by Lawton, John
‘And is that in any way standard issue?’
‘To whom?’
‘American soldiers.’
‘No. Not at all. The gun itself isn’t standard – it’s all but obsolete, but it’s light and it’s small and I expect one or two might choose it for that reason. The standard issue is the M1911A1 .45. And that’s made by Colt, not Smith and Wesson. Now, modified bullets, that is . . . shall we say . . . that is quite something. Low loads, soft heads, that sort of thing. That’s someone who really knows what he’s at. I’d say it was a professional’s choice – someone who carries a gun because he means to use it, not simply someone who’s issued with it as part of being a soldier – someone who kills professionally – and I don’t mean in the course of battle. I mean dirty work. All in all you got lucky, Sergeant Troy. If the man who modified this shell had also notched the head to make it fragment you’d’ve whistled for your match – and the professor here would be rooting around in the victim’s brains for half a dozen fragments of lead. All the king’s horses wouldn’t have put it back together then.’
‘So perhaps he wasn’t so professional after all?’
‘Don’t ask me too much about people, Mr Troy. It’s guns I know about.’
It seemed to Troy that Mr Churchill had been so long and so detailed in his report that if he, Troy, could only sum it up succinctly it would be the clearer to him, the clearer to everyone.
‘It’s an assassin’s weapon,’ he said at last.
‘Exactly,’ said Churchill.
‘Could we get this down on paper?’
Troy sat at a high, old Imperial typewriter, its roll more than a foot and a half across, and typed onto foolscap as Churchill dictated. When they were done Churchill shook his hand and Troy asked, ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘On the house, Mr Troy. Just remember me to your father, and remind him that he bought a gun off me in 1928. If he should ever choose to make it a pair . . .’
‘Of course,’ said Troy.
In the course of the last hour, Troy thought he had scarcely heard Kolankiewicz say so little. He ascribed it to professional courtesy in the presence of a master. Something he would never be in Kolankiewicz’s eyes. Kolankiewicz had him tagged as a ‘smartyarse’ – not the same thing at all. Walking back to the Yard, Kolankiewicz had a simple question for Troy.
‘You picking this case up now?’
‘Picking it up?’
‘It is your clear intent to bump the idiot Nailer off the case. I merely enquired if you now proposed to appropriate it yourself.’
‘No – absolutely not. I’ve been trying to drop the damn thing not pick it up. And I don’t want to bump Nailer off it, I just want to get Cormack out. Once that’s done Nailer can find out who’s really done it.’
‘A pity. What this case needs is a real smartyarse.’
‘Not this smartyarse.’
‘Then you don’t want to know what I think next, do you?’ Troy thought about it.
‘No – I don’t. Tell it to Nailer.’
‘Your reluctance to stick your proboscis further into the death of old Stinker wouldn’t have anything to do with your hot/cold love affair with his delightful daughter, would it?’
That was the thing about Kolankiewicz – just when you thought you were home free he had another surprise for you.
§ 67
Troy had finished his paperwork. Later than he had hoped. He looked at his watch. Eight thirty. He opened the centre drawer of his desk and, as was his habit, dumped the day’s work into it in a single sweep of his arm. It would stop Onions reading what was on the pile if he happened to stroll in unannounced – exactly as he did now.
He parked himself by the unlit gas fire, a man who could never shake off the habit of winter, struck a match on the sole of one shoe and lit up a Woodbine.
‘Well,’ he said through a waft of cheap tobacco.
‘Well? said Troy.
‘You did it. The American walks. The Major read your report and told Enoch to turn him loose. It’s not over, mind. We’ll want to know a thing or two from the Americans, when they get round to answering questions.’
‘Good,’ said Troy, hoping that was that and that he could just go home. But Stan was musing, drawing slowly on his fag and musing.
‘How do you see your career panning out, Freddie?’
It struck Troy as an odd enquiry. Untypical of Stan. Stan had picked Troy up from the Divisions, transferred him from Stepney to the Yard, made him a Sergeant at the age of twenty-four. He had every reason to be grateful to Stan. Stan was his career.
‘Dunno. I never think about it. I’m happy with you, if that’s what you mean? Happy in Murder.’
‘Happy in Murder,’ Onions mused. ‘I don’t think I’ve read that one.’
Troy smiled. Stan was right. He had inadvertently invented a very likely title for a whodunnit by one of those lady novelists who seemed to dominate the genre in the thirties.
‘I meant,’ he said, ‘that I’ve no desire to move.’
‘You don’t fancy a job in the Branch then?’
‘That’s the last thing I want.’
‘Just as well. You made several enemies today.’
Troy got the message. It wasn’t an enquiry, it wasn’t a ticking off, it wasn’t even a warning. It was a statement.
‘And I get the feeling they’ll not be the last you make on your way up.’
‘You’re unhappy with that?’
‘No. No. I backed you today. And I’ll back you when I think you’re right.’
Onions paused. The clincher could not now be far away.
‘But I’d be happier still if I thought you were telling me all you knew.’
§ 68
Troy walked home in the creeping, thin darkness of late May. Not so much night as a veil across the day. Troy walked home, feeling for the first time that day that he was free of Cormack, feeling for the first time in a while that he might also be free of Kitty. Home the back way. Along William IV St, into the curve of Chandos Place and up Bedfordbury to the end of the narrow alley that was Goodwins Court, and Troy’s home. It was a mistake. Halfway up Bedfordbury, by a block of Peabody Dwellings, the sound of marital strife blew out of an open first-floor window and cut the air.
‘You spent it? You spent it all? You miserable bugger! You miserable drunken bugger!’
He knew the voice well. His near-neighbour Alice McArdle. And she could only be talking to her husband, Ardle McArdle – and she was exaggerating. Ardle McArdle was a happy drunk – as a rule. On the occasions when he wasn’t he’d been known to knock Alice about. Troy had booked him once, flattened him twice, dunked him in the horse-trough in Chandos Place on half a dozen occasions, and on two or three had prevented Alice from almost murdering him by confiscating the rolling pin. McArdle was only miserable when confronted, as now, with the consequences of having spent his pay packet on beer, and the onset of sobriety.
As a young copper, learning his job through the soles of a pair of size-six, unbendable police boots, pounding the paving stones of Stepney and Limehouse, Troy had on many occasions wondered what the role of a copper was. To nick villains: well, that went without saying. George Bonham, his station sergeant and mentor (‘Wot?’ had been Bonhams’s only response to Troy’s use of that word) had defined the job for him. ‘This is what we do. This is what coppers are for. If we’re not this, what use are we? As a copper you’re sort of a village wise man, an elder, and age’s got nothing to do with it – comes with the pointy hat, when you put it on that’s what you become – the village wise man – like it or lump it.’ After six months on the beat Troy had fed the line back to George, revised it. ‘We’re witch doctors,’ he said. ‘People expect us to be able to do what they cannot do themselves. A sort of magic. It’s not that we’re better than they are – we make them better than they are themselves.’ ‘Bloody hell,’ Bonham had said, and left it at that.
Troy stopped. Looked up at the flapping curtain
in the open window. Felt the onrush of copper’s magic. Pricked back his ears. Therewas akey phrase in the rise of Alice’s rage.
‘I’ll swing for you, you bastard!’
At which point she would begin destroying the family crockery piece by piece, beating Ardle about the head with it until there wasn’t a plate left to smash, and her drunken husband collapsed to the kitchen floor.
Troy dashed up the stairs. The voice in his head that might have told him he’d already played the boy scout today, and shot the bolt of his white magic, silent in his head.
Alice had McArdle cornered in the kitchen – a couple of dinner plates shattered at his feet. She had her back to Troy. He grabbed her by the shoulder as she lunged at her husband once more.
‘Alice!’
She spun round – the weapon in her hand sliced through Troy’s shirt, and tore a gash in his chest two inches below the nipple.
Troy clutched his ribs with his right hand. Watched the blood seep between his fingers, saw Alice’s mouth open silently in shock. He looked at her hand still poised in the air. She’d stabbed him. Stabbed him with a potato peeler.
McArdle staggered to his feet just as Troy staggered backwards, bumped into a kitchen chair and sat down with a thump.
‘Jesus woman, you’ve killed a copper!’
Alice had her eyes fixed on Troy’s bloody shirtfront. Then she held up the potato peeler like a crucifix presented to Christ, dropped it and screamed. The gust of whiskied breath told Troy what he should have known all along. She was as pissed as her husband.
McArdle rinsed a dishcloth under the tap and came back to Troy with the dripping, smelly, grey mess, intending to apply it to the wound.
‘Do you want me to get septicaemia?’ Troy asked. ‘Why don’t you try and shut Alice up? I’ll be fine.’
Alice had resorted to a mantra of ‘Jesus, O Jesus, O Mary Mother of God.’
‘Alice woman. Will you shut yer gob! Mr Troy says he’ll be all right.’
Troy would only be all right if he got himself out of there and home. He got up, shaky on his feet, light-headed and made his way to the door. The next time, he’d let them murder each other.
Out in the street he took a breather against a lamp-post, not at all sure whether he was going to throw up or not. McArdle leaned out of the window.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right Mr Troy?’
‘Fine,’ Troy lied. He’d only be all right if he got home and got to adoctor.
Fumbling with the key at his front door, he could feel the blood reach his legs – the wound must be deeper than he thought. He fell into an armchair next to the phone and dialled Scotland Yard. Whitehall 1212.
‘Is Mr Kolankiewicz still in the building?’
The constable on the desk said he’d ring round and call him back. Troy wriggled out of his jacket, pressed a cushion to his chest and lay still. A couple of minutes later the phone rang and he heard Kolankiewicz’s voice say, ‘What’s up? I was just leaving the Yard in search of a plate of tripe and onions and a bowl of hot plum duff with custard.’
‘I need . . . I need your professional services.’
‘Oh fuck, Troy – not again. I stitched you up only last year. You already look like Boris Karloff playing Frankenstein’s monster. Call your physician.’
‘And get signed off sick? Not on your nelly. Pick up a bag of tricks and get in a cab!’
§ 69
‘You mean I can go?’ Cal knew he sounded incredulous.
‘Yep,’ Dixon said. ‘On yer bike. If that means anything to you.’
Cal had been two days in his bloody clothes. He felt he must smell like a slaughterhouse. As Dixon handed him his possessions one by one, he said ‘I can’t walk though the streets like this.’
‘No. You can’t.’
Dixon took his macintosh off the peg on the back of the office door. The ubiquitous bobby’s mac – just like the one Walter Stilton had worn.
‘I’ll want it back, mind.’
‘I’ll send it back in a cab.’
‘Sign here.’
Cal slipped his arms through the coat and glanced down at the form Dixon had put in front of him.
‘It says “all personal effects”.’
‘So?’
‘My gun?’
‘You want your gun back? I’ve been told nothing about that.’
‘Have you been told not to give it to me?’
Dixon thought about this.
‘Not as such.’
‘Then surely it’s part of “all”. Come on Sergeant, you know I’m a serving soldier. You’ve seen my dog-tags, you’ve talked to the embassy. All officers have sidearms.’
‘It’s evidence.’
‘Of what? You just said you’re letting me go. If you had the slightest suspicion that I’d killed Walter you wouldn’t be letting me go, now would you?’
Dixon opened his desk drawer. Took out the gun, its clip and its holster. Scooped up the bullets in one hand and dropped them down on the desktop like a pocketful of marbles.
‘Four left,’ he said. ‘I gather Mr Troy used a couple in his test.’
‘Troy. Troy tested my gun?’
‘Troy got you out of chokey Mr Cormack. And you say I told you that and you’ll get me shot,’ Dixon said.
‘Not funny, Sergeant.’
‘Not meant to be, Captain.’
§ 70
Cal thought about handing Dixon’s coat straight over to the cabbie who dropped him at Claridge’s, but the idea of crossing the lobby in the rotting remains of his Lippschitz Bros. suit was intolerable. He needed, and there was no better word for it, camouflage.
As he picked up his key the desk clerk said, ‘You left this the other night, sir.’
‘What?’
The man already had his back to Cal, his hand flashing across the rows of pigeonholed guest mail. When he turned he was clutching the torn envelope containing Walter’s note.
‘We weren’t at all sure you had finished with it, sir.’
Cal was almost dumbstruck. All, well most, of the evidence he’d needed to shove in front of Nailer and it had been here all the time – he’d simply dashed out and left it on the counter.
‘I’m afraid I lost your map,’ he said softly.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ the clerk replied.
In the elevator going up to the sixth floor Cal quietly, almost reverently, took out Stilton’s note and unfolded it.
‘Wot larx!’ He was always saying that. He’d never say it again, and Cal still hadn’t got the foggiest idea what he meant by it.
He rang room service, ordered a large Scotch, and ran a bath. Then he rang room service back.
‘Could you make that a fifth of Scotch?’
‘Do you mean a halfbottle, sir?’
‘Sure. Whatever. Just tell the maid to let herself in and leave it. I’ll be in the bath. Oh – and ice. I need ice.’
The English never thought of ice, or if they did, as with so many things, they thought small.
A quarter of an hour later he was lying back in the suds and heard the door click. Only innate, unshakeable modesty stopped him yelling ‘Bring it in here’ to the maid – he felt far too tired to move even for a glass of Scotch. He closed his eyes, listening for the second click of the door as the girl left. It didn’t. She was taking a long time about it. He opened his eyes and found himself gazing at Kitty, Kitty clutching a tray, a bottle and a glass of ice.
‘Bumped into the maid in the corridor. Relieved her of this. Only one glass though.’
She set the tray down in front of the mirror, shook his toothbrush out of the bathroom tumbler and poured for them both.
As she handed him the glass she said, ‘Calvin, where the bleedin’ ’ell you been?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘Yeah, I know – I just enjoy wastin’ me breath. ’Course I don’t bloody know! Now – tell me. For God’s sake tell me, where have you been? Just when I need you and you vani
sh off the face of the earth!’
Need – bet she didn’t mean that. Bet she doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
‘You really don’t know? The Yard didn’t tell you? OK. I’ve spent the last . . .’ He couldn’t remember – it felt like days but it could only be two or three at the most . . . ‘I’ve spent the last few days in jail. Courtesy of Scotland Yard.’
‘Wot?’
‘They . . . they thought I did it. They thought I killed your father.’
Kitty sat down on the lavatory.
‘The bastards. The complete bloody bastards. They knew all along and they didn’t tell us. They told Mum they had a suspect, and they wouldn’t tell her who. I got on to that old sod Nailer, tried the old pals act on him. Still wouldn’t tell me. Just kept saying “a man found at the scene is helping us with our enquiries” – just like he was talking to Joe Public. Like I wasn’t a copper too. Fobbed me off with copperspeak. The bastard. The total bloody bastard.’
She sipped at her Scotch. Gulped and gasped. Cal wondered if the tears now forming in the corners of her eyes were grief or misery or the instant effect of neat whisky. He knocked his back in one, felt the delicious cool-burn down his throat, and stuck out the glass for more.
‘Why did they let you go? I mean they ain’t caught the bloke, have they?’
‘No . . . no, they haven’t. But somebody vouched for me. Another policeman, someone who’d seen me working with Walter. I got lucky, my own people didn’t want to know me.’
Kitty sniffed loudly as though burying a fountain full of tears and took off her jacket – the same formal, plain black two-piece outfit she’d worn when her brothers had died – maybe the only formal clothes she had. Cal sipped at his second glassful and watched in disbelief as the shoes, skirt, stockings and underclothes followed.
‘Kitty, what are you doing?’
‘Wossit look like, stupid? You don’t expect me to get in the bath with me togs on, do you?’