The Complete Dangerous Davies

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘Who’s this chap?’ asked Davies casually. He pointed at Dulciman.

  ‘Vernon,’ said the man reflectively. ‘Dulciman. He vanished, you know. Walked out to sea so they say.’

  ‘Really?’

  The sherry drinker nodded. He had left his glass on the table. Davies saw the woman steal a sip from the glass. She caught his glance and smiled in a way that suggested they shared a secret. ‘Yes,’ continued the man. ‘Walked. It’s a wonder he didn’t walk on the water because he thought he could do everything else. Women, charm, business. Full of it all. I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody dragged him out to sea.’

  ‘He wasn’t popular then.’

  ‘Not with me, he wasn’t. It’s his fault that me and my missus are living in a rented flat. One bedroom. We even have to sleep together.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Borrowed money from her, an investment he said. And she, silly old tart, believed him. Women did. It was our savings and he never gave any back. He never did. To anybody. No wonder whatever happened to him happened to him.’

  Davies had another two pints with Phineas and left the club. It was windy after the sunny day but there was a mild touch to the air. A moon appeared momentarily from ragged channel clouds. Thumping sounds came from a disco. Davies had the sudden urge to see some young people. He went down the steps and spoke to the bouncer at the end. ‘You can come in if you pay,’ the man assured him. ‘There’s no age limit. Just don’t have a heart attack on the floor.’

  ‘I’ll dance the slow numbers,’ rejoined Davies. He paid his four pounds and went into the dim cave of a room. Figures were moving and weaving on the central floor. It was hot in there, fetid. Davies made for an illuminated corner that he imagined was the bar. His instincts did not let him down. There were three youths standing against it and he ordered a double scotch. The barman looked pleased in the sickly light. ‘At last somebody who can afford a decent drink,’ he said loudly. The youths, sharing a beer between them, moved away.

  ‘Haven’t got a bean between them, mostly,’ sighed the barman as he handed over the scotch. Davies bought him one. ‘These kids just hang on here,’ he said lifting the glass in thanks, ‘from the end of one season to another. Living on the dole and whatever they can pick up.’ He leaned across his bar. ‘And when I say “pick up” that’s exactly what I mean.’

  A girl approached and, fumbling in her purse minutely, eventually produced enough small change for a Coca-Cola. ‘It still costs four quid to get in,’ pointed out Davies.

  ‘For you, mate, it might. But half of this lot don’t pay anything. They’re the “can’t pay, won’t pay” generation.’ The girl glared at him but he ignored her. ‘Everything’s been put in their laps.’

  ‘Except a job,’ mentioned the girl as she turned and shifted away.

  ‘Jobs. They wouldn’t know one if they saw one,’ sniffed the barman.

  Davies turned and immediately saw Mildred dancing, merged with the dim crowd but still discernible. She saw him watching her and came towards him. ‘Looking for me, officer?’ she asked. The barman gave them an odd glance.

  ‘Could be,’ Davies replied. Blatantly she pushed her big soft body towards him.

  ‘Didn’t know you came in places like this.’

  ‘I thought it might keep me young,’ he smiled. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  She said she would have a Coca-Cola, then added a rum and poured it into the glass. ‘I thought you didn’t mix with the younger set,’ he said.

  She pouted. ‘I wasn’t mixing. I was dancing by myself. Didn’t you see?’

  ‘I can’t tell who’s with who.’

  ‘Do you want to dance?’

  ‘I’ll wait for a waltz.’

  ‘I was ready to go anyway,’ she said. ‘Are you ready too?’

  The barman shook his head as they left. He did not understand what went on these days.

  Outside they walked down the slope towards the hotel. There was a fretting wind and clouds ran swiftly across the long sky.

  ‘They always seem to be in a rush, clouds,’ she observed. ‘I wonder where they’re rushing to?’

  Davies studied the sky briefly. ‘Boscombe I’d say,’ he suggested. Mildred laughed richly and squeezed his arm. ‘Oh, Dangerous, if I was older,’ she said.

  They went around to the back entrance of the hotel. She had a key and she let them in. They walked silently up the stairs. On the landing he kissed her on the cheek and she kissed him on the lips. ‘I’m married,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘And I have a regular girlfriend. What used to be called “spoken for”.’ She hugged him again and turned towards the corridor leading to her room.

  ‘’Night then,’ she said.

  He said good night and went up the short flight of stairs to his room. He felt sad for her. ‘It was lovely having a walk today,’ she called after him in a whisper.

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ he replied hoarsely.

  She vanished in the half light of the passage and he went to his room closing the door with a sigh. He undressed, put on his flannel pyjamas and climbed into bed. He was just dozing when he heard his door open. Standing in the dimness wearing a wide faintly luminous nightdress was Mildred.

  ‘Dangerous,’ she whispered. ‘Can I come in bed with you?’

  He turned on his bedside lamp. He could see she was crying. ‘Just for a cuddle,’ she said. ‘Nothing else. I only want to be cuddled.’

  He said nothing but opened the bedclothes. She padded forward and slid into the double bed turning away from him so that her large backside was in his lap. He put his arms around her.

  ‘Oh Dangerous,’ she croaked, ‘I’m ever so lonely.’

  ‘Hello. This is Pengelly Associates.’

  ‘Oh, hello. I need some help. I’ve lost my pussycat.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Davies.’

  ‘Oh, you. I might have guessed from the rich humour. What did you want?’

  ‘Just a bit of a chat, really.’

  ‘We’ve had our chat.’

  ‘I enjoyed it too. I want another one.’

  He heard Pengelly draw a deep breath. ‘I can’t tell you anything more.’

  ‘You could try,’ said Davies.

  ‘I don’t want you in this office. These offices. Either of them. My auntie is coming in today.’

  ‘I’d move the dead mouse on the window then.’

  ‘Listen. I haven’t got all day …’

  ‘Neither have I,’ said Davies. ‘I have to catch a train. The escort game must be frantic at the weekends but I won’t keep you long. We could meet in a pub. I think I owe you a drink.’

  ‘I haven’t got a lot of choice, have I? All right. There’s a pub called the Sugar Loaf along the street from this office. Fifty yards down. I’ll see you in there at midday.’

  ‘Fine. A chat might do us good. Public bar or saloon?’

  He thought he could hear Pengelly’s teeth grinding. ‘Saloon,’ he said.

  Davies replaced the phone. He went to the bathroom. There was a plastic shower cap in a container on the shelf. Thoughtfully he took it out and, after briefly trying it on and making a face in the mirror, put it in his pocket.

  He got the bus to Boscombe and retraced his steps to the doorway by the greengrocer’s shop which gave entrance to Pengelly Associates and the Goodtime Escort Agency. Along the pavement he could see the sign hanging outside the Sugar Loaf.

  He went into the saloon bar. It was barely noon and there was no one in there except for a motionless woman framed by the bar. He wished her good morning and bought two double scotches. He placed one on the bar and moved a yard away. As though he had been lurking, Pengelly came in. He looked impatient.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ he said.

  ‘Is your auntie afraid to be by herself?’ asked Davies. ‘I bought you a scotch.’

  ‘Thanks,’ grunted Pengelly. To Davies’ relief he picked up the glass and took a drink. ‘Now what is it,
this time?’

  ‘You had a business association with Vernon Dulciman, didn’t you?’

  Pengelly grinned savagely. ‘And we quarrelled over the profits and I threw him in the sea.’

  ‘Is that how it happened?’ asked Davies looking into his face.

  ‘Listen,’ sighed Pengelly. ‘I had nothing to do with whatever happened to Dulciman. He was an arsehole but I didn’t kill him for business or any other reason.’

  ‘But you had an association.’

  ‘What association? I just knew him, that’s all. So did a lot of other people.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘A randy old pest. He wanted to get a woman from the agency. She didn’t fancy him. She’d had one experience with him apparently and that was enough for her.’ He stared into Davies’ interested expression. ‘You get my drift?’

  ‘What was his business then?’ asked Davies. ‘Why did he keep cheating old ladies out of money?’

  ‘Some old ladies are all too eager to get rid of their money.’ He looked at Davies slyly. ‘You should know that.’

  Davies moved his face towards him. ‘Say that again.’

  Pengelly looked frightened but he said it again. Slowly Davies’ hands went out. They paused a fraction from Pengelly’s collar. ‘I told you I’m not taking any money’, he said deliberately, ‘until it’s finished. Until I know what happened to Vernon Dulciman.’

  The woman who had been serving came around the corner of the bar and saw their attitudes. ‘No fighting,’ she said stoutly. ‘Out you go if you start fighting.’

  Pengelly picked up his glass and finished the whisky. ‘Don’t worry. I’m going.’ He looked at Davies. ‘I’m not going to fight.’

  The barwoman said: ‘I should hope not. This time of the morning.’ Without another word Pengelly went out. Davies watched him go. The woman went around the corner of the bar again.

  He picked up Pengelly’s whisky glass, took a hotel napkin from his pocket and wrapped it up carefully, then he put it in the shower cap he had brought from the bathroom. ‘Bye bye,’ he called to the barwoman.

  She appeared and said: ‘Good riddance.’

  He went out of the door smiling.

  ‘Hello, is that you, Fingers?’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘It’s Davies, Fingers. At Willesden.’

  ‘Hello, Dangerous.’ The voice mellowed. ‘And what are you after?’

  ‘Can you do a few dabs for me?’

  ‘Of course. Send them over.’

  ‘Fingers, I don’t want to make a fuss over them.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll do them after work. Nobody will know.’

  Davies thanked him and put the telephone down. He was at his desk, a sandwich now shaped like a large piece of jigsaw, three bites taken out of it, was displayed in its wrapping on the desk. The CID Room was empty. He bit into the sandwich, again in a separate place, making a fourth indent. The telephone on the desk rang. He picked it up saying ‘Davies’ with his mouth full.

  ‘Ah, Mr Davies. It’s Bertie here. From Bournemouth.’

  Davies sat up in his chair. ‘Yes, Bertie.’

  ‘You know you was asking me about the shoes and the boy that brought them in?’

  Slowly Davies put the indented sandwich on the desk. ‘Yes, Bertie. Have you remembered something?’

  ‘Yes, I have. I’ve had it on my mind. And last night, three this morning actually, I thought of it.’

  ‘Yes,’ encouraged Davies.

  ‘There was a bit in the Echo last night and it reminded me, I suppose. There was a photograph of some kids that they’re going to have going along the beach this summer wearing special caps picking up litter and telling people to keep the beach tidy. They have sweatshirts as well with some slogan written across them.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, they’ve done that sort of thing before, every year I think, and when I was lying awake I suddenly remembered that the boy who found Mr Dulciman’s shoes had one of those caps and shirts. Is that any help?’

  ‘I’ll say it is, Bertie,’ enthused Davies. ‘It will help no end. Remember anything else?’

  ‘No.’ Bertie sounded a little disappointed. ‘But I thought it might be something.’

  Davies thanked him again and put the telephone down. He sat back thoughtfully, finishing the sandwich. So engrossed was he that he ate part of the wrapping without noticing until it was in his mouth. He got up from the desk and went out into the street. It was a mild, grey morning. Willesden was going about its weekday business. He went towards the library.

  Mod was sitting in his accustomed place, a pyramid of books in front of him. His look was only one of mild surprise. ‘You probably already know, Dangerous, that the present-day Australian accent may well be the genuine sound of how people spoke in Georgian England.’

  ‘And I never realised,’ breathed Davies.

  ‘Language travels in mysterious ways,’ said Mod. ‘Like God.’ Davies took the chair opposite him.

  ‘I want you to travel, Mod.’ His friend’s slow, unkempt eyebrows rose. ‘Not in a mysterious way. By British Rail.’

  ‘To the seaside, I take it.’

  ‘To the seaside,’ confirmed Davies. ‘Bournemouth. Tomorrow.’

  Mod pursed his lips and fingered his ponderous books. ‘I am right in the midst of Language and the Masses,’ he pointed out. ‘It may take some weeks.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Davies said. ‘Who got you the library hatstand back?’

  ‘No one appears to have noticed,’ complained Mod. ‘Only when it was taken. Librarians are not given to appreciation, Dangerous.’

  ‘Bournemouth – tomorrow,’ reiterated Davies. ‘You can go early and be back at night. What I need you to do is to check the newspaper files, the Bournemouth Echo, for five years ago. I’ll give you the dates. The porter has remembered about the boy who found Dulciman’s shoes. He was part of some campaign to keep the beach clean. He had a special cap and sweatshirt. If we can get the names of the kids who took part in the campaign five years ago, then we can really narrow it down. One of them will remember who it was picked up the shoes. If you don’t have any luck with the paper then try the council. Put on a clean shirt, will you. The paper probably has a picture every year of the lucky lads. There’s a train from Waterloo at eight forty-five.’

  Elvis was trudging down the slope of the street as Davies left the house in the morning. The youth was dragging some pieces of rotten fencing. ‘For my fire,’ he explained. ‘Getting short of stuff.’

  ‘There won’t be anything left to burn around here soon,’ suggested Davies. ‘You’ll have to open a branch in Hammersmith.’

  Elvis looked interested. ‘Branches burn like anything,’ he said with the voice of the expert. ‘It’s paper what you can’t get. You know that bloke that’s your mate. ’im what carries them books.’

  ‘Mr Modest Lewis,’ said Davies formally. ‘The books belong to the library.’

  ‘D’you reckon they got any old ones they don’t want?’

  ‘They tend to hang onto their old books,’ Davies told him.

  A glow came to Elvis’ face, as though the thought in itself had started a small fire. ‘They wouldn’t ’arf burn good,’ he said wistfully.

  Another, neater, youth came down the street earnestly carrying an armful of pamphlets which he pushed into letterboxes. He had a laden bag around his neck. Elvis took a quick interest and again his face began to glow. ‘Look at that,’ he whispered almost to himself. ‘Wasting all that paper.’

  He left Davies and hurried back up the street. Davies could hear him pleading to be allowed to assist the earnest youth with his distribution. By the time Davies had reached the top of the street, Elvis was standing, looking half happy, and holding a fistful of fliers. ‘That’s all ’e give me,’ he groused. ‘Lot of good that is. Look at ’im sticking them through front doors, annoying people.’

  ‘Elvis,’ suggested Davies, ‘why don’t you try
and get a job with the council. Refuse collection operative.’

  ‘Nah,’ returned Elvis. ‘I ’ad a go at that. But they won’t let you ’ave your own fire. Anyway I likes working for myself.’

  ‘Ah, you’re a freelance.’

  Elvis wrestled with the meaning but brightened once more and agreed. ‘Yeah, that’s what I am. A freelance.’

  As he walked on, down the main street, past the Babe In Arms, where a not disagreeable scent of stale beer was issuing from an open door, Davies repeated to himself: ‘A freelance. That’s what I am, a freelance.’

  An old woman threw half a bucket of water from the open pub door, swirling and swilling across the pavement and splashing Davies’ shoes.

  ‘Sorry, Dangerous,’ she croaked, throwing the second half. She apologised again.

  ‘Any time, dear,’ he responded. How many policemen had a bucket of water thrown over them so early in the day? He walked along the street towards the police station. The Italian who ran the Spaghetti Junction restaurant was also washing down his area of pavement but spared the bucket as Davies walked by. There were buses and cars nudging towards the traffic lights. He could remember when trolleybuses ran along there, when people cared for each other except on occasional Saturday nights; when crime was rarely more than a misdemeanour. Those were the days.

  At the police station the desk sergeant greeted him affably. ‘They picked up the bright sparks who nicked those televisions, Dangerous,’ he said.

  Davies professed relief and satisfaction. Inside the CID Room Detective Sergeant Burrows, newly promoted after his course, grinned as he entered. ‘I hear you’ve nicked the telly-burglars,’ said Davies before Burrows could tell him.

  ‘I’ll say,’ nodded Burrows, still beaming. ‘And guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We also fingered your friend Mr Kahn.’

  ‘Receiving stolen goods, i.e. television sets,’ guessed Davies glumly.

  ‘Right first time,’ said Burrows. ‘You must have wondered where he’d got all that stuff.’