‘But how about that now, Mr Haynes? You take a half-dozen karate lessons, quick like you are it’s all you need, and then–’
‘No. I had an unlucky experience once. I don’t want to take karate lessons. Or judo.’ The way the words were spoken told Riverboat not to go on.
He had told Johnson about the visit to Dingwall Street. True to his Watsonic persona, the traffic warden expressed himself totally puzzled by the connection between Claber and Chrissie Drummond. It was less in character that Sher was baffled too, but at least he had an idea for solving the puzzle that seemed to him properly Holmesian in its approach. He was explaining it to Johnson when the telephone rang. Betty Brade’s voice said, ‘Any orders for this evening, sir?’
He said to Johnson, ‘Shall I ask her?’ An upturned pipe stem signified approval He explained what he wanted. ‘Joe’s here, and says he’ll cover you, but I ought to warn you that there might be some trouble, though I don’t expect it.’
Her laugh boomed down the line. ‘Never found the trouble I can’t deal with. Okay, Sherlock, see you in an hour.’
‘Betty’s reliable,’ Johnson said after he had hung up. ‘And it’s right what she told you, she used to be a wrestler. Gave it up when she married. Her husband’s a shrimp of a man. She does everything he tells her, perfectly happy with him.’
‘What’s Cassidy’s background?’
‘In the Army when he was young, I believe he served in Cyprus. Then he was a copper till he was in an accident, piece of timber fell on him when he was getting a kid out of a burning house, left him with a limp. You’d hardly notice it, but it meant he wasn’t up to police standard. They’re three good men I picked you, myself included, even if one is a woman.’
Claber’s Mercedes was at the Carrousel parked on double yellow lines, in almost the same spot as on the previous night. As Sher approached the entrance he saw Betty.
‘Hi, Sherlock.’
He pointed out the car. ‘Right then, going into action now.’
‘Good luck.’
‘You’ve got it wrong. I don’t need luck.’ A gleam of gold showed in her smile.
He went in the club, walked straight through to the gaming-room, and bought ten pounds’ worth of chips. There were only a few people in the room, and Sarah was not among them. He felt his heart throbbing as it had when he was a young man playing a big part. The idea was worthy of the Baker Street Irregulars, but would it work?
In the street Betty walked once, twice round the Mercedes, then took out her notebook. With head bent over it, she still saw the doorman lumbering across the road.
‘What’s up?’ He had a squashed boxer’s face, with small worried eyes set in the battered flesh. His black and gold uniform made her traffic warden’s outfit look shabby.
‘Parked on a double yellow. Have to give you a ticket. And get it moved.’
‘You what?’ The words came out as a croak. ‘We got an arrangement.’
‘Not with me you haven’t, not for leaving it on a double yellow. You the owner?’
There was a kind of wheeze which might have been interpreted as laughter. ‘Taking the mick? The owner’s Mr Claber, Mr Harry Claber.’
‘If he’s in the club, tell him to come out and move his car.’
The flat face came close. ‘You’re making a mistake. You don’t want trouble, nobody does, just forget it, eh?’ A hand clasped Betty’s, with a piece of paper in it. She broke the grip and held up the pound note.
‘Naughty.’ She tucked the note in his breast pocket. ‘Don’t you know a good girl when you see one? Another move like that and you’ll be in trouble.’
‘Dunno what you mean.’ The little eyes were bemused. ‘I tell you it’s Mr Claber, he’s got–’
‘An arrangement, I heard you the first time. Now, you be a good boy and go and tell Mr Claber to move this car. Now.’
‘I dunno why you’re doing this. It ain’t right.’ He shook his head like a boxer after a punch, and was gone.
Harry Claber came out wearing his smile. ‘Jack here says you want me to move my Merc.’
‘That’s right. You’re on a double yellow, got to be moved.’
‘I’m busy just now, it’s not convenient. If you’d just like to give me the ticket.’
He held out his hand. Betty presented her golden smile. ‘I think you didn’t hear. I said it had to be moved.’
Claber looked her up and down. ‘You’re a big hard bitch’
‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’
‘And ugly. But you could be uglier.’
‘What does that mean?’
The smile was back in place. ‘Take it how you like. Look now, be reasonable. It’s hard to park around Shepherd Market. I always leave my car here. And the police know about it. And they don’t interfere. I’m Harry Claber.’
‘Your sheepdog told me.’ The doorman looked from one to the other of them, baffled. ‘It means nothing in my life. Will you move the car?’
‘Jack, take the number this cow’s got on her jacket.’ He turned back to her. ‘What are you in uniform for, you must be off duty this late at night.’
‘I’m going out with my boy-friend. He’s a Guardsman, we both fancy uniforms.’
Claber stared at her, got into the car, slammed the door, and drove away. The doorman was fumbling in his pocket.
‘You got a bit of pencil I can borrow? And paper?’ As he wrote down her number he croaked, ‘You didn’t ought to er done that. You’ve upset ’im, and it takes a lot to upset Mr Harry.’
Sher was standing at the table nearest to the black door when Claber went out. He was in the room within seconds. If there had been anyone inside he would have apologised and gone out again, but the room was empty. The black and gold motif had been abandoned here. This was an office like a thousand others. There was a large desk with a swivel chair behind it, a couple of filing cabinets, and a wall safe. The safe was locked, and so were the filing cabinets. The drawers of the desk were locked too. If he had been Sherlock Holmes he might have been able to open the safe, and could certainly have forced the desk drawers, but he lacked even a chisel. Val would no doubt have said that he was playing at detection.
There were papers on the desk, and he looked at them quickly. Bills, a couple of applications for a vacancy as croupier, a report detailing the takings of five other Claber clubs over the past month, a letter offering special terms for the supply of wine with a label saying: ‘Carrousel Club Special Reserve.’
The telephone rang. He picked it up without thinking what he would say if the door opened and Claber came in.
‘That Mr Claber?’ The voice was Cockney working class, the tone respectful.
What did Claber sound like? He tried a general London voice, as neutral as he could make it. ‘This is Harry Claber.’
‘Joey, Joey Lines. Sorry to bother you, Mr C, but I oughter tell yer I’m goin’ ter be a bit late. I been kept later than I expected unloadin’, see, shan’t get there before half nine.’
‘Half past nine. Right.’ It occurred to him that he might have said ‘Half nine’, but the voice at the other end went on.
‘You’ll let Shorty know. He’ll be expectin’ me before nine, see, and–’
‘He’s not here now, you’d better give me the details.’
‘I’ll be in a jack tar vey call the parade ground in the old ball of chalk, East India Dock Road.’
‘He’ll recognise you?’
‘Course ’e will. ’Ere, that is you, Mr C, ain’t it?’
‘Who the hell d’you think it is?’
‘Just you sounded funny like, as if you–’
‘I’ll tell him.’ He put down the telephone. It took an effort of nerve to open the door again, but when he stepped out into the gaming-room nobody took any notice. Afterwards out in the entrance hall he passed Claber returning. Another minute, and he would have been caught. When he got outside Betty was not to be seen. He asked the doorman whether he had seen a traffic warden.
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‘You mean the one made the guv’nor move his car? She’s made ’erself scarce, and I don’t blame ’er. The guv’nor don’t never lose control, but ’e was wild, ’e’ll ’ave something to say to ’er boss in the morning. What’s up, you got a car parked, sir?’
‘Just round the corner. On a double yellow.’
‘Lucky if you’re still there then.’
He spent the next couple of minutes looking without success for Betty. He was beginning to be worried when she appeared out of an alley.
‘It worked,’ she said.
‘Splendidly. But the doorman says Claber’s angry. I hope I haven’t got you into trouble.’
‘So he reports me, but who does the report go to? Joe. Anyway they’re used to complaints at the centre. Did you have any luck?’
‘No useful papers, but I took a phone call for Claber. Someone called Joey Lines is going to meet a man of Claber’s named Shorty, in a jack tar named the parade ground, at the ball of chalk in the East India Dock Road.’
‘What does all that mean?’
‘It’s Cockney rhyming slang. A jack tar is a bar, and a ball of chalk means Duke of York, the name of the pub.’
‘Sherlock, you’re wonderful. Going down there, are you?’
‘Yes.’ He anticipated her next question. ‘Alone. If I were with you I’d look conspicuous.’
‘Look after yourself. It strikes me that Harry Claber’s friends might play a bit rough. Sure you wouldn’t like a woman to take care of you?’
He said he wouldn’t. On the way down to the dock area in a taxi he was aware that he was enjoying himself enormously.
‘But how did you discover it? I mean, the docks?’
‘I read this Observer colour supp. piece, you see, and it said all the obvious places are finished, a house in Battersea even costs a fortune, but around the East India Dock area there were still some of these perfect little squares–’
‘Lived in by the peasants, no doubt, with a loo out at the back– ’
‘Exactly, and there was this perfectly dreamy little house, just a cottage, and Fabrina said it’d got terrific possibilities–’
‘Possibilities, I should think so.’
He listened gloomily to the exchange taking place between a couple with long flowing hair, both wearing bell bottoms and bright pullovers. Did the absence of make-up indicate their masculinity or the opposite, were their voices male or female? He found it impossible to say. The pub depressed him. It had been done up by the brewers, and in honour of its name they had turned it into a kind of military encampment. Reproductions of battle scenes were around the walls, regimental flags and scrolls took up other bits of vacant space, what had once been public and private bars were now called Sergeants’ Mess and Officers’ Mess. It was certainly not what it had been in Holmes’ time, and he would infinitely have preferred a few villainous Lascars to the trendy young creatures who mixed with the tough-looking dockers. Not that the dockers seemed to mind either the desecration of their pub, or its part-occupation by these aliens. From the large central bar which was actually called the Parade Ground, Sher pondered on the superiority of past to present. He was jerked out of this reverie by the words: ‘That’s Joey, just come in.’
The barman had been speaking to a tall, very thin man with eyes sunk deep in his head, who wore a mustard-coloured suit. He had been eating veal and ham pie, and now he turned with his mouth full. The barman nodded. The man raised a pale, fleshless hand, and Joey came over. He was red-faced and red-haired, in his twenties, and he had on a lorry driver’s dirty overalls. The man who must be Shorty sprayed pie crumbs at him. ‘You’re bleedin’ late.’
‘I was kept. And I been parking the lorry.’
Shorty ordered pints of bitter for them both, gave Sher a long stare, and led the way to a table in a comer. Joey followed with a plate containing three ham sandwiches. Shorty fell on them like a starving man, talking between mouthfuls. Joey listened, chewing thoughtfully like a red-faced bull. Shorty had started on a second sandwich while Joey was still mulling over his first. The tables next to them on either side were occupied, and there was no way of hearing what they were saying, except by standing near by in a way that would have made him look conspicuous. It was such humdrum obstacles that posed problems to an investigator. With this awareness of inadequacy went a feeling that he had missed something significant in the fragment of conversation he had heard. After five minutes he finished his beer and went out.
The night was bleakly cold. Traffic rumbled past, vans and lorries and great articulated monsters. He remembered what Joey had said about parking. If he waited, he might at least find out who Joey was working for. He stood in a dark doorway just down the street, stamping occasionally to keep his feet warm. He had to wait ten minutes before the two men came out, crossed the road, and went down a side street. He followed twenty yards behind. Warehouses and an office block or two lined the street, large lorries were parked all the way down it. Joey and Shorty stopped beside one of these. In the silence their words floated back.
‘You won’t need no bleeder this size.’
‘Course not. We use an ordinary van for jobs like the one for this geezer Williams. Nothing particular about it, except he often uses us, so it’s got racks inside, see, been specially put in. Thing is this though, Shorty, I don’t want to get in no bleedin’ trouble.’
‘Who said there’d be trouble? Anyway, it’s a hundred nicker.’
‘That’s what you say, but – ’
‘Shut up.’
To avoid coming up with them, Sher had started to cross the road. The name on the van, East London Transport Company, was clearly visible. As he crossed, Shorty’s face was turned towards him, the head thrust forward. Now the tall man came over to intercept him. Joey followed, cutting off the chance of retreat.
He ran. He ran on down the street, looking for a turning that would lead him back to the safety of the East India Dock Road. Feet pounded after him, and he did not dare to turn round. There were no turnings to the right, and at last he went to the left in the hope of finding an alley in which he could lose the men. His heart beat strongly, and to sustain himself he counted the paces he was taking, something he had not done since his youth. Another hundred and he would have thrown them off. Ninety, Eighty, Seventy, his heart seemed to be moving up into his throat, something he had read about in books.
He was running beside a long, long warehouse with several separate sheds that had words painted on them. He told himself that when the wording ended there would be a gap. The sheds went by. J Hampton – Cellulose – Acetate – and Paint – Manufacturers. Sure enough, there was a dark gap to the left. He ran into it and fell over, among a clatter of paint drums. Another moment, and they were up to him. The two of them stood staring at him in the dismal light of a street lamp a few yards away. He moved a couple of yards back, kicked against another drum, looked round, and realised that he had trapped himself in a small courtyard where empty paint drums were kept. He was not afraid, and his mind was working clearly. He remembered the significant thing that he had missed in the conversation. It was when the barman had pointed out Joey. On the telephone, Joey had said that Shorty knew him, so the mention of Joey’s name had been a deliberate trap. And he had fallen into it by revealing his interest.
Shorty advanced towards him with hands raised, not threateningly as it seemed, but in a gesture that might have been one of greeting. For a moment the light shone on his face, and Sher saw that his jaws were still moving. As the thin figure came in his direction, Sher stepped sideways to avoid him, and Joey at the rear moved in counter part. The effect, it occurred to Sher as he side-stepped another paint drum, was rather like a ballet. Light gleamed briefly on the brass knuckles in Shorty’s hand. He felt the paint drum shift as he moved away. It occurred to him – his thoughts were of an icy Holmesian clarity – that if he could move a drum with his hand, it could not be heavy. He picked up the last one over which he had stumbled and clumsily th
rew it at Shorty. It struck the tall man without force, but he staggered. In a moment Sher was past him and approaching Joey, who blocked his way rather half-heartedly. He was aware of a door opening, a dog barking. Then he bumped into Joey with fists flailing. At the moment of punching Joey in the stomach, he felt the absurdity of what he was doing. Then he had the impression that in the dark he had run into some invisible obstacle. He put out a hand to push it away and felt himself slowly sinking to the ground.
Somebody, presumably a nurse, was washing his face, using a flannel made of spongy material. A man’s voice expostulated with her. The washing stopped, then started again. He opened his eyes to see the head and shoulders of a large dog. It bent down, tongue lolling.
‘I said get away, Whisky. A fine guard dog you are. Trouble with him is he loves humanity. You okay?’ A young man with a straggly beard was bending over him.
Sher got up slowly. ‘He hit me on the back of the head, but no serious damage. I don’t know what might have happened if you’d not been there. What are you, a night watchman?’
‘Right you are. For Hamptons. Not that there’s much to watch, who wants to steal paint? Down, Whisky. See, he just loves people.’
The dog, now on its hind legs, was trying to clamber over Sher in pure friendliness. Would it look like the hound of the Baskervilles if its muzzle and dewlaps had been covered with luminous paint?
‘I’ll just see you down the road. What were they after, your wallet?’
At this gentle hint Sher extended a pound note. The young man slipped it into his pocket in a matter-of-fact manner. As they turned into the next street, Sher saw that the van had gone. ‘This can’t be a full-time job, surely?’ he asked.
The young man laughed. ‘I’m on social security. This is just a bit extra, doesn’t get passed through the books, see, no tax.’
‘You mean you don’t do any regular work?’
‘Right you are. What’s the point? Girl I’m shacked up with works at a toy factory, brings home a nice little packet. I do the housework and the cooking. I make a beautiful beef strogonoff, though I says it as shouldn’t.’
A Three Pipe Problem Page 13