They Never Looked Inside (18 page)

“I see,” said Miss Carter, she traced a complicated demilune with her needle. “It’s going to be a big job, isn’t it?”

Next morning the Major paid a little call in the Paddington area. He was following out an idea which had been at the back of his mind for some time. The house for which he was making was in no way distinguishable from fifty others in the solidly middle-class street, except that it was a corner house, and therefore slightly bigger than its fellows, and there was a suggestion of an annexe or out-building in the rear. A card in the first floor window bore a picture of a pink and white youth tenuously dressed in tight black-and-scarlet chequered drawers with the legend:

PROFESSOR TRUMAN’S WEST END ACADEMY BOXING AND DANCING

The Major went up the short front path and gave the bell-pull a jerk.

A voice from the depths roared: “Come in—and stop ringing the bloody bell.”

McCann grinned and obeyed. He seemed to be on familiar ground, for without further ado he mounted the narrow front stairs and, selecting the centre of three doors on the first landing, opened it and went in.

An old man was sitting in a wicker chair, beside a large table which was covered to a depth of about six inches with a miscellaneous jetsam composed of papers, post cards, dumb-bells, boxing gloves, press cuttings (in and out of press-cutting albums), signed photographs, bicep-extenders, strips of leather, the bladders of two punch-balls, the portions of several tyre mending outfits, and the remains of that morning’s breakfast.

The old man, who was patching a punch-ball cover, looked up sharply. It was the face of a battered, weather-beaten, but still very human gargoyle, crowned with a diadem of closely cropped white hair.

“Good morning, Professor,” said McCann, “how are you keeping?”

The old man peered at him and then his face broke into a broad smile, revealing the glory of perfect, gleaming dentures.

“It’s Mr. McCann – or will you have got some military handle to your name?”

“Never mind that,” said McCann, “and what’s wrong with Angus? It used to be ‘Keep your left hand up, Angus. Lead with the right, Angus. Hit him, Angus, you clumsy lout, don’t tickle him’.”

“Ar, you was never a boxer, Angus,” said the old man complacently. “Now, I’ve got some good boys here right now. Would you care to step along and see them? Real good boys—”

Taking his consent for granted, the professor was already leading the way, along a sloping gangway, into the little gym. Two men were skipping with serious intentness, a third was beating the heavy punching sack and sucking the air noisily between a pair of rubber gum protectors.

McCann watched them, fascinated, drinking in the old familiar smell of leather, resin and sweat.

None of them took the slightest notice of the intruders or deviated for a moment from his solemn ritual.

“Lovely,” said McCann at last. “It makes me wish I was ten years younger.”

“Ar,” said the professor, “you was never a boxer. Just a fighter. Mind that left, Albert. Let the bag rest on it till you feel the weight.”

Back in the sanctum McCann broached the object of his visit. He cut out any elaborate explanation – to which, in any case, the professor would not have listened – and said:

“Didn’t Franky Cusins do his training here – Lefty’s big brother?”

“That’s right, he did.”

“Well, it’s a long shot, I know, but I’m trying to trace a chap. All I know about him is that once upon a time he was glove boy to Franky.”

The professor looked thoughtful.

“That’s not easy,” he said at last. “Franky liked a big crowd round him all the time. Glove boys! He must have had a dozen. You know how it is. Kids of all ages! When a man’s winning they cluster round him. It’s the glamour that gets ‘em.”

“I suppose you don’t keep a record of sparring partners and that sort of thing,” said McCann, looking rather hopelessly at the chaotic mass of paper on the table.

“Records!” The old man chuckled. “Why, I don’t even keep a record of the boxers who box here, let alone the fancy boys they bring with ‘em. Wait a minute though—I’ve thought of something.”

He opened a corner cupboard and almost disappeared head first, like some aged terrier, as he burrowed into the piled confusion of papers, boxing magazines, fight programmes and news clippings.

After a minute he emerged triumphant and McCann saw that he held an old photograph.

This had clearly been taken to celebrate a victory. Franky Cusins was seated in the middle, his gloved arms round the necks of two bashful seconds. Standing behind were what looked like three sparring partners – one of whom McCann recognised as Lefty Cusins, the boxer’s brother and late a member of his own regiment. Seated on the ground were three youngsters.

“That’s my boy standing on the left,” said the professor, “seconded him for the title fight – and Lefty in the top row with Spider and Jim Crow.”

McCann carried the picture to the light. It wasn’t a good photograph and the lighting, such as it was, had naturally been concentrated on the hero in the middle; but the more he looked at it the more he felt certain he had seen that sharp, white tough face of the youngster sitting on the left.

The professor was unhelpful.

“Them kids,” he said, “I wouldn’t know any of them. Come to think of it, I don’t suppose I ever heard ‘em given a handle. Just ‘Hi, you, fetch them gloves – and look slippy with that sponge, you little basket.’ Why don’t you ask Franky? He’s out of the game now. Manages a pub – wait a minute – he wrote me the other day.”

The professor dived once more into his remarkable filing system. “’The Glossop Arms’ – it’s behind Victoria. Yes – keep the photograph by all means. I’d like it back when you’ve done with it, though.”

“I think Franky was
trying
to be helpful,” said McCann, telling Miss Carter about it the following evening, “but he just didn’t know. He remembered the boy in a vague way – it was eight years ago, after all. He said he remembered him because he was so young – he thought he couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve and he wondered how he’d squared his school. So far as he could remember they just called him Nipper. Anyway, I’m sending the photo to the Yard.”

“It’s a very ordinary face,” said Miss Carter.

“That’s just it. His face is his fortune. It’s so ordinary that it’s almost impossible to identify. I’m far from sure that this is him – and I’m one of the few people who’ve seen him at very close quarters, remember. Tell me what you’ve been up to—”

Miss Carter considered for a moment, inserted a further stiffener into the heel of her long-suffering stocking, and said: “I suppose that all this is on the level?”

“What do you mean?” asked McCann, considerably startled.

“I mean,” said Miss Carter, “I suppose you
are
working for the police. That Secret Service yarn – that was just hokum, wasn’t it?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, it was; how did you know?”

“I asked Sergeant Dalgetty last night. He said that if you were in the Secret Service you’d been so jolly secret about it that
he
hadn’t known of it, and you hadn’t hardly been out of each other’s sight for the last six years.”

“I had to tell you something,” said McCann, “and at that time it wasn’t my secret. But it’s all right now – everything above-board and level.”

“Well, it had better be,” said Miss Carter ominously, “because I’m warning you. When I start to dig, I start to dig.”

The result of her digging was presented to McCann two days later at the session which took place every evening, now, after closing time.

“Here’s the list,” said Miss Carter. “And there’s a libel suit in every line.”

The Major skimmed through it—it was a most intriguing document and contained six neatly ruled sections:

1. Mrs. Abrahams – Hat Shop, Granville Street – started in 1943 – Sells 7 and 8 guinea models for 3 and 4 guineas. Has two maids – both South Americans. The shop has a back entrance in Granville Mews. Neighbours say a black saloon Packard often visits the Mews entrance at night.
   
2. “Pastasciutta” Restaurant. Italian style dishes and wines. Elaborate Italian “front”. Waiters and Proprietor all French. Known in neighbourhood as a “rough” house. There have certainly been several fights in the restaurant – which have all been successfully kept from the police. Meals mostly disguised army rations.
   
3. Eustace Orrey – Commission Agent – Office in Smith Street, upper floor front. No one knows what he takes commissions for. G. says certainly not horse racing. The office was opened in 1940 and neighbours can remember a lot of “electrical gadgets” going up. Works very late at night. No housekeeper. Has a wireless but no wireless licence.
   
4. A shop and living rooms in basement of No. 17 Gt. Galley Street. Shop not now used as a shop and the windows have been boarded up. Used intermittently by “two or three men”, all of military age, but none of them in uniform. (D. was told that it was a small factory which made aeroplane parts during the war – now turned over to metal clips and fasteners. No machinery ever heard by other users of building – our informant lives on the floor above – but several times trouble caused by blowing of all house fuses.)
   
5. The “If Winter Comes” Public House in Tovey Street. Proprietor, Albert Smiles. A “Free” house. Present proprietor purchased last year. D. was told by the Manager of The Cock (opposite) that Albert Smiles is a suspicious character, and alleges:
   

1. He is an undischarged bankrupt.
   
2. Caters for private parties after hours.
   
3. Allows prostitutes to solicit in his saloon bar.
   

1. The Atomic Club. Opened six months ago. Manageress – Mrs. Purcell. Occupies premises of the old Pegasus. Nothing much known against it except that G. says its head waiter is a man called Samson (known as the Screw) who has had a hand in almost every shady dive in the West End in the past twenty-five years.
   

“I suppose,” groaned McCann, “that ‘G.’ is Glasgow’. Who the hell is ‘D.’?”

“Sergeant Dalgetty, of course,” said Miss Carter, composedly. “He’s been most useful. Have some sense, Angus. I couldn’t go into some of those places myself. I’m sure he’ll be the soul of discretion.”

When Hazlerigg read this list at the Yard next morning, he said: “Good God,”which was quite a violent expletive for him, and forwarded a copy to Pickup for his comments. Inspector Pickup read it through and said: “I don’t know why we trouble to finance a Criminal Investigation Department,” and sat down and wrote an urgent reply.

No. 1. Not known to us – sounds a bit like White Slave Traffic. May be black market in clothing coupons. Will investigate.

No. 2. This is OKAY The restaurant was used throughout the war as H.Q. of F.F.I. Hence army rations. Will probably be closed shortly.

No. 3. A crank. Invents things which he tries to sell to the War Office. I’ll tell the Post Office about his wireless licence.

No. 4. LAY OFF THIS – We know all about them. No connection with present job. Coining and other offences. Will shortly be closed down.

No. 5. I expect this is a plain case of professional jealousy.

No. 6. Not known to us – will investigate.

This reply was read by the committee at the Leopard.

“I think we might have a look at Number One and Number Six for ourselves,” said McCann. “Why should they have all the fun.”

This suggestion was carried enthusiastically and a number of ideas were produced to carry it into effect, none of them remarkable for their practicability.

The final conclusion was that McCann should visit the hat shop, whilst Sergeant Dalgetty and Glasgow made a preliminary reconnaissance at the Atomic Club.

At this point they were interrupted. One of the barmaids knocked on the sanctum door and thrust in a neatly permed head.

“It’s that young man again, Miss Carter, that Ronnie.”

“Oh, God, not the tulip!”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Carter. He’s upsetting the customers.”

Sergeant Dalgetty, who seemed to have taken naturally to the role of “chucker-out”, climbed to his feet.

“Leave him to me, mem,” he said.

McCann, following from curiosity, had a glimpse through the half-open door behind the bar of a pallid youth with long and rather mouse-eaten blonde hair, dressed in dove grey flannels with a wasp waist and a canary coloured polo-necked sweater. His high and affected voice floated above the babel of the bar. He seemed to be forcing his attention on two men who had just finished playing darts.

“What about a lovely game of Round the Clock?” he fluted.

“Round the mulberry bush,” said one of the men. “You push off, Ronnie, and play tiddlywinks with your own pals.”

“Really,” said the young man petulantly. “How too sordid.”

Sergeant Dalgetty was by now approaching and he eyed him hopefully.

“Come on, chum,” said the Sergeant, grasping him expertly above the elbow. “I’ve got a secret to tell you.”

“What – not something frightfully filthy?”

“That’s right,” said Sergeant Dalgetty, “it’s so filthy”—he started to move towards the door and the crowd grinned and made way for him—”that there’s only one place to hear it”—the young man was driven apparently quite effortlessly in front of him—” and that’s the gutter.” The door opened and the youth disappeared.

McCann’s interview with Mrs. Abrahams was not a staggering success, though it produced one unexpected result. He wore, for the occasion, the flashiest suit in his not very imaginative wardrobe, a pair of reversed calf shoes, and a frankly horrible tie (green with small yellow fox-terriers) which had not seen the light of day since it first left its Christmas wrappings.

Mrs. Abrahams, a compact Jewess, dominated the conversation from the start.

“A hat—but certainly—had the gentleman any particular model in mind? Or perhaps he could describe the lady for whom he was purchasing. His wife? Ah, he was not yet married. He must hurry up, mustn’t he, before all the nice girls were taken. His fiancée, then?”