Give the Devil His Due (33 page)

“Perhaps they went into another shop.”

Beejling demanded to see the private room. The proprietor showed him to a room at the back of the building. A single long table set with a checked tablecloth and cutlery. A youth mopped the tiled floor. The water in the bucket was red.

“What happened here?” Beejling snapped at the boy.

He shrugged. “Sauce,” he said. “Enrico spilled the sauce.”

Beejling swore, turned on his heel and made his way out of the wine bar. He hesitated before climbing into the Singer, debating the advisability of leaving the Rolls Royce unattended. He pulled away from the kerb wondering how he was going to explain having lost Rowland Sinclair.

“No, I'm afraid I don't know where Rowly and Clyde went, Mr. Sinclair,” Edna said, wiping the film of clay from her hands with a towel. She'd been working on a bust when Wilfred had tapped on the door of her studio. “I was at the Royal Easter Show this morning when they left. Did you need to see Rowly?”

“Yes.”

Edna looked carefully at Wilfred. “Is something the matter, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Rowly and Mr. Watson Jones seem to have vanished.”

“Vanished? How do you mean?”

“Mr. Beejling saw them enter some wine bar, out of which they did not re-emerge. The proprietor claims they'd never been there in the first place,” Wilfred said testily.

“Well, what happened to them?” Edna asked alarmed.

“That's what I'm trying to ascertain, Miss Higgins.” He removed his glasses and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. “It occurred to me that my brother might consider it a great joke to give his bodyguard the slip.”

Edna shook her head. “If he were with Milt, perhaps, but not Clyde. How long have they been missing?”

“Beejling last saw them nearly five hours ago. Where is Mr. Isaacs? Might they have joined him somewhere?”

“I suppose… but Milton is not a magician. He can't have caused them to vanish.”

“According to Beejling, the establishment backs on to a lane. It's possible they simply walked through the premises.”

“But surely they couldn't have done that without being noticed?”

“I expect not, unless the proprietor is complicit.”

“Complicit with whom, Mr. Sinclair?” Edna was becoming increasingly distressed.

“If this is Rowly being funny, so help me I'll…” Wilfred muttered.

“Mr. Sinclair, someone tried to shoot Rowly a few days ago!”

“Yes, I am aware of that, Miss Higgins. Would you mind locating Mr. Isaacs while I call the police?”

Rowland became aware of the jarring movement beneath him, the rattling shake of a truck's tray. Over him, a heavy tarpaulin. Instinctively, he struggled. A kick to the back and a growled warning not to move. He began to remember more clearly then. Without moving he couldn't tell if he was seriously hurt… whether the pain was a sign of something debilitating.

“Clyde—”

A groan in response and another kick, this time to the stomach.

Rowland gasped, the weight of a man's knee pressed on his spine and a more explicit warning. He wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious. He couldn't hear any other traffic… they were out of the city. How far and in what direction he had no idea.

He told himself to calm down, to relax and allow himself to recover while he could. When the truck stopped the real danger would begin. They would need to be ready to run or fight.

Milton paced as he detailed their encounter with the bookmakers at Romano's. “Newgate's just the village idiot, and Reggie Jones a simpering buffoon, but Redmond Barry is probably dangerous.”

Delaney's face was grim as he made notes.

It was nearly dark now and there was still no sign of either Rowland or Clyde.

“Do you suppose Reggie and his friends might have them, Detective Delaney?” Edna asked.

“I hope so, Miss Higgins,” Delaney replied. “Stuart Jones and his associates at least have no real reason to kill them. They just need to hold them till the race is over.”

The logic of Delaney's argument gave Edna no comfort whatsoever.

“For God's sake sit down, Mr. Isaacs!” Wilfred said irritably.

Milton took the chair beside Delaney's. “It's Campbell,” he said. “Campbell abducted them or instructed his latest band of hooded thugs to do so.”

“Why would he do that?” Wilfred asked, stiffening.

“Because Rowly is on to him… because Rowly knows how dangerous he could be!”

The conversation he'd had with Rowland that morning played on Wilfred's mind. “Why would they suddenly come after Rowly? All that business is finished. Did Rowly go after Campbell, is that who he was meeting?” he demanded.

“I don't know,” Milton said. “He didn't tell me if he was.”

“It's only been a few hours,” Delaney said, trying to inject some calm into the situation. “We'll speak to all the relevant parties—see what we can find out. May I suggest gentlemen, Miss Higgins, that you also make enquiries of anyone to whom Mr. Sinclair or Mr. Watson Jones might have spoken about what they were up to.”

The truck came to a stop. Rowland tensed. The tarpaulin was dragged off. It was dark now, but there was a three-quarter moon. He could make out several men stretching after the long drive, smoking, a prone body on the tray with him who he presumed was Clyde. They were pulled to their feet and thrown off the back of the truck. The ground was hard, bare. Rowland rolled on to his knees and tried to stand. Someone belted him. He could hear Clyde swearing. All the time he listened for the click of a gun, watched for any sign of a weapon. It did occur to him that they'd been brought to some remote place to be shot.

Another beating… less thorough than before. Just a refresher really. Then a warning as they lay on the ground. “Blackmailers die young. If you shame Rosalina, if you make another painting of her or speak ill of her character, we will find you.”

Rowland said nothing. Protesting their innocence would be pointless and possibly dangerous now.

The truck was refuelled with the tins of petrol brought with them, and restarted. Men climbed back into the cabin or onto the tray as the old Bedford began to move. Soon the rattling throb of the motor faded and there was only the cut and slice of the wind. Rowland struggled to his feet and moved to the form on the ground a few yards away. “Clyde, are you all right?”

Clyde cursed. “I don't know,” he said. “I can't see properly.”

“Just hold still.” Rowland patted his pockets. His pocketbook had been taken but they'd left his lighter. He used the weak flickering flame to inspect Clyde's face. One eye was swollen shut, the other nearly so. “Bloody hell! Can you stand?”

“I think so.”

Rowland helped Clyde to his feet, cursing as his friend's weight told painfully on his own battered body.

“Rowly, I can't see to tell… are you all right?”

“I'll live,” Rowland said tightly. “We're both going to be a bit black and blue for a while. I wonder where the devil we are.”

“What does it look like?”

“The middle of nowhere. I can't see any sign of civilisation.”

“Are we in the bush?”

“Yes. But it's not too heavily wooded. The terrain is steep.”

“How long were we in the truck?”

“At least an hour after I came to.”

“Do you still have your watch? What's the time?”

Rowland checked. The crystal had been cracked but the watch's movement still seemed to be functioning. “Nearly eight o'clock.”

“So we could have been in the back of that truck for five or so hours. God, we could be anywhere!” Clyde took a deep breath. He kept a hand on Rowland's shoulder to steady himself. “Is there a road?”

Rowland squinted. “More a dirt track. Goodness knows how those bastards managed to get the truck down it.”

“I'm so sorry, Rowly,” Clyde said quietly.

“Returning the painting to Miss Martinelli was my great idea,” Rowland said. “In fact, I'm pretty sure I insisted.”

“How could those fools think we were trying to blackmail them?” Clyde moaned.

“It was the receipt, I suspect.”

“Milt thought I should include it, so Rosie knew I didn't steal the painting.”

“Oh… well it sounds like this is all Milt's fault then,” Rowland replied.

“Yes, let's agree on that.”

Rowland pulled his jacket tighter. The temperature was dropping. “I'm afraid we're going to have to walk, if for nothing else than to keep warm.”

“In which direction?” Clyde asked dubiously. “We have no idea where we are.”

“If we go back the way the truck came, it'll get us on to a major road eventually. The other direction could lead nowhere. It isn't worth the risk.” Rowland studied his friend critically. “We need to get you to a doctor.” He'd seen plenty of black eyes in his boxing days and knew the swelling could hide more serious damage. “Are you going to be able to walk?”

Clyde nodded. “I can walk.”

SHELTER FOR TRAMPS