The Secret Tunnel (32 page)

“So how did the ring get into Daisy’s luggage?”

“Quite simple. She stole it.”

“What?”

“She found the body in the lavatory, and she saw her chance. Never could resist diamonds, that girl. And when
she couldn’t get it off Rhys’s finger in the normal way—”

“You’re not suggesting it was Daisy who cut off Rhys’s finger?”

“I am. Nasty, isn’t it?”

“And what did she do with the finger?”

“I have no idea. She may have eaten it, for all I know.”

“I doubt that,” said Taylor. “She was terribly conscious of her figure.”

“She stole the passkey from Simmonds,” said Dickinson, “and locked the door after she’d stolen the ring. See? Not as stupid as she looks. I found it in the carriage, and had to get rid of it fast. Hence the little sleight of hand with the champagne bucket. Not my finest moment, I admit, but necessary. Sometimes, Mitch, one is obliged to cover one’s tracks. To muddy the water.”

Heads were nodding around the room.

“Hang on,” I said. “Nobody actually believes any of this, do they?”

“You have to admit, old chap,” said Morgan, “it seems to make sense.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan.” said Dickinson. “Someone has their feet on the ground.”

“An awful lot of that sort of thing goes on in banks, you see,” Morgan continued. “Chap at our place got his fingers burnt. I’ve been tempted myself. You can make a packet almost overnight. Stocks and shares move so fast. You just take a little punt, and no one’s any the wiser.”

My case was collapsing like a punctured party balloon.

“Now, gentlemen,” Dickinson said, with renewed confidence. “I’m perfectly prepared to overlook all of this if you will let me get on with my job.”

“And what exactly is that job?” I sounded like a sulking child who has been deprived of his favorite toy. “Kidnapping and raping young men?”

“Ah, your little friend.”

“And me. You seem to forget that you were ready to kill me just now.”

“Come, come, Mitchell. You exaggerate. A little bit of fun, that’s all. I thought you of all people would be interested in exploring some of the…shall we say, darker corners of the playground? Young Bertrand certainly didn’t complain, did you,
mon ami
?”

Bertrand hung his head. Oh, God, was nothing as it appeared to be? Had Bertrand really allowed himself to be seduced by this man into some kind of sexual slavery? He had always said he hated Dickinson—and yet he’d said the same about Simmonds. Was he really just ruled by his ravenous asshole?

“You see, Mitch,” continued Dickinson, “things are not always quite what they seem to be. When you’ve been a detective for as long as I have, you’ll understand that. Appearances can be deceptive. Look at Mr. Taylor, here. You’d never think, by looking at him, that he was…the way he is. And he disguises it very well. All those leading ladies and society beauties hanging on his arm. The trouble with you, Mitch, is that you see what you want to see. You want the policeman to be the villain, because I’m a bit of a bastard. I don’t conform to your standards. Well, I’m sorry about that, but in my line of work you can’t always be the hero.”

I felt ashamed. I looked over at Morgan; he was staring glumly at his feet.

“But you were going to kill me.”

“Mitch, if I frightened you, I truly apologize.” Dickinson slipped off the couch and got rather unsteadily to his feet. “Oof! That stuff is strong! You’re not supposed to take quite that much. Fun in small doses, but…” He stumbled and put an arm on my shoulder. I could feel the heat from his naked body as he leaned his weight on me. I could smell once again that unmistakable scent of lemons. God, what a fool I had been! What a meddling, interfering fool!

McDonald appeared at the door again. “Young man to see Mr. Simmonds, sir.”

More “evidence” to make me look a fool, I thought. I glanced up at Dickinson—he was a good few inches taller than me—and saw him smiling indulgently.

“Never mind, Mitch,” he murmured in my ear. “We’ll make a detective of you yet.”

The door opened, and in walked Arthur, the porter from the Flying Scotsman.

Dickinson froze.

“Arthur!” said Simmonds, jumping to his feet. “You made it!”

“Yes, sir. Looks like I’m just in time for the fun.” His eyes were bulging at the sight of all the naked flesh. “Crikey, it’s Mr. Dickinson!” He whistled. “Good to see you, sir.”

I asked, “Have they searched the tunnel, Arthur?” I had to know. Everything depended on it. If the tunnel was empty, as Dickinson said it would be, I was not only going to look a fool, but I was also going to have to face the music. I had assaulted a police officer and made some very serious accusations. Knowing Dickinson’s unscrupulous methods, that could land me in some very deep trouble.

“Go on, Arthur,” said Dickinson. “And be careful that you tell the truth. You know what happens to boys who tell lies.”

There was a vicious gleam in Dickinson’s eyes, and for a moment Arthur quailed. Doubtless Dickinson had threatened him, as he had threatened us all, with exposure, and with the full weight of the law.

“Well, sir…”

“Yes? We’re all waiting, Arthur,” said Dickinson. “Remember that whatever you say will have to stand up in court.”

“I… I don’t know…”

“Arthur, for God’s sake,” blurted out Simmonds. “Are
we going to live like this forever? Tell the truth, boy, and face the consequences like a man.”

Arthur’s face was red and he was shaking—but he swallowed hard and spoke up clearly. “They found the body of Mr. David Rhys in the tunnel, wrapped in a roll of bloodstained carpet.”

Total silence.

“Anything else?” I asked, barely able to breathe.

“Yes. A knife.”

“What sort of knife, Arthur?”

“A steak knife. One of ours. The sort we use in the dining car.”

The air seemed thick, and I could hear the blood thrumming in my ears.

“What do you say to that, Dickinson?”

“He’s lying. The tunnel is closed and under police guard.”

“No, sir,” Arthur replied. “If you don’t mind my saying so, the tunnel was opened by the order of the police.”

“That’s impossible.”

“What else did they find, Arthur?”

“Nothing.”

“No severed finger, for instance?”

“No, sir.”

“What did you do with it, Dickinson? Did you keep it as a souvenir?”

Dickinson took a step toward me, and was instantly restrained by Langland and his soldiers.

“Time for you to be tied up again, copper,” said Langland, twisting Dickinson’s arms behind him. There was a struggle, in which Dickinson’s shirt was torn. They soon had him bound again, kneeling on the floor, his wrists and ankles securely tied behind his back, his ripped shirt hanging down from his waist. His torso was huge and powerful and hairy—and even now, I could not look at him without desiring him.
His steel-gray hair, usually so neatly combed, fell over his forehead. He was starting to sweat. I relished every drop.

“You think you’re very clever, Mitchell, but you’re way out of your depth. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, I think I do,” I said, feeling the reins were back in my hands. “That gang of half-baked gangsters who call themselves the British Fascists. They don’t frighten me.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Who do you take your orders from, Dickinson? Lady Antonia? Or does she get Chivers to boss you around?”

Dickinson struggled furiously in his bonds, but said nothing.

“I heard her talking to him just before we left Edinburgh,” said Arthur. “I was carrying all their luggage—she’s a lousy tipper, that Lady Antonia, like a lot of posh folk—and they forgot that I was there. The old lady was making a big fuss about the hatboxes, and so on—but I was behind her, and I heard her maid talking to Dickinson.”

“What did she say?”

“Something like ‘Have you got it yet?’ ”

“And what did he say?”

“He said no, he didn’t have it yet, but he knew where it was and he’d deliver it before we got to London.”

“What did you imagine they were talking about, Arthur?”

“Search me.”

“Mr. Dickinson. Can you enlighten us?”

“I never spoke to the bloody woman. The boy’s lying.”

“You surprise me, Dickinson. I thought you’d have a story already made up. You were in the pay of those people, weren’t you? And you had been commissioned to infiltrate Hugo Taylor’s intimate circle and steal something from him. What was it?”

“You tell me, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I have a suggestion,” said Hugo Taylor. “I was carrying
a packet of letters—rather compromising letters, as it happens—that were written to me by a certain person. There had already been an attempt to steal them from my apartment in London, so I took them with me to Scotland, to keep an eye on them, you know.”

“Why didn’t you just destroy them, if they were so compromising?”

“Because I’d promised a certain person that I would return them.”

“Sounds like your boyfriend didn’t trust you, Taylor,” said Dickinson.

“Can’t say I blame him, really,” said Taylor. “I wouldn’t be the first actor to keep such things as a sort of insurance policy. Awfully useful when the work dries up and we’re facing penury in some boarding house for retired theatricals in Worthing. Very handy to have letters from the crowned heads of Europe. Such things have a market value. But I imagine you know that very well, Mr. Dickinson.”

“You’re a fool, Taylor.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“So the British Fascists had paid you to steal the letters and deliver them to Lady Antonia,” I said. “That explains her presence on the train. She was a glorified messenger, running back to her mistress to deliver a big juicy bone at her feet.”

Simmonds addressed Dickinson. “And you didn’t want anyone interfering. That’s why you instructed all the staff to be on the lookout for journalists snooping around. We thought you were trying to protect Mr. Taylor and Miss Athenasy, but in fact you were making sure that there was nobody to see what you were up to.”

“And you were all to ready to oblige, Simmonds,” spat Dickinson.

“You threatened me, like you threatened everyone. I was scared, I admit it. I lost my nerve. That’s why I…did something that I am deeply ashamed of.”

Bertrand put his arm around Simmonds shoulders, and they kissed. Dickinson growled.

“You see, old chap,” said Taylor, “something rather nice has come out of all this. Love always finds a way, as we tell people night after night from the stage.”

“The minute the police arrive, you are all under arrest,” said Dickinson.

“Oh, someone shut him up, for God’s sake,” said Taylor, his brow lowering. “Sergeant, be a good chap and stick something in his mouth.”

Langland, still naked, was all ready to obey—but there had been enough of that sort of behavior, and I asked him to stand down.

“You don’t seem to realize who you’re dealing with,” said Dickinson, once the sergeant’s large penis had stopped waving in his face. “I am a detective superintendent in the Metropolitan Police.”

“Correction,” said a voice from the door. “You were a detective superintendent. You are currently suspended from duty.”

All heads swiveled, and we saw Connor, my young reporter friend, backed by his constant companion, Scott.

“Go on, Mr. Connor.”

“Does the name Stanley Goldwater mean anything to you, Mr. Dickinson?”

“It rings a bell.”

“So it should. You killed him.”

Dickinson laughed. “Stanley Goldwater committed suicide.”

“Because you drove him to it.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Who was Stanley Goldwater?” I asked.

“He was what’s commonly known as a copper’s nark,” said Dickinson. “A worthless lowlife.”

“Stanley Goldwater was the son of a north London
shopkeeper,” said Connor. “He joined the police in 1924, at the age of 19. He was, by all accounts, a conscientious and ambitious young officer. Then he left the force in 1927 under something of a cloud.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “He was queer. And Superintendent Dickinson, here, found out.”

“A deal was struck,” continued Connor, “whereby Goldwater would not be prosecuted, as long as he worked for Dickinson as an informer.”

“That’s how the police operate,” said Dickinson. “We have our sources.”

“He was your contact in the queer world,” said Connor. “He gave you the names of prominent homosexuals, whom you blackmailed. Then, when he tried to break from you, you threatened him with prison.”

“That little bugger was quite capable of putting himself in prison without my help.”

“And he was so scared that he stuck his head in the gas oven. His landlady found him. There was a suicide note, apparently.”

“No, there wasn’t.”

“Ah, she didn’t tell you about that, did she? Kept it to herself. Thought it might come in useful, just in case she’d done the wrong thing. She parted with it, for a price. You’ve cost the
Beacon
a great deal of money one way or another, Dickinson,” said Connor, “but it’s worth every penny to send you down.”

“You’re talking out of your arse, boy. Just because I chucked you off that train. I hate journalists, but journalists with an axe to grind are the worst.”

“The note named you, and gave details of your way of working. You made a lot of money out of other people’s misery, didn’t you, Dickinson? Including your own superiors.”

“You’re making this up.”

“Why else would they turn a blind eye to so much
corruption? We’ve only had time to explore the tip of the iceberg. I’m sure there’s plenty more under the surface.”

Oh, how the mood had changed! Everyone was staring down at Dickinson now, disgust on their faces.

“Crikey, Mitch, the bastard almost had me fooled,” said Morgan, clapping me on the back. “I thought you’d made a muck-up of things. I’m sorry.”