Here we go, Carl. Amazing what a credit card and a hairgrip can do...
~ * ~
Smiley Senior’s in a wheelchair now. One carpet-slippered foot in the grave already. His gob opens in surprise when he sees me come to join him in the lounge. Acrylic crowns, I notice. Not quite what I recall from way back, but easier to shift than the real thing. They look almost pretty, arranged on the rug like that, around his feet...
“Carl Dwyer,” I announce myself. “Remember me?”
He’s well hooked. “Can’t say I do.”
“I know why you took the fucking photo,” I shout over the cricket commentator’s gabble. “As a sick souvenir.”
“What photo? What souvenir?” His red spit sprays in my direction. The cripple tries to get up. No joy. Not with my boot in his crotch. I zap his flat-screen. I want him to listen only to me.
“The one your dustbin lid showed me in the can last week. Trying to stitch me up, he was, so you’d go free.”
Smiley’s Adam’s Apple’s like a captive frog between my hands. Another feature he’s passed on. I smell his piss. Old, rank piss. You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited to hear him beg for mercy.
“Thomas’s twat of a brother took it, if you must know,” he glugs. “He wanted a souvenir of us Gatherers to take back with him to Wales...”
“You holy fucking friar. Only you could afford a Box Brownie.”
Then three’s suddenly a crowd with Junior himself pushing his way in. His police-issue Walther the added extra. But I’m tooled up too. Been busy practising.
“Put that down,” he snarls at me. “And get out. If you do, I’ll turn a blind eye. Pretend you’ve not been here.”
“No deal. I’m staying. Why? Your dad owes you an explanation.” I kick the nearside wheel of Smiley Senior’s wheelchair. He topples one way then the other.
“C’mon, Freddie. Tell him about those shoulder steaks, the fried liver, the cobbler’s awls... How you dealt with Dafydd’s beating heart. How I wasn’t allowed to breathe a word. “
Junior’s turning green. Turning away from me to face the killer. “You never... “
“He bloody did.” And then, as if someone’s just pulled the plug from my mind, I relive the rest of that terrible night.
The cook covers his head with his fat, red hands and shuts his eyes. But there’s nowhere for him to hide. His kin, on the other hand, is all ears.
“As God’s my witness, I don’t know what he means,” croaks the psycho when I’ve finished my tale. “Give it to him, son. Or I’ll be wondering whose side you’re on.”
I recognize a saddo with in-built obedience when I see one. Junior’s off guard.
Down on the rug, both knees gone, making way too much din. His dad’s scattered teeth aren’t white any more, but red.
His pistol’s all mine now. Its full chamber giving it more weight than my Beretta, but I won’t finish him off. Not just yet, anyway. Why? you might ask. Because all this has given me a real appetite. As has stripping off his trackies and dragging him towards the generous worktop next to the hot, new Aga.
Setting the kitchen table for two doesn’t take a minute.
“Meals on wheels,” I tell Smiley Senior brightly, propelling him into the kitchen where his tea lies waiting “You must be bloody starving.”
<
~ * ~
SAFE AND SOUND
Edward Marston
New York City, 1868
T
he attack came when he least expected it. Henry Culver, a wealthy banker, was driven home in a cab through the gathering darkness of an April evening. He was in a contented mood. Having dined with some colleagues, he’d been able to mix business with pleasure and wash both of them agreeably down with the finest of wine. As the cab took him through a maze of streets, Culver dozed happily off. It was only when the horse clattered to a halt and the vehicle shuddered that he was jerked awake. He alighted, paid the driver, and moved unsteadily towards his house. Before the banker reached his front door, however, a burly figure stepped out of the shadows, knocked off his top hat, and cudgeled him to the ground.
Culver was a healthy man in his early fifties but he was no match for a seasoned ruffian. Exploiting the element of surprise, the attacker struck and kicked him unmercifully. All that the banker could do was to curl up and try to cover his head with his arms. The assault was over as suddenly as it had begun. After drawing blood and inflicting pain, the assailant turned on his heel and ran off to a waiting horse. Henry Culver was left groaning on the sidewalk.
~ * ~
In the years that he’d been working as a private detective in the city, Jeb Lyman had watched a great deal of fear, grief, and desperation walk through his office door, but he’d never seen them so starkly embodied in one person before. Maria Culver was in a terrible state. She was trembling with fear, ashen with grief, and gibbering with sheer desperation. Her once-handsome face was pockmarked with tragedy. Getting up quickly from behind his desk, Lyman helped her to a chair, poured a glass of water from a jug, then helped her to sip it. Gradually, his visitor started to calm down.
“Do please forgive me,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’ve been so worried.”
“Perhaps you’d care to tell me why,” he said, softly. “My name is Jeb Lyman, by the way. Whatever your problem, I’ll do my utmost to help you get rid of it.”
Maria took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. After giving her name, she told him what had happened to her husband the previous evening and how she’d found him, sprawled in a pool of blood, not five yards from his own doorstep. Listening patiently, Lyman deduced a great deal from her appearance, dress, and educated vowels. Clearly, she was a loyal, loving wife from a privileged world into which crime had never before intruded.
Lyman was a stocky man in his thirties with features that were inexcusably ugly. He had the face of a desperado; however, he was intensely law-abiding and had an unshakable belief in the concept of justice. The more he listened to her story, the more he wanted someone to pay for the vicious assault on Henry Culver. As soon as she’d finished, he picked on a salient point.
“You say that nothing was stolen, Mrs. Culver?”
“No,” she replied, “that was the curious thing. My husband thought the man was after his billfold and his pocket watch but they were untouched.”
“Robbery was clearly not the motive for the attack, then.”
“I’m so frightened, Mr. Lyman. Henry might have been killed.”
“I very much doubt that. Since he had Mr. Culver at his mercy, the assailant could easily have battered him to death, but he drew back. It sounds to me as if he was administering a warning.”
“Why on earth should he do that?’ she asked.
“That’s what we must find out,” said Lyman, pensively stroking his chin. “I take it that you’ve reported the crime to the police.”
“They were summoned immediately.”
“So why have you turned to me?”
“That was my husband’s idea,” she explained. “Henry doesn’t have much faith in the police. He thinks they reserve their best efforts for more serious crimes—though nothing is more serious to me than this, Mr. Lyman. I can’t bear to see him in such a condition.”
“It must be very distressing for you.”
“He remembered your name being mentioned by a close friend of ours—Thomas Reinhold. I believe you recovered some stolen property for him.”
“I did rather more than that,” said Lyman, recalling that he had also solved a murder in the process. “I’m grateful to Mr. Reinhold for recommending me.”
“Is there any hope of catching this brute?”
“Oh, yes—there’s always hope, Mrs. Culver.”
“How will you go about it?”
“First of all, I’d like to speak to your husband. Is he in a fit state to answer questions?”
“Ye
s, Mr. Lyman.”
“Then let’s take a cab back to the house,” he suggested with a reassuring smile, “and I’ll begin my investigation at once.”
~ * ~
Propped up in bed on some pillows, Henry Culver was a sorry sight. His face was heavily bruised and two bloodshot eyes stared out from beneath the bandaging around his head. He had sustained cuts, abrasions, and a cracked rib. The fingers on his left hand had been broken by a blow from the cudgel. His lips were swollen, and some of his teeth had been dislodged. He was evidently in great pain, but had refused to go to the hospital.
Left alone with him, Lyman expressed his sympathy and asked him to recount what had happened. What he heard was substantially the version given to him by the wife but there were additional details. The banker remembered that his attacker had an Irish accent and had said, “That’ll teach you, Mr. Culver!” before he fled.
“It was no random assault, then,” noted Lyman. “He knew exactly who you were and when you were likely to return.”
Culver was alarmed. “Does that mean I was watched?”“It’s more than likely, sir.”
“Why?”
“Only you can answer that. Do you have many enemies?”
“None at all that I know of,” said Culver, proudly. “Oh, I have business rivals, of course, and some of them stoop to disgraceful tactics from time to time, but they’d never be involved in anything like this. It’s unthinkable.”
“Could it be that you’ve upset someone recently?”
Culver’s eyes flashed. “There’s no question of that, Mr. Lyman,” he snapped, “and I’ll thank you not to make such suggestions. I’m a highly respected banker with years of service behind me. I didn’t get to such an eminent position by upsetting people.”
Lyman suspected that that was exactly what he’d done. Culver had the peremptory tone of a man who expects to be obeyed and who can’t conceive that he’s causing offense when he throws his weight around. The detective became less sympathetic towards him. On the other hand, Culver was retaining his services, so a degree of politeness was obligatory.
“From all that I’ve heard so far,” said Lyman, “it sounds to me as if someone was issuing a warning. Who might that be, sir?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“I believe that you do, Mr. Culver, and that you’re deliberately holding something back.”
“Damn your impertinence!”
“I’m only being practical,” insisted Lyman. “Since I have so little to go on, I need every scrap of information I can gather. You, for whatever reason, are concealing something important. I can sense it. You obviously don’t trust me, and I, as a consequence, have lost trust in you. Goodbye, Mr. Culver,” he added, moving towards the door. “I think you need to find someone else to handle this case.”
“Wait!”
It was a howl of pain. Lyman turned to look at him. Squirming in his bed, Culver wrestled with his thoughts for several minutes. When he eventually spoke, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “My wife must know nothing of this,” he emphasized. “Maria is hurt enough as it is. I want her spared any more suffering.”
“I understand, sir.”
“There is something you should know. The reason I didn’t tell you about it before is that I’m rather ashamed. It shows me in a foolish light.”
“Go on,” invited Lyman.
The banker sighed. “I received a letter,” he admitted.
“A threatening letter, I daresay.”
“It didn’t seem so at the time, Mr. Lyman. That’s why I didn’t take it seriously. It simply informed me that I should be very careful from now on. That’s all. I thought it was some silly joke designed to give me a scare, so I decided to ignore it—how stupid of me!”
“Did you keep the letter?”
“No, I tore it up and threw it away.”
“That was unfortunate.”
“I thought no more of it until this arrived today.” Reaching under the pillow, he extracted an envelope and handed it over. “Like the other one, it’s unsigned.”
Lyman took out the letter and read it aloud. “Does that change your mind, Mr. Culver?” He looked up at the banker. “It couldn’t be more explicit than that, sir. Was this written by the same hand as the first letter?”
“Yes, Mr. Lyman—I’m certain of it.”
“Then I’ll hang on to it, if I may.”
“Please do. I’d hate my wife to find it.” Culver shook his head. “I’ve never had trouble of this kind before. I know that the city is a dangerous place, but I keep well clear of bad neighborhoods. I’ve always felt perfectly safe walking down my own street at night. That’s why I was completely off guard.” He heaved another sigh. “I’m beginning to think that Hazelhurst may be right.”
“Hazelhurst?”
“He’s an acquaintance of mine—William Hazelhurst. When I met him recently, he told me that he employed a bodyguard to drive him home after dark and to keep an eye on the house.”
“Where does this gentleman live?”
“Four blocks away from here, Mr. Lyman.”
“I would’ve thought this was a relatively safe neighborhood.”
“That’s what I believed—until last night.”
“I think I’d like to speak to Mr. Hazelhurst,” Lyman decided.
“Then you’ll have to go to his office on Fifth Avenue. He’s a lawyer who deals with criminal cases all the time so he’s well aware of what really goes on in this city.”
“Did he mention that he’d had letters like yours?”
“No, Mr. Lyman. He simply said that he was taking wise precautions. I wish I’d done the same.”
“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to give me his address,” said Lyman, taking out a pencil and pad. “I’ll call on Mr. Hazelhurst this very morning. Meanwhile, get as much rest as you can, sir, and tell your wife not to worry. I’m sure that this crime can be solved.”
~ * ~
When Lyman arrived at the office, the lawyer was busy with a client, so the detective was forced to wait. It gave him the opportunity to talk to the secretary in the outer office and gather a lot of information about the firm of Hazelhurst and Orme. The premises were well appointed and there was an air of prosperity about the whole enterprise. Lyman watched a number of clients come and go. He was eventually shown into a large office whose walls were lined with bookshelves filled with massive legal tomes. Behind the leather-topped oak desk sat William Hazelhurst. He rose to exchange a handshake with Lyman, then resumed his seat. The detective was waved to a chair opposite him.
Hazelhurst was a tall, thin, angular man in his forties with dark brown hair and muttonchop whiskers. Impeccably dressed, he peered over eyeglasses perched on the end of his nose. Lyman explained the purpose of his visit and the lawyer was appalled.
“Attacked outside his own home?” he said. “That’s dreadful.”
“I understand that you live nearby, Mr. Hazelhurst, and have thought it necessary to engage a bodyguard on occasion.”
“Only when I’m returning home late at night—one can never be too careful.”
“How long has this been going on, sir?”
“For a few months now,” replied Hazelhurst. “Early in January, I had the feeling that I was being followed and that my house was being kept under observation. I never actually saw anyone, mark you, but I was nevertheless unsettled. Whenever she ventured out, my wife had the same sensation.”
“Did you get in touch with the police?”
“Yes—they agreed to increase patrols in the neighbourhood but saw nothing untoward. Our sense of unease continued. Then one of the servants did see someone—a brawny individual, watching the house one evening. When he realized he’d been spotted, he vanished into the shadows. That settled it,” said Hazelhurst. “I went in search of a bodyguard.”
“Where did you find one?” asked Lyman.
“There was an advertisement in the New York Times
for a company that offers a discreet but efficient service. I took them on a month’s trial and was extremely satisfied. They’ve given me peace of mind, Mr. Lyman. My wife and I are no longer afraid to venture out after dark. We feel secure.”
“According to Mr. Culver, your bodyguard also keeps an eye on your home at night. Does that involve a full-time presence?”
“No—he or a colleague goes past at regular intervals.”
The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10 Page 28