Bluebolt One

by Philip McCutchan

  That was how Stephen Geisler found him. Hartog stopped in his stride as Geisler came in. He asked, “I suppose you’ve heard, Steve?”

  “The killings?” Geisler too was showing the strain now. “Sure.”

  Hartog’s eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, glared at him. He said, “So that’s all you’ve got to say. Listen, Steve.” He went across to the Navy man, stood towering above him, shoulders hunched, hands rammed into the pockets of khaki slacks. He said, “One of these days, some one’s going to act for those that won’t act in time.” His eyes narrowed and he drew back his lips until they made two thin, bloodless lines, a curiously animal-like snarl. “You ever stopped to think just what we could do if we took things into our own hands—you and I, Steve?”

  Geisler’s ruddy face paled a little, but he didn’t answer. Hartog went on harshly, “I told you the other day. I might find something out. If I do there’s going to be trouble, I can tell you.” He glowered down at Stephen Geisler. “I’ve been doing a little bit of . . . well, let’s call it homework, in my own time—”

  Geisler cut in, his tone suddenly steely. “I don’t know what you mean, Julian, but I can make a guess, maybe. And I’ll tell you this: don’t go sticking your neck out. That’s not our job. Leave it to the politicians. This is a Navy outfit and we just obey orders.”

  Hartog stared at him, his lips curling scornfully. Then he burst into a peal of laughter—bitter, mocking laughter. He said, “Ah, nuts, Steve. You just don’t know what you’re saying. It’s no good talking to you.” He went out of the door, slamming it hard behind him.

  Breathing fast, he walked across the station compound, mouth working a little, and got into a parked Land Rover. He backed the vehicle out and drove down to the gates, halted, and nodded tight-lipped at the petty officer of the naval guard. The big steel-barred gates were swung open for him and he drove on through.

  Driving viciously, he headed south-westward along the Jinda road. After some fifteen minutes he pulled the Land Rover off the roadway to the left and drove into the scrub. He stopped the engine, leaving the vehicle well hidden. Then he walked on into thick jungle, along an overgrown track.

  After a while, forcing his way through, he came to some old mine workings which had been started some years before as an extension of a small tin-mine which had itself been abandoned when the seam had run out. Pulling aside the vegetation which concealed the entrance to a tunnel cut into the old working-face, Hartog edged into darkness. Once inside he switched a torch on and walked ahead down the long, danksmelling tunnel until he came to a widened section where a single-track, small-gauge railway began. Pulling down a red-painted power switch high up on the tunnel wall, he clambered on to a small electric trolley and moved a lever.

  Slowly at first, and then with increasing momentum, the trolley took him along the old mine workings on well-greased rails, and some while later he saw the pinpoint of daylight ahead, where the tunnel ended in the main mine, the disused one which was not so very far from Zambi village.

  Back in London that night, Debonnair sipped at a glass of old brandy, looked thoughtfully across the gleaming damask tablecloth towards Esmonde Shaw, who was pulling abstractedly at his black bow-tie and who was deep in some reverie of his own, as he’d been almost all the time since leaving Gillian Ross’s flat early that afternoon.

  “More coffee, darling?”

  “Um. . . ? Oh—thanks.” He pushed his cup across. “Sorry. I’ve been poor company, I know.” His hand touched against the brandy glass, jerked it, set the deep gold liquid moving. The shaded table-lamp, shining down through it, sent changing, shadowy patterns chasing each other across the snowy cloth, patterns which bubbled and coalesced and separated again. Like his own thoughts, he reflected moodily, getting nowhere, ethereal and vague and disturbing. In some ways he had made reasonably good progress, of course; he had established that Patrick MacNamara was an adherent of the Cult of Edo, and this Ship’s Biscuit dive alone might produce something valuable if it gave him any lead to MacNamara’s set. But beyond that—nothing. It was likely enough that this Sam Wiley—which was probably not his real name, anyhow—had something to do with MacNamara’s disappearance, perhaps, but apart from the vague possibilities which the club might offer later to-night, he had no idea whatever as to where to start looking for the man. He had no description of Wiley beyond the fact that he was an African, and Jiddle, his only good contact with that strange sub-world of rackets and race warfare, was stone-cold dead. . . .

  Debonnair, a small line of anxiety driving down between the fair, straight brows, asked softly, “Can I help, Esmonde?”

  “I wish you could.” He frowned, ran a hard brown hand over the strong line of his jaw. “I just can’t tell you the whole thing, though, Deb.”

  She studied him. “You got that membership card all right?”

  He said, “Yes, no trouble at all. Carberry’s brilliant at that sort of thing, knows all sorts of useful people. I’ve got a card in the name of Edgar Jessop.”

  “Uh-huh. . . .” Her hand stole out, touched his. Their two heads, the fair one and the crisp brown one faintly touched with grey over the ears, were close together... disturbingly close together. . . . He said, “I can’t get that girl Gillian Ross out of my mind. On the surface, she’s a surprisingly tough egg for her age, but I’ve an idea that’s only for show. She’s had a pretty rotten sort of life. . . she’s covering up, I suppose.”

  Debonnair nodded. “Could be.”

  “I only hope nothing goes wrong there.”

  “You mean—”

  “Well, for one thing, if MacNamara’s being held by some one, some one responsible for that killing in the Tube, Sam Wiley for instance, then he may let out that the Ross .girl knew one or two things, such as the note she found in his room or the fact she’d found those carved objects—which were probably charms, I suppose. They won’t be sure how much she really does know. And they may want to make sure.”

  “You really think they’ll try to get at her, then?”

  He shrugged, fiddled with his coffee-spoon. “Can’t overlook the possibility. She should be all right if she does what I told her and stays firmly indoors. But will she?”

  “You can get a tail put on her, can’t you?”

  “I already have—I fixed that with Carberry!” He hesitated. “Another thing that’s bothering me is why the police aren’t watching that house too. Up to this afternoon at least, they certainly weren’t, I do know that.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps they don’t know about her, as she said herself.”

  “Very likely.” Shaw remembered that even Major Herrick at London Transport hadn’t mentioned the girl, which must mean he’d never heard about her, so he couldn’t have told the police anything.

  Debonnair went on, “I gathered from what you said to Gillian Ross that the police aren’t in possession of all the facts—that alone might make them think along different lines from you, even if they do know about her. They may not think she’s important. Anyway, it’s doubtful if MacNamara would walk into what he might reasonably think is an obvious trap.”

  Shaw rubbed the side of his nose. “I expect you’re right, Deb.” He smiled ruefully. “The Old Man would have done better to put some one else on this job. Some one like you!”

  “Silly,” she said fondly.

  “No, not so silly, Deb dear. It needs some one better acquainted with purely police matters—”

  “Which I’m certainly not—”

  “You see, this is a bit out of my normal rut.”

  She laughed. “Some rut! Anyway, don’t you believe it. Come to that, I’m glad you’ve got the job. While you’re working in London for a change, you can’t be sent half across the world. I’m so sick of you being away, Esmonde.”

  He said gruffly, “Don’t speak too soon. I’ve a feeling the trail’s going to lead quite a long way from London before much longer.” He looked at his watch. “Time to be on my way, Deb. Look after yourself, darlin
g. I’ll ring you in the morning.”

  The taxi dropped him off in Camden Town some way before Corner Crescent. He paid the man and watched him drive away. As he walked on slowly towards the dimly lit Crescent and looked around for the Ship’s Biscuit club, he was aware of that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  He found the faded sign alongside a dirty doorway with a fanlight above which showed a yellowish electric-light bulb, unshaded and dust-covered. He pushed the door open and walked in, stepping into a narrow passage which smelt of some cheap perfume, heady and overpowering. The throb of music beat down from somewhere upstairs. In the dim light of that single bulb he saw an open hatch above a small counter. He walked towards this and tapped, and a big albino shuffled across the office inside. The mottled, dirty skin, the skin which should have been ebony but which by some freak of unkind nature was this revolting patchy pinkness, gave the man a grotesquely unhealthy, out-of-place appearance which wasn’t improved by the sweat-stains showing through the dinner-shirt.

  The albino narrowed his eyes. “Membership card, please?”

  Shaw pushed it across and the man glanced at it cursorily. He nodded and said, “The next show is just about to start, Mister.”

  “Right, thanks.”

  Following his ears, Shaw climbed a. flight of steep, poorly carpeted stairs. Coming to a landing, the source of the music was unmistakable and he pushed open a door on his left. At once a blast of hot, smoky air hit him, and so did the erotic thump-thump of the three-man Negro band, sweating away in white shirts with maroon cummerbunds topping tight black trousers. A few couples supported each other’s overheated bodies on the small dance square, men’s excited faces stared, blank and fishlike, over the shoulders of their partners. In one corner, two unhealthy looking young men swayed and undulated together, pawing each other. To the right of the dancing space there was a long bar, while the other end of the room was occupied with small tables and a kind of apron-stage jutting out from a raised platform and running through the lines of tables. A brassy young woman with an over-used look about her came forward and smiled mechanically at Shaw.

  “Want a table, do you, dear? Better hurry. The show’s about to start.”

  Shaw nodded, ordered drinks when the waiter hurried up.

  The ‘show’ was heralded by dimming lights and an increased throb, a frenzy almost, from the band, and a curious heightening of the atmosphere as men’s voices trailed into expectant silence. The music beat suffocatingly on Shaw’s eardrums, and he could almost hear through it that expectancy and the indrawn breaths. . . there was a subdued ripple of interest as a spotlight picked out a tall blonde who was coming out on to the stage from behind thick velvet curtains. There was some clapping and throaty laughter as this girl minced down the stage, twisting and turning suggestively. So far as Shaw could see, she hadn’t a stitch of clothing on her supple body apart from a purely perfunctory piece of thin cord around her hips below her navel, a string holding a strand of material between her thighs, which rubbed together as she walked. She turned, pirouetted, began a dance, kicking her legs out sideways. After her came a genuine strip act, the undressing process being carried out by a young man who looked like a homosexual but who indulged in a vast amount of love-play which the audience appeared to enjoy immensely. There was a storm of clapping as the naked girl walked down the stage, wriggling her buttocks, and elderly men in dinner-jackets craned closer, leering from bulging eyes, intent, like spiders watching their prey. . . .

  When the show was over Shaw settled down to watch the very mixed clientele of the club and submitted to more drinks.

  Those dinner-jacketed young men with more money than sense—they looked like young City men, or Guards officers; gay gallants who’d only come in for the lark and the feeling of doing something vaguely dangerous. The prosperous, ageing business-men with the sagging waistlines and the chair-heavy rumps had come along for entertainment of a different sort, and Shaw could tell from their heightened colouring and their moist lips that they’d already found some of it. His gaze lingered curiously. There was even a lesbian to complete the picture, a pathetic-looking creature, man-faced and efficient-looking, with a long cigarette-holder which she held aggressively, like a pipe, and with sensible, manly shoes, gazing with sad and rather sombre eyes at the bare shoulders of one of the young women who was dancing with a sticky palm pressed into her spine.

  But it was the others who were more interesting to Shaw—much more interesting: the Negroes, some of them well-dressed and decidedly professional class, others not.

  These could be MacNamara’s friends.

  Shaw sipped third-rate champagne thoughtfully.

  A little later the albino came up from below.

  Smiling genially, he chatted here and there. He scattered his favours, but Shaw noticed that he moved more among the Negroes. One of the Africans left the room casually, his face shining with sweat. One by one, over the next ten minutes or so, the others slipped away. Shaw heard footfalls overhead, and then a dragging as though of furniture being moved about.

  This must be the meeting.

  He’d begun to have doubts as to whether or not ‘they’ would hold the regular meeting so soon after the Tube murder and the disappearance of MacNamara—they might think it too chancy altogether. Now, he reasoned that the fact they did seem to be sticking to routine after all must be due to their having got their hands on MacNamara before he’d had a chance to talk to anyone. They must feel pretty confident. . . and he had to find out what was going on upstairs.

  He allowed his head to roll a little, jerked it straight. His jaw sagged. Let them think he was getting tight... after a few minutes he lurched to his feet, held on to the table for support, then started pushing his way through the crowd. Outside the door, still keeping up the unsteadiness, he found the stairs, went up, saw a door at the top, just beyond a passage with other doors, probably of bedrooms, he thought, leading off it. As he neared the door ahead of him he heard a low hum of voices. There was no one in sight, no sound at all outside that room. Perhaps he could eavesdrop this meeting. Just one chance remark picked up could give him the lead he wanted—if he was lucky; he knew he had to get all the dope he could before he alerted the Outfit in any way, for the men and women in that room would close up like clams under questioning.

  He approached the door, carefully, silently, and then he heard the soft footfall. He didn’t look round; he just acted a little more drunk.

  Suddenly, behind him, a voice rapped, “Just a minute.”

  He turned then, slowly, and saw the albino standing at the head of the passage.

  The albino asked, “Can I help you, Mr—er—?”

  “Jess . . . Jessop.” Shaw thought the albino looked dangerous; one hand was in the pocket of his dinner-jacket, and Shaw noted the bulge which was bigger than the hand and which betrayed the small, useful automatic. No dice just yet. “Felt. . . sick. Stuffy—down there. I—” He belched loudly.

  “Gents is on the next landing down. Just to the right of the club-room.”

  “Oh. . . I see. Well—thanks.”

  “That’s quite all right, Mr Jessop.”

  The albino’s voice was soft; he stood there, looking at Shaw with pinkish eyes, his big, flabby body immobile, solid between Shaw and the room. But he was more relaxed now and he seemed convinced. Shaw turned away, went unsteadily down the stairs and into the lavatory, keeping up the act all the way. When he came out again he went straight down into the entrance hall and as he neared the hatch a voice said, “Excuse me. Your bill.”

  He stopped. A squat, middle-aged woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips handed him a piece of paper. Alongside her was a big man with a battered face, like an ex-boxer. The bill was twelve pounds ten. Shaw didn’t query it. He looked up as he put his wallet away and he saw the albino padding down the stairs. Shaw turned away, making himself lurch a little, and went along the passage to the door, bumping the wall at intervals. It was raining outside, and
windy, and pieces of paper were blowing along the street on the sudden gusts. Shaw kept up the act until he was well clear of Corner Crescent—just in case, though he was confident he hadn’t aroused any suspicions. He turned into the main road and then went back along another street running in rear of the club. As he came abreast of the back of the premises he identified the joint by the throb of the music still beating out loudly from what must be an open window, though he couldn’t see the window because the back of the club was built in a kind of inverted T-shape round a semienclosed yard. What looked like a service alleyway led down to the club from the street he was in.

  He went along that alleyway, moving slowly and very quietly, his hand reaching inside his dinner-jacket for the gun in the shoulder-holster. Close by, a cat screamed suddenly, and Shaw jumped a little, cursing his nerves. Nothing else moved. The room where the meeting—if it was a meeting— was going on was immediately above the main club-room, and it must have a window. . . .

  If he could just get up there!

  He looked around him, then got a grip on the brick wall of the alley and swung himself up on to it, dropping down noiselessly into the garden of the house adjoining the club. He went forward slowly and carefully, keeping dead quiet. When he reached the far end of the dividing wall he found an outhouse built on to the back of the premises whose garden he was in. From where he was now standing he could see the upper window of the club, dimly lit and slightly open at the top. The outhouse ran up to just below the lower window of the house, which was itself in darkness, and he didn’t think the windows were curtained either. He looked at his watch. It was only nine-forty-five. Unless the people in that house were very early bedders, those back rooms were empty. He would have to get from the outhouse to the sill of the window above, but if he could do that he thought he could swing across to the club all right, and the sill itself looked quite wide enough to sit or stand on. He’d done this kind of thing before, and he’d been trained to agility as a sailor. There was little if any risk of being seen by chance passers-by in the street beyond, or from other houses; the construction of the club premises themselves would give cover enough against that.