Death by two hands, p.29
Death by Two Hands, page 29
“Bert needn’t worry. I only want her as a dancing partner. She’s got just the right figure.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do about it.” Mrs. Finch took her hand from the knob and put it under her chin. “She finishes with Mr. Crick along about six o’clock most nights, and if you was to come to my place afore that, say half-past five, I could ask her to look in on her way home.”
Macrae took a packet from the mantelpiece and lit a cigarette. “Then that’s settled,” he said through a cloud of smoke.
“Of course, I can’t promise nothing, and if she won’t come, she won’t come, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Yes, I understand that. And now I’ll have to be getting dressed.”
Mrs. Finch still stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Crick, him that she works for, is a decent old stick. Clever, too.”
Macrae hummed a tune and picked up a day-old paper.
“He had a murder case once and got the bloke off, what was more than any one round here thought he’d do. But for all the good it did he might have saved himself the trouble. The bloke killed himself the week after.”
Macrae nodded, untied the cord of his dressing-gown, and took the newly pressed pair of trousers off the chair. The hint was broad enough even for Mrs. Finch.
Macrae dressed slowly and with care, for his clothes were his stock-in-trade, his sole capital. He would sooner have gone hungry than appear badly dressed. He was hungry now. He consoled himself with the thought of a free lunch to be provided by Mrs. Keene and counted out the coppers which would take him to it. Sixpence! He smiled, and his thin mean lips spread in a hard line beneath his black moustache. Life was a game—the life he led. Sometimes rich, but more often poor. It had been fun for a time, but now that he was nearing the forty mark it wasn’t quite so amusing.
He looked into the glass and took up the rag again and started on the left side. Damn these grey hairs! When he had finished he put on a double-breasted coat which still fitted without a wrinkle, though it was more than four years old. The slim gold cigarette-case which he slipped into the breast pocket did not show. Book matches in a waistcoat pocket; a silk handkerchief in his cuff; the six pennies in a trouser pocket, and he was ready for the road.
It cost two-pence to ride in a tram to Charing Cross Underground, and there he got down and bought a midday paper. Racing that day was at Haydock Park, and he turned to the program. The Mayfly filly was running in the second race and ought to have a pretty good chance. Perks was riding her. The betting forecast gave the price as 100 to 8, and with a fiver each way he could pick up enough to pay the club debt and leave a bit over. He would try to touch the old woman for a tenner.
At a quarter to one Macrae entered the hall of Mortlake Mansions, a block of very new flats near Sloane Square. The porter saluted him, said that it was a lovely day, and asked if the Captain knew anything for Haydock. Macrae replied that he thought the Mayfly filly had a pretty good chance, and pressed the lift button.
Outside the door of a flat on the third floor he fingered his tie, smoothed his hair, and then rang the bell. The maid who opened the door smiled at him. He got on well with women of every class.
“Madam is changing, sir. She won’t be long.”
Macrae put his hat on a table in the hall and sauntered into a long, low room which could not have been mistaken for any other than the room of a single woman. Bright chintzes of flamboyant design covered the chairs and a massive chesterfield. There were no ash-trays. The walls, the colour of overripe corn, were bare of pictures. A walnut stand held the morning papers neatly folded. A cold, white marble figure of a naked woman held up a primrose-shaded lamp.
There was no sign of the careless, untidy presence of a man.
From behind a door came the fruity voice of Mrs. Keene saying that it was wonderful of Eric to have come, that she wouldn’t be a minute, and would he get himself a drink?
Macrae, with his hand already on a bottle of gin, said he would. Mixing a drink for himself at some one else’s expense was one of the things that gave him the greatest pleasure. He filled a glass half-full of gin, added a quarter of French vermouth and a few drops of orange bitters.
He sipped his drink. It tasted very good to him. One more and he would be ready for lunch.
Mrs. Keene came flowing in as he was repeating the dose; a large, middle-aged woman in a startling dress of black, gold, and crimson. “Eric, my dear. So good of you to come.” She kissed Macrae and subsided into a chair, which took her weight without one protesting creak from its expensive, coppered springs. “My dear, I’ve had such a rush. I never thought I’d get away in time for the train.”
Apparently her toilet was still incomplete, for she opened an elaborate compact and got busy with a lipstick. She spoke in jerks. “I saw Lady Danesbury in Debenham’s. She asked me to tea next week. . . . We must go to the Savoy one night. . . . When I come back of course. . . . I’ll let you know.”
“Yes, rather. Great fun.” Macrae forced enthusiasm into his tone and half finished his drink.
“And I want to see the new show at the Gaiety. I met some one the other day who said it was wonderful, and Milly said that I must see . . .”
As she talked, Macrae was looking round the room. There wasn’t anything worth lifting that he could see. The clock might be worth something, but it was too bulky.
Mrs. Keene looked at her watch. “Heavens! It’s after one. Come along, we must lunch or I shall miss the train.”
As she was fussing with her bag, Macrae walked to the door. There were times when she got on his nerves, and this was one of them.
They lunched quickly but expensively in the restaurant on the ground floor and returned to the flat. The maid, wearing her hat and coat, was waiting in the hall beside a pile of luggage.
“Have you packed everything?” Mrs. Keene asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m all ready.” There was a suggestion of reproof in her voice.
“All right, then. Order a taxi.” Mrs. Keene swept round the flat. “I think we have everything.” She collected a pile of letters from a marquetry desk, stuffed them in her bag, fastened the catch, and then kissed Macrae. He had trained himself not to flinch, and took it well. “I’ll be back next week. Friday probably. Now, do you think I’ve really got everything?”
Macrae said he was sure she had and then asked with affected carelessness if she could let him have his money.
“Yes, of course. Stupid of me to have forgotten.” She unlocked her desk and took a cheque-book out of her bag. Macrae supplied a pen, which he shook gently over a pink virgin blotting-pad until ink fell in a shower of tiny drops.
Mrs. Keene wrinkled her brow. “Now, let me see. Dinner and dance on Tuesday. Tea Dance on Thursday. How much is that?”
Macrae told her, and when she had signed her name he took the cheque and blotted it. Then he said: “I wonder if you’d mind backing a cheque for me for a tenner? I’m rather short of cash.”
As he spoke the words Macrae realized that he had made a mistake. Mrs. Keene looked away from him as she got up, and there was a hard edge to her voice as she replied:
“No. I’m afraid I can’t.”
He shrugged his shoulders and followed her out to the hall. The bags were gone, but the maid was still waiting.
“We’ll have to hurry,” she said, and opened the front door.
As Macrae watched the taxi drive away there was a thoughtful expression in his eyes. Two pounds twelve and sixpence. That was the hell of a lot of good to him. He stood on the edge of the pavement until the porter of the flats had disappeared into his office. Then he walked back into the hall and ran up the stairs to the third floor. There was no one about; no one to see him open the door of Mrs. Keene’s flat with a key which he had had cut at a stall in a street market.
The lock fell with a click as he shut the door behind him. A handkerchief, a scrap of white lace, lay on the polished oak floor. He picked it up and put it on the hall table. Then he lit a cigarette and opened the door of the living-room. He wasted no time there, but went straight through to Mrs. Keene’s bedroom.
The dressing-table was bare, but there was a pile of small change on the mantelpiece. He put the coins in his pocket. A pair of silk pajamas lay on the bed. On a side table was an onyx box containing cigarettes and an ash-tray to match. They were no good to him.
He went back to the dressing-table and opened the top drawer; in it were a jumble of red morocco jewel-cases. He opened the first one. It was empty; so was the next; and the next.
“Gosh! Here’s a bit of luck.” Macrae spoke the words half aloud as he looked at a rope of pearls nestling in a bed of white satin. He snapped the case shut and slipped it into his pocket.
Then he went to the front door and opened it a couple of inches. He could hear the whine of the lift and a moment later saw it going up. The way was clear. He ran down the stairs and waited a moment on the bottom step. There was no sign of the porter. He walked quickly into the street and got a bus at the corner which took him to Piccadilly.
From a viewpoint ten thousand miles distant Piccadilly is always attractive; the centre of the hopes and expectations of those who resolutely keep the Old School Tie waving in the uttermost outposts.
Macrae, who had never suffered from seasickness, prickly heat, or frost-bite, looked on the pavements of Piccadilly only as a well-stocked covert where game may be flushed, run down, and subsequently plucked at leisure. But to-day his mind was not on the chase. He had a cheque to cash, but, unfortunately, he was not on the best of terms with his bank manager. There was, of course, his club, a curious place situated in a dirty little street not far from Cambridge Circus.
At the moment he wasn’t too keen on going there either, for until he could pay the forty-pound debt his welcome would be wanting in warmth. And, moreover, the proprietor had made a rule that cheques were not to be cashed under any circumstances. Twelve stumers neatly framed and hung in the bar were twelve excellent reasons for this harsh measure. The rule had also been neatly framed, and, together with the cheques, served the dual purpose of a decoration to the room and a warning to those who might think of trying it. The majority of the members were adepts at that game.
“Sammy’s,” was that sort of club.
Macrae stopped outside the Criterion and counted the money that he had taken from the mantelpiece in Mrs. Keene’s bedroom. It amounted to the sum of three shillings and ninepence, and he felt very annoyed with Mrs. Keene that it wasn’t more, until the bulge in his side pocket reminded him of her other involuntary gift. That made him feel better. It would serve her right if he sold them outright.
If any one had read his thoughts and had asked, with pardonable curiosity, why Mrs. Keene should be thus punished for her carelessness, Macrae might have replied that she should have backed his cheque, which would have been no answer at all. She had paid what she owed. But with a man like Macrae logic counted for nothing where his own desires were concerned.
He thought over what he should do with the pearls. As he did so he crossed over to Shaftesbury Avenue and walked up the south side. There was a man ahead of him; a man with a thick red neck.
Tim Daly, though he usually dressed in a blue serge suit, shiny and tight round his chest, looked very much like a pig if you looked at his face. If, however, that doubtful pleasure was denied you, and you were forced to deduce his calling from an eyeful of chest and a glimpse of his left ear, the verdict would be “prize-fighter,” without a doubt. A native of Chicago would have classed him as a tough guy.
A police constable had placed him in this class without a second thought at the end of a three-minute round with Tim. On that occasion, if help in the shape of a sergeant had not arrived on the scene, it is probable that Tim would have stood his trial for murder. As it was he was awarded a three-year stretch which had ended just two days ago.
Macrae lengthened his step and came up level with Tim Daly. He said: “What cheer, Tim?”
“Huh?”
“I want a word with you. Private.”
“Come along to the club. I’m going that way.”
“I haven’t time for that.”
Tim grunted and turned into a side street. There weren’t many people about. “What’s your trouble?”
“I’ve got some stuff to get rid of.”
“Let’s have a look.”
“I haven’t got it on me,” Macrae lied.
“What is it?”
“Stones.”
They walked on a hundred yards and then Tim said:
“You might try Abie Russ. The dicks aren’t on to him yet.”
“Where does he hang out?”
“Fenwick Street. Opposite Bulmer Court.”
“Is he safe?”
“As good as any of ’em, but you won’t get much of a price unless you let me handle the job.”
Macrae refused. “I’ll go and see him myself.”
“O.K.”
Tim Daly was smiling as he watched Macrae walk quickly away. Abie Russ! Well, he knew who’d come out top of that deal.
Published by Dean Street Press 2017
Introduction copyright © 2017 Curtis Evans
All Rights Reserved
First published in 1937 by Hutchinson & Co. Ltd
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 911579 60 1
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
Peter Drax, Death by Two Hands
