22-Stone-Cold Dead in the Market Affair

by John Oram

  The woman went with the room. She sat facing the door in a chair that had a high back carved and colored like a peacock's tail and quilted arms supported by grinning golden dragons. She wore a tunic and loose trousers in heavy white silk and there were white satin slippers on her tiny feet. No taller than a twelve-year-old girl, she looked like a frail Chinese doll.

  Solo asked, "You are Madame Gloriana?"

  She said, "My name is Anna. Gloriana looks better on the façade, don't you think? Now what can I do for you gentlemen?"

  "I am Napoleon Solo and this is my friend, Illya Kuryakin. We would like to ask you a few questions."

  "I shall try to answer them if they are not impertinent. You have not had trouble in my establishment, I hope."

  "Nothing like that," Solo assured her. He took a picture of Price Hughes from his pocket and handed it to her. "Have you ever seen this man?"

  She smiled, showing white even teeth. "Many times. He is my landlord. He owns this whole building."

  "That's interesting. When did you see him last?"

  She frowned. "I cannot remember exactly. About a year ago, I think. You must understand that there is no reason why we should meet. My business with him is transacted through his lawyers. I have seen him only by chance, as he went into or out of his offices next door."

  Illya said, "You used the word 'went,' as if he had gone from there."

  She looked at him coldly. "I did not mean to imply that. It is just that I believe he is frequently away from London for long periods. May I ask the reason for these questions?"

  "We are trying to find him," Solo said. "He doesn't seem to be home, and we have urgent business to discuss with him."

  "I am afraid I cannot help you. As I have explained, my contacts with Mr. Hughes are not social." She rose as gracefully as a Siamese cat and pressed a bell on the wall. The man in the dinner jacket appeared so quickly that he must have been waiting outside the door. She said, "Dancer, the gentlemen are going. Please show them out."

  Dancer's expression said it would be a pleasure.

  At the door Solo paused. He said, "We are staying at the Savoy, Suite A25. If Mr. Hughes turns up, perhaps you would get in touch with us."

  She smiled again. "If he turns up, I will ask him to contact you."

  When the door closed behind them she went immediately to the black and gold cabinet. She took out a telephone and dialed a number.

  Chapter Nine

  They picked up the Cortina and Solo drove through Trafalgar Square, down Whitehall and found a parking space in the shadow of the Houses of Parliament. Big Ben was striking ten-thirty as they crossed Bridge Street and walked down the stairs into the barroom of an old-fashioned tavern.

  Solo shouldered his way through the crowd at the bar, bought two Scotches and carried the drinks to a table where a man was sitting alone. He could have been any age from twenty-five to forty. His thin face was topped by mousy hair that needed cutting. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles with big round lenses and twists of grubby wool on the side-pieces near the ears. There was a glass of straight whiskey on the table in front of him, and he was reading a late edition of the Evening Standard. Several other newspapers, rolled together, protruded from the pocket of his shabby raincoat.

  Solo said, "Hi, Solly."

  He looked up, surprised. "Well. Napoleon! It's been a long time. So where have you sprung from?"

  "Around and about," Solo said, shaking his hand. "This is my partner, Illya Kuryakin."

  The hand went out again. "Nice to know you. What are you drinking?"

  "You're late," Solo put the Scotch in front of him.

  "What a friend." Solly drained his own glass and raised the second. "L'chayim!"

  They drank.

  Solo explained to Illya: "Solly Gold is alleged to be chief crime reporter of the Sunday Bugle, but nobody ever saw him in the newsroom. He's on first-name terms with every copper and hoodlum in the West End and his capacity for hard liquor is illimitable."

  "The schmalz we can do without," Solly said with dignity. "You got something to ask? Ask."

  "All right. Give me a rundown on the cute little number who runs the Gloriana Club in Newport Street."

  "Anna?" He rubbed his hand slowly over his chin. "What's to tell? She came out of nowhere a couple of years ago and opened up the way you see it now. Where she came from nobody knows. There's a story she got her money the hard way in Cardiff's 'Tiger Bay,' but that's what they say about any slant-eyed chippy who hits the scene. Me, I don't buy it. She's got two much class for a dockside grifter."

  "What do the police say?"

  "Nothing. But nothing. Her record is clean. There was a rumor a while back about drug peddling in the club. The Yard investigated. There wasn't even the smell of a reefer."

  "Women?"

  He spread his hands. "Can you keep them out? Especially since the new Act. Where else have they got to go but the clubs? So women, naturally — but they've got to stay well-behaved. Any chatting up the customers and they're out on their fannies. They can sit at the bar. Any drinks you buy them, they get a percentage. You want to dance? Okay, they dance. But strictly no funny business on the premises."

  "You make it sound like a Sunday school," Illya said. "Do you know anything about a man called Price Hughes, too?"

  "The nutcase next door? New Beginnings, and all that jazz?"

  "That's the man."

  "Sure, I know him. So does everybody on the crime beat. A do-gooder. Every time there's a hanging he organizes demonstrations outside the prison. In between, he saves souls. The way I hear it, there's a handout for every ex-con who climbs his stairs." He considered. "When he's there, that is. I haven't laid eyes on him in weeks."

  Solo bought three more drinks. When he returned, he asked, "What about that floor-manager in the Gloriana, the hard boy who looks like a Greek?"

  "You mean Dancer," Solly said. "He's a Malt and a three-time loser. First time for living on immoral earnings, the other two for grievous bodily harm. Funny thing, he's one of Hughes's proteges. When he came out after a chivving rap, the old man got him the job as Anna's bouncer.

  "That's funny. Anna said she never spoke to Price Hughes."

  "Go and argue with Anna," Solly retorted. "I'm only telling it the way I heard it."

  A barman came over and whispered something to him. "Telephone," he explained. "Don't go away." He weaved slightly unsteadily toward the bar.

  He was gone perhaps four minutes. When he came back his expression was less than benevolent. He said, "Naturally, a coincidence. You wouldn't hold out on me, would you?"

  Solo said, "I might — if I knew what you were talking about. But I don't."

  "Questions, questions, questions — about Anna. About Dancer. About the old nut. But he don't know what I'm talking about." Solly's gesture implored the ceiling to fall. Then his arms fell and he gripped the back of the chair. He leaned over, breathing whiskey fumes into Solo's face.

  "That was the office," he snarled. "A police patrol just found your old buddy Price Hughes on Hampstead Heath. Only it took them some time to recognize him. Somebody's been to work with a meat cleaver."

  "Well! Well!" Illya said mildly. "And you thought we knew all along. Or maybe you think we killed him?"

  "What I think or don't think, who cares?" Solly buttoned his raincoat with extreme care, pulling the frayed belt tight. "What I know if that I've got a story to get — and that means getting the hell out to Hampstead right now. But don't think I won't be seeing you again."

  "Be our guest," Solo invited. "Want us to drive you to the Heath?"

  "No. An office car is picking me up with a photographer." The anger had gone out of his voice but there was still suspicion in his eyes. "You don't want to tell me your end of it?"

  Solo stood up and held out his hand. "See us tomorrow, Solly, at the Savoy. We'll talk then."

  "Yes, and keep mum, like always," he grumbled. "You cloak-and-dagger merchants, with you it's one-way traffic."
>
  He shoved his hands into his pockets and swayed, with shoulders hunched, toward the exit.

  Illya stared after him. "Do you think he'll make it up the steps?"

  "Don't let him fool you," Solo said. "He's as sober as the well-known judge. If there's anything to be found out at the Heath, Solly will find it. He's the best reporter in the business."

  "But will he tell us what he finds?"

  "That," said Solo, "is one you can play on the nose."

  A cold wind was blowing across the river as they came up into Bridge Street, making them hurry to the shelter of the car. Illya turned the ignition key and the engine woke into life. "Where now?"

  "Back to the hotel. It's time we had words with New York."

  Illya turned the Cortina and drove up deserted Parliament Street, past the Cenotaph with its flags hanging in sculptured folds, and through Whitehall. Swinging left into Trafalgar Square, where students and tourists were still thronging around Nelson's column and the fountain, he asked suddenly, "Well, who killed him?"

  "Ask me why he was killed," Solo said. "That's easier. His death warrant was signed the moment you fouled up their Welsh operation. His cover was blown and his usefulness was finished. Thrush doesn't tolerate bunglers."

  "But why do the execution so publicly?" Illya objected. "Thrush is usually more subtle."

  "There's that," Solo agreed. "A meat cleaver isn't exactly Machiavellian. It sounds more like one of the gangs. It could be a kind of public warning, to encourage the others. But I've got other ideas."

  "It could be the body was planted for our benefit. You know: 'Okay boys. The boss is dead. The game's up. So you can all go home.' Remember, we're still supposed to think Price Hughes was top man of the British Satrap. Morgan died before he could confess that he blew the cover."

  "It's possible."

  Illya swung the car into the forecourt of the Savoy Hotel and brought it to a halt outside the big doors. He said, "You go on up and get through to Mr. Waverly. I'll garage the car."

  Solo rode the elevator to the first floor, unlocked the door of suite A25 and put his finger on the light switch. A stunning jolt of electricity shot up his arm, momentarily paralyzing him. In the same instant a bare, hairy forearm went around his neck in a Japanese stranglehold. He countered quickly, trying to break the grip that threatened to squeeze the last gasp of air from him lungs. His foot went back, got a hold around the assailant's ankle. They went down in a heap, Solo on top.

  The other man rolled, heaving Solo's body sideways. He wriggled free, smashing a murderous chop to Solo's Adam's-apple as he rose. Solo grabbed wildly in the darkness, caught a handful of shirt and felt it tear. Then a kick crashed behind his ear.

  When he came around, he was lying on a couch. There was a burning taste of liquor in his throat and whiskey dribbling down his chin. Illya, glass in hand, was standing over him.

  He tried to sit up. Pain stabbed through his skull and he lay back again, closing his eyes against the glare of the ceiling chandelier. He asked feebly, "What happened? Did the roof fall in?"

  Illya said, "They were waiting for you. Somebody had removed the switch cover. Really, Napoleon, I am surprised you fell for such an old trick."

  "It can happen to the best of us." Solo raised himself slowly and cautiously opened one eye. He took the glass out of Illya's hand and drank. "Did you see him?"

  "No, I found you lying here. Our visitor had gone."

  "Excuse me," Solo went to the bathroom, ran cold water and sluiced it over his face. It felt good and he plunged his head in the bowl. He came back toweling his hair. "What was he after?"

  "I think you interrupted him on a general exploratory mission," Illya said. "He has been through everything — cases, drawers, everything, and the place is a mess. But he also left something behind."

  He held out his hand. Solo saw in the palm a finely made gold medallion bearing the enameled portrait of a woman saint. Attached to the loop was a broken length of platinum chain. Illya said, "I found this on the floor by your head."

  Solo examined it. "This is unusual, and it cost plenty," he said. "It's the kind of thing you usually see in Italy, Spain and the Latin-American countries. Mothers give them to their sons, and they're sometimes handed down from generation to generation as a sort of good-luck piece. I'd say this one is eighteenth-century. It shouldn't be too difficult to trace. Somebody among the Italian community in Soho ought to recognize it."

  "You are an optimist, my friend," Illya said. "Do you know how many Italians there are in Soho? And Spaniards and Cypriots and Maltese? And if someone recognized it, is it likely they would admit it? Our late visitor is a rough playmate."

  "I know it," Solo massaged his aching head. "But I also know that these things have a strong superstitious value. And I think our little chum is going to move heaven and earth to get it back; so we have at least a starting point."

  He picked up the telephone, dialed Blodwen's number in Newport. When she answered, he asked, "How soon can you make it to London?"

  "Four hours. Maybe less, if I push it."

  "Fine. Then get going."

  "My God!" she said bitterly. "Don't you think a girl needs any sleep?"

  It was five in the morning when she knocked on the door of suite A25. Illya, in pajamas and dressing gown, let her in.

  "All right," she snapped. "Where's the fire?"

  He said, "Don't ask me. This is Napoleon's party."

  "Where is he?"

  "Sleeping, I hope. He's had a hard night."

  She spat out a rude Welsh word. "You think spending the night dodging trucks on the highway is a rest cure?" she demanded.

  She dumped the poodle on the floor and peeled off her traveling coat. The poodle trotted happily around the room sniffing at the furniture, its stump tail wagging like a semaphore. Illya went to the telephone and called room service for coffee and toast.

  Solo came from the bedroom. He was fully dressed, but his grooming was far from perfect. There was an ugly blue bruise from his swollen left ear to his cheekbone and his left eye was almost closed. He said, "You made good time. Thanks for coming."

  "You're welcome." She stared at his battered face. "What hit you?"

  He put a hand to his cheek. "A boot, I think. Forgive my lack of a shave. The skin's a bit sensitive."

  "I can imagine. You should take something for it."

  A bellboy arrived with the coffee, set the tray on a table convenient to the big couch, took his tip and went out quickly. The poodle trotted over to the table, sniffed, then got up on her hind legs and pirouetted like a ballet dancer, front paws outstretched.

  "She can smell the toast," Blodwen explained. "That pooch has just one thought in the world. She's still to young for the other."

  Illya poured the coffee and handed a cup to Blodwen. She said, "Thanks. Now, let's have the story."

  Solo outlined the events of the previous evening. She listened without interruption. When he had finished she picked up the medallion and looked at both sides. Without raising her eyes, she asked, "What do you want me to do?"

  He smiled. "Have you ever worked as a dance-hall hostess?"

  "Me? Not on your celebrated nellie."

  "Well, here's your chance to broaden your experience," Solo said. "I want you to get yourself a job at the Gloriana. That shouldn't be difficult. Keep your eyes and ears open for any odd scraps of information — but above all, wear the medallion in plain sight. Never show yourself without it."

  "You think Anna is at the bottom of the nonsense?"

  "I don't know," he replied. "But she's involved somewhere along the line. I want to know just how deeply."

  "Check! And where do I live?"

  "Get yourself a room in Soho — Greek Street, Wardour Street, somewhere like that. Not too expensive, but not too cheap, either. The kind of place any hardworking tramp would choose."

  "That's what I love about you," Blodwen said. "You always pick the graceful phrase."

  She stood
up. "Now, if you boys will excuse me, I'll borrow the bedroom for an hour. I'm dead on my feet. Wake me at nine and I'll start house-hunting."

  Chapter Ten

  Solly Gold arrived at noon. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and his normally pale face looked almost deathly. A badly-rolled cigarette drooped from a corner of his mouth.

  He took the whiskey Solo gave him, drained it at a gulp and held out the glass for a refill. He said, "At my time of life I've got to be up all night chasing stiffs. I should have my brains examined. You seen the dailies?"

  Illya said, "We've read them. They don't say much."

  "So what's to say? They got a body. They got a name for the body. The Yard is making inquiries. What else? You think the police are telling what they know?" He puffed futilely on the dead cigarette, took it out of his mouth, looked at it distastefully and tossed it into the fireplace.

  "There's no doubt it was Price Hughes?" Solo asked.

  "Not a chance. The face his own mother wouldn't recognize. Whoever carved him took a real pleasure in it. And there were no papers in his pockets. But the prints were positive."

  "Fingerprints?" Illya repeated.

  "Yeah, prints. It seems he wasn't always a do-gooder. Criminal Records had a full set of his dabs from 'way back.' For what, don't ask. Even me they're not telling." He sounded genuinely indignant.

  "According to the Express the police have got a lead," Illya said.

  "Oh, sure. Like always. You think they're going to admit they're up a gum tree? No weapon? No suspects? No motive? But one thing they have got. The old man was plenty dead when he was dumped on the Heath."

  "You mean he was killed elsewhere?"

  "A long ways elsewhere is my guess. And what's more, he was frozen practically stiff — like he'd been in a refrigerator a couple of days."

  Solly accepted a third Scotch, eyeing Solo's bruises with professional interest. "Now," he said, "suppose you trade a little information. Like, for instance, how you got the shiner."