1951 - But a Short Time to Live (11 page)

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, gaping at Parkins as he gently but firmly shepherded Mrs. Westerham from the room.

"Well, young man," Parkins said, coming over and standing before Harry. "I have a bit of bad news for you. Your friend Ronald Fisher's had an accident."

"Ron?" Harry exclaimed, starting up. "What's happened?"

Parkins pulled up a chair and sat down, facing Harry.

"Same thing that happened to you. We picked him up in Dean Street about an hour ago. He's been bashed across the head with a bicycle chain."

There was a long silence. Parkins sat still, watching Harry, his big, fleshy face expressionless.

"Is he badly hurt?" Harry asked at last.

" 'Fraid he is. You remember I told you one of these days this basher would hit someone with a thin skull — well, he's done it."

Harry looked at the inspector in horror.

"He's — he's not dead, is he?"

"No, he's not dead, but he's in a very bad shape. I've just come from the hospital. He's as bad as he can be."

"Can I see him?"

"Oh, no. I don't think anyone will be able to see him for a long time. The end of the chain caught him at the back of his neck. The damage may result in paralysis. It's too early to say yet, but if he lives it looks as if he mightn't be much use for years."

Harry sat still. He felt sick.

"I didn't appreciate him," he thought. "He and I have been around together for years. We've had good times together, but we did take each other for granted. And now — well, I shall miss him. It's going to be awfully flat and dull without him. Poor devil! And it might have happened to me! That swine I To have done that to Ron. But, why? Why did he do it?"

"Has he any relations?" Parkins asked, breaking into Harry's thoughts. "I came here because this address was in his wallet, but if he has a wife or relations I'll have to send someone to break the news."

"He has a wife," Harry said. "Perhaps I'd better see her."

"Just as you like. She'll have to be told. I'll send an officer if you'd prefer it."

Harry shook his head.

"No, I'd better go. I expect I'll find the address somewhere amongst his papers. Then his editor will have to be told. The paper ought to do something for him."

"Well, all right, now that's settled, let's have a little talk," Parkins said. "It looks as if the chap who hit you, hit your friend. Any idea why?"

"No. I was wondering myself."

"What was Fisher doing in Soho at twelve o'clock at night?"

"I can tell you that. He was after information. He said he was meeting a man who could tell him something about this pickpocket gang."

"That's right." Parkins looked interested. "I was talking to him last week about the business. He wanted to do an article about it, and came to me for information but I hadn't much to give him except the bare facts. Who was this fellow he was meeting?"

"He didn't say."

"Well, where was he meeting him?"

"Some cafe in Soho. He did mention the name, but I — I can't remember it. You see, I wasn't really interested, and I didn't listen very attentively. It was a cafe in Athens Street I think he said."

"You must remember," Parkins said curtly. "Now look here, Rides, you haven't been too helpful about this business nor about your own accident. You haven't told me all you know. Someone did object to being photographed that night, didn't they?"

"Well, yes," Harry said, changing colour. "But he had nothing to do with this business."

"How do you know?"

"I know who he is. He's an advertising man."

"What's his name?"

"Robert Brady," Harry said sullenly, wondering if Clair would be furious with him for giving her boss's name to the police.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

Harry hesitated, then said, "Well, he was with a girl I know. I didn't want her dragged into it.”

"Who's she?"

"My fiancée. I'm sorry, but I'm not giving you her name. She has nothing to do with this business; nor has Brady."

"Your fiancée, eh?" Parkins gave him a long, searching stare. "You know Brady?"

"I don't exactly know him. He's my fiancée’s agent. He doesn't like his photograph taken."

To Harry's relief, Parkins seemed to lose interest in Brady.

"Let's get back to the cafe," he said, resting his big hands on his knees. "I want the name of it. Now come on; think."

Harry thought, but couldn't remember what Ron had told him.

"I'm sorry, but it's no use. It's gone out of my mind."

Parkins looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past two.

"All right. Suppose you hop into your clothes and come to Athens Street," he said. "We'll walk down both sides of the street and see if you spot the place. I have a car outside. We'll be there in twenty minutes."

"What, now?"

"Yes, now," Parkins said curtly.

"Well, all right," Harry said, and began to dress hurriedly.

Parkins lit a cigarette and rested back in the chair.

"Fisher was a good lad. He came to me for help a number of times, and I liked him. I'm willing to bet he found out something about this gang, and they've silenced him. The Doc says he may not recover consciousness for weeks, so it's no use waiting for his statement I'll have to move fast if I'm going to catch this chap."

"Do you think the fella who hit me has anything to do with the gang?" Harry asked, struggling into his coat.

"I should say he's one of the ring leaders. That's why I'm anxious to find out why he stole that roll of film off you. I think it's likely you took one of the gang's photographs. Maybe they were working in the background, and you didn't see them. It was something like that. Are you ready?"

Harry said he was, and followed the inspector from the room.

Although it was after two o'clock, Mrs. Westerham lurked in the front room. She popped out as soon as she heard footsteps, and turned pale when she saw Harry coming down the stairs with the inspector.

"He's not taking you away?" she gasped, clutching Harry's arm.

"It's all right," Harry said. "Ron's met with an accident. I'm just helping the police. I'll tell you about it when I get bade."

He shook his arm free, forced a smile and hurriedly followed the inspector out of the house.

"I believe she thought you were arresting me," he said as he climbed into the car and sat beside Parkins.

Parkins grunted, and told the uniformed driver to go to Athens Street and to be quick about it. It was surprising how quickly they got there. The roads were practically deserted, although as they rushed along Piccadilly there were still a few street prowlers to be seen, and looking out of the window, Parkins snorted at the sight of them.

"Those are the fellows who give us so much trouble," he said. "They hang about the West End looking for a girl, and when they find one and she picks their pockets, they come squealing to us. If they'd only keep out of the West End they wouldn't lose their money — the damned fools!"

And suddenly Harry felt a cold prickle run up his spine. He remembered Sam Wingate. He had picked up Clair and had lost his wallet! Could Clair . . . but that was impossible! His mind jumped to Brady and to the tow-headed chap. Ron had been after information about the gang, and had been silenced by the tow-headed chap. He suddenly wanted to be sick. Was Clair tied up with this gang? She had passed the wallet to him. He remembered Ron had said that was their method. He refused to believe it, pushing it out of his mind. It was a coincidence. It must be! But he would have to warn her. She must never give way to such a dangerous, stupid impulse again. She might have been hauled to Vine Street. The car slid to a standstill in Dean Street and Parkins got out.

"We'll walk the rest of the way. It's down here. Now keep your eyes open. There are about a dozen crates here. See if you can recognise the name."

Athens Street was a narrow, dimly lit thoroughfare, lined on either side with shops, cafes and public houses. One or two loafers stood under the street lamps, but at the sight of Parkins's burly form they melted into the darkness.

Harry walked down the street, peering at the darkened shop facias. He noticed at the far end of the street a big American car standing outside a building. As they approached he saw a sign hanging over the door, and he caught hold of Parkins's arm.

"That's it!" he said excitedly. "The Red Circle cafe. I remember now."

"Sure?"

"Positive."

"All right. Now you hop back to the car and wait for me. I'm going inside."

"Can't I go with you?"

"Not with that scar you can't," Parkins said shortly. "You keep out of sight. That'd properly give the game away."

Harry stood on the edge of the kerb and watched Parkins walk towards the cafe, wanting to follow him, but realising what Parkins had said made sense.

As the inspector drew near the cafe, the door suddenly opened and four girls came tumbling out.

The quiet of the night was disturbed by their loud laughter and high-pitched voices.

One of them, a dark girl in a fur coat, was screaming with laughter, and staggered slightly as she moved across the pavement, hanging on to another girl's arm. The four of them behaved as if they were drunk. They went laughing and pushing each other towards the car.

A man got out of the car and opened the rear door. Harry recognised him at once — Robert Brady!

Even in the dim light of the distant street lamp, Harry was sure he was Brady. The arrogant air, the tilt of the homburg hat and the big, powerful shoulders were unmistakable. With a sudden sinking heart, Harry looked again at the girl in the fur coat. It was Clair.

Brady had taken hold of Clair's arm and had given her a rough little shake. She fell against him, still laughing, while the other girls bundled into the car.

Parkins had slowed down and was watching the scene. Brady seemed aware of him. He said something to Clair, and her high-pitched laugh suddenly stopped. She looked over her shoulder at Parkins, and then hurriedly scrambled into the car.

Brady followed her, and slammed the car door. The engine roared and the car moved swiftly away.

chapter fourteen

T
he next morning Harry was late at the studio. He found Mooney sitting at his desk in the front room laboriously going through the accounts.

"Hey!" Mooney said, looking up. "What's the idea? You're late. Just because you're a partner . . ."

He broke off, seeing Harry's pale, worried face. "What's up, kid?"

"It's Ron. He had an accident last night," and Harry told Mooney what had happened.

Mooney liked Ron who had often called in when he was in Soho for a chat, and he was shocked at the news.

"Have you had a word with the hospital?"

Harry nodded.

"I rang them on my way here. There's no news. He's still on the danger list, and they don't expect him to regain consciousness for a week or so," he said, sitting on the edge of the desk. He fingered the scar across his forehead, frowning. "It's an awful thing. Poor old Ron. Inspector Parkins thinks it's something to do with this pickpocket gang."

"You keep clear of it, Harry," Mooney said, pulling at his moustache. "You don't want another bang on the head."

"I must see Mrs. Fisher. I'm on my way now, but thought I'd drop off and tell you the news. Look, here's the sketch plan of the studio. Would you get an electrician to put the plugs where I've marked them on the plan? The chap next door will do it. I may not be able to get back here until after lunch."

"You're not going to neglect the business?" Mooney asked, alarmed. "I'm relying on you, Harry. I've always been a damned Jonah, and if you're going to leave it to me —"

"I must see Ron's wife. But I'll be here after lunch. I'd better get off now."

Mooney looked searchingly at him.

"Is there anything else on your mind, kid?"

“This is enough, isn't it?" Harry said shortly. "You'll probably be busy this morning. Those night cards will be coming in. You'll have to explain the roll was destroyed or something. See if you can book anyone for a portrait when they do come in. The electrician should be through by tomorrow. You can make appointments for Thursday. I'll be ready then."

Leaving Mooney to look after the studio, Harry caught a bus to Charing Cross, and took a ticket at the Underground station for Walham Green. He had found Sheila's address in a notebook of Ron's. In the notebook was a record of payments Ron had been making his wife. He had been paying her six pounds a week. Harry wondered how she would manage now this source of income had dried up. He was pretty certain that Ron hadn't saved any money.

During the journey, his mind darted from Ron to Sheila, from the studio to Clair. He was afraid to think too much about Clair. What he had seen the previous night had shocked him. What in the world had Clair been doing with those three other girls and Brady at that time of night?

Parkins had seen her, although he had said nothing to Harry about her. Parkins hadn't discovered anything at the cafe. The owner and the waiters declared they knew nothing about a man with tow-coloured hair, nor did they remember seeing Ron Fisher there.

Harry was still worrying about Clair when he arrived at Sheila's house in a side street near Walham Green station. It was a dark, grey stone house, with dirty, untidy lace curtains at the windows.

As Harry mounted the steps, he was aware that he was being inspected by a sharp-featured woman who was shaking a doormat from the next door porch.

"You'll have to ring 'arder than that," she said scornfully as Harry pressed the bell. "She don't get up 'til 'eaven knows when."

Harry muttered his thanks, and rang again.

After nearly a five minutes' wait, and having rung two or three times, the front door suddenly jerked open, and a girl in a soiled pink dressing gown stood glaring at him.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Harry said, feeling hot and embarrassed. "Are you Mrs. Fisher?"

"What if I am?" the girl demanded in a shrill, hard voice. "What a time to call! You got me out of bed!"