Mistress Murder (17 page)

A few moments later Bray came in with a fresh armful of papers.

‘So! Here's a turn-up for the book, lad!' The Admiral was leaning back in his chair with a great grin on his face.

Bray waited patiently for the oracle to speak.

‘Just had Germany on the blower,' announced Benbow.

Bray tried to imagine the Russian premier saying it in quite that tone of voice.

‘Munich to be exact. They had a shooting there yesterday.'

The sergeant waited expectantly.

‘Conrad Draper had a hole blown through his chest.'

Benbow looked so pleased with himself that Bray felt sorry when he had to say, ‘Draper? Never heard of him.'

The Admiral's pale brows came together in a frown.

‘Course you have, boy. The turf wizard of Brewer Street.'

Bray's face opened up slightly.

‘Oh, him! Yes, I've heard of that chap. But what the devil's that got to do with us? Surely we've got enough on our plate already.'

He waved despairingly at the piles of documents littering the small room. Benbow sighed with the resigned air of a dedicated teacher of backward children.

‘Listen, while uncle tells you all about it. This might be a tie-in with the Rita Laskey job … and God knows we could do with one.'

He hoisted his feet up on to the corner of his desk and Bray sank on to the only other chair.

‘I had this call from the German coppers to the effect that one Conrad Draper, of London, had been fished out of some bloody river there with a bullet hole in his chest … in fact he was found in the water less than twenty-four hours after he had arrived by train from England. Part two of the mystery … another bloke who was with him just before he was knocked off, was on the train with him – and he's vanished.'

Bray looked blankly across the desk.

‘So what? Why drag us into it?'

Benbow's fat lips gave a Cheshire Cat smile.

‘That's what I wondered when Morris rang me – the Interpol Liaison bloke. I asked him why he'd shipped the call onto me, the most overworked and downtrodden character in the Yard. Know what he said? Calm as you like!'

Bray shook his head dutifully.

‘He said that earlier this morning the Jerries rang up asking for a check on bookings on the train to identify this Draper and on the serial number of the gun that shot him. And stone me, it was a .25 Webley that was registered in the name of Ray Silver of the Nineties Club.'

It was Bray's turn to look surprised. He leaned forwards with his hands braced on his knees, as if he was ready to take off in a sprint.

‘Silver and Munich. I don't get it.'

Benbow began destroying a pencil in his teeth.

‘Nor do I. How the hell Conrad Draper fits into this, I just don't know. But here's another thing. The German post-mortem says that he had injection marks on his arms. Looks as if the common factor running through this case is drugs, chum.'

‘But where does Golding – and the girl Laskey – come into this?'

Benbow shrugged.

‘There's one thing similar – the bloke on the train and our friend Golding both have the knack of appearing and vanishing into thin air – could they be one and the same?'

Bray whistled. ‘Nice theory – but we've only got the Nineties Club to link them up.'

The chief inspector hauled himself upright and reached for his Nikita-type felt hat.

‘Yes, lad, theorising never bought the baby a new dress – let's get around to the Soho sin market and have a few words with the Draper outfit.'

They took a car to Brewer Street and climbed to the headquarters of the late bookie's gambling empire. Benbow enquired of the first clerk he saw and was directed to the big room at the front. From the attitude of the staff, the news of Draper's death had not reached them yet.

They found Irish O'Keefe making the most of Draper's absence. He was sitting behind the big desk, with a glass of Conrad's whisky in his hand and one of his cigars stuck in his lips. Another half-dozen lay safely in his pocket.

He leaped up guiltily as Benbow pushed his way into the room. Irish scowled when he saw it was the police and dropped back into his seat.

‘What's the game? We don't like coppers coming here – it's bad for business.'

Benbow sat on the comer of the desk, snatched the cigar from the little man's mouth and glared down at him.

‘Here's some news that's going to be even worse for business. Conrad Draper is dead … murdered.'

Irish turned white on the spot.

‘You wouldn't be after kidding me!' he croaked.

The detective shook his head slowly.

‘Come on, Irish. Let's hear your end of the story. I haven't had the chance of dragging you into the nick since that last bit of false pretences you pulled – but I'm always ready for another trip.'

It was an empty threat but O'Keefe was too shaken a man to realise it. He gulped, took another swig of his late boss's whisky and talked.

‘He belted off the day afore yesterday – got me to book a train ticket and sleeper to Munich … was it there he was done in, Mr Benbow, sir?'

‘Yep, shot with a gun from the Nineties Club.' Irish's eyes almost popped out on to his cheeks with surprise.

‘Not Silver's! But he took it off him.'

His voice trailed away as he realised that he might be saying too much. In his philosophy, half a word was too much to tell a copper.

Benbow leant over and grabbed his shoulder.

‘So you know something about it, eh? Look, chum, I'm not in the mood to mess around with you. You spill it now, or I promise I'll take you in as an accessory after the fact and throw the bleeding book at you.'

He put such virulence into the words that Irish, with the knowledge that his boss and protector was no longer available, decided to cough.

‘He was like a mad thing on Friday night, sir … he went around the Nineties Club very late and Silver must have told him then that Golding was going to Munich next day' His voice died away as Benbow and Bray closed around him to stare at him as if he was the Oracle of Delphi. He looked up at them fearfully.

‘Sure, I only said the truth, sir,' he began uneasily.'

‘You're doing fine … carry on,' said Benbow exultantly. Bit by bit the whole story, as Irish knew it, was unfolded. How Conrad had been cuckolding Golding, the business of the tape recorder, the attacks Draper had made on Silver, and how he had taken the Webley from him.

‘Why did he go to Munich after Golding?' demanded Benbow.

‘I don't know at all, sir … Draper wasn't the sort of man you asked. He told you if he felt in the mood, but if he didn't he was just as like to knock your block off – powerful big man he was.'

He shook his head sorrowfully and took another suck of spirits. ‘Don't know what we're going to do now, I don't.'

‘What d'you know about Golding?' snapped Bray.

‘Nothing about him, if you know what I mean. I'd seen him in the club, I knew he was keeping Rita … but what he did, I don't know.'

‘Come off it, Irish,' grated Benbow. ‘Your boss was tramping the same set of stairs to the Laskey woman … you must know something about him … why did Draper go after him to Munich?'

Benbow had at last found a small chink in the solid wall of non-cooperation in Soho and was determined to lever it wide open.

‘Draper was as mad as hell when he heard that she'd been croaked – he reckoned Golding had done it.'

‘Why should Golding have done it … just because he'd found that Conrad was sleeping with her?'

Irish shrugged nervously. ‘Search me, guv'nor.'

‘Did he ever threaten Golding?'

Irish considered this over another swig of Scotch. ‘He never had a chance … he had me on the runaround for days trying to find Golding.'

‘And did you?'

‘Sure, never a wisp of bleeding hair did I see!'

‘And what colour was his bleeding hair?'

Bray could almost see the mental brakes going on as the shock of Draper's death began to fade and his natural distrust of the police take its place.

‘I don't remember – sure, that was just a figure of speech.'

Benbow, who was now standing alongside the little fellow's chair, grabbed it and tilted it back. Irish went back with it, spilled his drink into his lap, and howled as Benbow slammed the chair back onto an even keel.

‘Listen, O'Keefe, cut that out. I know you've been Draper's watchdog for years. But your boss is dead now and if you don't help me nail his killer, I'll rake up enough dirt on you to keep you inside for a twelve-month. Now come on, let's have some sense. You know damn well what Golding looks like – and where he comes from.'

He finished his speech with a resounding thump on the back of the chair which jerked Irish forwards.

‘I only seen him a couple of times, honest,' he whined. ‘He was the sort of bloke that don't look like anybody in particular.'

‘How tall was he … fat, thin, dark, blonde … come on.'

O'Keefe gave a convincingly genuine but utterly useless description of Golding. Benbow scowled.

‘The average man again! Irish, if you can't tell us what he looked like, tell me where he came from, what he did, where he went.'

The ugly dwarf from Dublin made routine protests again but eventually told what he knew.

‘The only place I ever saw him was the club. He didn't know me nor Conrad. He used to take Rita there … I heard he was pretty thick with Ray Silver.'

He hesitated and looked from one to the other.

Benbow caught the look and bent down so that his bulbous nose was almost pressed against Irish's face.

‘Spill it all, sonny – it may save you a short haircut and a heap of mail bags.'

Irish gulped and took the plunge.

‘Conrad was on the hook – not much, no mainlining, only skin-pops – but he used to get his junk from Ray Silver … and I heard tell – not Gospel, mind you – that Golding was the big man with the supplies. He used to distribute to all the hundred-deck men.'

‘And this gun was the one that Conrad took from Ray Silver?'

‘Yes … Conrad never used an iron.'

Benbow kept at the little man unmercifully but eventually was satisfied that he knew no more of any importance.

‘Take him down to the Division and get a statement, Bray,' he said at last. ‘Don't charge him with anything yet until we make up our minds which offence will get him the longest stretch.'

He threw a baleful glance at O'Keefe and strutted to the door as if he were about to take the salute in Red Square.

At the Yard, he found that the sergeant from the Drug Squad had left him a report from the laboratory. This confirmed that the white powder from the shelves of the safe was a mixture of morphine and heroin. There was also a long cable from Germany giving the details of the post-mortem and investigations on the body from the River Isar.

When Bray came back about four o'clock, he found Benbow thoughtfully staring at the dusty picture of the 1936 water-polo team, which was the only ornament in their office.

‘The plot thickens, lad. We've had the report from Munich, with a photo … it's certainly Draper. And the lab have found drugs in that dust from Silver's safe. So with O'Keefe's evidence, we've got enough to take him in. The Nineties Club should be out of business for a few years.'

Bray looked puzzled. ‘Why did all this business happen in Munich? If they wanted a punch-up, they could have done it here just as well. And where the hell is this Golding now?'

Benbow tapped the transcript from the laboratory.

‘This is the answer in Munich. It's one of the places on the Near East pipeline for narcotics. Vienna, Paris and the Balkans are the big places, but Munich is a clearing house as well. It gets in from Turkey and the Levant as well as directly from the Far East.'

‘You think they went there to collect the stuff?'

‘I'm sure Golding did … don't know about Draper. We've no evidence to say he ever dabbled in the business side of dope, only the pleasure aspect, if you can call it that.'

Bray wandered restlessly around the room.

‘What do we do now? All this seems so disjointed. Bits and pieces of crimes with Golding's name running through it all. What are we dealing with: a homicidal maniac or a dope smuggler?'

Benbow shrugged magnificently. ‘Search me, comrade, but we're going round to see this Eurasian creep. He may be able to throw some light on it – before we drag him off to a cell. He'll be one less fly on the Soho dung heap. Give Sergeant Roberts a buzz, will you. I promised to let him know.'

Again the club was visited at a discreetly early hour. This time it didn't matter, as Benbow had authority to close the club as being undesirable premises pending Silver's prosecution. He arrived with the two sergeants at about six thirty and barged past the astonished doorman, who was rigged out in a pullover instead of his Victorian outfit.

The three detectives marched through the deserted club, past the chairs piled high on the tables and the empty bar. A single bare bulb burned in the ceiling and no one, not even the barman, was in sight.

‘Hope the bastard is here,' muttered Benbow as they filed through the alleyway backstage to Silver's office.

They found him standing at his cupboard, counting bottles of spirits. He swung round in surprise and gave a crafty grin when he saw who had arrived.

‘What d'you want this time, coppers?'

Benbow wasted no time or words but strode across the room and put a detaining hand on the surprised owner's arm.

‘Ray Silver, I am arresting you and you will be duly charged with being in unlawful possession of narcotic drugs, namely heroin and morphine, in contravention of the Dangerous Drugs Act. Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence. Now then, chum, what d'you say to that?'