by Simon Brett
‘Listen, lady,’ said Linguine, ‘there’s no way outta here. And there’s no way outta what the Boss has in mind for you. Apart from Boggy “Two Noses” Taormina downstairs on the main entrance, you’ll have me and “Two Legs” outside the door on the landing. Get used to it, doll – you’re going to be here till the Boss gets back.’
‘You mentioned,’ said Twinks coolly, ‘“what the Boss has in mind for me”. Am I going to be allowed to know what that is?’
Michael ‘Two Legs’ Conchiglioni let out a laugh like blood going down an abattoir drain, while his associate replied grimly, ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
Blotto’s steam-rollered spirits did lift a little the following morning at the sight of his Lagonda on the Chapstick Towers drive. Being behind the wheel of that little baby could not fail to give him a brief respite from gloomy thoughts of marriage. And at least a 1,500-mile round-trip to New York would keep him at a distance from the pathetic adoration of Mary Chapstick. (Mind you, she had insisted that he should call her as soon as he arrived in New York, and reluctantly he had promised to do so.)
He knew the excursion would be only a temporary respite, but he really relished the prospect of driving on the open road (even if it would be on the wrong side of it).
What was more, in the Lagonda’s dickey he’d found his precious cricket bat, still safe and sound. After a reverential stroke and sniff of its battered linseed-oil-scented surface, he stood it up in the car’s front seat like an honoured passenger.
So it was in more cheerful mood that Blotto drove the Lagonda down the Chapstick Towers drive on his way to New York. And that mood improved considerably when he got on to the main highway. So preoccupied was he with the pleasure of driving that he didn’t notice the small black Chevrolet that had joined his route a few miles from Chapstick Towers and continued doggedly to stay some two or three cars behind the Lagonda.
In his office, which was the entire top floor of the Chainey Hotel, Spagsy Chiaparelli was thoughtful. His plans were going well. He’d averted a falling-out with Luther P. Chapstick III over icing the English duke and he had his mitts on the boofer’s sister, who was reckoned to be by far the more intelligent and dangerous of the siblings. So pretty soon her chitterlings’d be griddled.
Meanwhile her brother was playing the perfect patsy, acting as messenger between the criminal families of Chicago and New York. He was such a boneheaded swell that, even if the cops did stop him, they’d never suspect him of washing his hands in dirty water.
On the other hand . . . Spagsy Chiaparelli was always very anxious about security. The fewer people there were who knew about his activities, the cosier he slept at night. And even though this Devereux dingle seemed too stupid to spot a buzzard in a beehive, he might still blab something to someone. Better safe than sorry . . .
Sure, Luther P. Chapstick III might be a bit soured off to hear his daughter’s fiancé had been chilled, but no suspicion would be attached to Spagsy, the bosom buddy with whom he had such a great ‘understanding’. The two of them would continue to run Chicago – and soon New York – together. The duke-erasing job would be done by some goon in the Big Apple. Nothing to do with the Chicago operation.
Kill the messenger, thought Spagsy, always a good safety measure. He picked up the telephone, placed a call to Harry ‘Three Bananas’ Pennoni and gave his instructions.
23
Blotto in Peril!
Blotto wasn’t entirely happy with the way the Lagonda was handling. Normally he drove it like he rode Mephistopheles. It was hard to detect where man stopped and car or horse began. But on the 700-mile drive to New York the beloved Lagonda didn’t feel like its usual self. It seemed to lack that huge pick-up of acceleration he so treasured. It felt heavier and less secure on cornering.
Blotto wished he could just take the thing down to the Tawcester Towers garages and let Corky Froggett have a look at it. The chauffeur tuned that engine like a maestro tuned a Stradivarius.
The thought reminded Blotto of his current situation. There was a really strong chance that he would never see Corky Froggett again. Never see Tawcester Towers again either. Spend the rest of his life driving on the wrong side of the road and watching rounders . . .
Oh, biscuits smashed to smithereens, thought Blotto miserably.
Ziggy ‘Tomato Sauce’ Radiatore was the best hitman in New York and he knew it. He’d never bothered counting his victims, he didn’t suffer from that kind of ostentatious pride. Who cared about numbers? For Ziggy ‘Tomato Sauce’ Radiatore, knowing he was the best was good enough.
He was lying on a sheetless mattress in his undecorated apartment when the call came through from Harry ‘Three Bananas’ Pennoni.
He was given the target’s name, the marque and number of the vehicle he’d be driving and his estimated arrival time in a Little Italy garage. Early evening the following day. The money would be the usual, paid into the usual account. The call ended.
Ziggy ‘Tomato Sauce’ Radiatore unlocked the arsenal of guns that lay in a steel box under his bed. In turn he caressed them lovingly, decided which one he would use to whack the Englishman.
‘My brother told me that, when it comes to singing, you’re absolutely the lark’s larynx,’ said Twinks.
‘That’s nice of him,’ said Choxy Mulligan. ‘He seems like a nice guy . . . apart from . . .’
‘I’m so sorry. I’m absolutely crabwhacked about what we did. We were so obsessed with getting Blotto out of his engagement that we didn’t consider your feelings.’
‘Feelings?’ drawled Choxy. ‘I’m not so sure I have feelings. Or if I did have some, Spagsy’s seen to it that they’ve been encased in cement – one of his favourite ways of dealing with anything inconvenient.’
The two women were sitting cosily over a pot of tea.
Twinks picked up the conversation. ‘From what you say that stencher Spagsy doesn’t seem to treat you very well.’
The singer shrugged. ‘He buys me stuff. Jewellery . . . this fancy apartment . . . He beats up on me too, but that’s guys, isn’t it? I don’t have too much cause for complaint.’
‘Does he ever ask your advice?’
‘Spagsy? Ask my advice? What the hell would he want to do that for?’
‘To show that he respects you as a woman.’
‘What?’ Choxy Mulligan burst out into rich, husky laughter. ‘Hell, where I come from no woman gets respect. We get bought, we get used, we get beat up on, we get cheated on. Only way a woman round here gets respect is by attaching herself to a man who’s rich and powerful.’
‘Like Spagsy Chiaparelli?’
‘You hit it, doll.’
‘But wouldn’t it be jollissimo for you to gain people’s respect apart from because of Spagsy?’
‘What stuff you taking? That kinda thing don’t happen.’
‘My brother was really impressed by your singing.’
‘Like I said, nice of him to say so.’
‘He reckoned your voice could make you a big star . . .’
‘Oh, sure,’ said Choxy Mulligan sardonically.
‘. . . not just a chanteuse in a speakeasy.’
‘Listen up, buttercup. Spagsy’s speakeasies are the only place I’m allowed to sing, and only when he’s present. Even then he shoots any guy who smiles at me.’
‘So, Choxy, do you actually like being a kept woman?’
‘It sure as hell beats the alternative.’
Nobody can know how much further the two women might have advanced into the topic of women’s rights, because at that moment Vic ‘Rat Teeth’ Papardelle and Toni ‘Nostrils’ Linguini burst through the door. They stood either side, sentries for the entrance of Spagsy Chiaparelli.
And on his instructions, they took Twinks for a ride. What he called a ‘can-can ride’.
Ziggy ‘Tomato Sauce’ Radiatore checked the piece of paper on which he’d written down the address: Sammy ‘Broken Ankles’ Lumache’s garage on Broome Street.
He once again checked the mechanism of his selected weapons. He had decided on his favourite Colt Vest Pocket Pistol. Small, neat and efficient. Two of them, though, both checked and primed. Though he’d never needed to use the second gun, he left nothing to chance. It was just as well Ziggy ‘Tomato Sauce’ Radiatore hadn’t indulged the vanity of scratching notches on the pistols’ butts; if he had, there wouldn’t have been any butts left.
Blotto wished for Corky Froggett more than ever as he drove through the drab outskirts of New York City. The Lagonda just didn’t feel right. Maybe the finely honed machine was simply expressing its disapproval of driving on the wrong side of the road. But Blotto felt there was something even more serious going on. The car seemed to be experiencing a heartsickness that reflected his own.
As the Lagonda entered Manhattan, the buildings grew taller and, even if there had been much light, little of it would have penetrated down to street level. It was a cold, grey afternoon. The rain didn’t blow about as much as in Chicago, but it was still thick and relentless.
The traffic in the city was heavy, a maelstrom of clogged buses, screeching taxicabs and screaming taxi drivers, as Blotto progressed slowly downtown. The directions Luther P. Chapstick III had given him were good, and he didn’t have much difficulty in nosing his way towards his destination. Through the dense traffic he still didn’t notice the small Chevrolet that had stayed some three or four vehicles behind him all the way from Chicago.
In the Lagonda’s glove compartment lay a thick envelope, the purpose of his mission. He didn’t know what was in it, and he didn’t care. All Blotto knew was that once the envelope had been handed over to Harry ‘Three Bananas’ Pennoni in Sammy ‘Broken Ankles’ Lumache’s garage, his job would be done. He’d then have to turn tail and retrace his melancholy steps back to Chapstick Towers and matrimony.
Ziggy ‘Tomato Sauce’ Radiatore had spoken to Sammy ‘Broken Ankles’ Lumache and persuaded him of the wisdom of taking a coffee break. The boss and his mechanics had obediently adjourned to a local trattoria for a couple of hours, leaving the garage unattended.
Before they left, Radiatore had got them to shift some of the automobiles, so that there was now only one obvious bay into which any incoming vehicle could park. Then he’d taken up his position inside the doorway. Anyone who’d just driven as far as his quarry was bound to park in the only available space and then get out of the driver’s seat and stand up to stretch his weary limbs.
It was then that Ziggy ‘Tomato Sauce’ Radiatore would add to his total by drilling a single shot neatly through the man’s temples.
Blotto turned the Lagonda from Mulberry Street on to Broome Street. Unnoticed, the small Chevrolet did the same.
The sign for Sammy ‘Broken Ankles’ Lumache’s garage was grubby but perfectly legible. The doorway’s shutter was pulled up. A single light illuminated the interior.
Blotto swung the Lagonda inside to the only available space. He pushed against the steering wheel and felt the weariness in his limbs. It had been a long, long drive.
Then he opened the driver’s door and stepped out, stretching as he did so.
At that moment a gunshot rang out. Blotto ducked.
Inwardly Ziggy ‘Tomato Sauce’ Radiatore cursed. He’d had the bead of his Colt trained on the spot where the car’s driver must inevitably appear. And then the slimebag had got out of the passenger side of the vehicle! Damn, he’d have to use the second pistol, and doing that was a blow to his professional pride.
He moved swiftly forward. No risks this time. The Judas kill. Close enough to kiss the guy.
Ziggy ‘Tomato Sauce’ Radiatore looked into the bewildered cornflower-blue eyes of Blotto as he raised his Colt to his target’s temple.
A shot rang out.
And Ziggy ‘Tomato Sauce’ Radiatore crumpled to the garage floor. Dead.
24
Some Explanations
In seconds Blotto had seized his faithful cricket bat from its front seat perch and held it ready to beat off any further assaults. The briefest of looks at the hired assassin at his feet told him no more would come from that direction.
But the corpulent young man with pebble glasses who was walking towards him from the haphazardly parked Chevrolet, carrying an Accrington-Murphy PL23 hunting rifle, might prove to be a great threat. With a quick feint to one side, Blotto moved towards the wavering gun barrel, dropped to one knee and with a fine upward stroke of his cricket bat, sent the rifle skittering across the garage floor.
One more smooth movement and his assailant was immobilized in a full nelson. ‘Tell me, you lump of toad-spawn,’ demanded Blotto, ‘who are you?’
‘My name,’ said the young man, ‘will never be revealed – even under torture.’
They decided to leave the body (which they didn’t know belonged to New York’s finest hitman, Ziggy ‘Tomato Sauce’ Radiatore) on the garage floor. No doubt the New York police force had methods for dealing with that kind of thing.
Keeping the man who’d been tailing him covered with the Accrington-Murphy PL23 hunting rifle, Blotto dragooned his captive into the driving seat of the Lagonda. Still with the gun trained on him, the young man was ordered to drive a few blocks north of Little Italy and to park outside a chophouse his captor had noticed on the way down. ‘I don’t know about you, me old greengage,’ said Blotto, who was just realizing how long it had been since his last meal, ‘but I could eat a horse – snaffle, stirrups and saddle!’
The young man, who’d driven the same route and therefore suffered the same dietary deprivation, agreed that he too was extremely hungry.
‘But listen,’ said Blotto, ‘I’m going to lock your Accrington-Murphy PL23 hunting rifle in the dickey. I’m assuming you’re not carrying any other weapons . . . ?’
‘Not a thing, I promise.’
‘Good ticket. Well, let’s wrap the choppers round some chow, and then maybe you can give me a few explanations . . . ?’
When he looked at his steak, for the first time Blotto appreciated the Americans’ rather vulgar desire to have the biggest of everything. It not only overlapped its plate, it overlapped the table, while also providing a platform for piles of eggs, fried potatoes, onions and tomatoes, which required further covering with salt, pepper, thin American mustard and catsup. His perhaps unwilling companion had ordered the same. Both had beers. By unspoken consent they agreed not to talk until the bulk of their eating had been done.
Finally, as Blotto pushed his last bit of fried potato round his plate to soak up the remainder of the meaty juices, he turned to the man who’d trailed him all the way from Chicago and said: ‘Perhaps I should be thanking you. You really saved my chitterlings there. That boddo you shot was out to coffinate me, you know.’
‘Yes.’ Then the man admitted, ‘Actually, I didn’t mean to hit him.’
‘Oh?’
‘No, I was aiming at you.’
‘Ah.’
‘I wanted to kill you.’
The social rules that had been ferociously inculcated into Blotto during his upbringing had not, so far as he could remember, covered the correct response to someone who’s just announced they wanted to kill you. So he confined himself to a ‘Toad-in-the-hole!’
‘In fact, I still want to kill you,’ insisted the chubbily earnest, bespectacled young man opposite him.
‘Well, I’ll be jugged like a hare!’ said Blotto. ‘Can I ask why?’
‘Because,’ the young man announced dramatically, ‘you’ve been slipping the sweets to my girl.’
‘I’m sorry? Are you telling me you’re another “very close friend” of Choxy Mulligan?’
A puzzled wrinkle of the brow. ‘I’ve never heard of anyone called Choxy Mulligan.’
There was a considerable congestion of pennies
inside Blotto’s brain, but this was an example of those rare occasions when one of them dropped. He remembered being with Twinks while she inspected a copse at Tawcester Towers. He remembered her description of Briscoe Daubeney-Vere’s killer as a corpulent man, five foot seven in height, who wore a size six shoe. He looked down surreptitiously to his dining companion’s footwear before asking, ‘Your name isn’t by any chance Sophocles Katzenjammer, is it?’
The young man considered his options for a moment and then admitted that it was indeed his name.
Blotto’s mental processes were on an uncharacteristic roll. ‘And you want to kill me because you think I’ve been cornswiggling Mary Chapstick?’ he asked, proud of the new word he’d learnt.
‘Sure, that’s why I want to kill you. And don’t worry, next time I get the opportunity, you’ll be a goner.’
‘So just rein in the roans for a moment . . .’ Within Blotto’s brain rings of logic were linking up at an unprecedented rate. ‘You followed Mary and her father to England. You came to Tawcester Towers. It was you who tried to shoot me on the balcony after Twinks’s impromptu dance, and ended up killing that poor old greengage Briscoe Daubeney-Vere by mistake.’ Another memory came to him. ‘It was you who shot my bails off in the game of cricket!’ Blotto’s face grew stern and forbidding. ‘You know, I can’t really forgive you for that.’
‘All right, I know shooting at people’s immoral, but—’
‘Nothing to do with morality. Tawcester Towers was within three runs of winning that game.’ But the memory of sporting disappointment was quickly pushed to one side. ‘And it was you who shot at me on the SS His Majesty!’
Sophocles Katzenjammer nodded that yes, indeed, it had been.
‘But why, in the name of strawberries, did you never hit me?’
The would-be assassin hung an apologetic head. ‘Because I’m a very bad shot. It’s my poor eyesight.’