Mask of the Verdoy

by Lecomber, Phil

  With Pearson holding on for dear life on the pillion seat, and Solly Rosen squeezed tightly into the sidecar, Harley slewed the Norton around the sharp left. They roared into Ramillies Street, drawing up with a screech of rubber on the wet cobbles reflecting the flashing neon of the London Palladium theatre. The motorbike’s arrival scattered the small crowd of journalists and photographers who were huddled together in the damp night, smoking and drinking from flasks whilst they waited for the end of the Royal performance.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed one skinny individual sporting a large camera and flash gun, furiously wiping his tea-drenched hands on his Mackintosh. ‘You’ll kill someone driving like that, you idiot!’

  ‘Sorry, Ronnie!’ said Harley, jumping off the Norton and helping Rosen to squeeze his large frame out of the sidecar. ‘Only, we’re in a bit of a rush, see.’

  ‘Cor, blimey—George Harley! I might’ve known … ’Ere, hold on! What’s occurring then? Anything juicy we should know about?’

  ‘Well, boys,’ said Harley, throwing his goggles and leather helmet into the sidecar and patting his jacket to check that the Luger was still in place. ‘I reckon if you stick around long enough, one way or another, you’re gonna ’ave a scoop to make your hair curl.’

  ‘How about elaborating on that a little?’

  ‘No comment!’ said Harley pushing past the hacks towards the entrance of The Palladium, closely followed by his companions.

  ***

  The large foyer was almost empty, the muffled sounds of audience laughter and applause filtering down from the auditorium.

  ‘Where do we start then, George?’ asked Rosen.

  ‘God knows! The bomb could be anywhere.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait until the General gets here?’ asked Pearson.

  ‘I’m not sure we’ve got the time, Albert.’

  Pearson consulted his watch. ‘How much longer do you think the show goes on for?’

  ‘I dunno; hold on …’

  Harley approached two men leaning against the wall smoking, who looked like they might be stagehands.

  ‘Excuse me, fellas—how much longer we got to the final curtain?’

  ‘’Bout twenty five minutes I’d say, guv’. But if it’s autographs yer after, you’d be better off—’

  ‘Smith … O’Toole!’ Shouted an officious-looking individual in a tuxedo, striding purposefully across the foyer. ‘What the devil are you two doing front-of-house when there’s a performance on?’

  ‘We’re ’aving an oily, Skip.’

  ‘You’re having a what, Smith? Speak English, man!’

  ‘We’re having a smoke, Mr. Potterton,’ answered O’Toole, the taller of the two.

  ‘But Valentine Medini is on, isn’t he? If you two are out here, who in heaven’s name is doing the rigging?’

  ‘If you’ll remember, sir, Medini insisted on having his own rigger for this performance—last minute instruction.’

  On hearing this Harley signalled for Pearson and Rosen to join them.

  ‘The old Magic Circle, I expect,’ continued the stockier Smith, inspecting the end of his cigarette. ‘Secretive bunch, ain’t they? He’s trotting out this new trick tonight … he probably don’t want us to see what’s inside that cage he’s got dangling above the stalls.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said the manager, ‘but you simply cannot be seen loitering about out here in your—’

  ‘Excuse me,’ interrupted Harley. ‘Albert—introduce us.’

  ‘Scotland Yard,’ said Pearson, flashing his warrant card. ‘We just need to ask you a few questions.’

  Harley noted a surprised look exchanged between the two stagehands.

  ‘Lummie!’ muttered Smith, under his breath.

  ‘Listen, lads,’ said Harley, reassuringly, ‘there’s nothing to worry about. I just want you to tell me about this Medini—he’s the magician, right?’

  ‘Valentine Medini is one of the world’s foremost stage illusionists,’ answered Potterton the manager. He gestured towards a large poster depicting the conjuror’s saturnine features below a bejewelled turban. ‘He will be honouring us this evening—indeed in a few minutes’ time—by presenting the debut of a brand new stage illusion to their Majesties.’

  ‘Their Majesties?’ repeated Harley. ‘Queen Mary’s here as well?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just dandy!’ said the private detective, raising his eyebrows at Pearson. ‘So, quickly fellas—tell us about this rigger that Medini’s brought along. You said it was a last minute decision—is that an unusual thing to happen?’

  ‘Never known it before,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘And if you ask me,’ added Smith, ‘the kid he’s got don’t know what he’s doing. He don’t look like he’s been out of short trousers more than a week or two. Right pound-noteish he is, an’ all, real plummy accent—you know the type. Don’t look cut out for it. Still, that eyetie seems to rate ’im—said he could ’andle everything that was needed for the act single-handed.’

  ‘Eyetie? What eyetie?’ asked Rosen, taking a step closer. ‘Not a little bloke, big scar across his mooey, moves like an alley cat?’

  ‘That’s the mush—spot-on,’ said Smith. ‘We thought he was Medini’s manager at first, but he’s down there on stage with ’im right now, part of the act. All blacked up to look like a slave.’

  ‘Come on, George!’ said Rosen. ‘What are we waiting for? I’ve got unfinished business with little Ludovico, remember?’

  ‘Hold on, Sol—easy does it! … Tell me, fellas—did Medini bring anyone else with him? A big lumbering cove in a billycock hat, for instance?’

  ‘Cor! That one?’ said Smith, giving a little whistle. ‘Built like a brick shithouse, he is … ’scuse my French, Skip.’

  ‘He’s in the wings,’ said O’Toole. ‘Shadowing the sparks on the lighting board.’

  Harley gave a quick nod to Pearson and then turned to Potterton.

  ‘Listen carefully. Any minute now we’re expecting the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police to show up, hopefully with a mob of coppers in tow. You need to stay here until he arrives and tell him that Harley says that the action will take place on stage, and that the bomb is somehow linked to the magician’s act—you got that?’

  ‘What? … Did you say bomb?’ exclaimed Potterton.

  ‘Hopefully this will focus your attention,’ said Harley, pulling out his Luger. ‘See this? What is it?’

  ‘It’s … it’s a gun!’

  ‘Exactly, well done. Now … Mr.?’

  ‘Potterton.’

  ‘Now, Mr. Potterton, believe me, I don’t like guns. But you know what? They’re preferable to bombs. You see bombs can kill an awful lot of people altogether at the same time—say, a theatre audience, for example, with a king and queen thrown in for good measure. Are you seeing where this is going, at all?’

  Potterton swallowed and nodded.

  ‘Good. So when General Sir Frederic Swales arrives you will pass on the message that the action will? …’

  ‘Will … will take place on stage, and that … Harris?’

  ‘Harley.’

  ‘And that Harley says the bomb is somehow linked to Medini’s act.’

  ‘Excellent! Word perfect! And while you’re waiting for him to turn up—as well as rehearsing your lines—you can work out the quickest and safest way to evacuate your audience en masse. Got it? Splendid!’ Harley turned once more to the stagehands. ‘Right, chaps—can you take us somewhere where we can get a good butcher’s at the stage? From a fair distance at first—we don’t wanna spook the Italian just yet.’

  Taking the plush carpeted stairs two at a time, the stagehands now led Harley, Pearson and Rosen up to the Royal Circle where they pushed their way quietly through the doors into the darkened auditorium.

  ‘There he is,’ whispered Smith to Harley, pointing down at the stage. ‘Standing on the left there … Like I said, ’e’s all blacked up at the momen
t, but that’s the bloke your pal described, I swear it is.’

  Even in his elaborate Persian costume, and with his face caked in stage make-up, there was something in the way that the magician’s assistant held himself that left Harley in no doubt that he was looking at Ludovico Girardi. But just to make sure he fished out his miniature telescope from his field kit and focussed it onto the stage.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ he said, passing the eyeglass to Rosen.

  ‘Yeah—that’s our little Italian friend, alright.’

  ‘Here, hold on, Sol! Give me that back a minute,’ said Harley, taking the telescope and pointing it above the crowd. ‘Jesus H Christ!’ he exclaimed, causing a number of disgruntled punters to tut at him from the back rows. He held a hand up in apology and took a step closer to Pearson.

  ‘I think I’ve just found our bomb, Albert,’ he whispered, handing the telescope to the policeman. ‘There—in that golden cage contraption hanging from the ceiling.’

  ‘Where?’ said Albert, studying the gilded metal cage suspended from a chain above the audience. ‘I can’t see anything that looks like dynamite.’

  ‘There—in the right-hand corner,’ said Harley, able to talk a little louder now as the orchestra struck up Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre. ‘Looks to me like a wooden dynamite box—saw plenty of them out in France. If it’s full there’ll be around fifty sticks in there, I shouldn’t wonder. That’s a mighty big bang, my friend. And look where it’s hanging—directly in line with the Royal box.’

  ‘My God! I think you’re right, Harley! And there’s a wire running to it, twisted around the chain … But Girardi’s down on stage; if they blow that, won’t he go up with it?’

  ‘It’s gotta be on some kind of a timer. I guess they wouldn’t need long to scarper out of the stage door … and if Boyd’s working the lighting board then that’s where the trigger’s gonna come from.’

  Struck by a sudden wave of exhaustion, Harley retrieved his field kit from his pocket. ‘Jesus! I wish I’d had more sleep,’ he said, stowing away the telescope and fishing out a small tube of tablets. He tore open the paper seal and crunched one between his teeth.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Pearson.

  ‘Benzedrine—for what I’ve got in mind I’m gonna need all my wits about me. Don’t look so worried, Albert, they’re standard SIS issue.’

  He made for the exit again and signalled for the others to follow him. They regrouped outside in the corridor. Harley glanced down at the foyer—but there was still no sign of the backup.

  ‘Gentlemen … In the on-going absence of the cavalry, I’m afraid matters have been left in our hands. As I see it, the situation calls for a three-pronged attack. I’ve gotta be honest with you though, I don’t fancy our chances much.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if we just stand about with our thumbs stuck up our arses, we’re all gonna be blown to kingdom come anyway, ain’t we? Better to die trying, I say.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Smokey—ever the optimist. What about you, Albert? You in?’

  ‘Can’t see as I’ve got much choice, George—for King and country, and all that. It’s a question of duty as far as I can see … chance for me to do my bit, right?’

  Harley gave the young man a reassuring smile.

  ‘If you wanna see it that way, Albert, then, yeah—that’s exactly how it is ….’ He put a hand on Pearson’s shoulder. ‘And let me just say, mate—it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.’ He turned to the stagehands. ‘Alright, you two … What are your names, by the way?’

  ‘Smith …’

  ‘… and O’Toole.’

  ‘Sounds like a double act.’

  ‘You ain’t the first to say it,’ said Smith, with a mischievous grin at his partner.

  ‘And you’re both riggers here, right?’

  ‘Best in the West End, guv’.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. So, O’Toole—you show Albert and Solly here the quickest way to get to the wings. Albert, you’ve drawn Girardi in this little tombola of fate—’

  ‘Hold yer ’orses, George!’ said Rosen. ‘The Italian’s mine—remember?’

  ‘I’d love nothing better than to let you loose on little Ludovico, Sol—but you’re the only one amongst us that’s got a chance of decking that brute Boyd. I reckon he’s got his finger on the trigger as far as that bomb’s concerned—and I reckon you’re the man to stop him.’

  ‘Alright … makes sense, I suppose,’ said Rosen, flexing his shoulders and cracking his knuckles. ‘But once I’m done with that big asterbar I want a crack at Girardi.’

  ‘If there’s anything left of him after Albert’s worked his magic, he’s all yours … Smith—you’re gonna show me how to get up to that cage, so I can have a go at cutting that trigger cable … but I guess first I’ve got to make it past that bogus rigger they’ve brought along. He’ll be up there as well, right?’

  ‘I can get you up to the catwalk, no problem. And I don’t reckon you’ll have much trouble with that snotty-nosed kid—it looks like you’ve been around the block a few times to me … But tell me one thing, pal—how’s your head for heights?’

  ‘Not too bad. I was in the merchant navy for a bit—’

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ said Rosen, with a groan. ‘Listen, George—if you’re gonna start telling those old navy stories I’ll do us all a favour and push that sodding trigger meself!’

  ‘Yeah, very funny! … Hold on a moment! D’you hear that?’

  ‘I can’t hear anything above that bleedin’ band.’

  Harley moved towards the stairs leading up from the foyer and listened.

  ‘Bells … Yes, there we are—Q cars! The cavalry’s on the way, boys! You know what? We might survive this after all … Right, come on then—let’s crack on! I’ll buy you all a pint if we manage to pull this one off.’

  ‘Abyssinia!’ called out Rosen, following O’Toole and Pearson down the corridor. ‘Oh, and remember now, George …’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘God save the King!’

  With a guffaw of laughter from the ex-boxer the three of them disappeared back down the stairs towards the foyer.

  ‘Right!’ said Harley, turning to Smith. ‘Lead on MacDuff!’

  ‘’Course, you know that should be ‘lay on MacDuff’, don’t yer?’ said the stagehand as he set off, leading Harley up to the top of the house.

  ‘I stand corrected.’

  ‘And,’ continued Smith, pushing through a door and climbing a narrow flight of stairs, ‘if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you didn’t mention the Scottish play.’ He stopped at a small hatch set in the wall. ‘I reckon we could do without any bad luck just at the moment … Right, there we are, guv’—the catwalk.’

  The stagehand opened the hatch and moved aside to allow Harley a better view.

  Immediately ahead was a narrow walkway, suspended from the theatre ceiling by a series of metal cables. This walkway spanned a huge open space, thirty feet or so above the heads of the audience, as busy with ropes and pulleys as a ship’s rigging.

  ‘I can just see the cage,’ said Harley. ‘But I don’t see how I can get to it from here.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Smith, poking his head through the hatchway and pointing up to higher catwalk running parallel to the one ahead of them. ‘You’ve got to get up there. You get to the higher catwalk by climbing a ladder at the end of this one. Come on, I’ll show you, if you like.’

  Harley put a hand out to restrain the rigger.

  ‘Listen, Smith—you do realize we’ve got ourselves a proper situation here, don’t you? You could be putting yourself at risk going out there. He may be just a kid, but he’s bound to be armed.’

  Smith adopted a serious look.

  ‘I know what I’m getting into …’ he said, poking his head back through the doorway. ‘He’s up there—I can see him. Looks scared stiff to me … And I tell you what, if he’s a rigger then I’m a monkey’s uncle: he’s tied a line round his waist
and attached himself to the catwalk with it—no pro’s ever gonna do that. No, I don’t think we’ve got anything to worry about with this joker. Come on, pal—out we go!’

  ***

  Meanwhile, further down in the theatre, Pearson, Rosen and O’Toole had made it to the backstage area.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Rosen, as they walked past a line of Tiller girls being put through their paces by a male choreographer. ‘Nice work if you can get it! … Look over there!’

  ‘What?’ said Pearson spinning round, reaching inside his jacket for his revolver. ‘Is it Girardi?’

  ‘No—over there! That’s Bud Flanagan, ain’t it?’

  ‘Listen, Solly,’ said the policeman, with a sharp intake of breath. ‘I’m not quite sure you understand the seriousness of the situation here.’ He pulled in close and lowered his voice. ‘We don’t know how long we’ve got before these maniacs blow this place sky-high. And as Harley pointed out—at the moment we’re the only ones that can stop them. Don’t you think you should be concentrating just a little harder on the matter in hand?’

  ‘Nah … See, it’s a technique I used to use in my fighting days,’ said Rosen, with a dismissive sniff. ‘Little trick I was taught by a trainer once to conquer the old pre-fight nerves. I could be minutes away from the biggest bout of my life right now, but in my head I’m strolling down Petticoat Lane eyeing up the skirt. The secret is to keep yer brain on the everyday thoughts, cool as a cucumber—got it? As long as you’ve put in the hours with your training, you’ll be swell. Pre-fight nerves—finished many a good boxer … ’Course, he’s one of ours, you know?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bud Flanagan. Good Jewish boy—born Hymie Weintrop, out of Whitechapel.’

  Pearson shook his head and carried on, following O’Toole past a ventriloquist sitting on a tea chest, happily munching on a sandwich whilst his dummy made crude observations regarding the Tiller girls.

  ‘Right,’ whispered O’Toole, turning to them with a look of apprehension on his face. ‘Here we are then—this is the crossover, where we get to the wings. Stage left, you’ve got the big fella at the lighting board, stage right will lead you to within spitting distance of the little Italian.’