Mask of the Verdoy (12 page)

‘That’d be Richard Daubeney, the scientist—right?’

‘Correct, Harley—as astute as ever. Now Richard—the eighth Earl Daubeney—was a completely different animal to his younger brother Douglas. Bit of a one-off I’d say. Of course, it was frowned upon by some when he got involved in business, but by doing so he bolstered the estate’s dwindling resources with a number of commercially important patents. It’s all a bit above my head I’m afraid, but I believe it was something to do with industrial chemistry.’

‘He was always in the papers, wasn’t he,’ said Harley, offering Burlington a smoke. ‘Had a brilliant mind … I’ve got one of his books, actually. Didn’t he give a lot to charity? Set up a college for gifted children in the East End somewhere?’

‘Bravo, George! Yes, a college in Spitalfields and others around the country, I believe. The two brothers certainly were chalk and cheese.’

‘What did the eighth Earl die of?’ asked Pearson.

‘Ah—good question. Don’t know I’m afraid. Could find out—if it’s important?’

‘Maybe—but let’s get back to Freddie boy,’ said Harley.

‘Ah, yes—dear Freddie. Where does one start?’ Burlington took a sip of whisky. ‘Well, much to Earl Daubeney’s chagrin, young Freddie doesn’t seem to have inherited either the warrior spirit of his father, or the scientific leanings of his uncle Richard. He’s a classic fop—like something out of Wilde … wouldn’t be surprised if he carries a miniature of Swinburne in his breast pocket and can recite from the
Les Fleurs du mal
on demand. If he didn’t have such a high profile—the gossip columnists simply adore him, of course—he’d be a perfect mark to work the black on: stinking rich, reckless, bit of a dunce, and arrogant to boot. Ticks all the boxes in my line of work. Oh, and despite what you read in the papers, Faw-Faw isn’t overly interested in the fillies, either—if you know what I mean.’

‘Yes—we’ve heard something along those lines.’

‘Well, it’s true. He has a penchant for pretty young boys—the coarser the better, apparently. Add to this a schoolgirl’s tolerance for alcohol and a recent fascination with slumming it in the opium dens of Limehouse and you have your text book victim. But, of course, as far as actually working him as a mark—well, I wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole.’

‘Really? Why’s that?’

‘There are two reasons, George. Firstly, he’s too high profile—always in the papers. Remember, this is “London’s most eligible bachelor”—people get dizzy when they sniff celebrity; one couldn’t rely on the necessary discretion of any associates.’

‘And the second reason?’ asked Pearson.

‘The second reason, dear boy, is Freddie’s pater—the ninth Earl Daubeney. Far too powerful—and far too dangerous. The Earl has friends in the highest of places—the
highest
, you understand. Most editors would think twice before running a story that contained even a hint of scandal involving the Daubeneys, and therefore the threat of a blackmailing is immediately diminished. Freddie is the heir to the estate, and the only son. Time and again his father has pulled strings to set him on the right track. To my knowledge he’s had numerous starts in business: in the City, then at various Mayfair galleries. I believe the old man has even attempted to get the boy aroused by politics and foreign affairs … all to no avail of course. But—and here’s the interesting thing—the Earl has never washed his hands of his
son. It’s as if he simply refuses to acknowledge the boy’s weaknesses. If one were to target young Freddie in any kind of caper … well, Earl Daubeney would never suffer such a slight; he’d hunt you down like a dog and have you shot in a dark alley, I’m sure of it.’

‘Sounds like Mori,’ said Harley, quietly.

‘Believe me, George—Mori is a pussy cat by comparison. The Earl belongs to a far bigger mob—and one with a more impressive arsenal.’

‘The British aristocracy?’

‘
Exactement
! But I’m guessing it’s no coincidence that you’re so interested in Viscount Chantry just now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Because he’s gone missing, of course—hasn’t been seen in society for the last three weeks or so. People are beginning to talk. Remember—this is one of the leading Bright Young Things; a party simply isn’t a party without Fast Freddie Daubeney.’

‘And there’s really no word out there on the street as to where he might be?’

‘Not a whisper. But then again, I’m not sure anyone is particularly looking for him. I could put out some feelers if you’d like.’

‘That would be appreciated.’

‘Consider it done, dear boy … But, you know, there is one line of enquiry that you might like to pursue in the meantime.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Freddie’s sister—Lady Augusta Daubeney, “Gussy” to her friends. Gussy shares her brother’s love of parties—in fact she’s made quite a thing out of organizing them.’

‘Wasn’t there some scandal at one of her dos? In the papers a while back?’

‘Indeed. She held a bash at the Gargoyle Club, Dean Street. The guests were all in Egyptian attire—slaves and Pharaohs, you know the caper. Anyhow, some suburban magistrate took exception to his seventeen-year-old daughter cavorting half-naked in front of a Negro jazz band. “Black devils luring innocent white maidens to depravity”—you know the sort of thing. Water-off-a-duck’s-back to Gussy, though—enjoys the controversy, by all accounts … But, as I say, awfully close to her brother—if anyone knows where Fast Freddie is, it’s Gussy Daubeney. However, she is a little prickly I’m afraid—not sure you’ll get anything out of her, but it’s well worth a try. She’s throwing one of her bashes this Friday as it happens. Hold on …’ Burlington pulled a small notebook from his jacket and flipped through the pages. ‘Ah, here we are—Friday night at Murray’s in Beak Street. It’s a ticket-only affair though, you’ll need an introduction … I say, George—are you still tight with Lily Lee?’

‘Not really—haven’t seen her in a while now. Why d’you ask?’

‘Well, that might be your way in: one of her boys, Conrad—’

‘Yeah, I know Conrad alright.’

‘Well, there you have it—he’s always on the guest list at Gussy’s dos. He’s a crucial part of the entertainment—you know how these Bright Young Things like to powder their noses. If you turn up with Conrad in tow you’re bound to get in.’

‘Thanks Bertie, we’ll give it a whirl.’

‘And I’ll put some feelers out in the meantime, see if we can’t track down little Fast Freddie for you. Now, sorry to dash, but I have a previous engagement at The Ambassador—meeting a young filly.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

‘A little of both, hopefully. Ta ta for now!’

‘Thanks Bertie, look after yourself.’

‘Lily Lee?’ said Pearson, after Burlington had left them. ‘Is that who I think it is?’

‘I dunno—who do you think it is?’

‘Limehouse Lil, “The High Priestess of Unholy Rites”—isn’t that what they call her? Supplying half the dope to the addicts of London.’

Harley drank a good measure of his whisky.

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers.’

‘But she was up on a manslaughter charge for supplying that actress that overdosed, wasn’t she?’

‘And she was acquitted.’

‘So you do know her then?’

‘Yup—we go back a long way.’

‘Christ, Harley! You’re something else … Limehouse Lil—isn’t she married to some type of Fu Manchu character?’

‘
Fu Manchu?
’ Harley shook his head and emptied his glass. ‘
Fu Manchu?
That poisoned rag of a paper
The Oracle
has got a lot to answer for. For your information Sammy Lee was one of the kindest blokes you could meet—a hard-working restaurateur who ran the best dumpling house in London. But it got shut down after a bunch of drunken sailors tore the place apart in a brawl. One of them, an officer, testified that Sammy was running janes from a flat above—all a load of madam of course, something his lawyer had suggested to get him off the charge.’

‘Janes?’

‘Jane shores—whores. Sammy lost his license and his restaurant. So Lily being Lily … well, she decided to use her entrepreneurial skills and diversify a little while they were scratching around trying to start another going concern. Lily had moved in some colourful circles before she settled down with Sammy, and she knew that there was a
demand for cocaine on the party circuit. With her links to the Chinese opium dealers and the ports … well, it would have been easy for her to buy the stuff at trade and make a good profit. But Sammy didn’t want anything to do with it, wanted to earn an honest crust to keep Lily and the girls. So Lil agreed to leave it alone. Sammy got a job as a chef in another Chinese restaurant and for a while, although things were tight, they scraped along and kept their noses clean. But the guv’nor of the new place also ran a gambling den in the basement. One night they were raided by the bogeys and Sammy got pinched along with the rest of the staff. Because of his previous he got a stretch.’

‘A stretch?’

‘Twelve months in Wormwood Scrubs. So now Lily really was on the ribs—her old man in stir and two small girls to fend for. So she went back to her original plan and started to supply high society with its dancing powder. Things went along smoothly for a while; Lily wasn’t greedy—she did just enough business to make a tidy living, but managed to stay out of the way of the big boys and the Yard.’ Harley paused to refill their glasses. ‘Then one night one of her couriers was involved in an accident—the cab he was in ended up crashing through the plate glass window of a department store and he was nigh on decapitated. The bogeys discovered the happy dust in his pocket along with the address of the socialite ball he was delivering it to. Unfortunately the guy was one of Sammy’s cousins. Of course, the press had a field day with the story, and when they discovered that Sammy had married a white girl …’ Harley gulped at his whisky, getting a little animated now. ‘Well, that fascist rag
The Oracle
ran with the whole “Yellow Peril” spiel. They had him as some criminal mastermind straight out of a Sax Rohmer novel—running his evil empire from his cell in the Scrubs, luring innocent victims to depravity and kidnapping young girls for the white slave trade. Lily couldn’t own up ‘cos she’d have lost the girls. Two months before his release Sammy was knifed in the exercise yard, some John Bull knucklehead defending the honour of Britannia … he died on the way to the hospital.
The Oracle
ran the story on the front page, played it up as a victory for justice—and all he’d ever been was an honest, hardworking mush, trying to do the best for his wife and kids.’

‘But Lily went on supplying the drugs, didn’t she? There was the big manslaughter trial, the actress.’

‘Rita Carlson? I met her a couple of times, you know. Now Rita had a
serious
monkey on her back; opium, heroin, cocaine—the lot. Some idiot had told her that you could only overdose on cocaine if you mixed it with water. She went on an almighty bender after appearing at the Palladium one night—her maid found her dead in bed the following
morning. She had Lily’s number in her address book. They put Lily on a manslaughter charge, but she was acquitted—not enough evidence.’

‘But presumably Lily had supplied the cocaine?’

‘Probably—but that ain’t manslaughter, is it? There’s more deaths caused by this stuff, ain’t there?’ Harley held up his glass of scotch. ‘But you wouldn’t expect a pub landlord or the brewery owners to be hauled up before the beak, would you?’

‘Hardly the same thing, Harley.’

‘Ain’t it? It’s all supply and demand—they’re both drugs.’

‘I think we’ll agree to disagree on that one. So what’s she doing now?’

‘Lily? Oh, she’s doing alright for herself and her girls. But, you know, Sammy’s death changed her. She’d always been shrewd, cunning even. But now she’s hard,
cold
—you know? She runs a number of businesses in Limehouse, and she’s just opened a restaurant in Piccadilly, bit more of an up-market joint.’

‘You seem remarkably well informed.’

‘Yeah, well … we were almost related.’

‘Sorry?’

‘That picture, back at the house? That was Cynthia, Lily’s sister—we were engaged.’

‘Were?’

‘Cynthia died.’

‘Oh, I’m … I’m sorry.’

Harley drained his glass again and lit a Gold Flake.

‘Well, anyway … that’s why I know so much about the infamous Limehouse Lil.’

‘But she’s still dealing in the dope though—right? After all, Burlington was talking about one of her boys supplying Gussy Daubeney’s parties with … what did you call it—“dancing powder”?’

‘No comment. And remember what the boss said—let’s not get distracted. Besides, you’re gonna have to get up mighty early to catch that particular worm—and believe me, you don’t want to count Lily as one of your enemies.’

‘So are we going to take a look at Viscount Chantry’s sister, then?’

‘I reckon that’s the plan. I’ll get in touch with Conrad tomorrow and get us a ticket to the ball … Listen, don’t look round, but there’s a wide-boy called Briggs at the bar who keeps staring at you. Where would he know you from?’

‘I don’t know—don’t recognize the name.’

‘Have a look now, he’s just ordering—sat on a bar stool, green tie and braces.’

‘Oh Christ! I think I arrested him with Quigg on my first day in London; disturbing the peace outside a public house in Charing Cross Road.’

‘Well, let’s hope he hasn’t made you yet. Drink up and we’ll make a move. You get the coats and I’ll watch your back—see what he does.’

Harley handed Pearson the token for the cloakroom.

‘Oh, hold on! Better stay put—here comes Mori.’

Pearson turned to see the mobster Mori Adler standing in the doorway to the back room. Beneath his floral silk dressing gown he was in a vest and braces, a thatch of curly black chest hair poking up over the neckline.

He removed his double corona cigar from a mouth that flashed a hint of gold and ran a hand through his mop of greased hair.

‘Go on, Willie—
scarper!
’ shouted Adler, pushing a small, overweight individual in an ill-fitting suit into the room ahead of him. ‘I’ve warned you about kibbitzing my game.’

Solly Rosen appeared at Adler’s side.