Never a Dull Moment, page 13
“Listen, Mrs. Owen,” I tell her, “you tell me somethin’ about these Wayles sisters. There was two of ’em you said—Julia an’ another one? What was her name?”
“She was Karen Wayles. She was a year younger than Julia. They were both very nice girls—both very beautiful and attractive to men—at least that’s what I’ve been told.” She looks at me archly. “I wouldn’t know about that, Mr. Caution,” she says, “not being a man. But there was one big difference between them. Julia was an extremely clever girl—almost brilliant, I mink. One of those rare cases of brains and beauty combined; whereas Karen I am sorry to say was really rather stupid.”
“Yeah!” I say. “Just how was she stupid?”
“She was one of those young women who was always falling in love,” she goes on. “She thought she was in love with every good-looking man she met. But I’m glad to say she’s taken a turn for the better in that respect now she has a job. She’s working at W.P.A. in New York and doing very well, I believe. I think it is good for a young woman to have a job to occupy her mind, don’t you, Mr. Caution?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I tell her. “From what I know of dames they always find somethin’ to occupy their minds, an’ I haven’t known a job keep a dame who wantsta get inta mischief out of it.”
I get up. “Well, thanks a lot, Mrs. Owen,” I tell her. “I suppose you’ll be stayin’ here?”
“Oh yes,” she says. “Of course I shall. And will you be very good and let me know if you can what’s happened to Dodo?”
“I’ll let you know,” I tell her.
She gets up. “Good-bye, Mr. Caution,” she says. “I wish you the best of luck. By the way,” she goes on, “I suppose you wouldn’t like a glass of elderberry wine before you go? I brought three bottles of it from America. It is my grandmother’s recipe.”
“No thanks, lady,” I tell her. “I’m one of those guys who got an anti to elderberry wine. Any time I drink it I come out in green spots.”
She holds out her hand an’ I take it in mine. I told you this dame had got nice hands. Her fingers are soft an’ supple to touch. I think it is a pity that the rest of her don’t match up with her hands an’ her figure.
I say good-bye an’ scram. The neat-lookin’ maid lets me outa the front door. As I go out I sling her a sideways look. I think maybe I’d like to talk to that baby sometime.
I walk along the corridor an’ outa the entrance. Outside I get a cab an’ tell him to drive me to Jermyn Street, but when we get around the corner I rap on the window an’ stop him. I pay him off an’ walk around the back of the block until I am on the corner facin’ the entrance of the Mayfield Court. Just along the road is a little coffee shop—the sorta place that is kept by a couple of old ladies an’ a cat. I go in there, order a cup of coffee an’ light a cigarette. From the table where I am I can see the entrance to Mayfield Court.
Me—I am not very satisfied with this Mrs. Lorella Owen. There is somethin’ about a dame like that. I get to thinkin’ about her. It’s funny how nature can be unkind to a woman, but maybe you thought that before. Here is a dame with a figure that you could write a poem about, lovely hands, a bulge at one side of her face, a swell complexion, grey hair and a voice that is so goddam awful that you wouldn’t think it possible.
Wait a minute! Maybe that voice is not possible! Now I know why I was so struck with this dame’s hands. Mrs. Owen is a phoney all right. Her figure is young, an’ so are her hands—soft an’ white an’ supple. The only old things about her are her hair, the shape of her face an’ her voice. Well, I don’t reckon anybody was ever born with a voice like that. Maybe we got somebody else puttin’ on an act.
I drink my coffee an’ order another. When I have smoked three more cigarettes I see somebody come outa Mayfield Court, an’ it is Mrs. Owen. I couldn’t make a mistake about that figure or those ankles. An’ I was right or was I? Because this dame has not got a bulge in her face an’ she has not got grey hair. I can see the auburn curls stickin’ out under a smart little hat she’s got over one eye.
She walks along the road an’ goes up to the cab rank. Directly she gets inta the cab I nip along an’ grab another. I tell the driver to keep on the tail of her cab an’ not lose it. Then I sit back in the corner, relax an’ smoke another cigarette.
We go back to London. We go down Oxford Street, away along Regent Street, down by the Admiralty. I get another surprise. Her cab pulls up in front of Scotland Yard. She gets out an’ goes in. Well. . . well . . . well. . .!
I pay off my cab, lean up against the wall, doin’ a little quiet thinkin’. Then I get an idea. I think I’ll try a fast one. I walk along the street until I come to a phone box. I go in an’ ring through to Scotland Yard. I get onta the Information Room. When some guy answers I say:
“I’m sorry to trouble you, but my name’s Rackets. I’m a friend of Mrs. Lorella Owen. I believe right now she’s with Chief Detective Inspector Herrick. Would you mind puttin’ me through to him.”
The guy tells me to hold on for a minute. Then he says O.K. he’s puttin’ me through. A minute later I hear Herrick’s voice on the line sayin’ hello. I make my voice sound very low. I say:
“Is that Chief Detective Inspector Herrick?”
He says yes, what can he do for me?
“I believe my friend Mrs. Owen is with you,” I tell him. “I wonder if I could speak to her for a minute.”
He says all right, hold on.
I don’t. I hang up and ease outa the telephone booth. I start walkin’ back towards Charing Cross. What the hell is goin’ on in this case, an’ what the hell is this Lorella Owen dame doin’ dressin’ herself up with false lumps in her face, grey wigs an’ all the rest of it an’ then rushin’ off an’ havin’ conversaziones with Herrick directly she has pulled a lot of stuff on me! An’ Herrick is the guy who don’t want me to do anythin’ behind his back. Herrick is the guy who was grumblin’ because of the way I handled my last case over here in England.
Somebody is bein’ clever with me. Well. . . . O.K. From now on I’m gonna be so smart that I ain’t even goin’ to tell me what I’m doin’. . . .
That is if I know myself. . . .
So now you know.
Chapter Eight
SLUG PARTY
I ease along to a hash house on Regent Street an’ get myself a salad an’ some rolls. When I tell you that I am a very thoughtful guy I mean it. I’m doin’ so much concentratin’ that any time I look at anythin’ I practically see double. But one thing is stickin’ out an’ that is everybody around here is takin’ me for a ride an’ I’m goin’ to find out why. I’ve been in some funny businesses in my life, but I reckon I have never struck a case stuck so full with phoneys as this one is.
First of all there is this Dodo Malendas, pretendin’ to be Tamara Phelps, an’ now we’ve got Mrs. Lorella Owen, with a lump on her face, grey hair an’ a voice that sounds like a cannin’ factory, tryin’ to pull another fast one, an’ all the time she is as good a looker as any of the other dames an’ maybe as bad.
I finish my lunch an’ go back to Jermyn Street. I give myself a coupla stiff ones just in case I get a touch of rheumatism some time an’ I go to bed. Directly I get my head on the pillow I fall asleep, because as I have told you mugs before I am a guy who is nearly always content with any situation that happens any time, because if you don’t like a situation you can always do somethin’ about it . . . sometimes!
It is ten o’clock when I wake up. It is gettin’ pretty dark. I take a warm shower, dress myself an’ stick the old Luger in the shoulder holster under my left arm. It sorta makes me feel good. Then I grab off the telephone an’ ring through to Scotland Yard. Herrick is not there but they give me his private number. After a bit I get him on the line.
“Look, Herrick,” I tell him. “I’m a bit worried about this Wayles case. I thought I’d like to talk to you about it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “Can I help in any way? I thought you weren’t taking it very seriously.” There is a little pause—then he goes on: “Didn’t I put you on to Callaghan Investigations? Haven’t they been able to give you the help you want?”
“Oh yeah,” I tell him. “They’ve given me plenty help. As a matter of fact I got a swell guy workin’ for me by the name of Nikolls. He’s O.K. It’s not them I’m worry in’ about.”
“Well, what is it?” he says.
“Well,” I tell him. “I sorta can’t get a grip on anythin’ in this case. There seem to me to be a lotta guys rushin’ around in circles without anybody doin’ anythin’ really definite. But there is one thing I thought you could do for me.”
“What is it?” he says.
“This guy Max Schribner,” I tell him. “The boyo who is livin’ down in Dorkin’. It looks to me as if this palooka was the boy who was supposed to take charge of Julia Wayles when she was got over here. Well, I thought it would be a good idea to knock off that guy.”
There is another little pause. Then he says:
“Ye-es! Have you got any charge against him?”
“Oh, shucks!” I tell him. “Surely you can frame somethin’ on that bozo. This guy is a thug an’ I think he oughta be knocked off.”
“That’s as maybe,” he says, “but in this country you’ve got to have a charge before you can arrest people.”
“All right,” I tell him. “How’d you like one of attempted murder? Supposin’ I tell you that this guy tried to fog me. What about that?”
“Yes,” he says, “it might do. Did he try to kill you himself?”
“Well, not exactly,” I tell him. “But he sort of arranged it with some other guy.”
“I see,” he says. “And who was the other guy?”
I tell him. I tell him the other guy was Charlie Milton. Herrick gives a big sigh. “Look, Lemmy,” he says, “you ought to know better than that. You know you can’t charge Schribner for telling Milton to kill you. Milton wouldn’t have done it in any event.”
“That’s as maybe,” I tell him. “But Schribner didn’t know that Milton was Milton. He thought he was another guy who would kill me.”
Herrick says: “Have a heart, Lemmy. Just imagine a Court listening to a story like that.”
“O.K. O.K.,” I say. “I get it. An’ you told me you wanted to co-operate.”
“I do want to co-operate. I want to co-operate as much as possible. But I don’t see I’m going to do any good arresting Schribner on a false charge. The murder charge is no good—you take that from me, Lemmy. Now is there anything else I can do?”
“I don’t think so,” I tell him. “If I want you I’ll ring you.”
“Do that, Lemmy,” he says. “You know I’m only too glad to help you any time.”
I hang up. I give a big grin. I reckon Herrick has told me all I wanta know. Maybe I’m a mug some of the time, but believe it or not I’m not a mug all of the time. I light a cigarette an’ start reviewin’ all the big personalities in this case.
Dodo Malendas who is a tough baby, who suddenly decides that she will work for Mrs. Lorella Owen tryin’ to find Julia Wayles. Mrs. Lorella Owen who is a friend of the Wayles family an’ who is so stuck on tryin’ to find Julia that she employs a moll like Dodo Malendas to do it, an’ takes the trouble to come over here an’ sorta supervise things. Not only does she do that, but directly I show up an’ do a little straight talkin’ she runs around to Herrick at the Yard just as if she had a tiger after her.
An’ Herrick is stallin’. Herrick always had a big grouse about cases I have worked on over in this country, an’ that is that I have never let him know what I am doin’. I have gone behind his back.
But here is one case where I do wanta co-operate with that guy an’ all he does is to duck. I got an idea in my head. Maybe it is a wrong idea but I should worry. I’d rather get action an’ do somethin’ with a wrong idea than sit down an’ go to sleep on a right one. So here we go.
I pull the car inta a little lane not far from the Waterfall at Capel, light a cigarette an’ do some thinkin’.
I am tryin’ to get the idea of this place. First of all there are lots of road-houses with bands an’ bars an’ a bunch of city slickers stickin’ around in this country—in normal times I mean; but these ain’t normal times an’ I am curious to know just what sort of business a place like this Waterfall Inn does.
Think it out for yourself an’ you’ll see what I mean. A place like this is O.K. when people with jack have got the cars an’ the petrol to get out from the big city. But in these days who’s got the petrol?
This place might easily be a dump that Rudy Zimman is runnin’ for his own purposes. It might be a front an’ the band boys an’ other mugs supposed to be workin’ around the place might be playin’ in with him on some scheme or another. Anyhow whether I am right about this or not I’m gonna take the chance on it.
I get outa the car, throw my cigarette away an’ ease over the roadway an’ along the drive that leads up to the house. I skirt around it till I come to the door I went in by last time I was here.
I give a knock on the door an’ stand waitin’. After a few minutes I hear somebody comin’. The door opens a few inches an’ the same voice that spoke to me before says: “Yes, what is it?”
I say: “Look, pal . . .” an’ while I am sayin’ it I shoot my hand through the crack in the door an’ grab. An’ I’m tellin’ you it is a lucky grab. I get hold of the bozo by the hair an’ before he can let outa yelp I yank him forward an’ hear his face do a smart smack on the edge of the door.
I kick the door open an’ get my other hand in. I get it around his neck an’ yank him outside; then I put a Japanese arm lock on him an’ start a whisperin’ campaign on this guy. “Look, punk,” I tell him “I want just one crack outa you. Just one. An’ what I’m gonna do to you is nobody’s business. You got that?”
He says he’s got it.
I take the Luger outa its holster an’ stick it into his ribs.
“Start walkin’, fella,” I tell him, “an’ don’t stop, an’ don’t talk. You an’ me have gotta do some business.”
He don’t say anything. I march this boyo down the drive across the roadway an’ down the little lane where I have parked the heap.
It is as dark as hell an’ there is a little rain fallin’. This is the sorta night when things happen.
I open the door of the car an’ push this mug inta the back seat. Then I sit sideways on the drivin’ seat facin’ him. I get out a shaded torch that is in the dashboard locker an’ shine it on him. He is the usual sorta punk with a weak good-lookin’ face an’ he is scared sick. I reckon this baby is not gonna be difficult.
“Look, handsome,” I tell him. “You listen to me for a minute an’ then make up your mind. This car we’re sittin’ in belongs to the U.S. Embassy, see? Well . . . maybe when I go back to town to-night I’m goin’ to ring through to the local cops an’ report it as pinched. I’m gonna tell ’em that I left it outside my rooms on Jermyn Street while I went in for a coat an’ when I come down it was gone.
“O.K. Well, then they’re gonna look for it. They’ll find it to-morrow. They’ll find it along here at the bottom of the chalkpits on the Reigate Road an’ they’ll find you inside it. You won’t be pretty to look at either. . . .”
He says: “What the hell do you mean?”
“Just this, mug,” I tell him. “You’re either goin’ to talk an’ talk fast, or I’m goin’ to give you a bust over the dome with this gun. Then I’m gonna stick you in the front seat an’ run you along to the road that runs around the top of the chalk pits. Then I’m gonna stick you in the drivin’ seat, push some raw liquor inta your mouth, so’s they think you was cockeyed when they find you, put the car in gear an’ scram out of it just before it goes over the edge. You can finish the drop on your own.”
I blow a coupla smoke rings at him.
“The idea is easy,” I go on. “They’ll think you found the car parked and pinched it, that you drove out here for some reasons you got, that you found the flask of liquor in the dashboard an’ got cockeyed an’ that when you got onto the chalkpits road you was so high you didn’t know what you was doin’ an’ drove over the edge . . . the drop’s two hundred feet they tell me . . . you oughta have a long time to think while you’re fallin’. . . .”
He says: “Do you mean that?” His lower lip is tremblin’.
“Take a look at me,” I tell him, “an’ answer the question for yourself.”
“Whaddya wanta know?” he says.
I give him a grin.
“So you’re gonna play?” I say. “Well, you’re wise. O.K. First of all, who are the bunch around at the Waterfall? How many of those guys are English guys?”
“Two,” he says. “The rest are American.”
“How long’ve they been over here?” I ask him.
“About two months,” he says.
“An’ Rudy Zimman arranged for ’em to come over?” I ask. “An’ he had this Waterfall dump ready-eyed? It was all ready for ’em to walk into and the road-house business is a front, hey?”
“Somethin’ like that,” he says. “If legitimate people came around in the day we served ’em food. After dark we said we was shut.”
“What was goin’ on there?” I ask him.
“I wouldn’t know,” he says. “Honest . . . I just draw my jack each week an’ don’t ask any questions. I’m a wise guy. All I do is look after the door.”
“You wouldn’t hand me any funny stuff, would you, pal?” I ask him. “Because I am a very bad-tempered guy an’ if I thought you wasn’t tryin’ I’d just as soon see you ridin’ over the edge of the chalkpits as look at you.”
“I’m not tryin’ any stuff,” he says, “I’m givin’ you what I know an’ if it ain’t much, that ain’t my fault. Why don’t you pick on some of the other guys?”
“That’s a good idea,” I tell him. “Maybe I will when I’ve done with you. O.K. Well, tell me this. Is Tamara Phelps over at The Waterfall?”
