The Stone-­Cold Dead in the Market Affair - Oram John - Страница 18

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"That sounds like our Anna," Solo said. "How many times has she blotted her copybook?"

Illya frowned. "Never. That's the strange thing. You could say her career has been colorful but circumspect. She's never been within shouting distance of trouble officially. Yet somewhere along the line she has managed to get together a very considerable fortune - which is at least unusual for Shanghai dancehall girls."

"Maybe the maharajah was generous."

"Maybe. And there's also a story that he was one of the principals in an international gold smuggling ring operating out of Bombay. But like everything else connected with Anna Soo Lee, it's unproved."

"Interesting, but unhelpful," Solo commented. "Well, I'm going to bed. Tomorrow looks like a tough day."

* * *

Business was brisk at the morning session of Bow Street Magistrates Court. Too-liberal celebrants of victory and defeat in an international football match at Wembley Stadium had swelled the crime-sheet. One by one, with blinding hangovers, they filed into the dock to listen dully to the recital of their errors on the night before. They were followed by the normal procession of ladies of the town who had bucked the provisions of the Street Offenses Act. Then Blodwen and French Louise were put together.

French Louise was a battered synthetic blonde with the elfin charm of a Sherman tank. She stood five feet two, weighed 140 pounds, and most of the avoirdupois was distributed around her chest and hips. The fingers that gripped the edge of the dock were short and thick, with bitten nails.

She listened sullenly while the young constable gave evidence of the battle on the Newport Street pavement. It was his first major arrest and he made quite a production of the story. He left no doubt in the minds of the court that French Louise had been the challenger.

"Anything known?" the magistrate asked.

Louise, it transpired, had a string of convictions for soliciting, shoplifting and disturbing the public peace ranging back to the days of Pearl Harbor.

"Have you anything to say for yourselves?"

They kept silent. The bench considered sentence.

Blodwen, as a first offender, escaped with a nominal fine. Louise was not so lucky. She got the maximum.

The size of the fine made her gasp. "You got to be joking," she said. "Where the hell would I find that kind of money?"

Blodwen cut in quickly, "I'll pay it, your honor."

He nodded. "Very well."

The clerk called the next case.

"You didn't have to do that," Louise said grudgingly as they walked to the office to pay the fines. "I wasn't asking no favors from you."

"Forget it," Blodwen said. "Why should you go inside for nothing? Honest to God, I never even met your boyfriend. Let's get the hell out of here and have a drink."

"Okay, then. If you've still got the price."

"Don't worry. My friend is in the pub down the street. He'll pay."

Solo was waiting in the paneled bar of the old Coach and Horses in Bow Street. He clucked sympathetically and told Louise, "They really threw the book at you."

"Yeah, the bums. Still, I suppose I asked for it."

Solo gave her a large gin and it went down in one gulp. He gave her another, and she said, "Thanks. That hits the spot."

There was still suspicion in her eyes, despite her forced friendliness. She said to Blodwen, "I'm not starting anything but I still want to know. If Scalesi didn't give you my luck-piece, where did you get hold of it?"

"I gave it to her," Solo said.

"And how did you come by it?" she demanded.

"I picked it up someplace," he said vaguely. "The question is, how do we know it was yours in the first place?"

"Ask any of the girls. They've all seen me wearing it. Till it got pinched, that is."

"Mind telling me where you got it?"

"That's my business. And why are you so goddamn interested, anyway?"

Solo took four five-pound notes from his pocket and laid them on the bar. "I'm just naturally curious," he said, "and I always pay for my whims."

"Well, it's no secret." She picked up the notes and put them in her shabby handbag. "I got it from the holy joe in Newport Street. You know, the old geezer who runs the New Beginnings lark."

"Was he trying to reform you?"

She laughed shortly. "In bed?"

Blodwen asked, "But what made you think your friend gave it to me?"

"Scalesi? He's no friend of mine. Not anymore," she said bitterly. "He beat the hell out of me and went off with everything he could lay his filthy paws on. The luck-piece was part of it."

"He sounds charming," Solo said. "When did this happen?"

"A couple of months ago. I've never laid eyes on him since."

"What does he look like?"

She opened her handbag, sorted through a conglomeration of letters, lipstick, compact, comb and other feminine junk and came up with a cracked, grubby snapshot. It had been taken on Brighton Pier and it showed a flashily good-looking young thug dressed in leather jacket and skin-tight jeans.

She said, "That's him. Keep it if you want to. Gawd knows he gave me plenty to remember him by — to my dying day."

Solo put the picture in his wallet. He put a pound note on the bar and said, "Have one for the road. Sorry we have to rush away."

She said indifferently, "Be seeing you around," and rapped on the counter for service.

Merle was at her post in the doorway when they returned to the house in Berwick Street. She looked relieved when she saw Blodwen step from the taxi.

"I've been worrying myself sick," she greeted her. "I thought they must've put you away. I warned you not to tangle with Louise, didn't I? She's murder, that bitch."

"It wasn't too bad," Blodwen said. "Cost me two quid. Come up to the flat. We want to talk to you."

She left Solo and Merle together in the sitting room and went into the kitchen to brew coffee.

Solo asked, "What do you know about a man called Scalesi?"

"I've heard Louise talk about him. She was living with him," Merle said. "I never saw him, though."

He showed her the snapshot, and she said, "You know the nicest people. That's not Scalesi. It's a lousy young tearaway called Pietro Bambini. You want my advice, you'll steer clear of him. He's a mad dog."

"You mean he's insane?"

"I mean he's crazy. He beats people up for the fun of it. He likes to see blood. Real professionals won't work with him. He scares them stiff. They know one day he'll do a 'topping' job — you know, murder — they don't want to be around when it happens."

Blodwen came in with the coffee. She asked, "Where does this charmer hang out? We'd like to meet him."

"Meet him?" she repeated. "Are you out of your mind? Didn't Louise tell you what he done to her?"

She grew suddenly cautious. "Look, who are you two, anyway? I don't like all these questions, and I thought there was something screwy about you from the first. What are you up to?"

Solo said, "We're not police, if that's what is worrying you. We represent an international organization known as U.N.C.L.E., with headquarters in New York." He showed her his identification card. "You can do a big service to your country and to the world if you help us."

"You could've come clean in the first place," she grumbled. "I've read about U.N.C.L.E. in one of the magazines. Some kind of secret service, isn't it?"

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