The Tango School Mystery Page 5

"Did he take anything with him?"

  "I noticed a small bag had been taken from a cupboard in his bedroom. It was the bag he used if he was going away for a couple of days."

  "He left the apartment without telling you?"

  "Yes."

  "And you didn't hear him go?"

  "No. I was busy washing saucepans."

  I stood up and looked around the room. There were some good pictures on the wall - Gervase seemed to favour landscapes. There was nothing that looked unusual. But, then, what is a fascist's sitting room supposed to look like? Beaming portraits of Il Duce and paintings of polished jackboots?

  I said: "I'd like to look in Gervase's bedroom and study."

  Estelle stood up. "I'll come with you."

  "No. I want you to stay here."

  Estelle sat down again and gave me a rocket-fuelled hate glare. I ignored it. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. And dirty looks don't even come close.

  I strode across the room to a door which I assumed led into the rest of the apartment. There was a short corridor with three doors on each side. The first I opened proved to be a bathroom. I went in and gave it a quick shufti. The place was spotlessly clean - full marks, Estelle - and had all the usual stuff. The white towels were so plumped up and fluffy they looked like baby polar bears.

  I opened the bathroom cabinet and looked inside. There was a stand for a razor and shaving brush, but both had gone. Gervase may have left in a hurry, but he knew how to grab the essentials. I briefly wondered whether he'd had to perform a fast disappearing act before.

  The second door I opened was a laundry room with a washing machine and an ironing board.

  But the third was clearly Gervase's bedroom. I stepped inside. The man enjoyed his comforts. The bed was a large item with a thick mattress, padded headboard, and big blowsy pillows. I stepped over to the wardrobe and looked inside. Gervase had a collection of clobber that shamed mine. I hefted out one hanger to take a closer look. It was a double-breasted suit that looked like the kind of thing you'd see Humphrey Bogart wearing in a nineteen-forties gangster movie. The wardrobe was full, but a couple of hangers were empty. Maybe for the jacket and trousers Gervase was wearing when he scarpered. I checked a couple of chests of drawers but they contained only the kind of stuff - socks, underwear, handkerchiefs - I'd expect to find.

  I reached the last door in the corridor and stepped inside. A large framed photograph of Benito Mussolini smirked at me from the far wall. It was behind a handsome mahogany desk with inlaid green leather and gold-tooled decoration. It made my desk at the Chronicle look like an orange box. There were two wooden trays, one on each side of the desk. In- and out-trays, I assumed. Both were empty.

  I walked round the desk and tried the drawers. Locked. Estelle had said that Gervase locked the letter he'd received in his desk drawer. That implied Estelle didn't have a key. I certainly wasn't going to rack up a hefty repair bill for the Chronicle by trying to force any of the drawers. Besides, if the letter was that important to Gervase, he would've taken it with him.

  To the right of the desk, part of the wall was covered by a pair of curtains. I crossed the room and drew the curtains.

  If eyes could stand out on stalks, mine would've been hanging off the end of nine-foot bamboo. Behind the curtain there was a glass-fronted cabinet recessed into the wall. The thing was like a private museum. Of Nazi memorabilia. Each item with a neatly lettered description card. Each card had the initials B&H in the top right-hand corner.

  There was the swastika-embroidered truss worn by Hermann Goering at a Nuremburg rally. It split when he stood up to cheer the Führer, the description card informed me. There was a framed photo of Eva Braun wearing lederhosen and a cheeky grin signed Heute Nacht ist die Nacht, Eva. (Tonight's the night, Eva). There was a box containing a dozen stick-on Charlie Chaplin moustaches with a note from Adolph Hitler to his supplier: Nur für den Notfall. Die Welt darf die Wahrheit nie kennen. (For emergency use only. The world must never know the truth.)

  My bamboo-stalk eyes weren't staring at any of these.

  In the right-hand corner of the cabinet, there was a display stand for holding an SS officer's dress dagger. "Very sharp," warned the display card.

  But the dagger had gone.

  Chapter 7

  "Do you think I should tell His Holiness about the missing dagger?" Frank Figgis said.

  "Not yet," I said. "We don't know for certain that Gervase has it with him."

  We were in Figgis's office early that afternoon. His desk was piled with proofs for later editions of the paper. Normally he'd be scribbling corrections and tut-tutting over wordy headlines. But he'd lost interest in them. He was sucking on a peppermint like it was the elixir of life.

  "But you said the museum cabinet was locked," he said.

  "Yes, and Estelle Daventry, his housekeeper, confirmed he had the only key."

  "So he must have the dagger - and Derek Clapham had his throat cut."

  "We don't yet know what cut Clapham's throat. Ted Wilson says he's still waiting on forensics for that."

  "It won't have been a lawnmower."

  "Or a combine harvester," I said. "But to get serious, forensics may tell us what kind of knife was used from the length of the individual slashes and the depth of the wound."

  Figgis wrinkled his forehead. He always did when he wanted to show scepticism.

  I said: "Let's leave the Clapham killing to one side for a moment. We do now have an idea what caused Gervase to scarper."

  "The letter and the phone call during dinner?" Figgis said.

  I nodded. "As His Holiness thinks Gervase is out to kill Sir Oscar Maundsley, let's work on the theory that Maundsley sent the letter."

  "Why should he write to a man he knew hated him?" Figgis asked.

  "Perhaps he's heard a rumour that Gervase is out to kill him. Perhaps Maundsley's letter was an apology and a peace offering. Perhaps he was trying to make amends for the past."

  Figgis tore the paper off another packet of mints and stuffed a couple into his mouth.

  "Maundsley doesn't strike me as the kind who makes amends for anything," he said.

  "But he might if he was planning to stand for election in Brighton and knew that Gervase could damage his campaign."

  Figgis stroked his chin. "I suppose that makes some kind of sense."

  I said: "Remember that Estelle saw Gervase posting a letter that was clearly private the following day. Suppose that letter was to Maundsley - a reply to the one Gervase had received. Perhaps Gervase was suggesting a further discussion to clear the air. Then after Maundsley had read and considered the letter, he phones Gervase the following evening and suggests they should meet. Perhaps straightaway. Gervase ups and leaves for talks with Maundsley - and misses out on treacle tart and custard."

  "And you think he left to see Maundsley with the dagger?" Figgis said. "Now that doesn't make sense."

  "I'll admit it's just a theory," I said. "But it does fit some of the known facts."

  "It doesn't explain why he hasn't returned to his apartment," Figgis said.

  "Unless he went to see Clapham - and used the dagger on him," I said. "Now Gervase could be in hiding. Or on the run from the police."

  It was pure speculation and we both knew it. An uneasy silence hung in the air.

  Then Figgis asked: "So what's your next move?"

  I shrugged. "If the dagger proves to be important, it might help to know where Gervase got it. That kind of sinister memento can't be easy to come by. It's not the sort of junk you pick up in those seafront souvenir shops."

  "People who sell that kind of Nazi crap aren't going to shout about it," Figgis said.

  "Except to other Nazis," I said.

  "Or their fellow travellers."

  "Each of the cards in Gervase's museum case had the initials B&H in the top right-hand corner. Mean anything to you?"

  "Could be Brighton and Hove," Figgis said.

  "Doesn't
make any sense," I said. "Why would Nazi mementoes be advertised as coming from Brighton and Hove? Hitler never got closer to the place than Dieppe. And nobody liked him there. I think it's more likely to be the initials of the supplier - but it means nothing to me."

  "So you're at a dead end," Figgis said with a rueful shrug. "I won't fancy telling His Holiness that when he asks me for a progress report."

  "You won't have to. I've drawn a blank with Gervase, so I'm going to approach the problem from the other end."

  "What other end?"

  "If Gervase really plans to kill Maundsley, it would be good to discover what he knows about it. Perhaps Maundsley knows where Gervase is hiding out."

  "If he does, Gervase won't be there for long. The Grey Shirts, Maundsley's private army, will see to that. Nasty bunch of thugs by all accounts. Stamp on your face as easily as a woodlouse. You'll never get within a hundred yards of Maundsley."

  "A bottle of gin says I will. He's speaking at a rally this evening at the Dome."

  Figgis nodded. "I know. But those fascist rallies usually end with punch-ups between the Grey Shirts and hecklers. It's not good publicity for a man who claims he's the only one who can bring peace and prosperity to the country. That's why he bans journalists from attending. He posts Grey Shirts on the door to make sure they can't get in."

  "I think I'll be able to winkle my way inside."

  "How? Are you going to pop up through the floor, like the demon king in a pantomime?"

  "Something like that," I said.

  Back in the newsroom, there was a message on my desk to call Ted Wilson.

  I lifted the telephone and dialled his direct line.

  Ted sounded chipper when he answered. He said: "I've got a little something for you."

  I said: "What kind of little something? A little something that will cost me a single whisky? Or a double something? Or will it be worth the whole bottle?"

  "Let's just say this one's on the house."

  "Tell me."

  "The pathologist in the Clapham killing has come back with one early finding. It seems the knife used to cut Clapham's throat had a double-sided blade."

  "So not one used to butter his bread. How did the pathologist know?"

  "By the direction of the cut. The assailant thrust the knife into Clapham's neck with his right-hand, then tried to lever it up to make a cut - like slitting open an envelope. But flesh and skin's a bit tougher than paper. So it looks like the killer switched to his left hand and levered the knife over and pulled it down - like slicing a loaf of bread."

  "And I'm guessing there's no indication that Clapham owned a knife like that."

  "No. So the killer brought the knife with him."

  "And the killing was premeditated."

  "Just like my decision to give you this extra lead on the story," Ted said.

  The line went dead.

  Ted was right. News about the knife would give my story for the next edition an edge over rival papers. But it wasn't good news for Figgis to pass on to Pope. When Ted was talking about the knife, he could've been describing how to wield a dagger in anger. An SS dagger.

  I rolled copy paper into my Remington, typed "add Clapham" in the catchline, and batted out a couple of pars. Then I called over to Cedric, the copy boy, and asked him to take them up to the subs. They'd weave them into the story I'd written last night.

  As Cedric bounced off across the newsroom - he got a fillip from a good murder story as much as anyone else - my phone rang.

  I lifted the receiver and a voice as unctuous as a courtier whispering in a king's ear said: "Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr Colin Crampton?"

  "You do have that pleasure," I whispered back like a monarch dispensing a favour to a crony. "And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

  "Titus Scrivener."

  That had my attention. I sat up straighter. I recognised the name. It had been on the cover of the book Derek Clapham had on his bedside table. There'd been a letter used as a bookmark half way through. He wouldn't finish the book now. He'd never know who did it.

  Or perhaps he already did. I remembered the book had been called Hitler's Permanent Wave: How the Führer Escaped Berlin and Began a New Life as a Ladies' Hairdresser in South America. It was one of those conspiracy theory books which appeal to the gullible. And, as a result, sell well. Gullible is a big market.

  I remembered that Scrivener had dedicated and signed the book to Clapham. Perhaps he and Clapham had been fellow fascists in the 'thirties. Or perhaps he was a conspiracy theorist who just happened to know Clapham. Either way, Scrivener could be a useful contact on this story.

  So I said: "It's good of you to call, Mr Scrivener. How can I help?"

  "I just wanted to thank you for mentioning my book in your article."

  In my piece in the Midday Edition, I'd introduced some colour about Clapham's flat - and described how the book had been lying on his bedside table. It was the kind of detail that would let readers form their own conclusions about the man.

  Scrivener burbled on: "It's so difficult to draw one's books to the attention of the reading public. So this was a real bonus. Publicity is the life-blood for a writer."

  Old Clapham could've done with a little more of the real life-blood himself, I mused. But I kept that to myself.

  Instead, I said: "Did you know Derek Clapham well?"

  "I met him a few times when I was researching Hitler's Permanent Wave. He had some interesting information relating to the Führer's experiments with a shampoo and set. Not successful, I'm afraid. It could account for the fact that Eva Braun was so rarely seen in public. After the book came out, Derek and I met for a drink occasionally."

  "So you live in Brighton, too?"

  "Hove, actually."

  Scrivener was clearly living on another planet, but if he'd known Clapham, he might be able to provide important background on the man. Perhaps he knew Gervase, too.

  So I said: "I wonder whether you could spare a few minutes to see me. I'd like to talk about Mr Clapham. And, of course, your books."

  "That would be most agreeable. I'll be able to tell you about my latest project. I'm calling it Windsor Knot: Why the Royal Family Keeps the Secret that Mrs Simpson is a Man."

  "Can't wait to hear about it," I said.

  Titus Scrivener lived in a ground floor flat in a street not far from Hove Lagoon.

  I drew my car into the kerb, climbed out, and gave the house the once-over.

  The building was a solid two-storey job in the middle of a smart terrace. The place had a privet hedge round a pocket handkerchief garden laid to lawn.

  I opened a metal gate and walked up a short path.

  There was a pair of camellias in pots on either side of the front door. The door was a solid oak number with a hefty brass knocker in the shape of an elf. I applied the creature's backside smartly to the wood twice and waited.

  Scrivener opened the door wearing a red cardigan and the cheesy grin of a man hoping for a favour.

  He was a dumpy little man with a chubby face and protruding upper teeth that made him look a bit like a chipmunk. He wore his cardigan over a blue shirt with a frayed collar. He had a pair of grey corduroy trousers, baggy at the knee.

  He extended a pudgy hand and I shook it. He had one of those sweaty handshakes that left me wondering what he'd been doing before he answered the door.

  Scrivener leaned forward and in his whispering voice said: "So good of you to come so soon."

  "Don't mention it. I'm always pleased to meet a fellow writer." I didn't mention that if Scrivener had important information about Clapham, I couldn't get round to the place fast enough.

  Scrivener ushered me into a sitting room which doubled up as his workplace. A small desk in one corner held an ancient sit-up-and-beg typewriter similar to the Remington I had in the newsroom. There was a half-typed sheet in the carriage. There were a couple of easy chairs covered in faded fabric on either side of the fireplace. One wall was
taken up with a loaded bookcase. There were overflow piles of books around the room. I glanced at a couple of Scrivener's titles as I made my way to one of the chairs. Charlie Chaplin: Stalin's Secret Agent was one. Another was titled Doris by Day, Vampire by Night.

  I sat down in one of the easy chairs, looked around the room, and said: "Where do you get the information for all these books?"

  Scrivener took the other chair. "I'm an inveterate gossip. And an avid picker-up of unconsidered trifles. A listener-in on any grapevine. I have my ear to the ground and my eye to the keyhole."

  "You must be quite a contortionist to manage that," I said.

  Scrivener giggled in a high-pitched feminine kind of way.

  I decided to trade a little gossip in the hope that Scrivener would pay me back handsomely. Give a little to get a lot is my motto. So I gave him an edited version of the events last night at Antoine's Sussex Grill.

  I said: "Can you think of anyone who would want to kill Derek Clapham?"

  Scrivener rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Of course, he'd made enemies over the years. Many enemies, given the cause he espoused. But killers?" He shook his head. "I mean to say, Derek wasn't to everybody's taste but he wasn't all bad. After all, he kept a cat."

  I said: "Hitler kept a dog, but it didn't stop him launching a war that killed eighty million people."

  "But he's making up for it now by providing half prices for old age pensioners on Saturdays."

  "At his hairdressing salon in South America?" I asked incredulously.

  "In a remote town in Paraguay. I'm sworn to secrecy and not permitted to say where."

  "But you've visited this town and met the hairdressing Hitler?"

  "Not exactly. But my information is reliable. It comes from a man who'd heard the rumour from a woman who'd been told about it by a guest at a party who'd had her hair styled by Hitler. Naturally, I've verified the accuracy of the information."

  "By the woman with the hair style?"

  "No, the man who heard the rumour."

  "But the idea that Hitler is a hairdresser beggars belief."

  "You'd think so. But my reliable sources tell me he got the idea when he was fleeing the Führer Bunker. Just before he left, the lights fused. In the dark, he grabbed Eva's curling tongs thinking they were a machine pistol. It was only when he was escaping in the back of a circus wagon disguised as Crusty the Clown, he realised his mistake. But he believed in fate - and decided to put the tongs to good use."