All Through the Night

by M. P. Wright

  I snapped back, “If you’d just shut ya damn mout’ fo’ one minute, I can explain everything.”

  Loretta, instead of firing back at me, looked dumbstruck at the way I’d just yelled at her. I got my friend to drink up her rum then I poured each of us another measure into our thimble glasses. While she stayed silent and drank her booze, I enlightened her on all the facts about how Ida Stephens, administrator of the Walter Wilkins, had visited me at my office and how she had retained me with a wad of cash to locate Fowler and the death certificates, then I told her about Vic’s involvement and finally the shooting of the doc outside the King’s Head pub earlier that evening.

  “Why’d anybody wanna take a potshot at Fowler? He was just some drunken GP with a reputation for sinkin’ his hand down the drawers o’ whores. You really tink whoever it was shot him did it cos he’d snatched some poor child from outta that orphanage? They seems like pretty desperate measures to me.”

  “I don’t know what to think, Loretta.”

  “You don’t know . . . Then what the hell do you know, JT? What ’bout this bitch Stephens axin’ you to find that girl Trute you got back there, surely that’s got someting to do with all this mayhem?”

  “It could be, but Stephens didn’t ask me to find her. All she wanted me to ask Fowler was where she could find the truth, not to go lookin’ fo’ no girl. Look, she was prepared to pay me a heap o’ dough. Why should I give a crap what she wanted me to ask him? I thought it was just some crazy riddle and paid no mind to it. I had no idea it was gonna turn out to be the name o’ some kid.”

  “The name o’ some white kid, Joseph. And for a black man round these parts that really does spell trouble. Looks to me like you gone an’ got the word ‘patsy’ stamped on that damn fool forehead o’ yours. You bin lined up to do some honky’s dirty work and now they want you to take the fall for all the shit you just gone an’ trod round the streets this past twelve hours. You ain’t gonna wanna hear this, JT, but you needs to go to the police.”

  “Oh no . . . No way, Loretta. I ain’t having no bidness with the law until I know what the hell is going on here. Just look what happened the last time I walked into a police station. They had my ass in a jail cell quicker than shit t’ru a goose . . . It ain’t happening to me again, that’s damn straight.”

  On the stove the kettle began to boil. Loretta took a another sip of her rum, picked up the Bournvita jar then got up to go and make the hot drink. I listened as Loretta carefully poured hot water into the mug then spooned in the chocolatey powder and stirred it. She dropped the spoon onto the metal draining board then rested the steaming drink on the table in front of me.

  “Thanks, Loretta, you’re a diamond.” I took hold of Loretta’s hand and kissed the back of it. As I did, I felt her arm go stiff and she slowly drew away from me.

  “We got ourselves a sleepy visitor looking for her cocoa, Joseph.”

  I turned in my seat and found Truth standing in her bare feet in the kitchen doorway. It was the first time I’d seen her standing fully upright. She wore a pair of blue denim dungarees and a filthy white T-shirt. She was around four feet tall, her skin pale and creamy. Her true complexion could barely be seen through all the dirt that was encrusted upon her face, arms and legs. Her long blonde hair was matted and hung across her slender shoulders. She stared back at me with the deepest blue eyes I’d ever seen. I opened up my arms and gestured for her to come over to me.

  “Hey there, Truth . . . I’m sorry, little one. Me and Aunt Loretta, we just been chewing the fat some. Here’s that hot chocolate we promised you.” I pulled up one of the kitchen chairs and tapped at the seat for her to come and sit next to me. Truth slowly wandered over and sat down. I picked up the mug and offered it to her. “Here, be careful now, it’s hot.” Truth took the mug of cocoa in both hands and slurped her first mouthful noisily.

  Loretta looked at me gravely. “I’m gonna go run that child a hot bath, git her cleaned up. You make sure she drinks that cocoa, you hear me.” As she walked out of the kitchen, leaving me with my new ward, she called back to me. “I hope that bastard Fowler rots in hell!”

  It was the second time that evening that I’d envisaged the mysterious doctor languishing in the fiery netherworld my good friend had just condemned him to. Although I said nothing in reply to her damning remark, something inside told me that she was wrong and that Theodore Fowler’s soul did not deserve to be doomed to Hades for his sins and earthly indiscretions.

  9

  It was just after ten the next morning when I caught my first glimpse of the Walter Wilkins orphanage. I was in a foul mood and looking for answers from the children’s home administrator, Ida Stephens. Past experience had taught me not to be hanging about on the end of some damn phone if you wanted the truth. The questions I wanted to ask Stephens were the kind that required me to get a look into her eyes when she gave up the answers. I drove through the ornate black wrought-iron gates and up the gravel drive towards a grey building with darkened windows that no one in their right mind could have considered calling a warm and welcoming home for children. I parked the Cortina up outside of the main doors and briefly peered out of the passenger-side window at the foreboding and austere entrance before getting out and walking up the stone steps to yank on the doorbell pull. As I reached for the cord, a bitter-looking middle-aged white woman dressed in a blue nurse’s uniform with white piping on its collar and cuffs opened up and stared down her nose suspiciously at me.

  “Yes, can I help you?” She spat the question out at me with a crusty air of inconvenience in her voice.

  “I’m here to speak to Ida Stephens.” I deliberately forgot my manners. I could tell from the off that any pleases and thank yous on my part weren’t going to ingratiate me to this old goat.

  “Do you have a prior appointment with Mrs Stephens, Mister . . . ?”

  “Ellington, Joseph Ellington . . . and no, I don’t have any prior appointment.”

  “Well, Mr Ellington.” The ogre in blue stared at me with disdain before continuing with her speech. “Mrs Stephens is a very busy woman; it’s normal practice to arrange an appointment with a member of our directorial body before attending the orphanage. I don’t know what you’re selling but Mrs Stephens won’t be buying anything from you. We don’t take in doorstep callers, I’m afraid.” She went to slam the door in my face, but I stuck my foot out hard at its base, preventing her from closing up, and barged on in past her.

  “Good, cos I ain’t selling anyting.”

  The look on the tyrant gatekeeper’s face was a mixture of incredulity and disgust. I kept on walking right past her into the whitewashed, clinical-looking lobby. A large oak-banistered staircase stood square in the centre of the foyer. I took a look around: something was mighty wrong with the place. There were no interior doors I could see, no pictures on the walls, and for a place that was supposed to be filled to the brim with unwanted kids, there was not a child’s voice to be heard. I’d been in the place less than twenty seconds and it was already giving me the creeps. The ogre was soon on my tail and grabbed at my elbow to try and prevent me from walking towards the stairs.

  “Where do you think you’re going? How dare you. You just can’t come swanning in as you please, this is a private establishment. I’m calling the police.”

  I stopped and looked her square in the eye. “Lady, you go ahead an’ make the call. You’re the second fool to say the same ting to me in the last twenty-four hours: they ended up dead in a gutter. Now, while you’re on the phone to the law, tell me where I can find your boss Stephens?”

  “You can find me here, Mr Ellington.” The administrator’s brittle voice cut through the air like a knife with a curse dripping off its edge. She glared down at me with a face like thunder, her thin arms leaning against the wooden balustrade like a prizefighter about to push himself back out into the ring. “I thought I told you to telephone me when you had news of your progress. What’s the meaning of this ill-mannered intrusion?”


  “What I gotta say to you ain’t fo’ no phone call. I need to speak to you face to face and in private.”

  Stephens looked across towards the ogre, who was still clinging on to my arm for dear life, and her voice softened a little as she motioned with her hand for her to let go. “It’s all right, I’ll deal with this, Sister McNeil. Would you please bring Mr Ellington up and show him to my office.”

  I was led up the stairs in silence and shown into a high-ceilinged office. Ida Stephens stood with her back towards us, looking out of a large bay window; she turned her head briefly as a cursory acknowledgement that we’d arrived then nodded over to Sister McNeil to leave us. The ogre turned swiftly on her heels like a Nazi storm trooper and then marched out, closing the door behind me. The administrator stayed put, not turning to address me when she barked her next question at me.

  “So, you’ve forced your way in here. Now, what is it you have to tell me in person?” Stephens was blunt and to the point with me; I saw no reason to address her any differently.

  “That wild-goose chase you sent me on, searching for your Dr Fowler, has stirred up a whole hornets’ nest o’ trouble. I’m here to settle up with you. Get some damage limitation behind me.”

  I watched as she remained motionless, as if glued to the spot. She stayed like that as she chipped in her next blunt enquiry to me.

  “By trouble . . . do you mean that you’ve been unable to locate the doctor?”

  “Oh no, I found him all right. That was the easy bit. I met him in a local public house last night. When he turned up he had the shakes like he was possessed and managed to knock back a glass o’ whisky and sink back my half-pint o’ mild befo’ he coughed up a load of gibberish ’bout being a dead man.”

  “Like I said to you previously, Mr Ellington, Fowler is a charlatan; nothing he says should be trusted. You said you’ve come to settle up. Did the doctor tell you of the whereabouts of the stolen death certificates. Were you able to retrieve them?”

  “Oh sure, I got your precious certificates.” I walked across to Stephens’ desk and threw the brown envelope containing the documents I had found at Speedwell baths down onto the green baize top.

  That got her attention. She turned to face me, walked back to her place of power, pulled out her chair and sat down. She didn’t ask me to take a seat. She was happy for me to stand in front of her like her subordinate. I went along with her game; it wasn’t like I hadn’t played it before. Stephens withdrew the paperwork from the envelope and leafed through each certificate carefully.

  “Your man Fowler may not have been trustworthy, but he was right ’bout one ting.”

  Stephens looked up at me from behind her desk.

  “And what was that?”

  “Well, he was sure as hell right ’bout being a dead man. In the time it took me to get him to part with those papers, he’d managed to sink another half bottle of scotch then chucked himself outta the back of my car while I was driving him back to his digs. He never made it to the other side o’ the street befo’ he’d become a stiff.”

  “Dear God . . . Did you say he actually threw himself out of your motor vehicle? What did I tell you? The man was unhinged. Did you call the police?”

  “I did not. I slammed on my brakes and ran straight over to the doc, but, like I said, he was already dead. I saw no reason to get myself tangled up with the law. Me and the police, we don’t always see eye to eye, Mrs Stephens, if you get my drift.”

  “Yes, of course . . . How unfortunate, such a nasty business. I fully understand that you must protect yourself in a situation like this. You were right, a real hornets’ nest of trouble. In retrospect it was very wise of you not to contact the authorities, Mr Ellington, very wise indeed.”

  Stephens’ reaction to the doctor’s violent end was far too controlled. It was an icy response that set the hairs on the back of my neck up on end, because something told me that the sly old woman already knew Fowler was dead. Everything I’d just said to Ida Stephens had been a load of bull apart from the way Fowler had bought it and how I’d run to his aid. Now I was sure of a couple of things: Stephens knew more about Doc Fowler’s death than she was letting on, and when her back was against the wall she was a bigger liar than I was. Finally looking into her cold grey eyes told me as much.

  The administrator began to quiz me a little more. “Tell me . . . was there anything else with these certificates?”

  “No . . . nuttin’ else, just what you’re holding there.” The lie rolled off my tongue, but it was no doubt privately dismissed as such by my inquisitor. I was tired of playing our game of show and tell. I’d found out what I’d need to know; it was time for Ida Stephens to show her hand. Shit or get off the pot.

  “Are you sure? There’s nothing else that needed to be returned to me today? What about the five hundred pounds I gave you to get Fowler to release these over to us?” Stephens slapped the death certificates down onto the desk. “I don’t see the cash being returned to us. I’m sure the doctor had no further use for it after his untimely passing.”

  “It’s funny you should say that. Fowler was of the same mind. Let’s just say he bequeathed the dough to me befo’ he died. And like I just said, you got in your hands there all the man had to offer me.”

  “And he bequeathed nothing else to you?

  “No . . . Not a ting. Were you expecting someting else, Mrs Stephens?” She nodded her head calmly. I watched as she thoughtfully mulled over my answer

  “What about the truth, Mr Ellington? You know I was insistent that you question the good doctor on that important matter. Could he enlighten you on my request?”

  “Y’know, that was the funny ting: the more I asked, the more Fowler denied he knew what you were talking ’bout. He looked real bamboozled when I asked him ’bout the truth and that’s a fact.”

  “Oh, I bet he did, Mr Ellington.” Stephens flashed a grin across at me. It was the first time she had smiled and showed her teeth: it wasn’t a pretty sight. As a kid fishing off the shores close to home, I’d often looked down into the crystal-clear waters as I reeled in my catch to see the jaws of blacktip reef sharks tearing at the fish on the end of my hook. The administrator’s two-faced beam reminded me of those snapping beasts.

  “As far as I’m concerned, you got what you paid me to retrieve. I’m gonna distance myself from you and this mess if you don’t mind. Illegal abortionists going crazy and throwing themselves outta speedin’ motors tends to get me spooked, if you get my drift. Fowler being found in the gutter full o’ booze is gonna look like a hit-and-run to the police when they start nosin’ around, and that’s fine by me, I’m outta it. There’s nobody to tie me to him taking his own life like he did. It was late at night and the streets were empty; as far as I’m concerned I was never there. Now, if it’s all the same with you, Mrs Stephens, I’ll be on my way.”

  I turned to leave but was stopped dead in my tracks by the snapping of the shark at the backs of my legs.

  “But we’re not finished, Mr Ellington. You saw Dr Fowler get himself killed, and whether you like it or not you are involved. If the police do come here to Walter Wilkins and question me about his death, I’m duty-bound to disclose your involvement in investigating the matter of tracing him on our behalf. And of course there’ll be the issue of the missing money we entrusted to you. Again, I’d simply have to reveal that we’d been unable to account for its disappearance and that you had been responsible for its safekeeping. You see, that little hornets’ nest of trouble could reach out and sting you, don’t you think? So, tell me, are you absolutely sure that there was no mention of the truth to you by Dr Fowler?”

  I looked upwards and sniffed loudly into the air a couple of times. “You smell that, Mrs Stephens?”

  The administrator glared back at me with a bemused expression on her face. “Smell what, Mr Ellington?”

  “Smell all that bullshit that’s coming off o’ your hide as you’re giving me your ‘squealing to the police’
act. Whatever truth you’re looking for was lost with that dead man back in that gutter.”

  I made my way across Stephens’ expensive office carpet towards the door and she shouted after me, her tone streaked with spite. I froze on the spot for a moment as her malice sunk itself deep into my hind.

  “Oh, Ellington, don’t take me for an idiot. I think you know exactly what I’m looking for.” Stephens moved from behind her desk. “I have a strong notion that you are in possession of what I’m talking about, and I’ll tell you this for nothing: only a fool would think they could keep it from us. I’ll give you twelve hours to return what belongs to us. Do you hear me?”

  I kept on walking, but this time it was my turn to respond to a question with my back turned to the enquirer.

  “Oh, I hear you, lady . . . and it sounds to me like a lotta hot air. You keep on yelling. It may scare the poor young tings you got locked up in this place, but it ain’t scaring me none, woman.”

  “Mr Tanner!” Ida Stephens bellowed out the name as I was closing her office door behind me. Moving speedily across the landing towards me was a bald-headed, heavy-set, brutal-looking excuse for a man. He was dressed head to foot in a white ward orderly’s uniform. His biceps strained out of his short-sleeved top and I could see the collar of his mandarin tunic biting into his thick, muscular neck with each determined step that he took towards me. Mr Tanner looked more like a jailer than a nurse. This was a confrontation I couldn’t walk away from, but rather than keep walking towards the oncoming freight train of a thug I squared myself up to his bulk as he rapidly closed in on me.

  Behind me, I felt Ida Stephens’ unwelcome presence standing gloating like a Roman empress about to become the willing spectator at some kind of vicious gladiatorial games. I dug my right hand deep into the bottom of my coat pocket, took hold of the bunch of keys that Doc Fowler had given to me the night before, and gripped them tightly in the centre of my closed hand then quickly withdrew it and let my hand fall loosely at my side. I slipped my left leg back behind me a little and dropped myself down lower, putting my body weight onto my right leg and at the same time tucking my chin into my chest, tightening my frame, tensing myself for the inevitable collision.