by Danny Weston
‘Then we’ll have to dump some, won’t we?’ said Mr Sparks. He grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll buy you more, once we’re settled somewhere. Nice ones. New ones. You’ll be the best-dressed lad in Britain. Come on, less talk, more action!’
Owen sighed. He set Mr Sparks down on the carpet and flipping the case onto its back, he unlatched it and looked at the jumble of clothes inside. ‘I don’t know what to throw out,’ he said. ‘One of these jumpers?’
‘No, leave ’em. They’ll be nice and soft to snuggle into. Chuck those trousers, though … and those tatty old shirts. What are the stripy things?’
‘Pyjamas, I’ll need those.’
‘Hmm. What’s in the blue bag?’
‘My toothbrush, a hairbrush …’
‘Yeah, get rid of that stuff. We can always buy new ones, if you need ’em.’
‘Really?’ Owen reached out and removed the wash bag.
‘Yes, really. Right, now there should be just about enough room …’
Owen lifted Mr Sparks and placed him gently into the case, arranging the remaining clothes around him. ‘How’s that?’ he asked.
‘Well, it’s not the Ritz, but it’ll have to do.’ He sniffed and made a face. ‘I’m not being funny but when did you last wash these vests?’ He registered Owen’s look of outrage. ‘All right, all right, keep your hair on. Only kidding.’
Owen went to close the lid but Mr Sparks wasn’t quite finished with him. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said. ‘There’s something else, before we leave. I need you to go to the trunk.’
Owen stood up and walked over to it. ‘What now?’ he asked.
‘There’s a drawer there with a golden sun painted on it. Can you see that?’
‘Yes.’ Owen reached out and gave the handle a pull. ‘It’s locked,’ he said.
Mr Sparks gave a snort of annoyance. ‘The key will be in Otto’s waistcoat pocket. Go to the wardrobe and find that.’
‘But shouldn’t I …?’
‘Go on, boy, get a move on!’
Owen turned aside and walked to the wardrobe. He opened the door and found Mr Schilling’s clothes hanging neatly within. In one of the pockets of the old man’s waistcoat, he found a little brass key. ‘This?’ he asked, holding it up.
‘The very thing. Now, go and unlock the drawer and take out what’s inside.’ Owen did as he was told, but he was starting to think that Mr Sparks was every bit as bossy as Aunt Gwen. He hoped he wasn’t jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. He slotted the key into the lock, turned it and the drawer slid open. Inside was what looked like a soft leather belt with a rectangular pouch on it. ‘What is it?’ asked Owen, pulling it out.
‘It’s a money belt,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘Open it.’
Owen unclipped the pouch and drew in a sharp breath when he saw the contents. It was stuffed with money, paper notes to the value of five, ten and even twenty pounds. ‘What’s all this?’ he asked, confused. He had never seen so much money in one place before.
‘That’s our insurance,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘Put the belt on, Owie. Lift up your shirt and strap it around your middle, so nobody can see it.’
‘But—’ Owen looked towards the bed. ‘Doesn’t this belong to Mr Schilling? We can’t just take it.’
‘Course we can. It’s a gift. He told me last night, he said, “Charlie, I want you to have this. It’ll help give you a new start.”’
Owen considered this, but something about it didn’t feel right. He began to walk over to the bed. ‘I can’t just take his money without asking if it’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m going to check with him.’
‘No, don’t do that, I told you not to wake him!’
Owen put a hand on Mr Schilling’s shoulder – then recoiled as he registered that the old man felt as cold as a slab of mutton. Owen lifted his other hand to his mouth to stop himself from shouting. ‘Is he … dead?’ he whispered.
Mr Sparks sighed. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you,’ he said. ‘Didn’t want to upset you. He slipped away late last night. Just after he said that to me about the money. See, he knew he didn’t have long. And he wanted to give us the best chance possible.’
‘But you … you told me not to wake him!’
‘I was trying to spare your feelings,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘I thought you might be a bit upset.’
‘Upset? Of course I’m upset!’ Owen turned away from the bed. He was shaking. He’d never seen a dead person before, not even his father. There’d been a ceremony at the church to mark his passing, but no body to bury. Owen couldn’t get over the fact that he’d been talking to Mr Schilling only hours earlier. Yes, of course the old man had been ill, Owen had seen those spots of blood on his handkerchief, but he hadn’t realised how close to the end he was. To just … slip away like that, it was … terrifying.
‘Breathe, Owie,’ whispered Mr Sparks. ‘You’ll be all right.’
‘How can it be all right?’ hissed Owen. ‘He’s dead. We can’t pretend that hasn’t happened.’
‘Keep your voice down! People die every day, and you should know that better than anyone, what with your dad and everything. Now, strap that money belt on and let’s get out of here.’
Owen did as he was told, securing the belt with trembling hands. He felt numb, shocked to his very core. He looked towards the bed again. ‘We can’t just leave him like that,’ he said.
‘We have to. We can’t go making a big fuss about this.’
‘But—’
‘Owie, listen to me! This is what he wanted. He said to me, just before he passed, he said, “Charlie, my one hope now is that you and the boy can make a clean getaway. No matter what happens, don’t let anything hold you back.” That’s what he said to me, minutes before the light went from his eyes. You don’t want to let him down, do you?’
Owen’s eyes were wet. He shook his head. ‘I … I suppose not,’ he said.
‘Right, then. Come on, close up this case and let’s get moving.’
Owen got down on his knees and shut the lid of the case. The last thing he saw was Mr Sparks’ luminous eyes gazing steadfastly up at him. He secured the latches, and carried the case as quietly as he could to the door before peeping out onto the dark landing. Everywhere seemed deserted. He stepped cautiously out, pulled the door shut behind him and walked along the landing until he was able to peer over the bannisters, down to the foyer. Sitting in a chair at the front desk, he saw the hulking shape of Mr Pugh, the night porter, and for a moment, he thought he was going to have big problems. But then it became clear that Pugh’s head was bowed. He was breathing heavily, fast asleep where he sat.
Owen snatched in a deep breath and began to descend the stairs, placing each foot with great care, trying to avoid the steps that he knew from experience would creak beneath his tread. It seemed to take a long time to get to the foot of the stairs and then he was creeping across the woodblock floor towards the main doors. He was almost there when it occurred to him that the doors would be locked; and glancing back, he could see the length of gold chain that hung from Pugh’s waistcoat pocket, where he knew the key must be.
But he wasn’t about to retrace his steps to try and get it. He thought for a moment and then angled sharp right, into the small library, where he knew there was a ground-floor window. He went to it and tried the handle, but it hadn’t been opened in years and had been painted over several times. Owen put down the case and applied both hands to the job, pushing down on the handle with all his strength. Suddenly, it gave, with a loud crack that seemed to echo throughout the house. There was a corresponding grunt from the foyer, the sure sign that the noise had disturbed Mr Pugh. Owen didn’t wait to see if the man was coming to investigate. He pulled open the window and flung the case through the opening. He was aware of a muffled grunt from inside it as it hit the grass, but he was already scrambling after it. He dropped to the ground, turned back and pushed the window closed – then crouched as he sensed, rather than saw, somebody come into the room. He hugged
the brick wall as a candle light came towards the window and a few moments later, he was aware of Pugh’s big silhouette standing there, staring out into the first light of dawn. Owen held his breath. There was a scraping noise as the window catch was secured. Then the light moved away again and Owen remembered to breathe.
‘What’s going on?’ hissed a muffled voice from inside the case.
‘Bit of a close call,’ muttered Owen. ‘But I think we’re all right now.’ He grabbed the handle of the suitcase and got cautiously to his feet, half afraid that Pugh would still be at the window, glaring accusingly out at him. But there was nobody in sight. Owen walked the short distance to the pavement, then turned sharp left and hurried along the promenade.
There was a sickly grey light, the sun still struggling to rise and Owen could see only halfway along the pier before it disappeared into a thick haze. He could hear the waves rushing fitfully onto the beach, stirring the shingle, and away to his right, the Great Orme was nothing more than a brown smudge.
‘Right,’ said the muffled voice. ‘First of all we—’
‘My mother,’ hissed Owen.
‘What?’
‘My ma. You promised we could visit her first.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the voice. ‘I did say that, didn’t I?’ Mr Sparks didn’t sound too enthusiastic. ‘Where did you say she was?’
‘Denbigh,’ said Owen. ‘The asylum.’
‘That’s right. The nut house. A lovely place to visit … but probably not somewhere you’d want to stay for too long.’
Owen nodded. ‘We’ll need to go to the railway station,’ he said, and started walking.
5
Strangers
‘The little devil!’ snarled Aunt Gwen. She was walking down the hotel’s main staircase, her features arranged into a furious expression.
She was having a bad morning. It had started to go bad at seven o’clock, when she’d gone up to give Owen his customary morning call, only to find his room was empty. At first, she’d thought he must be somewhere else in the hotel, making an earlier start than usual, but a swift search had yielded no results and none of the staff admitted to having seen him. She returned to his room for a second look and that was when she noticed the suitcase was gone from the top of the wardrobe. When she looked inside the wardrobe, she saw to her intense displeasure that most of the boy’s clothes were also missing.
Finally, the inevitable answer dawned on her. He’d run off. The little swine had packed his things and done a moonlight flit! She seethed inwardly at the very idea of it. She couldn’t believe the ingratitude. Hadn’t she housed him and fed him all this time, given him a thorough grounding in the ways of the hotel trade? And was this how the little wretch had repaid her? By running off in the early hours like some vagrant? Well, she told herself, she’d teach him a lesson he’d never forget. She’d get straight on to the police and send them after him. They’d drag him back here, by force if necessary and, when she had him all to herself, by golly she’d teach him better manners.
She was on her way down to the foyer to use the telephone when two men strode urgently through the entrance doors, looking as though they were here on an important matter. The first man was perhaps in his mid-thirties, she thought, tall and thin, dressed in a long black coat that came down almost to his ankles. He had a mane of glossy black curls that hung to his shoulders, and his long, clean-shaven face was dominated by a prominent nose and a pair of intense black eyes. They examined Aunt Gwen with apparent interest as she reached the bottom of the stairs. The second man was a good ten years older than his companion and seemed to have been designed as the exact opposite of him. He was short and fat and scruffily bearded. He wore a thick tweed suit and a small bowler hat was perched precariously on his rather large head.
‘Are you the owner of this establishment?’ asked the first man – an Englishman, judging by his accent.
‘Yes, but if you’ll excuse me, I have some urgent business to attend to,’ said Aunt Gwen, pointing to the phone on the counter. ‘I was just about to phone the police.’
‘Ah! Then we have arrived just in time to save you the trouble,’ said the thin man. ‘Madam, we too are here on a matter of some urgency. We have come to apprehend a dangerous criminal.’ He made a strange, theatrical flourish with one hand and she noticed that he wore a pair of black leather gloves. The older, heavier man was pacing around behind his companion, staring impatiently around the place as though expecting to see somebody hiding in the shadows. An odd-looking pair of coppers, thought Aunt Gwen, and not uniformed men, but plainclothes officers, so it must be something important to bring them out here so early on a Sunday morning.
‘Well, how extraordinary,’ she said. ‘So this is about Owen, is it?’
‘Owen?’ The thin man looked puzzled. ‘Madam, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about. Do you by any chance have a guest staying here by the name of Otto Schilling?’
The second man leaned forward. ‘A foreigner,’ he said, in an accent that could only have originated in the East End of London. ‘A European. An elderly gentleman.’
‘I knew it,’ said Aunt Gwen. ‘He’s a German, isn’t he? He told me he was from Belgium, but I wasn’t fooled for a moment.’
The two men briefly exchanged looks before the thin one returned his gaze to Aunt Gwen, his dark eyes smouldering. ‘Mr Schilling is a native of Belgium,’ he assured her. ‘That much, at least, we are sure of.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Am I to take it that he’s … still here?’
Aunt Gwen frowned. ‘Yes, in room seven. Best room in the hotel, I gave him. Got a view of the pier and everything. He checked in yesterday morning. But, if you don’t mind me saying, his behaviour has been most suspicious. He hasn’t come out of his room since he arrived. And he’s eaten next to nothing. A cheese sandwich and a glass of milk! I mean, how suspicious is that?’
Now the two strangers glanced at each other with evident delight.
‘He’s still here, Wilkins!’ said the thin man excitedly. He seemed to make an effort to calm himself and turned back to Aunt Gwen. ‘Take us to him,’ he said. ‘I suppose you must have a master key?’
‘Yes, of course I have, this is a reputable establishment. But … just a moment, please. Who are you, exactly?’
The thin man smiled apologetically. ‘Forgive me, madam, in all the excitement I’ve quite forgotten my manners. You see, we’ve been on the trail of Mr Schilling for quite some time.’
‘Nearly two years,’ said the fat man, moving his bushy eyebrows up and down. ‘We’ve followed him halfway around the world and back. A very slippery customer is Mr Schilling.’
The thin man smiled. ‘I’m Quinn,’ he said. He indicated his friend. ‘And this is my associate, Wilkins.’
Wilkins removed his bowler hat and bowed politely, revealing that despite the clumps of mousy hair that stuck out from under the hat, he was quite bald on top.
‘I’m Gwen Morgan,’ she said. ‘The proprietor of the Sea View.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Quinn.
‘Delighted,’ added Wilkins.
‘Well, Mr Quinn … Mr Wilkins, of course I’ll take you up to Mr Schilling’s room in good time, but if you’re not here about my nephew, then first I will have to report his—’
‘Madam, I’m afraid I must insist,’ said Quinn forcefully.
‘Every minute we waste standing here talking could put you and your guests in danger,’ added Wilkins. ‘Terrible danger.’
‘I see.’ There was a silence while Aunt Gwen considered this. Then she shrugged her shoulders. The phone call, she decided, would have to wait for a while. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘If it’s as important as you suggest, who am I to refuse?’ She went behind the reception desk and found the correct bunch of keys. ‘If you gentlemen would care to follow me?’ She came out from behind the desk and started towards the lift, but the thin man shook his head.
‘If it’s all the same to you, madam, you and
I shall take the stairs. Mr Wilkins can go in the lift, just to ensure that we do not miss Mr Schilling coming down the stairs as we ride up.’
Aunt Gwen scowled. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You’re clearly not taking any chances.’ Wilkins headed off to the lift and she led Quinn towards the staircase. She glanced back at him as she climbed. ‘Would you like to tell me what Mr Schilling has done to demand all this attention? I’m hoping it won’t be anything that reflects badly on the reputation of the Sea View. We are, after all, Llandudno’s premier hotel.’
Quinn frowned. ‘I’m afraid, madam, that I am not at liberty to divulge that information. Suffice it to say that Mr Schilling is a very dangerous fellow. Some might say, a criminal mastermind.’
‘My goodness. How exciting! He seemed such a frail old man. Doesn’t look at all well, if you ask me.’ They reached the first-floor landing just as the lift’s concertina cage doors creaked open and Wilkins stepped out. The three of them walked along until they came to room seven. Aunt Gwen raised her hand to knock but Quinn intercepted her.
‘We … er … don’t want to warn him,’ he whispered. He gestured to the lock. ‘If you would oblige us?’
She frowned, nodding. She slotted the key into the lock and turned it gently. Then Quinn pushed the door slightly open and peered cautiously inside. Aunt Gwen caught a glimpse of the old man, lying in his bed, mostly covered by blankets. He appeared to be asleep. Quinn and Wilkins glanced at each other and grinned triumphantly. Then they dashed into the room. Quinn seized the old man by his shoulders and pinned him down. ‘Finally,’ he roared. ‘Finally we—’
He broke off and took a step back from the bed. He stood for a moment, staring down open-mouthed at the old man’s still figure. He removed a glove and held two fingers against Mr Schilling’s throat. Then he groaned and turned away, his expression one of profound disappointment. Wilkins stared at him for a moment, not comprehending. He stepped past Quinn and took a closer look at the prostrate form. ‘No,’ he hissed. ‘He can’t be.’