Kiss Me Quick (25 page)

‘Swordfish!’

‘Ahhch! Enough! We’ve changed the password!’ replied the static voice of Long George, over the intercom.

Vince cursed under his breath then growled impatiently, ‘I’ve got no time for this, Long George. Let me in!’

‘A clue. We’re still keeping it fishy, but we’re going Kosher!’

‘Er … spring mops? Salted herrings? Lox?’

Crackling over the intercom, as Long George laughed. ‘Gefilte fish, you schmendrick! The new password is Gefilte—’

‘
Gefilte fish!
’

Vince entered the top-floor room to find Murray the Head
sitting
at a card table. No surprise there. What was surprising was what he was doing. His right hand was spread out on the green baize, while his left hand held a small brush with which the Head was carefully painting his nails. A bottle of clear nail varnish sat next to an emery board, which in turn sat next to a small pile of powdered nail.

‘You’re late,’ said the Head, not looking up from his paint job.

Un-fucking-believable, thought Vince as he watched the Head deep in concentration. ‘Sorry, Murray. What colour is that?’

‘It’s transparent,’ he replied, glancing up at Vince to administer an admonishing look. ‘What do you take me for?’ Vince’s return expression was that of a blank canvas. The Head focused back on the job ‘at hand’. ‘Just puts a nice shine on them. You can tell a lot about a man from his hands, Detective.’

‘Yeah, I know. And I can also tell you haven’t done an honest day’s work in your life. Whilst we’re talking about paint jobs, you got it?’

‘Wouldn’t be sitting here, if I didn’t.’

Vince gave the room a cursory scope, but saw nothing that looked like the purloined painting. ‘Where is it?’

‘Sit down. What’s your rush?’

Vince sat down at the table, his back to the door. Not his favourite position in these circumstances, but it was the only
available
chair.

The Head admired his handiwork, then daintily put the brush back in its pot and screwed it securely shut. He blew the nail powder off the table. Fanned his hands up in front of his face, puckered his lips and dried his nails with a steady stream of breath.

‘Everything go OK?’

‘Like a dream. Your mark, Tobin, went to the bar, Valerie sashayed over, worked her magic and kept the mug tied up for an hour. She let the poetry happen, had him eating out of her hand: marriage proposals, foreign travel, breakfast at Tiffany’s. He was falling all over himself to impress, claimed he was connected to a big player in Soho with friends in show business, movie business, music business. Name of Duval – you know him?’

‘You know that I know him, Murray.’

‘You didn’t tell me Tobin was an ex-copper.’

‘You didn’t ask. I’m surprised he blabbed.’

‘When the Volcano works a fella, they blab, they give her their whole life story. They volunteer information they didn’t even know they had, just to smell the air around her, get lost in her eyes, dream about those lips and stare at those tits.’

‘I bet. Are you going to put a full point on the end of all this?’

‘My point is, I don’t want to get in bad with the bogies. I want to be in
good
with the bogies. That’s why I did what I did, Detective Treadwell.’

‘Eddie Tobin’s retired. He now does some muscle work for Duval. He’s as much used to you as a back pocket in a sock. Me? I’m still gainfully in Her Majesty’s constabulary.’

‘But not in good standing, I hear.’

‘What do you hear?’

‘That you were sent down to Brighton because of some
discrepancies
in something that may or may not have occurred.’

Vince weighed up how much the Head knew. And realized the most important thing, he didn’t know the truth. So he played it cooler than a big old bowl of gazpacho.

‘That’s what the painting’s for – to put me back in good
standing
. Good standing better than ever. Do you have it or not?’

The Head contemplated the young detective. Whatever he saw there, it must have passed muster, because he called out, ‘Valerie!’

Vince heard the door open, and glanced around to see the Volcano framed in the doorway. A curvaceous peg in a square hole.

‘How are you, sweetie?’

‘I’m good, Valerie,’ said Vince, while doing what she wanted, what her presence and figure demanded: giving her the
once-over
– twice! There was a costume change since he had seen her last. She had become more demure since her date with Tobin. That outfit had been borderline obscene: a black, sheer spray-on job with strategically placed embroidered fig-leaf details – Vince counted three of them. This outfit was tame in comparison: a clinging emerald-green gown to go with her eyes and set alight the flame-red hair; with a neckline that swooped, swooped, then swooped some more; and when the swooping was done, just for the hell of it, swooped again. If the painting was concealed about her person, he didn’t know where, or even dare to think.

Vince ventured, ‘So … where’s it stashed?’

‘Frisk me and find out.’

Vince looked back to the Head for counsel.

The Head gave the Volcano the nod. Before Vince could look around, a freckled and fleshy arm wrapped itself around his shoulder, her wrist holding a diamond, emerald and ruby bracelet, her flawless fingers docking some serious rocks that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a movie star … say, Zsa Zsa Gabor? She placed a rolled-up canvas on the table. Vince smelled her cocktail breath on him as she leaned in and nuzzled his neck. She worked her way around to his ears and sniffed him some more. Vince kept on looking at the Head, who was smiling not winningly but knowingly, showing his full set of smoker’s ivory-coloured teeth.

The Volcano purred, ‘Mmm … Chanel No. 5. Had you down more as a Guerlain man. Reminds me of a certain little lady I know. One Bobbie LaVita.’

Vince kept looking at the Head, who kept smiling and
showing
him his teeth.

‘Bobbie sends her regards,’ said Vince.

The Volcano moved around and sat on the table, blocking Vince’s view of the Head. ‘She’s a sweetie, too. I had the hots for her myself. She doesn’t play, though. And Murray is so
old-fashioned
that way, aren’t you, baby?’

The disembodied voice of the Head came through: ‘I don’t mind you dyking off, baby plum, just as long as I’m in the room when it happens.’ He leaned around the fleshpot partition, winked at Vince and announced, ‘She likes you. Valerie the Volcano and Bobbie LaVita? Now that’s a picture worth painting. Better than the shit I just lifted.’

The Volcano, not taking her eyes off Vince, who in turn couldn’t take his eyes off her cleavage, because it was parked right in front of him, licked her cherry-red lips and said, ‘That can be arranged, Murray. How about you, gorgeous?’

Vince sat as far back in his chair as possible without causing offence. He didn’t nod, because it would have been like a fly nosing into the Venus trap; he’d never get out. ‘Is this the
permissive
society I’ve been reading about?’ he asked.

The Volcano gave a chesty, breast-juddering laugh. ‘I like him, Murray!’ she said, running her fingers through Vince’s black hair. ‘He looks like Tony Curtis.’ Her finger then traced his profile,
running
down his smooth forehead, his nose, flicking his bottom lip, then moving around the dimple that sat in the centre of his chin. ‘Or is he more of a Kirk Douglas?’

Vince, far from impervious to the Volcano’s ample charms, was getting hot under the collar. He did a nervous clearing of his throat, and said, ‘Sounds like I’m in
Spartacus
, whoever I am.’

Vince heard a slap, flat palm against satin. Valerie jolted, sat bolt upright, twisted around to the Head and glared. ‘Murray!’ He’d just slapped the ample yet delectable derrière that was spilling over on to his side of the table.

‘You’re embarrassing the boy, sugar plum.’

The Volcano took it for what it was: her cue to dismount the table. Vince took it for what it was: playtime was over, back to business. The Head had stopped smiling and fixed Vince with a firm but benevolent gaze. ‘You’re playing with fire, my young friend.’

‘Tobin’s no trouble, Murray. Let me handle him.’

‘I’m not talking about Tobin. I’m talking about Jack. He likes that girl, likes her a lot.’

‘Did he tell you that?’

‘Yeah, downstairs, five minutes ago.’

Vince’s heart jumped into his mouth. The Head wasn’t smiling.

‘Murray, don’t tease the boy,’ said the Volcano.

‘I like the boy, baby plum. I’m just doing him a favour. Giving him the SP.’

With his heart out of his mouth and back in its designated spot, Vince said, ‘Thanks for your concern. I was working on the theory known as “out of sight out of mind”.’

The Head sucked at his teeth. ‘Some theory. I hope it works for you. Anyways, it’s your business. And our business is concluded. I’ve done my part, just need to make sure you keep up your end of the deal.’ The Head reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a box of Swan Vesta matches and put it carefully on the table.

Vince frowned. Then he cracked a wide smile, devoid of mirth, indicating just disbelief and a question: ‘You’re fucking kidding me?’

‘Would I kid you?’ Murray said, sliding open the sleeve of the yellow box. Inside were matches – or, on closer inspection, a plastic facade of matches.

Vince leaned forward for a closer inspection.

The Head dipped in a freshly varnished finger and something clicked into place, and the device started …

‘…A certain Tory politician got caught with his trousers down in
company
with some brass. Nothing unusual there. What was unusual is that he’d filmed it. For posterity, I can only imagine. But the brass was also having it off with the Russian fellow, a diplomat who was sidelining for the KGB. He knew about the film and wanted it. And he was prepared to pay top rouble for it. The Russki taped our whole conversation in a device secreted in a Swan Vesta matchbox …’

Vince had heard enough, and the Head switched the device off.

‘Bang to rights, I’d say if I was criminally minded. Which I am. Did I neglect to mention that I picked the Russian’s pocket after our little tête-à-tête? Well, I couldn’t have him walking around with my voice in a matchbox, could I? Never know whose hands it might fall into. You just can’t trust people these days. Just in case you’re wondering, I didn’t get that film for the Russki. I’ll be a monkey’s uncle before I start doing dirty work for the commies. I’m a free-market patriot at heart.’

‘That’s good to hear, Murray,’ replied a distracted Vince, more worried now about his own localized predicament than
international
affairs. ‘You didn’t trust me?’ he asked.

‘Don’t take it personal. I don’t trust anyone.’

‘I trusted
you
, Murray.’

‘And that’s your problem, kid. You trust too much. Should have frisked me.’

Vince reached over to pick up the Swan Vesta box – not going for the fast grab, but fast enough to feel a muzzle of cold steel at the nape of his neck. He realized that the Volcano was now behind him holding a gun.

‘The Head painting his nails, and the Volcano with a shooter,’ observed Vince. ‘What a turn up.’

‘We’re nothing if not different down here,’ she said.

‘Second time I’ve had a gun pulled on me by a woman today. The first one was naked.’

‘That can be arranged, sweetie.’

‘What do you want, Murray?’

The Head weighed it up, then nonchalantly replied, ‘What we all want in this life: some peace of mind. So I’m just showing you the little insurance policy I took out, which will pay for that little peace of mind. Just in case you experience a sudden case of the uncorruptibles and forget that this little caper ever took place.’

‘I won’t forget. You have my word.’

The Volcano ran a playful finger through Vince’s hair and said, ‘I believe him, sugar.’

The Head’s eyes narrowed in judgement, then he quickly
concluded
, ‘Me too, babycakes.’ He pocketed the Swan Vesta box.

‘We done?’ asked Vince.

‘And dusted.’

Vince felt the cold muzzle of the gun withdraw. He collected the rolled-up canvas from the table. ‘Like I said, when I’m finished with this, Murray, you get to keep the painting. I’ll drop it off with Long George.’

‘Forget it. I don’t like the painting. More importantly, the Volcano doesn’t like it – thinks it’s sordid. And she’s a
broad-minded
woman.’

‘Very.’

Vince stood up and made for the exit. The Volcano was already at the door and opened it for him, saying, ‘Take care, sweetie, and give my regards to Bobbie LaVita.’ Before he could reply, she puckered up her plump red lips and planted a big fat kiss full on his mouth.

Vince had parked outside the Grand Hotel. Back in the car, he’d unrolled the canvas and was now looking at the painting. Up close, full size, and in the flesh, as it were. Vince’s thoughts on the painting were the same as Max Vogel’s: it made his skin crawl. But his disgust wasn’t born out of a cold analytical critique; it was because he knew where it came from and where it was going. And what it had inspired. He’d seen it made flesh, screaming up at him from the silver screen, begging for mercy, for help, for
his
help. And he’d been unable to give it. On reflection, that’s what disgusted him the most, because he too had became a voyeur – just another man watching her demise.

He rolled the painting up roughly, not caring if it incurred any damage, and stashed it under his seat. He was about to get out of the car when he saw a cab pull up, and Tobin stepping out with a woman. Vince realized that Tobin hadn’t yet discovered that the painting was missing.

After the Volcano had left him, he must have gone in search of a replacement. She was obviously a brass, and a cheap one at that. The Volcano had evidently set off something in Tobin, something that needed to be sated. Unable to have the real thing, he’d settle for an out-of-the-bottle redhead, a second-rate parody who looked as if she spent most of her time in the bottle, too. Her hair was not so much a beehive as a bird’s nest, and the heavy
makeup
covering up a hard life looked as if it had been trowelled on during a power cut. And, to add to her considerable woes, Tobin was now at her elbow, pulling her out of the cab, pushing her up the steps, and dragging her rapidly through the hotel lobby. He didn’t see Vince sitting in the car because Vince had ducked down, just in case. But there was no need for that. Tobin kept his head bowed, his hat pulled down, collar up. He wasn’t proud of his companion and wanted to get her up to his room with the
minimum
amount of attention.

Vince made his way into the hotel lobby just in time to see Tobin yanking his companion into the lift. Poor thing wasn’t even getting a nightcap in the bar. Vince pulled a wicked grin and, with a spring in his step, headed briskly back to his car and retrieved his camera from the glove compartment.

Five minutes later, he was standing outside Tobin’s room, with his Leica M2 ready in his hand. Vince put his ear to the door and heard voices. High-pitched and whiny, the brass was running through her available services: what she would do, what she wouldn’t do, and what she might do if the price was right. Everything sounded negotiable: even the stuff she said she
definitely
would not do sounded as if it might be done for the appropriate money. Either way, whatever Tobin was planning hadn’t started yet.

Satisfied that they were both in a state of undress, Vince rapped on the door and pulled out of the hat a last-minute, ill-conceived and improvised voice; not much different from his normal one, just pitched a couple of octaves higher and suffused in
subservience
: ‘Room service, courtesy of Mr Eton.’

Vince heard Tobin’s muttered swearing, but didn’t hear him questioning the courtesy of his host. And if Vince had any
lingering
doubts about the deal taking place, they were now fully confirmed.

‘At this time of night?’ Tobin demanded.

‘Oh, it’s no trouble, sir. Mr Eton said we were to take care of your every need, and he thought you and your lady wife would enjoy a nightcap.’

There was a cackle of laughter from the brass, then Tobin responded with, ‘I don’t want it!’

‘It’s free, sir. Free champagne,’ said Vince, getting further into his role and settling into his new voice which was becoming foreign, fruity and a little Peter Lorre. Vince heard the girl protesting that she wanted the free champagne. He rather suspected she
needed
the free champagne. Still with his ear to the door, Vince heard Tobin cursing under his breath.

The door opened, offering a perfect snap. Cecil Beaton couldn’t have hoped for a better composition. Foreground: Tobin stood framed in the doorway, late fifties, ex-muscle gone flabby, his
midriff
hanging over a hotel towel. Background: the brass sprawling on the about-to-be-pummelled bed in red bra and panties, sucking on a cigarette and reeking of toilet water.

Vince stood back, saying ‘Cheese’ and took the shot.

Tobin slammed the door shut. Vince heard the brass asking what was wrong, whereupon Tobin told her to ‘Shut the fuck up!’

Vince called out, ‘Eddie, we need to talk.’

A muffled voice could be heard, the brass’s. Tobin had now obviously shut her up with his hand. Then twenty seconds later came his vexed tones: ‘I’m warning you, Treadwell, get out of here or I’m calling Tony Machin. I’ve got friends in this town, more than you do, you little prick!’

‘I don’t doubt it for a second, Eddie. You’re a very likeable fella. Very likeable and pliable, so you’re bound to make friends. Be my guest, call Machin. Let’s have it all on the up and up. Think about it, Eddie. You think I took the photo just to stick your ugly mug on the wall next to Brigitte Bardot? What would the real Mrs Tobin think when it comes out that you’ve been entertaining two-bob brasses?’

‘Bleedin’ cheek …’ came a high-pitched protest, soon muffled.

Tobin threatened, ‘I’ve got a gun, Treadwell. What do you want?’

‘Relax, Eddie. I’m not interested in your love life. It’s the
painting
I’m interested in. The painting that I’ve got.’

Vince heard Tobin scrambling about in a panic, looking under the bed, he suspected. Then another ‘Shut the fuck up’ to the sadly put-upon brass. Then a compilation of curses followed by a baying mantra of: ‘
Fuck! fuck! fuck!
’

‘Stand back from the door, Treadwell!’

Vince stood back obediently, thinking Tobin was going to do something stupid, like fire the gun. The door opened and the brass was propelled out, clutching her clothes.

‘What the bleedin’ hell’s going on?!’

Vince badged her silently.

‘I’m a good girl, I am. Just trying to earn a living.’

He pocketed his badge and said, ‘You’re OK.’

‘I’ve never been treated like this.’

‘That I doubt. You been paid?’

She nodded.

‘Then you’ve had a result, so vamoose.’

She ‘vamoosed’ down the hall, disappearing around the corner to where the not so private dressing room of the lift awaited.

‘OK, Treadwell, what d’you want?’

‘Only to talk. Then you get the painting back.’

Silence.

Vince knocked on the door. ‘Eddie?’

‘Meet me downstairs in the bar.’

‘Be better in private.’

‘In the bar, Treadwell!’

‘OK, nice and public. What are you drinking these days, Eddie? Still too much?’

‘I wouldn’t accept a drink from you, you poncified little prick!’

Vince waited in a corner booth. A drained Club soda bottle sat on a doily on the glass-topped table in front of him. Three huge crystal chandeliers lit the place up a little too brightly for his liking. There were only about twenty people scattered around the bar, and all out of earshot. Mostly couples, he decided. Nice place to take a date.

His own date entered the bar. Tobin was wearing a fresh suit and a well-worn scowl. He clocked Vince but didn’t come straight over. Still the copper, he scoped the bar, checking all the angles before going into a situation – any situation. And casing the place for a quick getaway if things didn’t turn out right for him. Finally satisfied that he knew the layout, he came over to the table and sat opposite Vince.

Tobin’s face was red and tense, blood pressure popping. He kept his hands on his lap, ready to ball them into fists. Or reach for his gun if he had to, which Vince was sure was tucked into his
waistband
. Everything about the way he sat was defensive, but ready to attack at a moment’s notice.

‘That’s a novelty.’

‘What is?’

‘The gun you’re carrying. I thought it was just women who carried guns in this town.’

Tobin gave a slow, measured nod. ‘Always with the smart mouth, eh, Treadwell?’

‘Did you make your call?’

‘What call?’

‘You took your time, so did you call your paymaster, Lionel Duval?’

No reaction from the ex-copper.

‘Sure you don’t want a drink, Eddie? I hear they do a good cocktail. A redhead I know told me about that.’

Tobin’s already slitty eyes narrowed even more. His face
reddened
up further. Vince could see the humiliation seeping in and settling. Tobin balled his fists and spat out, ‘Who was that bitch – your girlfriend?’

‘My girlfriend? What would I be doing with a girlfriend, Eddie? I thought you reckoned that everyone who goes to university is a queer.’

‘I do!’ barked Tobin,

‘Calm down, Eddie.’

Tobin’s blood pressure now looked as though it was going through the roof. He was actually purple, his boozy face lit up with a firework display of exploding capillaries.

‘If I ever catch up with her, I’ll smash her to pieces!’

‘You’d never get mistaken for David Niven, would you, Eddie?’ With Tobin a shade of puce now, Vince thought he should get off the humiliation caused by the Volcano. ‘Let’s talk business. The painting.’

Tobin nodded and took several deep, calming breaths. His face cooling down through the cardiovascular colour chart to
something
resembling ruddy. As he took control of his temper, a smugness crawled across his face and he creased his mouth into a smirk. ‘Think you’re holding all the aces, don’t you, Treadwell?’

‘No, just a painting that I know belongs to Lionel Duval. One that portrays an image very similar to the one I saw screened in the private cinema of his club. The one I reported, and the one you said didn’t exist. Let me refresh your memory; it was not exactly
Spring in Park Lane
.’

‘I read your report, Treadwell,’ said Tobin. ‘Two spades raping and beating a blonde junkie, if I recall.’

‘That’s right. There seems to be a theme emerging as to Mr Duval’s taste in art, don’t you think, Eddie?’

But Tobin wasn’t listening. His attention was distracted,
looking
over Vince’s shoulder. Vince followed his gaze and saw a tall, slim-built man in his mid-twenties. He was wearing a
brass-button
, double-breasted blazer, an open-neck shirt with a
polka-dot
silk Windsor knotted around his long neck. He wore pristine white slacks, sockless with blue canvas deck shoes, and looked as if he’d just stepped off a yacht in the Med. He was also deeply tanned, with short, neatly groomed and brilliantined curly hair. He walked straight up to the table with a graceful measured stride, smiled a pleasing toothpaste smile, and said to Tobin, ‘Mr Eton’s ready to receive you now.’

Tobin gave a blunt nod.

Vince recognized the handsome lad, but last time he was
wearing
boots, a peaked cap and a grey uniform with gold brocade. It was Dickie Eton’s chauffeur. Vince stared at the chauffeur, but he didn’t look back at him. Eddie Tobin stood up.

‘Where you going, Eddie?’

‘You want to know the truth, and Dickie Eton wants his
painting
. So let’s go.’

Tobin undid his jacket to reveal the gun tucked in his
waistband
. Vince didn’t know if the chauffeur was dressed heavy too, but it was clear Vince was going for a ride.