The Shadow of Treason (12 page)

‘Cheerio, Bert. See you tomorrow.’

The first of the company to leave was the pianist, Ronnie Bridges. It didn’t take him long to change from dinner jacket to casual clothes, and he was keen to get back to his home in Essex.

‘Good night, Ronnie,’ said Bert. It was all first names at the Windmill: except, of course, for the manager, Vivian Van Damm. He was always ‘Mr Van Damm’ to his face, and ‘VD’ behind his back.

Bert resumed his survey. He was used to men lingering near the stage door. Many of them he knew: regular boyfriends of Windmill girls. Others were fans or admirers, anxious to greet a favourite as she came out and perhaps strike up an
acquaintance
.

The girls were adept at brushing off unwanted approaches politely but firmly. If he saw a girl being harassed, Bert was always ready to step out and intervene. It seldom happened. But he liked to keep a watchful eye.

Tonight he was a little concerned about two large men standing together in a doorway across the street. They seemed anxious to stay back in the shadows. But the reflected
moonlight
allowed Bert to see two craggy faces, watching the stage door intently. He sensed something different about this pair: something, perhaps, a little sinister. One was smoking a cheap, small cigar, and the aroma was filtering across the street in the still air. Bert felt these two could be trouble.

Monk wished Inspector Jessett wouldn’t smoke those damned little cigars. To him, they smelt like a garden bonfire, on which someone had carelessly left a Wellington boot. But it was
something
he’d had to learn to live with.

Jessett glanced at the luminous dial on his watch and found it was 10.40. ‘Why does it take them so long to put on a few clothes?’ he grumbled.

Monk grinned. ‘Well, most of them have to start from scratch.’ And then, savouring a happy memory, he added, ‘I reckon that Hart girl’s quite a looker.’

‘Yes. I noticed you studying her features very carefully.’

‘In the line of duty, sir. We need to spot her quickly when she comes out, don’t we? She won’t hang about. And she might be with a bunch of people.’

‘We’ll spot her all right. And then we’ll have to be quick. You parked your car in Rupert Street?’

‘That’s right, sir. As instructed.’

‘Good. And my car’s in Great Windmill Street. So, if she turns left when she comes out and gets in a car, we follow her in mine. If she goes the other way, we use yours.’

‘She doesn’t look the sort who’d be running a car. Specially in wartime.’

‘You never know. These theatricals often have rich friends.’

‘I bet she goes home on the tube.’

‘Tube or bus, there’s no problem. We follow her wherever. We could leave the cars where they are till the morning.’

Jessett’s cigar was burned almost down to his lips. He dropped the stub and ground it under his right boot. ‘I wish they’d get a bloody move on.’

Monk could see that his boss was getting irritated. He switched the subject. ‘That was a long spell with the
superintendent
this afternoon, sir. Was he giving you a hard time?’

‘He tried to. It seems we’re under pressure from the Tilfleet Chamber of Commerce. They want a result on that post office blag. The local shopkeepers are worried.’

‘You told him we’d fingered Reggie Paynter?’

‘Yes. That pleased him. The super’s been wanting Paynter locked up ever since he turned up on our patch. I told him I’ve got the warrant, and we can do him for robbery and GBH.’

‘Ah. That’ll put him away for eight to ten years.’

‘Right. Now the only problem is finding him. Ever since he left his wife, there’s no address.’

‘We can pick him up at The Bull, can’t we?’

‘I doubt it. Once news of the warrant gets round, he’ll be making himself scarce, and you can bet it’s got round already. Ah, they’ve started coming out.’

Several of the male dancers had emerged from the stage door, and were being warmly greeted by some of the waiting young men.

‘The boys,’ Monk observed. ‘Always the quickest.’

‘That’s true,’ said Jessett. ‘They don’t put on quite so much make-up.’

‘We could nick a few of them, if we followed them down to Leicester Square.’

‘Not tonight, Josephine,’ said Jessett. ‘Tonight we follow the lady.’ And then he checked himself. ‘At least, I think we do.’ His gaze had fallen on two men waiting on the other side of the road, close to the Windmill stage door. He’d been vaguely aware of them standing around almost as long as he and Monk
had: now he’d noticed something. He lowered his voice. ‘What d’you make of those two jokers over there? Anything familiar about the tall one?’

‘Not really,’ said Monk. ‘I can’t see his face.’

And then, for a moment, he could. The tall man had struck a match to light his cigarette, and his face was briefly illuminated.

‘Yes, I can!’ said Monk, with quiet excitement. ‘That’s Reggie Paynter!’

‘Talk of the devil!’ said Jessett, equally quietly. ‘It’s Reggie Paynter all right. He must fancy one of the Windmill birds.’

‘So what do we do?’ asked Monk. ‘Do we still wait for the Hart girl?’

‘No,’ said Jessett. ‘She’s always here, we can come back another night. We can’t miss this chance of nabbing Paynter.’

Monk had a suggestion. ‘What if you nick him while I wait for the girl?’

‘No, thank you, Arthur,’ said Jessett. ‘There’s two of them. And it’s a pound to a penny his oppo’s another villain. It needs both of us. Have you got cuffs?’

Monk checked the handcuffs in his overcoat pocket. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘OK,’ said Jessett. ‘Here we go. Don’t bother with the other bloke. Get the cuffs on Paynter, double-quick.’

The two policemen strolled casually across the street. As they neared their prey, Monk detached himself, on a course that would take him round behind Paynter. Jessett approached from the front, with a friendly smile on his face.

‘Evening, Reggie,’ said the inspector. ‘We’d like a word if you don’t—’ He didn’t finish the sentence. Reggie Paynter still had the fast reflexes of a boxer, and he could spot a policeman a mile off.

Before Monk could grab his arm, Paynter punched Jessett hard in the stomach, doubling him up. Then, sensing danger behind him, he spun round and butted Monk hard in the face. ‘It’s the law!’ he shouted to Garrett. And then he ran. As Jessett and Monk staggered back, Garrett also took to his heels. With the hunted man’s instinct to halve the pursuit, he fled in the
opposite direction. Paynter was running west towards Great Windmill Street. Garrett ran east into Rupert Street.

Monk and Jessett were not confused: Paynter was their target. Recovering swiftly, they set off after him, scattering pedestrians as they charged along the narrow pavement. Monk produced a police whistle, and was blowing it with all the breath he could muster.

Piccadilly Circus was still shrouded in wartime gloom, with Eros boarded up for the duration. No one was sure why. The planking would offer no protection against bombs. The popular view was that the boards were there to protect the statue from revellers when Victory Night finally arrived. But that still seemed a long way off, as Paynter ran down Great Windmill Street and into the darkened Circus. The neon lights which once lit up the hub of the British Empire were still extinguished. There was some traffic but it moved cautiously.

Cursing the moonlight, Paynter sprinted on. His first instinct had been to dash into the tube station and get on a train. But then he realized that could be a trap. Waiting for a train that didn’t come, he’d have nowhere to run when the police caught up with him. He decided to charge on, down Lower Regent Street, and lose himself in pitch-dark St James’s Park.

Walking up Lower Regent Street, in the opposite direction, was Police Constable Henry Day, coming to the end of his evening patrol. He’d had two lights put out that were
contravening
the blackout, and he’d cautioned three courting couples in the park. Otherwise, it had been an uneventful spell of duty. But now, as he approached Charles the Second Street, he heard shrill blasts from a police whistle and saw a man hurtling towards him. He read the situation instantly, stood in the middle of the path, and raised one hand, in the way he did when stopping traffic.

Reggie Paynter saw this uniformed figure blocking his way, and knew what he had to do. Adding pugilistic skill to the momentum of his run, he swung a huge round-arm punch at the constable’s head. This was a misjudgment. Constable Day
was at that time a Southern Area Amateur Boxing Champion. He easily ducked the swinging fist, and then felled Paynter with one mighty blow. As Paynter hit the pavement, Jessett and Monk came puffing towards them, the latter gratefully taking the whistle from his lips.

Back in Archer Street, Vic Dudley and Jane Hart were about to pass through the stage-door. They’d heard the police whistle.

‘What’s up out there?’ asked Vic.

‘Bit of aggro,’ said Bert. ‘Couple of heavies been hanging round for half an hour. They got into a punch-up with some other blokes, then they all ran off.’

‘Oh well, that’s Soho for you,’ said Vic. And with that, Vic Dudley and Jane Hart walked to Rupert Street and hailed a taxi.

Unlike Maggie, Vic Dudley liked to eat in the morning. Before going off to work, he always required a large brunch, and this he now shared with his guests. At heart, Vic was an egg-
and-bacon
man, but wartime rationing limited that to Sundays. Happily, baked beans were still plentiful and played a large part in Vic’s diet. For brunch, they were always preceded by porridge. Vic was now eating a large bowl of what he called Tartan Tack. This meant that, before tipping milk and sugar onto his porridge, he’d stirred in a measure of whisky. ‘A mark of respect for our Scottish friends,’ he maintained.

He savoured his first spoonful, swallowed it, and said, ‘I’ve been thinking about last night.’

Adam and Jane were eating cereals and drinking large
quantities
of tea.

‘What about last night?’ asked Adam.

‘Bert said there were two heavies hanging round the stage door. I reckon they might have been coppers. Someone out there was blowing a police whistle, right?’

‘Why would police be watching our stage door?’ asked Jane.

‘They could have been waiting for you.’

‘Me?’

‘Listen, they want to nick Adam here, right? They might have
guessed he’s likely to be with you. No use asking, you wouldn’t let on. But they could have sussed that if they followed you home from the ’Mill, they might get lucky.’

‘But no one did follow us, did they?’ said Jane.

‘Apparently not,’ said Vic. ‘Or they’d have been knocking on the door by now. But Bert said these geezers got in a punch-up. Maybe they were going to follow you and that stopped them.’

‘In which case we’ve got a problem,’ said Adam. ‘If Vic’s right, they’ll follow you another night. What can we do about that?’

‘I can’t stop going to work, can I?’

‘Don’t worry, darling, Uncle Vic’s got it all worked out. There’s a fire door on the other side of the theatre, opens onto the mews, where VD parks his car.’

‘I didn’t know about that.’

‘Not many people do, that’s the idea. There’s room for two cars by that door. I’ll square VD to leave my car there and let us use that exit. No one will be watching there. I can have you out of the building and on your way home quicker than a rat up a drainpipe.’

Jane gave him a big smile. ‘Vic, you’re an angel. I’ve never been compared to a rat before, but it’s a great idea. But will VD agree?’

‘Yes. He wants me to sign a new contract.’

Adam drained his tea mug. ‘I don’t know about angels, Vic, but you’re a hell of a good friend.’

‘Can’t help it, chum. My mum was bitten by a nun.’ Vic poured more whisky on his porridge and offered some to Jane and Adam, who declined. ‘Right, that’s that problem settled. What plans have you two got?’

‘I’m working today,’ said Jane.

‘You worked yesterday, you should be off today.’

‘I agreed to swap with Annie Baker. She has to go to the dentist.’

‘Oh well, that’ll be more fun than listening to the Accordion Aces. So we’ll go in together again, OK? And for the next few weeks I’ll use the car.’

‘Thanks. Have you got enough petrol?’

‘Gallons. Alfie Allen sold me his coupons.’ Vic finished his porridge and turned to Adam. ‘Sorry, mate. You’ve got another day indoors on your own.’

‘Until this evening,’ said Adam. ‘Then I’m going to a pub.’

‘Hey! Is that wise? I thought you were lying low?’

‘Can’t lie low for ever, can I? Jane and I have talked it over. The best way to prove I didn’t kill that bastard Cooper is to find out who did.’

‘Come off it – you’ve seen too many Hollywood movies. You’re not Alan Ladd. How are you going to start? You’ve got nothing to go on.’

‘Yes, I have. Cooper was up to his neck in the Tilfleet black market, involved with some very rough characters. We reckon he may have got himself killed by crossing the local gangsters. Anyway, it’s a starting point.’

‘And if they’re as rough as you say, it could be a finishing point. You’ll have to be careful.’

‘I’ll be careful. Jane’s discovered the Tilfleet villains hang around a pub called The Bull. That’s where I’m going. I’ll say I was a friend of Maurice Cooper, and I’m after some black market booze. See who reacts.’

‘Just a minute. If you go to a pub, someone’s likely to
recognize
you. Your picture’s in all the papers.’

‘Not any more, Vic, haven’t you noticed? I’ve been pushed out by the Cleft Chin Murder.’

The police were currently searching for an American army deserter and his girlfriend, who’d robbed and killed a London cab driver. The victim had a cleft chin, which enabled the newspapers to pin a label on the case. Pictures of the cabbie and the American had largely replaced Adam’s on the front pages.

‘I’m getting to be old news,’ said Adam. ‘Also, I hope this face fungus is starting to hide my natural good looks. And I’ll be travelling in the dark.’

‘Do you approve of this, Jane?’

‘Not much. But we have to do something. I just wish Adam would wait till tomorrow, so I could go with him.’