the purloined parure 15

 

Chapter 15

 

“Had you any plans for the afternoon, Armitage?” asked Barrett.

“I was planning on running out to Ealing to track down ‘Pooch’ Robson and ‘Odds’ Pleasance, to check an alibi,” said Alexander. “But I can put it off if you have something you want me to do; though it should really be done today, as I’m expecting to be set upon by as nasty a pair of villains as I’ve ever met, and I’m not excluding the Hun.”

 “Yes, I’ve been reading your reports, truly unpleasant,” said Barrett.

“You wait until they get in the autopsy on the partly composted Marty,” said Alexander, grimly. “Poor little bastard probably either died of shock or bled out from major blood vessels if I read correctly what the police surgeon hinted at being found in the house by the search team I sent in.”

“How singularly... dear me, I am not often shocked,” said Barrett.

“No, quite,” said Alexander. “He’s reading psychology books again; it makes him come over all Freud and fury, signifying very little but with enough truth there to make illuminating reading if you discard every conclusion he makes and go for the basics.”

“Do you have to mangle Shakespeare?” asked Barrett, waspishly.

“It seemed appropriate to the moment,” said Alexander, meekly. “‘Sound and fury, signifying nothing’ is what a lot of psychology sounds like to me.”

“Well, the half-baked stuff the half-trained spout off, anyway,” said Barrett, who agreed that an excess of psychology addled a man’s wits. “There was a fellow in court the other day trying to claim that he had taken to raping adolescent boys in the school where he teaches because his mother poked him with the nappy-pin when he was a baby, simultaneously putting him off women anywhere in that region and making him conscious of his back passage and having to have his nappy emptied.”

“Good lord, some of them will claim anything if they think it makes them more interesting than nasty vicious scum who prey on kids,” said Alexander. “What did you want me to do?”

“Round up Barty Tolliver for using the old time-lag racetrack trick.”

“Oh, where the mark’s in a room with a clock put back, and someone telephones in tips, and the mark thinks the race is ongoing, and gets excited enough to bet a huge amount on a horse that doesn’t win?” said Alexander.

“Yes, and Barty might even be happy to be picked up, because he picked the wrong mark,” said Barrett, with vicious enjoyment. “Instead of some poor old boy who flutters with his pension every raceday and can be conned out of all his savings, he picked Harry Shearer.”

Alexander winced.

“And Harry sails close to the law himself, and won’t hesitate to set several hefty torpedos on Tolliver,” he said.

“Must you use American slang like ‘torpedos’ for muscle men?”

“The naval fliers who flew Sopwith Cuckoos dropped torpedos and refer to them as ‘mouldies’ and if you can think of anything more atrophied and mouldy than the brain and conscience of most muscle, I’d be surprised,” said Alexander.

Barrett snorted.

“They’re muscle without any brain or conscience; tell it like it is, and don’t go cuckoo yourself.”

“Yessir,” said Alexander, who knew when his whimsies had gone quite far enough. “Who’s Barty’s partner, do we know?”

“According to Shearer, who was being unwontedly forthcoming until he realised a constable was taking down every word, it was some ferretty little fellow with a taste in loud checked suits and garish yellow and blue ties,” said Barratt.

“Bertie Briscowe. And the constable wasn’t pounded?”

“No, you can say what you like about Harry Shearer and his illegal nightclubs, but he doesn’t beat on women.”

“Aren’t they supposed to go around in pairs, like nuns?” asked Alexander.

“Yes, well, seemingly they had only popped into the pub because t’other one had the call of nature... which judging by the embarrassment levels meant the monthlies, not a need for a jimmy riddle... uh, you know about that, not being a married man?”

“Sisters,” said Alexander. “Well, I can sympathise with that; the idea of blood pouring out for days on end and not a scar to show for one’s bravery makes me wince.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Barrett. “And the mood swings.”

“Been there,” said Alexander.

There was a moment’s shared silence of men in adversity.

“So, Barty and Bertie were two pretty men...” murmured Alexander.

“What’s that from, Gilbert and Sullivan?”

“Mother Goose; it’s a nursery rhyme,” said Alexander. He quoted,

“Robin and Richard were two pretty men;

They stayed in bed till the clock struck ten.

Then up starts Robin and looks at the sky:

‘Oh, brother Richard, the sun's very high

.You go before with the bottle and bag,

And I will come after on little Jack nag.’”

“Not one I know, but very appropriate; that sort of villain is usually up late into the night and lays in bed half the day, and they sound very shady,” said Barrett.

“I hadn’t thought of it in the nursery, but they really do,” said Alexander, cheerfully. “Terrible things these nursery rhymes teach children. Look at Tom, Tom, the piper’s son, who stole a pig and away did run.”

“Well, at least he was beaten for his theft if I recall correctly,” said Barrett. “Nursery rhymes! Honestly! I don’t have time to waste on nursery rhymes! Go sort out that alibi first and see if either of those two knows where Barty Tolliver has gone to ground, with or without Bertie Briscowe. They might be glad of the warning that Harry Shearer is on the warpath.”

“Yes, and I need to pick them up before they hear it, and scarper, themselves,” said Alexander. “Can I borrow a car and driver?”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

“I sent the fellow I think is going to be used as a scapegoat to my parents as I can’t keep him in custody any longer, and his relatives think he’s in the wind as he stormed out on my suggestion, to be collected by Campbell.”

“Careful you don’t fall into entrapment.”

“I don’t think I do.  They know I’m holding the parure, and I have the case in my flat here, so I hope that means that they attempt to attack me, and then I have an open and shut case against them. Campbell should be having a sleep in my bed right now, to be fresh overnight. I borrowed Harris and Teal as well, to lurk, sending them home for a few hours.”

“Wise,” said Barrett. “Surely they won’t attack a senior police officer? You would identify them.”

“Not if I was dead, I wouldn’t,” said Alexander. “I have every expectation that they mean to torture me to find out where it is, as it isn’t in the case, and then kill me. Campbell has orders to make himself scarce until they start.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it much either; but we can’t rely on finger prints and they are clever, cunning, and ruthless and I suspect they could play any jury like a gramophone.”

“Did they wipe the tools that got left?”

“Yes, and they were taken from the house itself, where the outdoor man had a toolshed. I had hoped they had stolen them from their own chauffeur, but no such luck. And the bits and pieces of cages for the rats didn’t carry enough prints to be useful.”

“A pity.”

“That’s life,” said Alexander.

 

 

The plainclothes man in the unmarked car dropped Alexander off. He sauntered into the Three Pigeons, being one of two pubs where he guessed the men he was looking for might be. The other, the Penny Flyer, was where Freddy had found them, but they had their habits, and towards closing time around lunch, the Three Pigeons should find one at least of them.

He was lucky; if he had missed them, he would have had to wait until the evening.

He moved forward silently and dropped an arm each around two shoulders.

“Mr. Robson, Mr. Pleasance, what a pleasure for me,” he said.

“Oh Gawd! It’s a bleedin’ flatfoot,” said ‘Pooch’ Robson. “I’m clean, squire, straight up I am.”

“I’m not here to make a pinch, as it happens,” said Alexander. “I need to check a man’s alibi.”

“Well, he was with us if he says he was,” said ‘Odds’ Pleasance.

“It’s not so easy as that,” said Alexander.  “I am after someone who tortured little Marty Beauchamp to death; and I wager you know him.”

“We might do,” said Pooch.

“Sneak thief, doesn’t need to steal, but can’t keep his hands off other people’s collectables, books and chinaware his specialities,” said Alexander. “Usually steals – stole, I should say, poor little sod – to order for collectors. Pigeon fancier in his spare time, may have ratted you up to get his cousin into trouble.”

“Oh, that Marty Beauchamp,” said Odds. “No ’arm to ’im, an’ ’e don’t despise a flutter on the dogs.”

“Well, someone did him to death; and there has been some suggestion it was his cousin, Freddy.”

“Freddy wouldn’t torture nobody,” said Pooch, instantly. “Not like that little shit he brought once, asked if a dog wouldn’t run faster if you opened the skin near its tail and sewed a load of wasps inside. Little bastard, and Freddy took his belt to him.”

“So I should hope,” said Alexander. “It was a Sunday. First Sunday after the full moon, you had a meet, he was taken to it from the Penny Flyer.”

“Not admitting to anything,” said Pooch, “But I remember seeing Freddy about then. He wasn’t happy.”

“When is ’e?” asked Odds. “’E dropped a packet, but no more’n usual.”

“And you can vouch for him all evening?”

“And at the club ’ouse after,” said Odds. “Someone dropped him off near enough to ’is pa’s place to walk ’ome.  Wasn’t fit to change tubes even if it was open; wasn’t near enough five of the morning to make it worth while.”

“Thanks,” said Alexander. “Can I write that out and get you to sign it?”

“I s’pose,” said Pooch, suspiciously. “We don’t have to say where we were with him, do we?”

“No, you can say at a club where you share a mutual interest,” said Alexander. “I’m only interested in dirty tricks at race venues, and worry that illegal races increase the chances.”

“Oh, we seen some,” said Odds. “Funny ’ow people wot try that go swimming wiv a few ol’ pipes tied to them.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Alexander.  “And whilst I have your attention, do you know where I might find Barty Tolliver or Bertie Briscowe?”

“What for do you want them?” asked Pooch.

“They tried to stiff Harry Shearer,” said Alexander.

“We don’t know them at all,” said Pooch, hastily

“Nah, and don’t want to,” said Odds.

“If you did know them where would be a good place to go looking?” asked Alexander.

The men exchanged looks.

“They might of gone to ground in the Pascal Street area, out Nine Elms way,” said Pooch. “Heap o’ old Victorian tenements due for slum clearance. Plenty o’ places to hide out while there’re fights over whose responsibility it is.”

“An’ an ’ole ’eap o’ people moved out wot moved back in,” said Odds.

“But if you find them, we didn’t tell you nuffing,” said Pooch.

“Never even saw you,” said Alexander, obligingly. “Well, if you see them before I do, tell them they’ll be safer on the inside than out, and we’re happy to receive visitors if they find themselves seized with the urge of confession. Here you both are, statements to sign.”

The two petty criminals read through what they were signing and appended their signatures.

“I don’t hold with torture,” said Pooch.

“Nor do I,” said Alexander. “Nor do I.”

 

“Fancy a run out to Vauxhall?” asked Alexander, of his driver.

“Is that where you want to go, sir?” asked the driver.

“It is,” said Alexander, stifling a sigh. The young man was almost rigidly proper.

 

There were a number of Victorian tenements scheduled for demolition in Pascal Street, and Alexander sighed. A long search would ensue, and his quarry quite likely to slip out the back and through alleys they knew better than him. Well, he could look.

“Nip down the back, and nab anyone who comes running out,” said Alexander.

His driver gave him a long-suffering and jaundiced look.

“Shall I find a telephone to call for help?” he asked.

“You can surely manage a pair of bunco lads on your own?” said Alexander. “Whistle when you go after them.”

The driver sighed.

“Yes, sir,” he said.