Mad About the Boy?

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘You look much more yourself,’ said Ashley approvingly. ‘I thought you were going to keel over at one point last night.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Haldean, lighting a cigarette. ‘Still, at least I’ve got Arthur safely under lock and key. Did you manage to arrest any of the Russian gang?’

  Ashley shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to say we didn’t. I got on to the police at Upper Ranworth as soon as you’d called, and they were on the spot fairly quickly.’ He grinned. ‘By jingo, you made a mess of that car, didn’t you? Incidentally, we found a number plate that had been blown clear of the wreckage.’

  Haldean looked up. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t get too excited. The number was false, as we might have predicted. It’s never been issued. Anyway, what we did find were two dead men.’

  ‘What?’ Haldean stared at Ashley. ‘But, damn it, Ashley, we didn’t kill anyone. Arthur walloped this bloke, Mick, with a branch and the red-headed chap fell into the cave.’

  Ashley held his hand up. ‘I didn’t suggest that either you or Captain Stanton were responsible, although I couldn’t really have blamed you after what you’ve told me. No, I think both men were murdered by the two remaining gang members before they escaped. They had both been shot, right through the forehead. It was a real executioner’s job. This Mick, whose real name is Michael Wilson and who has a long record of violent crime, was laid out on the path and the red-headed man, whose name is Walter Tanswell, was in the cave, as you described. He was involved in that march in London the other day and he was wanted for assaulting two policemen. He’s got a record of robbery with violence. It didn’t take long to identify either of them.’

  ‘But . . .’ Haldean smoked for a few moments in appalled silence. ‘Neither of them can have been that badly hurt, surely. I’d expected the red-headed chap to have broken his leg, but that’s all. As for the other bloke, he’d have come round eventually. Why on earth were they murdered?’

  ‘Because they would have held up this Boris and the other man, I suppose.’ Ashley shrugged. ‘That’s all I can think of.’

  Haldean felt sick. It was so utterly ruthless. He finished his cigarette without speaking. At least Arthur was safe. He held on to that thought. Arthur was safe. With a shudder he crushed out his cigarette and looked at Ashley. ‘Is that what you meant in your note about things hotting up?’

  ‘Not exactly’ Ashley got up and checked the door was shut. ‘This may seem like small beer after your adventures, but I’ve got a line on Alfred Charnock,’ he said, sitting down once more. ‘We’ve been keeping an eye on him and we think it’s all going to come off tonight. With any luck we should catch him in the act.’

  ‘And the act is?’

  Ashley smiled. ‘Just at the moment I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Hold on.’ Haldean leaned back in his chair. ‘Now I know he’s really up to something dodgy, let’s see if I can guess. I’ve devoted some thought to Uncle Alfred, after all.’

  ‘Well, go on then,’ said Ashley sceptically. ‘Let’s hear the Sherlock stuff. Amaze me.’

  Haldean grinned. ‘Listen to me, Watson, and be amazed.’ He leaned back in his chair, ticking the points off on his fingers. ‘One, Alfred Charnock needs some money Two, it’s connected with Lyvenden. Three, whatever it is he’s doing, he’s been doing it for months, so it’s not a one-off affair. Four, we’re near the coast and when you add his wartime service, the man who came on Saturday night and the fact that Our Alfred sneaked home at four in the morning, soaking wet, it all points one way.’

  Ashley laughed. ‘Well done. That’s very neat reasoning but it’s not evidence. Now I have got some evidence. Burrows, the landlord of the Pig and Whistle, had two new garages erected at the back of the pub round about Christmas. They’re big, expensive structures, both of them, and very securely locked. The really interesting thing is that although Burrows owns a horse and wagon, he doesn’t keep the wagon in the new garages.’

  ‘Have you managed to have a look inside?’

  Ashley shook his head. ‘We didn’t want to ring any alarm bells. That’s not to say I don’t have a very good idea of what’s in there, mind.’

  He looked up as the door opened and Isabelle came in.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she said with a smile. ‘Jack, Dr Speldhurst’s here. He wants to have a look at your arm.’

  ‘Right-ho,’ said Haldean, standing up. ‘Ashley, while I’ve gone, take a look at this.’ From his pocket he produced Lord Lyvenden’s cigarette case and put it on the table. ‘Not a word about this, Belle,’ he warned.

  ‘I’ll add it to my list of secrets,’ she said. ‘Is that Lord Lyvenden’s cigarette case?’

  ‘Yes. Arthur ran off with it. Now, inside that horrible object was this piece of paper.’ He took out his pocketbook and produced the note, laying it on the table beside the cigarette case.

  Ashley picked it up with a frown. ‘What’s it all mean?’

  ‘I bet it’s in Russian.’

  ‘Have you any idea what it says?’

  Haldean gave a very slight warning glance at Isabelle. ‘I’d rather not say just now. I can guess. Mind you, that’s all it is, a guess, but it makes sense. However, there’s no point guessing when we can get the thing translated easily enough. Can Scotland Yard do it for us, d’you think?’

  ‘I imagine so,’ said Ashley.

  ‘Well, why don’t you give Bill Rackham a ring? You can use the phone in the library. I’ll go and see Dr Speldhurst and then we can run up to London, if you don’t mind driving my car.’

  ‘Drive your car?’ said Ashley doubtfully. ‘I can drive, but I’ve never handled a car like yours.’

  ‘It’s simple enough.’

  Ashley came to a decision. ‘Very well then. I have to be back for this evening, though.’

  ‘Jack,’ said Isabelle as they left the gun room, ‘what’s my mother going to say when she finds out you’ve gone up to London?’

  He grinned. ‘Break it to her gently, old thing. I’ll be back tonight.’

  Superintendent Ashley buttoned up his coat and climbed into Haldean’s Spyker. ‘I’ve been on to the Yard and it’s all right with them.’ He grasped the steering wheel with a certain amount of apprehension, looking down the rakish length of the blue-and-silver bonnet. ‘I’ve never tackled anything like this before.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ said Haldean. ‘Be careful with the gears. It’s a four-speed box, but quite simple when you get used to it. She’s a bit sticky on the clutch. Off you go. I’ve turned the engine over so she’s quite warm.’

  Ashley gingerly put the car into gear, released the brake and depressed the accelerator. ‘God strewth!’ Despite his caution, the car leapt forward with alarming speed. ‘How on earth you can drive round in this without breaking your neck, I don’t know. Didn’t you tell me you won her in a bet?’ he added, carefully bringing the car out of the stable yard. ‘I never had you pegged as the sort who went in for high stakes.’

  Haldean grinned. ‘Not unless you count getting licked to a splinter by Uncle Phil at billiards. Careful, old thing. There’s a bit of oversteer until you’re used to it. I won her fair and square. The editor and most of the staff of On the Town went down with flu and I agreed to write an entire issue from Society Snippets to Answers to Correspondents – plus From the Editor’s Office, a twenty-thousand-word thriller and a story of Young Love. I had the thriller tucked away in a drawer, but the rest was real sweat-of-my-brow stuff. The proprietor, who stood to lose a goodish bit if the issue didn’t come out, bet me this car I couldn’t do it in three days. I did it in just over two and a half and he paid up like a gent.’

  ‘Blimey, it takes me that long to write a letter.’ Ashley hunkered down further in the seat. ‘Now, tell me what you think is on that piece of paper . . .’

  Inspector Rackham stood up as they were shown into his room. ‘By crikey, Jack,’ he said, his Lancastrian voice rich with relief, ‘I thought you’d had it whe
n I read this morning’s paper. It sounded as if you were on the way out. I could hardly credit it when Mr Ashley said you were on your way up to London.’

  Haldean grinned. ‘Almost everyone I know expects to cough up for a funeral wreath in the very near future. However, reports of my early demise are, I’m glad to say, very much exaggerated. Can you get the translation done for us?’

  ‘There’ll be no problem about that. Hand it over.’

  Rackham put the paper in a cardboard file and took it out of the room. He was back within minutes. ‘It won’t take long. I’d warned our Russian expert we had some business for him. Is there anything else we can do for you?’

  Haldean sucked his cheeks in. ‘As you know, I’m interested in the Paradise Club. Somebody from Stanmore Parry telephoned the Paradise Club the day Smith-Fennimore was kidnapped. I’m wondering if the Paradise Club could be connected with the Russians who attacked us at Hesperus and chased Stanton and me round the grounds of The Priory yesterday.’

  ‘A sort of gang headquarters, you mean?’ Bill Rackham tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘Not that those two who were killed yesterday were Russian, of course. It’s interesting about the Paradise Club, Jack. I’m told it’s all right. Keeping an eye on undesirables isn’t my department, but they usually know what they’re doing. It gets rather boisterous from time to time, that’s all. It’s a bit of a dive, but it’s fashionable. Goodness knows why. Have you been there?’

  ‘I’ve been a couple of times. You’re quite right, it is a dive. But fashionable.’

  Rackham smiled. ‘I don’t know why you waste your time or money. Now, having said that about the place, I think there might be more to it than we’ve realized.’ He opened his desk and took out an envelope. ‘I was going to get in touch with you anyway this morning, Mr Ashley. Here’s a picture of a real beauty.’ He took a photograph out of the envelope and laid it on the desk. ‘It’s another dead man and he is a Russian. He was fished out of the Thames yesterday morning with a bullet through his chest. It didn’t attract much attention, because the papers have been full of the Lyvenden case, but I wondered if you knew anything about him, as you seem to have had quite a lot of Russians on your hands recently.’ He looked at Haldean. ‘Do you recognize him?’

  Haldean’s eyebrows rose. ‘I’ll say I do. It’s the man who was at Hesperus on Sunday. You didn’t see him, Ashley, but it’s him all right. He looks a bit the worse for wear.’ Haldean handed back the photograph. ‘Who is he, Bill? Do you know?’

  Rackham returned the picture to its envelope. ‘His name’s Youri Gerasimov and he frequents – or frequented – the Paradise Club. That’s what made me wonder if there is anything going on there. We’ve had him for armed assault. He attacked a fellow Russian with a knife about a year ago, but the fight was split up and he ended up with a caution. So that’s the man who was at Hesperus, is it?’

  ‘That’s right. He terrified the wits out of Lord Lyvenden. Bill, I want to find out a bit more about the knife he had.’

  ‘The knife which was used on Lord Lyvenden?’ asked Ashley.

  ‘That’s right. I’d like to know where it came from. Is there a suitable shop where this bloke could have bought it from? It could come from anywhere, I know, but I wonder if there’s anywhere likely near the Paradise Club?’

  ‘There might be.’ Rackham stood up and took a Kelly’s Street Directory from his bookshelf. He spread the book open. ‘It’s off Soho Square, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Haldean. ‘Lacey Street.’

  The telephone on his desk rang. ‘Excuse me,’ said Rackham briefly, and picked it up.

  Haldean and Ashley could see his face change as he listened to the tinny voice on the other end. ‘Right! I’m on my way. Get some men and the surgeon as fast as you can. Tell them to meet us there. We’ll be inside.’

  He slammed the phone down triumphantly. ‘We’ve got Smith-Fennimore! We had a break with an informer. We might’ve known where he’d be. He’s in the Paradise Club.’

  ‘Let’s go in my car,’ said Haldean urgently. ‘I know where the club is. I’ll drive.’

  ‘What about your arm?’ asked Rackham, making for the door.

  ‘Damn my arm. What do you need the surgeon for?’ he asked as they hurried downstairs.

  ‘The informer said he’s in a bad way.’

  Haldean shot the Spyker out of Scotland Yard, threading his way in frustration through the London traffic. They arrived in Lacey Street in record time.

  Rackham climbed out of the back of the car. ‘We’re first to arrive. I’m not surprised, the way you drove. I say, Jack, look across the road. I think that might be the shop you’re looking for.’

  Across the street stood a small fishing tackle and gun shop. Haldean shook his head impatiently. ‘Never mind that now. Here’s the club. Is it locked, I wonder?’

  He put his hand to the door. It swung back.

  ‘Watch yourself,’ warned Rackham. ‘We don’t know who’s inside.’

  Half expecting to be challenged, the men filed into the building. No sound came from the club. The reek of stale tobacco and the sickly smell of spilled alcohol met them. Like all places that are meant to be seen at night, the Paradise Club seemed unreal in the daylight. It was tawdry enough in the evening, but with a superficial glitter that could pass for glamour. By day the ugliness showed through the cheap and grimy furniture.

  ‘What a dump,’ said Ashley in disgust.

  They were beginning to think the entire club was deserted, when Ashley noticed a door leading from the cloakroom that gave on to an enclosed stairwell. ‘This looks like the entrance to the attics,’ he said. ‘We might have better luck upstairs.’

  Rackham stopped at the doorway and picked up a little glittering syringe, handling it carefully with a handkerchief.

  They turned as the street door opened. Dr Crimmond, the police surgeon, and three constables under the charge of a sergeant came in. Rackham handed the syringe to the doctor. ‘Have you any idea what that’s been used for?’

  ‘Not until it’s analysed,’ said Dr Crimmond. ‘It’s an unpleasantly suggestive thing to find though, isn’t it?’

  They walked quietly up the stairs, hearing no sounds apart from the traffic in the street outside. The stairs opened on to a landing off which ran four rooms, containing old boxes and various bits of junk: broken lights, decrepit chairs, an antiquated piano. A thick layer of dust, tracked through by footprints, covered the bare floorboards.

  At the end of the passage, a door stood partly open. Rackham pushed it back and gave a triumphant cry. ‘Here he is!’

  Malcolm Smith-Fennimore lay unconscious, hands and feet tied, under a window at the far end of the room. His breathing was slow, quiet and shallow and his face was slicked with sweat. The doctor, followed by Haldean, pushed his way through and knelt beside him.

  Haldean was appalled as he took in the extent of Smith-Fennimore’s injuries. A dark, ugly bruise ran across his dirt-smeared forehead and temple, and his shirt sleeves had been ripped open, exposing ominous marks on his forearms. ‘What on earth have they done to him, Doctor?’

  The doctor glanced up briefly. ‘Those are cigarette burns from the look of it. The swine really had it in for him.’ He lifted up Smith-Fennimore’s eyelids and nodded. ‘Pupils contracted. Just as I thought.’ He glanced at Inspector Rackham. ‘This man’s been poisoned with one of the opiates. Morphine or heroin, I should imagine.’ He opened his bag and, taking out a little bottle, started to prepare a syringe.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Haldean.

  ‘Strychnine,’ replied the doctor, briefly. ‘It’s a stimulant.’ He pinched a piece of skin on the inside on Smith-Fennimore’s arm and plunged the needle home. ‘All we can do now is wait.’ The doctor sat back on his heels. ‘He’s pretty far gone, though. It’s going to be touch and go. Let’s get him untied.’

  The rope round Smith-Fennimore’s wrists and ankles was too tight to be undone, so they cut him loo
se with Rackham’s penknife. The doctor cleaned the wounds on his forehead and arms. Smith-Fennimore stirred and groaned.

  Haldean settled down beside the unconscious man, taking one of the cold hands in his own, seeing where the rope had bitten into the flesh of the wrists. Smith-Fennimore coughed, and, rolling his head to one side, retched. Haldean and the doctor held him until the spasm was over, then sat him up, supporting his back.

  ‘Treat him gently,’ warned the doctor. ‘We have to get him on his feet but he mustn’t make any sudden movements.’

  Smith-Fennimore blinked wearily round the room, then focused on Haldean. ‘Jack! I thought you were dead.’ He reached out and grasped his arm feebly. ‘Jack, thank God you’re not dead. I didn’t want you to die.’

  ‘We’ve been worried about you,’ said Haldean in a voice that wasn’t quite steady.

  ‘Have you?’ asked Smith-Fennimore, faintly. He put a hand to his face. ‘My arms are sore.’

  ‘Cigarette burns,’ said the doctor laconically, pleased with his patient’s recovery.

  ‘I remember now. It was pretty beastly.’

  Dr Crimmond looked up as a noise sounded in the street. ‘That’ll be the ambulance we sent for.’ He nodded at a policeman standing near the door. ‘Go down and tell them where we are.’

  ‘No,’ said Smith-Fennimore, weakly. ‘I want to go to Hesperus. I want to see Isabelle.’

  ‘You’re going to hospital,’ said the doctor firmly. ‘You’ll be as right as rain in a couple of days, but I want you to receive some proper treatment and you need to be under observation tonight. And no questions until tomorrow,’ he told the watching Inspector Rackham.

  The ambulance men lifted Smith-Fennimore on to a stretcher and, with Dr Crimmond in attendance, carried him down the stairs and into the ambulance.

  ‘Can I come with you?’ asked Haldean.

  The doctor shook his head. ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ said the doctor. ‘He’ll be all right now. We’re going to the King Edward’s. He’s in good hands.’

  Haldean shook his head irritably, but climbed into the ambulance beside Smith-Fennimore, and took his hand. ‘I’ve got to be off now, old man,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll ring the hospital to see how you are. All the best.’