Flashpoint (8 page)

On his way back from the RAC, where he had enjoyed an excellent bathe, Benz-Fisher called in at the steel and glass palace which is the new New Scotland Yard. Here he spent ten minutes with a detective superintendent in the Special Branch and spoke, on the superintendent’s own telephone, to a detective sergeant at West End Central, and came away with the address which he wanted. It was a restaurant in Soho with pretensions to haute cuisine.

There was a small vestibule near the entrance for the hanging of hats and coats. As Benz-Fisher took off his light topcoat the wallet in his breast pocket slipped out and slid down on to the carpeted floor. The head waiter picked it up, and was hurrying after its owner when his eye caught sight of the card which occupied the talc-covered slot which is normally reserved for a season ticket. The lighting in the vestibule was more efficient than in the body of the restaurant and he was able to read what was printed on the card. A few moments later he was restoring the wallet to Benz-Fisher. Having handed him over to the attentions of a subordinate, he slid out of the room and into the little office at the far end.

“We have a visitor,” he said.

The proprietor looked up from the wine-merchant’s catalogue which he was studying and said, “What visitor?”

The head waiter murmured the words.

“You’re sure?”

“I happened to see his card.”

“Have a word with the chef. And take his order yourself.”

Benz-Fisher enjoyed a very tolerable meal, seasoned with a bottle of fifteen-year-old Chambertin, and followed by a cigar. No brandy. To drink brandy after good burgundy was gastronomic tautology. It was nearly eleven o’clock when he called for his bill. The proprietor brought it himself.

“I hope you have enjoyed your meal, sir.”

“I have enjoyed it very much,” said Benz-Fisher, “and I shall say so.”

“You will say so?” The proprietor’s surprise was nicely done.

“I am here partly on pleasure, but partly on business too.” He extracted from the front of his wallet the card which had already excited the head waiter and which identified Mr Winstanley as an Inspector of the Gastronomic Guide of England and Wales. He presented it to the proprietor.

“Had we known,” said the proprietor reverently, “we would have made a very special effort.”

“I am sure you would,” said Benz-Fisher. “That, of course, is why we never announce ourselves. But there
is
something you can do for me.”

“Anything, Mr Winstanley.”

“I have been trying for some time to locate a man, a Mr Stukely. He used to work for our organization. We would very much like to get in touch with him again.”

“Stukely. No. I don’t think–”

“You might not know his name, but I think you might recognize him if I described him. He is tallish, distinguished-looking, has grey hair, which he wears rather long, and swept back. He has a small grey beard – of the type which used to be called an imperial. Also, he sometimes uses a monocle.”

“Ah, yes. Certainly I have seen him here. But not recently.”

“How recently?”

“Not for several months. Nevertheless, I may be able to help you. If it is the man I am thinking of, he was usually accompanied on his visits here by – a female.” With a quick gesture, employing both hands, he sketched the outlines of an hourglass figure.

“A female,” agreed Benz-Fisher. “And let us not be too delicate about the matter – a female of a certain class–”

“Yes. Indeed. Perhaps I make myself clear if I say that had she appeared alone I could not have admitted her.”

“You could hardly make yourself clearer. And you think you can help me to locate her?”

“The gentleman referred to her by the name of Aileen. And unless she has changed her job in the last few weeks, you will find her at the Extravaganza in Barnaby Street. I should, however, warn monsieur that it is not quite the sort of establishment to which monsieur is accustomed.”

“When on duty, one must go where duty calls.” As he said this, Benz-Fisher smiled. The proprietor, a student of human nature, thought he had never seen a smile so genial, so meaningless, and so curiously disturbing. But Benz-Fisher was only smiling because he was happy. The food had not been sensational, but the wine had been. A Chambertin was always a toss-up. A vineyard which was divided between eighteen owners could produce, under the same label, a wine which varied from ordinary to superb, and this had been very high up the scale. He guessed that it was not the wine of that name on the wine list, but came from the proprietor’s private cellar.

The entrance to the Club Extravaganza was a narrow doorway between a shop which sold books and magazines to the public and a shop which sold glassware to the trade. Over the door an illuminated sign said, ‘Non-Stop Striptease. Double and Treble Acts. Sophisticated Fun.’ Benz-Fisher stood in front of the doorway. Rocking gently, from his heels, forward on to his toes, and back again, he studied the announcement with the care of an Egyptologist deciphering an inscription. A sad-looking man in a hussar uniform studied Benz-Fisher with like care. Eventually he said, “Make your mind up, sir. Lovely girls. None of them over fifty.”

“I appreciate the matronly figure.”

“Lots of them inside. Ever so matronly.”

Benz-Fisher completed one oscillation, came to rest and said sharply, “You’re not touting for business, are you?”

“Certainly not, sir. Just passing the time of day.”

“Because you appreciate, I hope, that touting for business in the open street is contrary to London Licensing Regulations.”

“I’m not in the street.”

“No,” said Benz-Fisher with sinister emphasis,
“but I am.”

“If you don’t want to come in, sir–”

“I do. And I wish to see the proprietor.”

“I’m afraid Mr Carlotti isn’t here just now.”

“There must be someone in charge. If you don’t produce him quickly, I shall fetch a policeman.”

The doorman looked at him speculatively. He had stood outside this and similar doorways for a long time and prided himself that he could place any visitor at sight. The drunk, the bashful, the furtive, the plain-clothes policeman, the social visitor, the newspaper man. But he had to confess that this one had him beat.

However, the first and the last rule was, no fuss. He said, “Come this way, sir.”

Halfway down the stairs was a small lighted landing. On the left of this landing was a door marked Private. The doorman knocked and went inside, shutting it behind him. Benz-Fisher stood on the landing, perfectly still, with his head bent forward, listening.

From the curtained foot of the stairs came the sound of music, recorded and amplified. The curtains were pushed aside and a young man came out and ran up the steps. He saw Benz-Fisher at the last moment, managed to avoid bumping into him and said, “It’s a bloody swindle. The girls won’t take off – oh. Sorry. I thought you were the commissionaire.”

“I’m a detective superintendent,” said Benz-Fisher. “If you have a complaint to make–”

“It doesn’t matter,” muttered the young man. He ran up the second flight of stairs and out into the street. He seemed anxious to get into the open air.

The office door opened and the doorman looked out. He said, “The boss wants to know who you are.”

“I’ll tell him myself,” said Benz-Fisher. It was difficult to see how he managed it, but one moment he was outside the office door, which was blocked by the doorman. The next moment he was inside.

The man standing behind the desk could have been no one else but Mr Carlotti.

He was a Mediterranean islander, Maltese or Sicilian. Advancing years and prosperity, which had added a layer of fat, could not conceal the broad shoulders and thick thighs of an athlete.

He stared at Benz-Fisher, and Benz-Fisher stared back at him. It was a conflict of wills. Mr Carlotti conceded a point by being the first to break the silence. He said, “Well, what is it?”

“You are Mr Carlotti?”

“I believe so.”

“Then I think we had better continue this conversation in private. In any event, your man had better get back on the door. While I was outside three men came in without paying.”

“No one pays at the door. This is a members’ club.”

“That was one of the things I wanted to find out,” said Benz-Fisher. He took out a small book and made a note in it.

“What is all this?”

“I have come to inspect your premises.”

“Inspect!”

“Pursuant to the powers vested in me by the Licensing Regulations for Members’ Clubs issued by the Greater London Council. I imagine you have a copy?”

A shade of indecision showed for the first time on Mr Carlotti’s face.

Benz-Fisher said, “Not only should you have a copy, but the rules in the First Schedule should be displayed prominently on your premises.”

Mr Carlotti gestured to the commissionaire, who slid out of the room. He said, “You have some identification?”

“Certainly.”

From his capacious wallet Benz-Fisher selected a card and handed it to Mr Carlotti who studied it carefully. He said, “This seems an odd hour for you to be making an inspection, Mr Benskin.”

Benz-Fisher swung round on him. His face had gone red, almost livid. “If you doubt my credentials,” he blared, “telephone the police. West End Central. You know the number. Ask for Superintendent Falk.”

It was like a door of a furnace swinging open to let out the stored up heat within. Mr Carlotti said, “I am not doubting your credentials, sir. I only said that inspections usually take place during the day.”

“My inspections take place whenever I bloody well choose to make them. Now, if you’ll be so good–”

“You wish to see the girls?”

“Sweat, tits and five o’clock shadow! I’m not interested in your girls. I wish to see the lavatories, the washing accommodation, the changing rooms and the fire precautions. I should particularly draw your attention to rules which were promulgated last year about the flame-proofing of curtains.”

“It is not always easy to do these things at once,” said Mr Carlotti. He sounded subdued.

He led the way by a further door, and down a flight of stone steps. They were in the backstage area and the noise of the music and voices came to them faintly.

Benz-Fisher’s inspection was minute. He measured the changing rooms, pacing out the distances, and entering them in his notebook. He tested the fire exit, which opened grudgingly. He even penetrated into the tiny lavatories.

“The girls are so careless,” said Mr Carlotti. “Constantly I instruct them–”

“Constantly they ignore your instructions,” said Benz-Fisher and made a further note.

In the distance a bell rang. There was a thudding of feet and half a dozen girls raced along the passage, burst into the room where the two men were standing, and started to change.

Changing involved putting on clothes rather than taking them off. During this process they ignored Mr Carlotti, but were unable to take their eyes off the visitor. His bowler hat seemed to fascinate them.

Benz-Fisher, who had been examining them with equal interest, said, “Is one of you called Aileen?”

The chattering stopped. A big blonde at the end of the line said, “Suppose it is.”

Her body said twenty-five, but her face, in the unfriendly light of the changing room, said forty.

“If your name should happen to be Aileen,” said Benz-Fisher with a winning smile, “I should like five minutes conversation with you.”

“We’re on again in five minutes.”

“That’s all right,” said Mr Carlotti. “Go along and have a word with the gentleman. He won’t eat you, you know.”

“It wasn’t eating I was worrying about,” said Aileen.

“Hurry along with you. You can use the end room.”

When they were alone Benz-Fisher wasted no time. He said, “You’ve been seeing a lot of a man lately. I don’t know what name he’s using, but I’ll describe him.”

Aileen said, “OK, I’ve been out with him once or twice. That’s not a crime, is it?”

Benz-Fisher regarded her thoughtfully. Seen at close quarters and in undress there was something overpowering about Aileen. Eat her? She would have made a meal for six hungry tigers. He visualized six tigers, in a circle, licking their lips, with Aileen in the middle.

He said, “It’s not a crime to be seen about with a man who’s wanted for questioning. But it might be an indiscretion.”

“Questioning? Who
are
you, mister?”

Benz-Fisher produced a warrant card.

“A busy. I thought you were, the way Carlo was crawling round you. What do you want?”

“I want this man’s address. And please don’t pretend you don’t know it.”

“Suppose I don’t want to tell you. That’s not a crime either. Unless they’ve changed the law.”

“If you won’t tell me,” said Benz-Fisher, “I shall close this place down. Which I have power to do. It’s broken six out of ten of the regulations.
And
I shall tell Mr Carlotti why I’m closing it down, and whose fault it is. I don’t think he’d be pleased.”

“You’re a proper sod, aren’t you,” said Aileen. She said it without rancour.

“All right. He’s calling himself Fairfax. Major Fairfax. And he’s staying at the Claygate Private Hotel. It’s behind Baron’s Court Underground. At least, that’s where he was last week. Don’t blame me if he’s moved on again.”

“Who could possibly blame a beautiful girl like you,” said Benz-Fisher.

Some time after he had left the club, the doorman said to Mr Carlotti, who was, in fact, his son-in-law, “Do you think he really was a whatever he said. An Inspector?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then why didn’t you sling him out?”

“Because,” said Mr Carlotti, “he had authority of some sort behind him.”

“What did he want with Aileen?”

“The address of one of her friends.”

“I think we had better get rid of that girl.”

“I have already done so,” said Mr Carlotti.

Cedric Lyon, the senior Metropolitan Magistrate at the West London Court, looked like an old-fashioned preparatory school headmaster, and treated his mixed clientele of careless motorists, forgetful husbands, pugnacious drinkers, street traders and prostitutes in much the same way that a headmaster would have done. A warning here, a hundred lines there; in extreme cases six of the best.