Their rivals, however, had other ideas. After gathering together in the darkness, they crept slowly towards what they still thought of as their shed. The Spirits had left a sentry outside but he was swigging from a bottle and showed more interest in what was happening inside the shed than outside. Greg Wain soon disposed of him. Leaping on the lookout unexpectedly, he put a hand over his mouth to stop him raising the alarm. It was the signal his gang had been waiting for. Weapons ready, they moved into position near the door of the shed. Bruce Kerry lit the rag protruding from a bottle of paraffin and hurled the home-made bomb through the single window of the shed. After a sudden explosion, there was pandemonium.
Yelling obscenities, the Spirits came out to punish whoever had tried to ruin their celebrations, only to find themselves having to defend themselves against a frontal attack from the Warriors. Since some of the Spirits were unarmed, they used beer bottles as their weapons, smashing them against the wall to get a jagged edge with which to flail and jab. But the Warriors had the upper hand this time and Wain had the satisfaction of felling the leader of his rivals with the flat of a spade. It was his only victim. A police whistle sounded and the street was suddenly alive with officers wielding truncheons. They waded into the melee and dragged out the combatants one by one, hurling them into the waiting Black Marias then going back for more. A few escaped but the vast majority were quickly rounded up.
Though he’d picked up a few bruises, Everitt White was delighted.
‘I’m so glad I didn’t miss all the fun,’ he said.
‘There’ll be some very unhappy families around here tomorrow,’ said Burge, ‘but they’ll be in the minority. Most of the people will give us three cheers for taking these wild animals off the streets.’
‘Yes, Cliff. There are so many offences they can be charged with that the courts won’t know which ones to pick. You did well – congratulations!’
‘Thanks, Ev. I hope the commissioner will be pleased.’
‘Pleased!’ repeated White. ‘He’ll give you a bleeding medal.’
Keedy was thrilled. Having gone to bed thinking about Alice Marmion, he’d woken up thinking about a different woman altogether. On the drive to Scotland Yard, he confided in Marmion.
‘We’ve been looking in the wrong direction,’ he said.
‘Have we?’
‘Yes. Instead of chasing after Mr Sprake, we should have been talking to Dulcie Haddon.’
‘Isn’t she part of the string quartet?’
‘She’s a lot more than that. She’s often the only woman in that entire building and she told me something I never expected to hear.’
‘I think I can guess Joe. She said that she hated playing at the club.’
‘Yet her father doesn’t and neither do the other two men in the quartet. Why? It’s because they have regular, well-paid work in congenial surroundings. They have a captive audience that loves their performances. Most musicians would give their eye-teeth to have that.’
‘I agree. Many of them are out of work most of the time.’
‘So why is Dulcie Haddon the odd one out? She should have been overjoyed to be part of a distinguished quartet like the Malvern.’
‘Perhaps she feels uneasy in front of a male audience.’
‘It’s more than feeling uneasy,’ said Keedy. ‘She detests it.’
‘She’s out of place there, that’s all.’
‘It’s much more serious than that and I’m annoyed with myself for not realising it before. When she’s playing with the quartet, Dulcie Haddon only ever looks at her father or at the music. Her gaze never wanders to the audience. I didn’t understand why until now.’
‘What’s the answer?’
‘She’s afraid to see the way some of those men are looking at her.’
‘And what way is that?’
‘It’s the way they’d look at a naked woman.’
Saul Rockwell enjoyed the days when neither of the club founders was on the premises. It meant that he was in charge. He could take all the decisions himself, bully the staff and welcome the members as they began to dribble in. Club Apollo, he believed, was really his. Nobody had made such a huge contribution to the running of the place. Nobody did as much to safeguard its future. By mid morning that day, he was in the foyer, shaking hands with new arrivals, then noting their names in the book. One cabinet minister and two senior politicians had already arrived. Wearing his clerical garb, an archdeacon had also been signed in. While he was not expecting the next two people who came in through the door, Rockwell beamed at Marmion and Keedy. They exchanged niceties.
‘If you’ve come to see Mr Ulverton,’ said the steward, ‘then you’re out of luck. It’s the first day of the Dickens Festival. He’s in Rochester.’
‘We’ve come to see you, actually,’ said Marmion.
‘How can I help you, Inspector?’
‘I’d like to see some of the club records. Mr Ulverton said that I was to have access to anything I wanted. Shall we go to the office?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
They followed him into the back room. Taking out a key, he unlocked a cupboard and took out two ledgers. Marmion shook his head.
‘No, Mr Rockwell,’ he said, ‘I’ve already seen those. What I’d like is a list of your entire staff. It’s probably in one of the other cupboards.’
‘I can’t let you see that, Inspector.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s confidential. You’d need Mr Ulverton’s permission.’
‘In essence, he’s already given it. He said that I should have a free hand here.’
‘I can’t allow that, I’m afraid.’
‘Who’s in charge here?’ asked Keedy. ‘Is it you or Jonathan Ulverton?’
‘When Mr Ulverton isn’t here, I have full authority.’
‘Then I suggest you use that full authority to give us what we want.’ Rockwell looked uneasily from one to the other. ‘Don’t make us go through the rigmarole of getting a search warrant. If you’ve nothing to hide, do as the inspector says.’
‘You have no grounds for a search warrant,’ said the steward, puffing out his chest. ‘We have excellent lawyers among our members. They’d challenge your right to burst in here, making demands.’
‘We didn’t burst in at all,’ argued Keedy.
‘And we didn’t make demands,’ said Marmion. ‘I made a polite request and you refused it. In my view, you’re trying to cover something up.’
‘I’m simply trying to do my job.’
‘A major part of it is concealing the truth about this place.’
‘The Club Apollo is a perfectly legal establishment, catering for professional men with a passion for music.’ He saw both the detectives smile. ‘What’s so amusing about that?’
‘Their passions do not stop at music, Mr Rockwell.’
‘They expect rather more for their exorbitant fees than that,’ said Keedy. ‘We’ve just paid a visit to one of your musicians, a young lady named Dulcie Haddon. You know her well, of course. She arrives with the quartet and does exactly what she and the others are engaged to do.’
‘Miss Haddon is very popular here,’ said Rockwell.
‘But it’s not only because of the way she plays the viola, is it?’
‘What are you trying to say, Sergeant?’
‘Coming here is something of an ordeal for her.’
‘That’s a ludicrous suggestion!’
‘Miss Haddon doesn’t think so. Before she can play with the quartet, she has to grit her teeth. Does that sound like someone who’s happy at what she’s doing?’
‘Where is all this leading?’ demanded Rockwell.
‘Eventually, it will lead to you showing us the employment records,’ said Marmion. ‘When the sergeant mentioned a search warrant, it was no idle boast. We’ve never had our application for one turned down yet. What’s it to be? Do you cooperate with us or do we have to take a different route?’
Rockwell’s eyes wer
e darting. ‘I’ll need to speak to Mr Ulverton.’
‘Mr Pickwick is not available.’
‘I could ring his home. Someone could get a message to him.’
‘Why spoil his fun? He loves the Dickens Festival.’
‘In fact,’ said Marmion, ‘he loves being somebody that he’s not. Mr Donohoe was the same. He showed one face to the world but it was only when he was here that he could really be himself. That’s what drew them together, isn’t it? Ulverton and Donohoe were two of a kind. It was the perfect partnership – until they fell out.’
‘We’re still waiting to see those employment records,’ said Keedy.
Rockwell was torn between anger and fear. They’d cornered him at a time when Ulverton was away and they posed a real threat. Unable to keep them at bay, he eventually agreed to show them what they requested. He unlocked a second cupboard and took out a folder that contained a sheaf of papers.
‘If you must poke your nose into our affairs,’ he said, testily, ‘then here’s the list, though why you wish to check on our waiters, chefs and maintenance staff, I haven’t a clue.’
Taking the folder from him, Marmion opened it and took out the first page. After running his eye down a long list, he showed it to Keedy. Both were struck by the number of female names, one of which had a line drawn through it.
‘I thought you didn’t employ women here,’ said Marmion.
‘They’re only cleaners,’ said Rockwell.
‘Did you have to import them from Europe? Some of these names are either French or Belgian. There’s no shortage of British cleaners. Why not employ them?’
‘Unless they do more than simply clean the place,’ said Keedy.
‘We do nothing illegal,’ said Rockwell. ‘We follow the letter of the law.’ He took the folder back. ‘Is that all?’ he asked, pointedly.
‘Not quite,’ replied the inspector, ‘we’d like a tour of the building.’
‘You’ve already had that with Mr Ulverton.’
‘He missed something out.’
‘These are large properties,’ said Keedy. ‘They all have basements. That’s what we’d like to see, Mr Rockwell. It’s the part of the house that Mr Ulverton deliberately kept us away from.’
‘There’s nothing down there to interest you,’ insisted Rockwell.
‘All the same, we’d like to see it.’
‘It’s out of bounds.’
‘Nothing is out of bounds to us.’
‘It would be a waste of your time,’ said Rockwell, starting to gibber. ‘It’s used for storage. It’s full of empty crates and piles of cartons.’
‘Show us.’
‘Why bother?’
‘Show us, Mr Rockwell,’ said Marmion, reinforcing his demand with a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘We want to see the basement.’
‘It’s locked up.’
‘Then find the key and take us down there.’
‘No,’ said Rockwell, squaring up to them. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Are you daring to obstruct us?’
‘It’s what Mr Ulverton would expect me to do.’
Tossing the folder on to the desk, Rockwell folded his arms in a show of defiance. When he saw their expressions harden, he knew he’d lose the confrontation. The detectives had found out too much. They were too determined to get the full truth. Since there was no way of stopping them, Rockwell put self-preservation first and decided to make a run for it. Leaping across the room, he pulled open the desk drawer and thrust his hand in but Keedy was too fast for him. He kicked the drawer hard so that it jammed the steward’s fingers. Before Rockwell, screaming in pain, could take anything out, Keedy grappled with him and pulled him away from the desk. The steward, however, was strong and resourceful. He fought back with the ferocity of a man in a desperate situation. He punched, kicked, spat and even tried to bite. Keedy had to take a lot of blows before he finally pinioned Rockwell long enough for Marmion to handcuff the man. Blood was streaming from the steward’s nose and he was snarling like an animal.
‘You met your match this time,’ said Marmion. ‘The sergeant didn’t turn his back on you like Mr Donohoe and he wasn’t easily overpowered like your second victim. I daresay her name is on that list we saw, isn’t it? Then there was the private detective hired by Mr Donohoe’s son. He came sniffing around the Apollo. Were you the one who beat him up?’
‘I’m saying nothing,’ growled Rockwell.
Keedy opened the drawer and saw the revolver hidden away inside it. He took the weapon out and held it up for examination.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose it’s one way to keep the members in order.’
Chatfield got to the commissioner’s office as Clifford Burge was being shown out.
‘You’re just in time to add your congratulations,’ said Sir Edward. ‘Last night’s operation was a complete success. Thanks to Detective Constable Burge, Stepney will be a much safer place from now on.’
‘Well done!’ said Chatfield, shaking Burge’s hand.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Burge.
‘I had great faith in you.’
‘It’s been handsomely repaid,’ said the commissioner.
He put a gentle hand on Burge’s shoulder to help him on his way and the younger man walked off happily down the corridor. He’d been praised so highly for the work he’d done that he could dare to think of promotion, or, at the very least, of being assigned to work on homicide investigations. Gratified that the officer he recommended had been an unqualified success, Chatfield watched him go. He then turned back to the commissioner.
‘There may be good news on another front,’ he said.
‘We’re talking about Inspector Marmion, I assume?’
‘He and Sergeant Keedy called in earlier. They told me they were going on to meet someone who could help them to identify the killer.’
‘That sounds promising. Who is this person?’
‘She plays the viola, Sir Edward.’
Before the steward was dragged off by Keedy to the police car, Marmion divested him of his keys. He then went down the steps to the basement and tried a succession of keys until he found the right one. Of one thing he felt certain. In spite of what he’d been told, the basement wouldn’t be filled with empty crates and cartons. What he did find made him stare in amazement. Earlier in his career, Marmion had taken part in many raids on brothels and they’d always been rather squalid places. This one was very different. There was a faint smell of perfume in the air. Off the main corridor were a number of bedrooms that were nothing short of luxurious. Each had a wall that consisted of a large mirror. The rooms were equipped with ropes, masks, whips and a range of harnesses.
But the real discovery was yet to come. It was only when Marmion got to the end of the corridor that he saw there was a subterranean tunnel to the adjoining property. Well lit and with a thick carpet on the floor, it went under the extensive garden between the two houses. Reaching the other basement, he saw that it had a series of bedrooms furnished exactly like the others. Marmion went on until he came to a flight of steps. At the top of them was a locked door but one of Rockwell’s keys soon opened it. He emerged into the corridor of a house identical in design to the one he’d just left. Hearing voices from the lounge, he walked on till he came to the room and stood in the doorway. A short, stout, scantily dressed middle-aged woman glided across to him with a broad smile. Her face was heavily powdered, her lipstick bright scarlet. With a wave of her arm, she indicated the various prostitutes, most of them in silk gowns or revealing underwear.
‘What’s your pleasure, sir?’ she asked. ‘Choose any girl you wish or, of course, you may prefer a young man to do your bidding.’
Four slim youths, wearing black leather trousers and black leather waistcoats over their naked torsos, stood up and preened for Marmion’s benefit.
‘Well,’ said the woman, ‘which will you take?’
‘I’ll take all of them,’ he said, producing his warrant card. ‘I
’m Inspector Marmion of Scotland Yard and I have a number of policemen outside waiting for orders from me.’
She was horrified. ‘However did you get in here?’
‘Mr Rockwell loaned me his keys.’
‘We’ve done nothing wrong. We’re here at the invitation of the Club Apollo. You can’t prosecute us for being guests at a party.’
‘Oh, yes we can. When they’ve each been questioned, these people will be released. It’s obvious to me that they’re all here against their will.’ There was a loud murmur of agreement from the prostitutes. ‘One of them tried to escape from here and she was murdered as a punishment. They’re not guests at a party. They’re prisoners at the mercy of the whims of the members.’ He turned to the others. ‘I’m pleased to tell you that the Club Apollo is closed for business.’
There was a loud cheer.
Alice Marmion couldn’t understand it. She’d been walking beside Iris Goodliffe for well over an hour yet there’d been no mention of Douglas Beckett. Iris was gloomy and preoccupied. Alice could see that she was in distress.
‘What’s happened, Iris?’
‘Nothing,’ said the other.
‘Are you feeling unwell?’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’
‘Have I said something to upset you?’
‘No, Alice.’
‘Then what’s going on?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
They continued on their beat in silence.
When they got to Rochester, the police car couldn’t park in the main street because it was thronged with people dressed up as characters from the novels of Charles Dickens. Many of them clustered around the cathedral, which had featured as Cloisterham in the author’s last and unfinished book, The Mystery of Edwin Drood.
Oliver Twists were there in profusion and there were a number of Fagins as well. The noise was deafening, the mood joyous. Everyone had taken pains to get the correct period costume. Many went a stage further, declaiming speeches by their characters taken wholesale from the books.
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