by Joyce Porter
‘Mind you, Butch, she’s a right clumsy bastard. Suffers from sticky fingers, too. Well, just before Smith left the Martyr’s Head – the day before, in fact – Vera was doing one of her routine checks through his belongings. Seems that since her last search he’d lashed out and bought himself a bottle of some sort of pongy hair oil. Vera decides she’d like to smell it and takes the top off for a sniff. Then she remembers that there’s more to life than getting your kicks from a bottle of flipping hair oil and she dumps the bottle back on the dressing-table. Without putting the top back. Are you following me, Butch?’
The Hon. Con nodded her head.
‘Well Vera heads for the wardrobe. It’s the trousers she’s after. Anything in trousers has a strange fascination for her as, no doubt, you’ve already noticed. Where Smith’s trousers were concerned, though, it was the contents of the pockets she was after. She’s found by long experience that men often leave the odd handful of change in their trouser pockets and they never seem to miss it if it disappears. Well, she takes a pair of Smith’s pants off the hanger and walks back to the dressing-table. You can guess for yourself what happened next.’
‘Er, not exactly,’ confessed the Hon. Con.
‘She slops this sticky hair oil stuff all down the trousers of course! Don’t ask me how but, if anybody could do it, that ham-fisted tart could. Well, she was in a right mess. Old Auntie Welks had warned her (that, if he had another complaint about her, she was out on her ear and no reference either. Normally it wouldn’t matter much because one job’s much like another, but Vera likes it at the Martyr’s Head. She makes a good bit on the side, obliging visiting firemen and, like she says, it doesn’t feel like work when you do it lying down. So she’s got to make sure that old Welks doesn’t find out what she’s done and that means making sure that Smith doesn’t find out either. Eventually she comes up with the answer. Dry cleaning.’
‘Gosh!’ breathed the Hon. Con as Jack paused to stub his cigarette end out on the hearth rug and Pimp finished off another glass of unwanted sherry. ‘That was clever!’
‘Wasn’t it just? Luckily this pair of trousers is part of a set. You know, one jacket and two pairs of pants. Vera calculates that, if she takes her pair to the express cleaners, she’ll be able to get ’em back in the wardrobe before Smith even notices they’re gone. It was a good scheme but it didn’t quite work out. First, because when she got to the cleaners it was too late to get the pants done the same day and second, because by the time she got round to Smith’s room late the next morning, he’d already scarpered.’
‘I see,’ said the Hon. Con, looking very wise.
‘Well, Vera found herself one pair of gents’ unmentionables to the good. She decided to hang on to ’em for a bit and see if Smith wrote back to the hotel for ’em. Well, of course, he didn’t. She took ’ em back home and shoved ’em away somewhere at the back of a cupboard. I reckon the next time she noticed ’ em she’d have taken ’em and flogged ’em. They’re good trousers – she’d get a few bob on ’em. Here, you can have a look for yourself.’ Jack the John snapped his fingers and Pimp, quickly putting down yet another empty sherry glass, tossed a crumpled looking paper bag over to the Hon. Con. ‘Exhibit A,’ said Jack the John.
The Hon. Con pulled a pair of dark blue trousers out of the bag. ‘He left a letter or something in the pockets?’ she asked.
‘No. The pockets were empty. Not even a piece of fluff.’
‘But there is a clue somewhere?’
‘Sure. Try the hip pocket.’
The Hon. Con was not too keen on rummaging through the trouser pockets of a man she’d never even met, but it was no time for standing on ceremony. She turned the hip pocket inside out but she still couldn’t see anything.
‘It’s here,’ said Jack the John, holding up a small square of white cloth.
The Hon. Con’s face cleared. ‘A label!’ she crowed.
Jack grinned. ‘ That’s right. Go to the top of the class!’
‘Got his tailor’s name and address on it?’ asked the Hon. Con eagerly.
‘Got Smith’s name and address on it!’
‘Golly!’
‘That’s what you get when you have your trousers custom built in Savile Row.’
‘Oh, I know,’ said the Hon. Con enviously. ‘Wish I could afford to buy mine there. These off-the-peg jobs never have the cut, you know.’ She stretched out a hand. ‘Let’s have a look-see!’
Jack the John smiled his nastiest smile and very deliberately put the label back in his pocket. ‘Sorry, Butch.’
‘Wadderyemean, sorry?’ The scream of anguish even disturbed the couple on the sofa.
‘I’m going to deal with Mr Smith myself.’
The Hon. Con’s mouth dropped open. ‘Well, of all the rotten tricks!’ she howled. ‘You can’t do that!’ She looked round at the rest of the gang for support. ‘Oh, come on, you chaps – play the game!’
Indifferent faces stared blankly back.
‘You’ve no bitch,’ Jack the John informed her smoothly. ‘I reckon we’ve played it very fair with you. We came along here tonight – didn’t we? – just to keep you in the picture. You ought to be damned grateful. Shouldn’t she, Pimp?’
For once Little Sir Echo was a bit slow. ‘Yeah,’ he agreed dully after a long pause, ‘ that’s right. She ought to be grateful.’ There was a very anxious expression on his face.
‘I don’t get this!’ The Hon. Con stood up and stuck her hands on her hips. She glared at Jack the John. ‘You’ve never shown any interest in bringing Rodney Burberry’s murderer to justice before.’
‘Not showing any interest now, Butch,’ came the bland reply. ‘I’ve got other fish to fry.’
‘What are you up to?’
‘I should have thought a slick chick like you could have guessed easy enough.’ Jack the John leaned back luxuriously in his chair. ‘Wouldn’t you, Pimp?’
Pimp shook his head vaguely. ‘Anybody know where the bog is?’ he gulped.
‘Christ!’ snarled Jack the John, sitting up with a jerk. ‘What the hell’s up with you? Here’ – as Pimp clapped his hands over his mouth – ‘don’t you spew in here, you dirty slob! The bog’ll be upstairs. Well, don’t keep standing there! Move!’
Pimp hiccupped, heaved and stumbled blindly out of the room.
‘Ugh!’ shuddered Jack the John. ‘I’ll be throwing up myself in a minute. Stinking pig!’
The Hon. Con ignored these distractions. ‘Why won’t you give me Smith’s address?’ she demanded.
Jack the John sighed elaborately. ‘You’re getting a bit of a bore, Butch. You want to watch it. Figure it out for yourself. Smith’s a rich man, isn’t he? Those trousers show that. And, whether he killed Mack or not, he’s got something to hide, for sure.’
The Hon. Con couldn’t believe her ears. ‘You’re going to blackmail him?’
‘Just give me half a chance!’
‘But – that’s criminal!’
‘Aren’t I a naughty boy? And don’t start getting any bright ideas, Butch! One squeak out of you and I’ll cripple you for life. And I’ll cripple your girl-friend, too. Forget you ever heard about Smith! You’ll live longer that way.’ He pulled himself up out of the easy chair. ‘ Be seeing you, pal!’
The rest of the gang clambered obediently to their feet and a young gentleman hastened to open the door so that Jack the John could pass through it in style.
It was Miss Jones who ruined his exit.
She stood in the doorway with a tray piled high with plates in her hands. ‘Oh,’ she twittered, ‘I was just going to knock. I’m afraid it’s rather a scratch meal but I’ve done lots of chips. Now then, if you’ll just pass these round, I’ll go and get the rest. You’ll have to eat off your knees, I’m afraid.’ She pushed the tray towards the boy who had opened the door.
He pushed it right back. ‘Get lost!’
Miss Jones, unaccustomed to such verbal brutality, fell back weakly against the wall as Jack t
he John and his entourage trooped, pushing and jostling, past her. When they had all gone and were nothing more than a wild screaming and revving of scooters in the road outside, she staggered into the sitting-room and surveyed the scene.
‘Constance, what on earth’s been going on in here? Good heavens!’ She dropped her tray on to the nearest table and rushed across to the sofa. ‘What are all these dirty marks on …? Oh, don’t tell me they’ve had their feet on it? Why didn’t you stop them?’ She scuttled over to the fireplace. ‘And just look at this hearth rug! It’s full of cigarette ends!’
‘Ugh,’ grunted the Hon. Con, who’d got her own worries. ‘Messy lot!’
‘Is that all you can say?’ demanded Miss Jones, beginning to wax really cross. ‘And what are you clutching that pair of men’s trousers for? Don’t tell me you’ve been playing strip poker in here?’
‘’Course not!’ muttered the Hon. Con. ‘ Don’t be such a fool, Bones! And stop flapping, there’s a good chap! We’ve got a crisis on our hands.’
‘We certainly have,’ agreed Miss Jones grimly. ‘There’s eleven plates of mixed grill and eight pounds of chips for a start!’
‘Don’t you ever think of anything else except food? Look, just leave that lot, sit down and I’ll tell you what’s happened. You’ll hardly credit this, Bones, but I’ve been bloody well stymied!’
Chapter Fifteen
When the pitiful recital was finished, Miss Jones was forced to agree. Stymied was definitely the word – though she did wish that, just for once, the Hon. Con would moderate her adverbial phrases.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ grumbled the Hon. Con despondently. ‘Makes you sick! They’ve got Smith’s real address and I haven’t.’
‘There’s nothing you can do, dear.’ Miss Jones was not at all unhappy at the way things had turned out. ‘They’ve got the whip hand. You’ll just have to forget all about it, like they said.’ I’m sure it’s all for the best, really. I tell you what!’ She tried to make the suggestion sound great fun. ‘We’ll both go into town tomorrow morning and buy you a nice new badminton racket!’
‘You can stuff that!’ barked the Hon. Con. ‘ You don’t think I’m going to let that bunch of rotten little squirts thwart me, do you? I’m not scared of them!’
‘Well, I am, dear,’ said Miss Jones mildly. ‘ We aren’t all cast in your heroic mould, Constance. Those dreadful boys will stop at nothing – and they have given you fair warning, haven’t they? Look what they did to my poor roses! Heavens only knows what horrors they will perpetrate if they get really roused.’
‘Rubbish!’ blustered the Hon. Con. ‘It’s all talk. I’m more than a match for them, don’t you worry!’ She chewed her bottom lip. ‘If only I could think of some way of getting my hands on that bloody address …’
The sound which burst into the ensuing silence was a familiar one but Miss Jones still jumped. ‘ What was that?’ she asked, gazing apprehensively up at the ceiling.
‘Oh, it’s only the …’ began the Hon. Con impatiently but then she stopped as full comprehension dawned. ‘My God!’ she yelped and gave Miss Jones a hearty thwack between the shoulder blades. ‘Pimp!’
Miss Jones found little comfort in this. ‘But, what is it, dear?’
‘Answer to the maiden’s prayer!’ guffawed the Hon. Con as she flung herself at the fireplace. ‘Here, you take the shovel! And – don’t forget – if the need arises, use it!’
‘But,’ said Miss Jones before she found that she was speaking to herself. The Hon. Con was already out in the hall, flourishing the poker with evident delight. Nervously Miss Jones took a firmer grip on her shovel and joined her chum at the foot of the stairs.
They heard a door being opened.
‘Here he comes!’ whispered the Hon. Con and, sure enough, first the feet and then the legs and body of the detestable Pimp came slowly and painfully into view.
The Hon. Con didn’t give him time to evaluate the dire predicament in which he was about to find himself. She leapt up the stairs, brandishing her poker. ‘Hands up!’ she bellowed.
‘Oh, Christ!’ moaned Pimp whose prolonged visit to the bathroom had afforded him little relief. ‘Bugger off, can’t you?’ He made as if to sink down against the banister but the Hon. Con was having none of that. Taking full advantage of his weakened state she grabbed him by the collar and frogmarched him into the sitting-room. Once there, she tossed him contemptuously into an easy chair by the fire. Miss Jones trailed in behind them.
Pimp groaned, shut his eyes and tried feebly to draw his legs up over his stomach.
The Hon. Con swung round on Miss Jones. ‘Keep an eye on him!’ she ordered. ‘If he twitches so much as a muscle, let him have it with your shovel! Sharp side!’
‘Oh, Constance, dear, I really don’t think …’ Miss Jones let the protest die unspoken on her lips as she saw the Hon. Con bend down and thrust the poker into the red and glowing heart of the sitting-room fire.
The Hon. Con straightened up with a grunt of satisfaction. ‘I’ll take that now,’ she said and relieved the gaping Miss Jones of her weapon. She leaned over the pasty-faced Pimp and jabbed him sharply in the ribs. ‘Now then, laddie, you and I are going to have a little chat.’
Pimp unstuck one jaundiced eye. ‘Ah, drop dead!’ he blubbered. ‘Can’t you see I’m sick? Jesus, my guts are like on fire!’
He got another – harder – poke from the Hon. Con. ‘Tell me the address that was on that label,’ she said, ‘and I’ll get you some bicarb.’
‘Go get knotted, you stupid old cow!’
‘Listen, sonnie’ – the Hon. Con regained Pimp’s wandering attention by beating a light tattoo on his head with the flat part of her shovel – ‘I want to know that address and I’m not playing games. See that poker?’
Unwillingly Pimp allowed his gaze to stray towards the fireplace. ‘I don’t know no bloody address,’ he mumbled.
The Hon. Con sighed, much more in sorrow than in anger. ‘Can’t take your word for that, I’m afraid,’ she announced breezily. ‘We shall just have to see if you maintain this uncooperative attitude under torture.’
‘Eh?’ Both Pimp’s eyes flew open this time.
‘Torture! You got wax in your ears or something? I want Smith’s address and I’m jolly well going to torture you till I get it. Nothing difficult to understand about that, is there? Dashed bad luck for you, of course, if you really don’t know it but – that’s the way the cookie crumbles!’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’ gasped Pimp, trying to struggle to his feet and getting a well-aimed slap from the shovel for his pains.
The Hon. Con leered at him. ‘Want a bet?’ she asked jovially.
Pimp mumbled some obscenity and the Hon. Con decided that her patience was now exhausted. ‘Bones,’ she commanded, ‘fetch that poker!’
Bemused and horrified Miss Jones began to do as she was bid.
‘Should be jolly interesting, this,’ mused the Hon. Con as she beamed at her victim. ‘You read in books that human flesh tastes the same as pork. Wonder if it smells like roast pig, too?’
There was a loud howl from Miss Jones.
The Hon. Con looked round. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she snarled.
‘It’s just the poker, dear,’ apologized Miss Jones. ‘The handle’s red hot.’
‘Jolly dee!’ chuckled the Hon. Con. ‘ Well, don’t just stand there like a silly billy! Use the coal glove!’
‘Yes, dear.’ Miss Jones picked up the red and yellow felt glove made in the image of a slightly cross-eyed cat and put it on her hand.
‘Well, get on with it!’ roared the Hon. Con.
Miss Jones swallowed. ‘But how am I going to give the poker to you, dear? It’s far too hot to hold in your bare hand and we’ve only got one glove.’
The Hon. Con had foreseen even this minor difficulty. ‘ You’re not going to hand it to me,’ she explained. ‘You’re going to do the poker work while I hold him down. ’Spect he’ll wriggle a
bit but I’ll manage. He won’t get far with me sitting on his chest.’ She had another bright idea. ‘ How about doing my initials across his forehead?’
‘Oh, Constance!’ Miss Jones burst into tears.
Pimp caved in. ‘12, Stocker Road, Culhampton,’ he said.
The Hon. Con regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You sure?’
Pimp nodded. ‘Dead sure, Miss. I wouldn’t lie to you, would I? His name’s Smithers – J. B. Smithers. Cross my heart and hope to die.’ He looked up hopefully at the Hon. Con. ‘Can I go home now, Miss?’
Three o’clock in the morning is not the best time to arrive in a small English provincial town. The Hon. Con was inclined to place all the blame on Miss Jones’s shoulders.
‘You and your blooming map reading!’ she grumbled as they crouched side by side, cold and miserable, in the Mini on a deserted lay-by. ‘You want those glasses of yours changed, that’s for sure.’
Miss Jones could hardly deny that the route which she had selected from Totterbridge to Culhampton had involved them in an unnecessary detour of some sixty-five miles, but even this slight miscalculation had its brighter side. ‘ I know the journey took us a bit longer than it need have done, dear,’ she pointed out, ‘but, if it hadn’t, we should just have had that much longer to sit here, shouldn’t we?’
‘Oh, stuff!’ snarled the Hon. Con, rubbing the steam off her window to see if there was any sign of dawn breaking.
‘In the circumstances,’ Miss Jones went on, ‘I think we would have done much better to have stayed the night at home and left early this morning.’
‘Any fool,’ snapped the Hon. Con, ‘can be wise after the event.’
For a few moments there was silence. Then Miss Jones began again.
‘I don’t feel happy about leaving that dreadful Pimp boy locked up in Shangrila either, dear.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ grunted the Hon. Con. ‘You’d have let him go so that he could rush round to Jack the John and tell him what’s happened.’
‘But the bathroom, dear? The coal cellar would have been much more suitable.’
‘That lock wouldn’t have held him five minutes. And if you want to clear up the mess he would have made, you’re welcome.’