He raised the gun and trained it on me. I felt my mouth go dry as though it was filled with sand.
‘But, sweetie,’ he said in a mocking baby-type voice, ‘you’ve got to let lickle Harryboy have some fun. Just one lickle bullet that’s all. Just one lickle bullet … right through his lickle heart.’
He raised the gun higher. Rachel screamed and then the world seemed to go mad.
There was another gunshot. I held my breath and prayed.
Nothing happened. I felt no pain.
I blinked and then realized with relief that the bullet had missed me. I gazed around the room in shocked puzzlement and then I saw Harryboy. He was lying face downwards on the floor. The back of his head was wet and shiny with blood. Standing over him wielding a large iron bar was the proprietor of Benny’s Café.
‘I knew this would come in useful one of these days,’ Benny said, trying to grin and failing. However he was far from amused. I could tell from his shaking hand and his hoarse voice that he was mortified at what he had done.
‘Oh, Benny,’ I said with a sigh, ‘you’ve saved my life. Now I’ll never hear the end of it.’ I went over to my agitated friend and gave him a hug.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
He steadied himself and nodded, recovering a little ‘You got any whisky in the place? Now that’s a silly question,’ he said.
I nodded and retrieved a bottle and glass from my desk drawer. I poured Benny a generous slug which he downed in one go.
Rachel was kneeling by the prostate figure of our friend Harryboy.
‘Is he dead?’ she asked in a way that told me she hoped that the answer would be in the affirmative. I knelt down by her and took Harryboy’s pulse. It was still there, faint but persistent.
‘He’s just concussed.’
‘Thank goodness,’ said Benny with relief. ‘I want no man’s death on my conscience no matter what kind of devil he is.’
‘Well, this devil is a multiple murderer so if you had killed him you’d have saved the hangman his job.’
‘Everyone to their own profession. I run a café. Cakes and pastries I can do. Executions … pah! Now, you got any more of that whisky?’
I poured Benny another glass and then he told me how he happened to arrive at my place in the nick of time with an iron bar.
‘ … and so with his bullying threats … he shot up my place … he managed to get your address out of me. When he’d gone and I’d pulled myself together … I didn’t know what to do. Such a state I was in. Then I tried to ring you but you put the phone down on me. I reckoned the brute had already got to you. So I grabbed my coat—’
‘And an iron bar.’
‘I keep it behind the counter to warn off spivs when they come around causing their bother. I took a taxi – that’s one shilling you owe me – my poor old heart pounding, and just got here in time.’
‘You certainly did. Another few seconds and you’d have been dusting off your black armband, my friend.’
Benny shook his head and closed his eyes. ‘Don’t make me think of it, Johnny.’
I collected another two glasses from my living quarters and poured some more whisky. I took one myself and gave the other to Rachel who had gone very quiet and was sitting on the chair again staring at the floor. I touched her shoulder. ‘It’ll be all right now,’ I said softly.
Benny, who, with the aid of the alcohol, was rapidly returning to his normal demeanour, tapped Harryboy’s arm gingerly with his foot. ‘What you going to do with this beauty then?’
‘Something fairly quick before he regains consciousness,’ I said snatching up the telephone. I rang David Llewellyn on his home number.
‘I’m just in the middle of my evening meal, Johnny. Can’t this wait?’ he said with some chagrin when I told him that I needed his help urgently.
I assured him that it couldn’t wait. ‘That’s the nature of something that’s urgent,’ I said sarcastically. ‘I have a desperate killer here for you. A certain Harryboy Jenkins. The guy who did for the young policeman the other evening.’
‘Is this on the level?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right, boyo, I’ll be round there straightaway.’
‘Bring some big bobbies too. He’s rather a handful.’
‘They won’t arrest me will they?’ asked Benny genuinely concerned, after I had replaced the receiver. ‘I’ve been a law-abiding citizen all my life … now this.’ He gazed down at the inert form on the floor, the blood from the wound beginning to trickle onto the carpet.
‘They’re more likely to give you a medal.’
For a moment Benny almost believed me.
‘I reckon the best thing is for you to skedaddle now. There’s no need for you to be involved in the matter. Nor Rachel, for the time being at least. Would you take her back to your place, Benny, eh? Give her some of your home cooking and a bed for the night and we can sort things out in the morning.’
Benny nodded in agreement, but glanced uncertainly at the girl who seemed somewhat bewildered by the train of events.
I gave her shoulders a squeeze. ‘Come on Rachel, you go with Benny. You’ll be safe with him. He’ll look after you until I’ve dealt with Harryboy. The worst is over now. This monster’s heading for the scaffold.’
She gazed at me dreamily and a ghost of a smile manifested itself briefly on her pale features.
‘OK, Johnny.’ She leaned forward and kissed me on the lips.
It was the nicest thing that had happened to me in a long while. And I found myself kissing her back.
As I felt her body lean in to mine, I realized with some embarrassment that it was time to withdraw. I was taking advantage of a damsel who was not only in some state of distress but who had just gulped down a triple whisky.
I gave her shoulders another squeeze and gently manoeuvred her in the direction of Benny who was gazing at me with a bemused expression. I avoided his glance. We both knew that under different circumstances I would have carried on kissing.
‘I’ll call around in the morning,’ I said, as they departed.
Left on my own, I took another slug of Johnnie Walker and then directed my attention to my unwanted comatose guest. I turned him over on to his back. He was now breathing easily and his features were in repose. He looked as innocent as a new born babe – apart from the revolver which he was still clutching in his right hand. I relieved him of the weapon and placed it on my desk. I didn’t know how long he’d reside in the land of dreams but I reckoned it would be safer if I bound his hands together in case he regained consciousness before the police arrived.
I glanced round the office looking for something suitable to tie him up with but without success. I wasn’t really an avid collector of rope or manacles. Then I remembered I had some thick twine in the kitchen drawer. If I doubled that, it would probably do the trick until David clapped some handcuffs on him. I went retrieve it. I pulled the twine out and examined it. It would just about do, particularly if it was secured very tightly.
When I returned to my office, I knew something was wrong the moment I entered the room. It didn’t take me long to determine what it was. The body of Harryboy Jenkins was no longer lying on the floor in front of my desk. It had disappeared. All that was left was the patch of blood which glinted in the light. Harryboy was not the only thing that was missing: the gun that I had so casually and carelessly left on my desk had gone too. I gave a silent curse. How could I have been so stupid? My first thought was that Harryboy had come round and done a bunk, but I soon readjusted this thought as I heard a noise in the shadows behind me.
Here we go again I thought, as I spun round to see the lumbering shape of Harryboy moving towards me. Even in the dim lighting I could see by his hazy expression and the lazily hooded eyes that this brute had not fully shaken off the cloak of his concussion. He had all the speed and aplomb of a drunken sleepwalker. Quickly I stepped forward and snatched the gun from his grasp and gave him a mighty thump to the chest. Withou
t a sound he crumpled before my eyes like some conjuror’s illusion, reverting back to his comatose state on the carpet at my feet, his bleeding head staining another area. Oh, if all my enemies were so easily disposed of.
I wasted no time in binding his wrists with the twine and then secreting the gun in my desk drawer.
Pouring myself another snifter of Johnnie Walker, I sat at my desk and waited for the cavalry to arrive.
I had not long to wait. David Llewellyn turned up on my doorstep some fifteen minutes later, in the company of his Detective Sergeant, a chap called Sunderland, and two bobbies. Because of Harryboy’s condition they would have to take him to hospital to have him attended to before they could dump him in a cell at the Yard. He would have to be in perfect health before they could hang him. He was handcuffed and hauled down in his unconscious state to a waiting patrol car by Sunderland and the bobbies. David told them to wait there until he’d had a word with me and established the facts of the matter. He not only had a word with me but he also finished off my bottle of Johnnie Walker.
‘I’d better warn you at the outset,’ I said, ‘that I’m not going to tell you everything. I’m protecting a couple of innocent people who have been hurt enough. Be happy you’ve got your man.’
‘I’m always happy when I’ve got my man,’ said David. ‘I’m just intrigued as to how this nasty piece of work ended up bleeding on your rather threadbare carpet.’
‘We professionals have our secrets,’ I said wryly. Then I gave him a sketchy adapted version of what happened in my office. No names were mentioned and David did not press me on the matter.
When I’d finished, David stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘You realize, boyo, that if I didn’t know you were as straight as a die, you’d be coming along with me to occupy a nice little cell at the yard. On paper you’re a mighty suspicious fellow.’
‘On paper I’m many things,’ I mused. ‘Like a one-eyed reject.’
‘Now don’t go for the sympathy angle or I will slip the cuffs on you.’
We exchanged smiles.
He rose to go, but before he did he leaned forward and patted me on the back. ‘Good man,’ he said warmly. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
TWENTY - EIGHT
After David had departed, I slumped down in my office chair and lit up a cigarette and found myself grinning. It has to be said that the grin was of a seriously ironic nature, but nevertheless it was there, plastered on my tired features. I was contemplating the notion that no one could accuse me of having a quiet life: runaway girls seeking my help, maniac killers invading my office, transvestite murderers on the loose and an errant orphan to worry about. My life at present was a rich tapestry indeed. However, the thought of Peter quickly wiped the smile off my face. Where the hell was he? In some cold doorway somewhere … or worse?
I knew it was pointless contemplating his fate but I let my mind have its way for a few minutes before I reined myself in and turned it to more practical matters: the Riley murder case. I weighed up the recent evidence I’d gleaned. Most of it related to my friend, Bernard France, The White Rabbit. (1) He worked at the War Office and it was likely he would know of, if not be acquainted with, Walter Riley. (2) I had seen him warn off Mrs Riley. (3) I had seen him at the address I had found on the dead body of Amanda from The Loophole Club. (No doubt she had been warned off too, but in a far more serious manner.) (4) He drove the same kind of motor car used in the murder of Walter Riley.
Even Dr Watson could come up with a conclusion using these facts. All I needed now was proof to link him to the two murders. And a motive would be useful too.
I lit another cigarette and watched the smoke spiral up into the darkness beyond the beam of the lamp. It seemed to me that another visit to Studely Mansions was called for. This time I needed to get inside the apartment and do a little snooping.
With this thought and rough plan of action, I dragged myself off to bed with the knowledge that I would have to rise very early in the morning if I was to catch the worm.
At 7.30 the following day, somewhat bleary of eye and fatigued of body, I had positioned myself along Bedford Gardens in Kensington, with a clear view of the entrance to Studely Mansions. I reckoned Mr White Rabbit would be at his desk at the War Office by half-past eight and so would leave the apartment around eight o’clock. Sometimes, fate smiles kindly on me and indeed my friend France, or was it Webster? along with his thick horn-rimmed glasses, appeared on the steps of the building just before eight o’clock. He stood there as though waiting for a bus, while sniffing the air in a twitching White Rabbit fashion as though it offended him. Shortly after his appearance, a black Wolseley drove up and the commissionaire got out. I was delighted to see that it was not the fellow who had called the police and I’d had to bash in the face. He, no doubt, was at home nursing a broken nose. His replacement, a much younger, thin-faced fellow, saluted as he handed over the car keys to the White Rabbit. He had obviously retrieved the vehicle from some hidden underground parking place. Within seconds, the White Rabbit was in the car, revving up and shooting away down the street.
The commissionaire stepped into the road and saluted once again. While he was concentrating on his obsequious duties, building up bonus points for what he hoped would be a large Christmas tip, I slipped behind him, my hat pulled well over to the left to help obscure my eye-patch, which was always a give away in situations like this. No doubt he had been informed about the one-eyed intruder and to tackle anyone with an eye-patch who came anywhere near the building.
I was through the doors and up the stairs before he had re-entered the building. Getting out may not be as easy, I told myself as I reached the first floor, but I would have to face that revolving door when I came to it. With my trusty hairgrip, I quickly effected an illegal entrance to flat 12.
My, but it was sumptuous inside. I waded through the thick pile carpet into the sitting-room which was very Hollywood: a fusion of black, white and cream with large lamps on mirrored side tables. Sumptuous indeed it was, but also rather barren. There were no little personal touches that gave individuality to the room, no sense of the character or personality of the owner.
I thought of my own dingier, cramped quarters. A detective scouting around there unhindered, picking up items hither and thither, rummaging through my untidy but revealing drawers, would soon have a fairly full and clear picture of the occupant. Not here though. This apartment was sanitized and neutered.
I wandered into the bedroom which was decorated in a similar style with one wall housing a run of mirrored wardrobes. Sliding back the doors, I peeked inside them. The clothes were split into two sections: men and women. The men’s clothes, predominantly smart formal suits, were obviously made for a shortish, broadish chap: Mr France, no doubt; while the ladies clothes, mainly evening wear, were long and slinky and were for someone taller and leaner. I doubted if there was a Mrs France. My guess is that these belonged to Helen. I had certainly seen her wear something of the sort at The Loophole Club. Ah! Perhaps she was Mr Webster. There were other feminine items in the chest of drawers – bracelets, necklaces, underwear and various bottles of perfume.
There was a large cream telephone on the bedside table by the bed. Next to it in a silver frame was a black and white photograph of a beautiful, dark-haired woman. It was Helen from The Loophole Club. I picked it up and studied it closely. She was beautiful as a woman, but I also knew that this character was a transvestite and, as I gazed at the photograph, I tried to erase all the feminine touches from the face – the long hair, the lipstick, the mascara – to unearth the male face beneath, as it were. I laid the photograph on the bed and cupped my hands around the face, blanking off the dark tresses. Slowly the man emerged from behind the artifice. And I recognized him. I had seen him only once before in the flesh – as a man that is – but now I saw him again. I sat for some moments on the bed to let the implications of my discovery sink in.
Eventually I moved into the bathroom. Here in the cabinet over the
sink there were two sets of shaving equipment. Of course there were.
Further scrutiny of the apartment revealed little else of interest and so after making sure I was leaving the place exactly as I’d found it, I left.
*
As it happened I was able to slip out of Studely Mansions without any problem. Things were going my way today for a change. The thin-faced commissionaire was studying the pages of what looked like some sporting rag as I breezed by his desk. I suppose he might have looked up if I had been entering the building, but he wouldn’t be expecting a man with an eye patch to be leaving the premises.
After my little bit of detective work I felt hungry. I thought a breakfast at Benny’s was in order and I set off for Kensington High Street underground station at a brisk pace while I juggled about the new pieces of information in my mind, shifting them around the puzzle canvas until I slotted them in neatly. By the time I’d reached Dean Street, I was quite convinced I had solved the Riley mystery. However, that was only part of my problem. Proving my case would be rather more difficult. One thing was sure: I needed to visit The Loophole Club again.
On entering Benny’s Café, I found the proprietor ensconced behind the counter, now minus its glass display case, smiling broadly as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Just then the door of the kitchen opened and Rachel, wearing a smart apron, came out carrying a trayful of breakfasts. She hesitated a little when she saw me, smiled nervously and then went on her way to distribute the victuals to the hungry customers.
‘Have you met my new waitress?’ said Benny, the smile broadening.
‘I think so,’ I said evenly.
Benny eyed me defensively. ‘She needs a job: I need the help. A good arrangement, eh?’
‘A good arrangement,’ I repeated. It seemed to me that Benny had managed quite well without the aid of a waitress before. This was the old boy being generous again. He had a heart of gold but made great efforts to conceal the fact. However, he also had a soft spot for a pretty face and a womanly figure.
Without Conscience Page 18