The Tango School Mystery Page 7

  She was right, of course. Members of the same political party often spend their time fighting like rats in a sack. But the answer didn't suggest she and Gervase were close comrades in arms.

  "Presumably, you knew that Gervase spent time in prison during the war?"

  "Yes."

  "And that didn't bother you?"

  "No."

  "Did you know that he was in prison because of letters he'd written? Letters which were passed to the security services by Oscar Maundsley."

  "Yes."

  "And Maundsley secured his release as a result."

  Unity's eyes shone with passion. "Sir Oscar was - is - a great man. He is the lost leader we should've had in the wartime years. The leader who would've ended the conflict with Germany. He is the leader we need now."

  "So he'll have your vote when he stands for Brighton in the general election."

  "I will be proud to be at his side."

  And from the flush that had come to Unity's cheeks, not necessarily in a vertical position, I thought.

  I wondered whether Unity was having an affair with Maundsley. Or wanted an affair with him. Perhaps she longed to emulate her namesake and have a child with one of those strong men-of-action types.

  At least that ruled me out.

  Unity looked like one of those strong women-of-action types. The kind that do a hundred press-ups before breakfast and crack walnuts between their thighs.

  If I told her Gervase was on his way to croak her beloved Maundsley, she might take it personally. So I decided to keep that little secret to myself for the time being.

  Instead I said: "When was the last time you saw Gervase Pope?"

  "I don't recall," she said. "Must have been three or four months ago."

  "So you wouldn't have seen him recently?"

  "No. But why this interest in Gervase Pope?"

  "Just a general enquiry," I said. "Shall I give him your regards next time I see him?"

  "No," she said.

  There didn't seem much else to say. I headed towards the door. A final thought occurred to me. I turned back.

  I said: "Do you dance the tango?"

  "No," she said.

  The bell rang again as I opened the door and stepped into the street.

  Chapter 9

  "This doesn't look good," Frank Figgis said. "What am I going to tell His Holiness?"

  "Give him the good news. His brother isn't yet wanted for murder." I said.

  We were in Figgis's office late in the afternoon. I'd just briefed him on my meetings with Titus Scrivener and Unity Box-Hartley.

  "But we still don't know where Gervase is hiding." Figgis said.

  "We don't know that he is hiding," I said. "For all we know he could be on holiday. Even now, he could be frolicking on the sands at Margate with his bucket and spade."

  I don't know whether that did much for Figgis's morale. It didn't convince me.

  "Pope seemed adamant that Gervase was missing," Figgis said. "He should know - after all, he's his brother."

  "Brothers don't always know as much about each other as they like to think. I bet Gervase hides many of his Nazi secrets from His Holiness."

  "But not enough of them," Figgis said.

  "Maybe, but I'm not his brother's keeper."

  "Clever arguments won't get you out of this one. If His Holiness is forced to resign because of something Gervase does, he could drag us all down with him."

  "Pope's family troubles don't have anything to do with us."

  Figgis ran a hand over his forehead as though it was hurting. Perhaps it was. He was sucking another peppermint, but looked like a man who missed his ciggies.

  "Nothing to do with us," he said. "I wish that were true."

  "Why shouldn't it be?"

  "Ever heard of guilt by association?"

  "That idea was debunked years ago when that American Senator Joseph McCarthy was exposed as a charlatan. 'Are you or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?' It was a witch hunt. And, as a result, witch hunts are now out of fashion. Nobody would ever believe we're a bunch of Nazis stomping around the office."

  "Not believe it? I wish that were true. If Gervase is exposed, there are plenty who will ask questions. The witch hunts will start again. This time looking for fascist sympathisers."

  "With good reason?" I asked.

  Figgis shrugged. "Who knows? You're too young to remember, but back in the 'thirties, there were a lot of mugs attracted by those strong-man fascist types. The witch-hunters will start with His Holiness and when they discover he's not squeaky clean, they'll turn on the rest of us."

  "What? And discover you're a member of the British Legion? You only go down there for the snooker."

  "That won't matter to people who want to bring us down," Figgis said. "They rely on the whiff of suspicion."

  "Like the stench of a rotting haddock," I said.

  "It will pervade the whole place," Figgis said.

  "So finding Gervase before he finishes Maundsley isn't just about saving Pope?"

  "Not entirely," Figgis said.

  "It's about saving us," I said.

  "Yes."

  "So no pressure," I said.

  I was standing on the corner but not, like Bobby Darin, watching all the girls go by.

  It was just before seven o'clock and there were plenty of them. They were dressed in their evening togs and off for a night on the town. Some wore A-line skirts in primary colours like red and yellow with woolly jumpers. Studious ones with listen-to-me spectacles wore pencil skirts and sensible heels. Sporty ones wore Capri pantsuits and flat shoes - all the better to run fast and catch the boys.

  As I say, not watching the girls at all. Observing. There is a difference. And it's drummed into journalists from the first day we pick up a notebook and pencil.

  But nobody ever said you can't get pleasure out of observation. The only trouble was I had some dark thoughts in my mind.

  I lurked in the doorway of the National Provincial bank to consider them. Until my meeting in Figgis's office an hour earlier, I'd felt easy about finding Gervase. Perhaps I would. Perhaps I wouldn't. Perhaps he'd pot Maundsley. Perhaps he wouldn't. It mattered a lot to His Holiness. But it didn't matter a lot to me. To me, every life is sacred, except the ones that aren't. There are very few in that last category, but Maundsley might just be one of them. He'd cheered as the forces of darkness had unleashed a tide of death and destruction across Europe. And still, apparently, didn't regret the fact.

  I didn't bother one jot whether His Holiness found himself making excuses for Gervase at smart cocktail parties. ("Yes, the killer was my brother, the fascist - always been a bit of a scamp!") But if the contagion spread to the paper as a whole, that was different. It would affect dozens of my colleagues. People who wrote the paper, who printed it, who sold the advertising which paid our salaries. And I couldn't have that.

  Which was why I was standing on the corner of North Road and Pavilion Buildings.

  I was waiting for Freddie Barkworth, the Chronicle's chief photographer. Maundsley had barred reporters and photographers from his rally. They'd got rough in the past. And punch-ups are bad publicity for politicians. But Freddie and I were going to attend anyway.

  I glanced at my watch, then looked up.

  Freddie stepped round the corner. He was a short man, not more than five foot six. He had an impish kind of face and sticky-out ears. It made him look at bit strange which meant a lot of people didn't take him seriously. Which was just what he wanted. While they were ignoring him, Freddie would insinuate himself just where he wanted to be. He'd snap the shutter on his camera and capture a legendary newspaper picture.

  But today Freddie looked as though he may have overdone the freaky style. He was wearing a hacking jacket which bulged out around his stomach. He had a pair of baggy grey flannel trousers held at the waist by a sturdy belt. He looked as though he'd put on about three stone in weight since I'd seen him that morning.

  I
said: "You look like a badly made Guy Fawkes left over from bonfire night."

  He said: "I'll take that as compliment. I've got a neat little Zeiss camera strapped round my middle. I operate it from a shutter release cord in my right-hand trouser pocket. The lens is sticking through a hole in my shirt but hidden under my tie. When I want to take a shot, I just undo these two buttons on my jacket, lift up the tie with my left hand, click the shutter with my right - and we have a front page picture for tomorrow's paper."

  I grinned. "Sneaky," I said.

  "The only problem, as I see it, is how we get in there in the first place."

  I nodded. "Maundsley will have both the public doors to the Dome auditorium and the stage door round the side guarded by his Grey Shirts. But there's a route inside he may not know about.

  "I'll tell you about it on the way."

  Almost a year earlier, I'd been in Prinny's Pleasure, a kind of drinkers' doss house which I use when I want to meet a contact on the sly.

  I was arguing with an informant called Reg. He claimed to have uncovered a plot to kidnap the mayor and hold him to ransom.

  Reg was the kind of bloke who plagues crime correspondents. He knew that newspapers had budgets for tip-off money. He thought that all he had to do was to convince me he had a good tale, and he'd walk away with a fistful of fivers.

  But on newspapers, it doesn't work like that. Before we hand over the cash, we demand evidence. And Reg's evidence boiled down to an over-heard conversation between a couple of drunks in a pub.

  So I'd told Reg that he could whistle for the fifty quid he wanted. But as a reward for the most outrageous scam of the week, I'd buy him half of bitter and a packet of crisps. Like a lot of people whose dreams are shattered when they crash into reality, Reg got angry. We argued. He shouted a bit and then stormed out.

  I was about to finish my own gin and tonic (one ice cube, two slices of lemon) when the door opened and a drunk lurched in. He staggered across the room.

  He leaned on the bar and said: "Gimme a pint of bitter."

  Jeff Purkiss, who runs the place, looked at him like he was a slug that'd just left a trail of slime on the carpet. But he reached for a glass and poured the beer.

  He put the beer on the bar and said: "Sixpence."

  The drunk scattered a handful of coins on the bar.

  Jeff sneered at the coins and said: "That's only four pence. You need another tuppence."

  The drunk rummaged in his pockets and pulled out the linings. A few bits of black lint fell on the floor. The drunk said: "All I got on me."

  Jeff whipped the glass away and said. "No cash, no beer."

  The drunk said: "Do you know who I am?"

  Jeff said: "You're Marty the Mole. And you're drunk."

  Marty said: "And you look like a compost heap on two legs."

  At which point he tried to throw a punch at Jeff. But he couldn't reach across the bar. And he was off-balance. So collapsed on the floor.

  Jeff said: "I'm calling the cops."

  But, by now, I was up at the bar and helping Marty back to his feet.

  I winked at Jeff and said: "Don't do that. I'll take him outside."

  I'd heard rumours about Marty the Mole, but never met him. Wasn't even sure he existed. It seemed an opportunity too good to miss.

  I took Marty to a late-night café and plied him with black coffee and bread pudding. As he sobered up, he told me about his work at the Royal Pavilion, the ornate palace originally built as a seaside pad for the Prince Regent, later King George the Fourth.

  Every year the place attracted thousands of visitors who admired the extravagant oriental decoration and over-the-top architecture. What they never saw was the part of the building Marty looked after. Under the Pavilion, there was a network of tunnels. In its heyday, servants scurried around the tunnels as they went about their work.

  But there'd been a rumour there was also a tunnel used by the Prince when he went a-courting. He had an affair with a Mrs Maria Fitzherbert and, it was said, a tunnel linked the Pavilion to the naughty lady's home nearby in The Steine. But Marty told me that wasn't true. There was a secret tunnel. But it linked the Pavilion to the building which had originally been used as the King's stables and riding school. The stables had long ago been converted into the Dome theatre.

  Where Maundsley was holding his rally.

  "So that tunnel is going to get us into the rally?" Freddie asked.

  "We'll come up inside the Dome and Maundsley and his Grey Shirts will never be any the wiser," I said. "I've arranged for Marty to meet us inside the Royal Pavilion. He'll take us through the tunnel."

  We turned into Pavilion Buildings and stopped. Ahead of us a crowd of protestors surged through the Pavilion's gardens. They raced across the lawns. They trampled through flower beds. They waved homemade posters with slogans like "No Fascists in Brighton", "Go home Maundsley" and "Hitler is dead. Hurrah!" They yelled and they screamed and they blew whistles.

  A row of uniformed police with arms linked tried to keep the protestors away from the Dome. But the crowd was pushing hard and the police line wavered. Behind the police, groups of Grey Shirts loomed menacingly on the Dome steps. They bristled with aggression. They scowled at the police and protestors. They made angry gestures at the crowd.

  I said: "Let's get into the Pavilion and away from this lot."

  We hurried under the porte-cochère at the Pavilion entrance and through the main door. Marty was lurking inside behind a large red-padded porter's chair.

  He was twitching from foot to foot and his eyes darted from side-to-side. He was sober.

  We hurried up to him.

  He said: "You're late. I've been hanging around here for five minutes. Any longer and the above-ground staff would have started asking awkward questions."

  "Then let's go."

  Marty led us at quick-march pace through a fancy saloon and some smaller rooms. The place was quiet. It had closed a couple of hours earlier. The only person we passed was a cleaner.

  We hurried down a corridor and stopped outside an anonymous-looking door. Marty fumbled in his pocket and brought out a bunch of keys. He unlocked the door and we hurried into a kind of landing. On the far side, a circular staircase descended into the Pavilion's basement.

  Marty turned and said: "Follow me."

  The metal staircase creaked and clanged as we whirled down. Round and round we went, like we were on a merry-go-round, until we reached the bottom. We came out into a small chamber with an arched roof. The roof had been painted green, but a long time ago. The place was lit by a bulb behind a metal grille.

  The chamber acted as a junction of corridors - a subterranean cross-roads - running off in four different directions. The corridors were narrow but had vaulted ceilings like the chamber. Two of the corridors were lined with blue-glazed tiles. The other two had brick walls.

  I sniffed the air. The place had a heavy damp smell, like someone had been boiling old rags.

  "Imagine when this was lit by candles," I said.

  "I'd rather not," Freddie said. "It's spooky enough as it is."

  Marty pointed down one of the tile-lined corridors. "This leads to the Dome," he said.

  We started along it. Marty led the way. The clump of our footsteps on the stone floor echoed off the walls. We didn't speak. We were too keyed up by the experience - and by what we might encounter when we came out at the other end.

  At last, we turned a corner and Marty led us to another circular staircase. It was made from wrought-iron and clanged as we stepped on it.

  "Be quiet as we get near the top," Marty whispered. "People outside can sometimes feel the vibrations through the floor."

  We picked our way up the last few steps like a posse of ballerinas on pointe.

  We reached a heavy wooden door. We clustered round in a group.

  Marty whispered: "I'm going to unlock the door. You must slip out quickly in case there's anybody about. I'll lock the door after you - so you'll be on your
own."

  I nodded. I pulled a fiver out of my pocket and handed it to Marty.

  He unlocked the door. We waited a second. Strained our ears to hear whether there was anyone on the other side. All we heard were chants and screams from the protestors in Pavilion Gardens.

  I turned the door knob, opened the door an inch, and looked out. There was a small foyer outside the door. It was lit by red wall lamps and had a stained carpet. It was empty.

  "Now," I said.

  I flung open the door and Freddie and I shot through. Marty yanked the door closed behind us. It shut with a loud clunk. There was a moment's silence and then a key turned in the lock.

  There was no way back.

  We turned around.

  And came face-to-face with a gorilla of a man. He had broad shoulders and a fleshy face creased by the sour lines of a permanent scowl. He had thick arms and a bulging stomach. He was dressed in a grey shirt with fancy epaulettes on the shoulders. His grey trousers sagged below his belly and were fastened by a broad leather belt. The belt had a skull-and-crossbones buckle. He wore a peaked cap. Not quite like an army officer's. Not quite like a bus conductor's. Somewhere in between. Perhaps something like a park keeper's. Of a royal park. The cap had a fancy badge on the front. Circular with a zig-zag through the centre like it had just been struck by lightning.

  He stood in front of us with his large fists resting comfortably on his hips.

  He said: "I am Captain Wellington Blunt, the British Patriot Party's head of security. Who are you and what are you doing in this private part of the building?"

  Chapter 10

  I glanced at Freddie whose mouth had fallen open in a gormless gape.

  He tried to say something but it came out as a high-pitched squeak.

  I turned to Blunt and said: "I am the leader of the West Chiltington battalion of the British Patriot Party."

  The tiny village near Storrington was one of the few places in Sussex hardly anyone had heard of. There was more chance of me being struck by a thunderbolt personally lobbed down by Zeus than Blunt ever having visited it.

  He said: "I know it well. But this is the first time I've heard West Chiltington has its own battalion."