A Quarter Past Dead

by TP Fielden

Miss Dimont had to smile as they approached Arthur’s new toy, a sleek and sinuous piece of engineering designed with the younger playboy in mind. He found it painfully difficult to fold his tall frame into it.

  ‘Touch of gout these days,’ he explained, as he pressed a button and the engine roared. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Well, we’re meeting Sticks, ah, Mr Karanikis, in Soho – he’s bringing along his cousin. A Greek restaurant called The Acropolis.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard of that!’ said Arthur with glee. ‘The waiters dance on the tables and throw plates against the walls!’ His eyes lit up in boyish delight as they whizzed up the Euston Road.

  ‘Not so lucky, uncle. This one’s rather more cultured than that.’ Arthur indicated his disappointment with a showy and entirely unnecessary double-declutch.

  The drummer and another man who looked remarkably similar were waiting for them at the table.

  ‘Arthur, this is Theoclymenus Karanikis,’ pronounced Judy flawlessly, ‘known as Sticks. Sticks, my uncle Arthur – he adores Greek food!’

  Arthur gave his niece a sidelong glance.

  ‘This is my cousin Petros,’ said Sticks, ‘come and sit down and have some retsina.’

  As waiters – with not a broken plate in sight – hovered, Judy got down to business. ‘Sticks tells me you may know the murdered woman, Petros.’

  ‘If it’s who I think it is, I…’

  ‘Would this be of help?’ And out of her raffia bag she brought the 10 × 8 photos Terry had printed up. ‘Do you recognise this girl?’

  ‘That’s her,’ said Petros instantly. ‘Definitely. A terrible person, a really horrible woman. Is she dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, in that case I must try to find something nice to say about her, then. She had a beautiful smile.’ Clearly this was a sentimental man who didn’t believe in speaking ill of those no longer with us.

  ‘No need to be so polite, Petros. She can’t hear you.’

  The man pulled at his bushy moustache and considered the prints.

  ‘I used to see her all the time. The Greek community here in London – we have a lot of parties, family get-togethers, that sort of thing – I cater them, as well as running my own small restaurant in Notting Hill.’ He sipped his wine thoughtfully.

  ‘She’s a member of the Patrikis family, can’t remember her first name. They came here during the war – they’re rich, shipping or oil or something like that. I once did a party at the family home in Hampstead – hah! Never again! She was a terrible woman – rude to me, rude to my staff, even to her own guests. With her it was all me, me, me.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ said uncle Arthur. He was peering quizzically into his glass.

  ‘To be honest I think there was something the matter with her,’ continued Petros, shaking his head.

  ‘What exactly?’

  ‘Hot and cold. I mean, we all know people like that, don’t we, but with her it was extreme – smarming round some old geezer one minute, making life hell for everyone the next. She was out of control and it wasn’t drink – I never saw her touch a drop.’

  ‘Did you see her often?’

  ‘I only got into the catering side of things a few years ago, and I suppose for about a year I would see her very regularly – always Greek parties, usually in north London but also in the smart houses around Hyde Park. I remember there was one house with its own ballroom and she stopped the band and cleared the dance-floor – grabbed the microphone and went into a tirade about – oh, I can’t even recall. Just drawing attention to herself.’

  ‘Did she have boyfriends, a husband? I don’t know, but I reckon she must have been around thirty so there must have been someone.’

  ‘That would be about right.’ Petros and Sticks were enjoying the retsina and called for another bottle, but when they waved it in his direction Arthur said, ‘I think I’ll have a cup of coffee.’ The expression on his face when he’d taken the first sip was a picture – what a shame Terry wasn’t here to capture it! Now it was the old boy’s turn to study the prints on the table. ‘That’s a Deux Chevaux!’ he said, looking at the picture with the car.

  ‘Top marks,’ said Judy drily. ‘Right first time, Arthur.’

  ‘One of the miracles of modern automotive engineering. D’you know, I once had the opportunity…’

  Judy didn’t even wait for him to finish – if you got him onto cars he’d never stop, the family name for him was the Motor Drone – so she cut in: ‘Petros, are there any members of the family still around?’

  ‘I was just coming to that. Her father was murdered – did you know? Stavros Patrikis. Only a couple of months after they had the party at their house. They were devoted, I will say that, she may have hated everybody else but she adored him. Then he was murdered by a burglar who broke in and ransacked the safe.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s quite how it was…’ started Arthur, thinking of his friend Johnny Ramensky, but Petros was ploughing on. ‘Then a few months after the murder the daughter just disappeared. She never went to any more parties after his death but I suppose that’s understandable. Then one day – gone. She was heartbroken by the loss – there was only her and the father, no mother or brothers and sisters. Maybe she went back to Greece, nobody knows. That’s what I heard, anyway.’

  ‘Well, not if your identification is right, Petros. She only got as far as Temple Regis.’

  Sticks had been paying more attention to the label on the wine bottle than to the conversation – that’s drummers for you – but now spoke up. ‘You don’t think there’s some vendetta against the family? That the guys who did the father in done her as well?’

  ‘Sounds a bit far-fetched to me,’ said Arthur with a certain authority. ‘After all, more than four years separates the two deaths. They happened a couple of hundred miles apart, and the modus operandi just isn’t sufficiently similar to say that one hand was responsible for both deaths.’

  He spoke slowly, but with the command of one whose life had been littered with unusual occurrences. Petros and Sticks looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Who else is there in the family?’ asked Judy.

  ‘Well,’ said Petros, ‘I was building my business up and so I didn’t see much of the family after the murder – they weren’t giving parties any more. There was no mother – I’m certain of that – it was just Mr Patrikis and his daughter. There was a brother, I think.’

  ‘Address?’ said Judy brightly.

  Just then there was a crash of breaking crockery and Arthur, who had been visibly subdued ever since he tasted the vile retsina, cheered up in an instant.

  ‘Ah, the smashing of the plates!’ he beamed with satisfaction. ‘Shouldn’t we clear these photos away so they can get up and dance on the table?’

  ‘They don’t do that sort of thing here,’ said Petros, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Somebody just had an accident in the kitchen.’

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘I meant to ask – how’s Elizabeth?’ They were sitting in the window of Arthur’s mansion flat, high over London. The plane trees in the square were still, the taxis honked their horns far beneath, and in the distance could be heard the slow growl of a trolley-bus. ‘Do you see her?’

  ‘She moved to Bournemouth last winter. Too noisy in London, she said. We occasionally talk on the blower.’

  ‘I always thought…’

  ‘Everybody always thought,’ said Arthur, crossly, ‘except me. One wife’s enough in a lifetime for any man! I got used to living on my own long ago – and then I have occasional treats like you coming to stay. If I get restless I go to the club.’

  ‘Play billiards and drink brandy.’

  ‘They were invented for each other.’

  They hadn’t stayed for supper in Soho – Arthur said the retsina made him lose his appetite, and since all the crockery seemed determined to remain intact there didn’t seem much point in staying on – they’d got what they came for. Now they sat with cheese and biscuits and
a bottle of old Burgundy, looking out of the window at the black-and-white humbug stripes of the night sky, backlit by a huge moon poking through streaky clouds.

  ‘You’ve been saving it up all evening, Arthur. Now tell me about Johnny Ramensky.’

  ‘Well, he’s in hot water again, poor fellow. You know, a nice enough chap but a fool to himself. The moment he gets out he goes and does it again – can’t help himself.’

  ‘What happened this time?’

  ‘Oh, he hopped it from jail. I think he got bored sitting around doing nothing all day.’

  ‘I thought that was the point.’

  ‘Well, Johnny likes a bit of excitement, but not too much. They gave him ten years for doing what he does best, which by anybody’s standards is a bit steep, and after sitting it out a bit he decided to go over the wall. Trouble with Johnny, he always gets caught.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘This must be the fifth time he’s gone on the lam. Usually gets caught the next day but this time it was nearly a fortnight. He fancied a taste of London nightlife, I expect. Or maybe just needed a cuddle.’

  ‘You sound as though you rather approve of our Mr Ramensky.’

  ‘Takes all sorts. He’s a whizz with explosives.’

  ‘Ah yes. Eric caught the fever too. An hour in Johnny’s company and he wanted to be a safecracker for the rest of his days.’

  ‘And still you would have married him? Good Lord!’ said Arthur, shaking his head.

  ‘Oh, I daresay come peacetime I could have talked him out of it. He had other plans too – an expedition to the Falkland Islands, some mad scheme of his.’

  ‘He was very handsome,’ said Arthur, ‘but not exactly the reliable type, Huguette. What your mother would have said…’

  His niece shuddered slightly at the thought and changed the subject. ‘Go on about Gentleman Johnny, do.’

  ‘Well, my dear, I tracked him down and I’m going to see him. Tomorrow! Chap at the club I told you about went and spoke to a friend, who spoke to a friend – it’s all fixed up. He’s on remand in Brixton Prison, they’ll be sending him back to Scotland next week. Found him in the nick of time.’

  ‘Well, that’s brilliant, Arthur – you’re back on your old form!’

  ‘D’you know, I miss all that – the adventures we used to have in the old days. I and the old man, we’d sit next door in the office and work these problems out – it was always a bit of a thrill when something new came along.’

  ‘You had some remarkable successes.’

  ‘Well, you know, I’d put forward a theory, he’d put forward a theory. He was sometimes quite dismissive, but we got results.’

  ‘How wonderful that he left this place to you in his will.’

  ‘He was an extraordinarily generous man.’

  ‘And terribly, terribly fond of you – even if he could never say it out loud.’

  ‘Let’s talk about Johnny,’ said Arthur abruptly, tugging out a handkerchief. There must have been a speck of dust in his eye.

  ‘Well, I can’t believe you found him. If he’s as willing to oblige as you say he is, maybe he can solve this case at a stroke. You remember he burgled that house and was held on suspicion of murder.’

  ‘Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Gentleman Johnny, they call him.’

  ‘Anyway. Now we know that the murder victim was Stavros Patrikis, and maybe Johnny might have a clue as to what his daughter was called – then, at last, we can name the second murder victim.’

  ‘That should be easy enough,’ said the old boy. ‘D’you like this Burgundy? The ’47 was a better year, but I think this ’55 is pretty distinguished, don’t you agree?’

  Miss Dimont didn’t like to disappoint. ‘Absolutely marvellous, Arthur!’

  ‘Finally got rid of the taste of that filthy Greek muck. Honestly, it clings to your palate like a limpet to a rock!’

  ‘The retsina? Made a nice change, I thought.’

  Arthur looked scandalised. ‘Wouldn’t wash my car with it!’

  ‘Speaking of which, uncle, you will be asking Ramensky about Hugh Radipole? If it turns out he was working for Radipole, can’t he give us some clue as to what Radipole was really making his money from before he came to Temple Regis?’

  ‘Well, the man’s an absolute stinker, that’s for sure. That Lagonda, I mean to say! Wouldn’t put it past him to have the Patrikis chap killed, and a dozen others for good measure too – he’s that sort of type. Though it couldn’t have been Johnny who did it.’

  ‘I don’t know, Arthur,’ said Miss Dimont. ‘Just because Ramensky never killed anybody before doesn’t mean to say. If he was caught blowing the safe, what’s he going to do – hold his hands up and surrender? We’ve got to face the fact Ramensky may have killed him.’

  ‘I just don’t see it,’ said Arthur, shaking his head. ‘Remember I know him, I’ve had a chance to size the chap up.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but look here – Stavros Patrikis is murdered, and quite brutally. It wasn’t necessary to stick the knife in quite so many times.

  ‘Then, four years later, his daughter – whom we call Patsy till we know her real name – is the subject of an equally cold-blooded murder. Despite what you say, I think there has to be a single person at the back of this.’

  ‘Well,’ said Arthur, lifting the bottle, ‘I say, Huguette, you’ve barely touched your glass! But look, it can’t have been Johnny – he’s been on remand for the past six weeks. You can’t go swanning off to Temple Regis with a pistol and shoot a hole in someone’s heart while you’re detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Her Majesty doesn’t allow it.’

  ‘Point taken. But two murders – father and daughter – is too much of a coincidence for us to ignore. Supposing it was Radipole who wanted to get rid of them – though I can’t think why – if he was determined to see them both off, he could have used two murderers. Come to that, he could have done it himself!’ The thought started to take flight in Miss Dimont’s imagination.

  ‘Yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘Radipole could have been in London when Patrikis was killed, and he certainly was in Temple Regis – just yards away, in fact – when Patsy was killed. We just need to find his motive.’

  ‘Well, I certainly agree with that,’ said Arthur. ‘And, you know, Huguette, if the man is a killer and he dispatched two members of the Patrikis family because they crossed him – who next? What about that man Bobby Bunton? Don’t you think he might be next?’

  ‘Because he’s cocking a snook at Radipole with those Devil’s Dodgems? You’ve got a point, Arthur, and when I get back home I’ll go and see him. But you might get more of a clue when you’ve spoken to Ramensky tomorrow. When are you going?’

  ‘Ten o’clock. Catch him after his morning exercise in the yard.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘What? To Brixton Prison? My dear, you were too gently brought up to want to see inside a place like that.’

  ‘You forget the war, uncle. I’ve seen worse.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ sighed Arthur. ‘But no. This is a favour from a friend of a friend, chaps only. It’s dashed irregular, but they slipped Gentleman Johnny a note asking him to request a visit from me. Neat, eh?’

  ‘What’s in it for him?’

  ‘I’ll see him right,’ said Arthur, tapping his nose.

  ‘Well, what shall I do while you’re gone? I shall be pacing up and down waiting to hear what you find out!’

  ‘May I suggest you pop over and see your mother, darling? It’s only an hour on the train. Now you’ve come this far, why not go the extra mile, get the punishment over with? If you go early enough we can meet for lunch. There’s a rather nice little place in Marylebone I know.’

  Miss Dimont downed the glass of Burgundy in front of her.

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘all right! I’ll go and see her! But you’d better bring me something wonderful back from Brixton, Arthur, or I’ll never forgive you.’

  ‘Sorry I can’t be with you,’ lied
Arthur, a rapturous smile on his face. ‘Send her my love, won’t you?’

  In a most unladylike manner, Miss Huguette Dimont blew a raspberry.

  When it comes to covert meetings, the tradecraft rules are quite strict – never rendezvous twice in the same place. Which is why the two ex-spycatchers, Auriol Hedley and Rudyard Rhys, were to be found next day at the back of the Lilian Bailey Spiritualist Church down near the Temple Regis railway station.

  Two unfamiliar faces, in most churches, would cause a flutter of interest among the regular congregation, especially since these newcomers were so clearly ill-matched – Rhys in his rumpled tweed suit while Auriol surreptitiously glowed in her Sunday best.

  But that day, the faithful had crowded into church to hear Mrs Bailey’s close friend Maud Prentice, a medium of high renown, deliver a message from their glorious leader before getting down to the exciting business of communicating with the other world.

  Mrs Prentice stood on a raised dais and smiled down on the upturned faces. ‘Among the great forces of Spiritualism is the power to heal the sick, either by personal contact, known as laying on of hands, or through absent healing,’ she intoned. Most people there had heard this a dozen times, but nodded eagerly as though it were news.

  ‘Patients can be treated from great distances away, using healing thoughts and prayers,’ said the spiritual guide. ‘Many incurable diseases have been successfully treated, although no healer can provide a guarantee. However, it is reassuring for the healer to alleviate suffering or ease a passing.’

  The small crowd inched closer to the podium and an excited buzz passed through them as Maud prepared to communicate with the spirit world. Nobody had time to pay attention to the ill-matched couple at the back of the church with their heads bent together as if in search of their own dear lost ones.

  ‘So, the Admiral,’ whispered Auriol. ‘What do we have?’

  ‘I sent my reporter, Miss Featherstone, over to Buntorama and she got on very well with “Sir Bobs”, as the staff call him,’ said Rhys. Despite his initial reluctance, he had obviously caught the spirit of the chase.

  ‘He’s clearly dug himself into a hole. He’s at loggerheads with Hugh Radipole over at the Marine Hotel and if it came to a fight, Radipole would have the edge – and Bunton knows that. He lacks Radipole’s subtlety. Plus I think he’s in trouble with the police – not local but Scotland Yard – because of the goings-on in there. An awful lot of high jinks between people who shouldn’t, but also out-of-hours drinking and I have no doubt, some pills being exchanged for favours.’ He wrinkled his nose in disgust.