Mornings in London Read online

  Uncle Lastings nodded.

  “I want to see the reply.” I have learned the hard way that the best way to trust Uncle Lastings is to see the evidence.

  There was a dispute about that, naturally, with the telegrapher burbling on about security procedures that seemed to me surprisingly lax. Finally, he sent another message, and we had another wait, and then there came a salty reply direct to me to the effect that the deal was on. I was shown this message, and when I saw the language, I had no doubts.

  Uncle Lastings disappeared into the depths of the building to conjure not just a car but a driver. “Security, my boy,” he announced and fairly bounced into the backseat. At Avant Design, we roused Nan from the alcove where she set up her bed at night. While I made her some tea, she got her sewing kit with her little razor knife and slit the wallpaper. “I think I have just enough left to mend this again,” she said. After a bit of fiddling, she produced the two sets of negatives, each wrapped in a scrap of silk.

  My uncle pocketed them eagerly. “You have the thanks of the nation,” he announced grandly, causing Nan to raise her eyebrows and declare he’d best see that her dear boy was protected. Uncle Lastings reassured her so floridly that I understood he’d badly needed some coup to justify his expenses and favors. Now with the negatives in hand, he was entering his flamboyant mode, and part of his plan was to leave his nephew behind. I wasn’t having that.

  The content of the scientific document was undoubtedly beyond me, but Freddie’s other photos were another matter. “I can help with identifications, particularly if anyone from the Larkins’ house party was involved.” I also emphasized Poppy’s welfare. “She’s in hiding and doesn’t know who she can trust, not even among her oldest friends.”

  My uncle twisted his mouth as if he, personally, did not expect to trust anyone, old friends included, but he finally conceded that I might be useful. I said good night to Nan and returned with my uncle to the tower block just beyond Waterloo.

  Another consultation with the lethargic (and clearly forgetful) security guard. My uncle repeated his earlier performance and we were permitted to enter the elevator. Up first, to collect a weary-looking gent with all-night stubble and dark circles under his eyes, identified only as Morris, then down below ground level to photographic services. The technician signed in the material, countersigned by my uncle and the night watchman of the security services, and we waited again. There was a pot of tea of mysterious origin and faintly chemical aftertaste. Also stale biscuits. I think such offices must buy them up when they are past their prime.

  Eventually, the technician emerged with prints of the document. Morris took a look and livened up considerably.

  “Important?” Uncle Lastings asked.

  “Vital. It stays in our hands,” he said and touched my uncle’s shoulder reassuringly.

  “Ah,” said my uncle with satisfaction, and I thought that His Majesty’s security services should be prepared for bills and demands.

  The other photos were promised soon. Morris took the document upstairs, leaving my uncle and me to wait for Freddie’s naughty bits to be printed. Fairly soon, we had a contact sheet and then prints. Several of the images were blurry, but as Uncle Lastings said, nothing a clever tabloid graphics department couldn’t have improved. Others were quite sharp. I tapped one of a blond man up to something complicated with a chap in a mask.

  “You know him?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. But there’s something familiar.” It was late, I was tired, and various bits of my mental apparatus were operating in slow motion. But blond, broad face, even features—I remembered studying Poppy’s friend across the table at Lyons. Shorten her hair, lengthen her chin, and Lizzie Armitage would have passed for a handsome boy. “If Lizzie Armitage’s brother resembles her,” I said, “this could be him. George is in electrical engineering and, according to his sister, involved with everything innovative. Plus, he made a workday trip to Hastings while Poppy was hiding there.”

  “She would recognize him?”

  “Oh, undoubtedly.”

  “We will have this edited and you can ask her.” My uncle tapped on the door of the dark room and gave the order without asking me if I wanted this disagreeable task. “Anyone else?” he asked.

  I studied one of the blurred photos. “I couldn’t swear to it, but I’m guessing this is Peter Tollman. He’s rich and well connected—and an alibi for both Basil Grove, the furniture magnate, and Rinaldi. I’m betting that Freddie was passing at least some of his ‘donations’ to Mosley’s outfit.”

  Chapter 12

  I’ve found it a good plan never to trust my uncle. This is not to say that he lacks family feeling or other more interesting emotions. But as a general rule, suspicion is the best strategy. When he produced a carefully cropped enlargement—Nothing to cause a maiden’s blush, as he put it—of the man who might be George, I pocketed it and promised to ask Poppy.

  “Promptly,” Uncle Lastings said.

  “Too late tonight. Way too late.” It was, in fact, well into morning.

  “I’ll see you get a ride home, and I’ll collect you in the morning.” Clearly, my uncle had moved up in the shadow world. Was he hoping to advance still further with the discovery of Poppy’s hiding place? I thought so.

  “I can manage. I’ll find a cab at Waterloo.”

  My uncle insisted on giving me the fare just the same, and I agreed to be ready at 10 a.m. Good luck with that! I caught a few hours of sleep at home, but as soon as Nan got up, I clued her in and skedaddled to Maurice’s studio. He was snoring in the back, not being an early riser. That suited me fine. I lay down on the studio couch, wrapped myself in the assorted drapes he used as props, and managed another few hours of sleep.

  It was close to noon when I woke up to a shout of, “My Pommy bloke!”

  With one thing and another, I’d been neglecting Maurice, but soon, all was forgiven. We had a late breakfast with the big omelets he cooks so well and amused ourselves in the studio for a while afterward. Then I laid in the background of a fresh canvas for him with a deep ochre tint that proved troublesome to keep smooth and even. After that, we had glasses of wine and some slices of hard sausage and cheese. Thus fortified, I said I had to run an errand.

  “Just when we were hitting our stride,” Maurice said and pulled a sad face. “What can possibly take you away?”

  “Favor for a friend,” I said. “I’m hours late as it is.”

  Maurice is insatiably curious about my life. He pouted and teased so that I resorted to the movie dialogue we both love. “I’m off for king and country,” I said, which had the merit of being true.

  “Oh, do tell!”

  “Top secret, old boy. My lips are sealed.” I’ll spare you the rest, except to note that Maurice sometimes fancies himself the male Mata Hari or, maybe, the lady herself. This time our frolics on the studio couch turned out to be ill-advised, because the playful spy got into my pants pocket and found the photo. Trouble!

  Maurice quite enjoys scenes. He jumped up immediately, demanding to know who the handsome blond was, and I could see that he was prepared to be jealous and theatrical like a right old queen.

  I’d had enough playacting for one day. I let him run on for a few minutes, then I said, “If you recognize him, please tell me. It will save me a difficult job.”

  He blustered for a moment more, but he’d detected the change in tone and sat down beside me, quite serious. “You really don’t know him? Handsome as he is?”

  I shook my head. “I’m off to see someone who might identify him. If you don’t recognize him, Maurice, forget you ever saw this. Safest, really.”

  “You weren’t kidding earlier?”

  “Not entirely. My cousin is still missing. This man may be connected.”

  Maurice has a fine visual memory. He took the photo again and looked at it carefully. “I
believe I’ve seen him.” He shook his head. “Don’t know his name, not a painter. Not a model, either.” Another pause. Concentrated thought suits Maurice. I began to think he’d make an interesting portrait. “Chelsea Arts Ball! Last year. I’m sure of it. He had a gladiator helmet and a tutu. Mixed messages, I thought,” Maurice added archly. “I do prefer a man who can make up his mind.”

  “Anyone know his name?”

  “Now you want all my little secrets.”

  “Just this one.” Now it was my turn to tease and coax. I finally got the names of a couple of Dilly Boys who might be useful.

  “Davie and Wilbur. They were with him. Delphine and Wilma, they were that night. Oh, painted to the nines. And scented like a flower shop. You should have seen them.” Maurice waved his arms and did a campy little turn.

  I figured I’d have to search the town before I turned up either Davie or Wilbur, boys who might—or might not—be as gossipy and prying as Maurice. Still, they were a possibility if Poppy failed to recognize the photograph. I thanked Maurice, cautioned him again to forget the photo, and left the studio by the back entrance. Although I didn’t think Uncle Lastings knew about Maurice, I wasn’t taking any chances.

  Such caution was possibly merited. As I approached the local Tube station, I had the bad feeling that I was being watched, even though I didn’t see anyone suspicious behind me, and there was no one loitering when I stopped before a haberdashery window. Still, Poppy’s stalker must have invaded my imagination, because I could not shake an uneasiness that increased when a man in a long dark coat followed me into the station. He wore a trilby pulled down low on his brow, and he stopped and fussed with a cigarette until my direction was clear. Then he followed a dozen paces behind me.

  Although I told myself this was nonsense, I abruptly turned for the westbound trains, instead of taking my usual eastbound route. My shadow in the long coat made a similar decision. When the train came, he chose the same carriage I did, then stared indifferently out the window. Studying the darkness of the tunnel? Or watching me in the mirrored surface? Fortunately, the District Line was busy at that hour, and two stops along, I slid out just as the doors were closing and got into the crush transferring to the Piccadilly Line.

  There I caught an eastbound train to Leicester Square, exiting to Soho, where I found Poppy’s new address. It was a smoke-darkened three-story Georgian building that hadn’t been fashionable since the Regency. There were three apartments per floor, and the stairs carried a lingering smell of boiled vegetables, fried sausages, and elderly drains; in short, the same corner of Bohemia that I’d inhabited on the Continent.

  I knocked at the door of 37. The statuesque girl who answered had her hair in curlers and a cigarette perched in the corner of her bright painted mouth. She was wearing nothing but a silk teddy under her fluttering pink wrapper. When she saw me, she pulled the wrapper closed, crossed her arms, and demanded to know my business.

  “Is Poppy, Penelope, in?”

  She turned her head and shouted, causing the cigarette to flap. “You know a pudding-faced chap in a leather jacket?”

  “It’s Francis,” I said.

  “Says his name’s Francis.”

  I heard my cousin’s voice from the back, and her roommate stepped aside, giving me a glimpse of a long, muscular leg and a bare foot with the calloused toes of a professional dancer.

  “Francis! I thought we weren’t supposed to meet. We’re just in a rush to get to work.” Poppy’s shopgirl’s outfit was beginning to look a bit worn and she herself looked tired and a trifle anxious. Clearly, a busy life in the deb set was less exhausting than spending long nights at the theater as a dresser.

  “This will be quick. A place to talk?”

  “I’m doing my face,” the roommate announced and disappeared into the back.

  “That’s Harmony, one of the lead dancers,” Poppy said. “Brusque but a brick.”

  I sensed that she wasn’t eager to learn the purpose of my visit, but there was no point in postponing the inevitable. “The negatives were developed. Would you look at this?” I took out the cropped photo. Her face changed as soon as she saw it. “You recognize him. Who is it, Poppy?”

  “You’re wrong. I don’t know him, never saw him.” She put her chin in the air defiantly, but I wasn’t convinced. I could see that she was hurt.

  “It’s George, isn’t it? Lizzie’s brother.”

  “You’re not listening, Francis! I just said I don’t know him.”

  “You’re not that good a liar, Poppy. I can find out from you or there are other chaps I can ask. But that will mean complications. Understand?”

  Poppy bit her lip. “He’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid so. But there’s no proof of anything except that Freddie had the means to blackmail him. George might have given information to Freddie—or he might not have. We don’t know. Either way, there are going to be questions for him.”

  Poppy seemed on the verge of tears. “Can’t you just tear it up? Can’t you, Francis?” She turned away momentarily and shook her head. “No, of course not. I know you can’t. It’s too late. But I wish to God you’d destroyed those negatives. Every single one. Please leave, Francis. Now! Or you’ll be noticed for certain,” she added and practically pushed me out the door.

  Back down the stairs with those associations of Berlin and Paris. Did I feel a touch of the old familiar Continental paranoia? I certainly did! When I spotted a phone box at the corner, I walked straight by, although I should have called immediately to confirm George’s identity. But the side street was almost empty at that time of day. I felt conspicuous on the pavement, and the idea of being enclosed in a windowed phone box unappealing.

  Instead, I headed over to Berwick Street, where the market would still be busy, and I would be just another stroller amid the sidewalk stalls, the late shoppers, and the various touts and schleppers drumming up customers with their aggressive patter. There’s safety in numbers, Francis! I was walking quickly, head down, and thinking about my cousin and her nice friend, Lizzie, and her blackmail-prone brother, when two men appeared out of the shadows. My heart jumped, as if my body recognized them before my mind. They moved to either side of me and pushed me into a dark and narrow lane with a row of dustbins and broken window sashes and mysterious heaps of waste and rubbish.

  I dug in my heels. I had no intention of venturing farther into that sinister area. Immediately came the click of a flick knife and a glimmer off the narrow blade that came to rest against the side of my throat. I had a sudden image of Freddie lying bloodied in the grass.

  “You’ve got something we want,” one said. He had a heavy Italian accent.

  “I doubt that very much. I don’t have as much as a pound on me.” I added, “Non ho soldi,” for good measure.

  The one with the knife stepped so as to block the view of any curious passerby; the other slid his hand into my pockets, exclaiming triumphantly when he produced the photo. I should have destroyed it before I left Poppy! But no one pays up for a head shot, even if the expression is suggestive. The older one realized that. He was heavy with a Garibaldi beard to compensate for his shining bald dome, and he clicked his knife shut and shook his head in disgust. The other, who was much more in the style of the neighborhood with a flashy striped suit, brilliantined hair, and pencil mustache, burst into excited Italian. When his colleague refused to share his enthusiasm, he grabbed the front of my jacket and rocked back on his heels as if to head butt me.

  I wasn’t having that. I brought my knee up into his crotch. He released me with a gasp. I stumbled back against one of the heavy dustbins, caught the handle, and tipped it against his bald colleague who, momentarily off balance, swung his knife at me. I felt a cold sting along my neck and made a lunge for the head of the lane.

  With a gulp of air and a desperate burst of speed, I skidded onto Berwick Street and
into the big open market, where I plunged into the narrow passage between the stalls and shop fronts, bumping proprietors and dodging the schleppers who called their wares and badgered passersby. The awnings were down against a fine drizzle and their shadows and the bare electric lights in the shadows gave the market an exotic air. I slipped behind curtains of “silk” stockings and squeezed past store windows holding lingerie—a personal temptation—while corset sellers, stout and armored like dreadnoughts in their products, held their ground and provided interference.

  Farther on were produce sellers and fishmongers and men and women selling sausages and tripe and liver and bread, all eager to see me and prepared to barter, but shouts from behind told me that the two Italians were still in pursuit. I was trying to spot them when I almost ran into a tailor’s boy struggling to push a rack of finished suits with one hand and hauling another behind him that held pinned and basted garments—a near impossible task in the crowd.

  I moved next to him, half crouching and hidden by the suits. “I’ll give you a sixpence if you let me push one rack,” I said with a glance behind him.

  He was small and dark, with a thin face and the stooped shoulders that come from piecework and long hours with the needle or the sewing machine, but quick. He followed my glance. “Fascistas?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’ll see your money just the same.”

  I put one hand on the forward rack, and as we shuffled through the crowd, the boy occasionally shouting for room in both English and Yiddish, I fished up a sixpence and put it in his hand.

  “Them’s finished garments! Both hands on the rack!” With this command, we picked up the pace. The crowd parted for our combined approach, and we managed to reach Oxford Street, where the fancy shops and fancier shoppers provided extra protection. Nonetheless, I stayed with him until we rolled the racks into the goods entrance of a big shop. Immediately, he started swearing in all his languages: He’d noticed blood on my neck, and when I put my hand up, it came back smeared red.