The Stone-Cold Dead in the Market Affair - Oram John - Страница 19
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"Near enough," Solo admitted.
"Yeah. Well, just because I'm in my business don't mean I'm not a good citizen. I pay my bills and taxes, don't I? What do you want from me?"
"Tell us about Bambini."
"Him I don't want no part of," she said emphatically. "He's poison, and I still say keep away. If he thought I'd ratted on him, he'd cut my heart out."
"We'll see you're protected," Blodwen promised. "Just tell us where we can find him."
"Who knows," she said. "He's in and out of the Gloriana most evenings, though I haven't seen him lately. He drives a car for that Chinese dame who owns the place."
"Anna?"
"Yes, that's her. It's a big black job, very classy. She keeps it in a mews garage off Tottenham Court Road. Bambini lives in a room over the top." She gave them the address.
Solo said, "Thank you. Now, just one more thing. Did you ever go into the kitchens at the Gloriana?"
She looked surprised. "Yes, one or twice. Why?"
"Have they got a refrigerator there?"
"They've got a cold storeroom," she said, "big enough to hold an ox."
"I thought they might have." He nodded. "Things are beginning to add up nicely."
Chapter Twelve
The mews was off Stephen Street, not far from the junction of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. If was a cul-de-sac about one hundred and fifty yards long which at one time had housed the carriages of noble families. Now the stables had been converted into lock-up garages with apartments above.
Illya drove to the far end of the mews, made a U-turn and parked with the front of the Cortina facing into Stephen Street. He remained sitting behind the wheel while Solo got out and walked back, looking for the number Merle had given him. He found it halfway down the right-hand side: a pair of green-painted garage doors with a smaller door beside them.
He pressed the doorbell on the small door and waited. There was no response. He took out a bunch of keys and tried the lock on the garage doors. At the third attempt it clicked. He swung the doors wide enough to admit his body, then pulled them shut behind him.
Enough daylight filtered through the grimy windows for him to see that the car was a black Humber Hawk. The front bumper was decorated with a row of automobile club emblems, but on the near side there was a gap that showed up like a broken tooth. Examining the bracket with his flashlight, Solo could see that the missing emblem had been torn violently from its place.
The leather upholstery of the seats was clean. There was nothing but a road map and a spare lamp bulb in the glove compartment on the dashboard. The pockets in the car doors were empty.
Solo went to the back of the car and unlocked the trunk. The flashlight beam illumined a crumpled length of burlap and a jack. There were dark stains on the burlap that could have been oil or blood.
Solo took out his pocketknife, cut a small piece from the stained material and tucked it into an envelope. He closed the trunk quietly, then went out and let the doors click shut.
"Any luck?" Illya asked as the Cortina moved out into Stephen Street.
"I don't know," Solo said, "but I think it's time we had words with Solly Gold."
The hands of the clock over the Law Courts were pointing to half-past seven when they went into the Wig and Pen Club in the Strand.
The Wig and Pen is housed in the only building in the Strand that can claim to have survived both the Fire of London in 1666 and the Fire Blitz in 1940-41. There is no elevator to the penthouse restaurant because the three-hundred-year-old staircase, the only one of its kind, is protected under the Ancient Monuments Act. Despite the recent invasion of expense-account types from advertising and public relations, the club retains much of its original character as a rendezvous for barristers and top newspapermen.
Except for Monty, the barman, the Front Page Bar's only occupant was Solly Gold. He was sitting on a high stool at the far end of the counter, nursing a whiskey straight. He looked undressed without his raincoat.
He said, "So what brings you to the fabled Street of Adventure — and bushwah? Have a drink?"
"Don't ever let the boys on the Bugle hear you say that," Solo advised. "What do you know about a hoodlum called Pietro Bambini?"
"Enough," Solly said. "Born in Greek Street, Soho, father unknown. His mother was an Italian waitress — part of the time. Educated, approved schools and Borstal. Ran with the Focacci mob until the Carey brothers chased Focacci out of the West End and took over. Now he's a freelance, hiring out for the really dirty work. He'd cut his own mother up for kicks. He's a nutter. And vicious with it."
"That's the way I hear it. Did you know he drives for Anna?"
"No. That's new. I'd say she was taking a chance. Like I say, he's no tame bunny. You're sure of your facts?"
"Pretty sure."
"Funny. I'd have thought she was smarter. Now why would she want to bother with a schlemiel like Bambini?"
"That," said Solo, "is the jackpot question."
He outlined the events of the night and day, keeping only Merle's name out of the story. When he told of his visit to the garage in the news, Solly's eyes suddenly gleamed behind the steel-rimmed spectacles.
He asked, "You're positive one of the emblems had been smashed off the bracket? It couldn't have been cut off or rusted off?"
"Positive. The break was jagged and the metal was twisted as if somebody had hit it with a sledge-hammer."
Solly said, "It's time you brought the Yard in on this. The night Hughes's body was found on Hampstead Heath a hit and run driver killed a motorcyclist on the Spaniards Road near Jack Straw's Castle."
Solo explained to Illya, "That's the road that runs along the top of the Heath just north of the Vale of Heath. It's on a direct route to the center of London."
"Check," said Solly. "And guess what they found by the smashed bike."
"I'm ahead of you," Solo said. "And they'd have it at the Yard?"
"Believe me, they're treasuring it. And that bit of sacking you clipped — the lab boys would like to see that, too."
"Fine. Whom do I call?"
Solly drained his glass and stood up. "Leave it to me. It'll be a pleasure."
He retrieved his raincoat from Ted, the porter, and hurried off to the cab rank in the shadow of St. Clement Danes.
Solo and Illya strolled leisurely along the Strand to the hotel. They found Blodwen waiting in the suite. She had washed the henna out of her hair and removed the blue-irised contact lenses. She had switched to a lightweight tweed and had exchanged the stiletto-heeled patent leathers for London-tan walking shoes. Dolly, the poodle, was freshly shampooed and curled and sported a brand-new collar.
"There's no point in keeping the apartment now that Merle knows who I am, and those contact lenses hurt like hell," Blodwen explained. "I've checked in on the floor below, where I'll be handy if you need me. Right now I propose to catch dinner and have an early night."
"We'll join you," Illya said. "For dinner, of course."
They had reached the coffee stage when Solly Gold approached their table with a companion.
"I phoned your number and the switchboard told me where to find you," he said. "This is Detective-Inspector Jevons, of the C.I.D."
Jevons looked nothing like the sleuths of popular fiction. He had close-cropped iron gray hair, blue eyes set rather too close to an over-large nose, prominent ears and a hard square jaw. He wore a navy blue, double-breasted suit, a white shirt and collar with a dark gray tie, and black shoes with rounded toes.
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