Pulp Fiction | The Stone-Cold Dead in the Market Affair by John Oram (11 page)

"We'll join you," Illya said. "For dinner, of course."

They had reached the coffee stage when Solly Gold approached their table with a companion.

"I phoned your number and the switchboard told me where to find you," he said. "This is Detective-Inspector Jevons, of the C.I.D."

Jevons looked nothing like the sleuths of popular fiction. He had close-cropped iron gray hair, blue eyes set rather too close to an over-large nose, prominent ears and a hard square jaw. He wore a navy blue, double-breasted suit, a white shirt and collar with a dark gray tie, and black shoes with rounded toes.

He sat down, accepted a coffee, and proceeded to load a brier with dark flake tobacco.

He said, "Thanks for the tip, Mr. Solo. I've heard about you, though, of course, you U.N.C.L.E. people normally work with the Special Branch. I don't know what job you're on now, and I'm asking no questions. That's S.B. business. If you want our assistance, you know you'll get it. But hit-and-run driving is definitely in my province, especially when there's a suspicion of cold-blooded murder."

"You think Bambini killed Price Hughes?"

"I think nothing, Mr. Solo. I go on evidence. A great deal is going to depend on what we find in the garage. W do know that the stain on the material you sent to us by Mr. Gold has been confirmed to be human blood, but the fact that you found it in the trunk of a car known to have been driven by Bambini is no proof that he had anything to do with it."

He pushed his chair back and stood up. "And now, if the young lady will excuse us, we could make a move."

Blodwen said, "Don't wait for the bill. I'll see to it. If you happen to need me I'll be back at the hotel."

Solly Gold looked pessimistically at the inspector. "I suppose there's no chance I'll be invited along for the ride?"

"You know better than that, Mr. Gold."

"Yes, I know. It's the story of my life."

Illya, Solo and the inspector left the restaurant together. A police car dropped them in Stephen Street and they completed the journey on foot.

A man in a shabby suit and cloth cap emerged from the shadow at the entrance to the mews. Jevons asked him, "Anything moving?"

"All quiet," he replied. "The car's in the garage and the place above is in darkness. Nobody's been near it."

"Thank you, Sergeant. Keep your eyes open."

"Yes, sir."

The lock on the garage door turned easily to Solo's key. The three men entered and Solo switched on his flashlight. The beam danced over the Humber's trunk and came to rest on the bumper.

The inspector crouched and examined the gap in the row of emblems. He ran a finger over the short tongue of metal on the twisted bracket. Then he took another emblem from his pocket and tried it against the fracture. The irregular edges of emblem and tongue fitted exactly.

"That clinches it," Jevons said. "This was the car that killed the motorcyclist. This emblem was found only a few feet from the body." He straightened and pointed to the near fender. "Somebody's been doing some respraying, too, and the job's been done in a hurry."

They shut the garage and went back to the plainclothesman on the corner. Jevons told him, "If Bambini shows up, grab him and bring him in. I want him for questioning in connection with the hit-and-run on Hampstead Heath. Have you got assistance?"

"Yes, sir. Two constables." He indicated where they were posted in the darkness.

"Good. Well, don't take chances. You know Bambini. He's sure to be carrying a knife. But get him, Sergeant. I want him badly."

"He won't get away," the sergeant promised.

The police car snaked through the thick traffic in Tottenham Court Road, heading back to New Scotland Yard. Jevons, sitting beside the driver, spoke into the radio-telephone. Solo gathered that he was talking to his superintendent at headquarters.

The car cut down Northumberland Avenue and on to the Embankment, where the lights on the South Bank were reflected in dancing patterns on the black waters of the Thames. It turned in through the gates within a stone's throw of Westminster Bridge and the driver drew it smoothly to a halt.

The inspector led the way to his office on the second floor of the Yard building. It was a cubby-hole of a room, painted in a depressing shade of green. It contained a battery of green steel filing cabinets, several straight-backed chairs and a brown, government-issue table that held three telephones. The only wall decorations were an electric clock and a calendar which showed an improbable English village.

Jevons indicated a couple of chairs. He said, "Make yourselves comfortable — if you can. I'll have to leave you for a couple of minutes while I have a word with my chief. Smoke, if you want to."

He returned five minutes later. Behind him came a uniformed policeman carrying a tray with three thick mugs of canteen tea.

Jevons said, "I'm sorry we can't manage anything stronger. The wheels of crime are lubricated with this stuff. We drink gallons of it, day and night."

Illya tasted it. It was scalding hot and had a flavor reminiscent of tanning solution. He said, "It's excellent," and put the mug carefully on the floor beside his chair.

"An all-station call has gone out for Bambini," the inspector said. "By this time there are C.I.D. men and uniformed patrols combing every dive in the West End. If he's in London we'll find him. It may take a bit longer if he's got out of town, but we'll get him in the end. Now, all we can do is wait."

"You've tried the Gloriana, of course?" Solo asked.

"First port of call," Jevons assured him. "Not a sign of him. But we've got one man inside the building and two men in Newport Street, covering the place in case he shows up."

"Have your people talked to Anna or Dancer?"

"No. We don't want to alarm them at this stage. Not till we've talked to Bambini. We've no evidence that either of them is involved."

Illya asked, "Is there anything that we can do to help?"

"Not a thing," Jevons said. "I would suggest that you go back to the Savoy and catch some sleep. I'll call you as soon as there is anything to report."

They turned out of the big gates and walked slowly back along the Embankment toward Charing Cross Underground Station. The illuminated sign above the entrance showed that the trains were still running.

A cab came cruising from the direction of Hungerford Bridge and Solo hailed it.

Illya protested, "We don't need a taxi. We're only a few steps from the hotel."

"We're not going to the hotel," Solo said. "We've got a lead the police don't know about. I've got a hunch that our little chum Merle knows more about Bambini than she's told us. Let's go."

The door of the house in Berwick Street was standing ajar. They pushed it open and went up the stairs to the first floor. A twenty-five watt lamp burned on the landing in front of Merle's door. Solo pressed the bell and a shrill yapping came from inside the apartment.

"That sounds like Blodwen's poodle," Illya said. "What is she doing here?"

"Probably had the same idea we did," Solo replied. He pressed the bell again. The yapping redoubled, but the door remained closed.

"What's going on in there?" Illya said. "Why don't they answer?"

"I don't know," said Solo. "But I'm going to find out."

He took a strip of celluloid from his pocket, eased it into the jamb of the door and ran it down toward the Yale lock. He pushed and the door opened. The little dog, yapping hysterically, burst out onto the landing. Illya managed to catch her before she bolted down the stairs.

Solo called, "Blodwen! Merle!"

The sound echoed through the apartment.

They went into the living room. A pink-shaded standard lamp bathed the room in an intimate glow. There was no sign of Blodwen, but Merle was sitting in an armchair facing the door. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth in the caricature of a smile. Her eyes stared at them stonily. A knife was buried to the hilt in her half-naked left breast. She was very, very dead.

After Solo and Illya had left the restaurant with the inspector, Blodwen had ordered drinks for Solly and herself. They sat talking for a quarter of an hour, then Solly shook hands and departed. Blodwen paid the bill and went back to the hotel.

She bathed leisurely, luxuriating in the caress of the hot, scented water against her skin, and took more time than she needed over fixing her hair and face. Then she slipped off her flowered bathrobe and climbed gratefully between the sheets. This, she had determined, was going to be one night of complete relaxation. She felt she had earned it.

She was already more than half asleep when the bedside telephone rang. She picked up the receiver irritably and gave the extension number.

A woman's voice asked, "Yvonne?"

"Who - Merle! How the devil did you find me?"

"Never mind that." The voice sounded strained. "I got to see you urgent. I got some information. Can you come around?"

"I'm in bed," Blodwen said.

"Well, bloody well get out of bed. This won't wait, I tell you. Yvonne, I
got
to see you — about you-know-who."

"All right," Blodwen sighed. "Give me ten minutes to get some clothes on. Are you at the apartment?"

"Yes. And, Yvonne — don't bring nobody with you. Not even your boyfriend. If you do, I won't talk."

"All right. I'll get a taxi."

Blodwen dressed hurriedly. As she pulled on her stockings she tried to figure out how Merle had discovered that she was at the Savoy. She had been fairly confident that she was not being followed when she left Berwick Street for the Bond Street salon where the dye had been removed from her hair.

Before she left the apartment she opened a suitcase, took out a 7.63mm Mauser pistol in a skeleton holster and strapped it to the inside of her left thigh. There had been a note of near-panic in Merle's voice toward the end of their short conversation. There was no sense in taking chances.

She decided to leave Dolly in her basket, but as soon as she put her hand on the doorknob the little poodle came high-stepping to her side. She had no intention of being left behind. Resignedly, Blodwen picked her up.

There is seldom a shortage of taxis at the entrance to the Savoy Hotel. Blodwen got one right away and it deposited her in Berwick Street within seven minutes.

She found the key of the street door in her handbag and hurried up the stairs. The door of Merle's apartment was half open. She knocked, and Merle called, "In here."

Blodwen went through the short hall to the living room, stopped just too late.

She saw Merle, her black eyes terrified, being held down by a swarthy young man who looked as if he was enjoying his job. Then a pad was pressed over her face from behind, and she lost consciousness.

When she came around she was lying on the stone floor of a room that had the dank smell of a cellar. The pain in her head and shoulder told her that she had been thrown there. She screwed up her eyes against the light from an unshaded bulb near the ceiling and moved her limbs experimentally. Her hands and feet were unbound. And, miraculously, she could still feel the weight of the Mauser against her thigh.

She forced herself to sit up, fighting the wave of nausea that was the aftermath of the drugged pad. She rested for a minute, then got to her feet and leaned against the wall to take stock of her surroundings.

The cellar was long and low, with steel girders supporting the ceiling. The bulb lit only the section nearest the locked iron door. The rest was in semi-darkness, but she could make out the bulk of stacked cases in the shadows.

With sudden shock she realized that the little poodle was not with her. In her weakened state the sense of loss almost unnerved her. She hoped that they had killed her painlessly and not left her to run the streets in panic. For the first time in years she cried.

But even while the tears came, her mind was working on the problem of escape. There was no hope of getting through the door. It fitted flush with the wall and there was no keyhole in its blank inner face. Yet the air in the cellar was fresh. Somewhere there must be a ventilator, perhaps even a loading shaft from the street. She moved toward the back of the cellar, her eyes searching the walls and ceilings.

She reached the first of the stacked cases, and something about their size and shape caught her attention. She looked at them more closely. They were identical with the banded cases she had seen with Illya in the farmhouse at Cwm Carrog. The cellar was one of the stockpiles for the currency operation.

Sounds outside the door brought her swiftly back under the light. She lay down as nearly as she could remember to her original position and closed her eyes.

There came a creak of hinges and then footsteps. A shoe caught her none to gently in the ribs and a man's voice said, "Snap out of it."

She moaned artistically and made a business of turning over. The shoe hit her again, harder this time, and the voice snarled, "Come on. I 'aven't got all night."

She opened her eyes. The dark-haired hoodlum she had seen in Berwick Street was staring down at her. He had a Browning automatic in his right hand and his finger was on the trigger.

He motioned with the barrel toward the open door. "On your feet and start walking. And don't try nothing."

Blodwen said, "What do you think I'm going to do? Bite you?"

"Ah, shut up."

He stayed so close behind her that she could feel his breath on her neck as she climbed a steep flight of twenty stone stairs. He was pretty much of an amateur, Blodwen thought. A more experienced villain would have known better. It is comparatively easy to disarm a captor who fails to keep his distance.

There was an unlocked door at the head of the steps. They went through it into a carpeted passage. Blodwen could smell cooking and hear the muffled sound of a dance band combo. The man prodded her with the gun barrel and said, "Keep going."

They came to a door on the left-hand side of the passage. The man reached past her, turned the handle with his left hand, and said, "Inside." He accompanied the order with a shove that sent her headlong into the room. She recovered her balance just in time to avoid crashing into a fragile table.