They Never Looked Inside (19 page)

“Yes, yes,” said McCann desperately, “my fiancée. Such a dear girl – quite
petite,
though.”

“And what was her favourite colour?”

“Apple-green,” said McCann.

“Ah, she is a blonde—” Having made this triumphant deduction Mrs. Abrahams drew aside a heavy brocade curtain, and negligently knocked a couple of dozen hat boxes on to the floor. From the pile she selected three.

“You are interested in women, perhaps,” said Mrs. Abrahams. This sounded more promising.

“Ah, yes. Yes, why certainly.”

It was at times like this that McCann regretted that he was clean-shaven. It was definitely a moustache-twirling moment.

“I am glad of that,” said Mrs. Abrahams. “It makes you a more sympathetic customer.”

She displayed the first hat, which was of powder blue felt, shaped in a truncated cone and draped with a few careless strands of Heinz Spaghetti.

McCann swallowed hard and asked to see the next.

“Ah, you are discerning,” said Mrs. Abrahams, “that was a cheap model. Now this one—”

She revealed a small island of soft fur felt in the middle of a waterfall of feathers and pompoms of duck-egg blue.

Might as well be stung for a sheep as a lamb, thought McCann. “No, I don’t like that,” he said boldly.

Mrs. Abrahams positively beamed.

“Ah, you are a connoisseur,” she cried. “You save the best till the last.”

With loving care she parted the tissue paper and revealed the third of her trophies.

This was a startlingly simple hat of the colour of a very old brown sherry, adorned with a single minute gold feather.

Well, anyway, said McCann to himself ingenuously, a simple little thing like that can’t cost too much.

“I’ll take it,” he said. “I think it should be—er—very suitable. How much is it?”

“You are a lucky young man,” said Mrs. Abrahams, with that genuine fervour which is the essence of all true salesmanship, “to find such a hat at such a price. Fifteen guineas.”

McCann clutched the counter for support, and at last succeeded in saying: “That’s a little more than I had—er— anticipated.”

“If you haven’t got the money on you,” said Mrs. Abrahams, giving him a shrewd look, “a cheque will do instead.”

McCann was feeling for his cheque book when he saw the warning light. Since coming to the Market he had gone under the name of Melluish – and under this name had registered at the Leopard. His bank, however, were not in the secret and would be a trifle surprised, to say the least of it, to receive cheques signed by
nom de plume.

“I think I can manage in notes,” he said at last.

“That’s all right, then,” said Mrs. Abrahams smoothly, as she continued to swathe and tie his purchase.

Having paid his money, McCann felt that he should at least make one attempt at leading the conversation in the desired direction. Putting on a nauseating smirk, which sat ill on his angular Scots countenance, he said: “I suppose you get a lot of pretty girls in here, eh?”

The question was answered from an unexpected quarter.

“Really,” said a voice behind him, “the things some men will say.”

Turning, he saw the young man whom Sergeant Dalgetty had so unceremoniously ejected from the public bar of the Leopard the night before.

“Ah, Ronnie,” said Mrs. Abrahams, “how are you, dear boy?”

“Rapturous,” said Ronnie. “I see you are entertaining a celebrity.”

Both Mrs. Abrahams and McCann looked a bit blank at this.

“What!” cried Ronnie. “You didn’t know. Why, it’s all over the Market. This is the famous author who’s staying with Kitty Carter at the Leopard, Mr. Melluish.”

“Well, there now, Mr. Melluish,” said Mrs. Abrahams graciously, “I’d no idea you were an author. Don’t go putting
me
in your next book,” she added hopefully.

McCann had been doing some rapid thinking. He could guess whom he had to thank for his new role – not a bad idea, at that. More than one author had come to live in the area and, indeed, a whimsical novel by one of them (
The Little Shepherdess of Shepherd’s Market
) had recently appeared and had some success.

“I should have described myself as a journalist more than an author,” he said.

“Oh, you’re too modest,” cried Ronnie (“cried” is the nearest one can get to his high-pitched and rather bilious coo). “I expect you really write wicked, wicked books and make heaps of money.”

“Well, I must be going,” said McCann hastily. “Thank you for the hat, Mrs. Abrahams.”

As he left he saw Ronnie lean across the counter and say something to the Jewess. He may have been mistaken, but he thought they were both smiling.

That evening he presented the hat to Miss Carter, and the only satisfaction which he obtained from the whole unfortunate business was derived from her surprised but genuine appreciation of the gift.

“It must have cost the earth,” she said.

For once even McCann’s modesty did not suffer him to contradict her.

The Reconnaissance of the Atomic Club did not get back until the early hours of the morning, and its members were found, when they did return, to be in no fit state to be cross-examined.

Accordingly it was the next morning before Sergeant Dalgetty presented his report. Glasgow was not present, being still in bed.

“It’s some place,” he said. “Distinctly hot, sir. That five pound you gave me – it hardly seemed to go anywhere.”

It struck McCann that private detection was a more expensive hobby than he had imagined.

“Did you have any difficulty over getting in?” he asked.

“Easy as kiss your hand, sir, what with Miss McDuff to do the talking and me handing out the money. The chap on the door seemed to know her, all right, and she seemed to know him too. He said, ‘And who’s your friend, Glasgow?’ She said, ‘Miss McDuff to you, and this is the Archbishop of Canterbury.’ ‘Can’t be,’ said the man, ‘he’s inside already.’ After which sparkling piece of repartee I paid out a guinea for each of us – that made us members, for this life and the next – and in we went. Well, sir, it’s small, but, as I said, pretty hot. Plenty of anything you may care to pay for. Good food – and drink, and a nigger band. There was a film show downstairs if you cared for that sort of thing. I can’t say I fancied it. I’m a simple sort of a chap; I like wine and women and plenty of them and everything the right way up.”

“I see,” said McCann. “I thought it might be that sort of place.”

“Anyhow, the liquor was good. Pre-war Scotch and plenty of it at five pounds a bottle.”

“Well, that’s reasonable enough,” said McCann. “You can pay more than that without going to a night club for it. Apart from the side-shows, which I gather you didn’t patronise, did you see anything suspicious?”

“Nothing to lay hold of,” said Dalgetty. “Just a general nasty atmosphere.”

“Did you meet the manager?”

“Manageress – respectable-looking little party.”

“Let’s have an honest opinion,” said McCann. “Do you think that it’s worth a further look? Was there
anything
to suggest that it might be the sort of place we’re looking for?”

“The headquarters of the gang?”

“Yes—or a meeting-place.”

Dalgetty considered for some time before answering.

“It’s hard to put a finger on it,” he said at last, “but there was, as you might say, a faint stink about the place.”

“Can’t you be more definite than that?”

“If there
was
anything wrong, sir, it must have been upstairs. I managed to move round most of the ground floor and basement and Glasgow had a dekko at the other parts, and we neither of us saw anything suspicious. There were one or two people who seemed to come, and go and it wasn’t easy to see where they went to – one large foreign type, in particular. I noticed him because he was alone –didn’t bring a skirt with him, I mean, or pick one up off the cab-rank.”

“A foreigner? What nationality?”

“Might have been a Spaniard,” said Dalgetty, cautiously.

“I see, and he kept disappearing upstairs?”

“I couldn’t say that. All I’m saying is, I lost sight of him now and then, and just for curiosity, I looked round a bit, but I couldn’t find him, see? Then later, he turned up again, that’s all.”

“I think I’ll go and have a look for myself,” said McCann.

Eventually McCann decided to go alone.

Miss Carter asked for a day or two to “fix it”, and during that time he lived a life of ignoble ease, doing nothing, very happily, by day, and playing darts with Sergeant Dalgetty during the evening. On Friday evening Miss Carter put on what she described as her “demi-monde” and disappeared, returning at four in the morning, battered but still definitely sober. The next day at breakfast she presented McCann with a visiting card. A pencilled note on the back said: “This gentleman is an old friend of mine.” The name on the front was so well known that he could not help eyeing Miss Carter with a new respect.

“That’s all right,” she said cheerfully. “Just show it to the doorman and you’ll have no bother at all. Go tonight – it’s Saturday, and there’ll be a good crush.”

Accordingly, at ten o’clock that evening, having shaken the mothballs out of his tail-coat and forced his unaccustomed fingers to the construction of a white bow, he presented himself at the entrance of the Atomic Club, armed with Miss-Carter’s visiting card. Experiencing no difficulty beyond the payment of a guinea, “Mr. Melluish” became a life member of that institution.

His first impressions were distinctly favourable. The house, he guessed, might have been built by some merchant of the eighteenth century. On the ground floor was the huge front room which had served as shop and store, and behind it the counting house. These two rooms between them constituted the whole of this floor. The party wall had been removed, and this made a small but rather charming ballroom. Downstairs, he guessed, there would be the usual cellars, and in the three upper storeys the living rooms, office rooms and sleeping rooms of the old merchant and his family. Higher up still, probably, the garrets and attics where the apprentices had slept and shivered.

As McCann handed his coat to the girl he made a quick survey. The buffet and bar, later additions to the building, both lay on his right; the swing doors leading to the dance room were on the left. At the far end of the vestibule he thought he saw curtains, and, through them, a glimpse of stairs.

As he was watching them, they swung open and a small woman came down the hall towards him. She reminded him instantly of one of Walt Disney’s prissy little rabbits. She had the same twitching nose, the same buck-teeth, the same ineffable air of gaily getting her own way. She advanced on McCann, who decided that attack was the safest course.

“Mrs. Purcell? So pleased to make your acquaintance. Mr. Hinka”—he mumbled the sacred name pretentiously and produced the card—”told me that I must look you up. He said you’d give me a good time.”

“The dear man,” said Mrs. Purcell. “Any friend of his is a friend of mine. You must consider our little place entirely at your disposal. Entirely.”

She tittered, in a way which McCann found distinctly objectionable.

“What would you like to do now?” she went on.

“Well,” said McCann. “I’m afraid I’ve come alone. Do you think you could find me a really
nice
dancing partner?”

“Of course, Mr. Melluish.” She pattered ahead of him into the ballroom, which was already more than half full, and led the way to an alcove at the far end, beside the band.

In it were seated half a dozen girls.

McCann gave them a careful once-over, and indicated the youngest and freshest-looking.

Mrs. Purcell tittered again.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun.”

She trotted off.

McCann and the girl, who introduced herself as Mavis, retired to a table in a dimly shaded alcove, and did a bit of very respectable drinking. As Dalgetty had said, the whisky was five pounds a bottle and good. The liquor seemed to have no effect at all on Mavis, who was drinking level, or if anything, slightly ahead of him.

She was not a chatty type, and the few words she did volunteer were uttered in a husky, rather attractive voice, which is Life all over, thought McCann. Most girls have voices like metal-saws and never stop talking.

“Would you like to dance?” she asked.

“Not yet,” said McCann.

From where he was seated he had an excellent view of the whole room and he examined every newcomer carefully as a possible candidate for the role of Chief Gangster.

They were the usual collection of rather disastrous people who do frequent such places. The bored eyes, the loose lips, the hands that could not keep still. He felt absolutely certain that his quarry was not among them and was at a loss, for a moment, to account for such a certainty; then he realised that they were none of them of the right calibre. The man he sought, whatever his faults, was a
big
man.

There was also the curious certainty, at the back of his mind, that he had seen his quarry before, somewhere, at some time; and that if he saw him again he would recognise him. Certainly he recognised no one in the room at that moment.

He was aware that Mavis was repeating something.

“I said, would you like to see some films?”

“I suppose so,” he said, and thought that she looked at him rather curiously.

He had noticed for some time that couples were disappearing through a little door at the side of the band platform, and was not surprised when Mavis steered him towards it.

Even thick carpeting and a gilt handrail could not disguise the fact that they were simply descending some ordinary cellar steps. At the bottom McCann was relieved of a further guinea for himself and the girl by a bored plug-ugly who showed them to a sort of small private box not unlike those in vogue in foreign News Theatres.

McCann endured one reel of the epic then occupying the screen – a certain rain-sodden ugliness which suggested that it had come from pre-war Germany – and then, whispering to Mavis that he would be back in a second, he groped his way to the cellar door and found himself once more crossing the ballroom.