Mask of the Verdoy

by Lecomber, Phil

  ‘Please yourself!’

  He scrutinized the photograph once more.

  ‘What we need now is someone well-versed in all things Ukrainian—and I know just the man to ask.’

  Harley popped the remaining stub of sausage into his mouth and walked out to the hallway to grab his hat and coat.

  ***

  Half an hour later the private detective was peering through the window of Alberto’s café. The clientele at this time of day was of a completely different breed to the customers who frequented the café during the early hours of the morning—the street-walkers, ponces and petty criminals, now sleeping the night off in the flop houses and bedsits of the capital, having been replaced by shoppers and staff from the local businesses.

  However, Harley did recognize one customer from that shady demimonde; the broad-shouldered outline was unmistakable. He pushed his way through the door.

  ‘How’re you doing, Smokey?’ Harley looked at the bacon sandwich that Rosen was devouring. ‘That kosher, is it?’

  ‘You’re a funny man! You want a cup of rosie?’

  ‘Yeah, I could murder a cup, actually,’ said Harley, his tongue still bitter and dry from the opium pipe.

  Rosen held his mug up to the waitress who was wiping down a nearby table.

  ‘Another two mugs of cha, Maria … So, George,’ he said, pushing the last of the sandwich into his mouth, ‘how are you getting on with that case of yours? You fingered your masked marauder yet?’

  ‘Little baby steps forward at the moment, Sol … but then these things usually have a slow start,’ answered Harley, peeling off a couple of tablets from a tube of aspirin and chewing them down with a grimace.

  ‘Heavy night?’

  ‘No, not really—just got a stinker of a head on me.’

  ‘Well, you’ve always had that mate!’

  ‘Very funny. So, our mystery man—any ideas?’

  ‘I asked about a bit, but no one could come up with any likely names. The mask thing didn’t ring any bells with those in the know.’

  ‘Yeah well, it’s early days … By the way, I bumped into Sally Highstead the other day—in here, as it goes. Did you know she’s knocking about with that toe-rag Vern Slater?’

  Rosen wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

  ‘Yeah, I did as it happens—Benny Whelks told me.’

  ‘Benny Whelks? Wouldn’t have thought he was the type to notice a thing like that … or has Mori some special interest in Slater?’

  ‘Not that I know of. No—he’s sweet on Sal, ain’t he?’

  ‘What—Benny Whelks?’

  ‘Yeah—always has been. He used to be real tight with her brother, Charlie—remember? Well, Charlie’s away in the Navy now, but him and Benny used to be inseparable when they were younger. I reckon the two of them are a good match, an’ all—both got something missing upstairs. Anyway, Benny’s always had a crush on little Sal; only he’s never done anything about it, on account of his stutter. Gets worse when he tries to talk to the judies.’

  The waitress arrived with the teas.

  ‘Here she is!’ said Rosen, placing his hand on the ample behind. ‘The beautiful Maria!’

  Maria put the mugs on the table and slapped his hand away.

  ‘Don’t you touch what don’t belong to you, Mr. Yiddisher Thunderbolt!’

  ‘Ah, come on now, Maria!’

  Rosen now jumped up and grabbed the waitress in his arms, dancing her slowly around the café.

  ‘When are you finally gonna give in to your secret desire and run away with me? You know you want to … What’s that big lump Pietro got that I haven’t, eh?’

  The portly Maria squirmed free, retrieving a soup spoon from the pocket of her apron to give Rosen a rap across the knuckles.

  ‘Ow!’

  Shaking his hand Rosen returned to his seat.

  Maria waved a finger at him.

  ‘That’s right! You get back to your breakfast and think about that lovely wife and those two beautiful bambinos; you naughty boy!’

  Suppressing a smile Maria now fished about in her apron again, producing a fist wrapped in a set of solid brass knuckles, which she held up to Rosen’s face.

  ‘Next time maybe I give you a punch up the nose, eh?’

  ‘Whoa! Steady on! I was only joshing!’

  Maria laughed and handed the knuckleduster to Harley.

  ‘Here you go, George—Pietro asked me to give you these when you were next in.’

  ‘What was it, Sol?’ said Harley, laughing as he tucked the weapon away in his jacket. ‘“You should always expect trouble”—that’s your motto, ain’t it?’

  Maria wandered off, chuckling to herself.

  ‘That Vern Slater though, George,’ said Rosen, stirring sugar into his tea. ‘He’s a bitch’s bastard, and no mistake.’

  ‘I know. I tried to give Sal the lowdown on him, but she weren’t having any of it—reckons the sun shines out of his arris.’

  ‘Well, she’s a big girl now, ain’t she? Old enough to make her own mistakes … So, what you up to this morning, then?’

  ‘As it happens, I’m here to ask my old mate a favour. Will your uncle Nate be in the shop this morning?’

  ‘Expect so, why?’

  ‘I need to pick his brains about something. I’m right in thinking he reads Russian, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘Come on then, hurry up and pay the lady—we’re off to see Uncle Nate.’

  ***

  Harley pushed open the door to the small shop in the dingy alley off Whitechapel High Street. He stopped a moment amid the stacks of second-hand books to place a hand on Rosen’s arm.

  ‘Smell that, Smokey.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Books! Have a sniff … Can’t you smell it? Drink it in!’

  ‘Smells like old men to me. Come on, you freak!’

  They made their way through the labyrinth of teetering piles to the back of the shop where Rosen knocked loudly on the door of the small office.

  ‘Uncle Nate?’

  The door was opened by an old man in a black velvet yarmulke. He hung one hand on the lapel of his worn knitted cardigan, twisted a finger into his white beard and looked over his half-moon glasses at Rosen.

  ‘And who is this at my door? A stranger with vaguely familiar features … let me think now … Yes! That’s it! My brother had a boy with such a face … Solomon, I think his name was. But—may he find rest in heaven—that boy is surely dead now. Else he would have made a visit to his old uncle these past three months.’

  Rosen turned to look at Harley and raised his eyebrow.

  ‘This one’s a bigger comedian than you are. You two should go on the stage together, you’d make a fortune.’

  He grabbed his uncle and swamped him in a brief bear hug.

  ‘How are you keeping, Uncle?’

  Uncle Nate looked his nephew up and down.

  ‘And empty-handed, already.’

  He shook his head in mock disappointment and then turned to Harley, breaking into a huge smile.

  ‘Ah! George, my boy … come in, sit, sit! I’ve just made tea—you want?’

  ‘Unbelievable!’ said Rosen, slumping down into a worn leather armchair at the desk.

  ‘Tea would be good, Nate—thanks,’ said Harley, taking the seat next to Rosen.

  Uncle Nate took a long-nosed silver pot from the side and poured the black tea into three small glasses with gilded holders. He then placed a silver bowl of sugar lumps on the desk, taking a small piece to place between his teeth as he drank his tea.

  ‘Oh, Nate—before I forget …’ said Harley, pulling a small leather-bound book from his jacket pocket.

  ‘Ah, yes—Spinoza … You enjoyed?’

  ‘Yeah, very much.’

  ‘A prince among philosophers—Baruch: the blessed. Without Spinoza there would be no Enlightenment. And a Jew, of course … although he was issued a cherem by the authorities … like an exco
mmunication, you understand. Still, a good man, a moral man.’

  ‘He worked as a lens-grinder, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes—a humble life, shunning the fame and riches that his genius might have brought him.’

  Rosen clunked his glass of tea down on the table and tutted.

  ‘You should add something, Solomon?’

  ‘Well, he sounds like a mug to me. Yet another clever old Jew; all of them slaving away in pokey attics, living like tramps. All these brilliant ideas they have—What good did it do them, eh? What good did it do us?’

  ‘And yours is a better way? You want we should all be out brawling with each other like your gangster friends, eh? Where’s the shame in a little learning?’

  Uncle Nate pointed to the books lining the shelves and stacked in precarious piles around the desk.

  ‘All the wisdom of the world is here, Solomon—to drink it up it takes but a little patience, a little humility.’

  ‘And in the meantime the world continues to stomp all over us. If more Jews got their noses out of their books and rolled their sleeves up, stood up for themselves, well … the likes of that cowson Saint Clair might think twice about taking us for mugs.’

  Uncle Nate turned to Harley.

  ‘My nephew the philosopher. Always with an opinion, no? As they say “an empty barrel reverberates the loudest”.’

  He walked around and held Rosen’s face between his hands.

  ‘But, of course, I love him dearly for it.’

  He held his fists up now to his face, and played at sparring with his nephew, who was still looking a little sulky.

  ‘Come on then, big shot—put ’em up!’

  Finally eliciting a smile from Rosen, Uncle Nate walked back round to finish his tea.

  ‘Nu, George—is this just a social visit? Or maybe I can help you with something, eh?’

  ‘Sharp as ever, Nate. Yeah, there is something. But first—you wouldn’t have a pair of scissors, would you?’

  ‘Of course, here somewhere …’

  The old man fished around in the desk drawer for a moment and then handed Harley the scissors.

  Retrieving the photograph from his pocket, Harley turned his back and cut around the centre part, screwing the rest up into a ball.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said, placing the detail of the tattoo on the table. ‘I was wondering whether you could tell me the significance of this.’

  Uncle Nate tended the wick of the oil lamp on the table to give a bit more light, pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and studied the image.

  ‘Well, let me see now … the text is in Cyrillic, Russian of course—but you would have known that already. You want I should translate?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘It says the army, or the pack, of Gerovit … no, wait … horde … Yes, that’s it: “Gerovit’s Horde”.’

  ‘Who’s “Gerovit”?’ asked Rosen, leaning over to get a look at the photograph. ‘’Ere, is that someone’s tattoo, George?’

  Harley nodded.

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Don’t you think, Solomon, that if George wanted we should know that, he would have shown us the whole of the photograph, eh? In answer to your question, Gerovit is one of the old Slavic pantheon, a warrior god—someone to fear and respect … you should approve.’

  Harley took out his notepad and licked his pencil.

  ‘How are you spelling that, Nate?’

  ‘G-E-R-O-V-I-T. But I believe he was also known as Jarilo, there is some link to Sun worship, I think, and fertility … But as I understand it, Gerovit was primarily a god of war.’

  ‘And you said Slavic,’ said Harley, making notes. ‘So that would cover the Ukraine, right?’

  ‘Ah! Very good! So you’ve already identified the “tryzub”.’

  ‘The what?’ asked Rosen, grabbing at the photograph.

  Harley pointed to the symbol at the top of the tattoo.

  ‘This trident thing here—it’s the national symbol of the Ukraine.’

  ‘Looks a bit like a crown to me. And a wolf’s head … not yer usual pair of swallows or naked judy you see on the jack tars down Limehouse, is it?’

  ‘What is it, Nate?’ asked Harley, noticing that the old man had pushed his glasses up onto his head and had scrunched up his eyes.

  ‘Gerovit’s Horde … Ukraine … I’ve heard this before somewhere. Something to do with Cossacks … Oy!’ He rapped his head with his knuckles. ‘I’m sorry, George—this old brain, doesn’t work so good, now. But listen, I have a good friend, from Ivankiv—near Kiev—a survivor of the nineteen-nineteen pogroms, no less. For sure he will know the meaning of this Gerovit’s Horde, the wolf’s head and such. You want I should take the picture and show him?’

  ‘Please, Nate—that’d be a great help. But, listen, I’d like you to keep schtum about it to anyone else who may ask. I ain’t sure exactly what’s involved here; it might be dangerous. That goes for you too, Sol—Mori and the boys don’t need to know about any of this, alright?’

  ‘Frankly, George, I’m offended that you think you need to mention it.’

  ‘You’ll get over it.’

  Harley looked at his watch, finished his tea and stood up.

  ‘Well, Nate—it was good to see yer, as always. And thanks for your help with this.’

  ‘What help? Nothing as yet … but I feel sure that my friend will have an answer—if there’s an answer to be had.’

  ‘What are you doing, Sol—you staying?’

  ‘No, I’ll walk with you … Uncle—always a pleasure.’

  ‘Nu, nephew—you want I should draw a map so you don’t get lost next time?’

  ‘You’re a funny man, a funny man!’

  ‘Seriously though, Solomon, these Blackshirt meshuggeners—be careful, yes? And don’t let the hatred eat you up, either. Remember what they say—“don’t be bitter, lest you be spat out”.’

  ‘But “don’t be sweet, lest you be eaten up”; they say that, an’ all, don’t they, Uncle?’

  With a look of surprise Uncle Nate turned to Harley and tapped his head.

  ‘Well, George—maybe there is something in the barrel, after all. All those times I thought he wasn’t listening.’

  ‘Abyssinia, Uncle!’

  ‘Zay gezunt!’

  Outside in the street Rosen placed a large bear-like arm across Harley’s shoulders.

  ‘So, George …’

  ‘Solly?’

  ‘How’s your new boyfriend, Mack?’

  ‘I was wondering when this was coming.’

  ‘Detective Constable, up from the West Country.’

  ‘Someone’s been doing their homework.’

  ‘Yeah well, you know Mori—lots of fingers, lots of pies … So I thought you weren’t gonna do that no more.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Work for Scotland Yard.’

  ‘I’m not—they’re just giving me a little help with this murder case.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Now, I would ask why on earth they’d help you with one of your cases, but …’

  ‘But?’

  Rosen stopped walking.

  ‘Well, a little birdie told me that George Harley is in bed with the new Commissioner of the Met.’

  ‘Did he, now?’ said Harley, turning back to face his friend.

  ‘And knowing you, George—I’d say it’s so crazy it’s probably true … Well?’

  Harley started walking along the road again. Rosen trotted to catch him up.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘General Sir Frederic Wilberforce Swales.’

  ‘That’s what it said in the papers.’

  ‘Swales was my CO in France; it was saving his arse that landed me with the DCM.’

  ‘Fuck me, George! So it’s true?’

  ‘It’s true.’

  Harley stopped walking again.

  ‘Tell me, Sol—does Mori know?’

  ‘Not yet—but
it’s only a matter of time. And when he finds out, he’ll …’

  ‘He’ll what?’

  ‘You know, George—I haven’t a clue. But one thing’s for sure—he ain’t gonna leave that alone, is he? Could go a number of ways.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it, won’t I?’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Harley sprinted through the torrential rain towards the Post Office telephone box on the corner of Goodge Street. These bright red kiosks had begun to pop up all over the capital, and as he darted inside and searched his pockets for the tuppence to make the call he thought of how the teenage George Harley would have marvelled at the prospect of what was once a luxury of the privileged and elite being made available to the masses for the price of a cup of tea. What’s more, with the new automatic dialling system you no longer had to endure the snotty attitude of the exchange girls.

  He shook the rain from his hat, dialled the number and waited for the call to be answered, idly observing the blue-grey smoke of his Gold Flake filling the damp atmosphere of the kiosk.

  ‘Savile Row Police Station.’

  Harley pressed button ‘A’ and removed the cigarette from his mouth.

  ‘Ah, good afternoon,’ he said, disguising his voice. ‘I wonder if I might have a word with Detective Constable Pearson.’

  ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

  ‘Oh—just tell him it’s a friend of Mack’s.’

  As he waited Harley doodled in the condensation on one of the small windows, and found his mind wandering back to that exquisite moment … on the steps of the church … when Euphemia had placed her head on his shoulder …

  ‘DC Pearson.’

  ‘Albert? It’s me—don’t say my name out loud! Can you talk? Is anyone in earshot?’

  ‘We’re fine. There’s no one around, not close anyway,’ said Pearson, lowering his voice. ‘But this is all a bit cloak and dagger, don’t you think? A friend of Mack’s?’

  ‘Well, you can’t be too careful, can yer? You never know who’s earwigging in the factory. So, tell me—how did you get on with Aubrey’s autopsy report?’

  ‘Nothing doing—still no sign of it.’

  ‘You’re kidding! What’s the chances that Quigg’s already had it, d’you think?’

  ‘What, and he’s keeping it from the rest of us? Well, it’s possible, I suppose.’