Riptide (aka Bluffing Mr. Churchill) (12 page)

‘Then you’d better leave the talking to me. I’ve got my specialty too. German.’

Stilton was grinning at him again. One bushy eyebrow slightly up.

‘Where d’you learn the lingo?’

‘Family. My grandmother’s family were Germans. Moravians. There’s a lot of Moravians in the Southern States. We all got German handed down to us along with the family bible. It
was a good start. I polished it at school. And I’ve spent the last two years and more in Zurich.’

Stilton was nodding now, not grinning quite so much.

‘Well, lad . . .’ he said at last, and Cal knew he’d come to hate being called lad. ‘I do envy you. I learnt mine in Cottbus.’

‘Cottbus? What’s Cottbus?’

‘German prisoner-of-war camp, lad. Prussia. 1916–1918. I learnt it the hard way. I’ve picked up Polish and Czech on the streets of London. A damn sight more fun, I can tell
you.’

Just a little, Cal felt humbled.

‘So,’ Stilton resumed. ‘He can pass for Swiss. He’d hardly be still using that as his cover though. What’s his next best ticket?’

‘Czech. Sudeten Czech. Bilingual. German-speaking as well as Czech. That could explain any oddities in the accent. He could maybe lose himself in a Czech district. Or Polish at a pinch. He
could pass for a Pole to you and me, but I doubt he’d fool a real Pole. And of course Austrian. Pretend to be what he really is. You didn’t mention Austrians in your list.’

‘Oh there’s Austrians all right. Jews mostly. Could he pass for Jewish?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cal. ‘What does a Jew look like?’

‘That’s rhetoric, I take it?’

‘Pretty well.’

‘Then I’d say it’s got a damn sight less to do with what he looks like than what he says and what he sounds like. If as you say he’s going to have to lose himself, he has
to blend. I couldn’t blend into Jewish culture, could you?’

‘Probably not. I’d mess it up at the first “maseltov”.’

Stilton scribbled in his notebook with a pencil stub, mouthing the words as he did so. Cal felt as though they’d both just tested each other – and passed.

‘There’s one or two blokes I could get hold of this evening if you’ve the time.’

‘I’ve all the time in . . .’

The barman cut Cal off.

‘Stinker! Your man Dobbs on the dog an’ bone!’

The barman lifted up the wooden flap of the bar to let Stilton through.

‘’Scuse us, lad,’ Stilton said over his shoulder. ‘Telephone.’ Telephone? ‘Dog an’ bone’? He’d only just learnt ‘blower’.

He tipped the rest of his pint into the pot of a ragged aspidistra. It needed a drink more than he did. When he returned Stilton’s expression had changed. He was angry – controlling
it, but angry.

‘Change of plan, I’m afraid. I’ve got to go to Hoxton. You’d best come with me. It’ll mean missing my Czech nark, but he’ll not say a dicky bird without me
there. ’Appen we can salvage some of the evening a bit later.’

He grabbed his hat and swept out, clearly expecting Cal to follow. ‘Dicky bird?’ Word? Word! Good God, that was it – the English talked in rhymes.

Out in the street, Stilton yanked open the driver’s door of a large four-door Riley Kestrel and pointed Cal to the other side.

‘Or did you think you were going to drive?’ he asked rhetorically.

He pressed the starter and the car jerked out into a street all but empty of traffic. They’d driven a mile
before either of them spoke again.

‘What’s in Hoxton?’ Cal asked, hoping for an answer.

‘’Nother Jerry,’ Stilton said tersely. ‘An agent they’ve sent over. But we were on to him from the first. He’ll never get to do what he’s come to
do.’

‘You think he’s a spy?’

‘Most of ’em are. But not this one. This one’s a killer. Sent over to bump off some poor bugger.’

Cal wondered how to phrase the next question. A piece of the puzzle, the first, had just landed on the board. The last thing he wanted to do was alarm Stilton, risk him clamming up.

‘You sure?’ he said simply.

‘Oh aye, I’m sure. But we’ll stop him. Whatever it is, we’ll stop him.’

‘Why are we going to Hoxton now?’

‘My man Dobbs. He’s watching the boarding house. He rang to tell me there’s police in the building.’

‘Is that a problem?’

Stilton snorted with laughter. ‘Oh, it’s a problem all right. The last thing you want is the boys in blue trampling all over the shop in their size tens. Wot larx, eh?’

Cal let this one sink in. He thought he’d got the gist of it. The Branch were political police. And they regarded the criminal police as a nuisance. In this scenario, he and Stilton were
the Feds, racing to take over from a county sheriff in some hick town in the mid-west that had been lucky enough to trap Dillinger. Slang was OK. He’d get used to it. He was in the picture.
The big picture. It might not be so bad after all. Stilton might not be so bad after all. But he’d no idea what the man meant by ‘Wot larx’. It didn’t seem to rhyme with
anything.

Hoxton Street was long, narrow and not particularly straight. It snaked its way from Shoreditch station almost to Dalston, fizzling out and changing names just short of the
Grand Union Canal. Halfway up it stood the Red Lion public house, and opposite the Red Lion stood Mrs O’Grady’s Boarding House – its trade announced by a hand-written card in the
ground floor window: ‘Furn. rooms avail. for respec. gents. No gippos.’ Outside the house was a small black car – a Bullnose Morris. By the Bullnose Morris was a nervous, pacing,
slyly smoking policeman, a cigarette cupped between his fingers, the glowing tip facing backwards, as though this simple precaution might make his illicit action the less obvious.

‘Put that bloody fag out!’ Stilton roared as he and Cal got out of the car.

Dobbs dropped the cigarette and ground it underfoot. Stilton pointed at the Bullnose Morris.

‘Troy?’ he said.

‘Upstairs, boss. I couldn’t stop ’im.’

‘Save it, lad. I’ll listen to your lies later.’

He led off, into the house. Cal followed. Inside the door, a large, stout, worried woman in a pinafore stood waiting, looking up the stairs. She turned when they entered.

‘Oh Mr Stilton, thank Gawd it’s you. What a to-do! What a to-do!’

Stilton ignored her display. Grief or fear or whatever.

‘First floor, is it?’ he asked, and headed up the stairs. Cal followed. Smiled at the woman. In return she told him once more what a to-do it was.

He stood behind Stilton, looking past him into the landing of the next floor, where a second staircase led to the floor above that. A man in a black cashmere overcoat was bending over the body
of a big man – barefoot, vest and trousers – crumpled at the foot of the stairs, the arms, legs and neck jammed between the wall, the banister rails and the floor at unnatural angles
– as though someone had picked up Pinocchio and just dropped him. The young man was talking to a white-haired man of sixty or so – a doctor, repacking his bag and looking at his
watch.

‘All I’m saying is that nothing like this can ever be open and shut.’

‘It’s as simple as this, Sergeant. He’s at the bottom of the stairs, the carpets are worn to buggery and he’s got his neck broken. I can’t see the mystery in
that.’

The younger man stood up. He looked tiny to Cal. No more than five foot six or seven – a mop of thick black hair falling across his forehead, so that he was forever sweeping it back with
one hand, and shining, black eyes in a pale face. He looked like a freshman student. Far too young to be a cop.

‘You’re wrong,’ he said bluntly. ‘The neck isn’t just broken, it’s twisted. We need a full post-mortem to determine the cause of death. We need
–’

And there Stilton cut him short.

‘Thank you, Mr Troy. Good of you to step into the breach. But this is a Branch matter, and I’ll take over now.’

‘I was just trying to tell the doctor, sir –’

‘I’ve spoken, lad. It’s my case.’

‘He’s one of yours?’ said Troy with a nod at the corpse.

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’

Troy walked out. For a second they exchanged glances. Cal found himself looking straight down into the black eyes as he passed, ebony mirrors reflecting back at him – and then he was gone.
Down the stairs, past Mrs O’Grady still lamenting such a ‘to-do’.

Stilton now bent over the body.

‘Bugger, bugger, bugger.’

The doctor clicked his bag shut, took one more look at his watch.

‘Important, was he?’

‘You could say that. Now, before you dash off to whatever’s made you look at your watch three times since I came into the room, cause of death. A professional opinion, if you
please.’

The doctor actually blushed a little. Not so stupid as not to know when he was being bawled out. Cal slipped in behind Stilton as he stood up to tackle the doctor and looked at the body for
himself.

‘Neck’s broken. Death was instantaneous. No marks to indicate any struggle. Your man on the door says he saw no-one come or go. Only other person in the house was the landlady. Ergo,
I conclude the poor sod tripped on the top step, tumbled all the way to the bottom and broke his blasted neck. Happens all the time. Houses like these are death traps. If it wasn’t for the
war we’d have ’em all shut down as health hazards.’

‘Thank you. You can get off to your dinner now. It was your dinner you were anxious not to miss wasn’t it?’

The doctor said nothing. Picked up his trilby, jammed it on his head, last symbol of his damaged pride, and left. Stilton bent to the body again. Side by side with Cal. Cal had only ever seen a
body once before, his maternal grandfather laid out in his casket – black suit, combed hair, mortician’s make-up, eyes shut. This man’s eyes were shut. He was almost prepared to
bet that the young cop had closed them himself. In seven years as a soldier he’d never heard a shot fired in anger, unless it was Gelbroaster’s the other night, and he’d never
seen a body that had just collapsed instantly into death like this. The heap that was death. A grim human puzzle. Take these parts, these tangled limbs, and rearrange them into human form.

‘You seen many corpses in your time, Mr Cormack?’

‘No,’ said Cal. ‘No, I haven’t.’

‘This is one Jerry I’d hoped to see live just a while longer. Long enough to find out what he was up to.’

They found Troy outside, leaning against the bonnet of his car, collar up. Hands deep in his pockets.

‘Was there something else, Sergeant?’

Troy stood upright. It made little difference to his size up against Stilton, but it indicated the right amount of deference to rank.

‘You know that’s no accident, don’t you?’

‘Mebbe.’

‘I’d recommend a full PM and Forensics out at Hendon. Whoever he was, and I’m sure you know better than I, he needs the works.’

‘I’ve handled suspicious deaths before, lad. I’ve seen dead bodies before.’

‘And I see them all the time. Forgive the plainness of this, sir – but murder is my business.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant. ’Appen you’re right. And right now we should both be about our business. Dobbs!!!’

Stilton strode across the road to where Dobbs was hastily stepping on another butt.

Troy opened the door of his car. Looked straight at Cal.

‘Are you working with Mr Stilton?’

‘I guess I am,’ said Cal.

‘Then I wish you luck,’ said Troy.

He drove off. Cal could hear Stilton bawling out Dobbs. Half London could hear Stilton bawling out Dobbs.

‘You were in the pub. Weren’t you? In the Lion. Supping ale when you should have been watching the door!’

‘Boss, it was so quiet. Nothing was –’

‘While you were wetting your slimy gizzard, someone slipped in and topped the bastard. Do you hear me Dobbs? We’ve lost him. He’s dead. Or did you think the Murder Squad sent
Troy out to check his ration book? You stupid, stupid bugger!’

‘Honest, boss, it won’t ’appen again!’

‘Too bloody right it won’t. Cos if it does they’ll be using your bollocks for target practice down at Bisley. Get in there now. Calm down old Peg before she bursts a blood
vessel. Get hold of the meat wagon and get matey carted off. Do a house to house. Talk to the whole damned street. When you’ve done all that, get back to the Yard. Write out a full report of
everything you’ve seen and done in the last seventy-two hours and have it on my desk before you go home tonight. Do I make myself clear, Mr Dobbs?’

When he came back to Cal, there was the whisper of a grin beneath the moustache.

‘That looked like fun.’

‘Oh it was Mr Cormack, I enjoyed every second of it.’

‘Good. Because I have a little advice for you.’

Stilton laughed out loud.

‘Come on, lad. Let’s hear it.’

‘That young cop is right.’

‘I know damn well he’s right.’

‘Then why did you ignore him?’

‘Let’s just say I don’t like being taught how to suck eggs by the likes of Frederick Troy. He may be Scotland Yard’s
wunderkind
,but as far as I’m concerned
he’s still wet behind the ears.’

‘Then you’ll order a full autopsy?’

‘Of course.’

‘The Works?’

‘You’re beginning to learn the jargon. But why do you ask?’

‘This is the bit you won’t like.’

‘Try me.’

‘This dead German was a hit man, right? An assassin?’

‘A Dutchman, but yes, an assassin.’

‘What kind of man gets the drop on a trained killer?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

‘Another trained killer?’

‘You think there’s another one?’

‘One? Maybe. Or do you have a whole bunch of trained killers on the loose?’

It was Stilton’s turn to look at his watch.

‘We’ve missed my Czech for tonight. Do you fancy a spot o’ dinner?’

‘You know a good restaurant?’

‘I wasn’t thinking of a restaurant. I was thinking – would you like to come home? Have something to eat with me and the wife?’

Cal said nothing. He was almost too
startled to speak. He’d primed himself for an eruption of bad temper, and he wound up with an invitation to dinner. He’d never been inside an Englishman’s home before. He’d
heard they all thought of them as castles.