Cargo of Eagles (14 page)

She took a sip of gin, breathed heavily through her nose and continued speaking, more to herself than to Morty.

‘Apart from the fun of paying a quid or two less for your liquor there was never much to be gained from the old fashioned game—not in terms of big money, anyhow. But today it's a dirty business—nothing sporting about it. Different people, different goods and bigger profits. Watches are worth while, of course, but as far as I know they mostly come by air, in big consignments. In this part of the world I'm afraid it's dope, which is quite a new department for us.
And that I simply will not have
.'

She rapped the table sharply and Morty was vividly reminded of his first schoolmistress.

‘I won't have it,' she repeated. ‘Morphia, heroin, the reefer cigarette things—what d'you call it, marijuana—and so on, they're all works of the devil. I've seen the effect on kids even in Nine Ash Hospital and they're quite terrifying. It's got to be stopped.'

Morty applauded. ‘Quite right, ma'am. Just what do you propose doing about it?'

‘Do?' Mrs Weatherby switched two penetrating eyes on her companion. ‘Do? Get to the bottom of it, of course. Blow the whole thing sky high. Sink 'em without trace.'

She emptied her glass.

‘Now what have we got to go on? First Jonah Woodrose and his gaggle of old women. Unlikely material, I grant you, but the roots of sin are there as Kipling said. Jonah's no master mind, so there must be somebody with brains in the background who's making use of him. Probably not a local, but then Jonah
spends quite a bit of time in London. Jonah wouldn't risk running drugs. Jonah is rich. Jonah is a coward. And Jonah is mischievous, like all the Woodroses. I'll start with him. And you—' she tapped sharply on the table again, ‘you will take the other end.'

He turned to her in surprise. There was something in her autocratic but slap-happy approach which was both endearing and convincing. If she was determined to be a one woman avenging army it would be as well to become an ally.

‘Me, lady? Just what do you think I can do?'

‘Keep an eye on the children—the tearaways, of course. Mods or rockers or whatever they call themselves. How do you suppose this racket is conducted? Who else goes roaring over the countryside day in and day out? Apply your mind, my dear man. As far as most people are concerned they're all as alike as peas in a pod—tight trousers. long hair and dirty fingernails—and I don't suppose there are more than two or three of them who are real little crooks. Pump your friend Throstle and see if you can dig up what he knows about them. If he is as obstinate as a mule—and he can be—find out which of them he really grilled this morning. They'd be the ones with something known against them, as the policemen say. Find who owns the expensive machines and what they do for a living, if anything. Chat 'em up. Make friends.'

Morty squared his shoulders.

‘A large order. They're just as clannish as the rest of the population.'

‘Nonsense.' Mrs Weatherby was emphatic. ‘You're thirty years nearer their age group than I am. Learn the language, study the customs of the people. History is your subject, what? Well, here's social history of a very uncivilised kind right under your nose. And if you can find anything out just give me a tinkle. Remember, I only ask because I want to know.'

BY THAT ESPECIAL
mixture of perspicacity and effort which is an almost infallible formula for success, Dixie Wishart had built up the reputation of The Demon beyond the confines of Saltey as being worth a visit on Saturday nights. Judicious selection, coupled with flattery and liberality in the matter of drink had produced an excellent team of dart players and she paid handsomely for visiting musicians. The youth who performed on the electric guitar was not only accomplished but personable and the pianist had the true and unmistakable honky-tonk touch, particularly when the majority of the instrument's outer shell had been removed.

The mysterious working of Providence, which often decrees that the occasion produces the man, had also conjured a self-appointed master of ceremonies to complete the circle. Mr H. Hamilton Dashwood was small and dapper from his unnaturally black hair and his boot button eyes to his highly polished shoes. He had suddenly appeared two years before, when the ‘Social Evening' was in embryo, taking charge of the proceedings at a moment when apathy was fighting with insularity for the upper hand and had turned impending disaster into triumph.

Dixie, who enjoyed decorative embroidery whether it was plastic or romantic, had decided that he was a widower working in a gentlemanly way as a commercial traveller, a lonely soul who lived for the golden moments when he could command the attention and the ephemeral affection of a crowd. Each Saturday at eight he arrived in a small car, sometimes armed with a cardboard suitcase containing a quantity of false noses or paper hats. To his hostess he was a godsend and even
if he never had occasion to buy a drink there were always plenty of others to perform this office for him, so that his glass of practically neat whisky became a miraculous cruse throughout the evening.

Morty, who had dined in solitary by no means austere gloom at Nine Ash, returned to find the saloon of The Demon crowded with seekers after pleasure and the air thick with smoke and noise. His arrival went unmarked, for the ‘Social' attracted customers from a distance and apart from Mossy Ling in his alloted corner he recognised only a handful of regulars. Of Mr Lugg there was no sign.

Mindful of Mrs Weatherby's final instruction he had dressed with some care in a pair of slimly cut canvas trousers, a dark blue shirt and a silk scarf of such virulent puce that it glowed as if radioactive. This was the limit his wardrobe permitted but the effect, he considered, was not displeasing.

Mr H. Hamilton Dashwood was displaying a new discovery as he arrived. He spoke in the hearty avuncular style of the old time music hall chairman. ‘Direct from the patronage of King George the Fourth, the Duke of York, the Marquis of Granby and the Blue Boar itself, for the first time at The Demon . . . I give you a master at the art of spooning—no, not your sort, madame—the manipulation of two spoons as a musical instrument. . . . A very big hand for the largest dwarf in captivity, Mr Clarence Dodgson.'

There was general appluase at the announcement and Mr Dodgson, who was mild, bald and meagre on first inspection, burst into a rattle of metal with a pair of spoons which he vibrated dexterously over every available section of his person including his head. The pianist picked up his cue and soon the majority of the company were united in song.

‘Knees up, knees up, don't get the breeze up . . .'

Morty worked his way with some difficulty to the bar and finally attracted Dixie's attention. She was hot and dishevelled and her blue hair had lost some of its artificial resilience.

‘You want to watch your step tonight, Mr Kelsey dear,' she
whispered. ‘I think we may be in for a bit of trouble. I'd send for that Simmonds if I hadn't had enough of him already.'

As she spoke she jerked her head towards a corner of the room where the dart board hung, flanked by a pair of scoreboards made almost illegible from constant use. Five youths surrounded it, flinging darts casually at the target, making no attempt to play but giggling amongst themselves when one of the feathered needles went dangerously wide of its mark. Four of them still affected dark glasses and the group were ostentatiously aloof from the general entertainment. Calculated trouble brooded over their truculent isolation.

The reason for their choice of a strategic position became clear when the artist with the spoons ended his performance and Mr Dashwood stepped forward to take the floor.

‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the principal item of the evening. I refer, of course, the the semi-final round of the Saltey and District Darts Contest for the Challenge Shield so kindly presented by our gracious hostess, Mrs Dixie Wishart. A big hand, please, for a beautiful lady—I can say that on this occasion since her husband appears to be off duty. Tonight's event is between the challengers from the Blue Boar at Firestone and our own, our very own team at The Demon.'

The applause which greeted the announcement was courageous rather than wholehearted. The eight genuine players began to shuffle forward but the group by the board stood its ground. A silence born of embarrassment and apprehension swept over the room and for a moment or two nobody moved.

It was broken by the thwack of a dart as it struck the edge of the wooden mantelpiece very close to the head of one of the official team. The group by the board tittered and the self-appointed Master of Ceremonies tripped delicately towards them.

‘Now I'm sure you gentlemen don't want to spoil the evening's pleasure. . . .'

The tallest of the interlopers placed the flat of a large hand on Mr Dashwood's chest and propelled him violently backwards almost into the lap of the pianist.

‘You oughta take it easy, man. We're using the board just now.'

The M.C. recovered his balance and stood brushing an elbow. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen all, please. If you'll just . . .'

His words were smothered by an angry grumble from the company. The teams of Firestone and Saltey included men with powerful shoulders and despite the restraining twitter of female voices and an imperative but unrecognisable cry from Dixie, several of them moved uncertainly towards the aggressor.

‘Wanna make something of it?' He was standing in front of his party, a gangling menacing figure, gripping a dart by the feathered end so that the point faced his audience. He took off his glasses revealing pink lashless eyes which gave his face the unexpected expression of a large and dangerous rat. His companions stood together, each with a similar weapon.

‘Come on, big boy. Now's your chance for a punch up.'

Behind the bar a glass splintered on the ground but neither group moved and no single head turned in the direction of the sound.

The frozen silence and the immobility of the crowd gave Morty a chance which he could not resist. The chief destroyer of the evening's peace was standing in the typical position adopted by a would-be attacker in an elementary demonstration of unarmed combat. The moment was too good to miss. Morty edged through the silent crowd and caught the threatening figure completely according to first instructions as given in the Vere University gymnasium course on self-defence.

The effect was spectacular. The youth appeared to twist backwards into the air and then to crumple forward. A judicious and accurately placed knee in the pit of the stomach brought him winded to the floor, the dart still in his hand. Morty stood briefly above the squealing figure and then trod
sharply on the clenched fist so that the weapon skidded away amongst the feet of the spectators.

‘Out!' shouted Dixie, her voice now clear and authoritative above the uncertain murmur of voices suddenly free of panic. ‘Out! Out, the lot of them. Chuck 'em out, boys.'

Tension snapped like a bowstring. The two teams surged forward, propelled by new found courage and the curiosity of those behind. One of the remaining quartet lowered his head and charged through the crowd for the door, leading the retreat.

Within seconds, only the writhing retching creature on the ground remained with Mr Dashwood bending over him.

‘He'll be O.K. when he gets a little air, sir. Just help him to the door, gentlemen, and wish him a very goodnight from one and all.'

By inspiration or instinct the guitarist struck a couple of preliminary chords and began to sing:

The chorus was widely and uproariously received. Even the insolent gunfire of departing motor cycles failed to punctuate the rhythm and as an acknowledgment of the occasion Mr Dashwood led the company in a verse which would not normally be tolerated in the presence of ladies. It was a concession in celebration of victory which everyone present understood and approved.

Morty alone was uneasy. He had acted on the spur of the moment and achieved a success which was far more spectacular than its actual skill merited. His chance of penetrating the ranks of disorder had been annihilated and he had made enemies where he most needed co-operation. Mrs Weatherby, he decided, might have handled the situation more adroitly but he could not picture her as a patron of a social evening.

The room was now intolerably close and sweaty. Jovial faces
began to bob up before him, loud with congratulations. Hot hands patted his back and he realised that honour could not be satisfied but by the acceptance of drink.

The problem of etiquette in selection was solved by Dixie who announced her decision by the pop of a champagne cork. ‘He'll drink with me, ducks, and we'll all toast his health. I've seen it done on the telly but never thought to find it happen in my own bar.'

She filled a tankard with the golden elixir and thrust it into his hand. ‘Here's to you, Mr Kelsey dear.'

‘Properly smart,' said Mossy Ling from his corner. ‘I seen it done on the telly too. Use wires, so they do now. A powerfully good little old trick. Reckon you could teach me, mister? Better if there are two of us when they come back.' He sniffed, managing to put a suggestion of malice into the sound, and gestured down the bar with his glass. ‘Some of 'em ain't even gone, I see.'

In the happy back-slapping tumult of the moment the ominous little shaft passed unnoticed or was ignored. Morty accepted his tankard with acclamation and it was several minutes before he glanced in the direction the old man had indicated.

Even before he moved he was subconsciously aware of what he was going to see, as a man often is when his shoulder blades are the subject of concentrated attention from a forceful personality.