Lord Foxbridge Butts In (19 page)

I took my drink to a table by the window, which was already occupied by a very old man who smiled kindly at me when I asked if I could sit, but did not seem to care for conversation after that, answering my friendly inquiries with bare grunts before simply turning away from me. Instead, I amused myself observing passersby, of which there were quite a number and variety passing outside.

I actually cried out in surprise, though, when I saw Baron van der Swertz passing by on the other side of the street, his huge silent manservant stalking along behind him. What in the world could he be doing in
this
neighbourhood? Did he come here to see Gabriel? Though I had told him where the boy lived, I’d also explained my plans to go see him later that day, as well as to get back the paper-knife, there was no reason for him to come; so what was he doing so far from Westminster Palace, dressed in his top-hat and morning coat, walking quickly south toward Shaftesbury Avenue? And why did he have Nilssen with him?

Unfortunately, I was too surprised to act quickly, and before I bethought myself to get up and go ask him all the questions I’d just asked myself, the pair had disappeared into the crowd. So instead, I just sat and puzzled and drank my whiskey until I started feeling hungry.

I walked back to Dean Street to dine in the French restaurant that stood above the Green Parrot, wondering if it was as queer as the nightclub in its basement or if it was respectably unaware of its naughty neighbour. It turned out to be somewhere in between: just a
little
camp, all of the waiters were effeminate in a quiet and dignified way, and the menu attempted an Escoffier elegance that was a bit too ambitious for its kitchens; but it was a pleasant-enough place, comfortably furnished and filled with artists and artistic types, rounded out with a brood of Bright Young People making a genteel racket at one end and a clutch of elderly Canadians being scandalized at the other.

After a decent dinner topped off with an excellent cheese and some lovely old cognac, I took to the streets again, enjoying the crowds and the bustle, which really
was
different from the parts of London with which I was familiar, more festive and filled with people one had never met and didn’t require one to raise one’s hat; and there were the men, bold-eyed men who looked at me very directly, one or two of whom actually turned to follow me for a short distance — though they gave up the chase when I passed up the opportunity to pause in a shop window and receive their attentions.

Back at the entry to the mews, I stood for a moment trying to decide if it was
more
or
less
pleasant in the full light of a summer evening: it looked horribly dreary rather than eerily sinister, and I couldn’t quite make up my mind which was worse. I eventually decided it didn’t matter, and entered the alley, studying the doors on the right-hand side in an attempt to remember which one was Gabriel’s.

After some confusion over the lack of numbers, I found the correct door, pushed through, and climbed to the second landing. There I was thwarted, however, when my knocking went unanswered — at least from within Gabriel’s flat; I got plenty of answer from the floor above, where a very uncouth woman suggested some physiologically impossible exercises instead of “makin’ sech a row.”

“Oh, hullo,” Gabriel startled me, coming up the stairs behind me, “I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

“I didn’t say what time, did I?” I responded a little sheepishly; more imprecision on my part, I was getting sloppy.

“No harm done,” he smiled, digging into his pockets in search of his latchkey, “Oh, bother, I must have left it inside.”

“How did you lock it?” I asked idly, thinking it was just as well: I’d prefer talking to him somewhere that didn’t smell of cabbage.

“I didn’t have to, Michael was home when I left. But he’s gone out, I’ll have to wait for him to come back. Bother!”

“You don’t keep a spare?” I knew a lot of people kept a spare key in a flowerpot or under a stone in their gardens for just such an emergency; of course, there were no flowerpots or gardens on this dingy little landing, “Why don’t I take you for a drink, instead? No point standing around here.”

“I’m not dressed for drinks,” he pulled at the tatty Fair Isle jumper he was wearing with gray flannels and no necktie; I started to tell him he looked fine for a pub when he interrupted me by snapping his fingers, “Old McGillicuddy upstairs has a spare, Michael asked her to keep one for him in case he forgot his.”

“I’ll wait here, Mrs.
 McGillicuddy has already expressed a certain aversion to my charms,” I said, taking a step down the stairs so that I couldn’t be seen from above.

“You’re silly, she’s a harmless old girl. But I’ll be right back,” he said and bounded up the steps to the next landing, where the uncouth woman swore at him like a sailor but gave him the extra key while she did so; tripping gracefully back down, he unlocked the door and ushered me in, “Have a seat, I’ll just take a minute to put on a jacket and tie.”

Mike Baker lay in the middle of the floor on his back, eyes and mouth wide open, the jeweled handle of a golden knife protruding from the left side of his neck. Gabriel screamed and collapsed into an hysterical heap in the corner by the door.

There was no sign of a struggle in the room, no overturned furniture or rucked-up rugs; there was also very little blood, mostly on his own hands and in the immediate vicinity of the wound. I noticed that though the blade of the knife was splattered with blood, the handle was clean; I didn’t know if it
really
meant anything, but in a detective story it would be a clue that the murderer had blood on his hand, and probably on his sleeve as well (which would be in some way extremely distinctive, giving the detective a vital clue).

Mike’s face was twisted with fear and surprise, all the meanness gone out of him, rendering him tragic instead of ugly. His hair was tousled and he was dressed in trousers and an undershirt, as if he’d just got out of bed when he was killed. Reaching out a slightly trembling hand, I touched his bare ankle; it was cold but not ice-cold. The blood on his hands and neck was sticky-looking, not liquid but not yet dry. He probably hadn’t been dead very long, maybe a couple of hours.

The knife was definitely the Baron’s, the same knife I had inquired after at Nazerman’s: even without the detailed description the Baron had provided me, I would have recognized the distinctive van der Swertz crest with its pale-blue chevron on an orange field.

Having taken all the time I could to study the scene, I turned my attention to the screeching Gabriel, pulling him up onto his feet and out of the grisly room, into the tiny bedroom next door where I dropped him on the bed and brought him a glass of water from the lavatory sink in the corner. He eventually stopped wailing, but continued to weep brokenly. It wasn’t just the shock, either, it was obviously grief: despite all his cruelties, Gabriel had loved his brother.

“Is there a telephone here, Gabriel?” I asked as gently as I could, giving him my handkerchief and kneeling down on the floor so I could look up into his tear-stained face.

“N-no,” he choked out, “Shop... end of the Mews.”

“Can I take you out of here? Can I take you to Mrs. McGillicuddy or one of your other neighbours?”

“Why?” he sobbed out.

“I need to go get the police, but I can’t leave you here by yourself. I need to take you someplace safe and quiet.”

“I have to get out of here!” he gasped when the word ‘police’ filtered into his consciousness. He was a molly-boy, and the police were no friends to him.

“Sweetheart, you can’t run away,” I held his hands and tried to reason with him, “They’ll think you did it.”

“They’ll think I did it anyway,” he tried to struggle away from me, his panic building.

“No, they won’t. I’ll
tell
them you couldn’t have. I’m your witness. I have a friend at the Yard, he’ll vouch for me. And my father’s a very important man in Government, they’ll
have
to listen to me.”

“Are you sure?” he hiccuped, his face a picture of fear at war with trust.

“I’m sure. Now where can I take you?”

“Take me with you,” he said after thinking a moment and huffing out a few more sobs, “As soon as my neighbours know police are coming, they’ll run like rabbits. I can’t stay with anyone here.”

“Well, all right,” I conceded, getting up from the floor and pulling him up by his hands, “Come with me, and I’ll take you... I don’t know where. Someplace safe. Is there anything here you need? The police probably won’t let you back in tonight.”

“My jacket, I think,” he looked around him, trying to think practically instead of panicking, “I’d better get my money, too. No, wait, would you get it for me? It’s... it’s
out there
. In a book on the shelf, the one with the purple cover. It’s got a lock on, just bring the whole book. Should I get a change of clothes?”

“You’d better not, the police will want things as they are as much as possible. I’ll get you some clothes later. Now come with me. And don’t look at him, just face the wall and go out.”

“I need to say good-bye to him,” he whispered pathetically, “Please.”

I stood and held him as he wept over the body of his brother, but didn’t let him go when he went to touch it. I’d read too many detective stories to let anyone touch a body before the police got to it. That always caused trouble later on.

*****

The police arrived in increments of two: the first pair of patrol constables in helmets popped up as soon as I’d finished my call to Scotland Yard in the little tobacconist’s shop at the mouth of the Mews (where I’d left Gabriel in the tender care of the tobacconist’s wife, while I stood sentry at the street door to the lodging house); the second pair wore peaked caps and came in a car, driving it into the Mews and blocking the archway; they had to move it when the medical examiner showed up with his assistant in a van; and finally the detectives showed up in another car.

I gasped when I recognized the craggy profile of Chief Inspector Brigham, then blushed scarlet when Sergeant Paget followed him out of the car.

“I
swear
I didn’t call for you specifically,” I rushed to explain when Twister walked up to me.

“I know you didn’t,” he grinned ruefully at me, “You just have the damnedest luck.”

“Finding corpses all over the place? Or always drawing you out of the hat when I do?”

“Both, I suppose,” he laughed, then pulled his trusty notebook and pencil out of his pocket, “What can you tell me about all this?”

“I can tell you a
lot
, if you can keep it off the record.”

“You know that’s not how it works,” he scolded gently.

“Well then, let me tell you everything I know off the record, as a friend; and then you can decide which of it you’ll need to put in the record, as a detective.”

“What’s all the mystery? More of your ‘exceptional circumstances’?”

“Well, yes. There are people involved who would be harmed if they were officially involved, so it would be unfair and unkind to involve them unless it’s really necessary. It’s a situation where discretion is
by far
the better part of valour, if you see what I mean.”

“All right,” he conceded, putting away his notebook and folding his arms expectantly, “Spread out your wares, and I’ll pick over the pieces I want.”

In a low voice so as not to be overheard, I related the entire saga, from the Baron collaring me at dinner to my late-evening meeting with Gabriel; and putting a great deal of trust in Twister, I also related the mystery of the missing paper knife redeemed from the pawn shop just hours before it turned up in Mike Baker’s carotid artery, as well as spotting the Baron and his manservant on Wardour Street when I was in the pub. I wrapped up with a very lucid account of how I found the body, what Gabriel’s reactions had been, and what I did between finding the body and talking to Twister.

“So I’ve got a boy prostitute on one end and a foreign diplomat on the other end, with a pawnbroker and a bookie in between,” Twister shook his head in dismay, “You’re right, the harm done to their livelihoods from being officially investigated by the police would be tangible, not just a matter of delicate feelings. Though I
am
compelled to point out that the prostitute’s livelihood is not legal, and may
need
to be harmed if he keeps at it. Now, let’s go over this again without using names, and I’ll take my notes. Then we’ll go talk to Gabriel, just you and me, before I let Brigham at him.”

“You really are a
preux chevalier
, aren’t you?” I smiled admiringly, “I think I may just have to fall in love with you.”

“
Shh
!” he hissed angrily.

“Nobody heard me,” I assured him, exasperated by his needless caution.

“You’re impossible,” he shook his head again, “Now let’s start over.”

I went over my story again, leaving out any details that seemed too indicative of any one identity, which made the story go a lot faster. On a separate page, he wrote down all the omitted names, then tore the leaf out of his book and put it in his top pocket. When we went to the tobacconist’s and talked to Gabriel in the pokey little kitchen in back, Twister was incredibly gentle with him — I could see that he’d taken my estimation of the boy’s character as a vouchsafe, and was treating him as a witness rather than a suspect.