“Now I see why Lizzie chose you and not me,” said Johnny, resorting, as he usually did in difficult situations, to flippancy.
No wonder Matt looked tormented. His heart went out to him.
“Is that all you can say? My marriage and career are on the line.”
“Sorry.” Johnny picked up the photograph again, and studied it, searching for tell-tale signs such as blurred edges, weird variations in contrast or odd angles. The focus and lighting were so good you could see the tuft of black hair between Matt’s pecs. There was no doubt the picture was genuine. It was not a trick shot, a composite of two or three others: it was a print from an original negative. “Have you any idea when it was taken?”
“Of course not! D’you think I’d have let them take it if I’d been conscious?” Matt hissed. “I don’t make a habit of rubbing willies with other men. I am not a pervert!” Anger exacerbated Matt’s anguish.
“Calm down,” said Johnny. “I didn’t say you were.”
It was true Matt’s eyes were closed, but it was impossible to tell whether he was in a state of ecstasy or out for the count. He could have been lying back in abandon or being propped up by his molester.
Johnny, however, knew that there was no way Matt would have been photographed willingly in such a compromising position.
“I don’t suppose you recognise the other chap?”
Matt examined the shot as if for the first time.
“No. There’s not much to go on is there? Funny that.” He put the photograph back in the envelope and pushed it across the table. “Here, you keep it. I can’t have Lizzie finding the bloody thing.”
Johnny tried to hide his surprise. If it had been him he would have destroyed the incriminating evidence. Then he realised Matt was not embarrassed by it but enraged. As a boxer he was used to appearing virtually unclothed in public; he was, quite rightly, proud of his body. Besides, no newspaper would ever be able to publish it.
“When could it have been taken?”
Surely Matt must have some idea, thought Johnny. How on earth could you be in such a situation and not know about it?
“I’ve been racking my brains and I just don’t know,” said Matt. Then, as if sensing Johnny’s scepticism, he added: “I’ve woken up in my own bed at home—or at the station-house—every single day.”
Four workmen were sitting at a nearby table. One of them made a remark, provoking a burst of laughter. Matt shot to his feet and went over to them.
“Care to share the joke, gentlemen?”
Silence. The whole café was listening. The quartet stared at him insolently. Their regulation brown coats suggested they were porters at Bart’s. The one with a hook-nose and sunken eyes took exception to Matt sticking his nose in.
“Fuck off!” It was said with real venom. The man’s thin, grey lips hardly moved.
“I’d make that Fuck off, Constable, if I were you,” said Arturo. “And if you want to use the foul language, do it somewhere else. Say sorry to my friend.”
The vicious porter mumbled an apology and stormed out with his cronies, one of them smashing a cup on the floor.
Matt was about to set off after them, but the proprietor told him to sit down while he brought some more tea.
“When did you receive this?” asked Johnny, for once knowing better than to offer a wisecrack.
“Yesterday afternoon,” said Matt. “The desk sergeant handed it to me before I went on duty.”
“I got this yesterday.” Johnny produced the second telegram.
“Don’t stop now,” said Matt. “I presume you think it’s from the same person who said a Snow Hill cop was dead?”
“Who else?” said Johnny. “You think there’s a connection?”
“Hardly,” said Matt. “You’re being told to carry on whereas I’m being warned off.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Johnny. “But what does the photograph mean? It’s an exposure in both senses of the word.”
“It’s certainly a threat,” said Matt. “What I don’t understand is what I’m being warned off from. I’m not doing anything I shouldn’t.”
Arturo placed two cups of tea—and two thick slices of chocolate cake—in front of them. “There you go.” He removed Matt’s untouched plate without comment.
“The pies were delicious, thank you,” said Johnny.
Arturo sniffed and went back behind the counter.
“Well, you’re talking to me,” said Johnny. “Not that you’ve told me anything. If we can find out who sent it, we’ll soon know why. What about fingerprints? You’d only need to submit the envelope.”
“True,” said Matt. “It’s been through too many hands though. Including yours. Besides, I don’t have the authority to send it to Dabs and I don’t want anyone in the force involved unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’d be a laughing stock if this got out. Can you imagine what the lads in the locker-room would say? My father might even get to hear about it.” He shook his head. “We’ve got to try and keep this between ourselves. You’re the only person I can trust.”
“It’s a strange coincidence, though, isn’t it?” said Johnny. “I discover Harry’s corpse. You rescue me. Then you receive this and I get the telegram. You said Harry was off-normal—and the other chap in the photo definitely must be—so could he be Harry?”
“No,” said Matt. “The thought had occurred to me. Check out the biceps. Harry’s were much beefier.”
Johnny glanced at the picture. It was not difficult to compare the arms with Harry’s. The image of the dead bummaree was burned into his brain.
“The photo has nothing to do with Harry’s death—it can hardly have been taken in the time since we found his body yesterday. Just forget about this dead cop nonsense, Johnny.”
“Then who was taken to Bart’s on Sunday night?” demanded Johnny.
“I haven’t the foggiest,” said Matt. “Look, never mind your so-called tip-off. Try and find out what you can about the photo—discreetly. Look, I’ve got to blow. There’s a tug-of-war tournament this afternoon in Bunhill Fields. It’s for charity, but Rotherforth has promised us free beer if we beat the Bishopsgate mob. Let me know how you get on.”
It was only when Matt had gone that Johnny remembered he had not asked him about his lost hat. It was probably in an evidence box by now.
Matt had not eaten his slice of cake. It would be a shame to waste it. As Johnny savoured its rich, sweet moistness he chewed over what he had just learned: and what he had not told Matt.
He knew exactly where the photo came from.
Underneath the caption on the reverse—PC Matt Turner and friend—it was embossed with the symbol of a snake swallowing its own tail.
Johnny had recognised it immediately but deemed it prudent to say nothing. He did not want Matt, overwrought as he was, going round there and causing a scene. He would go himself right now.
Reaching for his wallet, he waved to catch Arturo’s attention. But the proprietor looked at him incredulously when he asked for the bill.
“But you are the guest of the constable—it’s on the house, Signor.”
TWELVE
Situated in Amen Court opposite Stationers’ Hall, the Urania Bookshop was within shouting distance of the Old Bailey. This was convenient for the proprietor, who regularly found himself called to appear, facing charges under Lord Campbell’s Obscene Publications Act.
Johnny had recognised the logo of the self-swallowing snake from court sessions where he’d watched prosecuting counsel brandishing items seized from the shop. Their hypocritical show of recoiling in horror invariably had the jury craning their necks for a closer look.
Today there were no bystanders ogling the dingy array of plaster-of-Paris statuettes in various athletic poses—window undressing rather than window dressing. Johnny pushed open the door, hoping that the shop would be quiet on a Saturday afternoon, its regular clientele poring over their pornography in the privacy of their own homes.
The
jingle of the bell over the door summoned a personable young man in a burlap apron from the back room. He closed the door behind him. He seemed more nervous than Johnny.
Having checked that he was the only customer, Johnny retrieved the envelope from his inside pocket and placed the photograph of Matt on the counter.
“Seen this before?”
“What,” said the assistant. “A bit of the hard stuff?”
“Don’t try and be funny,” sighed Johnny. “I know you’ve got all kinds of filth under the counter. I’ve seen your boss fined several times for peddling smut. Do you recognise the men in the picture?”
“Why you asking?” The boy, blond and blue-eyed, was barely out of his teens but must have been over twenty-one else the proprietor would have faced yet another court visit. Chosen for his looks, no doubt. He licked his lips. His air of bravado wasn’t convincing.
“Stop wasting my time,” said Johnny, keen to be out of the place as quickly as possible.
He had never realised so many picture books on Ancient Greece and Rome had been published. Then there were the usual suspects: Edward Carpenter, Richard von Kraft-Ebbing, Baudelaire, Verlaine and, of course, Oscar Wilde. The novels in the fiction section looked particularly well-thumbed.
There was a rack of postcards by the door. It creaked as it turned. Cecil Beaton’s swooning portraits of Johnny Weissmuller; Leni Riefenstahl’s Olympic heroes clad only in loincloths; raunchier pictures featuring the Ritter Brothers, gym-toned and brilliantined, black dots obscuring their genitalia. They may have had perfect bodies but the Americans still looked ridiculous playing tennis in the nude.
“See anything you like? I’d never have guessed you were into Greek love—but that’s half the fun, isn’t it? You never can tell.” The boy had regained what was clearly his usual cockiness. “D’you want to see what I’ve got underneath?”
Johnny tried not to laugh. “Fuck off! Have you seen this picture before or not?”
“It was developed, along with several others, for a gentleman who came in last week. The photographer made a good job of it, don’t you think?”
“Name?”
“I maybe a sissy, but I’m not stupid.” He rubbed his fingers together. “My memory’s ever so rusty. It could do with a bit of lubrication…”
“You should be on the stage.” Johnny produced a half-crown.
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Boris Ignatovich.”
“Nice try.” Johnny put the money away. He pulled a postcard from the rack. A naked man sat looking at half a dozen others with their backs to him. It was titled “The Bath”. According to the credit on the back, it had been taken by Ignatovich.
“It was worth a go.” The boy shrugged. “I could give you a gam instead…” He licked his lips lasciviously.
Before Johnny could reach over to punch him, the bell rang and someone entered the shop. Keeping his back to the newcomer, Johnny moved over to the bookshelves. He stood there fuming at the titles: Man and Boy, Henry’s Heroes, Arthur and George…Footsteps crossed the ceiling. What—and who—was up there?
The customer had his collar up and his hat pulled well down.
“Good afternoon, sir. The usual?”
The man murmured his assent, palmed something off the counter and slipped it into his pocket. The cash draw slid open and closed. The whole transaction was over in less than a minute. The doorbell tinkled again.
“Come on then, if you’re going to give me one.”
Suddenly Johnny just wanted to be out of the place. Its sordid silence, the flaunting of flesh for money not love depressed him. He held up the half-crown again. “Have you developed other photographs for this chap?”
“Yes.”
“Who keeps the negatives?”
“He does, of course.”
“D’you know someone called Harry Gogg?”
He wasn’t sure what had made him ask the question. Perhaps it was the fact that the shop-boy, though slimmer, bore a passing resemblance to the dead bummaree with his fair hair and blue eyes.
It was as if Johnny had lunged across the counter and landed a punch in the boy’s solar plexus. He uttered a low moan and burst into tears.
As the boy stood there, wailing, Johnny looked on in amazement. Men did not cry. Well, not often. He had cried at his mother’s funeral, but not during the endless weeks leading up to her death. It was the final act of throwing earth on to her coffin that had set off the waterworks—and once they had started it felt as if they would never stop. He could still smell Lizzie’s perfume as he had sobbed into her shoulder.
He stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. He could hardly put his arms round the nancy to comfort him as he would have done with anyone else. The gesture might be misinterpreted.
“I loved him so much,” said the boy. “He meant the world to me. I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I feel so alone.”
The doorbell rang again. Johnny—thinking that only he could get himself into such a compromising position—wished the ground would swallow him up.
Fortunately the prospective customer, seeing the state of the boy and sensing trouble, turned on his heels and fled.
As the boy’s convulsions finally began to subside, Johnny patted his arm and did his best to express his sympathy.
“I’m sorry about Harry. I only met him the once, but I liked him.”
“He was a lovely boy, wouldn’t hurt a fly,” sniffed the assistant. “No one deserves to die like he did—butchered like one of the beefs he carried.” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand.
Johnny gave him the half-crown and picked up the photo of Matt, grateful that the first customer had not swiped it. Matt would have killed him.
“Are you sure there’s nothing you can tell me? I’m a reporter investigating Harry’s death.”
There had to be a connection between the business with the dead cop and the photograph. It was too much of a coincidence that Harry’s lover knew who had developed it. Anyway he did not believe in coincidence: it was simply the moment when preparation met opportunity.
“Sure as hell. Anyway, what’s his death got to do with that photo?”
“Nothing, as far as I know. That’s why I’m asking around.”
“Well, do us both a favour and do it somewhere else. Mind you,” he said, adopting a more conciliatory tone, “tip us the wink if you do find out anything.”
“You have my word.”
“Rather have your arse. You’re not bad-looking, for a ginger.”
Johnny, who had heard all the jokes before—in Cockney rhyming slang ginger beer meant queer—did not bother to answer.
It was a relief to step back out into the cold.
For a few moments the boy stood at the counter. He watched in silence until Johnny had disappeared from sight.
The door behind him opened.
“Well done, Joseph.”
I can’t believe he’s given the photograph to Steadman. It was meant to be a warning, to put an end to him consorting with the press. Instead, he hands the bloody thing over. Who in their right mind would want their mates to see them looking like that? The big bastard clearly has no shame.
Well, it looks as though I’ll have to find another way to shut him up.
I’m going to have to fix that ginger bastard too. The last thing I wanted was to hand him a new lead. I should have been more careful, made sure there was nothing on the photo that would connect it to the shop.
Still, Joseph did well. He’s a good lad—for a turd-burglar. Good for business, too. He makes a splendid usherette.
Of course, if he ever finds out who killed his bum-chum, that would be the end of the affair—and the end of him.
THIRTEEN
Saturday, 12th December, 8 p.m.
Daisy had finally said yes. It had taken all his powers of persuasion during another pleading telephone call to her digs in Camden—and the promise of a pair of art-silk stockings—before she accepted his invitation to dinner and a f
ilm. Halfway through the call he wondered why he was going to so much trouble—he would much rather have been with Lizzie—but, and he would not have admitted this to anyone, the photo of Matt had made him randy, frustrated and hungry for sex. Daisy was a cert.
From the minute he picked her up he was regretting it. She kept reminding him how lucky he was to have her company—she was not short of offers for a Saturday night out. However, Johnny suspected she was short of cash: her latest show, Revudeville, had closed the week before so she was kicking her heels until another chorus line required her dubious talents.
To prove how sorry he was for standing her up earlier in the week, he whisked her off to the luxurious Carlton Cinema. Its Egyptian façade dominated the crossroads of Essex and Canonbury Roads. The sumptuous interior—a riot of marble, mirrors, silver and gold—boasted 2,500 seats. Johnny splashed out on a couple that cost two shillings each, the most expensive, which positioned them right underneath the chandelier that hung from the centre of the vast domed ceiling. They had eaten in the lounge—every single wicker armchair and glass-topped table occupied—before entering the auditorium to hear the orchestra perform before the main feature: Sabotage.
Johnny was amused to see that Verloc’s dirty bookshop had been turned into a small independent cinema in Hitchcock’s version of Joseph Conrad’s novel, The Secret Agent. And the film being screened was Who Killed Cock Robin? The director had a warped sense of humour.
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