The Whispering Gallery (16 page)

“Johnny, my dear boy. So glad you could make it.”

“Hello, Henry. Thank you for the invitation – I think.”

“What happened to your hand?”

“I gave someone a knuckle sandwich.”

“Aha! Anyone I know?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Shame. Enjoying the cocktail?”

“It's not bad. What's in it?”

“Champagne, honey and calf's blood.”

He resisted the urge to spit it out. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. It was invented by Frida Strindberg, wife of the miserablist playwright, whom we are honouring this evening. The Cave of the Golden Calf was her creation. Ezra Pound called it ‘a convenient concentration of pleasures which the dull call vices'. It opened in 1912 beneath a hat factory in Heddon Street, just off Regent Street.”

“Hence hedonism, I suppose.”

“Hardly. It was the centre of the artistic universe. Eric Gill, one of her many lovers, designed the calf. It represents everything opposed by that old killjoy Moses. Jacob Epstein and Wyndham Lewis contributed designs.” He indicated the Vorticist paintings that decorated the walls. “Katherine Mansfield, Ford Madox Ford, Osbert Sitwell, Margot Asquith – anyone who was anyone visited the club. Fancy a game of bridge?”

“I don't know how to play.”

“Oh, I think you might want to learn tonight.”

Simkins, neatly sidestepping a naked negro dancing with a man in women's clothing, led the way to an anteroom. Instead of a quartet sitting round a table, a dozen people were taking it in turns to play with a human deck: golden boys in G-strings, each of whom represented a playing card. Johnny had never felt so out of place. It was probably just as well he hadn't brought – couldn't bring – Stella.

“A thing of beauty is not a boy for ever,” sighed Simkins. “Have you received another postcard yet?” He kept his eyes on the seven of diamonds.

“Yes. It arrived this morning – with some shattered bones. You can read all about it tomorrow.”

“Sure they're not Billingsgate pheasants?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Red herrings, you numbskull. Billingsgate doesn't sell game. Perhaps it's all a game. No bodies have been found. Perhaps your world exclusive will vanish into thin air like the Cheshire Cat – except that everyone but you will be grinning.”

“I hope you're not suggesting that I'm sending them to myself. That's more your style.”

“I'll take that as a compliment. Fancy a glass of Dom Pérignon instead?”

“I'd rather have a bottle, please. Who's paying for all this?”

“Never you mind. You might meet him later – if you play your cards right.”

Johnny smiled. “Is Strindberg here?”

“No. The poor thing is stuck in Austria. I doubt she'll ever leave the country again. Still, she'll always be remembered for the Cult of the Clitoris.”

“I can't see that being her epitaph. What's the occasion tonight, though?”

“There isn't one. Isn't the pursuit of pleasure a worthwhile end in itself?”

“I'm not sure. If I had this much money I'd be setting up soup kitchens, not organising orgies.”

“Why do large hearts and small minds so often go together?” Simkins tossed his mane. “You need to let your hair down, Johnny. Come on.”

The heat and noise in the basement were increasing by the minute. More people joined the dancing as the band began to play the “Black Bottom Stomp”.A guardsman dandled a dwarf on his lap. Three women, in masks and not much else, kissed each other lasciviously.

“
Why this is hell, nor am I out of it
,” murmured Johnny. On second thoughts Marlowe would have been in his element here.

“Aren't you a trifle warm?” Simkins handed him a saucer of champagne. He produced what looked like a miniature silver salt cellar from his pocket, put it to his nose and sniffed. “Want some?”

Johnny knew exactly what it was. He'd never tried it before. Now seemed as good a time as any.
Carpe diem
. Simkins passed him the bibelot.

“I had it made at Tiffany's. Press the button at the side, turn it upside down, then press the button again.” Johnny did as he was told then inspected the perforated nozzle. “Don't worry, it's clean,” Simkins assured him. Johnny inserted it into his right nostril and sniffed. “Other side! That's it.”

Johnny, heat surging through his veins, waited for the world to change.

“Feel free to disrobe,” said Simkins.

A masked man in a cape, his well-defined body painted gold, nodded to them as he passed.

“Someone you know?”

“Never seen him before in my life,” said Simkins. “Come on – if you strip, I'll strip.”

“It's not my kind of thing. Besides, I'm covered in bruises.”

“How d'you know unless you try it?”

“I've never been morris dancing, but I know I'd hate it.”

“Suit yourself. I'll see you later.”

As Simkins swished off into the milling revellers, Johnny went in search of the cloakroom where he deposited his jacket and tie. The ticket was decorated with an image of the golden calf.

By nature an outsider, he worked his way round the edge of the room, trying to work out the identities of the gyrating guests. No doubt they included the odd film starlet and politician. He discovered an opium den in another anteroom. Half-naked smokers lolled on couches, absent-mindedly stroking the bodies of their neighbours. Fragrant smoke drifted above them.

A wave of euphoria swept over him. Full of newfound confidence, Johnny began chatting to anyone who smiled at him. His glass was topped up without him ever needing to ask. A beautiful Chinese woman, her skin like the purest silk, glued her lips to his then word-lessly moved on. However, when one of the playing cards, a slender, snake-hipped youth, tried to do the same, Johnny turned his head away. The boy just laughed and kissed the man standing next to him.

“Having a good time?” A portly gentleman in an expensive suit, a purple silk handkerchief peeping out of his breast pocket, held out his hand. Johnny shook it.

“John Steadman. Have we met before?”

“I don't think I've had the pleasure.”

“Ah! There you are, Johnny!” Simkins, now minus his shirt, his torso gleaming with perspiration, chestnut curls plastered to his forehead, put his arm round the shoulders of the short, well-dressed man, who grimaced.

“Let me introduce you to our munificent host – Mr Walter Apthorp.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” said Johnny. “Why did you, though?”

“It was Henry's idea,” said Apthorp. “I wanted to broaden your horizons,” said Simkins. “Now don't deny it: you're enjoying yourself, aren't you?”

“I'm surprised to say that I am – very much so. I've heard about such events, but never expected to attend one. Why go to so much trouble for the entertainment of other people?”

“It's my vocation,” said Apthorp. “If others are happy, then I am happy. The real world is so ghastly and grim that we all need to escape from it sometimes.”

“Are you sure we haven't met before?” said Johnny. Simkins sniggered. “Walter lives in Paris. I hardly think you move in the same circles, Johnny.”

“Thank you so much for reminding me.” Johnny shook his head to clear it. His brain that had been so sharp now felt fuzzy. Someone was doing an impression but he couldn't work out who was being impersonated. To make matters worse, he was the only one not in on the joke.

“Well, now we have met I feel sure our paths will one day cross again.” Apthorp took Johnny's hand in both of his. A large ruby glowed on his ring-finger. “Enjoy the rest of the evening.” He said something to Simkins, who followed him towards the opium den.

Johnny's exaltation evaporated as quickly as it had materialised. The naked and semi-naked bodies that had seemed so attractive now repelled him. What was wrong with him? He would much rather be at home in bed with Stella. Alas, there was no chance of that happening again. Somehow he had blown his best chance of happiness. He stood there, a still point amid the reckless abandonment. He could actually feel his spirits sinking. It was time to leave.

He collected his jacket and tie and, before climbing the steps back to the real world, checked that the cosh was still in his pocket.

“A gentleman asked me to give you this, sir.” One of the hairy-shouldered doormen handed him an envelope.

“Thank you.”

He ripped it open. Inside was a postcard of St Dorothy painted by Francisco de Zurbarán. A dark-haired woman in a flowing pink dress held a basket of fruit and flowers.

“What did he look like?”

The hulk, who was most likely a porter moonlighting from the neighbouring market, just shrugged. “He was wearing a mask, sir.”

Johnny turned the card over. The quotation read:

Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror.

Saturday, 10th July, 4 a.m.

The bells of St Dunstan's, echoed by those of St Mary-at-Hill, struck four. Johnny couldn't believe how late it was. Time had telescoped. He slipped the postcard into the inside pocket of his jacket. It reeked of cigarette smoke. The cool night air soothed his throbbing head.

Dawn glimmered in the east. There was no public transport at this time of night. Lower Thames Street was deserted. However, the market would be opening soon. He would have to walk. Fleet Street was much closer than Cruden Street and he was due to work this Saturday anyway.

As he crossed the road and headed for Monument Street he noticed two men emerge from a passage by the coal exchange. They were both at least a foot taller than him. It was the fact that they were not talking to each other that aroused his suspicion. The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle.

Instead of continuing along Monument Street he darted into Lovat Lane and, as soon as he was out of sight, sprinted uphill till he reached the mouth of an alley. He stepped into the darkness, and breathing deeply, his ribs complaining, peeped round the corner. Without any hesitation the men turned into the lane. Johnny, careful not to make any noise, hurried down the alley which came out in Botolph Lane.

The men entered the alley and, still without a word, broke into a trot.

Johnny ran straight across the road and into George Lane. If he could make it to the Monument there were so many alternative routes he would have a chance of losing his pursuers. He could hear change clinking in their pockets.

He was about to turn into Pudding Lane when the ground seemed to ripple and shimmer in the half-light. A river of rats, homeward bound after a night's scavenging, cascaded down the hill. They, too, were virtually silent – their myriad claws a mere whisper on the cobbles – as the new day threatened to break. They knew by instinct when it was time to return to the docks.

Thousands of jet-black eyes and a million quivering whiskers registered his presence but ignored him. Like the commuters who flowed in and out of the City each working day – the human rat race – they had somewhere to get to and would brook no diversion. The men came running down the lane but when they saw that their prey had stopped they slowed to a gentle stroll.

Johnny knew that he stood no chance against the pair of giants. He had never liked rats, hated their hairless pink tails and the fact that, since they had no bladder, they never stopped pissing. However, he wasn't just going to stand and wait to be beaten to a pulp. He estimated that it was about one hundred yards to Eastcheap and at least two hundred yards back to Monument Street, so it would have to be uphill all the way.

Motivated by fear rather than courage, he shuffled into the verminous flow as gently as he could. The rats simply swept round – and over – his feet. He increased his pace a little and, inevitably, stepped on one of the rodents. It squeaked in anger and bit him on the ankle. Another one, just for the hell of it, followed suit.

Johnny was about to retreat when he saw one of the men reach into his jacket. He didn't wait to see if it was a gun. He leapt as far as he could, rats hanging off his trousers, and prayed he would not slip when he landed. Tiny spines cracked and flea-bitten bodies burst as he hit the stones. He skidded in the blood but, windmilling his arms, somehow managed to stay upright.

And still the rats – as if obeying the call of a latter-day Pied Piper – came rushing towards him. Johnny, spurred on by sheer panic, hurled himself through the tide, praying the rats would not turn on him en masse. They were not altruistic animals – the fact that their fellow travellers were getting squashed attracted little more than a sideways glance although, the closer he got to Eastcheap, the more frequent the squeaks and the teeth that never stopped growing sank deeper into his flesh.

It was only in the last few yards that he dared to kick out indiscriminately. Furry missiles went writhing through the air and then, at last, he was out of the stampede. He used the cosh to knock away a couple of persistent blighters that were attracted by the blood now flowing freely from his legs. His shoes were splattered with all kinds of evil effluvia.

He crossed the empty road and, shaking with adrenalin, looked back. The rats continued to pour round the corner and down towards the Thames.

His pursuers, still standing on the edge of the exodus, applauded ironically. He flicked them the V-sign and started jogging towards the relative safety of the maze of streets that surrounded the Bank of England.

Henry Simkins coiled and uncoiled in the back of his cab as it rattled along the Victoria Embankment. He had, as usual, taken too much cocaine. Oblivious to the gaudy diorama of the dawn, he stared at the large Manila envelope that he had waited so long to get his manicured hands on. The driver eyed him warily in the rear-view mirror.

He had promised himself that he would not open it until he was once more safely ensconced in his plush Mayfair apartment. However, like the divine Oscar, he could resist everything except temptation. He'd have just one teensy-weensy peek.

What he saw made him chortle with glee. He'd been promised a bonus, but the extra shot was better than he could have ever anticipated. Its potential for mischief was infinite. It really was a wonderful world. He gave the watchful driver an exaggerated wink.

Johnny signed out a key to one of the bedrooms and, assuring the night manager that he needed sleep, not a doctor, took the lift to the fifth floor. The showers were empty. Dimeo must have survived to love another day. Johnny let the hot needle jets perform acupuncture on his aching shoulders. His calves were covered in bites. The soap made them sting. He found some iodine in the medicine cabinet and dabbed the purple potion on them. His wounds stung even more. He would have to get a tetanus injection from the staff nurse in the morning. His body had taken a lot of punishment in the past few days and he was pretty sure it wasn't over yet.

He cleaned his shoes as best he could in the gents, gagging as the fragments of blood and offal came away, then left them on the windowsill to dry. It was almost five when he finally got between the sheets.

Seconds later – or so it seemed – PDQ was placing a cup of tea by his bed.

“So tell me all about it.”

Johnny yawned and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“After nine. I thought you could do with an extra hour.”

“Thanks. I need another four at least. Hand me my jacket.” He didn't want his boss to see him naked. “I went to a weird party by Billingsgate last night. When I left, one of the doormen gave me this.”

PDQ studied the postcard. “Well, there's no double meaning there.”

“Two men were waiting for me as well, but I managed to lose them.”

“So he's not working alone. You might not be so lucky next time – keep the cosh with you wherever you go. On the plus side, it gives you something to write about for tomorrow's edition. Another exciting episode in the intrepid adventures of Johnny Steadman!”

“My head hurts. I've got a champagne hangover.”

“You poor thing.” PDQ ruffled his haywire hair roughly. “I want you at your desk in twenty minutes.”

He made it in fifteen. Dimeo was not in the sports department. It was possible that he was lying in some hospital but Johnny thought it more likely that it was just his day off. Come to think of it, he had mentioned something about competing in a cycling tournament at Cricklewood. Johnny's hand ached just thinking about hitting the athlete. Would he seek revenge? The Italians loved a vendetta. However, Dimeo – he would never call him Louis again – had got his retaliation in first.

When he had finished his bacon sandwich – which he hoped would settle his queasy stomach – Johnny went up to the library. He had the place to himself: it was only staffed Monday to Friday.

Dorothea of Caesarea – whose parents were both martyred – was put on the rack by the Roman governor Sapiricius when she refused to marry. She believed she already had a husband in Jesus Christ. Imprisoned with two women who had renounced their faith, she not only failed to lose her own but also succeeded in showing the pair of apostates the error of their ways – and was put on the rack again for her pains. She was beheaded on 6th February. As she was being led to her execution a lawyer called Theophilus mocked her by asking her to send him some roses or apples from her husband's garden. As she died, Dorothy saw an angel and bid her send a basket of fruit and flowers to the sarcastic lawyer. He was so impressed that he converted to Christianity and, with wearying inevitability, later suffered martyrdom himself.

St Dorothy was a patron saint of brewers, brides, florists, gardeners, newlyweds and midwives. Was his own failure to propose marriage being mocked? And where was the now familiar accompanying gift? Its absence filled him with foreboding.

The quotation offered little consolation.
Bartlett's
informed him that it was from Rainer Maria Rilke's
Duino Elegies
:

Did the killer see himself as an angel of death? The change in his tactics – and the proof that he was tailing Johnny – provided plenty to write about. The heat accentuated his hangover. He drank countless cups of tea. The pall of cigarette smoke that always hovered at head-height undulated in the faint breeze that drifted in through the open windows. Johnny suddenly longed to be lying on a beach, exposing an unbruised and unbitten body to the healing rays of the sun. It would be no fun by himself though.

His daydream was interrupted by the telephone.

“So you weren't eaten alive by the rats then?” It was Matt.

“How d'you know about that?”

“They were cops, you bloody fool!” He laughed.

Johnny failed to see the funny side. “How was I supposed to know? They looked a right couple of thugs and they didn't say a word. I'd just received another postcard. I was fucking scared.”

“What did it say?”

“
Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror.
” The threat became more explicit each time he reiterated the phrase. Why had the killer chosen to intimidate him with this particular quotation? He wasn't beautiful like Matt. The words “beauty” and “Johnny” didn't belong in the same sentence.

“Nothing else?”

“No – and no obscene offering either.”

“You should have a chat with Penterell.”

“I've told you everything he needs to know. How long have I been shadowed?”

“The first shift started yesterday afternoon. I don't know what you said to Inskip, but he's been knocking heads together ever since.”

“I hate to admit it, but I suppose it makes sense.” Johnny was equally loath to admit that he was now grateful for the security blanket – even if it proved to be threadbare. “Tell him to make sure his bloodhounds stay out of my way – they could scare off the killer. The fact I'm being followed by him and the police must remain a secret. I don't want anyone else to die just because Inskip is pretending to be solicitous about my welfare.”

“I'll waste no time in passing on your heart-felt gratitude to him.” Matt waited for the expected snort of derision. “I'll have a quiet word with Inspector Woodling as well. That's all I can do.”

“Thank you. Any developments to report?”

“We traced the cabbie. The truculent tyke wasn't much use, but he helped our artist come up with what he insists is a reasonable likeness. It could be anybody, though. If you hide the lower half of anyone's face their eyes immediately become piercing.”

“When will it be released?”

“Inskip hasn't decided yet. My guess is he'll hang fire till Monday. He won't want to cause panic unless he absolutely has to. Investigating all the inevitable false sightings will only increase our workload. In the meantime he's arranged for extra patrols round the Clerkenwell Green area.”

“It's not his patch though. It's outside the Square Mile.”

“For once, our friends at the Met were only too happy to oblige. A man-hunt makes a pleasant change from policing demonstrations and strikes.”

“Inskip probably just telephoned one of his cronies from the lodge.”

“He was at your little get-together last night. Enjoy the scenery, did you?”

“Some of it. Horrid hangover though. Inskip must have been wearing a mask. What was a police commander doing in the midst of such decadence?”

“Same as you, most likely.”

“I bet he was paid to turn a blind eye.”

“I wouldn't say that if you value your skin.”

“Thanks for the advice. No one's untouchable though. He'll get his comeuppance one day. I shall do my utmost to ensure it.”

“Well, let's ensure you live to tell the tale. How are you bearing up?”

“Apart from Stella betraying me, the cracked ribs, the rat bites and the thick head, I've never been better. Don't think I can face your summer fair though.”

“In the circumstances I don't blame you. You're not the most popular pressman in town.”

“Give my regards to PC Watkiss.”

“It'll make his day, I'm sure.”

“Lizzie okay?”

“Bigger and more bad-tempered by the minute – but otherwise fine. I'm so glad to be seeing you tonight. Don't wait up.”

“The way I'm feeling? No chance.”

That his apparent pursuers had turned out to be coppers didn't alter the fact that he was being stalked by the killer – the delivery of the latest postcard proved it – so Johnny had no need to alter his copy. PDQ and Pencil had already given it their blessing.

He gave the image of St Dorothy to the art department then sloped off for a long lunch with Tanfield. Another opportunity to test the hair-of-the-dog theory.