Shadows of the Dead

by Jim Eldridge

  Jolly didn’t look happy about being anywhere here in the heart of Scotland Yard, but he nodded. Stark pointed at a chair a few paces along the corridor. ‘There, take a seat. I won’t be long.’

  Stark went into the office, picked up the phone and asked to be connected to Danvers’ parents’ house. Bridges, the valet, answered, and soon afterwards Stark was talking to Sergeant Danvers.

  ‘If you’re up to it, I want you to come in and sit in reception at the Yard.’

  ‘I’m up to it, sir. I’m going mad sitting around here, kicking my heels. What’s the job?’

  ‘A case of identifying someone. When you get here, ask the desk sergeant to ring our office to let me know you’ve arrived. I’ll come down with a man in a blue suit. I want you to see if you recognize him.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  That done, Stark opened the door and ushered Jolly into the office.

  ‘My apologies for that. Just some business. Do come in, Mr Jolly. Take a seat.’ As the large man settled himself down in the chair on the other side of the desk, Stark began, ‘General Squires said you saw who attacked my sergeant last night outside the Mitre Hall.’

  ‘Yus,’ said Jolly. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What exactly were your duties last night?’

  The big man frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘What had the general asked you to do?’

  ‘To guard the door. Not let people in if they didn’t have the proper stuff.’

  ‘And what was the proper stuff?’

  ‘An invitation or a membership card.’

  ‘What sort of membership card?’

  ‘One of these.’ And the man took out a card from his inside pocket and slid it across the desk to Stark. It had the words British Union of Patriots in bold type across the top, with a Union Jack at one side and a cross on the other. Below, where it said Member’s Name, someone had written in a neat hand Herbert Jolly. Beneath that, where it said Member’s Signature, there was an indecipherable squiggle. Lastly, the membership number at the bottom proclaimed that Herbert Jolly was Member Number 459.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Stark, returning the card. ‘How long have you been a member?’

  ‘About two months,’ said Jolly. Even this answer he gave with a suspicious look at Stark, as if it was some kind of trap.

  ‘The general said that you recognized one of the attackers.’

  ‘Yus,’ nodded Jolly. ‘Izzy.’

  ‘Izzy?’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘Do you happen to know his second name?’

  Jolly shook his head.

  ‘How do you know he’s called Izzy?’

  ‘Cos that’s what I heard one of the others call him.’

  ‘When? Last night?’

  Jolly shook his head. ‘About a week ago. I was at the shop.’

  ‘The shop?’

  ‘The headquarters, in Warren Street.’

  ‘Yes, I know it,’ nodded Stark. ‘I was in there only recently, talking to Eric Short.’

  At this, the tension in Jolly eased a little. ‘Eric!’ he beamed. ‘Good bloke!’

  ‘Yes, indeed, so he seemed to me,’ agreed Stark. ‘So, what happened at the shop?’

  ‘This bunch of Jews came in and started throwing their weight about. Calling us names. Then one of ’em started taking books out of the case and chucking ’em on the floor. That’s when I had to take some action. Defending our property, it was.’

  ‘Indeed,’ nodded Stark sympathetically. ‘What action did you take?’

  ‘I ’it one of ’em. Straight out the shop door he went. Landed on ’is arse on the pavement. That’s when one of the others shouted out, “Leg it, Izzy!” And this one with a bald head ran out. And so did the others.’

  ‘So this one with the bald head was Izzy?’

  Jolly nodded firmly. ‘Yus. On account of ’im doin’ a runner when they called that name.’

  ‘You didn’t hear any other names called?’

  Jolly shook his head. ‘No. Just that one.’

  ‘And you recognized this same man, the bald-headed one, as one of the men attacking Sergeant Danvers last night?’

  A firm nod of the head again. ‘Yes. It was ’im. No mistake. Izzy. The Jew.’

  ‘And what about the other men?’

  ‘They all ran off as they saw us coming. It was dark there at that point in the street.’

  ‘But you saw enough to identify Izzy.’

  Jolly hesitated momentarily, then nodded. ‘It was the bald head.’ Then his face lit up with a grin. ‘And the street lamp.’

  ‘The street lamp?’

  ‘Across the street. It ain’t very strong, but there was enough for me to see the bloke’s face.’ He nodded. ‘It was Izzy.’

  There was a click as the door opened, and Jolly swung round, suddenly on his guard, but then he visibly relaxed as he saw Chief Superintendent Benson. Stark shot a look at Benson, and was sure he saw a tremor of alarm in the chief superintendent’s face. They know one other, he realized.

  ‘Stark,’ said Benson tautly, ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Now?’

  By way of answer, Benson retreated to the corridor, Stark following. As soon as the door was shut, Benson demanded, ‘Who is that man?’

  ‘A Herbert Jolly, sir.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He’s helping us with our enquiries.’

  Benson hesitated, then demanded, ‘Which particular enquiries?’

  ‘The murders of Lord Fairfax and the American, Carl Adams, and the attack on Sergeant Danvers.’

  Stark was sure he saw Benson swallow nervously before asking, ‘Are you saying he’s a suspect?’

  ‘I’m just saying that he’s helping us with our enquiries. Why, sir? Do you know him in some way?’

  Benson shook his head. ‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘Keep me informed. Take no action without first consulting me.’

  As Benson turned and began to walk away, Stark called after him, ‘Yes, sir. Was there anything in particular you wanted to see me about?’

  ‘It can wait,’ snapped back Benson. ‘It’s not important.’

  Interesting, thought Stark. He went back into the office.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Mr Jolly,’ he smiled apologetically. ‘Just one or two more quick questions?’

  This made Jolly look apprehensive again, and Stark hurried to reassure him. ‘Nothing about the attack. Just routine for the records.’ He drew a sheet of paper towards him, took out his pen and said, ‘Your address, just in case we need to get in touch with you again.’

  ‘Why might you do that?’ demanded Jolly suspiciously. ‘I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘Yes, but say we are able to lay our hands on this Izzy, you’re the one who can identify him,’ said Stark.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Jolly doubtfully.

  ‘Oh, come, Mr Jolly, I’m sure you’re as eager as us to bring this thug to justice. After all, he attacked a policeman. And he tried to smash up the BUP shop.’

  ‘Well … yeah,’ agreed Jolly, but with reluctance.

  Just then the telephone rang.

  ‘Excuse me,’ apologized Stark, and he picked up the receiver.

  ‘This is the main desk, sir,’ said a voice. ‘DS Danvers is in reception.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Stark. ‘Please tell him I’ll be down shortly.’

  He replaced the receiver, then smiled at Jolly. ‘You were about to tell me your address.’

  ‘Yus,’ nodded Jolly. ‘It’s Red Tops. Near Parliament Hill Fields. Lord Glenavon’s place.’

  ‘Lord Glenavon?’

  Again, Jolly nodded. ‘Yus. I work for him. General handyman. I live in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Stark, writing the address down. He stood up. ‘That’s all for the moment. I’ll walk you down to reception.’

  As they walked down the stairs, Stark added, ‘We do appreciate your coming in, Mr Jolly. If only every
person was as responsible a citizen, our job would be a whole lot easier. As I’m sure you’ll have heard already from Chief Superintendent Benson.’

  Jolly stopped on the stairs. ‘Who?’ he demanded, his voice flat, looking at Stark with that same look of suspicion.

  ‘My boss,’ said Stark. ‘The one who came into the room. I got the impression he recognized you.’

  ‘No,’ said Jolly. ‘Never see ’im before.’

  ‘My mistake,’ murmured Stark.

  They continued down to the ground floor, then Stark walked the big man across the reception area to the double doors to the street. He shook him by the hand, then walked over to where Danvers was sitting.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  Danvers shook his head. ‘I recognize him, but not as one of those who attacked me. He was one of the men on duty at the door when I first turned up.’

  ‘Any chance he could have been one of those who beat you up?’

  ‘It’s possible. He was certainly part of the security detail for the evening. But I can’t swear to it. I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘No problem, Sergeant. It was worth a try. One good thing, though, I think we may be disturbing this particular hornet’s nest. All we have to do is see what flies out. And make sure we don’t get stung.’

  ‘There is one positive thing, sir,’ said Danvers. ‘The doctor says there isn’t a fracture or serious damage, and I can return to work. So I’ll be back tomorrow morning.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Noble showed his pass to the uniformed sentry guarding the entrance to the American Embassy and was waved in. He was thinking about the scene between Stark and Lady Amelia Fairfax. The widow of the murder victim, for Chrissake! Yes, there was definitely something going on there. Noble just hoped it wouldn’t compromise the investigation. He liked Stark. The chief inspector came over as a straight-arrow kind of guy. Maybe whatever was happening between the pair of them was separate from this case, but it sure added another dimension.

  But then, it was an easy thing to fall into. It had happened to him with that dame in Wyoming. How was he to know she was the sister of the guy he was tailing? That had been a difficult one, especially when she had tried to stab him. She’d come at him with a knife when he was lying in bed, after they’d had sex. Maybe that had been a good move on her part, maybe a bad one. If she tried it before they’d had sex, he might have been more alert, on edge, so maybe she was thinking he’d be relaxed, almost sleepy. What saved him was needing to pee; he was just about to get out of bed and go to the bathroom when she ran in from the kitchen, knife clenched in her hand. He still had the scar.

  He’d try to find out more about this Lady Amelia Fairfax. That was a strange coupling: the lady and the copper. Two worlds colliding.

  Like Carl and Lord Fairfax. Two strangers meet, and something weird happens. But Carl and Fairfax weren’t strangers. Carl had sought out this Lord Fairfax, so they knew one another. Buddies from the war, he guessed. But why kill them?

  It was Cavendish, of course. Had to be. Somehow he’d spotted that Carl was on to him. But hell, everyone knew about Cavendish’s connection with the KKK. Back in the States, it was even something he boasted about. No, something had happened here that Carl had discovered, that Cavendish desperately needed to be kept quiet. So desperately that he’d had Carl killed, along with that English lord.

  Why the weed killer? Why not just stab them, or shoot them, or strangle them?

  Because Cavendish and whoever he was working with needed to know what they knew. Who else had Adams talked to? So they’d killed Lord Fairfax first to show Carl how bad this way of dying was. But Carl hadn’t been able to tell them anything else, because there was nothing else. The only person he’d been in touch with had been Noble, and by wire.

  So, whatever it was that Adams had discovered, it had happened around the time he sent the wire. And, ever after, he’d been on borrowed time.

  How had Cavendish found out about Carl’s wire to Noble? The leak had to be inside the embassy.

  Once again Noble felt the rage welling up in him. Carl and him. The boy from Georgia and the kid from Chicago. They’d met up on the Bureau of Investigation training course in Washington. Carl had been a former patrolman. Noble had got into covert investigations as he hunted down the KKK, and had been headhunted by the honchos at the Bureau. He and Carl had found they were like peas in the pod: the same tastes – well, apart from the football and baseball teams they supported – and the same politics. Democrats in a world where almost everyone else seemed to be Republicans.

  They worked cases together, and they brought the bad guys to book. They had a style: Carl played the cool one, laid-back, almost horizontal, whereas Noble was Mr Angry. Good cop, bad cop. The bad guys preferred being grabbed by Carl, Mr Nice Guy. What they didn’t realize was that, beneath that cool cover, Carl was harder than Noble. He’d smile lazily while working out how to kill you.

  When the order came to keep a close watch on Edgar Cavendish while he was in England and find out what he was doing, it was obvious that it had to be Carl who moved in and became close to him. In KKK circles, Noble was too well known as the enemy.

  So Carl had arranged an introduction to Cavendish with prettied-up credentials saying he was some hotshot backroom financier in the moving picture business. The Bureau of Investigation had even arranged letters of introduction for Carl from some movie big names. Non-Jewish, of course. But people who were patriots. Republicans, mostly. And with Carl saying his company would pay his expenses because it was a great opportunity for them to break into the European market, plus a bit of flattery from Carl to Cavendish about what a genius he was and how Carl hoped to learn from him, the deal was done.

  So what had gone wrong?

  Maybe they’d underestimated Cavendish. He came across as some sort of slick snake-oil salesman, a smooth-talking charmer who tried to dress and look like Douglas Fairbanks – something that worked with the women, for sure. Mr Smooth, a respectable front for the KKK. But not dangerous. There was nothing in the file on him to indicate that he’d ever engaged in violence. He’d instigated it and encouraged it by others, sure. And the Bureau said that in England he wouldn’t have his KKK bully boys around him, so Carl would be safe, even if he was discovered. Carl could handle himself against a pussy like Cavendish.

  But Carl hadn’t been able to handle himself, and now he was dead.

  Noble found the person he was looking for in the press office: Jerry O’Keeffe. Originally from Boston – of course he was, with a name like O’Keeffe – and now a senior press officer with the embassy, part of the US government’s propaganda machine putting out the government line to the British press. Noble and O’Keeffe had first met at a Democratic Party convention two years before. At first Noble had been suspicious of him: was he here as a Republican to trash the Democrats?

  ‘A Republican?’ O’Keeffe had laughed. ‘Hell, I got this job because of the work I did to get Woodrow Wilson elected for his second term.’

  The victory for Republican Warren G. Harding over the Democrats earlier in the year had changed things in Washington, and O’Keeffe had found himself being offered the posting to the American Embassy in London.

  ‘Sure, it’s a demotion being pushed out of Washington,’ O’Keeffe had told Noble with a shrug after he’d been told the news, ‘but so what? It’s a job, and doing something I enjoy and I’m good at. In these hard times, that’s great. Plus it means Eileen and I will be nearer to the old families back in County Cork. We’ll be able to catch up. Big Irish wakes. You can’t beat ’em!’

  Noble rapped at the door of the press room and saw O’Keeffe looking up quizzically from his desk as he pushed open the door. O’Keeffe’s face split into a grin as he saw it was Noble, and he got up and hurried towards him, his hand outstretched.

  ‘Don, you son of a gun! When did you land?’

  ‘The day before yesterday. When I heard about Carl.’

  O’Keeffe’s face clouded ov
er. ‘How on earth did that happen? Who’d do a thing like that? And why?’

  ‘We’ve got our suspicions,’ said Noble.

  ‘Do you think he was the target? Or was it that other fella? Lord Fairfax?’

  Noble gave a rueful sigh. Even though he counted O’Keeffe as a friend, he was first and foremost a press officer looking for a story.

  ‘We’re not sure, but I promise you, Jerry, as soon as we find out, you’ll be the first to know. One of the reasons I’m here is to see if you can throw any light on what may have been going on with Carl here in England.’

  O’Keeffe shrugged. ‘On the surface, he was just a businessman trying to drum up a connection for Stateside picture makers.’

  ‘On the surface?’ queried Noble.

  ‘Oh, come on, Don! How long have I been in this game? All those years in Washington? And, let’s face it, Cavendish has hardly been shy about his KKK credentials. He’s a big shot back in Indiana because of it. He’s built a career out of it. So it was obvious to me that Carl had been sent to keep an eye on Cavendish.’

  Noble looked around him, uncomfortable. ‘Anyone else here work that out?’

  O’Keeffe shrugged. ‘If they did, no one said anything to me. But there’s only a few of us home-grown Yanks here. Most of the workers are British who know zilch about things American, except what they read in the magazines.’

  ‘What about the people from back home?’

  O’Keeffe shook his head. ‘To be frank, I doubt it. Most of them have been here so long they’ve almost become English. They still wait for the baseball results as eagerly as ever, but mostly they’ve settled here. They pay attention to whatever’s happening in politics back home, but only really when there’s a presidential election. And that’s because they’re wondering how they’ll be affected.’

  ‘Did Carl ever call in here?’

  ‘He came in a couple of times with Cavendish to see the ambassador.’

  ‘And how is the Honourable George Brinton McClellan Harvey?’ asked Noble acidly.

  ‘Hey, don’t knock him,’ protested O’Keeffe. ‘He’s not a bad guy. He’s a good front man for America.’ He smiled. ‘And I’m not betraying any confidences when I tell you he doesn’t like it here. He’s hoping that Harding will bring him back to Washington, where he wants to be, among the real action.’