s.’
‘And that’s the one you’ve got? The one the man said a girl gave you?’
‘I haven’t got it. But I know where it is.’ It was characteristic of Alan, she said, to believe the letters were a hoax. The bullion was real, wasn’t it? And Martin had had to leave it to someone, he wouldn’t want it to stay buried for ever. He wouldn’t want the police to have it, either. Not after all he’d suffered. But Alan wouldn’t see that. Alan wouldn’t see anything unless it were stuck plumb in front of his nose. Even then he’d sniff a bit first.
‘Do you believe it’s a hoax?’ she asked.
‘I’ve an open mind. But if I had to settle for yes or no, it’d be no. Don’t ask me why. It’s just a feeling.’
‘Same here.’ She spread her arms in a gesture of defeat. ‘All the same, it’s crazy, isn’t it? Real crazy.’ The arms dropped, and she smiled. ‘You know what? Martin said in his letter there’d be someone to tell us what to do. I thought at first it was you. I mean, I thought that was why you’d come. Oh, well! Would you like some tea?’
He said he would.
Over tea she told him about Dolores Cash. Dolores was her friend, she said, and had lived some ten minutes away from No. 108. She had been having her place redecorated, and because the smell of paint made her sick she had got out as much as she could. ‘These last few days she’s been coming round to my place,’ Alice said. ‘I gave her a key, so’s she could let herself in when I was out.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose that’s what happened yesterday.’
‘Day before yesterday.’
‘Yes.’ She sniffed, and reached for the handkerchief in her bosom. The cardigan gaped wider. If she’s wearing a bra, Johnny thought, it’s strictly for uplift only. ‘Poor Dolores. I asked her not to take men there — I might want the room myself, I said, and to go to a hotel — but that’s what she must have done. And I suppose he killed her. Hadn’t any money, perhaps, or got mad about something. Or maybe he was —nwell, one of them. You know — queer. Flag boys, Dolores used to call them.’ She shivered. ‘I’ve had them like that myself. Real nasty, the things they want you to do.’
Johnny decided not to query her assessment of how Dolores Cash had died. For all he knew, she could be right. ‘Why didn’t you return home Tuesday night, Mrs Slade?’ he asked.
‘Alice,’ she said. ‘Just call me Alice. Do you want some more tea?’
He had another cup, and repeated the question. The letter from Martin, she said, had come about a week ago. She had wanted to show it to Jack — this was his place — but he had been away on business. Tuesday morning he had telephoned to say he was back, and she had told him about the letter and he had said to bring it round. ‘At first I didn’t think it could be for real. I mean, it’s years since me and Martin split up, and I couldn’t see why he’d want to leave me anything. But Jack said, maybe the years had softened him. I was still his wife, wasn’t I? And he’d no other relatives. Anyway, Jack said, if it’s for real there’ll be another letter. Wait and see what happens, he said.’
‘But why didn’t you go home last night?’ he persisted.
She laughed. It was a harsh laugh, but not unpleasant.
‘Why do you think?’ She sat up, throwing back her shoulders to accentuate her bust. ‘Nothing wrong with me, is there? Jack doesn’t think so, anyway. He said to stay the night. He’d been away a week, and he wanted company.’
Johnny grinned. ‘I can see what he meant. But how about yesterday?’
They had stayed in bed late, she said
‘Jack likes it in the morning’ — and afterwards they had read in the papers about the murder, and Jack had gone round to Dolores’ place to try for more information. It was there he learned she had been killed at No. 108. ‘That wasn’t in the papers, you see. Well, it scared me proper. I expect you think that’s silly — I mean, it was just a coincidence she was killed at my place, it hadn’t anything to do with me — but it scared me all right. Jack made me go to the police and tell them what I could, but I came back here after.’ She shuddered. ‘“I’m not going back there,” I told Jack. “I wouldn’t spend a night there,” I said, “not if you paid me.” He said to stay here till he finds me another place.’
‘Did you tell the police about your husband’s letter?’ Johnn
y asked.
‘No fear! Why should I? It hadn’t nothing to do with Dolores being killed.’ She had seemed distressed when talking about her friend, but now she laughed. She was quick to regulate her emotions. Part of her professional stock-in-trade, Johnny thought. ‘Catch me telling them that! They’d have kept it, wouldn’t they? The gold too, if they could have found it.’
It could have had everything to do with Dolores’ death, Johnny thought. ‘Well, you’ve lost the letter now,’ he said. ‘Thanks to me.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s not all that important. I mean, I know what was in it.’
‘So does Curlylocks.’ Now was the time to strike. ‘He and his pals now have three-quarters of your husband’s directions. Even without the other quarter they must have a fair idea of where to look.’ He paused to let that sink in. ‘So how about telling me what was in that letter?’
‘Why?’
‘It would put me level with Curlylocks. I might even jump ahead.’
‘But I don’t know you, do I? I mean, you might be like him.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not saying you are. But you might be, mightn’t you?’
‘Heaven forbid!’ He extracted a card from his wallet. ‘Look! That’s me. Private inquiry agent. I told you, I’m working for Obi Bullock.’
‘Oh, him! I wouldn’t trust him,’ she said, frowning. ‘Not as far as I could throw him.’
‘It’s me you have to trust, not Obi.’
She was hard to convince. What would happen to the gold, she asked, supposing he was lucky enough to find it? What guarantee was there that he wouldn’t decamp with the lot? Why couldn’t they just wait, and do it the way Martin had said? They couldn’t wait, he said, because if they did there might not be any gold to collect. As for a guarantee — well, he was a partner in a reputable agency and a member of the British Detectives Association. That should be sufficient guarantee. He would expect a commission, of course: ten per cent was customary. And that was true enough, he thought — except that it would come as a reward, not as commission. He avoided the question of what would happen to the gold, hoping she would read into his answers what they seemed to imply. Apparently she did, for the question was not repeated.
‘Well, I don’t know.’ She got up and walked to the window and stared down at the traffic. ‘Anyway, I’d have to ask Jack first. Couldn’t you come back tomorrow?’
‘But it’s urgent, Alice.’ It was. And instinct told him there would be no rapport between himself and Jack. ‘Tomorrow may be too late.’
There was no indication as to what resolved her doubt. Something she saw in the street? His earnestness? A sudden impulse? But she turned abruptly and came over to him, a hand outstretched. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Lend me a pencil, will you? I’ll write it down. I’ve read it so often I know it by heart.’
He handed her his notebook and a Biro. She held the notebook against the wall to write. ‘There,’ she said. ‘That’s all there was. All that matters, I mean. Will it help?’
Her handwriting was a scrawl, but he managed to decipher it without prompting. ‘About a mile down the road, past a turning to the left, there’s a track leading off to the left through a clump of trees,’ he read. Alice had written a large figure 3 after it, and in his mind he slotted it between excerpts two and four and was relieved to find it made sense. Almost complete sense. And that was odd, because it couldn’t be complete. Not without excerpt Number One. Even with Number One there was no exact indication where to dig.
‘It helps,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how much, but it helps. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. What will you do now?’
Nothing right away, he said, it was too late. The bullion was buried somewhere in Sussex, and by the time he had contacted his partner and got down there it would be dark. He would make an early start the next morning. In that case, she said, why couldn’t he have waited until she had spoken to Jack? Jack would be home about ten. The doubt was back in her voice, and he did his best to reassure her; he did not want her to suffer a change of heart, resulting perhaps in an unfriendly visit from lover-boy and his pals. There were plans to be made, he said. With part of the directions still missing they had only an approximate location, they would need to cast around. No doubt Curlylocks and his friends would be doing the same. ‘We have to face the possibility that we may bump into them,’ he said. ‘That could be nasty.’ He beamed at her. ‘But not to worry. We’re used to nasty situations.’
She wasn’t worrying, she said. But what with Dolores being murdered, and then that awful man this afternoon, she was feeling a bit low. She didn’t fancy being on her own. So did he have to rush? Couldn’t he at least stay for a drink? It wasn’t that urgent, was it?
They had not long finished tea, but he stayed for a drink. He felt guilty at having conned her, and but for him the afternoon wouldn’t have happened. If she wanted someone to hold her hand for a while — figuratively, of course, not literally — well, he owed her that.
It was Alice who did most of the talking. She was frank about herself and her trade. She liked men, she said, she always had, and she liked variety. That was partly why she had not stuck to Martin or Alan. Only partly, though. Martin had been real mean, even brutal on occasions. Alan? Oh, she’d never been in love with Alan, he’d merely been an escape from Martin. And then she had met Jack. She wasn’t in love with Jack either. But she liked him a lot, and he was kind of exciting. It had been Jack’s idea she should go on the game; you fancy it, he said, so why not make it pay? She hadn’t objected; not so long as he picked the men carefully. And mostly he had. He’d looked after her well, had Jack.
Johnny found the situation intriguing. Drinking and chatting with a professional whore, and no obligation to sex. No invitation either — or at least no direct invitation. She was carefree with her legs, crossing and uncrossing them, and she neglected to refasten a cardigan button when it slipped its moorings to reveal even more of her bosom. But there was no direct suggestion that bed was the proper place for them to be together. Perhaps she thought it would be improper, using her lover’s bed to entertain a client. Or perhaps it was because she knew his wallet was empty. After all, sex to Alice was business, even though she clearly derived pleasure from it. It would be bad business to give it away.
He was on his second beer when he remembered Polly. He looked at his watch. Five to six — and he had arranged to meet her at the Cricketer at six-thirty. He would never make it. And Polly, he suspected, would not take kindly to waiting.
He gulped down the beer and stood up. ‘I’ll have to dash,’ he said. ‘I want to catch my partner before he leaves the office.’ To say that he was deserting her for a bird might dent her self-esteem. ‘Thanks for the beer. I’ll let you know how I make out.’
‘You do that,’ she said. ‘How’s the head?’
‘Sore. But still functioning. I’m not so sure about the ankle.’ He took a few steps. It was stiff and swollen. ‘Ouch! That hurts.’
‘We’re some way from the station.’ she said. ‘You’d better take a taxi.’
It was then he remembered that his wallet was empty. He delved for the coins in his trouser pockets. A couple of fives. That might get him to the station, but it wouldn’t get him to Piccadilly. As for taking Polly to dinner — that was definitely out.
‘I — this is bloody embarrassing,’ he said. He showed her the coins in his hand. ‘That’s all Curlylocks left me. I hate asking, but — well, you couldn’t lend me some money, could you? I’ll put it in the post tomorrow.’
The dark eyes opened wide, her lips parted to reveal excellent teeth. She laughed. ‘That’s comic,’ she said. ‘That’s real comic. You know — me handing over money to a man.’ She took some out from her bag. ‘That enough?’
‘Plenty.’ He could hardly ask for more. He was supposed to be returning to the office, not taking a bird out to dinner. ‘Thanks a lot.’
‘You’re welcome.’
He decided he liked her. Slade had c
alled her a bitch and a whore. Well, she was certainly a whore, by inclination as well as by profession, but she did not give the impression of being bitchy. If Slade had found her bitchy it was probably because of the way he had treated her.
It was while he was hobbling down the stairs, Alice behind him, that she mentioned the expected final instructions. What should she do when they came? Should she telephone? Do that, he said. Although if things panned out the way he hoped it might not be necessary.
She kissed him on parting. A sticky kiss, full on the lips, but cool. He had always understood that prostitutes disliked kissing. ‘You’ll come and see me?’ she said. ‘When you know something, I mean. You won’t just ring?’
‘I may ring,’ he said. ‘But I’ll come and see you after. And that’s a promise.’
He took a taxi to the station and a train to Green Park. By the time he had hobbled to the Cricketer he was over twenty minutes late. Polly sat at a table, wearing an eye patch and sipping a gin and tonic. She looked sourly beautiful as she waited for the expected apology.
Johnny apologized. ‘Not my fault, though,’ he said. ‘Just one of those things. I got stood up.’
‘I thought it was me who was being stood up,’ she said coldly. ‘This is my second gin and tonic. I’ve been here half an hour.’
She relented when he explained. He omitted the fact that Alice Slade was a whore; she might find that repugnant. Nor did he mention that he had spent an unnecessary forty minutes drinking Jack Marston’s beer; it would not be conducive to establishing good relations. But he told her the rest, and she was pleasingly sympathetic about his injuries. She even insisted on fetching his beer from the bar. With a bruised ankle, she said, the less walking the better.
‘What made you visit Mrs Slade?’ she asked. ‘She couldn’t help you with Obi, could she?’
He had become so engrossed in his pursuit of the bullion that once more he had forgotten it was Obi Bullock she was paying him to find. Damn the girl! he thought. Why can’t she see the broader issue? But then the broader issue wouldn’t be to her precious Obi’s advantage. Not as Johnny planned it.