The Complete Dangerous Davies

by Leslie Thomas

  Davies sat at the table and took out the plastic bag with the key. He held it in the palm of his hand, an old-fashioned, yellowed key with a ragged luggage label attached to it. ‘No. 134. SRCB,’ he read from the printed label. He looked around at them and sighed: ‘The clues don’t get any easier.’

  They had a guessing game as to what the letters might mean. Tennant had gone but, as an apology for the coat, had left five pounds with the barman for Davies to disburse as he thought fit. ‘He didn’t mention it to me,’ grumbled Mod.

  They all had drinks. Shiny Bright came in looking prosperous: a new suit, a flower in his lapel and a twinkling pair of brown shoes. ‘All honest, Dangerous,’ he assured before Davies had asked the question. ‘I found a dog that runs with six legs. You should have backed it yourself. It’s called Dangerous Moonlight.’

  He bought all three of them a Scotch, and then Davies bought another round and the evening went swiftly. They left The Babe In Arms and walked along the main shopping street towards Harry’s All Night Refreshments. There were stars caught in the roof-tops; the air was bland.

  ‘“On such a night as this,”’ quoted Mod, looking at the sky.

  ‘“When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees …”’ Jemma laughed. ‘“On such a night, did Thisbe fearfully o’ertrip the dew …”’

  Davies said: ‘Oh, God, don’t start all that now.’

  ‘How about this?’ chortled Mod. On the corner was a white Barclays Bank. He struck a pose. ‘“How sweetly sleeps the moonlight on this bank …”’

  They groaned and laughed and went on to Harry’s. ‘You’re still worrying about it,’ said Jemma like a mild accusation.

  ‘Well it’s not finished, is it,’ said Davies. Moodily he drank his coffee. He took out the key and recited the message on the label again. ‘No. 134. SRCB.’

  They drank their coffee, said good night to the illuminated Harry and walked home. Jemma had another social worker, who had been thrown out by her husband, staying with her. Davies kissed her on the doorstep and turned home. The moon had cleared the house-tops and was running like a river through the empty streets. As he passed the bank, Davies tried to remember what Mod had quoted. ‘Moonlight on Barclays,’ he said to himself.

  He went to bed, lay thinking in the dark and then slept. He woke at three. ‘Bank,’ he said to himself. He sat up abruptly in his bed. ‘Bank.’ He believed it; he knew it must be right.

  The Simmonds, Rowe and Campbell Bank of Brightstone-on-Sea, Essex, had, like so many of the small pre-War banks, been absorbed in 1940 into the more widespread East Anglian Bank and this, in turn, had found itself taken under the arm of Barclays after the War. ‘We have, however, remained under the same roof since the early thirties,’ said the manager, Harold Buss. ‘In the nineteenth century Mr Simmonds, Mr Rowe and Mr Campbell all had their separate banking houses, so we go back quite a long way.’

  ‘And the safe deposit is still the same, intact, since before the War?’ said Davies cautiously.

  ‘Indeed, as I told you on the telephone. We’ve modernised of course but the old cellars are still much the same and some of the safe deposit boxes there go back to the beginning of the century. The number, I believe you told me, was 134. You have the key?’

  Davies took a deep breath and handed over the key. ‘Ah, yes,’ said Mr Buss. ‘Quite a museum piece. It’s certainly one of ours. This way please, gentlemen.’

  Mod and Davies followed him through the lime-green office, nodding at the girls working at computers as they went. ‘Banks don’t smell of money any more,’ whispered Mod.

  ‘Did they ever?’ whispered Davies.

  ‘Here,’ said Mr Buss as they entered a glassed inner office, ‘we keep some of the old registers. It’s not often we have to consult them now. And even these have found their inevitable way on to a computer.’ He took down a worn red leather book from a high shelf. ‘No. 134.’ He glanced at the label on the key. ‘Nor these days would you have the pleasure of dealing with such a simple, uncomplicated number as 134. He turned the ledger pages. ‘Yes, here we are. Mr Augustus Bryant.’

  Davies saw Mod’s face drop and felt his do so also. But he quickly said: ‘Yes, that’s the chap. He had various names, but that’s him all right.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Buss. Prudently he looked at the letter of authority with the heading ‘Metropolitan Police’. Davies swallowed heavily. ‘Well, that seems to be in order.’ He glanced up with a professional smile which Davies returned timidly and Mod scarcely at all. ‘Let’s go down to the depths,’ he invited.

  Some of the girls looked up from their keyboards and the men from their telephones and papers as the two bulky men followed the manager through the airy office. Spring sun was drifting through the windows. Mr Buss unlocked several doors, the third one opening on to a set of stairs. ‘This is the oldest part of the establishment,’ he said. ‘Some of the safe deposits down here have not been disturbed for seventy years.’

  ‘I’d be tempted to have a peep,’ admitted Mod. ‘Come down here with the master key and open them up.’

  ‘Banking,’ said Mr Buss a little reprovingly, ‘is not that sort of business. Fantasy is frowned upon.’ He paused. ‘Here we are. Box No. 134.’ He handed the key back to Davies. ‘If you would like to open it, Mr Davies, I will leave you.’

  ‘No,’ said Davies hurriedly. He caught the manager’s arm. ‘If you didn’t mind … if it’s allowed … would you like to hang around? I may need a witness …’

  Mr Buss looked secretly pleased. ‘Yes, of course, if you wish,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing that says I shouldn’t be present. It’s merely that we imagine people want privacy.’

  ‘Not,’ answered Davies, ‘in this case.’

  He felt the key had become warm in his hand. The box was shallow, about eighteen inches long and twelve wide. It was made of sturdy wood which, as his fingers disturbed the dust, was revealed as veneered, not unlike the lunch-box of Sergeant Emmanuel. There was a cobweb over the keyhole. Davies brushed it away with his hand. Mod and Mr Buss looked on with silent expectation. Davies inserted the key and felt it turn. ‘It still fits,’ he said quietly. He took the weight of the lid, easing it up. It squeaked softly, like a mouse. A dusty smell came from within. A creased piece of red silk was revealed, covering the contents. Davies, hardly breathing, pulled it away. Underneath was a crumpled copy of the previous day’s Daily Mirror and a personal note addressed to Davies from Inspector Joliffe of the Essex Constabulary.

  ‘Just look at that,’ said Inspector Joliffe. ‘Have you ever seen a nicer haul?’

  The jewellery was spread on a baize-covered table in his office. There were diamonds, emeralds, opals, zircons, mounted on silver and gold and platinum; necklaces, brooches, rings, chains and chokers.

  ‘It’s very nice,’ conceded Davies.

  Joliffe came around the table and put a senior officer’s friendly arm around him. ‘Mavis Prenderley has been able to identify quite a lot,’ he said. ‘Some pieces came from Sandringham. She’s got an amazing memory for an old dear. Still, I suppose she helped to nick some of it.’

  ‘People around here,’ observed Davies begrudgingly, ‘are very co-operative with the police, aren’t they?’

  ‘They’re well-trained,’ agreed Joliffe. ‘People tend to come to us when they’re “not sure”. Mr Buss, the bank manager, gets a letter with a Metropolitan Police heading and the first thing he does is dial 999. Then you telephone him and give him the number of the safe deposit box. They have a master key, you know, even when they go back to the year dot. So we opened it and this is what we found.’

  Davies said: ‘You even put the cobweb back.’

  ‘Over the keyhole! Yes, we did. Sorry to take the glory from under your nose, Davies.’

  ‘The carpet from under my feet,’ mentioned Davies sombrely. ‘The second time this week.’

  ‘Ah, yes. We know all about that. We’ve been keeping a general eye on you, of course, since you first put in
an appearance on our patch.’

  ‘When Mr Linder and the landlord of the pub both shopped me,’ sighed Davies.

  ‘Well, you do rather trudge around.’

  ‘I suppose I do. I’ve got a talent for causing small hurricanes. And I’m usually the one who’s shipwrecked. You know all about the drugs thing then?’

  ‘We had a full summary. You did pretty well there, Davies, and of course it all followed on from this Billy Dobson case.’

  ‘Lofty Brock,’ muttered Davies. ‘That’s right. But all I got was trouble. I fouled up a master plan of the drug squad.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Joliffe. ‘We’re pretty pleased about the whole business. I’m afraid the headlines will say: “Essex Police Recover Million-Pound Proceeds of Pre-War Robberies”. They’ll quote me, my chaps will get the credit but, since you were, shall we say, ex officio, you won’t get a mention. But you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing the truth.’

  Davies shrugged: ‘I’ll still be in the mire about trespassing on your territory, I suppose. I’m on compulsory leave now. I’m expecting to be back on the beat any day, if I’m not thrown out.’

  ‘It’s in the gubbins,’ said Joliffe, shaking his head. ‘And, as I told you before, once it’s in the gubbins it’s in there for good.’ He patted Davies on the shoulder once more. ‘However, I’ll do what I can,’ he said. ‘A few words here and a few there, and things can be erased from the gubbins. It’s difficult but it can be done.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ said Davies. ‘I don’t look good in uniform.’

  Joliffe laughed. ‘It’ll be all right, I’m sure,’ he said jovially. ‘But don’t forget that chap you know who knows Max Bygraves. When we get around to arranging next year’s police ball, we might take you up on that.’

  ‘Oh, that … well, yes. Just contact me. I’d better go, I suppose.’

  Joliffe shook hands firmly with him. ‘You’re not a bad copper, Davies,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a lot of good points even if you’re not very careful. If you weren’t so old I’d say you had a promising future.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Davies again. He turned to go.

  ‘There was one more thing,’ said Joliffe. ‘The pearl. The one you showed Mavis.’

  ‘Oh … oh right. Yes, that pearl.’ He fumbled in his pocket, desperately hoping he had not lost it. With relief he located the ring box. He opened it. Joliffe smiled and took out the pearl. ‘Last bit of the jigsaw,’ he said. He stepped to the displayed jewellery and placed the pearl as a pendant at the bottom of a fine necklace. ‘Fits perfectly,’ he said. ‘Mrs Simpson lost that. The Duchess of Windsor.’

  He had his arm around Davies’s shoulder all the way to the door and then offered his hand for a final shake. As Davies went out, Joliffe called after him: ‘I’ll contact you about Max Bygraves, Dangerous. I’ll know where to find you, won’t I?’

  ‘Yes, usual place,’ answered Davies. He turned and walked alone into the streets. ‘In the shit,’ he said quietly.

  Jemma went into The Babe In Arms and saw Mod sitting at their table, wondering how long he could eke out half a pint. It was just after midday. The bar was otherwise empty. ‘I thought he’d be back by now,’ said Jemma.

  ‘An essential part of the third-degree torture,’ said Mod, ‘is that it takes a long time.’ He looked cornered. ‘May I buy you a drink?’ he asked discouragingly.

  ‘No thanks. I think I’ll walk down to meet him. He may need some comfort.’

  ‘Very probably,’ answered Mod. His deep eyes unfolded. ‘He had another development this morning, you know. In the post.’

  ‘What … how do you mean?’

  ‘A note which said merely: “We killed both Lofty Brocks.” It was signed: “The Silesia Survivors.’”

  She looked at him, astonished. ‘You mean … It’s not finished? I can’t believe it …’

  ‘Far from finished, apparently,’ said Mod. ‘It’s going to keep Dangerous occupied for a long time yet, I suspect.’

  She left the bar and turned down the spring-time street. He was coming towards her, coat hanging negligently, hat on the back of his head, hands in pockets. She hurried along the pavement and embraced him. He folded his large arms about her. Several people stopped to watch. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘They’ve let me off – everything.’

  ‘That’s wonderful! I should think so, as well.’

  ‘Breaking up a drug smuggling ring, solving a murder and finding the bloody crown jewels helped a bit,’ he said. ‘But there were a few things on the debit side.’ He grinned at her. ‘Askew, the chap you clobbered with the big pebble down at Chesil Bank – he was a Customs and Excise man.’

  ‘Oh God. Why didn’t he say so?’

  ‘They often don’t mention it,’ he shrugged. ‘Apparently we threw another spanner in the works there. He was watching for the two cars with the stuff and suddenly we turn up. He had to put me out of action and quick.’

  ‘But you told him you were police.’

  ‘That might be the reason. Apparently the Customs were mounting their own operation on the Jungfrau and her mates and were trying to get in before the police. It’s all kudos, you know. Nobody told anybody what was happening. The drug squad and the Customs are not exactly in love. And we clobbered Askew, who is now probably collecting VAT arrears somewhere. It apparently brought a rare smile to the face of Mr Logan Berry, until I wrecked his bit of the action.’

  They turned and walked away from the direction in which Davies had been progressing. She regarded him seriously. His lip was taking longer to heal these days. ‘What about this new note? Mod told me. From the Silesia Survivors?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you think you ought to drop the whole thing now?’

  He stopped, took his arm from around her waist and produced a creased sheet of paper from his inside pocket. ‘I am,’ he said. He handed the single sheet to her. ‘One thing which is not completely obvious about this note, without examining it too closely, is that the paper was stolen from the local public library. Look, see, on the reverse side, if you care to turn it over, at the bottom it says: “Brent Library Services”.’

  ‘Mod!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘He’d never make a forger,’ Davies grinned. ‘He thinks something to worry about, like Lofty, keeps me happy, busy, lively.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He looked at her. ‘But now there’s you as well.’

  They stopped and kissed in the street. ‘Do you want to come for a walk with me and Kitty?’ Davies asked. ‘We could go and get him. He needs a bit of air.’

  ‘So do I,’ she laughed, taking his arm. ‘Come on, Dangerous, let’s go down the cemetery.’

  Dangerous by Moonlight

  For Jeffrey and Sue Chamberlain

  The croquet matches in summer,

  The handshake, the cough, the kiss,

  There is always a wicked secret

  A private reason for this.

  W. H. AUDEN

  One

  Winter suited Willesden. Its trees were created to drip, its canal to wear a muffler of mist, its pavements and roofs to reflect the lights of winter streets and the cloudy winter moon; few daytime things decorated the north-west London sky more poetically than the steam clouds from the power station cooling towers flying like the hair of God. The simile was not of Davies’ making – he was of simpler stuff – but from the imagination of Mod, his friend, the philosopher of the dole queue.

  ‘Winter becomes Willesden,’ he repeated in a literary whisper, surveying both from the public library window. ‘In the way that mourning becomes Electra.’ He turned his bulbous eyes on Davies. ‘If you get my drift.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Davies. ‘Totally.’ He glanced at the reading-room clock. ‘Isn’t it time you knocked off,’ he suggested.

  ‘You wouldn’t be the detective you are if you did not possess such powers of observation,’ nodded Mod deeply.

  ‘The little hand’s on five and the big han
d’s nearly on twelve,’ added Davies.

  Ponderously Mod began to fold his books. ‘Opening time,’ he agreed sagely. ‘What deduction!’ He rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day in the reading room. He made a ritual of the closing of covers and Davies sat down, damp in his mackintosh, and waited while he completed it.

  ‘What’s been the problem today?’ he inquired indicating the volumes.

  ‘Well you might ask,’ returned Mod. He carefully marked half a dozen pages with bookmarks given to him at the recent Christmas, a present from the policeman’s dog, Kitty. ‘These have proved very useful,’ he said waving one quietly.

  ‘They should last you the year,’ pointed out Davies. It was the first week of January.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Mod shrugging his big, untidy shoulders. He was wearing a red woollen jumper. It was now years since his jacket could be buttoned. ‘They wear out, you know. Bookmarks. The rate I work.’ He piled the cumbersome books and then appeared to measure the distance between his table and the Returns desk, the uprights of which framed the sulkily waiting face of the young woman assistant. Davies took the hint and picked up three of the books, leaving another three to Mod, who appeared a touch offended that he had not taken the whole pile.

  ‘These weigh a ton,’ said the detective.

  ‘Wisdom does,’ observed Mod. He coughed plaintively but Davies refused to pick up further books. ‘Some wisdom is heavier than others, Greek wisdom particularly,’ he added. ‘I’ve been studying Homer. For the hundredth time of course, but one always finds yet another meaning, yet another nuance. Latin is an honour, and Greek is a treat, as Churchill once said.’ He blinked: ‘Possibly more than once.’

  Davies grimaced. ‘You’ve more or less got a job for life then?’ They had arrived at Returns. Davies smiled at the girl assistant who scowled first at him, then at Mod and then at the clock. The philosopher appeared not to notice. He made towards his overcoat hung on the curly Victorian hatstand that was the library’s prize possession. ‘They don’t make them like this now,’ said Mod struggling into the patched garment.