Mask of the Verdoy (52 page)

Swales turned to Fellowes. ‘Is High Treason still available to us, Constantine?’

‘I would suggest not, Sir Frederic, not in this particular case. Nor Treason Felony … perhaps a simple Accessory to Murder?’

‘That will do for starters, I suppose. Put him in one of the Q cars and get him away to the Yard.’

‘You’re wasting your time, you know—I shall be out within the hour. The Lord Chancellor is a personal friend of mine.’

‘That’s as may be, Sir Pelham,’ said Ramsay MacDonald, looking sternly at the baronet, his thumbs hooked into the armholes of his waistcoat. ‘But as a member of the Cabinet the Lord Chancellor answers to me!’ He turned to Swales. ‘In my opinion, General, there can be no doubt that Sir Pelham is implicated in this sorry affair to some degree. You’ll have my full backing in using all the resources necessary to discover just how far that involvement goes. Take him away Mr. Fellowes!’

‘Yes, Prime Minister … If you would, Sir Pelham?’ said Fellowes, ushering Saint Clair towards the door.

‘Keep your filthy hands to yourself, Jew-boy!’ spat Saint Clair, vehemently, finally letting the mask slip to reveal his anger and frustration.

He strode out of the door with his head held high—and Fellowes’ service revolver pushed firmly into the small of his back.

‘What was all that, FW?’ asked Harley, flicking a Gold Flake out of the packet. ‘Fellowes isn’t Jewish, is he?’

‘Actually, now you come to mention it, I believe he is—on his mother’s side, I think.’

‘So that’s what he meant about having a personal interest in this one. But how would Saint Clair have known that?’

‘Sir Pelham is a very resourceful individual, Mr. Harley,’ said Ramsay MacDonald, distributing the last of the sherry into three glasses and passing them round. ‘I’m afraid we have all made a rather serious enemy this evening … However, if it wasn’t for your quick thinking and decisive action I fear I would no longer have the
wherewithal to recall my own name, let alone worry about making enemies of baronets. So—here’s to your good health, Mr. Harley! I am forever in your debt,’

‘
Hear! Hear!
’ said Swales. ‘Well said, Prime Minister … Although, you know George, you had me going there for a while. I was convinced that we’d got it wrong. Tell me something—how did you know what those little cachous really were?’

‘Hmm?’ murmured Harley, obviously distracted by something.

‘The antidote tablets, George—how did you identify them?’

‘Oh, it was the little enamelled box they were in—on the lid was the image of a saint holding the baby Jesus and a lily—St Anthony. I recognized it from the stained glass window in the Chantry Hall chapel. It was too much of a coincidence—St Anthony’s fire, and all that … and she’s too bright to have risked getting those cakes mixed up without some kind of a safety net. Although it didn’t help her much in the end, did it?’

‘Well, it may sound harsh but I’m afraid I have little sympathy for Lady Euphemia. After all, if you will play with fire … And who knows? You may have been quick enough with that antidote, George—she may recover from any long-lasting effect. Anyway, the most important thing is that you did it, old chap! You beat the Verdoy—you stopped the Correction! It’s just a matter now of acting on the intelligence we’ve gathered, rounding up the suspects … Of course, because of the seniority of some of those involved we will need to tread carefully, make sure we have a cast iron case, but I’m sure that … George? What the devil is it, man?’

‘That wasn’t it!’

‘What are you talking about? What wasn’t what?’

‘The attempt to poison the PM,’ said Harley, busying himself with his hat and coat, ‘that wasn’t the event to start the Correction … well, not the only thing, anyway.’

‘Slow down, George! What
are
you talking about?’

‘Listen—the Verdoy did want the Prime Minister incapacitated, but not so they could just usher Saint Clair into power. After all, that would mean that they’d still have to go through the traditional route of getting the BBF voted in. No, they wanted to create a vacuum at the top to coincide with some devastating event; something so catastrophic that it would tear the country apart, leave the people reeling and dazed, and looking for a strong hand to lead them through their hour of need.
That’s
when Sir Pelham and his BBF bully boys stand up for the job.’

‘And exactly what is this devastating event to be, Mr. Harley?’ asked the Prime Minister, some of the colour having drained from his face.

‘It was there, in Lady Euphemia’s ramblings—she might as well have spelt it out for us, word for word. She gave the whole bloody thing away. Saint Clair must have been fuming inside.’

‘Well, George, I for one don’t remember any such revelation,’ said the General. ‘Are you absolutely positive?’

‘One hundred per cent. Don’t you remember? “
We’ll break off that golden bough and start afresh”
, she said. “
With Pendragon gone we’ll build our new Camelot
…”’

‘But I just assumed she was talking about getting rid of the Prime Minister.’

‘No, no, no … Uther Pendragon was King Arthur’s father, right? And the Golden Bough, well, it’s a story from the
Aeneid
, but it’s also a book, a study of magic and religion. Pembroke would definitely have been aware of it, ’coz his old man mentions it in the book he wrote about medieval ergotism. In the
Golden Bough
Frazer explores legends and rituals of rebirth, many of which have one thing in common.’

‘And that is?’

‘
Regicide
.’

‘Good grief!’ said Ramsay MacDonald.

‘Where’s the King tonight, FW?’

‘His Highness is at the London Palladium,’ said the General, now grabbing his own hat and coat, ‘commanding the Royal Variety Performance.’

‘Then, gentlemen,’ said Harley, with his hand on the door knob, ‘unless we can stop them, the King will be assassinated in the theatre tonight by a bomb, attributed in some way to the Wild Cat International Anarchists’ Brigade, leaving the Prince of Wales to ascend to the throne—a man who’s made little effort to hide his respect and admiration for Sir Pelham Saint Clair and his British Brotherhood of Fascists.’

‘God’s teeth!’ exclaimed the General, rushing to follow Harley out into a Belgrave Square which had become cloaked in a gathering shroud of fog.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

With Pearson holding on for dear life on the pillion seat, and Solly Rosen squeezed tightly into the sidecar, Harley slewed the Norton around the sharp left. They roared into Ramillies Street, drawing up with a screech of rubber on the wet cobbles reflecting the flashing neon of the London Palladium theatre. The motorbike’s arrival scattered the small crowd of journalists and photographers who were huddled together in the damp night, smoking and drinking from flasks whilst they waited for the end of the Royal performance.

‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed one skinny individual sporting a large camera and flash gun, furiously wiping his tea-drenched hands on his Mackintosh. ‘You’ll kill someone driving like that, you idiot!’

‘Sorry, Ronnie!’ said Harley, jumping off the Norton and helping Rosen to squeeze his large frame out of the sidecar. ‘Only, we’re in a bit of a rush, see.’

‘Cor, blimey—George Harley! I might’ve known … ’Ere, hold on! What’s occurring then? Anything juicy we should know about?’

‘Well, boys,’ said Harley, throwing his goggles and leather helmet into the sidecar and patting his jacket to check that the Luger was still in place. ‘I reckon if you stick around long enough, one way or another, you’re gonna ’ave a scoop to make your hair curl.’

‘How about elaborating on that a little?’

‘No comment!’ said Harley pushing past the hacks towards the entrance of The Palladium, closely followed by his companions.

***

The large foyer was almost empty, the muffled sounds of audience laughter and applause filtering down from the auditorium.

‘Where do we start then, George?’ asked Rosen.

‘God knows! The bomb could be anywhere.’

‘Shouldn’t we wait until the General gets here?’ asked Pearson.

‘I’m not sure we’ve got the time, Albert.’

Pearson consulted his watch. ‘How much longer do you think the show goes on for?’

‘I dunno; hold on …’

Harley approached two men leaning against the wall smoking, who looked like they might be stagehands.

‘Excuse me, fellas—how much longer we got to the final curtain?’

‘’Bout twenty five minutes I’d say, guv’. But if it’s autographs yer after, you’d be better off—’

‘
Smith … O’Toole!
’ Shouted an officious-looking individual in a tuxedo, striding purposefully across the foyer. ‘What the devil are you two doing front-of-house when there’s a performance on?’

‘We’re ’aving an oily, Skip.’

‘You’re having a
what
, Smith? Speak English, man!’

‘We’re having a smoke, Mr. Potterton,’ answered O’Toole, the taller of the two.

‘But Valentine Medini is on, isn’t he? If you two are out here, who in heaven’s name is doing the rigging?’

‘If you’ll remember, sir, Medini insisted on having his own rigger for this performance—last minute instruction.’

On hearing this Harley signalled for Pearson and Rosen to join them.

‘The old Magic Circle, I expect,’ continued the stockier Smith, inspecting the end of his cigarette. ‘Secretive bunch, ain’t they? He’s trotting out this new trick tonight … he probably don’t want us to see what’s inside that cage he’s got dangling above the stalls.’

‘That’s as may be,’ said the manager, ‘but you simply cannot be seen loitering about out here in your—’

‘Excuse me,’ interrupted Harley. ‘Albert—introduce us.’

‘Scotland Yard,’ said Pearson, flashing his warrant card. ‘We just need to ask you a few questions.’

Harley noted a surprised look exchanged between the two stagehands.

‘
Lummie!
’ muttered Smith, under his breath.

‘Listen, lads,’ said Harley, reassuringly, ‘there’s nothing to worry about. I just want you to tell me about this Medini—he’s the magician, right?’

‘Valentine Medini is one of the world’s foremost stage
illusionists
,’ answered Potterton the manager. He gestured towards a large poster depicting the conjuror’s saturnine features below a bejewelled turban. ‘He will be honouring us this evening—indeed in a few minutes’ time—by presenting the debut of a brand new stage illusion to their Majesties.’

‘Their Majesties?’ repeated Harley. ‘Queen Mary’s here as well?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Oh, that’s just dandy!’ said the private detective, raising his eyebrows at Pearson. ‘So, quickly fellas—tell us about this rigger that Medini’s brought along. You said it was a last minute decision—is that an unusual thing to happen?’

‘Never known it before,’ said O’Toole.

‘And if you ask me,’ added Smith, ‘the kid he’s got don’t know what he’s doing. He don’t look like he’s been out of short trousers more than a week or two. Right pound-noteish he is, an’ all, real plummy accent—you know the type. Don’t look cut out for it. Still, that eyetie seems to rate ’im—said he could ’andle everything that was needed for the act single-handed.’

‘Eyetie? What eyetie?’ asked Rosen, taking a step closer. ‘Not a little bloke, big scar across his mooey, moves like an alley cat?’

‘That’s the mush—spot-on,’ said Smith. ‘We thought he was Medini’s manager at first, but he’s down there on stage with ’im right now, part of the act. All blacked up to look like a slave.’

‘Come on, George!’ said Rosen. ‘What are we waiting for? I’ve got unfinished business with little Ludovico, remember?’

‘Hold on, Sol—easy does it! … Tell me, fellas—did Medini bring anyone else with him? A big lumbering cove in a billycock hat, for instance?’

‘Cor! That one?’ said Smith, giving a little whistle. ‘Built like a brick shithouse, he is … ’scuse my French, Skip.’

‘He’s in the wings,’ said O’Toole. ‘Shadowing the sparks on the lighting board.’

Harley gave a quick nod to Pearson and then turned to Potterton.

‘Listen carefully. Any minute now we’re expecting the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police to show up, hopefully with a mob of coppers in tow. You need to stay here until he arrives and tell him that Harley says that the action will take place on stage, and that the bomb is somehow linked to the magician’s act—you got that?’

‘What? … Did you say
bomb?
’ exclaimed Potterton.

‘Hopefully this will focus your attention,’ said Harley, pulling out his Luger. ‘See this? What is it?’

‘It’s … it’s a gun!’

‘Exactly, well done. Now … Mr.?’

‘Potterton.’

‘Now, Mr. Potterton, believe me, I don’t like guns. But you know what? They’re preferable to bombs. You see bombs can kill an awful lot of people altogether at the same time—say, a theatre audience, for example, with a king and queen thrown in for good measure. Are you seeing where this is going, at all?’

Potterton swallowed and nodded.

‘Good. So when General Sir Frederic Swales arrives you will pass on the message that the action will? …’

‘Will … will take place on stage, and that … Harris?’

‘
Harley
.’

‘And that Harley says the bomb is somehow linked to Medini’s act.’

‘
Excellent!
Word perfect! And while you’re waiting for him to turn up—as well as rehearsing your lines—you can work out the quickest and safest way to evacuate your audience en masse. Got it? Splendid!’ Harley turned once more to the stagehands. ‘Right, chaps—can you take us somewhere where we can get a good butcher’s at the stage? From a fair distance at first—we don’t wanna spook the Italian just yet.’

Taking the plush carpeted stairs two at a time, the stagehands now led Harley, Pearson and Rosen up to the Royal Circle where they pushed their way quietly through the doors into the darkened auditorium.

‘There he is,’ whispered Smith to Harley, pointing down at the stage. ‘Standing on the left there … Like I said, ’e’s all blacked up at the moment, but that’s the bloke your pal described, I swear it is.’

Even in his elaborate Persian costume, and with his face caked in stage make-up, there was something in the way that the magician’s assistant held himself that left Harley in no doubt that he was looking at Ludovico Girardi. But just to make sure he fished out his miniature telescope from his field kit and focussed it onto the stage.

‘What do you reckon?’ he said, passing the eyeglass to Rosen.

‘Yeah—that’s our little Italian friend, alright.’

‘Here, hold on, Sol! Give me that back a minute,’ said Harley, taking the telescope and pointing it above the crowd. ‘
Jesus H Christ!
’ he exclaimed, causing a number of disgruntled punters to tut at him from the back rows. He held a hand up in apology and took a step closer to Pearson.

‘I think I’ve just found our bomb, Albert,’ he whispered, handing the telescope to the policeman. ‘There—in that golden cage contraption hanging from the ceiling.’

‘Where?’ said Albert, studying the gilded metal cage suspended from a chain above the audience. ‘I can’t see anything that looks like dynamite.’

‘There—in the right-hand corner,’ said Harley, able to talk a little louder now as the orchestra struck up Saint-Saëns’
Danse Macabre
. ‘Looks to me like a wooden dynamite box—saw plenty of them out in France. If it’s full there’ll be around fifty sticks in there, I shouldn’t wonder. That’s a mighty big bang, my friend. And look where it’s hanging—directly in line with the Royal box.’

‘My God! I think you’re right, Harley! And there’s a wire running to it, twisted around the chain … But Girardi’s down on stage; if they blow that, won’t he go up with it?’

‘It’s gotta be on some kind of a timer. I guess they wouldn’t need long to scarper out of the stage door … and if Boyd’s working the lighting board then that’s where the trigger’s gonna come from.’

Struck by a sudden wave of exhaustion, Harley retrieved his field kit from his pocket. ‘Jesus! I wish I’d had more sleep,’ he said, stowing away the telescope and fishing out a small tube of tablets. He tore open the paper seal and crunched one between his teeth.

‘What’s that?’ asked Pearson.

‘Benzedrine—for what I’ve got in mind I’m gonna need all my wits about me. Don’t look so worried, Albert, they’re standard SIS issue.’

He made for the exit again and signalled for the others to follow him. They regrouped outside in the corridor. Harley glanced down at the foyer—but there was still no sign of the backup.

‘Gentlemen … In the on-going absence of the cavalry, I’m afraid matters have been left in our hands. As I see it, the situation calls for a three-pronged attack. I’ve gotta be honest with you though, I don’t fancy our chances much.’

‘Yeah, well, if we just stand about with our thumbs stuck up our arses, we’re all gonna be blown to kingdom come anyway, ain’t we? Better to die trying, I say.’

‘That’s the spirit, Smokey—ever the optimist. What about you, Albert? You in?’

‘Can’t see as I’ve got much choice, George—for King and country, and all that. It’s a question of duty as far as I can see … chance for me to do my bit, right?’

Harley gave the young man a reassuring smile.

‘If you wanna see it that way, Albert, then, yeah—that’s exactly how it is ….’ He put a hand on Pearson’s shoulder. ‘And let me just say, mate—it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.’ He turned to the stagehands. ‘Alright, you two … What are your names, by the way?’

‘Smith …’

‘… and O’Toole.’

‘Sounds like a double act.’

‘You ain’t the first to say it,’ said Smith, with a mischievous grin at his partner.

‘And you’re both riggers here, right?’

‘Best in the West End, guv’.’

‘Glad to hear it. So, O’Toole—you show Albert and Solly here the quickest way to get to the wings. Albert, you’ve drawn Girardi in this little tombola of fate—’

‘Hold yer ’orses, George!’ said Rosen. ‘The Italian’s mine—remember?’

‘I’d love nothing better than to let you loose on little Ludovico, Sol—but you’re the only one amongst us that’s got a chance of decking that brute Boyd. I reckon he’s got his finger on the trigger as far as that bomb’s concerned—and I reckon you’re the man to stop him.’

‘Alright … makes sense, I suppose,’ said Rosen, flexing his shoulders and cracking his knuckles. ‘But once I’m done with that big asterbar I want a crack at Girardi.’

‘If there’s anything left of him after Albert’s worked his magic, he’s all yours … Smith—you’re gonna show me how to get up to that cage, so I can have a go at cutting that trigger cable … but I guess first I’ve got to make it past that bogus rigger they’ve brought along. He’ll be up there as well, right?’

‘I can get you up to the catwalk, no problem. And I don’t reckon you’ll have much trouble with that snotty-nosed kid—it looks like you’ve been around the block a few times to me … But tell me one thing, pal—how’s your head for heights?’

‘Not too bad. I was in the merchant navy for a bit—’

‘Oh Jesus!’ said Rosen, with a groan. ‘Listen, George—if you’re gonna start telling those old navy stories I’ll do us all a favour and push that sodding trigger meself!’

‘Yeah, very funny! … Hold on a moment! D’you hear that?’

‘I can’t hear anything above that bleedin’ band.’

Harley moved towards the stairs leading up from the foyer and listened.

‘
Bells
 … Yes, there we are—
Q cars!
The cavalry’s on the way, boys! You know what? We might survive this after all … Right, come on then—let’s crack on! I’ll buy you all a pint if we manage to pull this one off.’

‘
Abyssinia
!’ called out Rosen, following O’Toole and Pearson down the corridor. ‘Oh, and remember now, George …’

‘What’s that?’

‘
God save the King!
’

With a guffaw of laughter from the ex-boxer the three of them disappeared back down the stairs towards the foyer.

‘Right!’ said Harley, turning to Smith. ‘Lead on MacDuff!’

‘’Course, you know that should be ‘
lay
on MacDuff’, don’t yer?’ said the stagehand as he set off, leading Harley up to the top of the house.

‘I stand corrected.’

‘And,’ continued Smith, pushing through a door and climbing a narrow flight of stairs, ‘if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you didn’t mention the Scottish play.’ He stopped at a small hatch set in the wall.
‘I reckon we could do without any bad luck just at the moment … Right, there we are, guv’—the catwalk.’