by John Harris
He had been discussing terms with the Brown Hen and had finished the last of the champagne when the tall man halted outside Poll’s, stared up at the porch and spoke to the policeman. Fish dismissed them and turned to the Brown Hen.
‘How about another bottle of cham?’ he said. ‘Just to keep the baby quiet.’
The waiter arrived as he beckoned but, as he began to give his order, he saw that the tall man and the policeman had moved into the glow thrown out by the gaslights along the stoep and that they were talking to the black porter, a monstrous Zulu called Joby whom Poll dressed in a top hat and a faded red jacket that was far too small for him. Caught by curiosity, he leaned forward.
‘I’m looking for three men,’ the tall man was saying and, without asking, Fish knew at once which three men.
He waved the waiter away hurriedly, the champagne unordered, and, watched by the startled Brown Hen, pulled his chair further behind the palms and leaned towards the rail of the verandah to listen.
‘I’ve got good reason to believe,’ Mace continued, ‘that these three men are in this town and I understand they might even be here.’
He fished in his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. As he unfolded it for the porter to see, Fish was horrified to see the words ARMY PAYROLL ROBBERY across the top. They were big enough even for Fish not to have to strain. He glanced at the Brown Hen.
‘What’s wrong, dear?’ she asked.
The porter was staring at the notice Mace was holding up, with a blank expression on his face, and the policeman, a solid-looking Boer, frowned and emptied his bronchial tubes into the dust at his feet.
‘He doesn’t read, Meneer,’ he said.
He took the notice from Mace and talked to the black man in a low mixture of Afrikaans, English and Zulu. Joby promptly pointed down the road, but the Boer policeman shook his head and gestured fiercely at Poll’s.
Once more the Zulu pointed down the road and Fish guessed he was playing for time, knowing instinctively that something was wrong and that it was his duty to protect Poll and her customers.
‘I fetch Mevrouw Poll, Baas,’ he said, running out of ideas at last.
‘Never mind Mevrouw Poll,’ Mace said. ‘I think we’ll go in and see for ourselves.’
But with the instinct of all women in her line of business, Poll had already scented trouble and had appeared on the steps. ‘What’s wrong, Joby?’ she asked.
Mace stepped forward. ‘My name’s Mace,’ he said. ‘Captain Mace. Provost Department. I have reason to believe…’
‘This is a respectable hotel,’ Poll said immediately in a loud voice in the hope that one of her minions hovering on the stoep behind her would catch on that there was trouble in the offing and depart hurriedly to stop the gambling and get the guests into their own rooms.
‘I appreciate that, Madame,’ Mace replied politely. ‘But I have my duty to do. I have reason to believe…’
‘You’ll find no funny business here!’ Poll raised her voice higher.
‘Very likely not. But I still have reason to believe…’
‘I’ve never had a single complaint before.’
‘Madame’ – Mace’s voice had risen angrily – ‘will you please, for God’s sake, be quiet! I’m looking for three men. I have discovered two stolen army mules in the livery stable just outside town and I understand these three men might know something about them.’
‘There’s no need to upset my customers for a couple of stolen mules.’ Polly was fighting a staunch rearguard action. ‘The country’s full of ’em. You’ll have to wait in the hall till I’m ready to let you in.’
‘No, Madame,’ Mace said firmly. ‘I can’t have these men warned. I’m coming with you.’
The policeman pushed the porter aside and, as they headed for the hotel, Fish almost fell over the verandah trying to hear what they were saying.
‘Something wrong?’ the Brown Hen asked.
At the end of the corridor at the back of the hotel, Willie was sitting on the bed staring at the girl beside him. She was small and pretty and round, with a lot of uncovered golden skin, and black hair so curled with hot tongs it looked as though it had been fried. She was the daughter of a sharp Cockney trickster and a Cape Town Malay girl and had worked as maid to the wife of an officer in the Imperial Light Horse until the officer had deflowered her one night during his wife’s absence at a bridge party.
‘Josefina’s my name,’ she was saying. ‘My gentlemen friends call me Joey.’
Willie nodded. ‘Once had a spaniel bitch called Joey,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Rare breeder she was, too.’
She pirouetted in front of him. ‘Like my dress?’
It didn’t leave much to the imagination. ‘Quite a view,’ Willie said. ‘Puts everything in the window.’
She beamed. ‘How about my scent?’
‘Whiff of the briny.’
‘And me? How about me? Like me?’
Willie’s eyes played over the front of her dress. Her bust looked like a couple of buns bursting out of a bag. ‘Bosom pal,’ he said.
Joey giggled. ‘I’ve never seen you in Poll’s before.’
‘Bed’s as good a place as any to get to know a chap.’
Joey gave a shriek of laughter and turned her back to him. ‘You are a one,’ she said. ‘You can undo me if you like. It is a bit hot. There’s catches all down the back.’
As she stood in front of him, Willie began to work over the hooks and eyes and she obligingly slipped the dress off and stood in front of him in a ribbon-trimmed chemise, a pair of lace-edged drawers and red silk stockings.
‘You’re a feller with a bit of class, I can see,’ she said. ‘By the way you go at it. Had a good education and all that.’ She eyed him speculatively. ‘You an officer?’ she asked.
‘Not for a moment.’
‘Soldier?’
‘Have been.’
‘Ever fought in any battles?’
‘You heard of Tel-el-Kebir?’
‘Yes.’
‘I shot him.’
Joey gave a hoot of laughter and sloshed some champagne into his glass. ‘There’s another bottle under the bed,’ she said.
She began to unfasten the ribbon at the front of the chemise and opened it to the waist. ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Easier for everybody.’
Willie smiled and she went on. ‘You soldierin’ now?’ she asked discreetly. It paid to be discreet because there were a lot of men about whose connection with the army had been suddenly and silently terminated.
Willie smiled again. ‘Not exactly. Secret stuff.’
Joey’s eyes widened. ‘Spyin’?’
‘Came to abduct Kruger and boil him down for candles.’
Joey gurgled with laughter and, sitting on his knee, took his hand and placed it on her breast. ‘You’re different from these other fellers. You come to make a fortune?’
‘Not exactly,’ Willie said, thinking about the money buried at Chichester Junction. ‘Don’t really need one.’
‘You rich? My father was rich.’ Joey liked to think the information put her guests at ease. ‘He was a duke. A Portuguese duke. He came out to Delagoa Bay where he met my ma. Unfortunately, they both died and I had to move on.’ She wriggled comfortably under Willie’s hand and eyed him with interest. She knew enough about men to know that he possessed an indefinable something that stamped him, if not top drawer, at least well up the scale.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked, putting her arms round his neck.
‘Willie.’
‘Willie what?’
‘William Henry Fitzjohn Herbillon.’
Joey’s jaw dropped. ‘I believe you, but thousands wouldn’t.’
‘Honest,’ Willie said.
‘Go and kid your fat aunt. That’s a posh name.’
‘It’s there on my birth certificate. Belong to a rare breed that’s dying out fast.’
‘But not fast enough.’ Joey was eyeing him now with a look of wo
nder. ‘You a lord?’
A good story was always worth improving. ‘Sort of,’ Willie agreed.
Impressed despite herself, Joey stared at him for a moment, then she flung herself at him and he went over backwards on to the bed in a flurry of lace.
‘The Lord’s will be done,’ she shouted, and gave another yell of laughter that sounded like the train from the South passing through Chichester Junction.
Still balancing his glass, Willie fought to sit up. ‘Look out for the cham,’ he said.
Joey was tearing away at the chemise ribbon. ‘Plenty more where that come from,’ she said quickly. ‘So long as you’ve got the money, because I don’t trust nobody. Not even a lord. Not even the Lord.’ She sat back, naked to the waist, and stared at Willie again. ‘You sure you’re a lord?’
‘Friend of King Teddy himself.’
‘Vive le roar,’ Joey shouted. As she reached for him again, Willie tried to place the glass where he thought the bamboo table at the side of the bed was situated. He was a long way out in his aim and the glass dropped to the floor. Joey dived at him again, shrieking with laughter.
‘Never mind your spaniel bitch,’ she said, bouncing gaily on the bed. ‘Think of me!’
‘Hard not to,’ Willie admitted, coming up for air. ‘But let’s have another sip of cham first. Amazin’ how this sort of thing works up a thirst.’
He was just reaching for the bottle when the door burst open. Willie looked up. Framed in the light from the corridor was Fish’s square frame.
‘Out,’ he said.
‘Out?’ Willie blinked.
‘They’re here!’
‘Who’re here?’
‘The army! And they’re after us!’
The door slammed again. Joey pouted. ‘You don’t have to go, do you?’ she asked. She’d taken rather a fancy to Willie.
Willie shrugged. ‘Excitable feller, Dolly,’ he said. ‘No rush.’ He reached for Joey again and swung her on to the pillows just as the door burst open again.
‘Come on!’ Fish yelled.
Frantically he headed for the window, found his way barred by a chair and climbed over the bed. Willie yelled.
‘You’ve broken my back,’ he complained.
‘Better me than her,’ Fish said uncompromisingly.
Joey was sitting bolt upright now, her warm yellow flesh glowing in the candlelight. She didn’t like business being interfered with in this arbitarary fashion.
‘That’s the second time,’ she snorted. ‘What’s the idea? I’m having a teet-a-teet with my friend.’
‘It’ll have to wait,’ Fish said. He turned from the window and, grabbing Willie’s foot, jerked him to the floor with a crash. ‘Come on!’ he urged.
‘What’s the rush?’
‘Him!’ Fish dragged him to his feet and pointed through the window to where Poll was slowly giving ground outside. ‘He’s the rush.’
Willie stared in the direction of Fish’s pointing finger, ‘Who is he? I don’t know him from a cake of soap.’
Fish was jumping about like a pea in a hot pan. ‘Police,’ he said. ‘Army. I don’t know. I was sitting on the verandah and he comes up. Face like a rat with smallpox, and looking like he’d sat on a bun. He was asking about us.’
Willie reached hurriedly for his trousers.
‘He was asking the porter if there were three fellers in here who’d just arrived. He had one of them reward notices. He took it out of his pocket.’
Joey grabbed for Willie, but they ignored her, staring through the window. Mace was still arguing with Poll. Willie had never seen him before in his life but he knew at once that he was an enemy of William Henry Fitzjohn Herbillon. There was a brisk authoritativeness about his manner that made Willie uneasy and he could see that Poll was on the point of retreat.
‘I heard him say he’d found the mules,’ Fish said, heading for the corridor. ‘Where’s the Tiger?’
Willie shrugged. ‘Wherever he is, he’ll have to stay there now.’
As he started to throw his clothes on, Joey began to protest. ‘You’re not going are you?’ she said.
‘’Fraid so.’
‘You got me all worked up.’
‘Can’t help it. It’s a gift. Like swearing.’
‘Are they after you?’
‘In a way.’
Joey’s romantic world collapsed. ‘I thought you was rich.’
‘In experience and the affection of my friends.’
She was standing on the bed now, her bosom heaving, her lips pouting. ‘I put off a good customer for you,’ she pointed out bitterly.
‘Plenty more.’ Willie hopped round the room, dragging at his boots. As he picked up his hat she dived under the bed and fished out the bottle of champagne.
‘Better take this,’ she said with warm-hearted impulsiveness. ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’
Then Willie was gone and Joey was standing in the doorway staring in fury at Fish. ‘You!’ she said.
‘Aw, nuts!’ He put his hand on her chest and gave her a shove.
She went backwards over the bed but, even as the door slammed to with a crash she was already bouncing to her feet and drawing in her breath for a bellow of rage.
Four
Pansy and the Tiger had just reached the stage of wrestling as Joey started tuning up.
On top of the gin the sherry had gone to the Tiger’s head and Pansy had finally been forced to allow him a chaste kiss. Rather than satisfy him, however, it had seemed only to excite him and there was a great deal of uncovered flesh showing now and she was trying to hold up the edge of her slip as he tried to pull it down.
‘Stop it,’ she kept saying fiercely as they rocked on the edge of the bed, their feet braced against each other. ‘They’ll hear!’
‘Who will?’
‘Aunt Poll. That lot!’
‘Not if we keep quiet.’
‘I’m not going to keep quiet,’ Pansy said. ‘I’ll yell.’
But she didn’t because, despite what she’d told the Tiger, there had been a corporal of the Lancers one hot night on the beach at Sea Point near her home and, one evening when her mother had been out with her remount sergeant, a bold-eyed private of the City of London Volunteers whose father kept a pub in Clapham. Attempts on her virtue were not all that new to her.
The Tiger managed to plant another kiss somewhere under her left ear as she fought his clumsy embrace, but to his fury he was tangled up in the wrapper now and not doing very well, and she seemed as interesting underneath as she was on top.
He was shaking with excitement and frustration as he felt only strained cotton, elbows and knees. With an effort he got his hand in the top of the slip and touched her breast, but a flailing arm hit him on the nose and brought tears to his eyes. He had gone much too far to call a halt, however, and the closer he got to her, the more difficult it became to stop. There was a flurry of hands.
‘Pansy, please…!’
The candle went flying and, as it burned with a sizzling noise on the floor, he decided he was too busy to worry about it. If the place burned down, then the place burned down.
‘Pansy,’ he choked, but she was still fighting like mad, and her elbow caught him another jab under the eye.
He finally got his hand between her thighs and her knees clapped together like cymbals and trapped his wrist as if in a vice.
‘Pansy!’ The Tiger’s whisper was as near to being a frantic shriek as a whisper could be.
‘What?’
‘Let go my hand.’
She didn’t reply and there was a long silence as they struggled, their breathing coming fast.
‘Pansy.’
‘What?’
‘Let – go – my – hand. I’m not doing anything.’
‘Yes, you are. Take your hand away.’
‘I can’t. You’ve got it fast.’
As they heaved the Tiger’s head hit the top of the bed and the brass knobs rattled like a symphony o
rchestra playing a tympani concerto. He was sweating like a pig now, terrified of being foiled, and he had just made another grab when Joey’s yell of anger came rocketing down the corridor. Abruptly the wrestling stopped and they froze in an attitude of strained combat. They stared at each other.
‘What’s up?’ Pansy said. She sounded almost disappointed.
The Tiger was still heaving at his trapped hand when she decided to release him and he went over in a backward somersault off the bed on to his head. As he sat up, another yell of rage came down the corridor and he scrambled to his feet, fully aware at once that somehow it involved him.
He headed for the door, Pansy a second behind him as he wrenched it open. Through the banister, he could see Poll on the floor below, holding a candlestick and arguing with a policeman and a tall well-dressed man. Jericho Jessie was hurtling up the stairs with the Rose of Sharon who had been looking for her lost customer for half an hour now.
‘Stop that stupid bitch yelling,’ Jessie was saying. ‘They’ll shut the damn place up if they think we’re running a riotous assembly!’
The Tiger heard a door crash open along the corridor and the sound of a sharp slap. The screaming stopped at once. He swung round and stood with his back to the wall, blinking at full speed and leaving Pansy to hold the fort. There was a hissed conversation at the door.
‘It’s the police, ducky. They want to make a search. You get back in your room, and say nothing. You’re all right.’
The door slammed and the Tiger stared terrified into Pansy’s eyes.
‘Are they after you?’ Pansy asked.
‘Sort of,’ the Tiger admitted.
‘What for?’
‘Bit of trouble.’
She stared at him, then her eyes widened. She was brighter than she knew. ‘It wasn’t you who pinched that army pay I heard about, was it?’ she said.
The Tiger tried to speak, found he couldn’t and nodded mutely, his eyes wide.
Pansy gazed at him. ‘There’s a fifty-quid reward out of you,’ she said, interested. ‘Forty-seven thousand quid they said you had. Three of you.’
The Tiger nodded again.
A new warmth was growing in Pansy’s eyes as she did a quick calculation. ‘You’re not having me on, are you?’ she asked.