The Stone-­Cold Dead in the Market Affair - Oram John (читать книги онлайн бесплатно регистрация .txt) 📗

"I know it," Solo massaged his aching head. "But I also know that these things have a strong superstitious value. And I think our little chum is going to move heaven and earth to get it back; so we have at least a starting point."

He picked up the telephone, dialed Blodwen's number in Newport. When she answered, he asked, "How soon can you make it to London?"

"Four hours. Maybe less, if I push it."

"Fine. Then get going."

"My God!" she said bitterly. "Don't you think a girl needs any sleep?"

It was five in the morning when she knocked on the door of suite A25. Illya, in pajamas and dressing gown, let her in.

"All right," she snapped. "Where's the fire?"

He said, "Don't ask me. This is Napoleon's party."

"Where is he?"

"Sleeping, I hope. He's had a hard night."

She spat out a rude Welsh word. "You think spending the night dodging trucks on the highway is a rest cure?" she demanded.

She dumped the poodle on the floor and peeled off her traveling coat. The poodle trotted happily around the room sniffing at the furniture, its stump tail wagging like a semaphore. Illya went to the telephone and called room service for coffee and toast.

Solo came from the bedroom. He was fully dressed, but his grooming was far from perfect. There was an ugly blue bruise from his swollen left ear to his cheekbone and his left eye was almost closed. He said, "You made good time. Thanks for coming."

"You're welcome." She stared at his battered face. "What hit you?"

He put a hand to his cheek. "A boot, I think. Forgive my lack of a shave. The skin's a bit sensitive."

"I can imagine. You should take something for it."

A bellboy arrived with the coffee, set the tray on a table convenient to the big couch, took his tip and went out quickly. The poodle trotted over to the table, sniffed, then got up on her hind legs and pirouetted like a ballet dancer, front paws outstretched.

"She can smell the toast," Blodwen explained. "That pooch has just one thought in the world. She's still to young for the other."

Illya poured the coffee and handed a cup to Blodwen. She said, "Thanks. Now, let's have the story."

Solo outlined the events of the previous evening. She listened without interruption. When he had finished she picked up the medallion and looked at both sides. Without raising her eyes, she asked, "What do you want me to do?"

He smiled. "Have you ever worked as a dance-hall hostess?"

"Me? Not on your celebrated nellie."

"Well, here's your chance to broaden your experience," Solo said. "I want you to get yourself a job at the Gloriana. That shouldn't be difficult. Keep your eyes and ears open for any odd scraps of information — but above all, wear the medallion in plain sight. Never show yourself without it."

"You think Anna is at the bottom of the nonsense?"

"I don't know," he replied. "But she's involved somewhere along the line. I want to know just how deeply."

"Check! And where do I live?"

"Get yourself a room in Soho — Greek Street, Wardour Street, somewhere like that. Not too expensive, but not too cheap, either. The kind of place any hardworking tramp would choose."

"That's what I love about you," Blodwen said. "You always pick the graceful phrase."

She stood up. "Now, if you boys will excuse me, I'll borrow the bedroom for an hour. I'm dead on my feet. Wake me at nine and I'll start house-hunting."

Chapter Ten

Solly Gold arrived at noon. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and his normally pale face looked almost deathly. A badly-rolled cigarette drooped from a corner of his mouth.

He took the whiskey Solo gave him, drained it at a gulp and held out the glass for a refill. He said, "At my time of life I've got to be up all night chasing stiffs. I should have my brains examined. You seen the dailies?"

Illya said, "We've read them. They don't say much."

"So what's to say? They got a body. They got a name for the body. The Yard is making inquiries. What else? You think the police are telling what they know?" He puffed futilely on the dead cigarette, took it out of his mouth, looked at it distastefully and tossed it into the fireplace.

"There's no doubt it was Price Hughes?" Solo asked.

"Not a chance. The face his own mother wouldn't recognize. Whoever carved him took a real pleasure in it. And there were no papers in his pockets. But the prints were positive."

"Fingerprints?" Illya repeated.

"Yeah, prints. It seems he wasn't always a do-gooder. Criminal Records had a full set of his dabs from 'way back.' For what, don't ask. Even me they're not telling." He sounded genuinely indignant.

"According to the Express the police have got a lead," Illya said.

"Oh, sure. Like always. You think they're going to admit they're up a gum tree? No weapon? No suspects? No motive? But one thing they have got. The old man was plenty dead when he was dumped on the Heath."

"You mean he was killed elsewhere?"

"A long ways elsewhere is my guess. And what's more, he was frozen practically stiff — like he'd been in a refrigerator a couple of days."

Solly accepted a third Scotch, eyeing Solo's bruises with professional interest. "Now," he said, "suppose you trade a little information. Like, for instance, how you got the shiner."

"All right — but it's strictly off the record. When the time's right you'll get it exclusive. Fair?"

"Fair," Solly confirmed. "Till you say so, I'm an oyster."

Solo told him the story.

He rolled another cigarette from coarse pipe tobacco and licked the paper thoughtfully. He had to relight the end three times before it would burn properly. At last he said, "If you're fingering Dancer for the murder you can think again. He'd kill his own brother for sixpence and sleep easy. But it's a matter of technique. Dancer's strictly a chiv man. With a knife he's an artist. And with him it's a business. Nothing personal, you understand. But this Hughes job — what a butchery! And the boy who did it had himself a ball." He considered. "Maybe you remember, there was a mob in Brooklyn that worked with Murder, Inc. They used choppers. It was that kind of job. Crude."

He went through the ritual of buttoning his raincoat to the chin, though the sun was hot on the windows of the room. "Got to go. Thanks for the drinks...and the lowdown. Anything I hear that we can't print, I'll keep you posted."

"Now what do you make of that?" Illya asked when the door had closed behind the reporter.

"You tell me. It's a mess. But some part of the answer's in the Gloriana. Dancer may not have been the killer, but five will get you ten it was his boot I felt last night. The raid, coming on top of our visit to Anna, was too coincidental. And who else knew exactly where to find us?"

"It could have been an ordinary prowler."

"Prowlers don't fool with the electrical fittings," Solo pointed out. "They get in, turn the place over, and get out fast. Our man seems to have been looking for information, not for loot."

"That makes sense. But what else have we got?"

Solo said, "The big tie-in is that Price Hughes owned the building, ran his business and lived — at least, for some of the time — next door to the Gloriana. If Solly is to be believed, and his information is usually twenty-carat, we also know that Anna was lying when she claimed she had no personal dealings with the old man. According to Solly, she gave Dancer his job because Hughes asked her to do it. Why lie about it? There's also the story that she came from Cardiff to London. That may mean a lot or nothing at all, but the Welsh background is certainly interesting.