by M. P. Wright
There was no sign of my wayward cousin in the building, but that wasn’t a surprise: Vic rarely dragged his ass out of bed before midday unless it involved money or a hot woman. He had, in the last few months, expanded his business empire and had bankrolled a new hairdressing salon in St Pauls, picked up a cheap three-storey tenement building in Montpelier, which he rented out, and had taken on a silent partnership with the latest owner of the Speed Bird club, Ruben Walker, a swarthy Trinidadian who as far as I could see liked sailing pretty close to the wind around all things that were illegal.
Both were using the Speed Bird as their legitimate commercial front. It offered up to the outside world and, more importantly, the local law an image of two successful, entrepreneurial men doing well for themselves. In truth, behind their kosher enterprises lay unlawful trading ventures and black marketeering on a massive scale.
Once back inside my office I opened up the bottom drawer of a grey-metal, four-tier filing cabinet, reached in and pulled out the spare shirt that I kept in there. I put it on, then made myself another cup of black coffee and ate a couple of aspirin. I tried to ignore the nausea that was gripping at my guts as I sat back at my desk and struggled to type up an invoice for an insurance company I’d undertaken some work for the week before. A sharp pain throbbed inside my head each time I hit a key on the battered navy-blue Empire typewriter that I’d inherited from Cut Man.
When I finished I tore out the bill from the old machine and unenthusiastically dropped it onto the desk, then sat back in my chair with my eyes closed and began to massage either side of my forehead with the tips of my fingers.
It was the hypnotic tapping sound of a woman’s high-heeled shoes on the wooden floorboards in the corridor outside that finally made me haul my head out of my hands. The footsteps drew closer and came to a halt outside my office. A heavy clout at my door came moments later and whoever was doing the knocking came on in without waiting to be invited.
Stood in front of me was a severe but not unattractive white woman, about fifty-five years old and elegantly turned out in a white-polka-dotted, canary-yellow cotton dress and figure-hugging light-cream cardigan. A small black-wool pillbox hat was carefully perched onto the back of her head and pinned into her tightly curled blonde hair. In her right hand, clutched at the side of her ample chest, was a small white-leather handbag that she was gripping onto for dear life, as if she was worried that I was about to snatch the damn thing from her grasp and hightail it down the hall. She eyed me up and down warily, then slowly walked towards my desk and towered over me in the patent-leather black heels that had noisily announced her arrival a few moments ago. The heady, potent scent of Tweed perfume hit me as I looked up at her.
“Are you the man who calls himself Ellington, the one who has his name pinned up on the brass plaque outside of this . . . establishment?”
“Yeah, the very same. What can I do for you?” I asked suspiciously. Despite advertising my services to the world outside, I was still wary of strangers asking for me, especially mean-looking white women. Still fighting the harsh hangover that gripped at my fuzzy head, I opened and shut my eyes in quick succession, trying to bring myself into the land of the living, then briskly rubbed my face with the palms of my hands before looking back up at the woman.
“My name is Ida Stephens. I’d like to discuss a business proposition with you, Mr Ellington; it’s a delicate matter that requires a degree of sensitivity. You see, the organisation I represent have been recently placed in a rather difficult situation and now find themselves with a degree of unwelcome trouble on their hands.”
“Trouble, you say? Well trouble’s my bidness, that’s a fact. So, how can I help you, Ida?” From the off, addressing the woman by her Christian name was a bad mistake; I saw her visibly baulk with shock, then glare back at me for having the impertinence to be so informal. Aware that I had offended the woman, I tried to look away, but the steely Mrs Stephens caught my eye and stared back at me indignantly. Like a school mistress about to scold a pupil, she shook her head slowly from side to side contemptuously, considering my ill manners before speaking again.
“I was informed that you were adept at handling . . . sensitive matters. I hope that I have not been misinformed, Mr Ellington.” She spat the words out at me, the disapproval at the way I had addressed her etched all over her sour face. I reluctantly back-pedalled and turned on the charm in the hope of finding a little good grace from her. It appeared from her dour expression that “good grace” was not part of her repertoire.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Stephens. Here, please take a seat.” I got up, walked around my desk and pulled out a chair, then held out the palm of my hand for her to sit. Once seated, she roamed a critical eye around the room, her mouth crinkling at the edges as she caught sight of the faded maroon-tinged flock wallpaper and shadeless light bulb hanging from the dusty ceiling. While inspecting my office she rhythmically tapped both index fingers at the edges of her handbag. The unkempt look clearly didn’t meet Mrs Stephens’ standards.
She was still obviously weighing up whether to disclose her “delicate” business to me. I’d already decided that I didn’t care one way or another if she did or not. I’d smelt trouble the moment she’d walked in, but truth was, I was in no position to be turning work away. A job was a job and I needed the cash, whether I liked those paying for my services or not. I returned to my seat, dropped heavily into the chair and caught the stern expression on Mrs Stephens’ face. I quickly opened up the centre drawer underneath my desk and took out a thin-lined jotter pad, then rummaged around the junk inside searching for a pencil, finally finding a stub. I snapped the drawer shut, turned over a fresh page on my pad, then stared back across the polished wood desktop towards my new client, trying not to let her see how much I already disliked her. I shot her a cheeky smile before finally speaking again. “OK, Mrs Stephens, why don’t you tell me ’bout this spot o’ trouble of yours?”
For a moment Ida Stephens looked back down at the bag in her lap before raising her head to reply to my question. When she spoke her voice wavered slightly, as if something was holding back the words she wanted to say. She hesitated for a while longer, then cleared her throat a couple of times and continued.
“Do you know of the Walter Wilkins orphanage in Bishopston, Mr Ellington?”
“No . . . can’t say that I do.” I shook my head slowly as I scribbled down the name at the top of the page on my pad. Mrs Stephens waited for me to look back up at her before continuing.
“I’m one of the administrators at the orphanage. I was originally a senior nurse in the infirmary block; I’ve been working there now for over fifteen years. Well . . . It has been brought to my attention that a number of unusual thefts have occurred at Walter Wilkins over the past few days and—” Ida Stephens broke off from relaying the details of her story in mid sentence. I watched as she carefully considered her words before continuing. “The stolen property has no monetary value and the person that has stolen the items in question is well known to us.”
“So, if you know who the thief is, why haven’t you already gone to the police?” I watched as Ida Stephens awkwardly fidgeted in her seat. She nipped at the hem of her dress with her slim fingers and drew the material further down her leg before answering my question.
“As I said to you earlier, this is all very delicate . . . Some tact will be required in regards to any enquiries undertaken. My colleagues and I at Walter Wilkins would prefer not to involve the police at this juncture; we’d prefer someone to investigate the matter without having to bring it to the local constabulary’s attention.”
“Is that so, Mrs Stephens? You know, that’s funny, cos I’ve heard that one befo’.” I sat back in my chair looked down at my lap and shook my head gently from side to side, smilingly to myself, recalling unwelcome memories.
“I beg your pardon?” Ida Stephens’ back straightened as she barked at me.
I looked back up at my client, her face a sullen picture of dis
dain. “Sorry, Mrs Stephens, I was thinking out loud there. Look, I’m kinda interested to know why you chose me to go looking for your thief?”
“Because the thief . . .” Her cheeks flushed as she gulped to find the right words. “Because, Mr Ellington, the thief in question is of the coloured persuasion.”
Unable to stop myself, I began to laugh out loud. Ida Stephens impatiently continued to stare at me as I wiped a tear from my left eye with the flat of my palm.
“What’s so amusing, Mr Ellington? Do you find theft from a charity amusing?”
“No, Mrs Stephens . . . I don’t find any theft amusing; it’s you thinking you need another black man to find a brother that’s stolen from you that’s kinda tickled me. So, tell me, what’s the name o’ this ‘coloured persuasion’ crook you looking for?”
“Fowler, Dr Theodore Fowler. He’s a small, unpleasant little man, originally from Jamaica I believe, around sixty-five years old. He resides at number 4 Ashley Hill in the Montpelier district, not too far from here. However, my sources tell me he’s not been at his rather shabby little home for the last week. His whereabouts are at the moment unknown; however, I’m reliably informed that he rarely strays far from his domicile and can often be found in the local drinking houses in the area. It appears he has a rather clandestine nature and it has come to our attention during these past few days, while making our own investigations, that the man has a reputation as an . . .”
Ida Stephens swallowed hard, as if unable to get the words she wanted to say out. She cleared her throat before speaking again. “That he has a reputation as an illegal abortionist. Do you know of him?”
“Mrs Stephens, it may come as a surprise to you to find out that just because I’m black don’t mean I know every black face in Bristol, whether they be abortionist, crook or parish priest. I ain’t ever heard of the man. What’s he stolen from you that has brought you to my gate door and not the local police’s?”
“Death certificates.”
“Say what?”
“Death certificates, Mr Ellington. Dr Fowler has stolen from our archives a number of death certificates for children who sadly passed away while in our care.” Stephens continued to shuffle in her seat, clearly unsettled by the subject matter. I pressed her a little more, happy to watch her squirm at the impudence of my questioning.
“Why would the man want to lift death certificates of children from you? I don’t understand.”
“Dr Fowler was employed by us as an informal consultant. He had been in dispute with our administration board in respect to a number of clinical services he had performed on our behalf and for which he felt he had not been correctly salaried. These were services which we had assured him had been previously settled in full. The doctor disputed this and continued to press for further payment. We refused, and during our final discussions on the matter an argument ensued between the doctor and one of our senior board members. Dr Fowler became abusive and aggressive towards my colleague. He was asked to leave the building and not return. He refused and had to be removed by two male orderlies. It was a rather embarrassing affair, upsetting for all concerned. Shortly after, while undertaking an end-of-month audit, it was found that a number of the aforementioned death certificates were missing. It was felt that Dr Fowler could have been the only person to take them.”
“And how’d you know that, Mrs Stephens?”
“Well, because Dr Fowler authenticated the stolen certificates in question and he was in dispute with us over those very same certificates: he misguidedly believed that he was entitled to further financial recompense after he’d been employed to concur with our house physician on the exact nature of the deaths.”
“And the exact nature of the deaths of these children was what, Mrs Stephens?”
“Many of the children who come to us are already in failing health: some are simply malnourished and have been poorly cared for previously; others have more damaging conditions, and it was those children who passed away. Mr Ellington, sadly a number of children were taken with bronchial asthma earlier this year. Each of the deceased had a predisposition to contracting severe chest infections, pleurisy and the like; two already had weakened respiratory conditions. It was all very tragic.”
Ida Stephens’ tone had become less aggressive. A more sombre woman now sat in front of me, her face less severe after she had recounted the facts to me. The telling of her sorrowful story had softened her hard edges a little. I remained silent and allowed her a moment to regain a little of the volatile spirit she’d previously shown. It didn’t take long for it to return. When she finally spoke again her tone contained all the venom of a woman about to berate a drunken spouse late home from an evening’s heavy drinking at the pub.
“Regrettably, Dr Fowler is a drunkard, Mr Ellington. It is the corrupting nature of his severe alcoholism that has deluded him into believing that he is owed money and which drove him to steal from us that which he has no right to possess.”
“And what is it you’d like me to do exactly, Mrs Stephens?”
“It’s quite simple. We’d like to employ you to locate Dr Fowler, then have him return the documents that he has in his possession. We’re prepared to pay you a generous fee to undertake this enquiry, and to make it easier for you to obtain the certificates in question, we’re prepared to offer the doctor five hundred pounds for their safe return.”
I tried not to show my surprise. Talking large sums of money had Ida Stephens raising her head and sniffing disapprovingly at the stale air in my office. She drew in her cheeks, then blew out a jet of air. I caught a whiff of her menthol-tinged breath as it crossed over my desk. It sounded like easy work, a week at most. I leaned back in my chair, still unsure of whether to take it on. Usually when I told myself something was going to be easy, it rarely turned out to be.
“Five hundred pounds . . . That’s a lot of dough, Mrs Stephens. You must want those papers back pretty badly.”
“More importantly, Mr Ellington, Walter Wilkins does not want a scandal. If the press should ever get hold of this, they’d have a field day. The reputation of the orphanage, all its good work, maintained for more than half a century, would be in tatters. We cannot let that happen . . . We won’t let it happen. Now, do you think you can find the doctor for me?”
“That all depends on where this Dr Fowler has gone to ground. Finding a man who doesn’t wanna be found ain’t easy, Mrs Stephens. It’ll take me a little time to do some digging, see what I can come up with.”
“Time is what we don’t have a great deal of, Mr Ellington. We need those certificates back, and quickly. I’m prepared to pay you handsomely for their safe return. So, tell me, what is your daily rate?” The mention of money had tightened Stephens’ face up again. It wasn’t a pleasant picture.
“Three pounds a day plus expenses.” I watched as Ida Stephens opened her polished handbag and took out a long white envelope. She gingerly placed it onto my desk, then slid it across towards me. She squeezed together the silver clasps on top of her bag, closing it shut firmly, then looked at me.
“We’ll give you five pounds a day, plus your expenses, and there’ll be a bonus of a further one hundred pounds if you successfully locate Dr Fowler and retrieve the certificates swiftly on our behalf. And I’ll require a receipt for the money I’ve just given you.”
I picked up the envelope and opened it. Mrs Stephens had come well prepared. I thumbed the wad of cash inside: five hundred to pay off the elusive doctor and a further fifty pounds for myself. Very generous indeed. I then lifted out a small cream business card and read the black italic lettering printed on it:
Ida Stephens
Administrator
The Walter Wilkins Orphanage
142 Cotham Road
Cotham, Bristol
Telephone: Bristol 7511
I scribbled out a receipt for her and watched as she took it and put it carefully in her handbag. Before I had a chance to say anything else, Ida Stephens stood up from her seat
and began walking towards the door. She stopped abruptly and turned swiftly on her heels to face me.
“There’s one more thing, Mr Ellington . . . Once you have found the doctor and retrieved what is ours, I would like you to ask him a simple question.”
“And what would that be, Mrs Stephens?”
“Ask him where we can find the truth, Mr Ellington. Tell him that if he divulges the exact whereabouts of its location then we will pay him a further one thousand pounds cash and give an assurance that there’ll be no police involvement, with nothing more said on the matter. Do you understand?”
“A thousand pounds? What exactly am I getting into here, Mrs Stephens?” This simple theft job was taking on some expensive weight. Confused, I took hold of the arms of my chair and was about to stand up to question her further. She took a step towards me, outstretched her right arm and raised a slender finger, which she gently shook in front of her as if to calm herself. She smiled at me before speaking again, and this time her timbre was hushed and precise.
“It’s quite simple, Mr Ellington. When you find Fowler, just ask where we can find the truth. Good day to you.”
Without replying, I watched as she marched out of my office and listened as her stiletto heels hypnotically struck the wooden floor in the passageway until she was gone.
The beguiling scent of Ida Stephens’ perfume lingered in my office for the next few hours like an unwelcome spectre haunting a frail soul. My headache continued to pound away savagely in my skull. I slouched back in my chair wondering what kind of mess I was about to get myself into again. I picked up the white envelope containing the money and tapped it tensely on the top of my desk a couple of times before opening up the drawer beside me and dropping it in. I needed a stiff drink: the hair of the dog might just clear my head. I got out of my seat, walked over to the coat stand and put on my lightweight Aquascutum beige overcoat and black felt trilby.
Before leaving I looked over to the far wall at the attractive naked woman on my Pirelli calendar. Below her I read the day’s date. It was Tuesday, 21 June 1966 . . . my forty-fourth birthday.