by Desmond Cory
Holliday said, “Yes. He’s a funny kid. And this isn’t a gentle game he’s decided to play, you know.”
“No,” said Squires. “By God, it isn’t.”
-----------------------
Johnny braked the Riley gently, edged over to the kerb and brought it to a halt. A coldish November sun, throwing its last rays past him, shone directly on to a hanging signboard; it was cracked and rather dirty but the words on it were easily decipherable.
So this was the “Woodcutter’s Arms.” Johnny struck a match and lit the cigarette that slanted from his mouth. He watched the flame of the match turning blue round the edges and threw it out of the window, then opened the door and stepped out. He opened the tonneau and pulled out a brown leather suitcase.
The side door of the building was standing invitingly ajar; Johnny walked over to it and rapped loudly on it with his knuckles.
He heard almost at once the soft shuffle of carpet slippers, and the door opened to reveal an elderly man with pale silvery hair and horn-rimmed spectacles.
Johnny said, “Good evenin’, chum. My name’s Fedora: I believe you’ve got a room for me.”
“Ah,” said the man. He scratched the end of his nose with one soft white finger. “Yes. Yes. Come in.”
Johnny stepped inside. The interior was slightly dingy, but with a curious mellow smell that Johnny liked but failed to recognize. Then he realized that it was whisky.
“My name is Peabody,” said the elderly man, almost reverently. “Alfred Peabody. Will you step this way, sir?”
Johnny followed him up a red-carpeted flight of stairs; there was only just room to carry his suitcase without lifting it clear of the banisters. He said, “Anyone else staying here?”
Peabody said, “No, sir. Not at the moment. We usually cater for two or three gentlemen in the summer, but winters here are usually very quiet, sir, very quiet.”
Johnny said, “I’ll bet they are,” but only to himself. He saw Peabody open a door on the left and go in; he followed close behind.
It wasn’t too bad a room. The bed looked comfortable; there was a gas-fire and a dressing-table, the mirror of which wasn’t even cracked. Johnny fell distinctly relieved. He’d slept in English pubs before.
“This is just fine,” he said. “Just what I wanted. I like it.”
Peabody looked surprised. “Pleased to hear it, sir,” he said with dignity. “Of course, we have none of the – ah – amenities of these modern ’otels, but I think you’ll be very comfortable here, sir.” His gaze wandered benevolently round the room. “A quaint old building.”
“Very,” said Johnny. He placed his suitcase on a chair and put his hat on top of it.
“Well… you must be tired after your journey. You motored down, I see?” Peabody visibly wondered where some people get their petrol from. “Yes. The bathroom is at the end of the corridor, sir, should you like to wash. We always have plenty of hot water. And will you be taking dinner here?”
“I don’t know,” said Johnny. “I expect my friend down this evening, and he may want to go out.”
“Ah, Pilot-Officer Murray? A very high-spirited young gentleman, sir. I see. Well, would you like a spot of something to eat now?”
“That would be nice,” said Johnny. “If you have a bottle.”
Peabody said cautiously, “What of?”
“Whisky?”
“Whisky,” said Peabody, rubbing his nose. “Well, now… yes, I believe we have some whisky. Excuse me.”
Johnny watched the door close after him and grinned.
He thought that Peabody was an amusing old boy. He bent down and tested the bed-springs with a tentative hand, then walked over to the window. It looked out over the High Street, looking on to thatched roofs and black Tudor architecture; a vision of rural England, calm and peaceful beneath a wintry and setting sun.
Johnny’s contemplative mood was shattered by a sudden loud bumbling noise; then a small sports car of a violent blue shot energetically round a blind corner, missed Johnny’s Riley by the breadth of a split matchstick and skidded to a halt, spitting furiously. A slight figure in R.A.F. uniform vaulted lightly out of the driving-seat and turned to face the house, revealing a face rather like Eddie Bracken with one of those incredible Air Force moustaches. He walked firmly towards the door and vanished beneath the window-sill. It was apparent that Special Agent Murray wasn’t losing any time before contacting his new assistant.
Johnny turned from the window, the thoughtful expression returning to his face. He went over to the bed, sat down on it, and slowly removed his tie. He was just unbuttoning the top shirt button when Peabody entered, manoeuvring a tray on which stood a bottle of whisky and two glasses. Just behind him was Pilot-Officer Murray, resplendent in his best uniform and quite extraordinarily youthful.
“Absolutely bung-ho!” he yapped enthusiastically. “I see I’ve arrived positively in the nick! How are ya, old boy? Bearin’ up, what?”
He frisked across the room like an enormous puppy and pumped Johnny’s hand up and down, simultaneously hooking the whisky bottle off the tray with his free hand. Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “Well, well, well, long time no see, eh? Still, you’re lookin’ absolutely bloomin’, dash it, utterly in the pink. Now, look at yours truly – bundle of nerves, don’ cha know, reduced to a mere bundle of quivering ganglions. For God’s sake open the bottle, Alfred, or I’ll go off pop or somethin’ awful.” He turned to Johnny again. “Well, how are ya, o’boy?”
“Just like you said,” said Johnny, grinning. Murray’s character was certainly a trifle on the forceful side.
“I’m blowed if I know how ya do it,” said Murray dejectedly. “Clean livin’, I suppose. They tell me it works wonders in these advanced cases. Must absolutely try it myself, y’know – kill or cure, what? Haw! Got that dam’ bottle open yet, Alfred?” .
“Yes, sir,” said Peabody. “I was just about to pour you out a small – ah – snifter.”
“Make it a whackeroo, then,” said Murray eagerly. “The ante-proposal or rabbit-bite-a-bulldog size. Ya can’t beat Duggie Haig’s mixture to stir up the kidneys or am I being vulgar again? Haw! Ready? Oh, good show!”
Peabody handed a glass to Johnny, watched Murray imbibing his with awed respect, and said, “Shall I expect you two gentlemen to dinner?”
“Rath-er,” said Murray. “We have a lot to wag the old chin about, dammit - may as well champ a juicy chop or so at the same time, what?”
“Yes, sir,” said Peabody. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I will inform Mrs Preedy.” He nodded gravely to Johnny and went out.
“Weird old boy,” said Murray happily, reaching for the bottle. “Used to buttle, y’know. Um? I mean he was a butler – Duchess of Bilgewater or somethin’… so you’re Fedora?”
Johnny said, “So they tell me. An’ they oughta know.” “Absolute rot an’ all that,” said Murray, “but I ought to see your jolly old identity thingummy, y’know… That it? Oh, ta! This is mine; it’s the filthiest photograph of me, don’ cha think? Looks just like me… Well, now we know who we are and where we are, we may as well get weaving, eh? Whaddya know, Joe?”
“Just about nothing,” said Johnny. “I was told you’d tell me all I ought to know.”
“I see. Well, I don’t mind givin’ you the griff, old horse, but I ought to warn you I shoot the most terrible lines. I mean, I do, really. I suppose you know we’re tryin’ to pursue a crowd of smug-drugglers – no, dammit. I mean the other way round. Anyway you do know that?”
“That’s all I do know.”
“Oh. Ah. Well, now. Why they really sent me down here was because a bod by the name of Oakley – Wing-Commander Oakley – pranged a kite down at Bognor Regis. What I mean is, crashed it, d’you follow? Wrote himself off completely, an absolute dead loss. Well, they were goin’ through this lad’s personal belongin’s, as is their wont, when they uncovered from the rear of his locker some highly contaminatin’ drugware. Cocaine, to be exact. Well, word of
this drifts down to the boss, that’s old Holliday, so he wraps me in an Air Force uniform an’ sends me along to investigate, along with a polite note to the Commanding Officer of this air base, which is just round the corner from here. This, of course, is where this bod Oakley used to hang out. My bein’ a fighter boy in the bad old days, this is to me as fiddlin’ was to Nero. All clear so far?”
“Half a sec. When was all this?” asked Johnny.
“Oh, I’m most awfully sorry. To-day’s Friday, isn’t it? Yers. Well, they found the snow on Monday morning, an’ I breezed in about four o’clock that afternoon.”
“Right,” said Johnny.
“Well, I knocked about for a bit an’ by a fluke of chance I got hold of a page of this lad’s diary, referrin’ to a meetin’ with W. That’s what it said, y’see – ‘met W.’ So I had a consultation with a rather spiffin’ chappie also workin’ on this case-name of Crashaw, from Special Branch – he put the pressure on the Records Office an’ various witnesses an’ he finally tells me that this ‘W’ is one Winthrop, a bloke who they’ve been watching ever since his mummy bought him long pants. Awfully clever, y’know. Beats me how these Yard boys do it.
“Anyway, on Wednesday mornin’ we nip smartly round to where this awful feller lives, over at Lewes, an’ old Crashaw does the old anything-you-say stuff – awfully impressive, that, an’ never fails to hold the audience. He was livin’ in lodgings, by the way; bit of a mystery man altogether.” His tone implied that all who live in lodgings have obviously dark secrets to hide. “However, though the boys in blue arrested him in absolutely great style, they found on arrival at base that the bastard’d shuffled off the jolly old mortal coil. Knocked back a rapid cyanide or two and died an ugly death in the Black Maria. Sad.”
“Very,” said Johnny. “Cigarette?”
“Thanks, o’ boy… Well, after the Inspector had finished havin’ kittens we had a good old search round the body an’ his digs. Er… got a match? Ta… ’Course, we didn’t find anythin’ except for a potted aspidistra an’ some fish an’ chips, which we ate. The fish an’ chips, dammit, not the aspidistra. I say, I’m an awful fool at sayin’ these things, y’know, an’ all the time.”
“You’re doing all right,” said Johnny encouragingly.
“So you had no luck?”
“No joy at all, not even the Scotland Yard lynxes. Except for a couple of funny little doofers in his trousers’ pocket – which I’ve got on me, ac-tually.” He fumbled in his pocket, and handed Johnny two small wooden chips, red in colour. “Know what they are, o’ bean?”
Johnny suggested, “They look like some kind of poker chip.”
“Not far off. I say, that’s awfully bright of you. I couldn’t see what they were at all. An’ then it struck me,” said Murray dreamily, “what they were. They’re roulette tokens. You know the sport? Little ball in a wheel, an’ lots of people with their mouths open.”
Johnny nodded.
“Just so. Well, that’s what they are. Roulette tokens. All we had to do was to find out what particular gamin’ house was their abode of love, so Crashaw got crackin’ on that.
“It seems that, while these joints are illegal, strictly speakin’, the cops know all about most of them an’ take next to no notice. Anyway, we checked on most of the gamblin’ hells south of London an’ we found that these chips almost certainly hailed from a club up to the north of Brighton, up on the jolly old Downs, known as the ‘Three of Clubs’. I don’t know why it has such a silly name, but I s’pose you have to call it somethin’, what? or people don’t know what the devil you’re talking about. I mean, you do see that?”
“Sure,” said Johnny. “Clear as crystal”.
“Oh, good-oh. Right, then! So last night I put on my best bib an’ tucker an’ sallied forth. It’s rather a smashin’ place, really – all done up regardless, y’know. I didn’t start anythin’ last night; just gave the place a brief reconnaissance. An’ I must say they do run the most exclusive line in fancy pâtisserie there. What I mean is, absolute smashers.”
“You don’t say,” said Johnny. He didn’t seem particularly interested.
“Oh, but I do! I do! This place seems to cater for a moderately high-class crowd, y’see; attracts ’em on the way to Brighton from London an’ back again. I think it has been raided by the bobbies once or twice, but then, what place hasn’t? It’s an added attraction these days, when everyone wants to be thought awf’ly wicked. Anyway, we’re goin’ there tonight, if you get my drift.”
“Good,” said Johnny. “How do we play it?”
“Well,” said Murray. “What we’ve got to do is to find some sort of connection of this frightful cad Winthrop. Try the waiters an’ especially the people in the roulette room. The manager’s name is Trevor, by the way,” said Murray thoughtfully, “and his wife is a lulu. Either of those two would probably know; but I think I’ll handle that side of it. First come first served, an’ all that sort of piffle.”
Johnny said, “That’s okay with me.”
“Well, you needn’t drip about it, old sprout. There’s another bit of goods there that I want you to have a stab at. She sings with the band there; an’ the reason why we’re singlin’ her out for individual attention is because Crashaw tells me she’s been a naughty girl. She’s been had up for smugglin’ offences.”
Johnny whistled.
“Only silk stockings, or something; but it should interest you to find out if she does anythin’ else in that line,” said Murray. “In this job we must leave no turn unstoned, as these music hall johnnies say. An’ it isn’t as if she isn’t rather more or less of an eyeful.”
Johnny worked out that last sentence with difficulty and said, “What’s her name?”
“Kane. Davida Kane,” said Murray. “Do what you can, will ya? An’ listen to this, ’cos it may help you a bit. She got into a jam nearly two years ago over a breach of promise case, an’ she only got out because a private detective managed to get hold of some letters she’d written to a bloke called Mandeville. I think if you turned out to be that private detective she might be quite nice to you. She might.”
Johnny sighed and said, “I get it. What’s the dick’s name?”
“I don’t know,” said Murray, “but as she doesn’t either that doesn’t matter much. You can just be yourself. I’ve sent for the newspaper cuttings of the case from the Records Office, so you’d better have a look at them before we go.”
“Um,” said Johnny. “She sounds an unpleasant sorta dame to me.”
Murray sighed. He said, “Yes. That nasty record of hers is the reason why we’re so interested – officially, that is. Personally, I don’t see why you should have to be pleasant with a figure like that. Ever.”
Johnny said, “My, my. You’re waxin’ lyrical – if that’s the word I want.”
“Well, that’s settled then,” said Murray, ignoring this interruption and throwing his cigarette out of the window. “I look for a contact with this rotter Winthrop; you see if Miss Kane knows anythin’ about smugglin’ apart from stickin’ wrist-watches inside her suspenders. I think we’re goin’ to do awf’ly well, though I must say it seems a ruddy silly way to start.”
Johnny said, “Do we know one another?”
Murray said, “Ah! Now there’s a thing. I don’t think we do. May as well be on the safe side.”
Johnny nodded and said “Okay”.
“All right,” said Murray. “We’ll R.V. here at two o’clock to-morrow morning and compare notes. We should have some idea of how to handle this by then. An’ now I suppose you want to get dressed.”
Johnny said, “Yeah, I guess I’d better. Where shall I see you… in the bear?”
“Natch, o’ boy,” said Murray, getting up from the bed. “Natch… don’t be too long.”
The door closed behind him; Johnny reached out for his suitcase, opened it, and took out a dark blue double-breasted suit. He unfolded it and laid it on the bed. He picked up the case again, and took f
rom it the light Mauser automatic pistol that was always part of his luggage. It was one of the high-velocity 3 mm. weapons that Heydrich had issued to his operatives, one of whom had bequeathed his to Johnny when it was quite certain that he himself would have no further use for it. Johnny checked the magazine and the action with loving care, and slipped the gun into the specially built-in pocket under the left armpit.
Johnny was thinking over what he had learnt from Murray. He hadn’t been fooled a bit by Murray’s outward air of inanity; he had met plenty of people like that in the racket… Bertie Woosterish characters with ice-cold brains and all the nerve in the world. They could usually be relied upon to hand it out as well as take it – very often the harder of the two things in a game that you couldn’t play without metaphorically kicking your opponent’s teeth in.
Johnny liked Murray. He wouldn’t kick until it was necessary, but when the time came he would be vicious and brutal and “a dam’ good operative”. He gave the impression that he didn’t like the Nazis; which was to Johnny tantamount to blood-brotherhood. Johnny thought that the partnership would be a profitable one, but not for somebody.
He took a towel and sponge-bag from his case and went out to wash.
Chapter Three
DAVIDA
JOHNNY swung his legs out of the car and slid out, the gravel crunching under his feet as he landed. The luminous green dial of the dashboard clock indicated ten minutes past nine. He was rather later than he had intended to be, for he had found the “Three of Clubs” unexpectedly hard to locate. It lay considerably further from the town than Johnny had realized; he imagined that it catered for a pretty constant clientele, which tended to make Murray’s job easier.
He stood for a minute balanced lightly on his feet, surveying the ground. As far as he could see in the darkness, the club was a three-storey building, with a flat roof that overhung the walls by a clear ten feet. It was brilliantly and cleverly lit; he noticed three large green lamps, each in the shape of an ace of clubs, that hung on the side of the roof. Johnny thought it was quite an effective sign. From inside, there came the music of a first-class swing band playing a tango. He listened appreciatively to a masterly guitar improvisation and then caught sight of the intriguing words “American Bar”, in red neon capitals, over a door to his right. He moved his cigarette a trifle sideways without any perceptible movement of his lips and walked quietly towards it.