22-Stone-Cold Dead in the Market Affair

by John Oram

  "Interesting, but unhelpful," Solo commented. "Well, I'm going to bed. Tomorrow looks like a tough day."

  * * *

  Business was brisk at the morning session of Bow Street Magistrates Court. Too-liberal celebrants of victory and defeat in an international football match at Wembley Stadium had swelled the crime-sheet. One by one, with blinding hangovers, they filed into the dock to listen dully to the recital of their errors on the night before. They were followed by the normal procession of ladies of the town who had bucked the provisions of the Street Offenses Act. Then Blodwen and French Louise were put together.

  French Louise was a battered synthetic blonde with the elfin charm of a Sherman tank. She stood five feet two, weighed 140 pounds, and most of the avoirdupois was distributed around her chest and hips. The fingers that gripped the edge of the dock were short and thick, with bitten nails.

  She listened sullenly while the young constable gave evidence of the battle on the Newport Street pavement. It was his first major arrest and he made quite a production of the story. He left no doubt in the minds of the court that French Louise had been the challenger.

  "Anything known?" the magistrate asked.

  Louise, it transpired, had a string of convictions for soliciting, shoplifting and disturbing the public peace ranging back to the days of Pearl Harbor.

  "Have you anything to say for yourselves?"

  They kept silent. The bench considered sentence.

  Blodwen, as a first offender, escaped with a nominal fine. Louise was not so lucky. She got the maximum.

  The size of the fine made her gasp. "You got to be joking," she said. "Where the hell would I find that kind of money?"

  Blodwen cut in quickly, "I'll pay it, your honor."

  He nodded. "Very well."

  The clerk called the next case.

  "You didn't have to do that," Louise said grudgingly as they walked to the office to pay the fines. "I wasn't asking no favors from you."

  "Forget it," Blodwen said. "Why should you go inside for nothing? Honest to God, I never even met your boyfriend. Let's get the hell out of here and have a drink."

  "Okay, then. If you've still got the price."

  "Don't worry. My friend is in the pub down the street. He'll pay."

  Solo was waiting in the paneled bar of the old Coach and Horses in Bow Street. He clucked sympathetically and told Louise, "They really threw the book at you."

  "Yeah, the bums. Still, I suppose I asked for it."

  Solo gave her a large gin and it went down in one gulp. He gave her another, and she said, "Thanks. That hits the spot."

  There was still suspicion in her eyes, despite her forced friendliness. She said to Blodwen, "I'm not starting anything but I still want to know. If Scalesi didn't give you my luck-piece, where did you get hold of it?"

  "I gave it to her," Solo said.

  "And how did you come by it?" she demanded.

  "I picked it up someplace," he said vaguely. "The question is, how do we know it was yours in the first place?"

  "Ask any of the girls. They've all seen me wearing it. Till it got pinched, that is."

  "Mind telling me where you got it?"

  "That's my business. And why are you so goddamn interested, anyway?"

  Solo took four five-pound notes from his pocket and laid them on the bar. "I'm just naturally curious," he said, "and I always pay for my whims."

  "Well, it's no secret." She picked up the notes and put them in her shabby handbag. "I got it from the holy joe in Newport Street. You know, the old geezer who runs the New Beginnings lark."

  "Was he trying to reform you?"

  She laughed shortly. "In bed?"

  Blodwen asked, "But what made you think your friend gave it to me?"

  "Scalesi? He's no friend of mine. Not anymore," she said bitterly. "He beat the hell out of me and went off with everything he could lay his filthy paws on. The luck-piece was part of it."

  "He sounds charming," Solo said. "When did this happen?"

  "A couple of months ago. I've never laid eyes on him since."

  "What does he look like?"

  She opened her handbag, sorted through a conglomeration of letters, lipstick, compact, comb and other feminine junk and came up with a cracked, grubby snapshot. It had been taken on Brighton Pier and it showed a flashily good-looking young thug dressed in leather jacket and skin-tight jeans.

  She said, "That's him. Keep it if you want to. Gawd knows he gave me plenty to remember him by — to my dying day."

  Solo put the picture in his wallet. He put a pound note on the bar and said, "Have one for the road. Sorry we have to rush away."

  She said indifferently, "Be seeing you around," and rapped on the counter for service.

  Merle was at her post in the doorway when they returned to the house in Berwick Street. She looked relieved when she saw Blodwen step from the taxi.

  "I've been worrying myself sick," she greeted her. "I thought they must've put you away. I warned you not to tangle with Louise, didn't I? She's murder, that bitch."

  "It wasn't too bad," Blodwen said. "Cost me two quid. Come up to the flat. We want to talk to you."

  She left Solo and Merle together in the sitting room and went into the kitchen to brew coffee.

  Solo asked, "What do you know about a man called Scalesi?"

  "I've heard Louise talk about him. She was living with him," Merle said. "I never saw him, though."

  He showed her the snapshot, and she said, "You know the nicest people. That's not Scalesi. It's a lousy young tearaway called Pietro Bambini. You want my advice, you'll steer clear of him. He's a mad dog."

  "You mean he's insane?"

  "I mean he's crazy. He beats people up for the fun of it. He likes to see blood. Real professionals won't work with him. He scares them stiff. They know one day he'll do a 'topping' job — you know, murder — they don't want to be around when it happens."

  Blodwen came in with the coffee. She asked, "Where does this charmer hang out? We'd like to meet him."

  "Meet him?" she repeated. "Are you out of your mind? Didn't Louise tell you what he done to her?"

  She grew suddenly cautious. "Look, who are you two, anyway? I don't like all these questions, and I thought there was something screwy about you from the first. What are you up to?"

  Solo said, "We're not police, if that's what is worrying you. We represent an international organization known as U.N.C.L.E., with headquarters in New York." He showed her his identification card. "You can do a big service to your country and to the world if you help us."

  "You could've come clean in the first place," she grumbled. "I've read about U.N.C.L.E. in one of the magazines. Some kind of secret service, isn't it?"

  "Near enough," Solo admitted.

  "Yeah. Well, just because I'm in my business don't mean I'm not a good citizen. I pay my bills and taxes, don't I? What do you want from me?"

  "Tell us about Bambini."

  "Him I don't want no part of," she said emphatically. "He's poison, and I still say keep away. If he thought I'd ratted on him, he'd cut my heart out."

  "We'll see you're protected," Blodwen promised. "Just tell us where we can find him."

  "Who knows," she said. "He's in and out of the Gloriana most evenings, though I haven't seen him lately. He drives a car for that Chinese dame who owns the place."

  "Anna?"

  "Yes, that's her. It's a big black job, very classy. She keeps it in a mews garage off Tottenham Court Road. Bambini lives in a room over the top." She gave them the address.

  Solo said, "Thank you. Now, just one more thing. Did you ever go into the kitchens at the Gloriana?"

  She looked surprised. "Yes, one or twice. Why?"

  "Have they got a refrigerator there?"

  "They've got a cold storeroom," she said, "big enough to hold an ox."

  "I thought they might have." He nodded. "Things are beginning to add up nicely."

  Chapter Twelve

  The
mews was off Stephen Street, not far from the junction of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. If was a cul-de-sac about one hundred and fifty yards long which at one time had housed the carriages of noble families. Now the stables had been converted into lock-up garages with apartments above.

  Illya drove to the far end of the mews, made a U-turn and parked with the front of the Cortina facing into Stephen Street. He remained sitting behind the wheel while Solo got out and walked back, looking for the number Merle had given him. He found it halfway down the right-hand side: a pair of green-painted garage doors with a smaller door beside them.

  He pressed the doorbell on the small door and waited. There was no response. He took out a bunch of keys and tried the lock on the garage doors. At the third attempt it clicked. He swung the doors wide enough to admit his body, then pulled them shut behind him.

  Enough daylight filtered through the grimy windows for him to see that the car was a black Humber Hawk. The front bumper was decorated with a row of automobile club emblems, but on the near side there was a gap that showed up like a broken tooth. Examining the bracket with his flashlight, Solo could see that the missing emblem had been torn violently from its place.

  The leather upholstery of the seats was clean. There was nothing but a road map and a spare lamp bulb in the glove compartment on the dashboard. The pockets in the car doors were empty.

  Solo went to the back of the car and unlocked the trunk. The flashlight beam illumined a crumpled length of burlap and a jack. There were dark stains on the burlap that could have been oil or blood.

  Solo took out his pocketknife, cut a small piece from the stained material and tucked it into an envelope. He closed the trunk quietly, then went out and let the doors click shut.

  "Any luck?" Illya asked as the Cortina moved out into Stephen Street.

  "I don't know," Solo said, "but I think it's time we had words with Solly Gold."

  The hands of the clock over the Law Courts were pointing to half-past seven when they went into the Wig and Pen Club in the Strand.

  The Wig and Pen is housed in the only building in the Strand that can claim to have survived both the Fire of London in 1666 and the Fire Blitz in 1940-41. There is no elevator to the penthouse restaurant because the three-hundred-year-old staircase, the only one of its kind, is protected under the Ancient Monuments Act. Despite the recent invasion of expense-account types from advertising and public relations, the club retains much of its original character as a rendezvous for barristers and top newspapermen.

  Except for Monty, the barman, the Front Page Bar's only occupant was Solly Gold. He was sitting on a high stool at the far end of the counter, nursing a whiskey straight. He looked undressed without his raincoat.

  He said, "So what brings you to the fabled Street of Adventure — and bushwah? Have a drink?"

  "Don't ever let the boys on the Bugle hear you say that," Solo advised. "What do you know about a hoodlum called Pietro Bambini?"

  "Enough," Solly said. "Born in Greek Street, Soho, father unknown. His mother was an Italian waitress — part of the time. Educated, approved schools and Borstal. Ran with the Focacci mob until the Carey brothers chased Focacci out of the West End and took over. Now he's a freelance, hiring out for the really dirty work. He'd cut his own mother up for kicks. He's a nutter. And vicious with it."

  "That's the way I hear it. Did you know he drives for Anna?"

  "No. That's new. I'd say she was taking a chance. Like I say, he's no tame bunny. You're sure of your facts?"

  "Pretty sure."

  "Funny. I'd have thought she was smarter. Now why would she want to bother with a schlemiel like Bambini?"

  "That," said Solo, "is the jackpot question."

  He outlined the events of the night and day, keeping only Merle's name out of the story. When he told of his visit to the garage in the news, Solly's eyes suddenly gleamed behind the steel-rimmed spectacles.

  He asked, "You're positive one of the emblems had been smashed off the bracket? It couldn't have been cut off or rusted off?"

  "Positive. The break was jagged and the metal was twisted as if somebody had hit it with a sledge-hammer."

  Solly said, "It's time you brought the Yard in on this. The night Hughes's body was found on Hampstead Heath a hit and run driver killed a motorcyclist on the Spaniards Road near Jack Straw's Castle."

  Solo explained to Illya, "That's the road that runs along the top of the Heath just north of the Vale of Heath. It's on a direct route to the center of London."

  "Check," said Solly. "And guess what they found by the smashed bike."

  "I'm ahead of you," Solo said. "And they'd have it at the Yard?"

  "Believe me, they're treasuring it. And that bit of sacking you clipped — the lab boys would like to see that, too."

  "Fine. Whom do I call?"

  Solly drained his glass and stood up. "Leave it to me. It'll be a pleasure."

  He retrieved his raincoat from Ted, the porter, and hurried off to the cab rank in the shadow of St. Clement Danes.

  Solo and Illya strolled leisurely along the Strand to the hotel. They found Blodwen waiting in the suite. She had washed the henna out of her hair and removed the blue-irised contact lenses. She had switched to a lightweight tweed and had exchanged the stiletto-heeled patent leathers for London-tan walking shoes. Dolly, the poodle, was freshly shampooed and curled and sported a brand-new collar.

  "There's no point in keeping the apartment now that Merle knows who I am, and those contact lenses hurt like hell," Blodwen explained. "I've checked in on the floor below, where I'll be handy if you need me. Right now I propose to catch dinner and have an early night."

  "We'll join you," Illya said. "For dinner, of course."

  They had reached the coffee stage when Solly Gold approached their table with a companion.

  "I phoned your number and the switchboard told me where to find you," he said. "This is Detective-Inspector Jevons, of the C.I.D."

  Jevons looked nothing like the sleuths of popular fiction. He had close-cropped iron gray hair, blue eyes set rather too close to an over-large nose, prominent ears and a hard square jaw. He wore a navy blue, double-breasted suit, a white shirt and collar with a dark gray tie, and black shoes with rounded toes.

  He sat down, accepted a coffee, and proceeded to load a brier with dark flake tobacco.

  He said, "Thanks for the tip, Mr. Solo. I've heard about you, though, of course, you U.N.C.L.E. people normally work with the Special Branch. I don't know what job you're on now, and I'm asking no questions. That's S.B. business. If you want our assistance, you know you'll get it. But hit-and-run driving is definitely in my province, especially when there's a suspicion of cold-blooded murder."

  "You think Bambini killed Price Hughes?"

  "I think nothing, Mr. Solo. I go on evidence. A great deal is going to depend on what we find in the garage. W do know that the stain on the material you sent to us by Mr. Gold has been confirmed to be human blood, but the fact that you found it in the trunk of a car known to have been driven by Bambini is no proof that he had anything to do with it."

  He pushed his chair back and stood up. "And now, if the young lady will excuse us, we could make a move."

  Blodwen said, "Don't wait for the bill. I'll see to it. If you happen to need me I'll be back at the hotel."

  Solly Gold looked pessimistically at the inspector. "I suppose there's no chance I'll be invited along for the ride?"

  "You know better than that, Mr. Gold."

  "Yes, I know. It's the story of my life."

  Illya, Solo and the inspector left the restaurant together. A police car dropped them in Stephen Street and they completed the journey on foot.

  A man in a shabby suit and cloth cap emerged from the shadow at the entrance to the mews. Jevons asked him, "Anything moving?"

  "All quiet," he replied. "The car's in the garage and the place above is in darkness. Nobody's been near it."

  "Thank you, Sergeant. Keep your eyes
open."

  "Yes, sir."

  The lock on the garage door turned easily to Solo's key. The three men entered and Solo switched on his flashlight. The beam danced over the Humber's trunk and came to rest on the bumper.

  The inspector crouched and examined the gap in the row of emblems. He ran a finger over the short tongue of metal on the twisted bracket. Then he took another emblem from his pocket and tried it against the fracture. The irregular edges of emblem and tongue fitted exactly.

  "That clinches it," Jevons said. "This was the car that killed the motorcyclist. This emblem was found only a few feet from the body." He straightened and pointed to the near fender. "Somebody's been doing some respraying, too, and the job's been done in a hurry."

  They shut the garage and went back to the plainclothesman on the corner. Jevons told him, "If Bambini shows up, grab him and bring him in. I want him for questioning in connection with the hit-and-run on Hampstead Heath. Have you got assistance?"

  "Yes, sir. Two constables." He indicated where they were posted in the darkness.

  "Good. Well, don't take chances. You know Bambini. He's sure to be carrying a knife. But get him, Sergeant. I want him badly."

  "He won't get away," the sergeant promised.

  The police car snaked through the thick traffic in Tottenham Court Road, heading back to New Scotland Yard. Jevons, sitting beside the driver, spoke into the radio-telephone. Solo gathered that he was talking to his superintendent at headquarters.

  The car cut down Northumberland Avenue and on to the Embankment, where the lights on the South Bank were reflected in dancing patterns on the black waters of the Thames. It turned in through the gates within a stone's throw of Westminster Bridge and the driver drew it smoothly to a halt.

  The inspector led the way to his office on the second floor of the Yard building. It was a cubby-hole of a room, painted in a depressing shade of green. It contained a battery of green steel filing cabinets, several straight-backed chairs and a brown, government-issue table that held three telephones. The only wall decorations were an electric clock and a calendar which showed an improbable English village.