Mask of the Verdoy (32 page)

Behind the counter Pietro gave a sniff of acknowledgment, drew on his ubiquitous cigarette, scratched for a few seconds at his overhanging gut and then—having completed this sacred ritual—closed his copy of the
Racing Times
and stood up to prepare the breakfasts.

‘So, come on then, Vera—what have you got for me?’

‘Well, as you know, George, our usual pitch is on the Dilly, towards the Circus end. But last night the place was rotten with bogeys. Apparently there’s been a shootfly working the swanky joints in the area.’

‘Shootfly?’ asked Pearson.

‘A bag-snatcher, dear. Don’t you have ’em in Bristol?’

‘Yes, but we call them bag-snatchers.’

Vera gave Pearson an old-fashioned look and then continued.

‘Anyway, some toff has obviously been raising Cain with the powers that be, with the result that last night the bogeys decide to have a little crackdown in the Dilly.’

‘Meaning you can’t work your usual pitch,’ said Harley.

‘Physically moved on, dear.’

‘Twice!’ added Gracie.

‘So, not wanting to upset the other girls with pitches close to ours—’

‘Or more to the point, their joe ronces,’ added Gracie.

‘Thank you, dear. Yes—not wanting to upset their boys—we decided to venture north, to the other side of Oxford Street. You know—Saint Giles way … Now, there’s a couple of mott shops up there, and one or two privateers, but for the most part all the street business is conducted by the Green Fox mob—and they’re obviously catering for a completely different market. So we thought we might be in with a chance of picking up a little business. Well … About ten o’clock this smog begins to gather, don’t it. Pretty soon you can hardly see yer hand in front of yer face—a blind man could see there was ixnay happening on the pave after that. So me and Grace decide to drop into the Green Fox for a quick wet, and see if we can’t pick up a little trade in there at the same time. Anyway, we goes upstairs and of course there’s the old Queen Bee himself.’

‘Gilby Siddons,’ added Gracie.

‘Thank you dear. Yes—Gilby Siddons … all lit up and on the tap for the next glass of gin. But when he takes a butcher’s at the two of us propping up the bar he gets all excited-like. Staggers over and asks how he can get hold of George Harley, on account of he’s got something important to tell him.’

‘But I gave him one of my cards,’ said Pearson. ‘Why didn’t he telephone me?’

‘Was it a factory number, dear?’

‘Hmm?’

‘The police station—was the telephone number for the police station?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Well, there you go then—the likes of Gilby Siddons is hardly gonna get on the blower to the copper-factory now, is he?’

‘He’s a queanie, ducks,’ said Gracie, by way of explanation. ‘They get awful milky around your lot—and for good reason, an’ all.’

‘Never mind all that,’ said Harley, impatiently. ‘Come on, Vera—what did he have to tell me?’

Vera leant back in her seat.

‘Oh—I don’t know that, dear.’

‘
What?
Is that it? I thought you said you had—’

Vera leant forward to interrupt Harley.

‘I don’t know
what
Gilby has to tell yer, George … but then I don’t need to know, do I? Seeing as he’ll be along here to tell you himself in a little while.’

‘Really? Well done! What time’s he showing up?’

‘Well, I told him about half-eleven, George. But my guess is Gilby ain’t seen this side of three o’clock in the afternoon for a decade or so.’

‘Well,’ said Harley, ‘just as long as he shows.’

‘Do you think he’s tracked down the other boy—Aubrey’s associate?’ asked Pearson.

‘What, Harper? Well, let’s hope so, Albert. We could do with a bit of daylight in this case.’

‘Who’s Harper, when he’s at home?’ asked Vera.

‘Never-you-mind about that! Here’s your grub now, anyway.’

A sprinkling of cigarette ash on the table announced Pietro’s arrival with the breakfasts. He presented the plates with his usual panache and Vera immediately set upon her food with gusto, leaving Gracie to peer unenthusiastically under the lid of her fried egg roll.

‘Alright,’ said Pearson, putting away his notebook again. ‘I know I’m probably going to regret asking this, but, well … I get the
Myrna Loy - saveloy
bit—that’s your rhyming slang, isn’t it? But why do you call that an egg banjo?’

‘Well, ducks,’ said Gracie, picking up the roll and regarding it with a serious face. ‘If you’re not careful, when you bite into one of these buggers you get the yolk all down your clobber.’

She took a bite, held the roll out to one side with her left hand, and with her right mimed brushing away the imaginary offending yolk.

Chewing on a mouthful of chips Vera now placed her knife and fork back down on the table and mimicked Gracie in her actions, so that the two of them looked like they were strumming away on invisible instruments.

‘Egg banjo!’ they said, in unison, before descending into a fit of cackling laughter.

Ignoring Harley’s smirk, Pearson shook his head slowly and picked up his tea.

‘I knew I’d regret asking.’

Just then the door of the café opened and a figure materialized from the murky street. Even though the face was obscured by a voluminous woollen scarf, Harley was in no doubt as to the identity of the newcomer; after all—how many people in London owned a bright green Fedora?

‘
Cooee, Gilby!
Over ’ere, ducks!’

Vera’s exuberant greeting left Pearson wiping small flecks of saveloy from his face as Siddons shuffled painfully over to their table. He slumped down into the chair that Harley had dragged across for him and, with a shaking hand, began to slowly unwrap the scarf. The unveiled countenance put Harley in mind of a particularly horrific death mask in Uncle Blake’s collection.

‘Oh my gawd, dear! You do look awful!’ cried Vera.

Siddons’ attempt to respond to the observation degenerated quickly into a bout of violent coughing.

‘Would you like some water?’ asked Pearson, trying to catch the eye of Pietro who was once again engrossed in his
Racing Times
.

‘It ain’t
water
he needs,’ said Vera, rummaging around in her handbag and producing her hip flask. ‘I doubt whether this one’s touched that particular beverage for years, dear. There you go, Gilby—get yer laughing gear round that!’

The old thespian placed the mouth of Vera’s flask to his trembling lips and took a long, greedy pull on the gin.

The transformation was almost instantaneous. With colour returning to his haggard cheeks Siddons opened his rheumy eyes, took one more gulp of the spirit and then handed the flask back to Vera with a slow, gracious bow of his head.

‘You are a dorcas, dear,’ he rasped. ‘But to complete the resurrection I think we require a cigarette.’

‘Don’t push it, Gilby!’ said Vera, returning her attention to the half-eaten saveloy. ‘After all,
I
ain’t yer benefactor here … George?’

The private detective lit a Gold Flake and placed it between Siddons’ lips where it was sucked on greedily. Having consumed a third of the tobacco within three long drags Siddons now sat back in his seat and drew his long-nailed fingers across his brow.

‘There … between the fogus and the gin we seem to have achieved an adequate level of restoration. Good morning, George—Detective Constable …’

‘Pearson.’

‘Ah yes, quite so.’

‘You want a cuppa, Gilby?’ asked Harley.

‘That would be bona, dear. Oooh that’s a nasty shiner—I trust you gave as good as you got?’

‘Something like that, Gilby. You want something to eat?’

Siddons pushed the back of his hand to his forehead and pulled a face.

‘
Jarry? At this ungodly hour?
Alas! I haven’t the constitution anymore, my boy—my constitution has developed certain idiosyncrasies … but perhaps another taste of the anny, Vera, dear?’

‘On yer bike, Gilby! Emergency rations only.’

Harley sat forward and placed his hands on the table.

‘If you let me know what you have for me, Gilby, well—I’m sure we can come to an arrangement about the gin.’

Siddons looked momentarily perplexed.

‘What I
have
for you? I … 
Oh my god!
What a dizzy old
borarco
I am! What time is it?’

‘Just gone twelve.’

‘It’s Harper, George—he’s scarpering, quitting The Smoke.’

At the second mention of this name Johnny the Turk leant further across his table, desperate now to pick up every word.

‘He’s had enough of watching his back all the time,’ continued Siddons. ‘He’s convinced he’ll end up like Aubrey—the poor little chicken. He came to see me the other night, you see, at The Fox. I told him about our little chat, how you were on the case … Well, to get to the point, he’s willing to give you what they sharpered that night, from
you-know-who
.’

Both Vera and Gracie stopped chewing for a moment and gave each other a curious look.

‘Really? When? Where?’ asked Harley.

‘Well, that’s the thing—it’s a matter of some urgency, I’m afraid, dear. You see, Harper will be on a train leaving Paddington at one-thirty this afternoon. He’ll have the stuff with him at the station—but you mustn’t be late! He won’t wait, I’m sure of that.’

‘One-thirty?’ said Pearson, consulting his watch. ‘We’ve got time, haven’t we? If we leave now?’

‘Probably, Albert. An hour-and-a-half, even in this pea souper … should be alright. But the thing is, we don’t know what he looks like, do we? Paddington’s a busy place.’

‘Maybe, Mr. Siddons, you could come along to identify the lad?’ asked Pearson.

‘Ooh, I think not, dear! It’s a little too rich for my blood, I’m afraid. A little too close to the action—if you get my point … Besides, this old bag of bones—I’d only slow you down.’

‘Can you describe Harper to us, Gilby?’ asked Harley, already standing up and doing up his coat.

‘Let me see … he’s about Mr. Pearson’s height … hair strawberry blond … blue yews … that’s about it, really.’

‘There might be a mugshot at the station,’ said Pearson. ‘He’s probably got form, given that he’s a—’ The policeman became aware of the intense scrutiny of Vera and Gracie. ‘Given his particular line of work.’

‘It’s a good idea, Albert—but I don’t think we’ve got the time. Besides, I don’t wanna risk that cowson Quigg getting wind of this. Where’s he heading to, Gilby?’

‘Swindon—got family there, apparently.’

‘Poor bugger!’ said Gracie, mopping up a few spots of egg yolk with the remnants of her roll.

‘Right—thanks a bundle, Gilby! You’ve been a great help. If Harper delivers the goods … well, it might just be the break we’ve been waiting for. Come on then, Albert, we’ll be on our toes.’

Siddons placed a hand on Harley’s sleeve with a concerned look on his face.

‘Dear boy! At the risk of sounding mercenary … well, there’s the matter of the gelt?’

‘Sorry, Gilby,’ said Harley, pulling out his wallet. ‘It completely slipped my mind in all the excitement.’

He folded a couple of notes and handed them to the old actor.

‘That’s bona, dear.’

Vera laid down her knife and fork and coughed ostentatiously.

Harley looked at the Soho veteran, gave a sigh and dolled out some coins to both her and Gracie.

‘Heart of gold,’ she said, pocketing her share.

‘Generous to a fault,’ agreed Gracie, unenthusiastically.

Harley settled up with Pietro and then patted Pearson on the back.

‘Right—come on, Albert, we’ve got a date at Paddington station.’

As they walked to the door Siddons turned to address them with a hand held melodramatically before him.

‘“
And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword sit laurel victory … and smooth success be strewed before your feet!”
’ he quoted, before succumbing once again to a fit of debilitating coughing.

***

Ten minutes later, as Harley and Pearson were escaping the sulphurous London air by descending the underground steps to the Bakerloo line, Johnny the Turk was slipping quietly into the lobby of the Café Royal in Regent Street. Within seconds he was joined by a nervous-looking waiter, busy tying the straps of his crisply-starched apron.

‘Bloody ’ell, Johnny! What you doing ’ere at this time of day? Old Blanco will go mad if he catches sight of yer!’

‘It was a different story last night, weren’t it?’ said Johnny, in his oily whisper. ‘When he wanted those two punters serviced. What were they anyway, eyeties?’

‘Spanish—there was a crowd in from the embassy.’

‘Yeah well, dirty buggers by all accounts—should ’ave heard what they wanted the girls to get up to—’

‘
Shush!
Pipe down, won’t yer! … What is it yer after, anyway?’

‘I need to use the blower—got an important call to make.’

The waiter bit his thumb as he eyed his superior across a sea of pristine table linen and gleaming glassware.

‘Come on then—you can use the one out back. But you need to be quick, mind!’

In the small back office Johnny took out his address book, removed the ear-piece from the candlestick telephone and requested the number from the surly exchange girl. After a series of clicks and buzzes he was finally put though.

‘Mr. Quigg? It’s Johnny … No, no, Johnny Mendel … 
Johnny the Turk
 … Yeah, yeah, that’s right. Listen, Mr. Quigg, I heard through the grapevine that you were putting the feelers out for a little queanie by the name of Harper … Yeah, yeah, Harper. Well, I reckon I know where he is … or, at least, I know where he’s gonna be at half-one today.’

***

Although the main concourse at Paddington was relatively free of the smog, it could be seen hanging beyond the spread of platforms in a dirty curtain through which the roaring engines plunged, coughing and spluttering, out of the yellow gloom.

Rush-hour had long passed, but the station was still relatively busy, and Harley and Pearson were finding it difficult to scrutinize every traveller that passed them at the small tea stand on the way to the platforms.

‘What about that one over there?’ said Pearson, taking a sip of tea from the chipped mug.