by Graham Ison
‘That’s more like it. What else d’you know? And this better be kosher, Mr Crozier, because I don’t want to find that you’ve been misleading the Commissioner.’
Hardcastle’s neat shift of responsibility from himself to Crozier further unnerved the inspector. ‘I did ’ear that some of the uniforms what he was turning out in his factories was substandard, but they was still sent off and it wasn’t until they got to the Front that it was found out how bad they was. But they was too busy fighting the war that they never ’ad time to do nothing about it and it all got forgotten.’
‘And now?’ demanded Hardcastle.
‘Now, sir?’ Crozier was starting to perspire a little, despite it being quite a cold day, and Hardcastle’s office was not overheated.
‘Yes, Mr Crozier, now. What are they saying about Musgrave now?’
‘Well, I did ’ear that Mr Musgrave is pulling a few strings to try and get round the tariff restrictions so’s ’e can export some fancy clobber to America for them new-fangled talking pictures they’re gettin’ all excited about.’ Crozier ran a finger around the inside of his stiff tunic collar which suddenly felt too tight.
‘Where did you hear that?’
For a moment it seemed that Crozier would refuse, but then he relented in the face of Hardcastle’s frown. ‘You gets to ’ear all sorts of scuttlebutt just by standing in the Central Lobby, sir. You’d be surprised at ’ow indiscreet some members of the ’ouse can be.’
‘I’m not at all surprised,’ said Hardcastle dismissively. ‘Thank you, Mr Crozier. That’ll be all. If you hear anything else to Musgrave’s detriment, you’ll let me know immediately. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’ A relieved Crozier stood up but paused in the doorway. ‘There’s one other thing, sir: it’s common knowledge round the Central Lobby that Mr Musgrave’s after a Cabinet job, but that might just be more scuttlebutt.’
‘I reckon our political rulers have got bugger-all else to do but stand around gossiping,’ commented Hardcastle. But the comment was lost on Inspector Crozier, who had left as fast as he could.
‘Excuse me, sir, but there’s a Joshua Fairbrass downstairs asking to see you.’ A uniformed constable hovered in the doorway of the DDI’s office.
‘Are you going to let me into the secret, lad, or do I have to guess?’ enquired Hardcastle sarcastically. He always called constables ‘lad’ regardless of their age and he was in a worse mood than usual after his encounter with the servile Crozier.
‘Er, the secret, sir?’ The PC’s face screwed itself into an expression of perplexity.
‘Yes, lad. Who the bloody hell is Joshua Fairbrass?’
‘Oh, yes, sir, I see, sir. He’s a cab driver and he reckons he was told to come here by Detective Constable Catto, sir.’
‘Well, don’t stand there – bring the bloody man up here.’
A minute or two later the stooped and dishevelled figure of the cab driver edged nervously round the door of the DDI’s office. He had a moustache and a full, unkempt beard. His brown overcoat reached almost to his ankles and, judging by the frayed state of the lapels, it had clearly seen better days. He held a bowler hat in his mittened hands, constantly revolving it between his fingers. The hat was now so old that it was shiny in places and most of the brim had lost its original braiding.
‘Begging your pardon, sir. Joshua Fairbrass at your service.’ The voice was deep and throaty.
‘You were hired to take a young lady from a house in Vincent Square at about half past seven on the evening of Thursday the twenty-seventh of February, Fairbrass. Where did you take her?’
‘Er, I don’t rightly remember, sir.’ Fairbrass looked hungrily at Hardcastle’s tobacco pouch as the DDI began to fill his pipe.
Hardcastle placed his pipe on his desk and leaned menacingly towards Fairbrass. ‘Well, my lad, there’s no reward for giving information to the police but you’d be well advised to start remembering if you want to hang on to your hackney carriage driver’s licence.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Fairbrass rapidly, ‘it’s coming back to me now, sir.’
‘I thought it might,’ said Hardcastle as he picked up his pipe and applied a match to it. ‘Well?’ He expelled a plume of smoke towards the ceiling.
‘Rupert Street, sir.’
‘Where in Rupert Street?’
‘Ah, now, let me think.’ Fairbrass tugged at his beard.
Hardcastle stood up and slapped the top of his desk with the flat of his hand so violently that the cab driver took a step back, doubtless fearing he was about to be attacked. ‘I don’t have any time to waste on you, Fairbrass,’ he said, ‘but I could certainly find the time to cancel your licence, after which you’ll have plenty of spare time to think where you took her.’
‘It was the VanDoo Club, guv’nor,’ said Fairbrass hurriedly. ‘They calls it that on account of it being at number twenty-two, see.’
‘I’d more or less worked that out,’ said Hardcastle drily. ‘Is that the only time you took that young lady there?’
‘As far as I know, sir. To tell you the truth, all these young flappers look the same to me.’
‘They might all look the same but what was this young lady wearing?’
‘She had on one of them short black dresses what hardly covered her knees. I tell you, guv’nor, if my Daisy come down the stairs looking like that my Mabel would have a few sharp words to say to her.’
‘I daresay, Fairbrass, but what else d’you remember about your fare?’
‘She had a sort of black band thing round her head an’ all with a feather stuck in it and a long string of beads what must’ve come down to her belly button. Oh, and she had black eyes. If you want my opinion she looked like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.’
‘What d’you mean, she had black eyes?’
‘It was that make-up stuff. I dunno if it was that kohl what they puts on ’em but I’ve heard that these days they uses ash outta the fire grate mixed up with Vaseline. But whatever it is, they put it all round their eyes. Gawd knows why, ’cos they looks bloody stupid.’ The cab driver paused. ‘In my opinion, o’ course.’
‘All right, Fairbrass, you can go.’ Hardcastle waved a hand of dismissal. Donning his Chesterfield overcoat and seizing his bowler hat and umbrella, he crossed to the detectives’ office on the other side of the corridor. As he pushed open the door, Marriott and the few detectives who were there rose to their feet.
‘Sir?’ Seeing that the DDI was about to go out, Marriott grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.
‘We’re going to twenty-two Rupert Street, Marriott. That cab driver that Catto turned up took Lily Musgrave there last Thursday evening.’
‘May I remind you that you were going to see Mr Wensley with your suspicions about Austen Musgrave, sir?’
‘I haven’t forgotten, but I’ve decided to gather a bit more information about Musgrave before I worry the superintendent. I don’t want to pass on any information that ain’t strictly true, so to speak.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Quickly buttoning his waistcoat and grabbing his bowler hat and overcoat, Marriott raced after the DDI as he descended the stairs.
Hardcastle swept through the front office so fast that the station officer hardly had time to leap to his feet and report that all was correct.
In Whitehall, the DDI hailed a passing cab. ‘Vine Street police station, driver,’ he ordered once he and Marriott had taken their seats in the passenger compartment. ‘And make sure you take the most direct route.’
‘Of course, guv’nor.’ The driver recognized Hardcastle as the policeman who had a reputation among cabbies for his encyclopaedic knowledge of the quickest route to almost anywhere in central London. Rather than go round Piccadilly Circus, the driver was careful to cut through Jermyn Street to get to Piccadilly, and then into Swallow Street to Vine Street. After all, he did not want to lose his licence and there were plenty of returning soldiers who would jump at the chance of be
coming a cab driver. At least, that’s what he’d been told by Hardcastle on a previous occasion, but the truth was that very few serviceable cabs were for sale and those that were on the market proved to be too expensive for ex-soldiers with little money.
‘I thought we were going to Rupert Street, sir,’ said Marriott, once again bemused by one of Hardcastle’s mercurial changes of plan.
‘I’ve decided to speak to Mr Sullivan first.’
Divisional Detective Inspector William Sullivan, head of the CID for the C or St James’s Division, possessed all the qualities that Hardcastle detested. He was vain and self-opinionated, confirmed by the fact that when Sullivan stepped out of Vine Street police station he always wore a curly-brimmed bowler and carried a rattan cane. Furthermore, he sported a monocle and that, together with his well-cut suits, was the reason villains called him ‘Posh Bill with the Piccadilly window’. It had also been discovered that he had a small mirror fixed inside his hat so that he could check the tidiness of his hair whenever he entered a building.
However, despite Hardcastle’s dislike of Sullivan, he attempted to hide his animosity for the sake of the essential cooperation that arose when his enquiries strayed over the divisional border into Sullivan’s manor which, as now, they frequently did. He could not, however, resist the occasional derisory remark.
‘I’m surprised you’re still here, Bill.’ Hardcastle took out his half-hunter and stared at it. ‘I thought you might have gone home by now. It’s damn near five o’clock.’
‘Unlike your little patch, old boy, crime never stands still in my bailiwick. The West End is a hotbed of criminality.’ Sullivan opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of malt whisky. ‘You’ll take a glass, Ernie? And you too, Skipper?’ he added, addressing Marriott.
‘You must be going up in the world, Bill,’ said Hardcastle, glancing at the label. He knew that Begg’s Lochnagar Special Reserve malt whisky retailed at about seven shillings a bottle and was too expensive for the wallet of a DDI.
‘Gift from a friend,’ said Sullivan with a wave of his hand.
‘Really?’ Hardcastle wondered what particular offence Sullivan had overlooked in order to benefit from gifts of expensive bottles of Scotch. ‘What d’you know about the VanDoo Club in Rupert Street, Bill?’
‘The VanDoo?’ Sullivan savoured the name and then laughed. ‘Not thinking of joining, are you, Ernie?’
Hardcastle did not rise to Sullivan’s jocular question. ‘I’m trying to trace a missing girl,’ he said.
‘My word! Is that all you’ve got to do in Westminster, Ernie?’
‘I was sent for by the Commissioner this morning and given the job,’ said Hardcastle mildly.
‘Oh!’ Sullivan was suitably impressed. ‘What can I do to help, then, Ernie?’
‘For a start, you can tell me who runs the place and what you know about him.’
‘Station Sergeant Goddard is the best man to answer that, Ernie. He’s responsible for overseeing the licensing regulations for the clubs on my manor. What he doesn’t know about the West End isn’t worth knowing.’ Sullivan crossed his office and opened the door. ‘Get George Goddard in here!’ he shouted.
The man who entered Sullivan’s office a few moments later was dressed in a suit of good quality, a shirt with a conventional stiff collar but a rather flamboyant cravat with a pearl tiepin. Hardcastle thought he looked something of a dandy but, given Sullivan’s own appearance, C Division’s DDI was unlikely to reprove any of his subordinates for aping him.
‘This is DDI Hardcastle of A, Skipper,’ said Sullivan. ‘Tell him what you know about the VanDoo Club.’
‘Ah, yes, the VanDoo. We’ve carried out raids there from time to time, sir, more for the sake of appearances than anything else, but there ain’t never been any trouble. The owner is a man called Max Quilter. He was a major during the war but spent most of his time at the base camp in Boulogne, so I’m told by my informants. The VanDoo’s a fashionable club, very popular with society toffs, and there’s a rumour doing the rounds as how minor royalty gets in there from time to time but I ain’t seen any on the odd occasions I’ve taken a quick gander.’
‘Thank you, Skip,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Was you thinking of paying them a visit, sir?’ asked Goddard.
‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary.’ Hardcastle turned to Sullivan. ‘Thanks for the Scotch, Bill,’ he said. ‘Me and Marriott will be on our way.’
FOUR
Staring up at the facade of the VanDoo Club in Rupert Street, it was obvious to Hardcastle that the building, in the heart of London’s Soho, had once been a dwelling house. But now, in common with most of the properties in this and the surrounding narrow streets, it had been converted to cater for people who flocked to the West End in search of glitzy shops and restaurants with international cuisine. And even mildly risqué entertainment.
‘Good evening, sir.’ The dinner-jacketed man who opened the door of the VanDoo Club examined Hardcastle and Marriott closely. One glance was enough for him to decide that they were not the class of people whose presence would enhance the establishment’s reputation and should therefore not be admitted free of charge. ‘It’s twenty shillings each, if you please, gentlemen.’
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division and you can show me to the manager’s office a bit tout de suite.’
‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. I’ll just get someone to show you the way.’
‘And you needn’t press that,’ said Hardcastle as the doorkeeper made for a bell-push sited near the entrance. ‘It’s not a police raid.’ He paused. ‘Not yet.’
The doorkeeper gave a nervous laugh and made a brief call from a nearby telephone. A few moments later a waiter appeared and led Hardcastle and Marriott through the bar area, past champagne drinkers seated at tables and across to a staircase in the far corner. Mounting the stairs, the trio passed a swirling mass of humanity gyrating their way around the room to the ragtime music of a small jazz band. Without exception the men were attired in evening dress, most in white tie and tails, but some had opted for the more comfortable and increasingly popular dinner jacket. The women wore a variety of colourful frocks but fashion was already dictating that most were short. Ostrich feathers in bandeaux and long strings of beads were much in evidence. It seemed to Hardcastle that the end of the war had brought with it an end to the conventions of dress and behaviour that he had always regarded as the norm.
The waiter edged his way around the dance floor and stopped at a door at the very back of the room. ‘This is Major Quilter’s office, sir,’ he said.
Without bothering to knock, Hardcastle pushed open the door and entered.
‘Inspector Hardcastle? I’m Max Quilter. I’m the owner of this establishment.’ The speaker was a tall, slim man of youthful appearance. Hardcastle thought that he was probably no more than thirty years of age, if that. He wore an immaculately cut dinner jacket, open to reveal a scarlet cummerbund. ‘Don’t look so surprised, Inspector. Sergeant Goddard telephoned me to say you might pay a visit. He’s the vice squad chap at Vine Street.’
‘I know who he is,’ snapped Hardcastle. He was furious that a mere station sergeant should have tipped off Quilter to his impending arrival, even though he had told Goddard that it was not necessary for him to visit the VanDoo Club. He would certainly have a few sharp words to say to DDI Sullivan about it. He might even suggest to him that it could be worth finding out what benefit Goddard derived from telling Quilter that Hardcastle was taking an interest in the VanDoo Club.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ drawled Quilter. ‘Nothing wrong, I trust?’
‘That remains to be seen,’ said Hardcastle, who had taken an instant dislike to the suave owner of the nightclub. He despised hostilities-only officers who continued to use their rank once they had left the army.
‘Please take a seat, gentlemen, and tell me how I may assist you.’ Quilter indicated a comfortable settee adj
acent to a rather fine oak desk. ‘May I offer you a drink?’ he asked as his hand hovered over a side table upon which were decanters and glasses.
‘No, thank you, Major,’ replied Hardcastle tersely. ‘I’ll not waste too much of your time but I’m seeking the whereabouts of a young woman called Lily Musgrave.’
‘Austen Musgrave’s girl, you mean?’
‘You know her, then?’
‘Oh, yes. I think it’s fair to say that probably everyone knows her,’ said Quilter with a lascivious laugh. ‘Well, our male patrons, that is.’
‘What exactly d’you mean by that?’
‘Oh, she has something of a reputation for …’ Quilter paused. ‘There’s no delicate way of putting it really, Inspector, but Lily has a reputation for being a young lady of easy virtue. She probably spent a wicked weekend in the country somewhere with a young blade. I daresay she’ll roll up at home looking slightly the worse for wear.’
‘Do you recall seeing her in here on Thursday evening, Major Quilter?’
‘I think I did catch a glimpse of her but Thursday is always our busiest night. Most of our guests are the sort of landed gentry who disappear to the shires on a Friday. So Thursday night’s the best night for a young fellow to find a filly for a naughty weekend in the country.’
‘Is Miss Musgrave here this evening?’
‘Haven’t seen her.’
‘Do you happen to know whether she did get taken off to the country?’ Hardcastle was becoming increasingly annoyed with the languid and offhand Major Quilter.
‘Couldn’t say, I’m afraid.’
‘Do you encourage meetings of that sort being arranged in your club, Major?’ asked Marriott quietly. ‘People meeting for the sole purpose of arranging a “naughty weekend” was how I think you described it.’