by Colin Murray
I shook my head.
‘Of course not. I was forgetting. You’ve things to do. A motor car was seen outside Miss Laurence’s apartment earlier today. It was quite distinctive, which is why it was noticed, I suppose. Most vehicles around here are on the drear side, apart, that is from the buses, of course, which are rather gay and quite brighten the place up, don’t you think? But this particular car was red and white. And it could have been her who was seen being “escorted” to it. I don’t know if that’s helpful to you or not.’
His eyes narrowed as he turned his attention to the food in front of him. He ripped a piece from the pile of flat bread in a chichi little wicker basket and plunged it into the white goo.
Stanley and Malcolm were both studying the wall away to my right. I assumed that was because they didn’t want me to ask them any pertinent questions, but it could just have been that they had as little liking for Mr Fitz’s table manners as I did.
I didn’t bother to say goodbye.
There was a little rain in the air, and the breeze had picked up. I shivered as I stood on the pavement outside the Acropolis, wondering what to do.
No motor, no Charlie. I could grab a cab and be back in Leyton in half an hour. But what then? In any case, there was a strong chance that Malcolm or Stanley would have been on the blower by the time I arrived. Forewarned is forearmed and all that. And, in this case, armed could well be the operative word.
Still, neither Malcolm nor Stanley would have reason to suspect what I suspected. They didn’t know that I’d seen a two-tone car in red and white lately. So maybe the call had not been made.
Robert Rieux always maintained that I was more than a bit cracked. I didn’t take it personally because I thought the same of him. We’d all been a little mad in the war. But, as I turned my collar up against the wind and allowed a plan of sorts to form, I wondered if he might not have been right.
Still, I’m a law-abiding person, more or less, and I did my best to ignore the daft ‘plan’ that bubbled away in the less rational part of my brain and headed off to a telephone box. A few were occupied and even had short queues, and so I found myself in the same one I’d used the night before.
After a few minutes of the usual ‘just what is it concerning, sir?’, a nice policeman told me that he didn’t think Inspector Rose had come in today – I had a vision of him sat sedately on a folding camp stool, in wellingtons, smoking his pipe, surveying the muddy vegetables he had just dug out of the allotment – and offered me Sergeant Radcliffe. I hesitated for a few seconds and then thought I’d better get it off my chest, and the beefy sergeant came to the phone.
He was surprisingly affable and thanked me for convincing Leroy Summers to turn himself in. I asked him where Lee was now, and he told me he was ‘safely banged up’. The ‘safe’ part sounded fine, but the ‘banged up’ bit bothered me.
So I told the sergeant what I suspected about Nelson Smith and his boys, and there was a longish silence. Then the sergeant coughed and adopted his more usual, and more hostile, manner.
‘I might as well tell you,’ he said, and there was a ‘you’re wasting my time, sunbeam’ edge to his voice, ‘that said Leroy Summers is being held on suspicion of murder.’ He paused. ‘There’s too many of these Americans coming over here and killing people.’ So poor old Lee was being held because one of his compatriots – a US airman – had gone potty the previous week and killed three residents of Broadstairs. Although there was, Sergeant Radcliffe informed me, the small matter of said Leroy Summers’ signed confession to add to the ‘overpaid, oversexed and over here’ sentiment that Andy Radcliffe was exuding.
I bit down hard and didn’t ask how many stairs he’d fallen down or how much the confession of a hurting addict could be relied on. Instead, I counted to five and then told the good sergeant about Viv Laurence’s disappearance. He took down a few details and said he’d get someone to look into it if she hadn’t turned up in a day or so, which didn’t fill my heart with gladness.
I put the big, black handset back on its cradle and sighed so hard I probably blew all the candles out in St Martin-in-the-Fields. If they had any alight.
Then I picked it up again, deposited more pennies in the slot and made another call to Les to tell him that Philip Graham was more or less all right but probably wouldn’t be filming for a day or two. I asked about Daff but learned no more. And then I asked him if he could get a brief working on Lee Summers’ case. He said he would see what he could do. Which, with Les, meant it was as good as done.
And then it was mad, hare-brained-scheme time.
I received a very odd look from the barman in the Frighted Horse when I marched straight through, but he was the least of my worries and I completely ignored him.
I stood on the seat of the WC and fished out the sawn-off shotgun, holding it as far away from me as possible. The water in that cistern really was rank. Then I patted the weapon down ineffectually with a couple of shiny, non-absorbent sheets from the meagre supply of San Izal. I gave up and let it drip for a couple of minutes.
A tubby, red-faced regular came in, but he took one look at what I was holding, dropped his fag and scuttled off to find a nice safe wall to pee against instead. And I hadn’t so much as scowled at him.
When the gun was close to dry, I tucked it inside the waistband of my trousers, draped my jacket artfully over it and left the lavatory, which still smelled fiercely of Jeyes Fluid. There was no point in even thinking about retrieving the soggy cartridges, and, in truth, I really didn’t want to be carrying a loaded weapon.
I stood outside for a moment, took a deep breath and then headed into the pub and up the stairs.
I’d been gone for close on three quarters of an hour so I wasn’t sure they would still be there, but I hoped they would. I doubted that any of them was so badly hurt that they needed hospital treatment. They were just bruised and bloody. Well, the bloke I’d thumped in the mouth might have lost a tooth or two. But who hasn’t? My tongue flicked to my chipped right canine.
They were still there, drinking now. To ease pain, rather than drown sorrows, I assumed.
Two of them were slumped on the battered old red velveteen sofa under the window, and Boss – Nelson, I supposed – stood looking out, a glass in his hand. They formed a very sorry little tableau, but my entrance snapped a little venomous life into them.
‘Please don’t get up on account of me, gentlemen,’ I said, producing the shotgun. They all tensed but remained where they were. ‘Listen,’ I continued, ‘I’d like to apologize for earlier. But you didn’t give me any real option, did you?’
They all looked sullen and decidedly disagreeable.
‘Apologize?’ Nelson almost spat at me. ‘Look at Clive!’ he said, pointing to the guy I’d whacked. ‘He goin’ t’ lose teet’.’ He paused. ‘Well, he goin’ t’ lose the one front toot’ he had.’ Then he laughed. ‘Still, he won’t be any uglier than he was before.’
Clive looked suitably affronted and glared at him miserably. If he’d known that Sergeant Wilkinson showed us that particular blow because it was supposed to shatter the nose and send bone fragments into the brain, but that I’d never had cause to use it and so had messed it up, he might have been slightly more inclined to thank his lucky stars and felt a bit happier, but I decided to wait until we knew each other better before explaining all that.
Still, I could look on the bright side. If Nelson Smith hadn’t completely lost his, admittedly rather elementary, sense of humour, maybe this wasn’t going to be quite as hard as I’d feared. On the other hand . . .
‘Well, for what it’s worth, I am sorry,’ I said. ‘Really.’
‘You got a nerve. Comin’ back here.’ Nelson Smith shook his head. ‘And some balls. What you want, man?’
‘I’ve got a proposition,’ I said slowly.
‘Oh, yeah,’ he said carefully. ‘What you got to offer?’
‘Ricky Mountjoy,’ I said.
The sudden gleam from his gold
en tooth told me we might just have negotiated an uneasy truce.
I arranged to meet them outside their club in twenty minutes. That gave them time to, as Nelson put it, ‘get tooled up’. I wasn’t sure if I liked the sound of that or not. I hoped I’d be the only person with a firearm. Even if it was unloaded, it gave me some sort of edge and a modicum of comfort. Of course, neither the edge nor the comfort would last long if anyone else found out the cartridges were slowly disintegrating in the continuous and, I suspected, toxic stream of pee and water in the pissoir at the Frighted Horse.
I used the same twenty minutes to check that Viv Laurence hadn’t miraculously turned up back at her flat, and to telephone Miss Summers at her digs from a telephone box in Soho Square that had a similar whiff to the Frighted Horse’s loo, and for similar reasons. I told Miss Summers about Lee being in clink and suggested she ring Les to find out which smarmy brief she should be in touch with. Her relief at hearing that Lee was safe carried down the phone line in the warmth of her thanks. But there was more than an edge of anxiety when I explained that he was being held on suspicion of murder.
I left the telephone box with some relief. Eau de stale sweat, smoke and urine has never been my favourite fragrance.
I stood on the pavement and looked at the grey sky brooding above the little patch of green and wondered what I thought I was doing – although, in truth, I knew that thought had little to do with anything.
It wasn’t my fault that thugs had invaded Viv Laurence’s life. She’d brought that on herself when she’d salvaged what she could of Leroy Summers from Ricky and the boys. And, as the saying goes, in this particularly seedy neck of this wicked old world, no good deed goes unpunished.
All the same, I couldn’t shake off a feeling of responsibility. I’d asked Malcolm Booth to take me to her, and then I’d had the chance encounter with her in St Martin-in-the-Fields, when Fitzgerald’s boy, Stanley, had been following me. I felt I owed her something, and I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t try to find her.
Whether I’d gone about things in a sensible fashion by enlisting Nelson Smith in the venture was a fish of quite a different odour.
I briefly toyed with the idea of sidling furtively off into the narrow little road on the east side of the square, the one that leads to the top end of Charing Cross Road, and plunging down into the dank and gloomy depths of Tottenham Court Road tube station. But I knew I wouldn’t do it.
For some reason I thought of Big Luc, the bravest man I’ve ever known, sitting against an apple tree, sipping Calvados from his battered old flask, waiting quietly for the signal that the German patrol we were planning to take out was on its way. He was, of course, as anxious as the rest of us, as worried about taking a machine-gun bullet in the guts (which, eventually, he did), just as neurotically concerned that his weapons would function faultlessly, and anyone who thought him impervious to fear was wrong. Robert had faith in something he called historical inevitability, and Big Luc, also a communist, may have shared that. But Luc had, above everything else, an ironclad belief in his own competence. And that, I’m sure, was what sustained him in those final tense minutes before an operation and gave him the self-discipline to exude confidence.
I don’t kid myself that I share Big Luc’s self-belief – I know that I’m far too fallible for that – but, so far, I’ve never got myself into a situation I haven’t got out of. And, while I recognize that could easily change, that knowledge does give me some comfort when I’m about to plunge into some foolhardy adventure. I’d survive. Unless, of course, I didn’t.
So, I didn’t run for the hills – well, shuffle towards the Central Line. I straightened my shoulders, turned my back on the noxious telephone box and marched down Greek Street.
At least I wouldn’t have to neurotically check the sawn-off stuck in my waistband.
I knew it wasn’t loaded so it didn’t matter whether it was functioning or not.
Nevertheless, I still reached inside my buttoned-up jacket and ran my hand over its smooth, warm stock when I saw Clive sitting on the bonnet of a big, maroon Ford Zephyr parked outside the shabby, rundown building that housed the Sugar Cane Club.
Clive was preoccupied with his loose front tooth, holding it between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, waggling it cautiously. He jumped off the bonnet of the car and glared at me as soon as I came abreast of him. I nodded amiably, but he didn’t respond. I couldn’t altogether blame him.
At least I wouldn’t have to worry too much about reprisals until we’d found Ricky Mountjoy, and, I have to be honest, I hoped that Clive and his companions would have their hands full at that point and I could, like a News of the World journalist at a suburban tea party that was about to turn into something more intime, make my excuses and leave.
Clive sauntered across the pavement and into the little alleyway where the side entrance to the club could be found. He hammered on the flaking black paint of the door and yelled in a voice loud enough for Cliff Michelmore to hear over in Germany, at the other end of ‘Two-Way Family Favourites’. Though whether the good Mr Michelmore would have found him as easy on the ear or as comprehensible as Jean Metcalfe is another matter altogether.
‘Boss, yo’ man here,’ was what I thought he said.
A few minutes later, Nelson Smith burst out of the door and bestowed his wicked golden smile on me. ‘So, Tony,’ he said, rubbing his big hands together, ‘where we goin’?’
‘I’d like to get one thing straight before we go,’ I said.
He looked at me expectantly, moving the toothpick he was chewing from one side of his mouth to the other.
‘This is just about talking, right? I don’t want any more killings.’
He stopped smiling. ‘You t’ink we kill them boys? We didn’t kill no boys. They hearts was still beatin’ when we left them.’
I didn’t say anything, but I must have looked sceptical.
‘Anyhow, this is just to parley wit’ the boy. Explain the ways of this wicked ole world.’ He shrugged. ‘Like wit’ your friend, James Dean. We didn’t hurt him none, did we?’
I spread my hands in an ‘I suppose not’ gesture, but I wasn’t so sure what would have happened if I hadn’t turned up.
‘OK then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get in the motor. Like I say, we jus’ goin’ to have a quiet chat wit’ him, like we was in a Joe Lyons tea house.’
‘Fine,’ I said, looking around for his other companion. ‘As I told you, he’s going to have some friends with him. Shouldn’t there be more of us?’
He laughed and patted me on the shoulder. His palm was surprisingly pink.
‘Victor ain’t feelin’ so good.’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘Your pal, the big man, he knows how to punch. Anyway, we don’t need no one else. We got you.’ He laughed again. ‘’Sides, we’re only talkin’.’
He patted me again, this time on the cheek, skipped around to the other side of the car, hauled the door open and slid on to the passenger seat. Clive sat behind the driving wheel.
I hesitated for a few seconds and then clambered into the rear, where I sat in splendid isolation.
‘OK, tough guy,’ Clive said, ‘where we goin’?’
By the time we turned off Leytonstone High Road into Cat Hall Road and headed towards Grove Green Road, I was feeling increasingly anxious.
Nelson Smith and Clive had passed a hand-rolled cigarette between them for most of the journey, taking the smoke deep into their lungs before exhaling and filling the car with a distinctive sweet smell. And they had become more and more relaxed and affable, laughing uproariously every so often at some remark I either didn’t quite catch or didn’t understand.
I wasn’t sure how much use they would be if things turned ugly, as there was every chance of them doing. They were even polite enough to offer the cigarette to me a couple of times, but I declined on the grounds that I didn’t smoke. Which didn’t matter, really, given how much of the stuff was wafting about in the car.
At least on
e of my anxieties was allayed a bit though. I didn’t think that I had all that much to fear from them afterwards.
And I did feel strangely exotic, sitting in a car with two black, surprisingly cuddly, gangsters on a dull grey Sunday afternoon.
I leaned forward and told Clive to pull over and park a few doors away from the house where the Mountjoys had entertained me on Saturday morning, a mere thirty-two hours before. The car gently bumped against the kerb and rolled to an uneasy stop with a little squeak of the brakes and a harsh, metallic complaint from the gearbox.
I poked my head a bit further forward into the gap between their seats and turned to Nelson. Since we were all getting on so well, I thought I might as well ask. ‘Did you really not kill those boys?’ I said.
‘No, man,’ he said. ‘We gave ’em a warning and a little spanking, but we didn’t kill ’em. We didn’t even confiscate their goods. We don’t kill people, man.’
Clive barked out a phlegmy laugh. ‘Not unless we have to,’ he said.
‘No,’ Nelson said, ‘we don’t kill people.’
‘That’s good to know,’ I said. ‘It puts my mind at rest.’ Which it didn’t. ‘Stay here. I’ll find out where Ricky is. I’ll be back in two minutes.’
I climbed out of the car and walked to the steps that led up to the front door of the quite grand villa that Old Man Mountjoy lived in. I looked back at the big Ford.
The problem with being exotic is that you’re also conspicuous. Black faces aren’t that common in Leyton. There weren’t many people around. In fact, I couldn’t see anyone, but that wouldn’t be the case for long. Someone would notice.
I bounced up the half-dozen steps and rapped on the door.
Nothing happened, and I was about to knock again when I heard someone shuffle along the hall and fumble with the lock. The door opened slightly, and the old man’s face peered out. He looked at me blankly. ‘Yeah?’ he said.
‘Remember me? I was here yesterday morning.’
He clearly didn’t recall me, and the blank look turned suspicious. ‘What you want?’ he said, withdrawing his head slightly, preparing to slam the door.