Mask of the Verdoy

by Lecomber, Phil

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Because he’s gone missing, of course—hasn’t been seen in society for the last three weeks or so. People are beginning to talk. Remember—this is one of the leading Bright Young Things; a party simply isn’t a party without Fast Freddie Daubeney.’

  ‘And there’s really no word out there on the street as to where he might be?’

  ‘Not a whisper. But then again, I’m not sure anyone is particularly looking for him. I could put out some feelers if you’d like.’

  ‘That would be appreciated.’

  ‘Consider it done, dear boy … But, you know, there is one line of enquiry that you might like to pursue in the meantime.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Freddie’s sister—Lady Augusta Daubeney, “Gussy” to her friends. Gussy shares her brother’s love of parties—in fact she’s made quite a thing out of organizing them.’

  ‘Wasn’t there some scandal at one of her dos? In the papers a while back?’

  ‘Indeed. She held a bash at the Gargoyle Club, Dean Street. The guests were all in Egyptian attire—slaves and Pharaohs, you know the caper. Anyhow, some suburban magistrate took exception to his seventeen-year-old daughter cavorting half-naked in front of a Negro jazz band. “Black devils luring innocent white maidens to depravity”—you know the sort of thing. Water-off-a-duck’s-back to Gussy, though—enjoys the controversy, by all accounts … But, as I say, awfully close to her brother—if anyone knows where Fast Freddie is, it’s Gussy Daubeney. However, she is a little prickly I’m afraid—not sure you’ll get anything out of her, but it’s well worth a try. She’s throwing one of her bashes this Friday as it happens. Hold on …’ Burlington pulled a small notebook from his jacket and flipped through the pages. ‘Ah, here we are—Friday night at Murray’s in Beak Street. It’s a ticket-only affair though, you’ll need an introduction … I say, George—are you still tight with Lily Lee?’

  ‘Not really—haven’t seen her in a while now. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘Well, that might be your way in: one of her boys, Conrad—’

  ‘Yeah, I know Conrad alright.’

  ‘Well, there you have it—he’s always on the guest list at Gussy’s dos. He’s a crucial part of the entertainment—you know how these Bright Young Things like to powder their noses. If you turn up with Conrad in tow you’re bound to get in.’

  ‘Thanks Bertie, we’ll give it a whirl.’

  ‘And I’ll put some feelers out in the meantime, see if we can’t track down little Fast Freddie for you. Now, sorry to dash, but I have a previous engagement at The Ambassador—meeting a young filly.’

  ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘A little of both, hopefully. Ta ta for now!’

  ‘Thanks Bertie, look after yourself.’

  ‘Lily Lee?’ said Pearson, after Burlington had left them. ‘Is that who I think it is?’

  ‘I dunno—who do you think it is?’

  ‘Limehouse Lil, “The High Priestess of Unholy Rites”—isn’t that what they call her? Supplying half the dope to the addicts of London.’

  Harley drank a good measure of his whisky.

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers.’

  ‘But she was up on a manslaughter charge for supplying that actress that overdosed, wasn’t she?’

  ‘And she was acquitted.’

  ‘So you do know her then?’

  ‘Yup—we go back a long way.’

  ‘Christ, Harley! You’re something else … Limehouse Lil—isn’t she married to some type of Fu Manchu character?’

  ‘Fu Manchu?’ Harley shook his head and emptied his glass. ‘Fu Manchu? That poisoned rag of a paper The Oracle has got a lot to answer for. For your information Sammy Lee was one of the kindest blokes you could meet—a hard-working restaurateur who ran the best dumpling house in London. But it got shut down after a bunch of drunken sailors tore the place apart in a brawl. One of them, an officer, testified that Sammy was running janes from a flat above—all a load of madam of course, something his lawyer had suggested to get him off the charge.’

  ‘Janes?’

  ‘Jane shores—whores. Sammy lost his license and his restaurant. So Lily being Lily … well, she decided to use her entrepreneurial skills and diversify a little while they were scratching around trying to start another going concern. Lily had moved in some colourful circles before she settled down with Sammy, and she knew that there was a demand for cocaine on the party circuit. With her links to the Chinese opium dealers and the ports … well, it would have been easy for her to buy the stuff at trade and make a good profit. But Sammy didn’t want anything to do with it, wanted to earn an honest crust to keep Lily and the girls. So Lil agreed to leave it alone. Sammy got a job as a chef in another Chinese restaurant and for a while, although things were tight, they scraped along and kept their noses clean. But the guv’nor of the new place also ran a gambling den in the basement. One night they were raided by the bogeys and Sammy got pinched along with the rest of the staff. Because of his previous he got a stretch.’

  ‘A stretch?’

  ‘Twelve months in Wormwood Scrubs. So now Lily really was on the ribs—her old man in stir and two small girls to fend for. So she went back to her original plan and started to supply high society with its dancing powder. Things went along smoothly for a while; Lily wasn’t greedy—she did just enough business to make a tidy living, but managed to stay out of the way of the big boys and the Yard.’ Harley paused to refill their glasses. ‘Then one night one of her couriers was involved in an accident—the cab he was in ended up crashing through the plate glass window of a department store and he was nigh on decapitated. The bogeys discovered the happy dust in his pocket along with the address of the socialite ball he was delivering it to. Unfortunately the guy was one of Sammy’s cousins. Of course, the press had a field day with the story, and when they discovered that Sammy had married a white girl …’ Harley gulped at his whisky, getting a little animated now. ‘Well, that fascist rag The Oracle ran with the whole “Yellow Peril” spiel. They had him as some criminal mastermind straight out of a Sax Rohmer novel—running his evil empire from his cell in the Scrubs, luring innocent victims to depravity and kidnapping young girls for the white slave trade. Lily couldn’t own up ‘cos she’d have lost the girls. Two months before his release Sammy was knifed in the exercise yard, some John Bull knucklehead defending the honour of Britannia … he died on the way to the hospital. The Oracle ran the story on the front page, played it up as a victory for justice—and all he’d ever been was an honest, hardworking mush, trying to do the best for his wife and kids.’

  ‘But Lily went on supplying the drugs, didn’t she? There was the big manslaughter trial, the actress.’

  ‘Rita Carlson? I met her a couple of times, you know. Now Rita had a serious monkey on her back; opium, heroin, cocaine—the lot. Some idiot had told her that you could only overdose on cocaine if you mixed it with water. She went on an almighty bender after appearing at the Palladium one night—her maid found her dead in bed the following morning. She had Lily’s number in her address book. They put Lily on a manslaughter charge, but she was acquitted—not enough evidence.’

  ‘But presumably Lily had supplied the cocaine?’

  ‘Probably—but that ain’t manslaughter, is it? There’s more deaths caused by this stuff, ain’t there?’ Harley held up his glass of scotch. ‘But you wouldn’t expect a pub landlord or the brewery owners to be hauled up before the beak, would you?’

  ‘Hardly the same thing, Harley.’

  ‘Ain’t it? It’s all supply and demand—they’re both drugs.’

  ‘I think we’ll agree to disagree on that one. So what’s she doing now?’

  ‘Lily? Oh, she’s doing alright for herself and her girls. But, you know, Sammy’s death changed her. She’d always been shrewd, cunning even. But now she’s hard, cold—you know? She runs a number of businesses in Limehouse, and she’s just open
ed a restaurant in Piccadilly, bit more of an up-market joint.’

  ‘You seem remarkably well informed.’

  ‘Yeah, well … we were almost related.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That picture, back at the house? That was Cynthia, Lily’s sister—we were engaged.’

  ‘Were?’

  ‘Cynthia died.’

  ‘Oh, I’m … I’m sorry.’

  Harley drained his glass again and lit a Gold Flake.

  ‘Well, anyway … that’s why I know so much about the infamous Limehouse Lil.’

  ‘But she’s still dealing in the dope though—right? After all, Burlington was talking about one of her boys supplying Gussy Daubeney’s parties with … what did you call it—“dancing powder”?’

  ‘No comment. And remember what the boss said—let’s not get distracted. Besides, you’re gonna have to get up mighty early to catch that particular worm—and believe me, you don’t want to count Lily as one of your enemies.’

  ‘So are we going to take a look at Viscount Chantry’s sister, then?’

  ‘I reckon that’s the plan. I’ll get in touch with Conrad tomorrow and get us a ticket to the ball … Listen, don’t look round, but there’s a wide-boy called Briggs at the bar who keeps staring at you. Where would he know you from?’

  ‘I don’t know—don’t recognize the name.’

  ‘Have a look now, he’s just ordering—sat on a bar stool, green tie and braces.’

  ‘Oh Christ! I think I arrested him with Quigg on my first day in London; disturbing the peace outside a public house in Charing Cross Road.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope he hasn’t made you yet. Drink up and we’ll make a move. You get the coats and I’ll watch your back—see what he does.’

  Harley handed Pearson the token for the cloakroom.

  ‘Oh, hold on! Better stay put—here comes Mori.’

  Pearson turned to see the mobster Mori Adler standing in the doorway to the back room. Beneath his floral silk dressing gown he was in a vest and braces, a thatch of curly black chest hair poking up over the neckline.

  He removed his double corona cigar from a mouth that flashed a hint of gold and ran a hand through his mop of greased hair.

  ‘Go on, Willie—scarper!’ shouted Adler, pushing a small, overweight individual in an ill-fitting suit into the room ahead of him. ‘I’ve warned you about kibbitzing my game.’

  Solly Rosen appeared at Adler’s side.

  ‘Smokey—throw this joker out on his arse. He’s banned for a month.’

  The diminutive Willie fell to his knees in front of Adler and held a hand to his chest.

  ‘Come on, Mori—be a pal!’ he said in a nasal whine. ‘A month is too long—I need a chance to win back my money!’

  ‘Smokey—get this schlemiel out of my face, won’t yer? What am I paying you for here?’

  Rosen grabbed Willie by the scruff of his neck and hauled him to his feet.

  ‘Come on, you heard the boss—out you go! You put everyone’s nerves on edge with your kvetching, like an old woman.’

  Much to the entertainment of the drunken crowd Willie was frogmarched through the club towards the exit.

  During the commotion, the wide-boy Briggs—certain that he recognized Pearson from somewhere—left his girl at the bar and made his way over. He stood for a while sizing up the policeman before flipping a cigarette into his mouth and bending down.

  ‘Got a light, pal?’

  Harley looked over to check where Adler was, spotting him flirting with one of the hostesses. He pulled out a box of matches and offered them to Briggs.

  Briggs ignored Harley and walked around the other side of Pearson. He grabbed a chair, reversed it and sat down at the table.

  ‘What’s up? No speako da lingo?’

  After a glance at Harley, Pearson felt in his pockets for his own matches; he struck one and held it out for Briggs.

  ‘There you go—that’s a good boy!’

  Briggs grabbed Pearson’s wrist tightly and lit his cigarette.

  ‘Now,’ he said, retaining his grip and blowing smoke into the policeman’s face. ‘Where do I know your ugly mug from, eh?’

  Eager to avoid a scene that might expose Pearson’s true identity, Harley searched the room for Rosen, hoping he could grab his friend’s attention—but the boxer was still dealing with Willie, who had somehow made it back in through the door to sit on the floor, with his hands on his head, sobbing like a child. Harley now turned to look at the wide-boy’s date at the bar.

  ‘Blimey Briggs! She’s a bit out of your league, ain’t she? Must be expensive. After all, you’ve gotta be paying for a brama like that—with a boat race like yours.’

  ‘Cheese it, Harley! I’ll deal with you later—I’m talking to your mate here. Ain’t that right pal?’ Briggs leant in closer. ‘Now, where have we met before, eh? I can’t place your ugly mug for the moment … but I know I don’t like it.’

  Even above the noise of the bar Harley heard the unmistakeable click of a flick-knife from under the table. He grabbed instinctively for the soda siphon, ready to dispatch Briggs, but was distracted for a second by a loud crash from across the room, where Willie had just collapsed onto a punter’s table. When he turned back to Briggs he found the wide-boy slumped in his chair, drooling a long line of spittle onto his shirtfront.

  ‘Christ! What happened there? I thought he’d clocked you for sure.’

  ‘I think he had,’ said Pearson, rubbing his knuckles. ‘But you cockney boys don’t have the monopoly on drunken hooligans, you know. Nothing I can’t handle, thank you very much. Swift elbow to the side of the head, followed by an uppercut—usually works when there’s a bit of roughhouse going on down Castle Street on a Saturday night. Besides, his type are usually all wind and piss.’

  ‘Well, you’re a dark horse, ain’t yer? … Look out! Mori’s on his way over.’

  ‘George, George, George …’ said Adler, looming over the table and shaking Briggs’ shoulder. ‘Your guest seems to be sparko. Didn’t this happen last time you were here? Becoming a bit of a habit, ain’t it?’

  Harley carefully placed the soda siphon back on the table.

  ‘Now, George … Much as I admire the poogilistic technique of your friend here, and much as I despise the posturing of a jumped up schmendrik like Briggsy …’ Adler paused to tap the ash of his Havana in the breast pocket of the senseless Briggs. ‘I’m afraid I can’t allow you and your mates to just swan in here and lamp one of the punters—no matter how much he deserved it.’

  ‘All understood, Mori—and, of course, we’ll be leaving quietly straight away. But I think you oughta know that—just like last time—it was a case of self-defence.’

  Harley pulled the table back to reveal the opened flick-knife on the floor between the wide-boy’s feet.

  ‘Bloody hell! I didn’t see that!’ said Pearson, grabbing for his scotch.

  ‘Silly boy,’ said Adler gently slapping the cheek of Briggs, who had begun to groan and stir in his seat. ‘Smokey! Stop playing with your little friend there and get your arse over here—we have a situation.’

  Rosen thrust Willie into a chair and walked over, running a comb through his hair.

  ‘’Ello Georgie boy—you causing trouble again?’

  ‘You know how it is, Sol—just seems to follow me around.’

  ‘What d’you need boss?’

  Adler squeezed Briggs’ cheeks in his large hand.

  ‘Well, it seems this schmundie thinks he can pull a chife on one of my punters and get away with it. Take him out the back and give him the special. And there’ll be an administration charge—see what he’s got on ’im.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Adler turned to Harley and Pearson.

  ‘Now gentlemen, I’ve got a game to get back to. But just to show that there’s no hard feelings, why don’t you have a couple of blueys on me—just tell Dora I sent yer.’

  Thinking he could now relax a little
, Harley was surprised to see Pearson stand up and thrust out his hand.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr. Adler; but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just be getting off home.’

  The smile dropped from the mobster’s face.

  ‘What’s the matter, son? My hospitality not good enough for yer?’

  Harley quickly stood and took a step towards Pearson.

  ‘Come on, Mori—the lad don’t mean anything by it.’

  ‘Schtum, Georgie boy!’ Adler forced Harley back down into his chair. ‘He can talk for ’imself, can’t he? … Tell me son—why wouldn’t you take up such a generous offer, eh? Not yiddified are yer?’

  ‘Yiddified?’

  ‘Yeah. You know—anti-Semitic; there’s a lot of it about at the moment.’

  By now the crowd at the bar had quietened and turned to watch the exchange, sensing that there might be further entertainment to come.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Well, what is it then? Not an iron, are yer?’ The few titters from the bar were quickly silenced by a glance from Adler. ‘Well? Is that what it is?’

  ‘No! … Look, Mr. Adler—I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just that …’

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘Well, if you must know—it’s just that I’ve got a young kiddie and a beautiful wife at home waiting for me. I’ve already been much longer than expected—she’ll be worrying, more than likely. And that’s why I won’t be visiting Dora and her girls.’

  This was met with a roar of laughter from the crowd.

  ‘Shut it, you bunch of deadbeats!’ roared Adler. ‘What’s yer name son?’

  Pearson glanced at Harley.

  ‘Mack.’

  ‘Well, Mack—put it there!’ Adler held out his hand. ‘Well said! Family man, eh? Good for you. I’m a father of five meself … Nice to see you mixing with a better class of character, George. And he’s got some neck on ’im, that’s for sure. You can come in ’ere anytime, Mack, and have a drink on me—right?’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, Mr. Adler.’

  ‘It’s Mori, son—Mori … Right, that’s enough excitement for the night—back to the game for me.’ Adler looked up at Rosen who had just returned from disposing of Briggs.