Pulp Fiction | The Stone-Cold Dead in the Market Affair by John Oram (7 page)

Illya said, "It looks like this is where the New Beginnings really start. You know, like charity begins at home."

Three doors opened off the hall. Solo pushed through the first, then whipped out fast. He pulled the Luger from his shoulder holster and flattened against the wall, signaling to Illya to douse the light.

In the darkness Illya moved silently over the carpet to his side. "What gives?" he whispered.

"There's a gang in there," Solo breathed. "About a dozen of them."

They waited tensely. Minutes passed, but the silence remained unbroken.

Illya whispered, "They're keeping mighty quite. Should we stir them up?"

"Hold it!" Solo's hand, moved carefully up the door jamb, found the light switch and depressed it. A soft pink glow flooded through the doorway. Nothing else happened.

Solo stepped forward, gun ready, and stared into an empty bathroom. Then he burst out laughing. "Brother!" he exclaimed. "How kinky can you get?"

The four walls and ceiling were covered completely with small squares of mirror glass which reflected his figure a thousand times. It was those images, seen like shadows in the light from the flash, which had made him bolt for cover.

Illya said wondering, "Now I've seen everything. Will you look at the marble bathtub and the gold-plated dolphin taps?"

"
And
the celluloid ducks," Solo grinned. "Imagine the pride of Cwm Carrog sitting there, playing with those."

"Must I? Let's find something less Freudian."

The second door opened into the sitting room. Solo crossed to the windows, pulled the heavy velvet curtains and switched on a standard lamp. Like the hall, the room was decorated and furnished richly and with good taste. Two or three antique pieces blended comfortably with the modern armchairs and long settee. A Steinway piano stood at an angle to the windows. The walls were hung with Durer engravings in slim black frames.

Solo looked at the smooth, meticulously arranged cushions on the chairs and settee. He walked to the piano and ran a finger over its surface. It came away with a thin film of dust. He said, "It looks as though nobody has been in here for weeks."

"Or as if everything has been stage-managed," Illya amended. "The place is
too
tidy."

He pulled open the drawers of a Georgian bureau. They were all empty. "You see? It isn't reasonable. Everybody leaves a few papers around, even if they are only old bills."

"Could be," Solo admitted. "We'll take a look at the bedroom."

Their search there was equally unrewarding. The gold satin cover on the bed was uncreased. The pillows and sheets beneath it might have been new. Silver-backed toilet articles stood in geometrically perfect array on the walnut dressing-table. Only a row of hangers occupied the wardrobe. There was not even a smell of mothballs.

Solo said, "You're right. It doesn't add up. Somebody's tried to arrange the impression that the old man's flown the coop. But it's too perfect." He pointed to the silver gleaming on the dressing table. "If he had time to pack all his clothes and all his papers, he'd have taken those things, too. Ever see a bald-headed man travel without a hairbrush?"

"And they're valuable, too. Do you think he rigged it himself?"

"Unlikely."

"Then who?"

"I don't know — but we're going to find out. And as openers I think we'll pay a call on Gloriana downstairs.

The kid in the sequin uniform was still at the doorway of the club. She said, "Changed your mind, boys?"

"It's the gypsy in us," Illya said.

They went through a foyer that was a mixture of Tenth Avenue and the Taj Mahal. A cloakroom girl dressed in a grubby sari said, "That will be one guinea each, gentlemen."

"What for?" Illya asked.

"For the hats."

"We never wear hats."

"Too bad, ducks. It'll still cost you a guinea."

They paid and pushed open swinging doors emblazoned with scarlet dragons.

The big room beyond had the kind of lighting that is called discreet. It was fighting a losing battle against the swirling clouds of tobacco smoke. The only bright spot was the cone of light that picked out the three-piece combo of piano, guitar and bass. Half a dozen couples were moving like sleep-walkers on the pocket-size dance floor. The rest of the customers sat drinking at formica-topped tables, each with its own dim, scarlet-shaded lamp.

As Solo and Illya stood inside the door, letting their eyes get accustomed to the gloom, a man in a dinner jacket came toward them. He was young, of middle height, with broad shoulders tapering to a thirty-two-inch waist. His straight black hair was glossy with Brylcreem, but his good looks were spoiled by a knife scar that extended from right ear to chin. He looked like a Greek Cypriot.

"A table, gentlemen?" he asked.

Solo said, "We'd like to talk to your boss."

The professional smile stayed put but the brown eyes grew wary. "Are you from the police?"

"No. Should we be?"

"I thought..." He let it tail away. "I am afraid Madame is busy. May I ask why you wish to see her?"

Solo said definitely: "You may not. Just tell her it's private. We won't keep her more than a few minutes."

"Very well. If you will take a seat. A drink, perhaps, while you are waiting?"

"Scotch. On the rocks."

"Certainly." He went to the small bar that stood near the band dais, gave the order, then disappeared through a curtained doorway at the back of the room.

A girl wearing nylon fishnet tights and a bodice that ended almost where it began brought the drinks.

Illya asked, "Compliments of the house?"

She said, "Don't make me larf. It cracks me make-up. That'll be thirty bob."

Illya stared glumly into the half-inch of liquid in his glass. "I don't doubt that Madame is busy," he said. "She's probably arranging a takeover bid for Fort Knox."

The man in the dinner jacket came back. He said: "Madame will see you now. If you will come this way..."

They followed him through the curtained doorway and up three green-carpeted stairs to a door marked "Private." He knocked, turned the door handle and stood back for them to enter.

The room was more like a boudoir than an office. The walls were covered with expensive hand-blocked paper featuring pagodas, bamboos and small Chinese figures. The Chinese carpet was white and vividly flowered. There was a black lacquered table, heavily ornamented in gold, on which a slim vase held a single crimson rose. A black and gold cabinet, intricately carved, stood against the far wall. Sandalwood joss sticks smoldered before an ivory godling with a face of incarnate evil.

The woman went with the room. She sat facing the door in a chair that had a high back carved and colored like a peacock's tail and quilted arms supported by grinning golden dragons. She wore a tunic and loose trousers in heavy white silk and there were white satin slippers on her tiny feet. No taller than a twelve-year-old girl, she looked like a frail Chinese doll.

Solo asked, "
You
are Madame Gloriana?"

She said, "My name is Anna. Gloriana looks better on the façade, don't you think? Now what can I do for you gentlemen?"

"I am Napoleon Solo and this is my friend, Illya Kuryakin. We would like to ask you a few questions."

"I shall try to answer them if they are not impertinent. You have not had trouble in my establishment, I hope."

"Nothing like that," Solo assured her. He took a picture of Price Hughes from his pocket and handed it to her. "Have you ever seen this man?"

She smiled, showing white even teeth. "Many times. He is my landlord. He owns this whole building."

"That's interesting. When did you see him last?"

She frowned. "I cannot remember exactly. About a year ago, I think. You must understand that there is no reason why we should meet. My business with him is transacted through his lawyers. I have seen him only by chance, as he went into or out of his offices next door."

Illya said, "You used the word 'went,' as if he had gone from there."

She looked at him coldly. "I did not mean to imply that. It is just that I believe he is frequently away from London for long periods. May I ask the reason for these questions?"

"We are trying to find him," Solo said. "He doesn't seem to be home, and we have urgent business to discuss with him."

"I am afraid I cannot help you. As I have explained, my contacts with Mr. Hughes are not social." She rose as gracefully as a Siamese cat and pressed a bell on the wall. The man in the dinner jacket appeared so quickly that he must have been waiting outside the door. She said, "Dancer, the gentlemen are going. Please show them out."

Dancer's expression said it would be a pleasure.

At the door Solo paused. He said, "We are staying at the Savoy, Suite A25. If Mr. Hughes turns up, perhaps you would get in touch with us."

She smiled again. "
If
he turns up, I will ask him to contact you."

When the door closed behind them she went immediately to the black and gold cabinet. She took out a telephone and dialed a number.

They picked up the Cortina and Solo drove through Trafalgar Square, down Whitehall and found a parking space in the shadow of the Houses of Parliament. Big Ben was striking ten-thirty as they crossed Bridge Street and walked down the stairs into the barroom of an old-fashioned tavern.

Solo shouldered his way through the crowd at the bar, bought two Scotches and carried the drinks to a table where a man was sitting alone. He could have been any age from twenty-five to forty. His thin face was topped by mousy hair that needed cutting. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles with big round lenses and twists of grubby wool on the side-pieces near the ears. There was a glass of straight whiskey on the table in front of him, and he was reading a late edition of the
Evening Standard.
Several other newspapers, rolled together, protruded from the pocket of his shabby raincoat.

Solo said, "Hi, Solly."

He looked up, surprised. "Well. Napoleon! It's been a long time. So where have you sprung from?"

"Around and about," Solo said, shaking his hand. "This is my partner, Illya Kuryakin."

The hand went out again. "Nice to know you. What are you drinking?"

"You're late," Solo put the Scotch in front of him.

"What a friend." Solly drained his own glass and raised the second. "L'chayim!"

They drank.

Solo explained to Illya: "Solly Gold is alleged to be chief crime reporter of the
Sunday Bugle
, but nobody ever saw him in the newsroom. He's on first-name terms with every copper and hoodlum in the West End and his capacity for hard liquor is illimitable."

"The schmalz we can do without," Solly said with dignity. "You got something to ask? Ask."

"All right. Give me a rundown on the cute little number who runs the Gloriana Club in Newport Street."

"Anna?" He rubbed his hand slowly over his chin. "What's to tell? She came out of nowhere a couple of years ago and opened up the way you see it now. Where she came from nobody knows. There's a story she got her money the hard way in Cardiff's 'Tiger Bay,' but that's what they say about any slant-eyed chippy who hits the scene. Me, I don't buy it. She's got two much class for a dockside grifter."

"What do the police say?"

"Nothing. But nothing. Her record is clean. There was a rumor a while back about drug peddling in the club. The Yard investigated. There wasn't even the smell of a reefer."

"Women?"

He spread his hands. "Can you keep them out? Especially since the new Act. Where else have they got to go but the clubs? So women, naturally — but they've got to stay well-behaved. Any chatting up the customers and they're out on their fannies. They can sit at the bar. Any drinks you buy them, they get a percentage. You want to dance? Okay, they dance. But strictly no funny business on the premises."

"You make it sound like a Sunday school," Illya said. "Do you know anything about a man called Price Hughes, too?"

"The nutcase next door? New Beginnings, and all that jazz?"

"That's the man."

"Sure, I know him. So does everybody on the crime beat. A do-gooder. Every time there's a hanging he organizes demonstrations outside the prison. In between, he saves souls. The way I hear it, there's a handout for every ex-con who climbs his stairs." He considered. "When he's there, that is. I haven't laid eyes on him in weeks."

Solo bought three more drinks. When he returned, he asked, "What about that floor-manager in the Gloriana, the hard boy who looks like a Greek?"

"You mean Dancer," Solly said. "He's a Malt and a three-time loser. First time for living on immoral earnings, the other two for grievous bodily harm. Funny thing, he's one of Hughes's proteges. When he came out after a chivving rap, the old man got him the job as Anna's bouncer.

"That's funny. Anna said she never spoke to Price Hughes."

"Go and argue with Anna," Solly retorted. "I'm only telling it the way I heard it."

A barman came over and whispered something to him. "Telephone," he explained. "Don't go away." He weaved slightly unsteadily toward the bar.

He was gone perhaps four minutes. When he came back his expression was less than benevolent. He said, "Naturally, a coincidence. You wouldn't hold out on me, would you?"

Solo said, "I might — if I knew what you were talking about. But I don't."

"Questions, questions, questions — about Anna. About Dancer. About the old nut. But he don't know what I'm talking about." Solly's gesture implored the ceiling to fall. Then his arms fell and he gripped the back of the chair. He leaned over, breathing whiskey fumes into Solo's face.

"That was the office," he snarled. "A police patrol just found your old buddy Price Hughes on Hampstead Heath. Only it took them some time to recognize him. Somebody's been to work with a meat cleaver."

"Well! Well!" Illya said mildly. "And you thought we knew all along. Or maybe you think we killed him?"

"What I think or don't think, who cares?" Solly buttoned his raincoat with extreme care, pulling the frayed belt tight. "What I know if that I've got a story to get — and that means getting the hell out to Hampstead right now. But don't think I won't be seeing you again."