by Desmond Cory
He walked into the room and looked down at the body. Smith followed him.
“Not pretty, is he?”
“No,” said Smith. “Never was.”
“Looks a bit like James Mason gone up the pole… No doubt about the way he was killed, anyway.”
“Well, you never know,” said Smith cautiously. “Of course, it’s quite obvious he was shot in the chest – from a close range, too, judging by the burns on his shirt. Probably fired by somebody standing in the doorway… but we’d better get a doctor on to him as soon as possible.”
Johnny looked at him amusedly. “An elementary exercise at Hendon, eh?” he said. “You’re right, of course.” He looked again at the body sprawling on the carpet.
Robson, alias Evans, was lying face upwards on the floor. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and the front of his shirt was plastered to his chest with dried blood. Three little holes in the shirt, just beneath the heart, indicated with an ominous clarity where the blood had come from; his chest, showing through a gap between the shirt-buttons, was coated with it, dry and black. Behind the contortion of his face was the faintest suspicion of a surprised expression. As Johnny had said, he wasn’t pretty.
“Kind of a funny expression on his dial,” said Johnny. “Bet he never looked like that when he was alive.”
“He’s certainly got what Jane Clairmont called ‘a wild originality of countenance’,” agreed Smith. “Perhaps he wasn’t expecting to be shot.”
“Oh, so few of us are,” said Johnny. “It can be a surprise to the best of us… er, who’s that dame you mentioned?”
“Jane? Oh, never mind her,” said Smith. “She died a normal death; I was merely quoting one of her letters. Against my principles, really; I always think those amateur detectives who insist on misquoting ‘Macbeth’ on the scene of the crime ought to be ostracized. Eh?”
“Second time that guy Macbeth’s entered the conversation to-day,” said Johnny. “I didn’t quote him, though; I never could manage that Scotch accent.”
Smith managed a distinctly flat cough. “Not that it isn’t effective, properly used,” he said. “Dear old Peter Wimsey, for example. Swopping completely inapposite quotations that are quite as misleading to the poor bloody reader as to Harriet, whose efforts are usually more or less on the mark. Wish we had ’em here.”
“Um,” said Johnny. He hadn’t an idea what they were talking about, and he didn’t think Smith had either. Throughout that extraordinary conversation both men had been carefully looking over the room with practised eyes. Johnny’s “um” signified the end of the examination, as well as of the conversation.
“Nothing unusual about the room, apparently,” said Smith. Both had seen what they were looking for; a grey coat flung carelessly on the bed.
For a bachelor’s one-room apartment the room was surprisingly neat. The bed was on the right-hand side of the room, between a large cupboard and a card-table. At the far end of the room was a door that obviously led into the washroom; the left-hand side of the room contained a mirror (on the wall), a wardrobe, and, of course, a body.
Johnny took two short steps to the left and opened the wardrobe; Smith saw with approval that he held the handle with a handkerchief.
“That’s funny,” said Johnny. It was an expression he disliked, but he’d heard it so often lately that it slipped out. “The cupboard’s bare, sergeant – if we must have these quotations.”
“Empty?”
“Yeah.” Johnny started to walk towards the cupboard beside the bed, but stopped as soon as he reached the other side of the room. “Oh… well, here’s the answer to that little problem. He’s packed his grip.”
Smith whistled softly. “What do you make of that.”
“He was takin’ a runout powder,” said Johnny promptly. “Got scared; perhaps Murray scared him. He knew too much, so someone creased him. That ain’t theory – it’s obvious.”
“Certainly looks that way.”
Johnny sat down on the bed, his forehead wrinkled. For a moment he resembled a very puppyish bloodhound; Smith almost expected his tongue to flop out. Then he said, “Smith. This worries me.”
“I’m not exactly happy about it, y’know.”
“No? Still, I don’t think you know what this means.”
“Don’t I? Well, it obviously means that if we ever get the information that Murray obtained it’ll be from some other source.”
“That’s inconvenient, but it doesn’t scare me any. What scares me is that this is a clear-cut and out-an’-out murder; couldn’t be anythin’ else. No suicide, no accident – but murder. An’ to brave all the publicity that follows a murder you have to have a self-confidence that I was hopin’ our opposite numbers wouldn’t have… yet.”
“I see what you mean,” said Smith. “But that’s to our advantage, isn’t it? If they’re self-confident, they’re more likely to make a slip.”
“It doesn’t work out that way,” said Johnny. “When a IIIB boy takes chances I’d sooner be after a man-eatin’ tiger, on the tiger’s home ground. I can’t make this out… somethin’s happened.”
“Just possible it’s nothing to do with your crowd,” suggested Smith. “‘Frippence’ had plenty of enemies down the East End.”
“Doubt it,” said Johnny. He lit a cigarette and threw one to Smith, as an afterthought. He was deep in his thoughts. Smith said, “Thanks,” and moved across the room to investigate the bathroom. Johnny reached out a hand, grabbed the late Mr Robson’s coat and went through the pockets. The search revealed nothing except a handkerchief, a cigarette-case, a Yale key, and a cutthroat razor, which last appeared to indicate that Mr. Robson was a believer in keeping up the good old customs.
Johnny went over to the door and tried the key in the lock. It fitted. He tossed the key back on the bed and knelt down beside the corpse.
He surveyed the bullet-holes in the shirt intently; he estimated their diameter as about .45 inches. He began to give Mr Robson a thoroughly detailed once-over. Smith came in and stood looking down on him.
Johnny looked up, face a trifle flushed. He said “Anything?”
“No. Nothing. And you?”
“Got a razor in his pocket, and key to the flat. Driving licence in his back pants-pocket. If he has an identity card an’ ration book they must be in his case.”
“Better leave it,” said Smith. “Until the photographer and the quack’ve had a go – not to mention ‘Prints’, who’ll probably have a fit. We’d better ’phone Crashaw… and, Fedora, an idea just struck me.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“It’s only this… the only person who knew we were interested in Robson was this dame Mrs Trevor – whom you ’phoned, as Crashaw. The inference is… ?”
Johnny grinned. “That cock won’t fight,” he said. “I ’phoned that luscious lady around twelve-forty-five to-day. It is now,” – he surveyed his watch – “five minutes past four. If Mr Frippence hasn’t been dead for twice as long as three hours twenty minutes I’ll eat my signed photograph of Rigor Mortis.”
Smith sighed. “Dumb,” he said. “Dumb.”
“Cheer up,” said Johnny. “You’d better nip downstairs and see if they’ve got a ’phone.”
“What are you going to do?” said Smith suspiciously. “Sit on that nice, soft bed, an’ meditate on human folly.”
“Oh,” said Smith, satisfied. He walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
Johnny moved over to the bed and lay full-length on it. He placed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.
He was thinking of the advice he had been given when he first started as an operative. “No good running round trying to interview everybody,” old Crane had said. “You’ll only come unstuck. Just stick to the people who you know are mixed up in it. Keep working at them; move them into different situations and see what makes ’em tick. Each day you’ll get something new, and one day all the little things’ll add up and you’ll have your man. It’s the only way.”
Yeah, fine. But this was different. In this little shindig, as soon as you got hold of someone who was mixed up in it, someone else ironed him out. First Winthrop, then Evans. And Murray, who probably had the answer to the problem when he drove down the Brighton Road on his way… home.
Of one thing only Johnny was sure. The connecting link between all three was the “Three of Clubs”. Things happened in that place, or, at least, things happened to people who went there. But there were several hundred people there last night; and of that several hundred Johnny had met under ten. Johnny sighed. He knew now that he would have to go there again to-night.
Not that it was a bad place; it was well-run, well set-up, different from the usual West End club (so-called) that he knew fairly well. It catered for a fairly respectable clientele; people who had plenty of money and didn’t mind spending it – or losing it. The war had left plenty of that sort. And one of them was the man for whose benefit Murray had acted drunk; one of them was a German Intelligence agent. Possibly more than one.
Johnny pinched his cigarette-end between finger and thumb and dropped it into the ashtray. Something about the ashtray caught his attention; he examined the contents for a moment, then swung his legs over the side of the bed, reached over and picked up Evans’ cigarette case. It opened with a soft click, revealing six Woodbines and, in the right-hand corner, two slightly smaller cigarettes wrapped in brown paper.
The door opened and Smith came in. “Crashaw’s coming right away,” he said. “Seemed annoyed. Two in one day’s rather unusual… Hullo! Found something?”
“Yeah,” said Johnny slowly. “Muggles – in his cigarette case. Look.”
Smith whistled. “That’s interesting,” he said. “Wonder where they came from.”
“Me, too,” said Johnny. “Marijuana costs a lot of money – more than this boyo could afford on a chauffeur’s wages. Why, down in Harlem the mezz peddlers used to make millions, an’ it’s more expensive still over here. I think we’re on to somethin’ here, Smith.”
“Glad we got one break, anyway,” said Smith. “Do you connect this with the drug smuggling?”
“Could be,” said Johnny. His forehead wrinkled contemplatively. “It’s useful stuff to smuggle, ’cos a pound of coffee-colour’ll dope a good many cigarettes. On the other hand, marijuana hardly packs enough wallop to make it worth while. After all, these boys are out to kill men with drugs, and Mary Jane just makes you slaphappy. I know; I’ve had it.” He was thinking out loud rather than addressing Smith. He got up from the bed and said, “I don’t know much about these razor boys you say Evans belonged to, Smith. Is it… the usual sort of thing for them to carry ’em?”
“No,” said Smith. “Not the small crooks like Frippence. Down Soho way, of course… but not much there during the war, anyway. No, I don’t mind betting that we’ve got a definite clue here.”
“Clues!” said Johnny. “We’re smothered in ’em! Reefers, wrist-watches, finger-nails, cut wrists, R.A.F. hats, cocaine– I tell you, if we laid all our clues end to end they’d stretch from here to New Orleans, an’ if you tried to follow ’em you’d end up knee-deep in the Mississippi.”
He put one of Evans’ Woodbines in his mouth and lit it. Smith grinned and continued roaming round the room.
“Who’s downstairs?” said Johnny.
“Young couple,” said Smith shortly. “I interrupted their tea. Said I was a pal of Evans’ and asked if I could borrow their ’phone. Quite nice people… we’ll have to interrogate them later, of course. Routine stuff.” He began to poke about in the ash-tray in a disinterested way.
“One of my ends in there,” said Johnny. “Don’t draw any wrong conclusions, pal. I got an alibi.” He walked over to the door, tilted his hat slightly farther over his right eye.
“You going?” said Smith. He seemed surprised.
“I think I’ve seen all there is to see now,” said Johnny. “A lot too much, in fact. I can rely on you boys to put all the bits of fluff under a microscope – an’ I’m not bein’ vulgar.”
He went out before Smith could think up some really witty come-back and jogged down the stairs. He looked up at the sky as he went out; he thought it definitely looked like rain. He swore, and got hurriedly into the car.
He drove round the crescent and out into Wellington Road. About a hundred yards farther down was a ’phone-box. He stopped the car beside it, got out and slammed the door. He entered the box, picked up the receiver and asked for a number. He leant against the glass walls, waiting. After a minute or so he heard Jean’s voice.
“Hi, Jean,” he said. “Fedora, again. Has Holliday got in yet?”
“No. He hasn’t.”
“No, I guess he wouldn’t have. Say, will you take a message?”
“Hold on a sec… Okay. Shoot.”
“Reference Leslie Evans – E-V-A-N-S – Evans,” said Johnny slowly. “Has criminal record at Scotland Yard. Wanted for robbery with violence at – what the hell’s the place? – Elephant and Castle. Got that? Correct name is Robson, R-O-B-S-O-N.
“Er – on arrival at his rooms, discovered that he had been shot three times through the chest. Murderer unknown. Death no later than this morning; rigor mortis advanced. All right?
“Crashaw has been informed and is handling case. Suggest you send down reliable operative with specialized knowledge of East End. I regard it as important that Robson’s background be, er, gone into, in view of possible connection with the drug distributors.” He sighed deeply. “Lots of love, Fedora. That’s all, kid.”
“Well, well,” said Jean. “What fun you do have. I’ll see he gets this as soon as he comes in.”
“You’d better,” said Johnny. “I’d like that man sent down to-night, if possible. Still, Holliday’ll hustle when he learns that the Jerrys are lettin’ off rods. That, darling, is – unconventional.”
“Okay,” said Jean serenely. “Mind they don’t make a corpse out of you.”
“I’ll watch it, sweetheart,” promised Johnny. He put back the receiver and stepped over to his car. The first drops of rain were plopping cheerfully on to the pavement. Rain was one more thing that didn’t stop just because the war was over.
Chapter Eight
THAXTER
JOHNNY didn’t particularly like the look of the “Three of Clubs” as he drove up the road towards it. It stood huddled up in the gathering darkness with the orange light flaming in its windows, and above those lights the three green clubs stared unwinkingly at him. From a distance of a quarter-of-a-mile it had a curiously feline appearance, an air of a great three-eyed cat comfortably curled up but ready at any given moment to pounce upon its victim. A quaint conceit, reflected Johnny as he chewed his cigarette-butt pensively; the sort of similitude that comes to the mind of the least poetical of us when we least expect it.
He watched the lighted windows of the clubhouse moving slowly towards him, and turned with a gentle twist of the wheel into the car park. He allowed the engine to tick quietly over and then to die out, so that the car moved silently, of its own impetus, to a corner close by the bar and finally settled down with a soft rasp of wet gravel under the tyres. He swung himself out of the seat, stretched himself cautiously and closed the door behind him.
The rain was still coming down, more slowly than before but steadily. Johnny moved quickly towards the club entrance, up the steps and on to the red-tiled verandah. He brushed raindrops from his shoulders, went through the hall and passed into the restaurant.
It was even more crowded than it had been yesterday.
Naturally, thought Johnny; it’s Saturday night. His eyes wandered dispassionately over the tables, finally coming to rest on a small table near to him and to his right. Pat East was seated there and was making encouraging signals to him; she was accompanied by a rather chunky young man wearing the uniform of a naval lieutenant. He saw that there was an unoccupied chair at the table and walked unhurriedly over.
“Hullo, Johnny,” said Pat a
s soon as he came within speaking distance. “We were expecting you. Davida’s just gone off to powder her nose. That’s her chair. You sit down till she comes back.” She said all this without taking breath but quite calmly. Her breath control was certainly exceptionally good; Johnny wondered if she was a professional actress. She looked absurdly young, of course; but they caught them at a very tender age nowadays.
He said, “Hi, Miss East. Thank you very much.” He sat down, nodding politely to Pat’s consort.
She said, “This is Lieutenant Howard, Johnny – Tubby to you. Tubby, this is Johnny Fedora… he’s a great friend of Davida’s.”
“How d’you do?” said Howard. He seemed a trifle amused. “I say – is your name really Johnny Fedora There’s a song about that, y’know. Sorry – dashed rude of me.”
“Not at all,” said Johnny, meaninglessly. “My name’s Sean – Johnny’s just a nickname. As a name I think I prefer it. Sean’s a bit – you know.”
“Yes – isn’t it?” agreed Howard. Pat said, “I think Sean’s a nice name.” She developed a far-away look in her eyes.
Johnny saw Davida approaching from the hall and stood up. “Hullo, Davida,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve pinched your chair. I’ll go and find another one.”
“Don’t bother,” said Davida, smiling at him. “It’s too crowded in here, anyway. Like to come upstairs?”
Johnny said, “Sure.” He pushed his chair under the table, smiled at Pat, and followed Davida out of the room.
“Davida,” he said as soon as they were clear of the tables. “Have you seen Jack Harris here to-night?”
“No. I don’t think he’ll show up now. He’s probably flying back to-night. Over to France and back on Saturdays… that’s the usual routine. Why? Is he the latest suspect?”
“Not more than anyone else. I just wanted to talk with the guy, an’ I’ve got an idea that he’d like a chat with me. How’re you getting on, by the way, about that? Any luck?”
“I think I’ve got all that you wanted to know,” said Davida, “as far as I’ve been able to find it out.” She leant against the wall. “As far as I can see, it’s just as I thought it would be.”