‘Alberto’s—yes, I know it well … Alright then, gentlemen—bona nochy!’
As Harley and Pearson took the stairs to the ground floor Siddons was already doing his best to engage the attention of the two flamboyantly dressed newcomers.
‘Oh, Stephen—what a fabulous pair of kaffies! Are they new, dear?’
***
Back out on the street Pearson took out his notebook.
‘So, come on then, Harley—who is the mystery suspect?’
‘Viscount Chantry, better known as Freddie Daubeney—son and heir to Earl Daubeney, ex-Viceroy of India.’
‘Oh come on now! And you believed him?’
‘Not necessarily—but we do need to investigate it. I’ve also heard the rumours that the Viscount is a … well, that way inclined, shall we say. Although I must admit, I didn’t believe it at the time—not with his old man the way he is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘His father, Earl Daubeney, is a real “man’s man”—old-school huntin’ and fishin’ and all that lark. You’d imagine he’d take a birch to any son he found knocking about with the likes of the Green Fox mob. Or worse.’
‘Earl Daubeney, you say?’ asked Pearson, making a note in his book. ‘But let’s just suppose for a moment it’s true—what could they have stolen from Viscount Chantry that would be important enough to murder three lads for?’
‘Who knows? The old man moves in important circles—the highest in the land in fact.’
‘So where do we go from here? Back to the station to see if Daubeney junior has any previous?’
‘Jesus Christ, no! The likes of Freddie Daubeney don’t have previous, Pearson. They have connections and lawyers that mean that any little indiscretion is simply forgotten, magicked away.’
‘So how do we investigate the lead then?’
‘Well, I’ve always found that the best way to dig the dirt on those that are above the law, is to consult those that live outside of the law. I think, my little country cousin, it’s time that I introduced you to one or two of my more colourful acquaintances … But before we scratch the grimy underbelly of this fair city of ours we need to stop off at my place and get you kitted out. There’s no way you can visit this gaff I’ve got in mind wearing those bogey’s shoes.’
CHAPTER TEN
‘Do I really need to change, Harley?’ asked Pearson as they stood on the doorstep to Harley’s place in Bell Street.
‘Believe me—you can’t turn up at this club we’re going to in that clobber.’
‘And you think your contact there will have useful information on Viscount Chantry?’
‘Certain of it.’
Harley fished out his key and opened the front door.
‘So, is the whole house yours?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harley, a little sheepishly. ‘I inherited it from my uncle, just after the war.’
He led Pearson into the parlour.
‘He must have been a wealthy man.’
‘Wealthy? Well yeah, he was worth a few bob at the end. He started off with nothing, and I suppose you could say that he acquired great riches from his travels. But money … well, it didn’t have too much importance in Uncle Blake’s life; I think mostly he used it to finance his adventures.’
‘Adventures?’
‘Adventures …’ Harley lit the gas to reveal dark crimson walls covered in a chaotic spread of antiquities, animal trophies, carved tribal masks, highly-coloured silks, and other exotic paraphernalia.
‘Christ! It’s like a museum. I had no idea all this was here—when we were upstairs the other day, the boy’s room … well, it just seemed like a normal house. A bit dingy really. But all this …’
‘The top floor’s pretty sparse; Uncle Blake used it as a storage space. Since I’ve had the place I’ve been trying to go through it all, categorize it a bit. A lot of it was junk, and the damp had got to some of it. I managed to clear the one room—but there’s still a lot to go through.’
Pearson squinted at a small jar on a shelf which held something organic and sinister floating in a dark amber suspension.
‘Blimey, Harley! You could sell tickets.’
‘You could that. Uncle Blake was … well, he was something special. Born the son of a costermonger, Stepney way. But somehow he reinvented himself, became one of your fully-fledged Victorian Adventurers.’ Harley handed Pearson a tinted photograph of a man dressed in traditional Turkish costume, sitting cross-legged, sucking the mouthpiece of a hookah.
‘I didn’t really see much of him when I was growing up—the odd flying visit at Christmas, a telegram on my birthday. If you believe all the stories—and trust me, nothing was ever straightforward with Uncle Blake—well, he supposedly did it all: explorer, soldier, author … smuggler … spy …’ Harley chuckled as he replaced the photograph on the mantle piece. ‘But as for money—well, I don’t think he made any real money until he was getting on a bit. In the early days, with the upbringing he had, most of the time he was just busy trying to—’
‘Better himself?’
‘Why d’you say that?’ said Harley, obviously taking umbrage at the remark. ‘Just because he ended up knocking about with the upper classes? That ain’t necessarily bettering yourself, is it?’
‘Alright, Harley; I didn’t mean to suggest that—’
‘That implies he was embarrassed of his roots. Now, I didn’t really know my Grandad at all—Uncle Blake’s old man that is—he died when I was a nipper; but from what my mum told me, although he was a hard man, he was also a grafter, you know? Worked hard all his life, had a strong moral code. And Nan … well, she loved life—a compassionate woman, was Nan. House-proud and protective of her brood. It was a tight family. It’s not as if he grew up in the sodding workhouse!’
‘Maybe not. But life would have been a lot harder for him if he’d become a costermonger like his father, wouldn’t it?’ Pearson pointed to a large portrait, hanging above the ornate fireplace, depicting Uncle Blake in the frock coat and beaver hat of the Victorian gentry. ‘He bettered himself Harley, became a gentleman, rose above his station; that’s some feat.’
‘What he did, Pearson, was show how much the system stinks!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, look …’ said Harley, becoming animated now and beginning to pace the floor. ‘The best education and opportunities are awarded to a tiny percentage of the population, right? A thin layer floating on the very top of society. And these privileges are meted out regardless of the natural potential of the individual.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Take the House of Lords—the majority of those jokers in ermine are there not because they’ve got first-rate brains, but because of who their old man was … and ultimately because they’re probably descended from some medieval robber baron.’
‘And you wonder why they call you bolshie? Sounds a bit like sour grapes to me—what’s your point?’
‘Sour grapes?’ said Harley, incredulously. ‘My point is … Well, just look at the natural potential Uncle Blake had—the things he achieved without the benefit of … I dunno—having a private tutor say, or going to Eton. My point is that if we take him as an example, well—just think of all of those extraordinary brains that we’ve wasted over the centuries—just because we only allow the best opportunities to a tiny, exclusive little clique descended from William the Conqueror’s cronies. Forget about the personal injustice of it all—just think of all of those extra Newtons, Darwins, Faradays that we could have added to our history. And just think of what advances we’ve missed out on.’
‘I don’t know, Harley—I can’t see how you’d go about changing that; not without making a right old mess of things. It’s just the way it is. As I see it your Uncle Blake just had the gumption to pull himself up by his bootstraps and make something of himself.’
Harley gave a snort. ‘Yeah well, he certainly did that …’ He took the photograph from Pearson and replaced it on the mantelpiece. ‘He
started as a penniless private in the army, was shipped out to the Raj and ended up a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society—until they kicked him out that is.’
‘Why did they kick him out?’
‘Because he refused to retract a claim that he had been the first white man to see Lake Tanganyika—beating Richard Francis Burton by a whole six months.’
‘And had he?’
‘Probably—but unfortunately there was no evidence as he was the only European on the expedition to survive; and, of course, they wouldn’t take the word of any of the porters, would they?’
‘He sounds like a remarkable man.’
‘He was; at the time of his disappearance he’d published over thirty books and could speak around twenty languages—not bad for an East End boy who left school at twelve.’
‘His disappearance?’
‘He was a member of Hiram Bingham’s Peruvian expedition of nineteen-eleven; after they’d discovered Machu Picchu—’
‘Machu what?’
‘Machu Picchu—“an ancient Inca city, hidden in dense vegetation on a mountainside above the Urubamba River in Peru”—that’s how the newspaper had it; I’ve still got that front page somewhere; had it pinned to my bedroom wall for years. Anyway, after its discovery he wanted to carry on and investigate the local rumours of another lost Inca city, but Bingham was keen to return to America and publicize their findings. So Uncle Blake took a small party of porters and a local guide and continued on his own. About a week later the area was ravaged by a freak storm, causing flash flooding and avalanches on the mountainsides … He was never heard of again. In nineteen-eighteen—just after I returned from France—he was legally declared dead. In his will he’d left me this place.’
‘You served then—what regiment?’
‘The Essex—thirteenth battalion.’
‘I was too young of course. But my elder brother David was there. He didn’t make it … broke my mother’s heart. Where were you—’
‘If it’s all the same with you, Pearson, I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry; I was just—’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Harley, looking at his watch. ‘Right, come on—upstairs! We need to get you kitted out in something that’ll pass muster in the Twelve Ten.’
‘The Twelve Ten?’ said Pearson, following Harley up to the first floor.
‘The club I was telling you about.’
‘When you say club, d’you mean a supper club? They’re all the rage now, I hear. Of course, we don’t have anything like that at home—but June’s always reading about them in the society columns.’
Harley lit the gas in the bedroom.
‘Not exactly a supper club, this one … Although you can get a spot of grub there—if you’re brave enough, that is. It’s what we call a spieler or bottle party—a drinking and gambling club.’
‘Illegal?’
‘Afraid so, Pearson.’
‘I thought the Home Secretary was cracking down on all that. Doesn’t the Yard know where it is?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Sometimes?’
‘Well, it kinda moves around a bit.’
‘So it has been raided then?’
‘Yeah well, that’s why they call it the Twelve Ten. You see, if it’s due for a raid then ten-past-midnight is the agreed time the bogeys come knocking; that way everyone’s happy: the magistrate gets his raid, the coppers get a few minor collars—usually the mugs who’ve just been fleeced in a rigged game—and the regulars get time to hide away all the snide gear and make a show of sitting around sipping tea. The bogeys can also make a little extra pocket money by offering on-the-spot fines in place of a trip to the magistrate. After the raid they just clear it out and start up in another gaff. Mind you, there’s only four venues in all—they just alternate between ’em.’
‘What, so you’re telling me that Scotland Yard prearranges with the owners what time they’re going to raid it?’
‘Not the Yard, not officially; just certain bent coppers. That way they can make sure that none of their workmates are caught out in an embarrassing situation.’
Harley walked over to the wardrobe and began sorting through the clothes.
‘Hold on! You’re saying it’s also frequented by serving policemen?’ said Pearson, incredulously. ‘Fraternizing with criminals? In an illegal drinking and gambling den?’
‘I like that! Fraternizing with criminals—you should write for The Oracle. In Natural History they call it a symbiotic relationship, Albert; both sides need each other, you see. That way a natural balance is achieved … Oh come on—you look like a kiddie who’s just found out there’s no Father Christmas! … Here—try this on. It’s a bit small for me now—I was all skin and bone when I came out of the army. But it looks like it should fit you.’
He handed Pearson a suit on a hanger.
‘What size shoes d’you take?’
‘A nine.’
‘Well—these should do you if you wear two pairs of socks. I’ll leave you to it and fix us a couple drinks—scotch and soda?’
‘I don’t think I should—I am on duty, after all.’
‘Come on—live dangerously! You’re not gonna get in trouble for it, and besides, the Twelve Ten can get a bit rough—might be best to relax you a little first.’
‘Really? Go on then.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
***
Moving a little awkwardly in his borrowed suit, Pearson joined Harley in the sitting room, where the private detective was sitting by the fire, contemplating a tumbler of whisky.
‘Fits you like a glove—you look dandy. You can wear your own hat—it should go alright. There’s your drink.’
‘Thanks,’ said Pearson, grabbing his glass and going to sit in the seat opposite Harley.
‘Careful!’
A loud hiss emanated from the chair. Startled, Pearson jumped back, spilling some of his whisky.
‘My God! What was that?’
Harley laughed as a large black tomcat landed with a thump on the floor and padded indignantly across the room
‘That … is Moloch.’
Moloch licked his paw and pulled it lazily across a tattered ear, then twisted to fix Pearson with his one Chartreuse-coloured eye.
‘Good grief! That’s one of the ugliest cats I’ve ever seen. He looks like he’s just done ten rounds with Max Schmeling.’
‘Well, I know which one my money would be on. He came with the house. He’s a cunning old cove—got a harem of mollies round abouts, goes missing sometimes for weeks on end, and he’ll fight anything that moves. But I like him—and he tolerates me.’
Pearson sat down and sipped at his whisky.
‘Tell me something—what’s the story with all those books in the room next to your bedroom? It’s like a public library. Have you read them all?’
Harley chuckled.
‘You know, you’re the second person this week to ask me that. Along with the house and the souvenirs—and Moloch here, of course—I inherited Uncle Blake’s library. That’s just a tiny part of it, the ones on subjects that particularly appeal to me, plus some of my own contributions. It’s my reference library—for my investigations. If I find a bottle of pills in a client’s medicine cabinet I can check the pharmaceutical dictionaries to see why they’ve been prescribed and what the possible side effects are. If a witness uses a peculiar turn of phrase I can research which area of the country he grew up in. And if a victim has a certain set of bruises I match them against morgue photographs. A wealth of knowledge at my fingertips—and knowledge, Pearson, is power.’
‘Is that why you were so certain about the boy’s death being murder?’
‘Yeah. It’s right there in Spilsbury’s papers.’
‘Spilsbury? Wasn’t he the pathologist on the “Brides in the Bath” murders?’
‘I’m impressed! Yes, and Crippen—and numerous others. He’s changed the face of murder investigatio
n, yanked it kicking and screaming into the twentieth century; a very clever man. It’s just a pity that the likes of Quigg and his cronies are still firmly stuck in the Victorian age. You should read some of his work, it’s interesting stuff.’
‘Ooh, I think it’d be a bit over my head.’
‘Rubbish! Once you’ve got used to the jargon it’s … well, it’s just logic, right?’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
Pearson now began to inspect the artefacts decorating the room. He stopped at the portrait of a young girl with raven black hair.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Just an old flame.’
‘She’s stunning.’
‘Yes … she was.’
Harley downed his drink and stood up.
‘Right. Pronterino! We’d best be off … But first let me explain something. This club we’re about to go to is owned by Mori Adler. You said that you’d heard of him?’
‘Mori the Hat? Yes—he has a whole notice board dedicated to him at the station.’
‘He’d be chuffed to hear that.’
‘Plus, DI Quigg filled me in on some of his background—sounds like a dangerous individual.’
‘Well, he can be, that’s for sure … but that’s not the whole picture. Me and Mori go back a long way. Not mates as such—he’s a few years older, and we’ve never really seen eye to eye—but we grew up in the same manor, went to the same school; along with a lot of his crew.’
‘So are you? …’
‘Jewish? No, but I’m pretty tight with a lot of the boys. Now the thing about Mori is his pride, right? He’s not overly bright—in fact he thinks he’s a lot smarter than he really is—but he’s fearless, and he has this huge ego. If he thinks you’re slighting him in any way, then God help you. He’ll do anything in his power to return the favour—in spades. And he’s got this fixation with the American gangster movies—Edward G. Robinson, James Cagney, you know? But of course, his operation isn’t anything like that.’
‘Really? Quigg says that he’s into running prostitutes and protection rackets at the races, illegal gambling—is that the kind of thing?’
Harley smiled.
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