Pulp Fiction | The Stone-Cold Dead in the Market Affair by John Oram (8 page)

"Be our guest," Solo invited. "Want us to drive you to the Heath?"

"No. An office car is picking me up with a photographer." The anger had gone out of his voice but there was still suspicion in his eyes. "You don't want to tell me your end of it?"

Solo stood up and held out his hand. "See us tomorrow, Solly, at the Savoy. We'll talk then."

"Yes, and keep mum, like always," he grumbled. "You cloak-and-dagger merchants, with you it's one-way traffic."

He shoved his hands into his pockets and swayed, with shoulders hunched, toward the exit.

Illya stared after him. "Do you think he'll make it up the steps?"

"Don't let him fool you," Solo said. "He's as sober as the well-known judge. If there's anything to be found out at the Heath, Solly will find it. He's the best reporter in the business."

"But will he tell us what he finds?"

"That," said Solo, "is one you can play on the nose."

A cold wind was blowing across the river as they came up into Bridge Street, making them hurry to the shelter of the car. Illya turned the ignition key and the engine woke into life. "Where now?"

"Back to the hotel. It's time we had words with New York."

Illya turned the Cortina and drove up deserted Parliament Street, past the Cenotaph with its flags hanging in sculptured folds, and through Whitehall. Swinging left into Trafalgar Square, where students and tourists were still thronging around Nelson's column and the fountain, he asked suddenly, "Well, who killed him?"

"Ask me why he was killed," Solo said. "That's easier. His death warrant was signed the moment you fouled up their Welsh operation. His cover was blown and his usefulness was finished. Thrush doesn't tolerate bunglers."

"But why do the execution so publicly?" Illya objected. "Thrush is usually more subtle."

"There's that," Solo agreed. "A meat cleaver isn't exactly Machiavellian. It sounds more like one of the gangs. It could be a kind of public warning, to encourage the others. But I've got other ideas."

"It could be the body was planted for our benefit. You know: 'Okay boys. The boss is dead. The game's up. So you can all go home.' Remember, we're still supposed to think Price Hughes was top man of the British Satrap. Morgan died before he could confess that he blew the cover."

"It's possible."

Illya swung the car into the forecourt of the Savoy Hotel and brought it to a halt outside the big doors. He said, "You go on up and get through to Mr. Waverly. I'll garage the car."

Solo rode the elevator to the first floor, unlocked the door of suite A25 and put his finger on the light switch. A stunning jolt of electricity shot up his arm, momentarily paralyzing him. In the same instant a bare, hairy forearm went around his neck in a Japanese stranglehold. He countered quickly, trying to break the grip that threatened to squeeze the last gasp of air from him lungs. His foot went back, got a hold around the assailant's ankle. They went down in a heap, Solo on top.

The other man rolled, heaving Solo's body sideways. He wriggled free, smashing a murderous chop to Solo's Adam's-apple as he rose. Solo grabbed wildly in the darkness, caught a handful of shirt and felt it tear. Then a kick crashed behind his ear.

When he came around, he was lying on a couch. There was a burning taste of liquor in his throat and whiskey dribbling down his chin. Illya, glass in hand, was standing over him.

He tried to sit up. Pain stabbed through his skull and he lay back again, closing his eyes against the glare of the ceiling chandelier. He asked feebly, "What happened? Did the roof fall in?"

Illya said, "They were waiting for you. Somebody had removed the switch cover. Really, Napoleon, I am surprised you fell for such an old trick."

"It can happen to the best of us." Solo raised himself slowly and cautiously opened one eye. He took the glass out of Illya's hand and drank. "Did you see him?"

"No, I found you lying here. Our visitor had gone."

"Excuse me," Solo went to the bathroom, ran cold water and sluiced it over his face. It felt good and he plunged his head in the bowl. He came back toweling his hair. "What was he after?"

"I think you interrupted him on a general exploratory mission," Illya said. "He has been through everything — cases, drawers, everything, and the place is a mess. But he also left something behind."

He held out his hand. Solo saw in the palm a finely made gold medallion bearing the enameled portrait of a woman saint. Attached to the loop was a broken length of platinum chain. Illya said, "I found this on the floor by your head."

Solo examined it. "This is unusual, and it cost plenty," he said. "It's the kind of thing you usually see in Italy, Spain and the Latin-American countries. Mothers give them to their sons, and they're sometimes handed down from generation to generation as a sort of good-luck piece. I'd say this one is eighteenth-century. It shouldn't be too difficult to trace. Somebody among the Italian community in Soho ought to recognize it."

"You are an optimist, my friend," Illya said. "Do you know how many Italians there are in Soho? And Spaniards and Cypriots and Maltese? And if someone recognized it, is it likely they would admit it? Our late visitor is a rough playmate."

"I know it," Solo massaged his aching head. "But I also know that these things have a strong superstitious value. And I think our little chum is going to move heaven and earth to get it back; so we have at least a starting point."

He picked up the telephone, dialed Blodwen's number in Newport. When she answered, he asked, "How soon can you make it to London?"

"Four hours. Maybe less, if I push it."

"Fine. Then get going."

"My God!" she said bitterly. "Don't you think a girl needs any sleep?"

It was five in the morning when she knocked on the door of suite A25. Illya, in pajamas and dressing gown, let her in.

"All right," she snapped. "Where's the fire?"

He said, "Don't ask me. This is Napoleon's party."

"Where is he?"

"Sleeping, I hope. He's had a hard night."

She spat out a rude Welsh word. "You think spending the night dodging trucks on the highway is a rest cure?" she demanded.

She dumped the poodle on the floor and peeled off her traveling coat. The poodle trotted happily around the room sniffing at the furniture, its stump tail wagging like a semaphore. Illya went to the telephone and called room service for coffee and toast.

Solo came from the bedroom. He was fully dressed, but his grooming was far from perfect. There was an ugly blue bruise from his swollen left ear to his cheekbone and his left eye was almost closed. He said, "You made good time. Thanks for coming."

"You're welcome." She stared at his battered face. "What hit you?"

He put a hand to his cheek. "A boot, I think. Forgive my lack of a shave. The skin's a bit sensitive."

"I can imagine. You should take something for it."

A bellboy arrived with the coffee, set the tray on a table convenient to the big couch, took his tip and went out quickly. The poodle trotted over to the table, sniffed, then got up on her hind legs and pirouetted like a ballet dancer, front paws outstretched.

"She can smell the toast," Blodwen explained. "That pooch has just one thought in the world. She's still to young for the other."

Illya poured the coffee and handed a cup to Blodwen. She said, "Thanks. Now, let's have the story."

Solo outlined the events of the previous evening. She listened without interruption. When he had finished she picked up the medallion and looked at both sides. Without raising her eyes, she asked, "What do you want me to do?"

He smiled. "Have you ever worked as a dance-hall hostess?"

"Me? Not on your celebrated nellie."

"Well, here's your chance to broaden your experience," Solo said. "I want you to get yourself a job at the Gloriana. That shouldn't be difficult. Keep your eyes and ears open for any odd scraps of information — but above all, wear the medallion in plain sight. Never show yourself without it."

"You think Anna is at the bottom of the nonsense?"

"I don't know," he replied. "But she's involved somewhere along the line. I want to know just how deeply."

"Check! And where do I live?"

"Get yourself a room in Soho — Greek Street, Wardour Street, somewhere like that. Not too expensive, but not too cheap, either. The kind of place any hardworking tramp would choose."

"That's what I love about you," Blodwen said. "You always pick the graceful phrase."

She stood up. "Now, if you boys will excuse me, I'll borrow the bedroom for an hour. I'm dead on my feet. Wake me at nine and I'll start house-hunting."

Solly Gold arrived at noon. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and his normally pale face looked almost deathly. A badly-rolled cigarette drooped from a corner of his mouth.

He took the whiskey Solo gave him, drained it at a gulp and held out the glass for a refill. He said, "At my time of life I've got to be up all night chasing stiffs. I should have my brains examined. You seen the dailies?"

Illya said, "We've read them. They don't say much."

"So what's to say? They got a body. They got a name for the body. The Yard is making inquiries. What else? You think the police are telling what they know?" He puffed futilely on the dead cigarette, took it out of his mouth, looked at it distastefully and tossed it into the fireplace.

"There's no doubt it was Price Hughes?" Solo asked.

"Not a chance. The face his own mother wouldn't recognize. Whoever carved him took a real pleasure in it. And there were no papers in his pockets. But the prints were positive."

"Fingerprints?" Illya repeated.

"Yeah, prints. It seems he wasn't always a do-gooder. Criminal Records had a full set of his dabs from 'way back.' For what, don't ask. Even
me
they're not telling." He sounded genuinely indignant.

"According to the
Express
the police have got a lead," Illya said.

"Oh, sure. Like always. You think they're going to admit they're up a gum tree? No weapon? No suspects? No motive? But one thing they have got. The old man was plenty dead when he was dumped on the Heath."

"You mean he was killed elsewhere?"

"A long ways elsewhere is my guess. And what's more, he was frozen practically stiff — like he'd been in a refrigerator a couple of days."

Solly accepted a third Scotch, eyeing Solo's bruises with professional interest. "Now," he said, "suppose you trade a little information. Like, for instance, how you got the shiner."

"All right — but it's strictly off the record. When the time's right you'll get it exclusive. Fair?"

"Fair," Solly confirmed. "Till you say so, I'm an oyster."

Solo told him the story.

He rolled another cigarette from coarse pipe tobacco and licked the paper thoughtfully. He had to relight the end three times before it would burn properly. At last he said, "If you're fingering Dancer for the murder you can think again. He'd kill his own brother for sixpence and sleep easy. But it's a matter of technique. Dancer's strictly a chiv man. With a knife he's an artist. And with him it's a business. Nothing personal, you understand. But this Hughes job — what a butchery! And the boy who did it had himself a ball." He considered. "Maybe you remember, there was a mob in Brooklyn that worked with Murder, Inc. They used choppers. It was that kind of job. Crude."

He went through the ritual of buttoning his raincoat to the chin, though the sun was hot on the windows of the room. "Got to go. Thanks for the drinks...and the lowdown. Anything I hear that we can't print, I'll keep you posted."

"Now what do you make of that?" Illya asked when the door had closed behind the reporter.

"You tell me. It's a mess. But some part of the answer's in the Gloriana. Dancer may not have been the killer, but five will get you ten it was his boot I felt last night. The raid, coming on top of our visit to Anna, was too coincidental. And who else knew exactly where to find us?"

"It could have been an ordinary prowler."

"Prowlers don't fool with the electrical fittings," Solo pointed out. "They get in, turn the place over, and get out fast. Our man seems to have been looking for information, not for loot."

"That makes sense. But what else have we got?"

Solo said, "The big tie-in is that Price Hughes owned the building, ran his business and lived — at least, for some of the time — next door to the Gloriana. If Solly is to be believed, and his information is usually twenty-carat, we also know that Anna was lying when she claimed she had no personal dealings with the old man. According to Solly, she gave Dancer his job because Hughes asked her to do it. Why lie about it? There's also the story that she came from Cardiff to London. That may mean a lot or nothing at all, but the Welsh background is certainly interesting.

"On the other hand, she has no police record and the club is in the clear. We know her floor manager is a thug, but again the story is that he's keeping his nose clean."

Illya nodded. "And that's it. There's not a shred of evidence to connect the club or anyone in it with the killing. Or, for that matter, with the attack on you last night. It seems to me that our one solid lead is the medallion."

"That's what I'm banking on," Solo said. "I think Dancer will make a move when Blodwen shows up with it around her neck. Meanwhile we'll start checking on Anna's daily rounds."

The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver. Blodwen's voice came cheerfully over the wire. She said, "I've got a flat in Berwick Street. You'll like it. It's got rummage sale furniture, plumbing straight from the Ark and mice behind the walls. The rent book says seven pounds a week but I had to pay the landlord twenty — and six months in advance. Ain't life wonderful for us working girls?"

"My heart bleeds for you," Solo said. "Want us to come over?"

"Yes, do that. In this house a girl's nobody without gentlemen callers. In fact we put ads up in a neighborhood store to encourage them."

"You're learning fast. We'd better get over there before replies start coming in."