Mask of the Verdoy (31 page)

‘Thank Christ for that!’ said Harley, moving between Rosen and his victim. ‘Right, come on, Sol—enough’s enough. Let’s put the skates on … 
what the hell are you doing now?
’

Rosen pushed past Harley with a cutthroat razor in his hand, two-thirds of its blade covered in sticking plaster to make it easier to wield.

‘I’m gonna give him a little reminder of the day … Can you smell it lad?’

He kicked the boy for a reaction.

‘Oi! I’m talking to you—
can you smell it?
’

‘Wh-what? Smell what?’

‘That stink of Israelite your glorious leader was talking about? Am I too close for your refined nostrils, eh?’

‘Come on, Sol—that’s enough! Let the lad be!’

‘Shut up, George! … Now then, my little Fascist friend—how would you like a nice ugly scar like that eyetie mate of yours, eh? Something to remind you of the day you got your arse whipped by a big old Jew-boy.’

‘
That’s enough, Sol!
Listen to yerself—you’re as bad as them. What’s happened to you?’

Rosen now whipped around, brandishing the blade.

‘What’s happened to me?
What’s happened to me?
That’s rich, coming from the great George Harley! Lording it up in yer big house, with yer posh mates … Christ! You’re even working for the soddin’ chief bogey!’

‘For a good reason—to solve the murder of a kid in my house.’

‘That’s what you say … but it’s just a puff, ain’t it? Makes you feel important, I expect.’

‘Yeah? Well, look at you—the great Solly the Smoke, the Yiddish Thunderbolt,
British Middleweight Champion
 … All that discipline, hard work, skill—I bet that all comes in useful when you’re out collecting for Mori, roughing up the shopkeepers, putting the frighteners on old ladies … torturing kids like this one.’

‘What d’you know about it? It puts food on the table for Marni and the kids … that’s all that matters. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you, George—tucked up in Swell Street with yer little nest egg from Uncle Blake?’ Rosen wiped a fleck of spittle from the side of his mouth. ‘You make me sick! Giving it the big ’un, with yer politics and yer man of the people schtick. The fact is you ain’t one of us anymore … only you can’t be one of them, neither, can you, George?’

Harley swallowed his anger and turned away to lean on the balcony.

‘I dunno what you’re going on about, Sol … But I do know that the Solly Rosen I used to know wouldn’t stripe a kid’s face just to prove a point.’

‘Just to prove a point? Weren’t you listening to that cowson earlier?
The stink of the Israelite?
I’m telling yer—I’ll be no grovelling ikey-mo, George, not for anyone! This is one little Jew-boy who ain’t gonna be a victim. I’ll take the fight to them—even if it kills me!’

There was a knock at the door.

Rosen looked back into the room and then immediately turned his body to hide the razor, surreptitiously dropping it over the edge of the balcony.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing anything, gentlemen,’ said DI Quigg, stepping in from the corridor with a supercilious grin. ‘Well, well, well, Mr. Harley
and
Mr. Rosen as well—what a pleasant surprise!’

‘The big one’s got a shooter!’ shouted the Blackshirt on the floor, wiping the snot from his face.

‘Has he now? Has he? … Well, well, well! That will never do, will it?’ Quigg turned to the two detectives who had followed him into the room. ‘Gentlemen, I think we may have found our would-be assassin. Sergeant Webbe—the handcuffs, if you would please.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Although it was past eleven in the morning the gas lamps of Soho remained alight, casting their paltry halos on the greasy blankets of yellow-green smog. Smog that stung the eyes of the locals trudging through streets made labyrinthine by the gloom, its acrid bite catching in the back of the throat to roughen the vowels, and deplete the spirit.

George Harley arrived at the door of Alberto’s café, his breath conjuring small whirlpools in the mist. He looked at his watch. There was still plenty of time—after all, a hick like Pearson was bound to get lost in such thick soup. He loitered for a moment outside, suffering the damp, sulphurous air. Somehow he wasn’t quite ready for the jokey banter of Alberto’s motley crew just yet.

Drawing on his cigarette he now bent to study a flyer pasted onto the café window, advertising a welterweight bout in Premierland, Whitechapel. This brought his thoughts once again to Solly. He’d spent the previous day trying to convince General Swales to grant his friend bail after he’d been charged with the attempt on Sir Pelham’s life. But the Commissioner had explained that his hands were tied for the moment, and that they’d just have to be patient and wait until the internal investigation into Quigg had reached a conclusion before they’d have a chance to prove Solly’s innocence.

His friend’s stinging accusation returned to him—
you ain’t one of us anymore … only you can’t be one of them, neither, can you?

The truth was, since Cynthia’s murder he didn’t really feel empathy with anyone anymore. It had taken all of his resources just to get back out on the street and function again. Maybe Solly was right. After all—when had he last felt he belonged anywhere? He knew that with the likes of Swales and the upper classes he always got a little chippy, forever on the lookout for an opportunity to prove his intelligence. But he was also aware that he modified his accent in such company, chose his words carefully, minded his manners—he couldn’t help himself, even though it galled him to think on it now. And with Solly and his old mates from the East End? Well, didn’t he often catch himself sounding patronizing, or enthusing about books and culture to an audience of blank faces?

Of course, with Cynthia none of this had mattered. She’d made fun of his obsession with the divisions of the British class system, as though he were an amateur entomologist expounding on the minutiae of a favoured genus of beetle. But where was she now? Where was his Cynthia? … Butchered on the orders of the psychopath Osbert Morkens … her corpse rotting in the ground … her beautiful head still missing.
Her beautiful head
…

He closed his eyes and the image of Euphemia Daubeney glimmered for a moment in his mind’s eye … then she was gone …

He was back
there
, on that night, walking to Cynthia’s bedroom … 
the peppermint stripe of her wallpaper, the creak of his weight on the floorboards … pushing open the door, the ghost of her scent in the air … pulling back the bedclothes …

No!
There was no time for the Black Dog, not now—
too much to do
.

Harley opened his eyes, momentarily disorientated by the smog which seemed to have got thicker. Its savour now ruined by the taint of brimstone he extinguished the half-smoked Gold Flake beneath his shoe and tried to think of any local dives where he might get a drink at a quarter-past-eleven—just to calm the nerves, of course. Deciding on a little drinking club off of Shaftesbury Avenue where the owner owed him a favour, Harley reached out his hand and took a tentative step into the gloom. As he moved forward something bumped into him from behind.

‘Terribly sorry! I was just … 
George?
Is that you?’

‘Blimey—Pearson!’ exclaimed Harley, trying to forget about the promise of whisky. ‘I was convinced you’d be at least an hour late.’

‘I had one of the Q cars drop me off at the corner of the street—wouldn’t have had a hope in hell of finding it myself, not in this muck.’

‘Yeah, it’s a bad one alright. It’s this cold snap. Worst for a long time—a real “London Particular”. Come on—let’s get inside, shall we?’

As they slipped into the warmth of the café Harley flipped off his hat and passed a handkerchief over the thin film of grime that had settled on his face. He offered up the contents of the handkerchief for inspection.

‘Look at that! Just imagine what that’s doing to your healthy country boy’s lungs, eh?’

‘Christ, Harley!’ exclaimed Pearson, noticing the angry bruising surrounding the private detective’s left eye. ‘What happened to you?’

Harley tentatively explored his eyebrow with his finger.

‘Courtesy of the British Brotherhood of Fascists … Mind you—you should have seen the other bloke.’

‘The rally at the Albert Hall? It’s in all the papers, you know. A proper riot by all accounts. I heard about your mate Solly—the attempt on Saint Clair’s life. Were you there?’

‘There was no attempt on Saint Clair’s life! It’s one big ghost story—a bit of smoke and mirrors to work the crowd. Good propaganda, ain’t it? You’ve no doubt seen how Rainsworth’s lot have been selling it in
The Oracle
? It’s basically all they’ve been running for the last two days … A pack of lies, mostly. Let’s get one thing straight, Pearson—they’ve got Solly on a trumped-up charge, understand?’

‘Alright—I get it! I heard you tried to get him bail … You know Quigg really wants him for the shooting, don’t you?’

‘I told you—there
was
no shooting! Solly took that gun that he had from some snotty-nosed Blackshirt who was brandishing it under his nose, threatening to pop him. That kid’s the one that should have got lumbered.’

‘Well, apparently that kid’s lucky he’s still breathing—broken jaw, bruised ribs, missing teeth.’

‘Yeah, well—that’s what you get for playing with the big boys.’

‘And what were you doing there, Harley?’

‘I was working, Pearson—following my nose … and a certain little scar-faced Italian.’

‘Girardi was there?’

‘You’d better believe it—right in the thick of it. And that big lummox he hangs around with, too. Solly tipped me the bigun’s moniker, by the way—Iron Billy Boyd.’

‘
Iron
Billy Boyd?’

‘Yeah. He’s an old prize-fighter, used to work the boxing booths at the fairs. A bit tasty by all accounts—well, you’ve seen the size of him. But at the rally there he was, up on stage, kitted out in the full uniform.’ Then Harley lowered his voice. ‘My guess is he’s in the same bodyguard unit that Joe’s managed to infiltrate.’

‘Are you certain that’s what’s going on there?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I’ve been thinking about that: those documents you found in Joe’s coat—they could just mean that your man is a bona fide member of the BBF, couldn’t they? I mean, if DI Quigg is as involved as much as you say he is, why not an SIS agent?’

‘No, I’m not having that,’ said Harley, shaking his head. ‘Joe’s a different animal altogether to Quigg. He’s one of the best field agents they have. Nah—not Joe.’

‘Well, personally, I don’t know how you can be so sure … But listen, if this Billy Boyd was up there on stage, was his chum Girardi with him, as well?’

‘No—interestingly enough our acrobatic killer kept himself out of the limelight. But you heard about the kid that fell from the balcony, right?’

Pearson nodded. ‘Nasty business. According to the paper he was caught trying to break into one of the backstage offices.’

‘Yeah, well, according to the paper my mate Solly took a pot-shot at Sir Pelham Saint Clair—and I know for sure the worst he did was throw a couple of rotten eggs. So it just goes to show what a load of old madam that is, don’t it?’

‘What was the kid up to, then?’

‘Same as the rest of us—protesting against the Blackshirts. Girardi and his cronies chased him out onto the balcony and then left him dangling there until he fell. He should be had up for manslaughter at the very least. But then my guess is our Ludovico has got some very influential friends—Lord Rainsworth amongst them.’

‘Rainsworth was there too?’

‘No, don’t be silly! After all, his Lordship’s gotta keep a respectable distance for his public image, hasn’t he? But a press baron like Rainsworth? Well, he’s gonna have the final say on what line his papers take.
The Oracle
’s love affair with Sir Pelham and the BBF is Rainsworth’s love affair with all things Fascist. Remember last year—those photographs of him and Saint Clair as guests of Mussolini at the Palazzo Venezia?’

‘No, I don’t remember that.’

‘Well, they were there, believe me … And my guess is that was just the start of the relationship between Il Duce and Sir Pelham. It’s got to be why Girardi’s over here … Oh, and by the way, at the rally our little scar-faced friend escaped by jumping from the same balcony that the kid fell from—much the same technique as the killer would have used after seeing off Aubrey at my place.’

‘Come on—that’s hardly proof, Harley.’

‘Well, I fancy him more than ever for the kid’s murder now.’

‘You may well be right, but we’re going to need some hard evidence to make it stick; especially if he’s got the kind of calibre of friends that you think he has.’

Pearson now looked around the café, its usual morning business reduced by the adverse weather to a smattering of regulars.

‘So, what are we here for? You said that you had a lead. What is it?’

Just then there was a raucous shout from the back of the room:

‘
Come on then, Georgie boy! We
’
aven’t got all day! Thought you were gonna treat us to a tightener? I’ve been on me plates all night—by rights I should have put the buff in downy yonks ago!
’

‘My God, Harley!’ whispered Pearson. ‘Who on earth is that?’

Harley turned to tip his hat to the table where Vera and Gracie sat nursing mugs of tea.

‘That, Albert, is the infamous Vera.’

‘And who exactly is Vera?’

‘Vera is our lead! Come on—I’ll introduce you.’

Ensconced in his usual booth by the window, Johnny the Turk shifted a little in his seat, so as to get a better view of the individual accompanying George Harley as he walked past to join the Soho veterans at the back of the café. The kid was fresh-faced, kind of too healthy-looking—which immediately had him marked down as an outsider. But now that Johnny could get a good look at his duds—the service-issue rod, the bogey’s ones-and-twos—it was obvious that he was CID. But not one of Quigg’s lot—certainly not one that Johnny had ever met, anyway.

The ponce leant back and chewed at his bottom lip with yellow, carious teeth. Maybe here was an opportunity to earn a little credit with Quigg? After all, everyone’s favourite DI had put it about amongst certain circles that he wanted any new info on Harley to get back to him as soon as possible.

Johnny now grabbed his empty mug and sauntered up to the counter to order another tea. He hovered there for a moment, picking nonchalantly at the dirty rinds of his fingernails, before grabbing a copy of
The Oracle
from the counter and relocating to a seat close enough to Vera’s table to be within earshot. He hunkered down, his head buried in the newspaper, and kept his ears peeled for any juicy titbits on offer.

‘Gawd blimey, George!’ said Vera, as Harley and Pearson took a seat. ‘That’s a smashing lamp that is—been upsetting someone?’

‘Occupational hazard I’m afraid, Vera—you know how it is.’

‘Rub it with a bit of cold tallow—that’s what my mum used to do with the old man’s,’ said Gracie.

‘And her own,’ chipped in Vera. ‘As I remember it there was always at least one black eye walking about in your place—like a family of them Chinese Brendas.’

‘
Pandas
.’

‘Thank you, dear! … So, who’s yer little mate then, George?’

‘This here’s Albert. Albert—meet Vera and Gracie.’

Vera straightened in her seat, thrusting her voluminous chest towards Pearson.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Pearson, a little warily.

‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ said Vera.

‘’Ere—he’s a bogey, ain’t ’e, George?’ asked Gracie, propping up her permanently disgruntled face with an arm on the table. She studied the policeman as though he were an exhibit in Madame Tussauds.

‘He is indeed,’ said Harley, grinning at Pearson.

‘Well I hope he’s tame,’ added Vera.

‘Perfectly kosher—he’s working with me on the Aubrey case.’

‘Not one of Quigg’s merry men then?’

‘No, I told yer—he’s alright, is Pearson.’

‘I doubt you could say that any of ’em are ever
really
tame,’ said Gracie, playing with some spilt sugar on the table. ‘After all, a copper’s a copper—’

‘I am here, you know!’ said Pearson, a little indignantly. ‘I can hear all this!’

‘Oooh, don’t he speak nice, Grace? What is that, ducks? That accent? West Country, ain’t it? Cornwall?’

‘Bristol … or near enough.’

‘Well, I like it, dear—makes you sound like a pirate, or summit’.’

Pearson shook his head in mock disbelief.

‘Thanks … I think.’

‘Although, of course, whether or not that’s such a good thing in your line of work is another matter. Come on then, George—are you gonna pester up for this tightener, or what?’

‘And you’ve got something worthwhile for me in return, have you?’

Vera melodramatically clutched a hand to her breast.

‘
Why!
I hope you’re not doubting the word of an old nymph of the pave, George Harley!’

‘Sodding liberty if you ask me, Veer,’ added Gracie as she rummaged through her clutch-bag. ‘’Ere, you ain’t got a smoke, George, ’ave yer?’

Harley gave a sigh and dolled out the Gold Flake.

‘Alright, ladies—what are you having?’

‘Very kind, I’m sure,’ said Vera, turning to address the counter. ‘
One myrna loy, chips and peas, Pietro!
And what’ll you have, Grace?’

‘Oh, me usual will do fine.’

‘You sure? George is paying, after all.’

‘Yes. You know me, dear—I don’t need much.’

‘Suit yourself.
And an egg banjo for Gracie!
 … You having tea, gents? … 
And four teas, quick as you like, Valentino!
’