Pulp Fiction | The Stone-Cold Dead in the Market Affair by John Oram (9 page)

A taxi dropped them in Brewer Street and they walked the rest of the way, shouldering through the bargain-hunters crowding the stalls in Berwick Street's open market, where you can buy anything from a rusty flintlock to a string of Spanish onions. The number Blodwen had given Solo turned out to be a narrow doorway sandwiched between two shops. A woman was leaning against the doorpost, smoking a Gauloise cigarette. She wore a peasant-type silk blouse that strained against massive breasts, a tight black skirt, and patent-leather shoes with heels that were more like six-inch nails. She had coarse black hair piled high and gray eyes that had seen everything.

She switched on a smile that was meant to be inviting. "You boys looking for something?"

"Just visiting," Solo said. "A friend moved in here today."

"Oh, her." She lost interest. "She's up on the second floor. If she's in."

The staircase, covered with ancient gray carpet, was steep and rickety. It had a sad, indefinable smell compounded of cheap perfume, damp and grime. The once white walls bore marks of the passing of many bodies.

On the door facing the head of the second flight a cheap printed visiting card was secured with a thumbtack. It read:
Miss Yvonne Grey. Modeling.

Solo pressed the yellowing doorbell and a two-tone chime sounded through the wood.

The girl who opened the door wore a black nylon blouse, skin-tight scarlet jeans and black stiletto-heel shoes. Her hair was tightly curled and bright red. Lashes thick with mascara fringed eyes of startling china-blue.

She smiled widely and said, "Surprise! Surprise!"

"My God!" Solo said. "What have you been doing to yourself?"

She put a finger to lips the color of over-ripe tomatoes. "Can't talk on the doorstep. Let's go in."

She led the way into a pocket-size sitting room that was overcrowded with shabby pseudo-Scandinavian furniture. The poodle cocked a beady eye from its basket near the gas fire, yapped briefly and subsided.

"A drink?" Blodwen asked.

"No, thanks. You still haven't explained the fancy dress."

"Protective coloring," she said. "If I'm going to join the soiled doves in the Gloriana, I have to look the part." She struck a Mae West pose and patted the incendiary curls. "Don't you like it?"

Illya said, "Your eyes. What happened to your eyes?"

"Contact lenses. No gal should be without them." Then more seriously she said, "There's always the chance that somebody might show up who saw me in Corwen or Newport. I had to do a complete remodeling job."

"That makes sense," Solo agreed. "Have you been around to see Anna?"

"No need. She doesn't employ regular hostesses. Any girl who's free and over twenty-one can put in an evening's stint as decoration at the bar — provided she's properly introduced. And that's been taken care of." She grinned. "I expect you met my chaperone downstairs."

"The girl with the armor-piercers?"

"The same. She has the flat below. She's one of those hard-boiled hustlers with a heart of gold., and she's taken me under her wing. I do my first stint at the Gloriana tonight."

"Well, watch it," Solo warned. "There are limits to what Alexander Waverly expects in the line of duty."

"Don't worry. I'm a long-time student of Dear Abby."

There came a faint morse-like tapping. Blodwen said, "Uh-oh!" and went to the door.

The woman in the peasant blouse came in. She looked from Solo to Illya, then back to Blodwen. She asked, "Everything okay, dear?" Her low-pitched voice had a Continental intonation.

Blodwen said, "Everything's fine, Merle. These are two old friends of mine. They just dropped in to see I was settled properly."

"That's okay, then." She switched on the smile. "Pleased to meet you."

Blodwen went to a glass-fronted cabinet, got out a bottle and poured four large gins.

Merle raised her glass in a gesture that embraced them all. "Cheers!"

They drank.

Merle said, :Excuse me for dropping in, dear. I was worried. I thought they might be fuzz."

"The Law?" Blodwen said. "These boys? That's a laugh."

"I'm glad." She didn't ask any questions.

Illya said politely, "This is a nice place you have here."

She looked around. "Not bad — but the overheads are killing." Then to Blodwen: "You better be getting ready. I thought we'd have a bite together before we go on to the club. I shake up a good ravioli — out of a can."

Blodwen poured her another gin. "Give me a couple of minutes. Talk to these guys while I'm putting on my face." She disappeared into the bedroom, the poodle at her heels.

Merle looked after her. She said, "She's a nice kid. You known her long?"

"Quite a while," Illya said. "We have a mutual uncle."

"That's nice. I didn't realize you were relatives or I wouldn't have butted in."

"We're glad you did," Solo assured her. "She can use a friend."

"Yes, she don't seem to know anybody in the Smoke — excepting you, of course."

"If it isn't a rude question, how did you come to meet her?" Illya asked.

"I was having an eye-opener in a pub by the Windmill Theater and she drifted in. She didn't seem to have a place to go, so I fixed her up. A girl can get into bad company if she ain't careful. And like I said, she's a nice kid." Her mouth twisted bitterly. "Too good for them bleeding Maltese to get their hooks in her."

"She'll be all right with you, though," Solo said.

"Sure. I'm an independent operator, you see. I don't have no truck with the rings."

Blodwen returned. She had exchanged the slacks and sweater for a green sack dress that ended four inches above her knees. The medallion swung at waist level from a long rolled-gold chain.

Merle eyed it, puzzled and astonish. She said, "Look, kid, you can't wear that thing in the Gloriana. Not if you don't want trouble."

"Why not?" Blodwen demanded. "It's pretty."

"Pretty or not, you can't wear it. I'm not asking where you got it. That's not my business. All I know is, the last time I seen it was around the neck of French Louise, and if she catches you with it there'll be bloody murder. So be a sensible kid and take it off.

"Why should I? I came by it honestly. And somebody wants to start something, I can take care of myself."

Merle shrugged. "Okay, please yourself. It's your funeral. But don't say I didn't warn you. French Louise is a bitch in spades."

She stood up. "Let's be on our way. Nice to meet you boys."

Blodwen settled the poodle in its basket with a dish of meat, then she pulled on a black nylon fur coat and ushered them to the door. They walked down to the first floor together. The girls stopped there, and Blodwen said, "Thanks for coming. Now you know where we live, drop around again."

The market had closed down and Berwick Street was practically empty. Solo and Illya walked through to Brewer Street and caught a cab to the hotel.

As the taxi threaded through the first rush of theater traffic Illya asked, "What now?"

Solo said, "The trap's baited. All we can do is wait. I've got a feeling it won't be long."

When they got up to the suite Solo went into the bathroom and pulled out a suitcase. He unlocked it, took out a black transmitter, and placed it on the bed. He unwound aerial wire, draping it carefully in loops around the walls. Then he tuned in and said, "Open channel D."

The voice of the operator in the brownstone block near the East River was distorted by static. She said, "This is a lousy line. Sunspots or something. Why didn't you bounce your call off Early Bird?"

"We'll have to get U.N.C.L.E. to put up his own satellite," Solo said. "Put me on to I.D., please."

There was a second's delay and then a male voice announced, "Identification and Records."

"Hi, Al," Solo greeted. "I want all you can get me on a woman called Anna, surname unknown. She runs a club called Gloriana in Newport Street, London. She is Oriental, probably Chinese but could be Indonesian, about thirty years old, height not more than five feet, weight around ninety-eight pounds, no visible distinguishing marks. Antecedents unknown, but rumored to have come to London from Cardiff. No criminal record, as far as I can trace."

"You say the sweetest things." Al sounded bitter. "All of a sudden I'm a magician? Why don't you try Scotland Yard? The West End squad must know her, even if she's clean."

"I don't want to bring the Yard into it at this stage."

"Okay. I'll do what I can. When do you want the dope?"

Solo said, "Yesterday," and tuned out hurriedly.

He rewound the aerial, packed the set back in the suitcase and went into the living room. He told Illya, "Ring room service and ask them to send dinner up here. I'll call Al back in a couple of hours and see if he's managed to produce."

"Anna?"

"Who else?"

It was ten-thirty when the phone rang.

Solo put down the paperback he was reading and picked up the receiver.

Blodwen's voice said perkily, "Napoleon? Can you do me a teeny-weeny little favor?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the Bow Street Police Station. Be a darling and come and bail me out."

The desk sergeant was a middle-aged man with a deeply tanned face that looked like old leather. There was a Burma Star in the row of ribbons above the pocket of his tunic. He said, "Yvonne Grey? I don't know why she had to drag you out of bed. She could have bailed herself out if she'd wanted to. We weren't anxious to keep her."

"I suppose she had her reasons," Solo said. "What is she booked for?"

"Disorderly conduct. She was having a bit of a fight with another woman in Newport Street. We picked them both up."

"Where is she now?"

"In the cells. Sleeping it off, I hope." He signaled to a young constable. "Bring Mitchell up."

He opened a drawer and took out an orange form. "You sign this. Better read it first. If she fails to surrender to her bail, it'll cost you ten quid."

"She'll show up," Solo signed along the dotted line.

The young policeman reappeared with Blodwen beside him. Her red curls were tousled, the front of her dress was torn, and there was an angry furrow where fingernails had ripped down her cheek, but she seemed in high spirits.

She said, "Thanks for coming to the rescue. Have you completed the formalities?"

The sergeant put her handbag on the counter and gave her a form. "Check the contents and sign for them," he told her. "And remember, you've got to be back here in court at ten sharp tomorrow."

"On the dot," she promised. "And thanks for your hospitality."

They went out into the street. Solo hailed a taxi and gave the cabbie the Berwick Street address.

"Now," he said, when they were back in Blodwen's apartment, "perhaps you'll explain what you've been up to."

She went to the cabinet and poured drinks. "We're making progress," she said. "You were right about the medallion. It was a sensation. That's how I ended up in jail."

She handed Solo his glass, took her own and settled herself comfortably on the settee with the poodle in her lap.

"We got to the Gloriana around eight o'clock," she began. "The place was half-empty then. Just a couple of girls at the bar and a few customers at the tables. Dancer drifted over after a while and had a few words with Merle. If he recognized the medallion he didn't show it. He had a quick drink and then got on with his job. Apart from saying good-evening he didn't give me a tumble. Like I told you, the girls drift in and out and no questions asked.

"Anna only showed up once. She came into the room, looked around to see that everything was going smoothly and then went away again, presumably back to her office.

"The fun didn't start until half-past nine. That's when French Louse arrived. She was obviously as high as a kite, and once she got her beady eyes on the medallion she was fit to be tied. I'll skip the details, but her main complaint seemed to be that I had pinched her boyfriend, a character called Scalesi. She kept pushing his photograph under my nose and yelling at me in gutter French. And all the time she kept trying to grab the medallion.

"Merle tried to calm her down but it was like trying to plug a volcano with a medicine cork. In the end Dancer gave us both the old heave-ho out on to the cold hard sidewalk, and it was there the battle started. The boys in blue broke it up and the next thing you know, we're in the Black Maria and on the way to Bow Street."

She finished her drink and went to the cabinet for another. "I sent for you," she explained, "because I hoped you'd be in time to get a look at French Louise before they took us down to the cells. But that sergeant was to efficient. Now you'll have to wait until the morning when we come up before the judge." She raised her glass. "Here's to crime!"

"You've done a good job," Solo said. He stood up. "Now I'd better get out of here before I ruin your reputation."

"You must be joking," she retorted. "In this house you'd do it more good if you stayed the night."

He shook his head sadly. "You're showing a dedication to your work," he said, "that is beginning to disturb me."

"That's what Stanislavsky does for a gal. It's the Method."

"Well, don't get carried away. I'll see you in court in the morning."

Illya was waiting up in the hotel suite. He said, "New York came through with a message from I.D. They've checked on Anna. Her description ties up with an enterprising young woman called Anna Soo Lee, born 1934 in Shanghai. Soo Lee's father was a minor war lord. He joined up with Chiang Kai-shek and went to Formosa in 1949. For some reason Anna didn't go with him. She showed up briefly as a dancer in Singapore and in Sydney, Australia, and was next reported as the girlfriend of a polo-playing maharajah, complete with white Mercedes and all the trimmings. Something broke that up, but she came out of it with quite a stake. She arrived in Britain by air in 1960 and for some reason only known to herself settled down in Bute Town, Cardiff — the old 'Tiger Bay.' For the record, incidentally, Bute Town these days is as respectable as Poughkeepsie and a model of racial integration. The rough stuff went out with hobble skirts."