‘Tell me, Constable,’ he said, putting the coat back on, ‘apart from the hysterical Miss Perkins, did anyone else see this mysterious masked stranger?’
‘Well, sir—’
‘No one else saw him,’ interjected Harley. ‘But I think I may have found a fresh footprint up on the roof. And there’s some dislodged brickwork above the sign to the market, in the Tallow Street entrance. Granted, not the easiest of escape routes, but with a certain nerve and—’
‘Dislodged brickwork, no less. Did you get that, Pearson? Dislodged brickwork. How fascinating! Pray, enlighten us some more. How did this masked monkey-demon make his way to the murder scene in the first place, eh? Down the chimney, perhaps? On a flying carpet? Maybe we should pull in Ali Baba for questioning?’
Harley continued, undeterred by the sarcasm.
‘Well, my bet is that he slipped in next door—Vi rarely has her front door locked—made his way upstairs and onto the fire escape via Miss Perkins’ room, which was vacant until she returned home from work at eight o’clock.’
He moved over to the window.
‘Our man probably then gained entry via the window over here—which, as you can see, has a broken catch. He’s masked to hide his identity—so he was possibly known to the boy, or maybe wasn’t certain he’d find him alone.’
Harley now moved back to the bed.
‘He pounces on Aubrey, who was slight, and in his injured state couldn’t have put up much of a fight. He smothers him with a pillow, then he searches the house for a razor—he didn’t have far to look: this one belonged to my uncle and was stored in the drawer over there … He takes the razor and slashes Aubrey’s wrist to make it look like suicide … He makes his way back along the fire escape—but he’s disturbed by Miss Perkins, who’s at the window smoking a cigarette. He dispatches her with some kind of toxic powder.’
Harley turned and mimed blowing the powder from the flat of his hand into Quigg’s face.
‘Which, come to think of it, he may have used first on Aubrey to incapacitate him. He then makes his escape across the roof and down into Tallow Street.’
‘Bravo!’ said Quigg, giving a few, mocking handclaps. ‘And what do you think you’re doing, Pearson? Strike that rubbish out of your notebook at once! As for your little theory, Harley—it’s pure, unadulterated, tosh! Where’s the evidence? The motive? This gobbledygook might be good enough for the poor saps who part with their hard-earned cash for you to retrieve their lost pets, or take dirty pictures of their unfaithful husbands, or whatever else it is you get up to in that tuppenny-ha’penny detective agency of yours; but in a case such as this, we require real police work. And at Scotland Yard you’ll find that we rely on fact, rather than mere flights of fancy. Here, then, are the facts: an hysterical woman claims to have seen a masked stranger on her fire escape. Are there any other witnesses? No. Is there any evidence of this stranger’s presence? No. Is there any evidence of a reasonable motive for the intrusion? No. Most obvious conclusion—the masked stranger never existed and is merely a product of some mental aberration on the part of the Perkins woman. It takes the slightest provocation to pitch a female of her type headlong into hysteria; she was probably over-stimulated by a salacious novel, or a trip to the cinema—all these hormones they have … Anyway, I think we can confidently strike our masked stranger from the series of actual events. Fact: a male prostitute is found dead in bed with his wrist slashed. Is there any evidence of suicide? Yes—the razor is still gripped in the hand. Is there a motive? Yes—the individual was a sodomite, an aberrosexual, engaging the sewers of the body in the pursuit of sexual gratification. One can only guess at the horror and shame, the mental torment that such an evil can inflict upon a young man on a daily basis; the only wonder is that more of these unfortunate perverts don’t end their suffering with the clean steel of the razor. Is there any evidence of foul play? No—’
‘Yes!’ interrupted Harley.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’ve missed a vital clue.’
Quigg gave another of his snorts.
‘Look at the wounded hand,’ said Harley, moving to the bed.
‘I already have. The wound is consistent with a suicide attempt.’
‘I’m not talking about the wound itself. I’m talking about the hand, the fingers. Look again, look here!’
‘There’s simply no need; I’ve seen all I need to see.’
‘Well then, I’m sure you’ll have noticed the nicotine stains on the index and middle fingers? The ink stains on the outer edge of the palm?’
‘Of no consequence,’ said Quigg, snatching a fleeting glimpse of the hand.
‘No consequence? You don’t think they indicate that Aubrey was left-handed? Listen—the boy was forever writing. The first thing he did the morning after I brought him back here was ask for pen and paper. Letters, poems—I’m not sure what it was, he never asked me to post anything. And I’ve had a look since—there’s nothing here; maybe his killer took them. But look at his right hand—no ink stains at all. Here on the left palm is where his hand ran across the fresh ink of the words he had just written. And he clearly smoked with his left hand. It’s obvious—he was cack-handed; and what cack-handed person would hold a razor in his right hand to slash his wrist?’
‘Pure speculation. Come, Pearson! I’ve seen enough here.’
Harley moved to block the doorway. ‘Wait!’
‘Come on now, George,’ said Burns, taking him gently by the arm. ‘Let Mr. Quigg pass.’
‘But look at the boy’s eyes, Percy; go on—look at them! Tell me what you see.’
Burns shot a glance at Quigg, whose sagging jowls had coloured with anger.
‘Well, go on then, Constable! Pray demonstrate your amazing powers of observation!’
The bobby quickly walked over to the bed and bent over the body.
‘Well … he’s got—had—blue eyes. And they’re blank, lifeless of course.’
‘What else?’ asked Harley.
‘Well, I suppose you could say they were bloodshot.’
‘Exactly—bloodshot! That’s what happens when you smother someone, you see? And look at the floor—there’s not enough blood. You have to lose something like four pints of blood before it’s fatal—maybe less for Aubrey, because he was so slight. But look at that puddle, think of it as spilled beer—there’s less than a pint there, right? It’s gotta be that Aubrey was dead, or dying, before his wrist was slashed.’
‘But George, you’re not a doctor. How could you say? How do you know all this?’
‘Reading all those books you were talking about, Perce. Research—Dr Spilsbury’s papers, Home Office reports, medical texts. It’s my shtick, right? It’s not magic—it’s just science. It’s the twentieth century for Christ’s sake! Einstein, Rutherford, Curie … Freud; we know more about how the world works—how we work—than ever before. Knowledge is power, Perce. We don’t need the old hierarchies, the old superstitions and religions telling us their ghost stories to keep us in our place; we’ve all seen where that leads. We just need educating—Science, mate! That’s the thing now. And that’s the way he should be conducting this investigation.’
Harley now turned his attention to the furious Detective Inspector.
‘You talk about evidence, Quigg—well, it’s here! Before your eyes! But you’re not interested in that, are you? ’Cos this boy’s life means nothing to you. You didn’t even bring your murder bag with you. You talk about real policing? Well, let’s see some. Let’s see you get some justice for this young boy, murdered in his bed, in my house.’
‘Constable, restrain this … this Bolshevik immediately, or I shall arrest him for obstructing the law. Pearson, go and inform Dr Jaggers that I agree with his conclusion of suicide as the cause of death, and that he’s free to go; he’s already signed the death certificate … then telephone the station and arrange for the removal of the body. Oh, and we’ll have that razor as well, log it in as evidence when
you get back.’
‘And where’s the suicide note, eh Quigg?’ shouted Harley, being restrained by Burns as Quigg left the room. ‘The boy was forever writing—where’s the sodding note?’
CHAPTER FOUR
Harley reached the end of Regent Street. Ahead of him, stripped of its revellers and gaudy neon, stood Piccadilly Circus, dreary and litter-strewn. A handful of early-morning shop-workers spilled out of the Tube exits, but the Circus was left mainly to a few casualties of the previous night’s carousing—either too drunk or too broke to manage the journey home—clinging to the steps of Eros like shipwrecked sailors on a desert island.
He turned into Coventry Street, passing a huddle of rags in a damp shop doorway—some poor unfortunate who hadn’t made it into the spike for the night. A few yards down a street hawker rummaged through his cardboard suitcase, sorting out the bootlaces and pipe cleaners. The old boy wore a leather patch over one eye and a medal pinned to the breast of his shabby greatcoat.
‘Got any matches, pops?’ asked Harley.
‘Certainly guv’nor; hang on a second.’ As he searched through the suitcase the old man’s nicotine-stained beard danced around a mouthful of dilapidated teeth. ‘There you go, son.’
‘Much obliged,’ said Harley, handing over the money. ‘Which regiment?’
‘East Lancashire,’ said the old soldier, pushing back his shoulders. ‘Eleventh Battalion—the Accrington Pals.’
‘Saw a bit of the desert then?’
‘Aye—and my share of mud too. You?’
‘Mostly mud.’
The old man nodded and rubbed his one, rheumy eye.
‘Accrington Pals, eh?’ said Harley, ‘long way from home then.’
‘Needs must, son, needs must. After all, look around yer—the streets are paved with gold down ’ere, ain’t they?’
Harley laughed, tipped his hat and began to walk on.
‘Hold on fella!’ shouted the old boy. ‘What about your change?’
‘Have a wet on me!’
As he turned the corner a hand slapped down on Harley’s shoulder.
‘Since you’ve got so much dough to spare, how about sending some in this direction?’ The voice was close to his ear, a hammy mid-Atlantic accent, the breath sickly-sweet with stale alcohol.
Harley slowly pushed his hand into his coat pocket, reaching for his knuckleduster.
‘Easy does it! No surprises now.’
An iron grip clamped tight around his wrist and something hard pushed into the small of his back.
‘Turn around—slowly …’
It was pointless calling out—the street was empty. A few hours earlier it would have been filled with janes and their punters, and groups of boisterous drunks tipping out of the clubs; but now there was no one except for a brewery drayman driving his nag lazily up towards Shaftesbury Avenue—too far out of earshot to be of any help. He tensed his muscles—still stiff from the brawl at the Tilbury docks—and slowly turned around.
‘Smokey! You bastard! I should have guessed from the dodgy Edward G. Robinson impression.’
One-time British middleweight champion, Solly “the smoke” Rosen—aka “The Yiddish Thunderbolt”—stood with a huge drunken grin on his face, pointing a half-empty bottle of Worthington’s beer at the private detective.
‘Stick ’em up!’ he said, reverting to his native cockney, before draining the bottle and flinging it into the gutter.
‘You wanna be careful, Solly—sneaking up on a bloke like that. You might’ve got hurt.’
Rosen sprayed his mouthful of beer out and doubled over in laughter. He came back up with an enormous belch and wiped the tears from his eyes.
‘You’re priceless, Georgie boy … But seriously, you gotta sharpen up your act—I could see you going for those brass knuckles of yours a mile away. And I’ve been on the skimish all night.’
‘Well, to tell you the truth, Sol, I wasn’t really expecting any trouble at half-six on a Saturday morning.’
‘You should always expect trouble, George; always expect trouble—that’s my motto.’
‘Yeah well, that’s stone-ginger with you around, Solly. You’re one big trouble-magnet—always ’ave been.’
Harley checked his watch.
‘What you banging your kettle for?’ said Rosen. ‘You on a promise? You won’t find any janes out on the bash at this time in the morning—they’re all tucked up in bed.’
‘Either that or in Alberto’s,’ said Harley, ‘huddled over a cup of coffee and a fag—which is exactly where I’m off to. But they’ll all be turning back into pumpkins again soon, so I’d better get a move on. You coming along? I got a few questions for Soho’s finest—I’ll stand you a cup of java if you want.’
‘Got a job on, eh?’ asked Rosen, patting his trouser pockets.
‘Yeah, you could say that—only this one’s a little too close to home for my liking.’
‘Really? You in some kind of schtuk? Need someone sorting out?’ said Rosen, now searching the pockets of his jacket.
‘Nah—not yet, anyway … Here—have one of mine.’ Harley offered up a Gold Flake. ‘But tell me summit’—you ever heard of a character who works in a mask? A screwsman, or maybe a chiv-man …’ He paused to light Rosen’s cigarette. ‘… nasty piece of work.’
‘I know the very fella.’
‘Really? Got a name?’
‘Yeah—Dick Turpin!’
Rosen’s face cracked with a wonky, drunken grin.
‘That’s a great help, Sol. I can see I’m gonna get no sense out of you. It was good seeing you, but I’ve got to—’
‘Hold yer ’orses! I was only ’aving a laugh, weren’t I? … A mask, you say?’
‘Yeah, but a full face mask—maybe like the mask of Tragedy, you know—in the theatre.’
Rosen thought hard as he pulled on his smoke.
‘No, can’t say it rings any bells, George.’
‘What about a couple of wide-boys that knock about together like Mutt and Jeff—the big one looks like he could give you a run for your money and the little one vaults walls like a tomcat on a promise?’
‘Well, there’s Chimp Mason of course; one of the best top-storey men around. Climb anything that fella could. I’m pretty sure he only ever works alone though.’
‘Yeah, and Chimp’s currently residing at His Majesty’s Pleasure in Wandsworth.’
‘Ah—well, I guess that rules him out then; less, of course, he’s ’ad it over the wall.’
Rosen took another long drag on his cigarette before slowly shaking his head.
‘No, can’t think of anyone else that fits the bill. But I’ll put the word about if you like—see what the boys can come up with.’
‘Cheers, Sol, that’d be good. Maybe I’ll get a few answers at the cafe. You coming?’
‘Nah. I’m gonna take the tub back home—try and slip into bed before Marni wakes up.’
‘In your state? Yeah, well, good luck with that! Besides, religious boy like you, you’ll have to be up soon anyway—it’s Shabbat, no doubt you’ll be off to synagogue.’
‘Very funny. You’re a funny man—for a yok.’
‘How are the girls?’
‘Beautiful; and every day breaking my balls.’
‘Just like their mother.’
‘Ain’t that the truth. And they’re missing their Uncle George. You should come and see us more, you schmuck!’
‘Yeah—I will do soon, I promise.’
‘Alright then. Abyssinia, Georgie boy! Let me know if you need a bit of strong-arm on this one. You know where to find me.’
‘Right-you-are, Smokey. Love to Marni and the girls.’
It wasn’t long before Harley was in Lisle Street, peering through the fogged plate glass window of Alberto’s café. The sprung bell announced his entrance and half a dozen bleary-eyed faces turned from their meagre breakfasts to study the new arrival.
It was a motley crew. On a table by the window, smoking an a
crid cigarillo and picking at a plate of limp chips with a toothpick, was Johnny the Turk—named for his dark complexion—one of the local ponces who ran a couple of Irish girls out of Wardour Street; a nasty individual, too quick to resort to his fists if the night’s takings were low. He gave Harley an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement and went back to playing with his food. On the adjacent table sat one of Johnny’s girls wearing a burgundy cloche hat, pulled down so low that she had to tip her head back to look up at Harley. The thick application of face powder couldn’t quite hide the generous smattering of Galway freckles … or the dark rings under her eyes. She was sharing her plate of chips with a part-timer, or ‘privateer’ as the girls called them—a new addition to Johnny’s stable, already looking half-beaten in a mangy fox-fur stole.
On the opposite side of the café, below a pall of cigarette smoke, were the Soho veterans Vera and Gracie—and a younger woman dressed in a cigarette girl’s uniform.
‘Oh my gawd! George Harley!’ screeched the younger woman, staggering a little as she leapt to her feet to hug the private detective, bringing with her a waft of stale alcohol.
‘Sally? What’s all this?’ said Harley, looking at her uniform. ‘I thought Marni had got you a job with her uncle—in that cardboard box factory?’
‘Sod that, George! Too much like hard work. I’m all fingers and thumbs me, couldn’t get the hang of it. And all that graft for a quid a week? I made half that last night in tips.’
‘Really? Where are you working now, then?’
‘The Cat’s Whiskers—Dean Street.’
‘That’s Jerry Paladino’s new place, ain’t it? How did you land that one?’
‘Ooh … ’old on George! I gotta sit down—these heels are killing me.’
Harley slid in next to Gracie and caught the eye of the overweight, middle-aged man behind the counter.
‘Cup of coffee, Pietro! You ladies want another?’
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