Текст книги "The Stone-­Cold Dead in the Market Affair"

Автор книги: John Oram

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Chapter Ten

Solly Gold arrived at noon. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and his normally pale face looked almost deathly. A badly-rolled cigarette drooped from a corner of his mouth.

He took the whiskey Solo gave him, drained it at a gulp and held out the glass for a refill. He said, "At my time of life I've got to be up all night chasing stiffs. I should have my brains examined. You seen the dailies?"

Illya said, "We've read them. They don't say much."

"So what's to say? They got a body. They got a name for the body. The Yard is making inquiries. What else? You think the police are telling what they know?" He puffed futilely on the dead cigarette, took it out of his mouth, looked at it distastefully and tossed it into the fireplace.

"There's no doubt it was Price Hughes?" Solo asked.

"Not a chance. The face his own mother wouldn't recognize. Whoever carved him took a real pleasure in it. And there were no papers in his pockets. But the prints were positive."

"Fingerprints?" Illya repeated.

"Yeah, prints. It seems he wasn't always a do-gooder. Criminal Records had a full set of his dabs from 'way back.' For what, don't ask. Even me they're not telling." He sounded genuinely indignant.

"According to the Express the police have got a lead," Illya said.

"Oh, sure. Like always. You think they're going to admit they're up a gum tree? No weapon? No suspects? No motive? But one thing they have got. The old man was plenty dead when he was dumped on the Heath."

"You mean he was killed elsewhere?"

"A long ways elsewhere is my guess. And what's more, he was frozen practically stiff – like he'd been in a refrigerator a couple of days."

Solly accepted a third Scotch, eyeing Solo's bruises with professional interest. "Now," he said, "suppose you trade a little information. Like, for instance, how you got the shiner."

"All right – but it's strictly off the record. When the time's right you'll get it exclusive. Fair?"

"Fair," Solly confirmed. "Till you say so, I'm an oyster."

Solo told him the story.

He rolled another cigarette from coarse pipe tobacco and licked the paper thoughtfully. He had to relight the end three times before it would burn properly. At last he said, "If you're fingering Dancer for the murder you can think again. He'd kill his own brother for sixpence and sleep easy. But it's a matter of technique. Dancer's strictly a chiv man. With a knife he's an artist. And with him it's a business. Nothing personal, you understand. But this Hughes job – what a butchery! And the boy who did it had himself a ball." He considered. "Maybe you remember, there was a mob in Brooklyn that worked with Murder, Inc. They used choppers. It was that kind of job. Crude."

He went through the ritual of buttoning his raincoat to the chin, though the sun was hot on the windows of the room. "Got to go. Thanks for the drinks...and the lowdown. Anything I hear that we can't print, I'll keep you posted."

"Now what do you make of that?" Illya asked when the door had closed behind the reporter.

"You tell me. It's a mess. But some part of the answer's in the Gloriana. Dancer may not have been the killer, but five will get you ten it was his boot I felt last night. The raid, coming on top of our visit to Anna, was too coincidental. And who else knew exactly where to find us?"

"It could have been an ordinary prowler."

"Prowlers don't fool with the electrical fittings," Solo pointed out. "They get in, turn the place over, and get out fast. Our man seems to have been looking for information, not for loot."

"That makes sense. But what else have we got?"

Solo said, "The big tie-in is that Price Hughes owned the building, ran his business and lived – at least, for some of the time – next door to the Gloriana. If Solly is to be believed, and his information is usually twenty-carat, we also know that Anna was lying when she claimed she had no personal dealings with the old man. According to Solly, she gave Dancer his job because Hughes asked her to do it. Why lie about it? There's also the story that she came from Cardiff to London. That may mean a lot or nothing at all, but the Welsh background is certainly interesting.

"On the other hand, she has no police record and the club is in the clear. We know her floor manager is a thug, but again the story is that he's keeping his nose clean."

Illya nodded. "And that's it. There's not a shred of evidence to connect the club or anyone in it with the killing. Or, for that matter, with the attack on you last night. It seems to me that our one solid lead is the medallion."

"That's what I'm banking on," Solo said. "I think Dancer will make a move when Blodwen shows up with it around her neck. Meanwhile we'll start checking on Anna's daily rounds."

The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver. Blodwen's voice came cheerfully over the wire. She said, "I've got a flat in Berwick Street. You'll like it. It's got rummage sale furniture, plumbing straight from the Ark and mice behind the walls. The rent book says seven pounds a week but I had to pay the landlord twenty – and six months in advance. Ain't life wonderful for us working girls?"

"My heart bleeds for you," Solo said. "Want us to come over?"

"Yes, do that. In this house a girl's nobody without gentlemen callers. In fact we put ads up in a neighborhood store to encourage them."

"You're learning fast. We'd better get over there before replies start coming in."

A taxi dropped them in Brewer Street and they walked the rest of the way, shouldering through the bargain-hunters crowding the stalls in Berwick Street's open market, where you can buy anything from a rusty flintlock to a string of Spanish onions. The number Blodwen had given Solo turned out to be a narrow doorway sandwiched between two shops. A woman was leaning against the doorpost, smoking a Gauloise cigarette. She wore a peasant-type silk blouse that strained against massive breasts, a tight black skirt, and patent-leather shoes with heels that were more like six-inch nails. She had coarse black hair piled high and gray eyes that had seen everything.

She switched on a smile that was meant to be inviting. "You boys looking for something?"

"Just visiting," Solo said. "A friend moved in here today."

"Oh, her." She lost interest. "She's up on the second floor. If she's in."

The staircase, covered with ancient gray carpet, was steep and rickety. It had a sad, indefinable smell compounded of cheap perfume, damp and grime. The once white walls bore marks of the passing of many bodies.

On the door facing the head of the second flight a cheap printed visiting card was secured with a thumbtack. It read: Miss Yvonne Grey. Modeling.

Solo pressed the yellowing doorbell and a two-tone chime sounded through the wood.

The girl who opened the door wore a black nylon blouse, skin-tight scarlet jeans and black stiletto-heel shoes. Her hair was tightly curled and bright red. Lashes thick with mascara fringed eyes of startling china-blue.

She smiled widely and said, "Surprise! Surprise!"

"My God!" Solo said. "What have you been doing to yourself?"

She put a finger to lips the color of over-ripe tomatoes. "Can't talk on the doorstep. Let's go in."

She led the way into a pocket-size sitting room that was overcrowded with shabby pseudo-Scandinavian furniture. The poodle cocked a beady eye from its basket near the gas fire, yapped briefly and subsided.

"A drink?" Blodwen asked.

"No, thanks. You still haven't explained the fancy dress."

"Protective coloring," she said. "If I'm going to join the soiled doves in the Gloriana, I have to look the part." She struck a Mae West pose and patted the incendiary curls. "Don't you like it?"

Illya said, "Your eyes. What happened to your eyes?"

"Contact lenses. No gal should be without them." Then more seriously she said, "There's always the chance that somebody might show up who saw me in Corwen or Newport. I had to do a complete remodeling job."

"That makes sense," Solo agreed. "Have you been around to see Anna?"

"No need. She doesn't employ regular hostesses. Any girl who's free and over twenty-one can put in an evening's stint as decoration at the bar – provided she's properly introduced. And that's been taken care of." She grinned. "I expect you met my chaperone downstairs."

"The girl with the armor-piercers?"

"The same. She has the flat below. She's one of those hard-boiled hustlers with a heart of gold., and she's taken me under her wing. I do my first stint at the Gloriana tonight."

"Well, watch it," Solo warned. "There are limits to what Alexander Waverly expects in the line of duty."

"Don't worry. I'm a long-time student of Dear Abby."

There came a faint morse-like tapping. Blodwen said, "Uh-oh!" and went to the door.

The woman in the peasant blouse came in. She looked from Solo to Illya, then back to Blodwen. She asked, "Everything okay, dear?" Her low-pitched voice had a Continental intonation.

Blodwen said, "Everything's fine, Merle. These are two old friends of mine. They just dropped in to see I was settled properly."

"That's okay, then." She switched on the smile. "Pleased to meet you."

Blodwen went to a glass-fronted cabinet, got out a bottle and poured four large gins.

Merle raised her glass in a gesture that embraced them all. "Cheers!"

They drank.

Merle said, :Excuse me for dropping in, dear. I was worried. I thought they might be fuzz."

"The Law?" Blodwen said. "These boys? That's a laugh."

"I'm glad." She didn't ask any questions.

Illya said politely, "This is a nice place you have here."

She looked around. "Not bad – but the overheads are killing." Then to Blodwen: "You better be getting ready. I thought we'd have a bite together before we go on to the club. I shake up a good ravioli – out of a can."

Blodwen poured her another gin. "Give me a couple of minutes. Talk to these guys while I'm putting on my face." She disappeared into the bedroom, the poodle at her heels.

Merle looked after her. She said, "She's a nice kid. You known her long?"

"Quite a while," Illya said. "We have a mutual uncle."

"That's nice. I didn't realize you were relatives or I wouldn't have butted in."

"We're glad you did," Solo assured her. "She can use a friend."

"Yes, she don't seem to know anybody in the Smoke – excepting you, of course."

"If it isn't a rude question, how did you come to meet her?" Illya asked.

"I was having an eye-opener in a pub by the Windmill Theater and she drifted in. She didn't seem to have a place to go, so I fixed her up. A girl can get into bad company if she ain't careful. And like I said, she's a nice kid." Her mouth twisted bitterly. "Too good for them bleeding Maltese to get their hooks in her."

"She'll be all right with you, though," Solo said.

"Sure. I'm an independent operator, you see. I don't have no truck with the rings."

Blodwen returned. She had exchanged the slacks and sweater for a green sack dress that ended four inches above her knees. The medallion swung at waist level from a long rolled-gold chain.

Merle eyed it, puzzled and astonish. She said, "Look, kid, you can't wear that thing in the Gloriana. Not if you don't want trouble."

"Why not?" Blodwen demanded. "It's pretty."

"Pretty or not, you can't wear it. I'm not asking where you got it. That's not my business. All I know is, the last time I seen it was around the neck of French Louise, and if she catches you with it there'll be bloody murder. So be a sensible kid and take it off.

"Why should I? I came by it honestly. And somebody wants to start something, I can take care of myself."

Merle shrugged. "Okay, please yourself. It's your funeral. But don't say I didn't warn you. French Louise is a bitch in spades."

She stood up. "Let's be on our way. Nice to meet you boys."

Blodwen settled the poodle in its basket with a dish of meat, then she pulled on a black nylon fur coat and ushered them to the door. They walked down to the first floor together. The girls stopped there, and Blodwen said, "Thanks for coming. Now you know where we live, drop around again."

The market had closed down and Berwick Street was practically empty. Solo and Illya walked through to Brewer Street and caught a cab to the hotel.

As the taxi threaded through the first rush of theater traffic Illya asked, "What now?"

Solo said, "The trap's baited. All we can do is wait. I've got a feeling it won't be long."

When they got up to the suite Solo went into the bathroom and pulled out a suitcase. He unlocked it, took out a black transmitter, and placed it on the bed. He unwound aerial wire, draping it carefully in loops around the walls. Then he tuned in and said, "Open channel D."

The voice of the operator in the brownstone block near the East River was distorted by static. She said, "This is a lousy line. Sunspots or something. Why didn't you bounce your call off Early Bird?"

"We'll have to get U.N.C.L.E. to put up his own satellite," Solo said. "Put me on to I.D., please."

There was a second's delay and then a male voice announced, "Identification and Records."

"Hi, Al," Solo greeted. "I want all you can get me on a woman called Anna, surname unknown. She runs a club called Gloriana in Newport Street, London. She is Oriental, probably Chinese but could be Indonesian, about thirty years old, height not more than five feet, weight around ninety-eight pounds, no visible distinguishing marks. Antecedents unknown, but rumored to have come to London from Cardiff. No criminal record, as far as I can trace."

"You say the sweetest things." Al sounded bitter. "All of a sudden I'm a magician? Why don't you try Scotland Yard? The West End squad must know her, even if she's clean."

"I don't want to bring the Yard into it at this stage."

"Okay. I'll do what I can. When do you want the dope?"

Solo said, "Yesterday," and tuned out hurriedly.

He rewound the aerial, packed the set back in the suitcase and went into the living room. He told Illya, "Ring room service and ask them to send dinner up here. I'll call Al back in a couple of hours and see if he's managed to produce."

"Anna?"

"Who else?"

It was ten-thirty when the phone rang.

Solo put down the paperback he was reading and picked up the receiver.

Blodwen's voice said perkily, "Napoleon? Can you do me a teeny-weeny little favor?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the Bow Street Police Station. Be a darling and come and bail me out."

Chapter Eleven

The desk sergeant was a middle-aged man with a deeply tanned face that looked like old leather. There was a Burma Star in the row of ribbons above the pocket of his tunic. He said, "Yvonne Grey? I don't know why she had to drag you out of bed. She could have bailed herself out if she'd wanted to. We weren't anxious to keep her."

"I suppose she had her reasons," Solo said. "What is she booked for?"

"Disorderly conduct. She was having a bit of a fight with another woman in Newport Street. We picked them both up."

"Where is she now?"

"In the cells. Sleeping it off, I hope." He signaled to a young constable. "Bring Mitchell up."

He opened a drawer and took out an orange form. "You sign this. Better read it first. If she fails to surrender to her bail, it'll cost you ten quid."

"She'll show up," Solo signed along the dotted line.

The young policeman reappeared with Blodwen beside him. Her red curls were tousled, the front of her dress was torn, and there was an angry furrow where fingernails had ripped down her cheek, but she seemed in high spirits.

She said, "Thanks for coming to the rescue. Have you completed the formalities?"

The sergeant put her handbag on the counter and gave her a form. "Check the contents and sign for them," he told her. "And remember, you've got to be back here in court at ten sharp tomorrow."

"On the dot," she promised. "And thanks for your hospitality."

They went out into the street. Solo hailed a taxi and gave the cabbie the Berwick Street address.

"Now," he said, when they were back in Blodwen's apartment, "perhaps you'll explain what you've been up to."

She went to the cabinet and poured drinks. "We're making progress," she said. "You were right about the medallion. It was a sensation. That's how I ended up in jail."

She handed Solo his glass, took her own and settled herself comfortably on the settee with the poodle in her lap.

"We got to the Gloriana around eight o'clock," she began. "The place was half-empty then. Just a couple of girls at the bar and a few customers at the tables. Dancer drifted over after a while and had a few words with Merle. If he recognized the medallion he didn't show it. He had a quick drink and then got on with his job. Apart from saying good-evening he didn't give me a tumble. Like I told you, the girls drift in and out and no questions asked.

"Anna only showed up once. She came into the room, looked around to see that everything was going smoothly and then went away again, presumably back to her office.

"The fun didn't start until half-past nine. That's when French Louse arrived. She was obviously as high as a kite, and once she got her beady eyes on the medallion she was fit to be tied. I'll skip the details, but her main complaint seemed to be that I had pinched her boyfriend, a character called Scalesi. She kept pushing his photograph under my nose and yelling at me in gutter French. And all the time she kept trying to grab the medallion.

"Merle tried to calm her down but it was like trying to plug a volcano with a medicine cork. In the end Dancer gave us both the old heave-ho out on to the cold hard sidewalk, and it was there the battle started. The boys in blue broke it up and the next thing you know, we're in the Black Maria and on the way to Bow Street."

She finished her drink and went to the cabinet for another. "I sent for you," she explained, "because I hoped you'd be in time to get a look at French Louise before they took us down to the cells. But that sergeant was to efficient. Now you'll have to wait until the morning when we come up before the judge." She raised her glass. "Here's to crime!"

"You've done a good job," Solo said. He stood up. "Now I'd better get out of here before I ruin your reputation."

"You must be joking," she retorted. "In this house you'd do it more good if you stayed the night."

He shook his head sadly. "You're showing a dedication to your work," he said, "that is beginning to disturb me."

"That's what Stanislavsky does for a gal. It's the Method."

"Well, don't get carried away. I'll see you in court in the morning."

Illya was waiting up in the hotel suite. He said, "New York came through with a message from I.D. They've checked on Anna. Her description ties up with an enterprising young woman called Anna Soo Lee, born 1934 in Shanghai. Soo Lee's father was a minor war lord. He joined up with Chiang Kai-shek and went to Formosa in 1949. For some reason Anna didn't go with him. She showed up briefly as a dancer in Singapore and in Sydney, Australia, and was next reported as the girlfriend of a polo-playing maharajah, complete with white Mercedes and all the trimmings. Something broke that up, but she came out of it with quite a stake. She arrived in Britain by air in 1960 and for some reason only known to herself settled down in Bute Town, Cardiff – the old 'Tiger Bay.' For the record, incidentally, Bute Town these days is as respectable as Poughkeepsie and a model of racial integration. The rough stuff went out with hobble skirts."

"That sounds like our Anna," Solo said. "How many times has she blotted her copybook?"

Illya frowned. "Never. That's the strange thing. You could say her career has been colorful but circumspect. She's never been within shouting distance of trouble officially. Yet somewhere along the line she has managed to get together a very considerable fortune – which is at least unusual for Shanghai dancehall girls."

"Maybe the maharajah was generous."

"Maybe. And there's also a story that he was one of the principals in an international gold smuggling ring operating out of Bombay. But like everything else connected with Anna Soo Lee, it's unproved."

"Interesting, but unhelpful," Solo commented. "Well, I'm going to bed. Tomorrow looks like a tough day."

* * *

Business was brisk at the morning session of Bow Street Magistrates Court. Too-liberal celebrants of victory and defeat in an international football match at Wembley Stadium had swelled the crime-sheet. One by one, with blinding hangovers, they filed into the dock to listen dully to the recital of their errors on the night before. They were followed by the normal procession of ladies of the town who had bucked the provisions of the Street Offenses Act. Then Blodwen and French Louise were put together.

French Louise was a battered synthetic blonde with the elfin charm of a Sherman tank. She stood five feet two, weighed 140 pounds, and most of the avoirdupois was distributed around her chest and hips. The fingers that gripped the edge of the dock were short and thick, with bitten nails.

She listened sullenly while the young constable gave evidence of the battle on the Newport Street pavement. It was his first major arrest and he made quite a production of the story. He left no doubt in the minds of the court that French Louise had been the challenger.

"Anything known?" the magistrate asked.

Louise, it transpired, had a string of convictions for soliciting, shoplifting and disturbing the public peace ranging back to the days of Pearl Harbor.

"Have you anything to say for yourselves?"

They kept silent. The bench considered sentence.

Blodwen, as a first offender, escaped with a nominal fine. Louise was not so lucky. She got the maximum.

The size of the fine made her gasp. "You got to be joking," she said. "Where the hell would I find that kind of money?"

Blodwen cut in quickly, "I'll pay it, your honor."

He nodded. "Very well."

The clerk called the next case.

"You didn't have to do that," Louise said grudgingly as they walked to the office to pay the fines. "I wasn't asking no favors from you."

"Forget it," Blodwen said. "Why should you go inside for nothing? Honest to God, I never even met your boyfriend. Let's get the hell out of here and have a drink."

"Okay, then. If you've still got the price."

"Don't worry. My friend is in the pub down the street. He'll pay."

Solo was waiting in the paneled bar of the old Coach and Horses in Bow Street. He clucked sympathetically and told Louise, "They really threw the book at you."

"Yeah, the bums. Still, I suppose I asked for it."

Solo gave her a large gin and it went down in one gulp. He gave her another, and she said, "Thanks. That hits the spot."

There was still suspicion in her eyes, despite her forced friendliness. She said to Blodwen, "I'm not starting anything but I still want to know. If Scalesi didn't give you my luck-piece, where did you get hold of it?"

"I gave it to her," Solo said.

"And how did you come by it?" she demanded.

"I picked it up someplace," he said vaguely. "The question is, how do we know it was yours in the first place?"

"Ask any of the girls. They've all seen me wearing it. Till it got pinched, that is."

"Mind telling me where you got it?"

"That's my business. And why are you so goddamn interested, anyway?"

Solo took four five-pound notes from his pocket and laid them on the bar. "I'm just naturally curious," he said, "and I always pay for my whims."

"Well, it's no secret." She picked up the notes and put them in her shabby handbag. "I got it from the holy joe in Newport Street. You know, the old geezer who runs the New Beginnings lark."

"Was he trying to reform you?"

She laughed shortly. "In bed?"

Blodwen asked, "But what made you think your friend gave it to me?"

"Scalesi? He's no friend of mine. Not anymore," she said bitterly. "He beat the hell out of me and went off with everything he could lay his filthy paws on. The luck-piece was part of it."

"He sounds charming," Solo said. "When did this happen?"

"A couple of months ago. I've never laid eyes on him since."

"What does he look like?"

She opened her handbag, sorted through a conglomeration of letters, lipstick, compact, comb and other feminine junk and came up with a cracked, grubby snapshot. It had been taken on Brighton Pier and it showed a flashily good-looking young thug dressed in leather jacket and skin-tight jeans.

She said, "That's him. Keep it if you want to. Gawd knows he gave me plenty to remember him by – to my dying day."

Solo put the picture in his wallet. He put a pound note on the bar and said, "Have one for the road. Sorry we have to rush away."

She said indifferently, "Be seeing you around," and rapped on the counter for service.

Merle was at her post in the doorway when they returned to the house in Berwick Street. She looked relieved when she saw Blodwen step from the taxi.

"I've been worrying myself sick," she greeted her. "I thought they must've put you away. I warned you not to tangle with Louise, didn't I? She's murder, that bitch."

"It wasn't too bad," Blodwen said. "Cost me two quid. Come up to the flat. We want to talk to you."

She left Solo and Merle together in the sitting room and went into the kitchen to brew coffee.

Solo asked, "What do you know about a man called Scalesi?"

"I've heard Louise talk about him. She was living with him," Merle said. "I never saw him, though."

He showed her the snapshot, and she said, "You know the nicest people. That's not Scalesi. It's a lousy young tearaway called Pietro Bambini. You want my advice, you'll steer clear of him. He's a mad dog."

"You mean he's insane?"

"I mean he's crazy. He beats people up for the fun of it. He likes to see blood. Real professionals won't work with him. He scares them stiff. They know one day he'll do a 'topping' job – you know, murder – they don't want to be around when it happens."

Blodwen came in with the coffee. She asked, "Where does this charmer hang out? We'd like to meet him."

"Meet him?" she repeated. "Are you out of your mind? Didn't Louise tell you what he done to her?"

She grew suddenly cautious. "Look, who are you two, anyway? I don't like all these questions, and I thought there was something screwy about you from the first. What are you up to?"

Solo said, "We're not police, if that's what is worrying you. We represent an international organization known as U.N.C.L.E., with headquarters in New York." He showed her his identification card. "You can do a big service to your country and to the world if you help us."

"You could've come clean in the first place," she grumbled. "I've read about U.N.C.L.E. in one of the magazines. Some kind of secret service, isn't it?"

"Near enough," Solo admitted.

"Yeah. Well, just because I'm in my business don't mean I'm not a good citizen. I pay my bills and taxes, don't I? What do you want from me?"

"Tell us about Bambini."

"Him I don't want no part of," she said emphatically. "He's poison, and I still say keep away. If he thought I'd ratted on him, he'd cut my heart out."

"We'll see you're protected," Blodwen promised. "Just tell us where we can find him."

"Who knows," she said. "He's in and out of the Gloriana most evenings, though I haven't seen him lately. He drives a car for that Chinese dame who owns the place."

"Anna?"

"Yes, that's her. It's a big black job, very classy. She keeps it in a mews garage off Tottenham Court Road. Bambini lives in a room over the top." She gave them the address.

Solo said, "Thank you. Now, just one more thing. Did you ever go into the kitchens at the Gloriana?"

She looked surprised. "Yes, one or twice. Why?"

"Have they got a refrigerator there?"

"They've got a cold storeroom," she said, "big enough to hold an ox."

"I thought they might have." He nodded. "Things are beginning to add up nicely."