When Whelks eventually came to a stop ahead of him it seemed to Slater that they’d been running for hours; but as he turned to look behind him, his lungs aching and the cold sweat running down his back, he could still see the gaslight where they’d started, casting its sickly glare through the gloom.
‘He done ’im, Benny,’ said the wide-boy, fighting for breath. ‘The sailor boy done Quigg! Popped ’im through his nut! … You should’ve seen it—there was claret everywhere … his brains were all over the shop … Quigg … Quigg’s dead!’
‘Alright Vern, schtum now! There’ll be time for all that later. We g-g-g-gotta get you away, yeah? After all, you were there, weren’t you? In the room? I mean, doing a c-c-copper? That’s the deadly n-n-nevergreen for sure, ain’t it?’
‘That’s right—it’s the drop, and no mistake! After all—I’ve was seen there, weren’t I? My dabs will be all over the gaff! They’ll hang me for sure, Benny! What am I gonna do?’
‘Alright—don’t go all milky on me. Mori will sort it … M-M-Mori always sorts it. ’Course—you’ll owe ’im.’
‘Anything, Benny! Tell Mori I’ll do anything. Only you gotta get me away!’
‘Alright, Vern …’ Whelks nodded towards the wall. ‘In there, then.’
‘Where?’ said Slater, taking a step onto the pavement.
‘Come on, hurry up! I can hear them.’ Whelks placed an encouraging hand on Slater’s shoulder. ‘Look, Vern—there! In the wall. There’s a door, leads to a cellar. We use it to stash chordy g-g-gear … I unlocked it earlier. Go on—in you g-g-go! You can hide up until the heat’s off a little … Then we’ll go see Mori about getting you over the Channel for a bit.’
Slater took a few more hesitant steps towards the wall.
‘I can see it … Yeah! Here it is! You’re a star, Benny! You’re people, you know that? People … I’ve always said that! You ask anyone.’
‘Come on—stop fannying about! In yer go, that’s it … don’t worry, now—I’m r-r-r-right behind yer …’
And, of course, Whelks was true to his word. For as Slater bent to duck in through the small cellar opening, he was, indeed, right behind him—close enough to reach in beneath the chin and open up the windpipe with one viscous swipe of his razor.
A swift, unceremonious kick to the rump sent the wide-boy toppling forward into the cellar. He landed with a thud on the rubbish-strewn floor, where he thrashed around for a moment before settling to a twitch or two, his lifeblood gurgling and bubbling out through the new grin in his throat.
Whelks wiped his blade clean, pocketed it, pulled the door shut and sauntered off down the street whistling to himself. By the time he’d hailed a cab in Charing Cross Road the rats were already creeping through the darkness of the cellar, snuffling the air greedily at the promise of an unexpected treat, courtesy of the wide-boy Vernon Slater.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Harley finished cranking the handle, placed the needle gently onto the shellac and waited for the flourish from King Oliver’s cornet to kick in. It was an old favourite—“West End Blues” by the Dixie Syncopators.
As the muted meanderings of the intro rang out from the gramophone’s horn, Moloch, curled up on a worn leather pouffe beneath the bookshelves, opened his one acerbic eye to glare at Harley with disdain.
‘Don’t look at me like that, you old cove!’ said the private detective, slumping back down in the battered wing chair. ‘I know it’s the fifth time, but it helps me think. And let me tell you, mate—I need all the help I can get with this one.’
Harley sparked up a Gold Flake and relaxed back into the chair, tapping his foot to the music as he contemplated the blackboards set out before him.
There were four in all, standing on easels in a rough semi-circle on the Persian rug. The first three were covered with his erratic handwriting—chalked comments on the clues and descriptions of the individuals involved in the case so far, accompanied by photographs and other images, held fast to the boards with the aid of clothes pegs. The last board was blank.
As the band added a striding chord progression to Oliver’s lead, Harley was up again, pacing the floor with one hand thrust into his trouser pocket.
‘Alright, Moloch—we’re gonna have to do this the hard way—go through it point by point, and just hope the gaps fill themselves in. After all, it’s the fifteenth tomorrow, and we’re still a long way from cracking this one.’
He approached the first board, placing his hand on a cluster of photographs in the top left-hand corner.
‘So, here we have Aubrey Phelps, and the two other poor sods from the Green Fox mob: Jack Brewster and Billy Ray—AKA Billy Simmons. We’ve only got mugshots of those two—but here’s poor Aubrey on his deathbed, taken on the Leica with my own fair hand. The MO’s the same for all three—left wrist slit, made to look like they topped themselves. But we know better, don’t we, my little one-eyed bruiser? Because Miss Perkins …’ Harley wrote the name on the board as he said it. ‘… was accosted by a mysterious intruder, who was obviously escaping from murdering the lad, wearing a Green Man mask.’ With the chalk he now formed a thick arrow pointing to a drawing copied from a reference book. ‘The Green Man … Jack-in-the-Green … Foliate Head … Now, this masked character—after uttering some phrase in a foreign lingo—incapacitates our Miss Perkins with some kind of toxic powder, which he blows into her face …’ He mimed the action to the unresponsive tomcat. ‘… like blowing a kiss, see? Only this is the kiss of death. Well, if not death, then the kiss of madness; because shortly after, Miss Perkins—poor cow—succumbs to a complete nervous breakdown. From which she’s still not fully recovered.’
Harley walked back to his seat and picked up a manila envelope from which he extracted a photograph. He now returned to the first board and pegged the photograph beneath a clipping from an Italian newspaper.
‘On investigation, it becomes clear that the only way that our mysterious masked foreigner could have escaped, is by lowering himself onto the brick archway above the Tallow Street entrance to the market. From there it’s quite a hairy drop to the pavement below—hairy, that is, for yer average mug, but a walk in the park for a former circus acrobat.’
Harley wrote the name on the board.
‘Ludovico Girardi—nasty piece of work this one, Moloch. Convicted murderer, member of the Cosa Nostra, henchman for Benito Mussolini, and currently on loan as some kind of hired gun to the BBF. Our little Ludovico is aided and abetted by “Iron” Billy Boyd.’ Harley drew an asterisk next to a poster from Boyd’s boxing-booth days. ‘So, I think we can pose our first question and supply the answer,’ he said, moving across to the fourth, blank board.
WHO KILLED AUBREY PHELPS? he chalked. ANSWER—LUDOVICO GIRARDI.
‘You with me so far, moggy?’
In reply Moloch sat up for a moment, arched his back, and then shuffled around a bit before settling back down on the pouffe, burying his face in the tattered end of his tail and promptly going back to sleep.
‘Glad to see you’re taking such an interest. So, the next question is …’
He now chalked WHY? on the board.
‘Well, that brings us to London’s most eligible bachelor.’ Back at the first board Harley tapped on a photographic portrait of Viscount Chantry. ‘Simply dreamy, ain’t he? Only it turns out that our Fast Freddie ain’t just interested in the ladies, he’s also rather partial to a lavender boy or two. This, along with a taste for the sauce and a recent dalliance with the old pen yen, makes our boy the perfect candidate for getting turned over. And of course, the Green Fox mob—including the late Aubrey Phelps—don’t disappoint. They wait until he’s sparko and then take him for his loose change, a bit of tomfoolery, a Green Man mask, and—most importantly—a notebook containing a list of names belonging to a secret Fascist organisation called …’
Harley moved to the second board and circled the word VERDOY at the top.
‘So, Moloch, we have the answer to why Aubrey was kil
led.’ Harley wrote: TO RETRIEVE INFORMATION THAT MIGHT REVEAL THE SECRET IDENTITIES OF THE VERDOY. Then underneath it: WHO WAS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE SPITALFIELDS BOMBING?
Now he moved to the third board and unclipped a society photograph of Euphemia, one in which she bore a striking resemblance to Cynthia.
The music from the gramophone came to a close with a final mournful chord.
He passed his thumb over the elegant face and felt his heart quicken, the blood rushing to his head.
Harley closed his eyes, and—to a soundtrack supplied by the repetitive scratch of the record’s lead-out—watched his fiancée’s headless torso repeatedly revealed from beneath the bedclothes …
A loud knock on the door pulled him back to the present. He opened his eyes to find Vi Coleridge striding into the room with a tea tray.
‘No wonder you couldn’t ’ear me, with that bloody racket going on! … Gawd! What’s the matter, George? Your boat’s as white as a sheet—like you seen a ghost.’
‘It’s nothing, Vi,’ said Harley, hastily replacing the photo of Euphemia. ‘You just caught me by surprise, is all … What can I do for yer?’
‘Well, you can eat this lot up without any nonsense, for a start.’ She said, putting down the tray which contained a covered plate and a bottle of beer. ‘Bit of last night’s shepherd’s pie heated up for yer. I know what you’re like when you get to the end of a case; expect it’ll be yer first meal of the day.’
‘Thanks, Vi—you shouldn’t have.’
‘Well, if I don’t, no one else will, that’s for sure … Oh, really!’ She bustled over to the gramophone and rescued the needle from its endless cycle. ‘I can’t stand that noise. My Eric was the same, used to leave it grating away, too lazy to get up of his arse and deal with it.’
Harley laughed and grabbed a mug from the side, giving it a wipe with his handkerchief before pouring out the beer.
‘What makes you think I’m coming to the end of the case, anyway?’
‘Oh, I’ve seen it all before, ducks. You hide yerself away up here and play that darkies’ music over and over again. I saw the light from the yard. It’s usually when you’ve hit a sticky patch, ain’t it? You put yer thinking cap on and get lost in all these books for a while, and then—Bob’s yer uncle! You come up with the answer. Am I right?’
‘Wish it was that easy, Vi—this one’s proving to be a bit of a bugger.’
Harley took a long draught of beer, realizing just how thirsty he was.
‘Well, least you won’t have to put up with that sodding bogey stepping on your toes anymore.’
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Harley, wiping the foam from his lip. ‘What bogey?’
‘Why, Quigg, of course!’
‘What about him?’
‘’Aven’t you heard? Someone finally did for him—last night, at Paladino’s place. Put a bullet right though that rotten head of his … and it’s been a long-time-coming, if you ask me.’
‘Jesus, Vi! Please tell me it weren’t Solly!’
‘Solly? What are you talking about? You gone queer in the garret or summit’? ’Course it weren’t Solomon—he’s still banged up, ain’t ’e? No, it was some sailor boy by the name of Highstead, Charlie Highstead. They nabbed him bang-to-rights, apparently.’
‘Charlie Highstead?’
‘You know him?’
‘Used to. His kid sister’s been knocking about with that shicer Vern Slater, recently; he’ll be involved somehow—that’s stone-ginger. I just hope Sal’s alright.’
‘Well, I thought you’d be chuffed. The way I see it, this Charlie fella has done us all a favour—there won’t be too many tears shed at the news that Aloysius Quigg’s horse has been withdrawn.’
‘Listen, don’t get me wrong, Vi. I say good riddance to bad rubbish! It’s just that … well, let’s just say that we were hoping to squeeze a little juice out of that particular lemon. Quigg was into this case I’m working on up to his eyeballs.’
‘Oh well, you can’t win ’em all now, can yer? … I’ll have the plate back some time tomorrow—don’t let it go cold now, will yer?’ Vi waved at the blackboards standing in the middle of the room. ‘And if you need a hand with any of this old malarkey, just give me a shout.’
Harley chuckled.
‘I’ll do that. And thanks again for the grub.’
‘And keep that bloody jungle music down, won’tcha?’ shouted Vi, on her way down the stairs. ‘I’ll see myself out!’
‘Well, well, well…’ muttered Harley, walking over to the first board to score a line through Quigg’s name. ‘So the plot thickens, Moloch—and just when we could have done with a bit of clarity.’
He took another pull on his beer, then regarded the second board, on which were written out the codenames from the Verdoy list.
‘This sodding Rye Wolf … it’s driving me mad!’
He drained the mug and strode over to the bookshelves, running his finger along the spines of a set of Encyclopaedia Britannica. He first looked up the article for rye and then switched for the volume containing wolf, just to check if he’d missed anything the first time round. But there was still nothing there to trigger the memory that he was sure was lurking somewhere in his subconscious.
He slammed the book shut in frustration—causing Moloch to flick his ear in annoyance—and then slumped back down in his chair and picked up a pile of papers from the floor. After flicking through the pages of text and hand-drawn diagrams of the various representations of the Green Man he picked out his own photograph of the Verdoy mask that he’d received from Harper.
‘And this bloody thing, an’ all!’ he said, slapping the print against his forehead. ‘There’s something about this image—something that links it to those bastard Blackshirts. It’s in there somewhere, I just know it is … Come on, Harley! Think, man! Think!’
He pulled a crumpled pack of Gold Flake from his waistcoat pocket and shook out his remaining smoke.
‘You know what, Moloch?’ he said, striking a match and setting it to the straggling ends of tobacco. ‘There’s not enough time for all this bollocks! … I know I vowed never to resort to it again, but … well, I’ve already broken one vow this week, ain’t I? With the old dreamstick. So—in for a penny, in for a pound, eh? After all, it’s all in a good cause—it’s in the interests of national security, for Christ’s sake! … And I can’t think of another way to worm this sodding niggle out of the old knowledge box in time.’
Harley rose through the cloud of tobacco smoke and walked over to an elegant but rickety set of library steps which he positioned at the end of the bookcase. Even with the aid of the steps he still had to reach out at full stretch to retrieve the leather-bound edition of Burton’s The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night from the top shelf. Having blown away the dust from the edge, he climbed back down and took the book over to a small walnut-veneered bureau, pulling down the writing flap and drawing up the accompanying chair. He placed his cigarette in a small brass ashtray, licked his fingers and then opened the book.
‘I mean—the information’s in there somewhere, Moloch. It’s just that it needs a little encouragement to come out, that’s all. Hopefully that pen yen session the other night should help it along a bit, an’ all.’
From the hidden recess carved into the leaves of the book Harley now carefully lifted out the first of two exquisitely-carved jade bottles. He removed the stopper and took a sniff at the contents, giving an involuntary shudder as the unique and unearthly perfume hit the back of his throat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Harley returned from the kitchen with a steaming kettle and two small glasses from Uncle Blake’s Russian tea set. He took his seat at the bureau again and, after a moment’s hesitation, carefully shook out one of the desiccated insects from the small jade bottle.
‘There ain’t many of these babies left, Moloch … and God knows where Uncle Blake got ’em from; his instructions don’t say.’
He dropped the dry h
usk—resembling an oversized woodlouse—into one of the glasses and brushed the black dust from his hands.
‘I suppose I should take one along to the Natural History museum before they’re all gone—see if they can identify them. Although, maybe that ain’t such a clever idea—seeing as what they can do.’
As the hot water from the kettle covered the dried crustacean it began to swell in the glass, turning the water a deep emerald green. The room was immediately filled with its sickly-sweet aroma and on the pouffe beneath the bookshelves Moloch raised his head and probed the air with twitching nostrils.
‘This ain’t for pussy cats, my old pal!’ said Harley, pulling the second jade bottle from its niche inside the book. ‘Now for the antidote …’ he muttered, shaking out two dried flower heads. He placed these into the other glass, topped it up with hot water, and gave it a stir with a pencil, the flowers giving a deep magenta hue to the water.
Now Harley plucked the drawing of the Green Man mask from the blackboard. He returned to the bureau, took a sheet of paper from one of the drawers, wrote the words ‘Rye Wolf’ on it and placed this alongside the Green Man image on the desktop in front of him. Using a pair of scissors he fished out the now engorged, slippery bug from its green ichor and dropped it into the waste paper basket. He raised the glass to the light and took a deep breath.
‘Well, here goes nothing!’ he said, pinching his nose and downing the potion in one.
He slammed the empty glass down on the bureau and gave a deep shudder. The next minute or so was spent fighting the urge to vomit, rocking in his chair and taking great lungfuls of air. But after a while the nausea passed, leaving behind it a dull throbbing sensation at the base of his skull.
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