by W H Oxley
Long black cigarette holder in her hand, a pink negligee clinging to her body, and her immaculately made-up face framed by the golden curls brushing her cheeks, Mitzi reclined on a chaise longue amidst the glitzy splendour of her art deco apartment.
‘Why, dahling, how nice of you to drop in.’ She greeted Hawker with an imperial wave of the cigarette holder. ‘I’m afraid I don’t really do freebies for the force any more,’ she murmured, casting an approving eye over Brightwell, ‘but I might make an exception for your rather dashingly attired assistant.’
‘Sorry, Mitzi, he never fucks on duty.’
‘Pity! …And I see your language has not improved, dahling, you always were a bit of a rough diamond. But if it is not personal services you are seeking, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’
‘I’m enquiring about one of your punters.’
‘Clients, dahling, clients: punters are people who patronise common streetwalkers. Is it any particular client that you are seeking?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
Mitzi sighed. ‘The pawnshop boy… I thought you’d be turning up sooner or later. How is he?’
‘They’re amputating his arm!’
‘Blimey!’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘You never really get to know them in this business, dahling…’ She toyed thoughtfully with one of her curls. ‘He was one of my regulars, came once a fortnight.’
‘Once a fortnight at the prices you charge! What was it, half price for children’s matinee or have you dropped your prices because there’s a war on?’
‘Don’t talk to me about the wretched war, dahling. What with all the men in army, I can barely afford to keep my maid on. And just for good measure they’ve cancelled all the exhibitions and trade fairs at the Olympia. They were always a reliable source of business.’
‘Cheer up, Mitzi. I heard a rumour that the place is going to be turned into an army training centre.’
Mitzi stretched luxuriously. ‘In that case, dahling, I’m looking forward to doing my patriotic duty.’
‘What do you charge these days, Mitzi?’
‘Are you asking in an official or personal capacity?’ she purred, giving a fleeting glimpse of a creamy white breast.
‘Official!’
‘My basic fee is three guineas – that does not include extras.’
‘That’s more than Purvis earns in a week! Were there any extras?’
‘He always wanted his bare bottom smacked, but I never used to charge him for that.’
‘Why, because he was a regular?’
‘No. It was more because I felt sorry for him. I suppose he must have brought out my maternal instincts.’
‘Sorry for him?’ Hawker frowned. ‘Why was that?’
‘Well you know how they like to talk, dahling: half the men who come through that door just want to talk. I gather his boss gave him a hard time and his father, an even harder one. The father was always on at him to be a man and join the army.’
‘Did he ever ask you to wear a school uniform or pretend to be a little girl?’
‘I think I’m a bit too old for that,’ she giggled. ‘If he was into that sort of thing I would have sent him along to one of the girls that specialises in that particular branch of the business – I’ve sent enough coppers over the years.’
Hawker ignored the provocation. ‘Do you think perhaps he’s interested in small boys?’
‘I doubt it. You get a sort of feeling about them. If you ask me, he’s looking for a mummy. Why else would he keep coming back to me?’
‘Hmm … and paying for it…’ Hawker looked thoughtful for moment, before asking, ‘Do you have any idea where he was getting the money for your services?’
‘I haven’t the foggiest. It’s one of the funny things about this business: they like to pretend that they are not paying for it. Once they’ve paid me my fee, money is the one thing they never talk about.’
‘Did he ever mention guns?’
‘A couple of times when I was sucking him off and he was about to come he shouted out something about a safe gun, but they say all sorts of things when they’re like that. I only remembered it because it made even less sense than usual. Probably something from one of those crime stories of his.’
‘Bang goes the vigilante theory,’ said Brightwell as they tramped down the stairs of the block of flats. ‘I can’t see anyone who’s into little girls paying more than his week’s wages for a session with Mitzi. She may be a bit over the hill but she is definitely all woman.’
‘And small boys would certainly be a lot cheaper than her. Forget all the fancy theories, Brightwell. It was probably a good old-fashioned robbery that went wrong.’
‘Where to next, sir?’
‘St Johns Wood Barracks; let’s hope our red-headed soldier can lighten our darkness.’
Brightwell looked thoughtful as they walked down the stairs. When they reached the lobby he paused. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, sir, but you and the lady, were you ever … er, well you know…’
‘If you mean did I ever poke Mitzi, of course I ruddy well did. That was just after the last war when I was a young constable and this was my beat; it was one of the perks of the job. She was in her late twenties then, and a real beauty.’
‘I can well believe it, sir. She’s still in pretty good shape for her age.’
‘She has to be. It’s her living. Do you know what turns a well shaped pretty girl into a bag of spanners, Brightwell?’
‘Er, no, sir…’
‘A wedding ring: as soon as you slip it on her finger, there’s a puff of smoke and – Bride of Frankenstein!’
Brightwell grinned. ‘I think you’re exaggerating a bit, sir.’
‘Maybe a little bit. I have to admit that mine did at least have the decency to wait until a week after the honeymoon.’
As they stepped out into the autumn sunshine, a fresh-faced special constable was standing next to the Wolseley with a notebook in his hand. Hawker paused on the steps to straighten his bowler and light his pipe before approaching.
‘Is this your vehicle, sir?’ The special sounded very officious.
‘It is…’
‘Are you aware that it is causing an obstruction, and so I must ask you to…’
With a sigh Hawker flashed his warrant card…
‘Sorry, sir,’ the special saluted, ‘but a notorious prostitute resides in that block of flats, and her punters are always leaving their cars parked outside.’
‘Clients, constable, not punters: clients.’
‘Really, sir…’ The fresh faced special looked puzzled.
Hawker looked him up and down. ‘Why aren’t you in the army, constable? A strapping young fellow like you should not be wasting his time on traffic duty. You should over in France ready to teach those Nazi swine a lesson.’
‘Well, sir, I had been thinking of enlisting. Someone recommended the military police.’
‘Nonsense! You won’t see any action with the military police: you’ll probably spend the entire war on traffic duty. A dashing young chap like you should be in the front line. Join an infantry regiment!’
‘By George, you’re right, sir! As soon as I’m off duty, I’ll go straight to the recruiting office!’
‘That’s fixed you, you little prick,’ murmured Hawker, as he opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat.
Chapter 6