Mistress Murder

by Bernard Knight

  He stalked up and down, beating a fist into his open hand.

  ‘I’m going to be ruined, Snigger. One punch-up in here with an audience and that’s my lot – I’d have to close up.’

  Snigger scratched his head with a pencil.

  ‘I wish Golding would turn up – let him do the worrying,’ he said, with complete honesty.

  He badly wanted to get in touch with Golding himself, to tell him of the developments that made it almost certain that Conrad Draper was the man whose voice Paul had heard on the hidden tape recorder.

  ‘Think Draper’s boys really will come tonight?’

  Snigger shrugged. ‘Gawd knows – if he wanted to do a real good smudge job on you he’d send them late at night when the place is full up.’

  The Eurasian looked sick with anxiety. His round moon face was bleached with worry and his slightly slanted eyes glistened.

  Snigger was struck by an idea. ‘Tell you what, if you’ll risk it and don’t mind forking out a few quid …’

  He took a few minutes to outline his plan and at the end of it the club owner was on the point of swooning with undiluted fear.

  ‘If it goes wrong, Draper will kill me … you know what he’s like … mad as they come, thinks he’s some sort of Al Capone.’

  ‘You’re going to catch a packet in any case,’ shrugged Snigger indifferently. ‘A big shindig here and the regulars will be off like a shot. They come here to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet with other people’s wives, but there’s plenty of other clubs waiting to take their custom.’

  He was also about to mention the loss of the drug racket, but stopped himself just in time. He wasn’t supposed to know.

  ‘OK, OK, we’ll do it … what’ll it cost?’

  Desperation drove Silver into accepting Snigger’s last ditch scheme.

  ‘About a hundred quid, all told … and cheap at the price,’ the barman reassured him.

  After they had fixed the details of the plot, Snigger went back to his bar stock and finished his totting-up of the liquor sales.

  About five o’clock, he pulled on his raincoat and made his way up Tottenham Court Road to Ferber Street, which was really one side of a Bloomsbury square.

  On the third floor of a block of flats, he halted at a door which had a blank space alongside the bell push. Snigger rang half-heartedly, being certain that Golding would not be there. After a moment’s silence had confirmed this, he took out a sheet of paper and a ballpoint and wrote a hasty message. He slipped it under the door, gave a last futile peal on the bell, and walked back to the automatic lift.

  Having done his best to give his senior partner as much warning as possible, the ex-jockey went home to his bachelor flat above the Queen of Scots public house in Fulham, to get ready for the evening stint in the Nineties.

  Chapter Nine

  Conrad Draper lolled in the back seat of his immense American Ford as Irish drove him slowly down Gerrard Street. He rolled his unlit cigar to one comer of his mouth and spat orders through the other.

  ‘Drop me now, then go back for the others – an’ don’t be all night about it. Park the barrow and come straight to the club.’

  ‘Luigi and Harry ain’t got membership cards,’ objected Irish.

  Draper swore at the small-mindedness of his lieutenant.

  ‘For God’s sake, this isn’t a courtesy call – if the flunkey on the door opens his trap, ram your fist down it. I should be in the bar when you come, but if I’m not, come straight through to the office at the back and no stopping off for a crafty booze on the way.’

  The car drew up and the doorman of the Nineties hurried across the pavement to open the door for him to get out.

  ‘It’s half eleven now,’ said Conrad as a parting shot to Irish. ‘So get back here inside five or ten minutes.’

  The car, looking like a spaceship on four white-walled tyres, glided away and the turf tycoon went down into the club.

  The doorman hurried to his house telephone and pressed the button marked Office. He spoke in an urgent whisper, though there was no one to overhear.

  ‘He’s just come in, Mr Silver … yes, on his own.’

  Snigger watched the large figure of the ex-wrestler stride past the bar and heard the line of protests as he marched unheedingly over feet and against tables in the gloom. The lights were down as the cabaret was in progress. The sultry blonde was crooning away, but Conrad, oblivious of everything but his mobster reputation, forged on towards the stage.

  For a moment his broad silhouette was outlined alongside the slinky singer as he clambered up on to the platform. He vanished through the side door in the wings and groped his way up the corridor to Silver’s office door, which showed a sliver of light beneath the panels.

  Without any pretence of knocking, he barged in and stood blinking in the light of the desk lamp which had been deliberately turned towards the door to blind him. The other lights in the room were out and he felt a sudden surge of alarm.

  ‘Hey – what the hell?’

  His arms were suddenly seized and he was dragged into the centre of the room. Simultaneously, the lights came on and the door was slammed shut.

  The astounded bookie found himself held in a vice-like grip by two large and ugly men. They lugged him to the desk, where a pale but shakily triumphant Ray Silver stood waiting.

  Conrad fell to swearing, more out of rage than fear. His American façade gave way to the more descriptive language of Stepney and Whitechapel as he ran through his repertoire of blistering obscenity.

  The thugs gave him a moment or two to let off steam then one of them wrenched his elbow violently.

  ‘Shut yer gob!’ he growled expressively.

  Conrad nearly exploded in a shower of outraged blood and flesh. No one had spoken to him like that for nearly ten years.

  ‘I’ll cut you to little pieces for this,’ he rampaged, ‘I’ll bloody kill you … you … smash you …’

  He ran out of words bad enough to express his feelings and ended with a sob of frustrated rage, his face purple with emotion. He failed to recognise either of the toughs as local men and tried to soothe his shattered pride by telling himself that they couldn’t possibly know who he was. He started to put that right as soon as the thought entered his head. Draper snarled at the two men who were stoically hanging on to his writhing arms.

  ‘You don’t know who I am, eh … you better find out quick!

  ‘Yes, butch … we know all about that … you’re Draper the Chicago Kid. That don’t cut no ice with us,’ growled the first man, who looked as if he used concrete as an aftershave lotion. ‘Now shurrup and listen to the man over there.’

  He gave another excruciating twist to Conrad’s elbow. The ex-wrestler realised from experience that he had no hope of breaking their hold.

  Ray Silver did not share his opinion. He kept his hand on the automatic in his jacket pocket and when he had the chance to speak, he lugged it out. Using it to boost his shaky nerves, he pointed it waveringly in the direction of Conrad’s navel.

  The bookie’s jaw dropped when he saw the gun. Even his gangster complex hadn’t driven him as far as carrying a gun around with him. He had earned a year’s corrective training in his youth for being found in illegal possession of a pistol and this had encouraged him to keep clear of them ever since. To see the Eurasian pointing one at him now was a physical shock.

  ‘Silver, you must be cracked! What y’doing with a rod?’

  The club owner began to speak. His first attempt was a high-pitched squeak but he tried again and managed to make a tremendous croak.

  ‘You started it, Draper – you and your ideas about busting up my club.’

  ‘I’ll eat you alive, you little squirt,’ roared Conrad. ‘What the hell are you up to? And stop pointing that damn shooter at me.’

  ‘I want to know why you’re so interested in Golding.’ The club owner’s confidence increased as he saw how powerless Draper was in the hands of the two thugs.


  Conrad’s blood pressure had come down a little by now after the first shock had worn off. He had not the slightest trace of fear; nothing could happen to the great, the invincible Conrad – nothing like what was going to happen to Silver and his bunch of amateurs as soon as Irish and the boys got here. He began reasoning with the half-caste, partly to pass the time away.

  ‘Now be sensible, Ray … tell your yobs to take their hands off me and slide away. I’ll forget the hard words we had about roughing your place up. All I want to know is where to find Golding.’

  ‘And I tell you I don’t know. Can’t you get that into your thick head?’

  ‘All right, now put that rod away, it might go off accidentally – you wouldn’t want to be topped just because your finger slipped, would you?’

  Ray Silver shook his head emphatically. Now that he was in the saddle, he wanted to stay there. The internal telephone rang urgently but he ignored it to concentrate on Conrad.

  ‘Come on, tell me – why do you want Golding so badly? Are you trying to cut in on the peddling game?’

  Conrad gave another experimental shrug to his arms, but they were held as if in a vice. The two men stood impassively at his side, apparently bored by the whole proceedings.

  ‘Tell these punks to scram and I’ll talk to you,’ he grated.

  Silver shook his head. ‘You do the talking from there. You’re in no position to bargain.’

  He was wrong. For the second time in a few minutes, the door burst open and Harry and Luigi erupted into the room. They stared around for a split second and then jumped at the thugs that held Conrad. These two promptly let go of his arms to defend themselves and the bookie hurled himself at the desk.

  He brought his fist down in a great chop which pinned Silver’s wrist to the desktop and sent the gun spinning across the floor.

  While the four heavyweights were mixing it in the middle of the room, Conrad was belabouring the Eurasian about the head with the flat of his hand. Silver rapidly slid to the floor and lay blubbering with fright and pain. Conrad scooped up the automatic and turned his attention to the main battle.

  Big Harry and his opponent were about evenly matched and were slugging away as if they were enjoying it. The second, a burly fellow with a scarred face, had Luigi in a half-nelson and was hammering his left kidney into a fine pulp.

  Conrad stuffed the pistol into his pocket, got a professional wrestling hold on the man and dropped him clean onto his head on the floor, where he passed out cold. The other thug saw this from the comer of his eye and promptly dodged for the door before Conrad had a chance to repeat the treatment on him.

  Unfortunately for Irish O’Keefe, the escaping man met him in the corridor outside and gave him a tremendous thump in the chest as he made his getaway. Harry dragged Irish inside and dumped him in a chair to recover.

  ‘What the hell kept you?’ demanded Conrad, breathing heavily and restoring his oily waves with a comb. Irish gasped while he tried to get his lungs working again and Harry had to explain for him.

  ‘He stopped to show the doorman his razor – the guy was trying to use the house phone.’

  Conrad grunted and went to look behind the desk at the fallen owner. He was still lying on the floor, moaning and trying to look mortally injured, but a flash of his shifty eyes told Conrad that he was shamming.

  ‘Get up – we got talking to do.’

  The pasty-faced man dragged himself slowly to his feet and pulled his dishevelled dinner jacket together. He was shivering like someone with malaria. Conrad pulled out the Webley and took careful aim at Silver’s stomach. The club owner screamed. ‘Please – no!’

  Conrad laughed and, leaning forwards, prodded him hard with the blunt muzzle.

  ‘All right, you double-crossing little creep, I’m not going to perforate you – yet!’ He raised a hand and gave the other a resounding slap across the cheeks, which were already swollen and bruised.

  Silver yelped and began to sob.

  ‘Shut up – you’re breaking my heart. Now you can see you’re not in the same class as the big boys – stick to snow peddling and your song and dance acts.’

  Harry interrupted to ask what they should do with the other bruiser who was just regaining consciousness.

  ‘Take him round the front and dump him in the street – he should have learnt his lesson like slit-eyes here.’

  Harry and Luigi dragged the body away and Conrad put the automatic back into his pocket.

  ‘Look, Silver, I want to know the minute Golding shows up here or as soon as you hear anything from him – see?’

  Silver nodded mutely

  ‘He must show up soon,’ went on Conrad in his mood of expansive forgiveness, he’s got to flog his stuff to someone or starve. And when he does, you get on the blower to me as fast as your fat legs’ll carry you – see?’

  Silver saw and nodded and gulped eagerly.

  ‘But why – what’s the game?’ he cringed.

  The bookie seemed to swell before Silver’s eyes.

  ‘The bastard croaked my dame – and I’m going to get him for it.’

  He pulled out the pistol and began playing with it.

  ‘I’m going to kill him when I catch up with him.’

  Ray looked with fascination at the Webley.

  ‘But the police … they said it was an accident.’

  ‘Yeah – so why are they nosing about asking questions today?’

  ‘You got no proof that Golding had anything to do with it!’ objected Silver, getting bolder now that the brunt of Draper’s anger had been deflected onto Golding.

  Conrad tossed the gun carelessly from one hand to the other.

  ‘No, not yet. That’s where you come in. I want to talk to Golding – by the time I’ve finished with him I’ll know everything I want to know.’

  He suddenly poked the gun right into the Eurasian’s face.

  Ray backed away hastily.

  ‘I think he’s got some sort of legit business somewhere – probably outside London. Does he know you’re on to him?’

  Draper waved the automatic dangerously.

  ‘He knows somebody’s on to him – but he doesn’t know who – and you’re not going to tell him, are you? You wouldn’t want to come to a sticky end, Silver.’

  The viciousness in the last words cut like a knife as Draper wheeled around and went to the door. He turned again in the opening for a last word, in true Bowery style.

  ‘Get me on the blower the minute you hear – and remember, chum, you’re living on borrowed time until I get Golding.’

  He strode away down the corridor, followed by Irish, who still grunted with pain every time he breathed.

  Silver stared blankly at his writing pad, seeing nothing but trouble written there.

  Inspector Turnbull came down from the laboratory on the top of the new building of Scotland Yard and crossed over into the dingy red-brick monstrosity that housed many of the senior officers. He found Archie Benbow’s room and squeezed into it, clutching a sheaf of papers.

  ‘Good job you haven’t got a cat, Archie, you couldn’t swing the damn thing in here.’

  Bray was toiling at a big filing cabinet that seemed to fill half the room and Benbow was staring out of the window. He swung round to greet the liaison officer.

  ‘Hi, George … you’re damn right about this place.’ He waved aggrievedly towards the window. ‘In all these TV plays, the detective has a lovely view of the river and the County Hall from his spacious apartment,’ he complained. ‘All I’ve got is the blank wall of an alley leading to Cannon Row.’

  Bray looked up and grinned. ‘Oh, I don’t know, sir – if you lean out far enough, you can see the toilets on the comer quite plainly.’

  Turnbull waved the papers he held.

  ‘Got some results on the Laskey woman,’ he announced. Bray slammed his cabinet shut and came to stand at Benbow’s elbow as the Admiral sank down behind his desk. Turnbull drew up a chair, which just about used up all th
e remaining space in the room. He was a tall thin, perpetually pipe-smoking man, never in a flap, but always intent on getting on with the job with the least possible fuss.

  ‘She had a load of alcohol in her, as we expected,’ he began, ‘the blood level was three hundred and twenty milligrams per cent – getting on towards the coma level – if she wasn’t absolutely dead to the world, she’d have been so groggy that she wouldn’t have cared if she’d been coshed with forty starting handles!’

  Benbow’s beady eyes flashed. ‘Ah-hah! The handle … you got anything definite on that?’

  ‘Yes, Archie, we’ve come up trumps with it.’

  Turnbull dived into a large envelope and came out with some glossy prints.

  ‘We’ve compared some of the fibres caught on the rusty part of the handle with samples from several samples of yellow household dusters and the sort they sell for cleaning cars. Several of them correspond exactly with the strands on the handle and with the fibres that the pathologist picked from the girl’s head wound.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove that she was hit with that particular handle,’ objected Benbow.

  ‘No, I agree, but it all helps,’ said Turnbull.

  ‘Can you narrow down the source of the particular fibres?’ asked Bray.

  ‘No, the dusters are sold all over the place – Halfords and Woolworths, that kind of shop.’

  ‘So it doesn’t help one damn bit,’ snarled Benbow. Turnbull ground his teeth on the stem of his pipe.

  ‘Wait a bit, wait a bit – there’s more to come yet … blood, glorious blood.’

  He lit his pipe with infuriating slowness and spoke again through a barrage of blue smoke. ‘The knuckle of that handle looked clean enough – it had probably been wiped over with a wet rag – perhaps the same or a similar yellow duster. But the steel still gave a strong positive benzidine reaction for blood It’s hellishly sensitive – will pick up about one part in three million. This handle crank gave a whacking strong positive. Then they used some fancy tests on the rust scrapings in case it was just the iron giving a false reaction, but it was still a bonanza.’

  ‘What then?’ asked Benbow, always a little suspicious of the scientist’s expertise.