Mask of the Verdoy

by Lecomber, Phil

  Smudge regarded the money and sniffed.

  ‘Well, that depends on where you want ’im taken.’

  Jonno looked to Sally for an answer.

  ‘Can you take him to The Star, in Shoreditch?’

  ‘What—Phipp Street? Got people expecting him there, has he?’

  ‘No, but he’s a regular—the landlord will know what to do with him.’

  ‘Cost you another half-a-crown.’

  Jonno laughed and turned to make his way back to the club.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, Sal!’

  Sally placed the coin in the cabbie’s hand, and then checked once more that Jack was still breathing.

  ‘Make sure he gets there safely, Smudge!’ she said, closing the door.

  ‘Looks like it’s a bit late for that, gel!’

  Sally waited until the taxi had disappeared down Dean Street and then counted what was left of Jack’s money, finding there was just over a guinea—certainly not to be sniffed at.

  When she got back down in the lobby she found Jonno back on his stool reading his book.

  ‘All sorted?’

  ‘I dunno … Do you think he’ll be alright, Jonno?’

  ‘Yeah, ’course he will. Probably have a bit of a sore head in the morning, though.’

  ‘Yeah, he’ll be alright, won’t he? Now, I need a drink!’

  ‘Don’t forget to pick up your shilling from Claude for the two Cat’s Kisses.’

  ‘Ooh, I forgot all about that.’ She reached up and gave Jonno a peck on the cheek. ‘Who’s a clever boy then?’

  Jonno gave her a grin and then returned to his novel.

  ‘Oh, I meant to say—Vern’s been asking after you.’

  The smile dropped from Sally’s face.

  ‘What do you mean—Vern’s here already?’

  ‘Yeah, didn’t they tell you inside? He’s been in Jerry’s office all night, with a couple of hacks from The Oracle. One’s got a big camera, flash gun, the works.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I thought you would have known. I’m sure he was talking to June about it—didn’t she fill you in?’

  ‘That one—you know what she’s like; she wouldn’t give you the drippings off her nose.’

  ‘Yeah, well. You know now, don’t you? Vern said to go right up. Hey! You alright?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah—’course I am. S’pose I’d better go and see him then.’

  The club’s office was one flight up, on the ground floor. The floor above that held the two rooms that Paladino hired out to high-class call girls and any of the club escorts engaged in the exclusive services on offer in Jerry’s “specials” menu. In a fluster Sally now took the stairs at such a pace that she stumbled halfway up, twisting her ankle and losing her shoe. She cursed and sat on the step for a moment to catch her breath. She opened her purse and took out some of the money, secreting the coins in a rip in the lining of her handbag, then stood up, straightened her skirt and made her way up the remaining steps to Paladino’s office.

  ‘Here she is! Gents, this is Sal—the girl I was telling you about.’

  Slater was sitting with his feet up on the desk. Behind him, scrutinising the autographed showbiz portraits lining the office walls, was a porcine character with a large camera slung over his shoulder who now turned and gave Sally a slow, lecherous appraisal.

  ‘Very nice, Vern,’ he said, shooting a couple of quick snaps. ‘Very nice!’

  ‘Just like I said, right?’

  The second journalist, sitting on Sally’s side of the desk, was a thin, sickly-looking individual in a grubby suit who now looked up from doodling in his pad and gave Sally a bored once-over before emptying the last quarter inch of scotch from his glass.

  ‘’Bout bloody time! Can we get this over and done with then, Slater? I’m missing an interview with the Crazy Gang for this, you know.’

  ‘’Course we can!’

  Slater stood up and put on his jacket.

  ‘All set, are we Sal? Our little guest all tucked in upstairs?’

  ‘Upstairs? Who’s that then, Vern?’

  Slater’s face darkened for an instant, but he turned to the reporters and flashed a quick grin.

  ‘What did I tell yer, eh? Wonderful sense of humour, our Sal—a laugh a minute. ’Scuse me a second, won’t yer?’

  The wide-boy now raced around the desk and grabbed Sally by her wrist, dragging her out into the lobby.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on ’ere? You trying to show me up on purpose?’

  ‘’Course not, Vern.’

  ‘Well then, please tell me that he’s upstairs, stripped off, sparko on the bed—just as arranged.’

  ‘Who? Jack?’

  ‘Yes, Jack Portas; who else—Charlie-fucking-Chaplin!?’

  ‘Jack’s not upstairs, Vern.’

  Slater now grabbed Sally’s other wrist and began to apply pressure.

  ‘Alright Sal, nice and slowly—tell … me … where … he … is!’

  ‘In a cab—on his way home. He was past it, Vern. That stuff that Claude gave him—’

  Sally’s explanation was cut short by a vicious backhand which sent her spinning to the floor, the contents of her handbag spilling out around her.

  She immediately sat up and held up her arms to counter the next blow; but Slater just stood with his hands clenched at his sides, glaring at her. Sally dropped her arms and tried to control the sobs convulsing her chest.

  ‘But June never said nuffin’ … she didn’t tell me …’ She began to scrabble about on the floor to collect the money she’d stolen from Jack. ‘I was waiting for you to arrive, see. It was those knock-out drops that Claude gave ’im—they was too strong. Here—look!’ She offered up a handful of coins. ‘I got this off ’im for you; there’s half-a-bar there at least. That’s good ain’t it? He’d ’ave been no good upstairs anyway, Vern … In the state he was in, he wasn’t up to it.’

  Slater knocked the money out of her hands.

  ‘You stupid bitch! He didn’t need to be up to it, did he? All you had to do was get him upstairs and stripped off—we’d ’ave done the rest. Jesus H Christ! Do you have to fuck everything up?’

  The office door opened.

  ‘This gonna take long, Vern?’ asked the sickly-looking hack. ‘Only you did promise a scoop, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about this! There’s been a little … a little hitch in the plan. A minor hiccup, like.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Do tell.’

  Slater shot Sally another black look and then disappeared back into the office.

  As she composed herself and picked up the contents of her handbag Sally could hear raised voices from behind the door. She slumped against the wall and took out her compact, wiping the tears from her cheeks and applying a little powder.

  After a short while Slater came back out into the lobby and dragged her to her feet. The fat photographer stood close behind him, leering at her as he wetted his bottom lip with the pink slug of his tongue.

  Just then Paladino came up the stairs. He put a hand to Sally’s face, turning her gently towards the light to get a better look at the angry welt on her cheekbone.

  ‘I word in your ear, Vernon.’

  Slater followed him to the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Any danger of getting my office back?’

  The wide-boy flicked out a cigarette from the pack and sparked it up.

  ‘’Course, Jerry—I’d say we’re just about done in there for tonight. But I’ll still be wanting the room upstairs, for another hour or so.’

  ‘A word to the wise,’ said Paladino, lowering his voice. ‘I’m only putting up with this malarkey because Quigg tightened the thumbscrews. But remember this—Quigg isn’t the only force of nature to be reckoned with. I wouldn’t think my business partner Mr. Adler would be too pleased to learn that you’ve brought those Fleet Street jackals in to snoop around our club, would you?’

  ‘I’ve got no worries with Mori—we’re
as tight as a duck’s arse.’

  Paladino took a step closer.

  ‘Listen, Slater—I won’t be made a mug out of. Next time you want my barman to hocus one of my punters, you clear it with me first, right? And another thing—I won’t have my girls knocked about on the premises. She may be your mort, but when she’s here, Sally’s one of my staff. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Clear as day, Jerry … We all done?’

  ‘For now,’ said Paladino, walking back down to the club.

  Slater spat on the stairs after him and then crushed his cigarette under his shoe. He made his way back up to the lobby and grabbed Sally by her elbow.

  ‘Right you, upstairs—now!’

  ‘But I told you, Vern—Jack ain’t there!’

  ‘I sodding know that, don’t I? But these two gents are from The Oracle—important men, savvy? And, thanks to you, they’ve both had a wasted journey. The least you can do is make it up to them, right? Right! Come on then—upstairs, Chalky here won the toss—he’s going first.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Harley jolted awake, clawing at his bedclothes. It was a few panicky seconds before he recognized his own bedroom in the gloom. He cursed, and fumbled for the box of matches on the bedside table.

  For most people it would have seemed inevitable to suffer some kind of psychological reaction to an event as traumatic as the Spitalfields bombing. But Harley had experienced this particular nightmare before—many times before in fact—and he knew that its genesis lay in some other place.

  The dream had followed the same format as always: creeping along the bright passageway of her apartment; the incongruous khaki of his battledress; the peppermint stripe of the wallpaper; the cloying mud from his boots leaving an ugly trail on the runner behind him … teasing open the door to the bedroom … turning back the bedclothes … the bloody mess … Cynthia.

  Though not all of her …

  Harley was thankful for the flare of the match as he lit his cigarette. He took a long pull on the Gold Flake and then swung his legs out of bed, knowing from experience that there’d be no drifting back off into a cosy slumber, not for a good while yet.

  It was the dead of night, so he pulled on Uncle Blake’s old embroidered silk housecoat against the chill and lit the gas on the landing, trudging down to the study to pour himself a glass of scotch.

  Feeling the need for some kind of company, he made a few halfhearted calls for Moloch; but the old tomcat was obviously out on the tiles, carousing with one of his mollies or rucking with the local rivals, far too busy to be concerned with the petty inadequacies of his human housemate.

  Feeling dejected Harley slumped into one of the old wing-backed chairs, nursing his whisky and brooding over his dream. It had been months since he’d last been shocked back to consciousness by that sickening scene—what had triggered its return? The explosion? Euphemia Daubeney’s resemblance to Cynthia? Whatever it was, Harley knew that now it had been resurrected this particular haunting could prove to be incredibly difficult to exorcise. Previously it had tortured him for weeks—ravaging his sleep, drawing him down into that deep depression, opening the door for the Black Dog.

  He took a slug of scotch and let his gaze wander over to one of the cabinets of curiosities that formed part of his uncle’s collection.

  Of course, there was something that could guarantee him a deep, enchanted sleep. It was up there, nestling between the wizened monkey’s paw and the obsidian scrying glass—there in that small, cherry-wood box, so exquisitely inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  Harley pushed the thought from his mind, getting up to part the curtains and stare out onto the empty street. After all, hadn’t he promised himself not to touch it again? It had cost him so dearly when he’d last resorted to it, after Cynthia’s death; so much time … a fog of procrastination. Uncle Blake had once referred to it as “The Castle of Indolence”—and Harley knew just what an apposite description that was.

  And yet … weren’t castles there to protect? And if he really had intended never to indulge again, why hadn’t he thrown it all away? After all, it had never been a real monkey on his back—he’d always just played around with it, what Conrad would call a “joy-popper” … And it had helped, hadn’t it? When he was at his lowest ebb … in that darkest place …

  And what if the dream did come back to regularly haunt him? Could he really afford to let that Black Dog back into his life? Hounding him with grief … not now, surely? Not during the first decent case he’d had for ages, something that could challenge his brain again? That might actually distract him from thinking about … about …

  The decision made, Harley now downed his drink and pulled a chair over to the cabinet. He jumped up and reached for the small wooden box in the top compartment. Returning to his seat by the hearth, he placed the box on a small occasional table and then busied himself with lighting a fire in the grate. Once this was burning nicely he opened the drawer of an ebony cabinet and retrieved a small spirit lamp along with Uncle Blake’s silver adorned bamboo “dreamstick”.

  With his pulse quickening a little in anticipation Harley finally opened the cherry-wood box to reveal the last of the paraphernalia—the yen-hock needle and the silver canister of opium paste.

  He quickly made a promise to himself to limit it to four or five pipes—just enough to help him sleep, of course …

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bathed in the feverish red of the safety light, Harley placed his palms on his temples and squeezed, hoping to get a little relief from the pounding headache brought on by the opium hangover. At least the nausea has passed, he thought, as he hovered expectantly over the enamel dish in the small broom cupboard that he used as a darkroom. Could even use a little breakfast now. Just need to get a decent result first.

  The first two prints he’d developed had been under-exposed; the details of the tattoo not clearly defined enough to make out the lettering. But the image now appearing before him looked far more promising—the white bone showing in crisp contrast to the congealed blood and ripped flesh of the severed wrist.

  He waited a few more seconds and then—with a pronounced shake to his hand—pulled the monochrome print from the developer with a pair of sugar tongs. He quickly plunged the photograph into the stop bath and then the fixer—both contained in a pair of Uncle Blake’s Victorian chamber pots. With a final rinse of water he held the photograph up to the light.

  ‘Bingo!’

  After checking that his photographic paper was safely wrapped up in its box Harley now disconnected the safety light from its array of radio batteries (the London Power Company had yet to reach Bell Street with its mains electricity supply) and opened the cupboard door, almost falling over Moloch who was lounging on the linoleum.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Moloch! You’ll break my neck one of these days.’

  Unperturbed, the old tomcat regarded him lazily with its one good eye, yawned, and then rose to let out a strangled meow which sounded like the dying notes of a deflated set of bagpipes. Harley recognized this as a demand for food.

  ‘You’re gonna have to wait I’m afraid, mate. The cat-meat man’s not been yet and you had the last off the skewer yesterday.’

  Undaunted by this news, Moloch rubbed himself against Harley’s legs and sounded off another demand. Realizing he’d get no peace for his sore head until he produced a suitable repast for Moloch, Harley shook the photograph gently to remove the surplus water and headed towards the kitchen.

  ‘Come on then, I’ve got some cold bangers I was saving for my lunch; but if his lordship insists …’

  In the kitchen Moloch jumped up on the table and watched Harley shuffle along a pair of socks in order to peg the print to the washing line strung across the room.

  ‘Just look at that! Every letter sharp as anything … and no flash, either. Not bad, eh? Even if I say so myself.’

  This was greeted with another impatient meow.

  ‘Alright! I get the message.’
<
br />   Harley opened the pantry door and pulled out a plate of cold sausages. He cut two of them into chunks and placed them on the floor for the cat, taking the remaining one for himself. With Moloch’s immediate needs seen to the private detective now turned his attention back to the photograph of the tattoo on the severed hand.

  ‘So, Moloch, what have we here? Some kind of elongated crown … a wolf’s head … and then the Russian text.’ Harley sat down at the table and bit into his sausage. He chewed and contemplated for a while, pinching the bridge of his nose against the dull throb of his hangover.

  ‘You know—that ain’t a crown … there’s that pointy bit at the bottom, see?’

  Having finished his breakfast, Moloch gave him a dismissive glance and began to wash himself.

  ‘It’s more like knife blades … or a trident.’

  Harley now jumped to his feet, causing the cat to spring to attention, his hackles raised.

  ‘And what’s more …’ called out Harley as he rushed out into the hallway and up the stairs, ‘… I think I know where I’ve seen it before!’

  Up in his study Harley grabbed the small set of library ladders and climbed them to run his hand along the spines on the top bookshelf. He teased out a large illustrated encyclopaedia, and flicked through the pages.

  ‘Turkmenistan … Uganda … here we are.’

  Harley now returned to the kitchen and compared the trident on the tattoo with the symbol in the encyclopaedia.

  ‘Make sense, I s’pose—what with the Cyrillic text. You see, this trident, Moloch, is in fact the tryzub—the national symbol of Ukraine. So what we need to ask ourselves now, my little furry friend, is what’s Earl Daubeney doing with a Ukrainian driver? And then, of course, there’s that stick of Russian explosive we found. There are a few obvious answers—and the one that’s gonna appeal most to your average Oracle reader is that our man was only masquerading as a chauffeur to the aristocracy and was, in fact, a Bolshevik terrorist. Brilliant, eh? Just what we need in the current climate … dynamite, in fact!’

  Chuckling at his own joke Harley watched Moloch pad lazily out of the kitchen.