Back in London that night, Debonnair sipped at a glass of old brandy, looked thoughtfully across the gleaming damask tablecloth towards Esmonde Shaw, who was pulling abstractedly at his black bow-tie and who was deep in some reverie of his own, as he’d been almost all the time since leaving Gillian Ross’s flat early that afternoon.
“More coffee, darling?”
“Um…? Oh — thanks.” He pushed his cup across. “Sorry. I’ve been poor company, I know.” His hand touched against the brandy glass, jerked it, set the deep gold liquid moving. The shaded table-lamp, shining down through it, sent changing, shadowy patterns chasing each other across the snowy cloth, patterns which bubbled and coalesced and separated again. Like his own thoughts, he reflected moodily, getting nowhere, ethereal and vague and disturbing. In some ways he had made reasonably good progress, of course; he had established that Patrick MacNamara was an adherent of the Cult of Edo, and this Ship’s Biscuit dive alone might produce something valuable if it gave him any lead to MacNamara’s set. But beyond that — nothing. It was likely enough that this Sam Wiley — which was probably not his real name, anyhow — had something to do with MacNamara’s disappearance, perhaps, but apart from the vague possibilities which the club might offer later to-night, he had no idea whatever as to where to start looking for the man. He had no description of Wiley beyond the fact that he was an African, and Jiddle, his only good contact with that strange sub-world of rackets and race warfare, was stone-cold dead…
Debonnair, a small line of anxiety driving down between the fair, straight brows, asked softly, “Can I help, Esmonde?”
“I wish you could.” He frowned, ran a hard brown hand over the strong line of his jaw. “I just can’t tell you the whole thing, though, Deb.”
She studied him. “You got that membership card all right?”
He said, “Yes, no trouble at all. Carberry’s brilliant at that sort of thing, knows all sorts of useful people. I’ve got a card in the name of Edgar Jessop.”
“Uh-huh…” Her hand stole out, touched his. Their two heads, the fair one and the crisp brown one faintly touched with grey over the ears, were close together… disturbingly close together… He said, “I can’t get that girl Gillian Ross out of my mind. On the surface, she’s a surprisingly tough egg for her age, but I’ve an idea that’s only for show. She’s had a pretty rotten sort of life… she’s covering up, I suppose.”
Debonnair nodded. “Could be.”
“I only hope nothing goes wrong there.”
“You mean—”
“Well, for one thing, if MacNamara’s being held by some one, some one responsible for that killing in the Tube, Sam Wiley for instance, then he may let out that the Ross.girl knew one or two things, such as the note she found in his room or the fact she’d found those carved objects — which were probably charms, I suppose. They won’t be sure how much she really does know. And they may want to make sure.”
“You really think they’ll try to get at her, then?”
He shrugged, fiddled with his coffee-spoon. “Can’t overlook the possibility. She should be all right if she does what I told her and stays firmly indoors. But will she?”
“You can get a tail put on her, can’t you?”
“I already have — I fixed that with Carberry!” He hesitated. “Another thing that’s bothering me is why the police aren’t watching that house too. Up to this afternoon at least, they certainly weren’t, I do know that.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps they don’t know about her, as she said herself.”
“Very likely.” Shaw remembered that even Major Herrick at London Transport hadn’t mentioned the girl, which must mean he’d never heard about her, so he couldn’t have told the police anything.
Debonnair went on, “I gathered from what you said to Gillian Ross that the police aren’t in possession of all the facts — that alone might make them think along different lines from you, even if they do know about her. They may not think she’s important. Anyway, it’s doubtful if MacNamara would walk into what he might reasonably think is an obvious trap.”
Shaw rubbed the side of his nose. “I expect you’re right, Deb.” He smiled ruefully. “The Old Man would have done better to put some one else on this job. Some one like you!”
“Silly,” she said fondly.
“No, not so silly, Deb dear. It needs some one better acquainted with purely police matters—”
“Which I’m certainly not—”
“You see, this is a bit out of my normal rut.”
She laughed. “Some rut! Anyway, don’t you believe it. Come to that, I’m glad you’ve got the job. While you’re working in London for a change, you can’t be sent half across the world. I’m so sick of you being away, Esmonde.”
He said gruffly, “Don’t speak too soon. I’ve a feeling the trail’s going to lead quite a long way from London before much longer.” He looked at his watch. “Time to be on my way, Deb. Look after yourself, darling. I’ll ring you in the morning.”
The taxi dropped him off in Camden Town some way before Corner Crescent. He paid the man and watched him drive away. As he walked on slowly towards the dimly lit Crescent and looked around for the Ship’s Biscuit club, he was aware of that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He found the faded sign alongside a dirty doorway with a fanlight above which showed a yellowish electric-light bulb, unshaded and dust-covered. He pushed the door open and walked in, stepping into a narrow passage which smelt of some cheap perfume, heady and overpowering. The throb of music beat down from somewhere upstairs. In the dim light of that single bulb he saw an open hatch above a small counter. He walked towards this and tapped, and a big albino shuffled across the office inside. The mottled, dirty skin, the skin which should have been ebony but which by some freak of unkind nature was this revolting patchy pinkness, gave the man a grotesquely unhealthy, out-of-place appearance which wasn’t improved by the sweat-stains showing through the dinner-shirt.
The albino narrowed his eyes. “Membership card, please?”
Shaw pushed it across and the man glanced at it cursorily. He nodded and said, “The next show is just about to start, Mister.”
“Right, thanks.”
Following his ears, Shaw climbed a. flight of steep, poorly carpeted stairs. Coming to a landing, the source of the music was unmistakable and he pushed open a door on his left. At once a blast of hot, smoky air hit him, and so did the erotic thump-thump of the three-man Negro band, sweating away in white shirts with maroon cummerbunds topping tight black trousers. A few couples supported each other’s overheated bodies on the small dance square, men’s excited faces stared, blank and fishlike, over the shoulders of their partners. In one corner, two unhealthy looking young men swayed and undulated together, pawing each other. To the right of the dancing space there was a long bar, while the other end of the room was occupied with small tables and a kind of apron-stage jutting out from a raised platform and running through the lines of tables. A brassy young woman with an over-used look about her came forward and smiled mechanically at Shaw.
“Want a table, do you, dear? Better hurry. The show’s about to start.”
Shaw nodded, ordered drinks when the waiter hurried up.
The ‘show’ was heralded by dimming lights and an increased throb, a frenzy almost, from the band, and a curious heightening of the atmosphere as men’s voices trailed into expectant silence. The music beat suffocatingly on Shaw’s eardrums, and he could almost hear through it that expectancy and the indrawn breaths… there was a subdued ripple of interest as a spotlight picked out a tall blonde who was coming out on to the stage from behind thick velvet curtains. There was some clapping and throaty laughter as this girl minced down the stage, twisting and turning suggestively. So far as Shaw could see, she hadn’t a stitch of clothing on her supple body apart from a purely perfunctory piece of thin cord around her hips below her navel, a string holding a strand of material between her thighs, which rubbed together as she walked. She turned, pirouetted, began a dance, kicking her legs out sideways. After her came a genuine strip act, the undressing process being carried out by a young man who looked like a homosexual but who indulged in a vast amount of love-play which the audience appeared to enjoy immensely. There was a storm of clapping as the naked girl walked down the stage, wriggling her buttocks, and elderly men in dinner-jackets craned closer, leering from bulging eyes, intent, like spiders watching their prey…