Mask of the Verdoy (2 page)

After a few cautious steps into the alley he could just make out the shadowy outline of the small Italian, laying into the boy with his boot. Harley fished out his trusty brass knuckles, his weapon of choice—and one that had served him well back in the days of the trench-raiding squad. He was about to make his move when the giant Boyd (who had been crouching down, whispering sweet nothings into his victim’s ear) stood up, towering over his accomplice. At the sight of this oversized brute Harley quickly slipped the knuckleduster back into his pocket, and took a step backwards.

‘Bugger!’ he muttered and began to search through his jacket pockets, finally pulling out a standard-issue Metropolitan Police whistle.

He ran back to the main road and gave a long blast on the whistle, scanning Piccadilly for any sign of Scotland Yard’s finest.

‘Come on!’ he shouted … but apart from a cabbie cleaning the headlamps of his hansom the road was empty.

‘Any coppers about mate?’ Harley called out.

The cabbie took a quick look at his pocket watch.

‘I doubt it—this is Trent’s beat; right now he’ll have his face buried in a pint of porter at the Argyll Arms, if I’m not mistaken.’

There was nothing else for it. Harley took a deep breath, refitted his brass knuckles and charged back into the alleyway, blowing loudly on the whistle.

On hearing the shriek of the police whistle the Italian immediately pulled back from his victim.

‘
Polizia!
’ he shouted at Boyd, scanning his surroundings for a quick escape route.

Boyd grabbed the motionless boy by his shirtfront and plucked him from the ground like a doll.

‘Where is it?’ he hissed.

‘Come! No time!
Polizia!
’ shouted the Italian again, sprinting off towards a high wall at the back of the alley.

Reluctantly Boyd dropped the boy and lumbered off after his partner, who had already effortlessly vaulted over the wall and dropped out of sight. The larger man dragged over an old tea chest, and after a couple of clumsy attempts, managed to haul his huge frame over the brickwork to follow suit.

Having first made sure that there weren’t any nasty surprises lurking in the shadows Harley approached the victim, gently turning him face-up, fearing the worst. To his relief this elicited a groan.

‘What’s your name, son?’

The frightened eyes fell on the whistle in Harley’s hand.

‘It’s alright,’ he said, putting it away along with the knuckleduster. ‘Don’t fret—I’m no bogey, honest! Come on, what’s your name?’

‘Aubrey,’ said the boy, only managing a half-whisper.

‘Well, Aubrey—we need to get you out of here before those two jokers realize I ain’t the cavalry. Who were they anyway? Did you see the little one jump that wall? Like a sodding monkey!’

The boy remained silent.

‘Alright—like that is it? Come on then … can you stand?’

With Harley’s help Aubrey managed to struggle to his feet.

‘Bloody hell! They’ve done a proper job on you, ain’t they?’

‘My bag.’

‘Where?’

‘Over there—in the bin.’

Harley propped the boy against the wall to retrieve the duffel bag, then half-carried him on a slow walk back towards Piccadilly, to the relative safety of the open thoroughfare.

By the time they’d reached the street and Harley had placed the injured boy into the cab, Boyd and the Italian had doubled back and were now observing proceedings from a safe distance.

‘That ain’t no bogey,’ said Boyd.

‘Eh?’

‘Not a
po-lit-sia
.’

‘No? Who then?’

‘He’s a sherlock.’

‘Jew-boy?’ The Italian raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘No, not Shylock, a
sherlock
—a private detective; although, funnily enough, he does knock about with Yids; Yids, brasses and bolshies—he ain’t too particular by all accounts.’

‘Hmm … Where will he take the boy?’

‘I dunno—but I’ll find out.’

‘He has a name, this, this
sherlock
?’

‘Yeah, Harley—George Harley.’

CHAPTER TWO

Three days later a weary George Harley stopped for a moment on the corner of Bell Street to tease a hole in the clammy, vinegar-scented package under his arm. He popped a chip into his mouth and tipped his hat back an inch or so to prod the burgeoning lump just above the hairline—a souvenir of the frenzied finale of an otherwise tedious stakeout at a Tilbury warehouse.

Getting too old for this malarkey
, he thought, as he pushed on through the dull ache in his lower back and the more insistent throbbing in his left shin.

As he mounted the front steps, searching his pockets for his keys, the door of the adjoining townhouse opened to reveal the generous figure of his next-door neighbour, Violet Coleridge.

‘Ah! The wanderer returns,’ said Violet, restraining her ample bosom with one arm as she bent to deposit an empty milk bottle on the top step. ‘Oh my gawd, George! You look done in! Where you been?’

‘Tilbury docks.’

‘And what you been up to there, then?’

‘Well, that’s a good question Vi.’

‘Second thoughts—don’t tell me.
What you don’t know can’t
’
arm you
, that’s what my Eric used to say. Mind you—I think the reason he always kept quiet about what he was up to was so that I couldn’t let anything slip to the bogeys if they came snooping round. Still, those days are long gone now, aren’t they? Fancy a cuppa, dear? The pot’s still warm.’

‘I’d love to Vi, but I think I’ll just get this down me and then get some kip—I need my bed.’

‘What you need is the love of a good woman, George Harley, that’s what you need—someone to look after you. After all, it’s got to be two years now, hasn’t it? Why don’t you—’

‘Now, don’t start all that again, Vi! By the way—have you been up to see Aubrey today?’

‘What, the iron?’

‘Vi!’

‘Well, he is a poof, ain’t he? Right little lavender boy, if ever I saw one. I was up earlier as it happens. I’d say he’s on the mend, alright—he’s been out of bed today. Still won’t have the quack round though—I told him you’d offered to pay.’

‘He’s scared Vi—they gave him a proper going over. One of the cowsons was a giant … You should’ve seen him—a couple of minutes more and I reckon I’d have had a corpse on my hands.’

‘Well, he probably brought it on himself. After all, I’m sure we can all guess what he was up to in a backstreet off the Dilly at that time of night. The other two were probably of the same persuasion an’ all. It’s not natural, is it?’ said Vi, crossing her fleshy arms and pursing her lips.

‘Come on—he’s only a kid, from some god-forsaken little town in the back-of-beyond; no doubt kicked out by his old man, finds himself in The Smoke, all alone—you know how it works.’

‘Well, I’m sure I
don’t
know how it works, George. I suppose he won’t be pestering up any rent while he’s staying with you? You wanna watch it—you’ll get yourself a reputation.’

‘Once he’s up and about he’ll be on his way.’

‘And by the way—he’s ruined the mantle on the gas up there by lighting his ciggies on it … You know, George, if you did the place up a bit, got some paying tenants in … well, you could give this private detective lark up for good; relax a bit. I’m sure that’s what your Uncle Blake had in mind when he left you the place. Just think of it—you’d be a landlord. It’s not a bad living when all’s said and done. And the company would do you good, Georgie—rattling around in that big old house all on your tod, except for that mangy old tomcat of yours; and your little charity cases, of course. This one’s the third this year, ain’t it? There was that old soldier boy, then the Rusky with the gammy leg; all staying there buckshee. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were being taken for a ride.’

‘Come on, Vi—what harm does it do? As you say, I’ve got the space. Anyone would do the same given the opportunity.’

‘You’re a soft touch—that’s what you are.’

‘Oh yeah? Well, no doubt you took him up some grub when you went up earlier?’

‘Well, I’d done a bit of kate and sidney for Mr. Johnson in number three—it’s his favourite. And well, it’s a sin to let good food go to waste, so I—’

‘You wanna watch yourself, Vi—you’ll be getting a reputation!’ Harley cracked a smile. ‘Universal brotherhood, that’s all it is—looking out for your fellow man.’

‘Don’t come your old bolshie fanny with me, George Harley! It won’t wash. Now—go and get that grub inside you, while it’s still hot.’

Harley retrieved his front door key from his jacket.

‘What’s all this?’ He pulled a leaflet from the letter box. ‘Sodding BBF? They’ve not been canvassing round here again, have they?’

‘There was a couple round earlier; nice boys—real healthy-looking types, you know? One of them had a touch of the Gary Coopers about him. And those uniforms, George—oh, they do look smart.’

‘I’d have thought we’d all had enough of uniforms, Vi … but maybe that’s just me.’

‘But that’s just it—all those things they promised you boys when you came home. Well, where is it all, eh? I don’t know … what with all the strikes, two and a half million poor buggers on the dole, the Empire falling apart. The country’s gone to the dogs, George … and I’m afraid your precious Mr. Ramsay MacDonald has made as big a hash of it as the rest of ’em. And now, on top of everything else, we’ve got all these anarchist bombings! Bloody foreigners! Someone needs to sort it all out.’

‘Believe me—that someone is
not
Sir Pelham Saint Clair and the British Brotherhood of sodding Fascists. You should listen to what Max Portas has to say about him—he talks a lot of sense.’

‘I’ve told you before, George—I’ve had it with your Labour Party. They had their chance—and look what they did with it. Besides, his old man’s a commie, ain’t he? “Red Jack Portas”—remember? The fruit don’t often fall far from the tree.’

‘Maybe that’s not such a bad thing—Jack Portas is as honourable a man as I’d like to meet; fought all his life for workers’ rights. He did sterling work in the dock strike of eighty-nine.’ Harley stifled a yawn. ‘Listen Vi, I’d love to discuss this further with you, but maybe another time? I really need to get some shut-eye.’

‘Oh, sorry George! Listen to me on me soapbox! I’ll be up Speaker’s Corner next. Of course dear, you get yourself away. I’ll—’

‘Hold on Vi—what was that?’ asked Harley, carefully resting his fish and chips on the wall and vaulting over to push Vi’s front door open wide.

‘What was what?’

A long, wailing scream emanated from Vi’s hallway.

‘
That!
’ said Harley, sprinting up the stairs.

‘Sounds like Miss Perkins, in number six—
on the top floor!
’ Vi shouted up after him.

By the time the portly landlady—now flushed and out of breath—had caught up with Harley, he was already crouched in front of a near-hysterical Miss Perkins, holding tightly to her wrists. The normally
timid young woman was thrashing about, struggling to catch her breath between frantic sobs, with angry red scratches below her cheeks and a thin line of spittle hanging from her chin.

‘Oh my gawd, George! What’s going on?’

‘Don’t know, Vi—she’s not making any sense. But the window’s open, and when I got here she was sat on the bed, scratching at her face, shouting something about a mask.’

‘A mask? Tabitha! Look at me dear; stop thrashing about so! Tabitha … 
Tabitha!
Oh, out the way George!’

Vi bent over her tenant to deliver a solid slap to the face with a heavy, be-ringed hand.

‘There, there … it’s alright now,’ she said, planting herself on the bed next to Miss Perkins, who had been shocked enough by the slap to at least make eye-contact. ‘Now dear, tell us what happened.’

‘I was getting ready for my bath … getting … getting undressed … for my bath, you see. I always have my bath on a Friday, at eight-thirty.’

‘Yes, dear—but what
happened?
Was it a man? Did a man get in somehow, Tabitha?’

‘No, no—he didn’t come
in
. He was out there … out there—on the fire escape. A foreigner … with a
mask
.’

‘Oh my gawd, George! It’s one of those anarchist buggers—it’s got to be!’

‘Hold on Vi, we don’t know anything yet. Tabitha, can you tell us what he looked like? What kind of a mask was it?’

‘I was smoking a cigarette … over there. I don’t like the stale smoke in the room, you see? I was smoking … then he was just there, out of nowhere … a mask a bit like, a bit like
Tragedy
 … said something foreign … something I couldn’t … he blew me a kiss! He blew on my face, blew something on my face, on my face—’ She began to frantically scratch at herself again.

Vi grabbed at the flailing wrists and Miss Perkins promptly vomited down her nightshirt.

Harley walked over to the window and poked his head out to inspect the fire escape.

‘You’re not thinking of going out there, are you George? That old thing’s rotten.’

‘I know the bit leading down is missing, but it still looks pretty solid up here. If it took this bloke’s weight … I’d better take a look up on the roof Vi—he might still be around. Is there anyone else about who can give you a hand?’

‘Only Mrs. Cartwright in number four … oh, and little Johnny’s in the basement doing the boots—everyone else is out,’ said Vi, pouring water from the urn into the wash basin.

Miss Perkins now sprang bolt upright, her face contorted in a paroxysm of pain. She writhed silently on the bed for a moment, her arms twisting and jerking in a deranged dance, the hands contracted into jagged claws. Then, to Vi’s horror, she began to bark—short, high-pitched yelps at first which soon developed into a strange canine howl.

‘
Oh my good gawd!
’ exclaimed Vi, trying to calm her lodger with the vigorous application of a wet flannel.

‘Don’t bother with that now—she needs medical help. Looks like she’s been poisoned with something, or maybe it’s some kind of fit. Get Mrs. Cartwright to sit with her. Tell Johnny to run down to get Dr. Jaggers and then to look for a constable—Burnsey should be out on his beat somewhere nearby. You go and check on Aubrey—the fire escape joins up with the one outside of my spare room, so he may have seen something. If he’s up to it, get him to come and sit with you all—there’s strength in numbers. Here are my keys. Oh, and Uncle Blake’s swordstick is in the umbrella-stand, just inside the front door—take it up with you. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve checked out the roof.’

‘Oh George, do be careful! No one’s been on that old escape for years. How on earth d’you think he got up there? My gawd, it’s just like Spring-Heeled Jack all over again.’

‘Now, don’t get your knickers in a twist. There’ll be a perfectly logical explanation to it all,’ said Harley, hauling himself out of the window. ‘Go and get help—I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

The wrought iron walkway gave an inch or so as it took Harley’s weight, then emitted a low groan with each subsequent cautious step he took, almost as if it were warning him against risking the three-storey plunge to the pavement below. But he pushed on regardless, conquering his natural instinct to return to the safety of the room. After a tense couple of minutes he’d reached the parapet of the flat roof and hurriedly stepped over with a great sense of relief.

He rested against the wall for a moment and looked around. The tightly-packed rooftops of Fitzrovia spread out before him, their chimneys trickling smoke into a lowering blanket of cloud that covered the capital, still orange-tinged to the West, but already merging with the night in the East. He now took stock of his immediate surroundings: he was on the flat roof of Vi’s townhouse which was separated from the roof of his own building by a small dividing up-stand. A two-foot-high parapet ran around the perimeter and in one corner was a small shed-like structure with a collection of old paint pots stacked up against it.

Harley now looked down at his feet and saw that he was standing in a shallow gutter that followed the edge of the roof. He crouched
down and touched his hand to the thin layer of sludge that lined this gutter; it was wet, and in it—alongside his own ox-blood brogue—was the distinct imprint of some smaller, rounder-toed shoe. Harley glanced up at the shed and felt in his jacket for his brass knuckles. All his aches and pains had disappeared now, the adrenalin kicking his heart rate up a notch or two as he slipped his hand into the heavy metal ring and made his way quickly and quietly towards the wooden shack.

He placed his ear to the weather-beaten door, held his breath and listened: the distant murmur of traffic drifted up from Tottenham Court Road … the gentle clopping of a horse’s hooves from a nearby lane … a mother calling in her brood for supper … the toot of an engine from Euston station. But from the shed there was nothing.

Harley took a step back, carefully placed his fingers around the rusted handle and yanked open the door.

There was a loud crashing sound as his face was battered repeatedly by something white and grey. With an involuntary shout of surprise Harley closed his eyes and stumbled back into the pile of old paint pots, sending them clattering across the roof. He struck out blindly with his fists, but failed to make any contact. He opened his eyes, desperate to get a bearing on his assailant, just in time to see a shabby pigeon fluttering off above the rooftops.

‘
You mug!
’ he said, jumping up and dusting off his trousers. ‘Come on, Georgie boy—get a grip!’

There was no other hiding place in view; either the intruder had found a means of escape, or—more likely—he was a figment of Miss Perkins’ hysteria. Just to tie up any loose ends Harley began to make a slow patrol of the perimeter of the roofs.

The light was fading fast now, but he was satisfied that there were no other footprints in the gutter; maybe the one he’d found was simply one of his own, distorted by the angle of his step as he cleared the parapet? At one end the roof abutted the side of an old Victorian blacking factory—now a dry goods warehouse—a sheer brick wall rising twenty feet or so above him; there was no way anyone could have escaped in that direction. And the decrepit fire escape that he’d climbed up was just a one-storey remnant, leaving a two-storey drop to the pavement below—again, impossible as a means of escape. That just left the edge of the roof adjacent to Tallow Street—the entrance to the old market place. Harley made his way to the edge and peered over. Approximately five feet below him was the thin edge of a brick wall that formed an arch across the street, from which hung the market sign. Well, it wasn’t impossible; someone with sufficient acrobatic skill could perhaps lower themselves down onto the wall,
manoeuvre somehow onto the sign, and then swing themselves down onto the street. He thought back to the Piccadilly alleyway—the way the smaller assailant had vaulted cat-like over the brick wall to make his escape.