The Egyptian Curse (3 page)

Debt and Death

“Out of debt, out of danger.”

– Thomas Fuller,
Gnomologia
, 1732

“Killed to cover up a cheating scandal?” Malone repeated over a pint that evening. Hale's working day was over. He'd spent the rest of the afternoon on interviews for the story about the lost mountaineer. But Malone's day was barely beginning. “That reminds me of the Ronald Adair murder back in the early Nineties.”

Hale wrinkled his eyebrows. “That doesn't ring a bell.”

“It should. That was the case that brought your friend Sherlock Holmes ‘back from the dead,' as more dramatic writers than yours truly like to say.”

Holmes lived still. He spent his days keeping bees at his villa on the Sussex Downs and occasionally doing a favor for old friends at Scotland Yard or his even more ancient brother in the Secret Service. But Hale hadn't seen the old man in ages.

“I seem to recall that I was in short pants at the time - and in Boston,” Hale said. “Tell me about it.” He motioned the bartender to bring two more pints of Fuller's London Pride to lubricate his colleague's storytelling.

“The newspapers called it the Park Lane Mystery, and quite a mystery it was. Young Adair, a handsome man about town, had been shot to death in a room locked from the inside and no weapon to be found. It turned out that Adair had caught on that his whist partner at the Bagatelle Club, Colonel Sebastian Moran, had been cheating. Even though this dishonesty had benefited him, Adair threatened to expose Moran unless the cad resigned from the club and promised to give up cards.”

“And the Colonel declined rather definitively, I take it.” The story was beginning to sound familiar.

Malone grabbed a fresh brew as it was deposited on the bar. “You could say that. Adair probably never knew how badly he had miscalculated. Moran was both a champion big game hunter and the chief lieutenant of the late Professor Moriarty. He shot Adair in the head through the open window of his house, using a specially built air gun. You can read all about it in
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
, the first story.”

“I think I already did, but that was a long time ago. Well, if somebody killed to avoid a card cheating scandal once, it could certainly happen again. It seems to me that was one of Holmes's techniques - looking for parallel crimes in those scrapbooks of his. So maybe Sedgewood was on to something with the idea that Alfie might have caught a fellow club member cheating.”

“It's not out of the question. A man who cheats at cards is no gentleman. Exposure would ruin him socially. That's plenty of motive for murder. I'll ask around whether Alfie was a card player, or hung around card players.”

“Ask whom?”

“The fellow members of his clubs. I already found out that he belonged to several. And I have another little idea I want to follow up as well.”

“Which is?”

“Maybe somebody owed him money. People in his set always owe each other money.”

Hale nodded slowly. He remembered the Drones Club, which he had visited during the investigation of Langdale Pike's murder
[3]
. The members were always hitting each other up for a few quid until they got their allowance. Were all the London clubs like that? Hale didn't think so, but not being a clubbable man himself he wasn't sure.

“Or he owed money to someone else beyond his ability to pay,” Hale continued Malone's thought. “Or his friends in Bloomsbury were to blame for some reason we don't know, yet.”

“Or he was the victim of a random act of violence.”

“Or he was a secret Fenian and Special Branch had him done in,” continued Hale.

“Or he was Special Branch and the Fenians had him done in,” countered Malone.

“Or a secret Egyptian society killed him as a warning to others, or, or, or!” Hale gazed into his half- finished pint. “We really are nowhere, aren't we? What are my friends at Scotland Yard up to?” Malone had just returned from an interview with Rollins.

“I'm not sure you have any friends at Scotland Yard these days,” Malone said darkly. “No, that's not true. From what I hear, Chief Inspector Wiggins is four square on your side. But he's part of an old guard that's a bit on the outs just now in favor of younger blood. Commissioner Hopkins seems quite taken by the winds of change, and Dennis Rollins is as windy as they come.”

Hale chuckled. “He's formidable, all right. I'm not so sure that his rapid climb up the ladder is entirely attributable to friends at the top. He's smart, rather devious, and a hard worker. That's why I'm not worried about being in his sights. Once he talks to Prudence Beresford, he'll realize it's time to cut his losses and look elsewhere. I just hope he gives up his notion that Sarah was involved.”

“While you're hoping, you should also hope that he finds your Miss Beresford. He hasn't yet, and he's had three men working on it since this morning.”Malone looked at Hale from the corner of his eye. “She does exist, doesn't she?”

“I certainly hope so.” Hale drained the glass.

Gossip

“Foul whisperings are abroad.”

– William Shakespeare,
Macbeth
, 1605

Hale had his own idea about another line of inquiry, which he kept to himself. That evening he called his fellow ex-pat friend Tom Eliot. A banker at Lloyd's, Eliot also dabbled in poetry. He even had a bit of a reputation along that line among the literati. He would know about this Bloomsbury Group.

“Yes, I am indeed well acquainted with the Woolfs,” Eliot assured Hale over the telephone. “I knew that Alfie Barrington traveled in their circle.” Eliot agreed to meet Hale later at The 43, an unlicensed nightclub that didn't open until midnight. Hale also wanted to talk to Aloysius Bone, who spent a good deal of his time there.

The disrespectability of The 43, a dingy little joint at 43 Gerrard Street in Soho, made it highly popular among the bright young things who had popped up now that the world was safe for democracy. Hale wouldn't be surprised to see Portia Lyme there. The owner, a rather motherly Irish woman who bribed dozens of coppers to stay in business, sat behind the cash desk of her office on the ground floor and decided who got in and who didn't. Students, soldiers, aristocracy, and journalists always got through. Hale was known there as an occasional visitor, perhaps a couple of times a year, although not a member.

“Evening, Mr. Hale,” she rasped. “Who's your friend?”

“Hello, Mrs. Meyrick. You're looking lovely as always.” Surprised that Eliot had never been there before, Hale made the introductions as he paid the ten-shilling non-member fee for each of them. They quickly made their way to the first-floor lounge and ordered a martini with Booth's gin for Eliot and a Manhattan for Hale.

“All I know about Bloomsbury comes from my friend Dorothy Sayers, who lives nearby,” Hale said, lighting a panatela. “Tell me about this Virginia and Leonard Woolf. I just know that's she's a writer with a reputation, and not only a literary one.”

“Those Woolfs don't bother with sheep's clothing.” Eliot pulled a Gauloise cigarette out of the familiar blue box and lit it. “Let's see. I'll start with Virginia. Her father, Leslie Stephen, was a man of letters. She had a breakdown when he died twenty years ago. That was her second breakdown, actually - she'd also had one when her mother died.”

“I don't think I need her mental history.” After he said it, Hale wanted to bite his tongue. What an insensitive clod he was! Both Eliot and his English wife, Vivienne, had suffered from mental disorders.

“Right. I'll skip the other breakdowns, then.” Eliot exhaled smoke from his gasper. “She married Leonard Woolf about a dozen years ago. They started Hogarth Press about five years later. Virginia sets the type herself on a hand press they bought.”

“Do they publish Virginia's novels?”

Eliot picked up his martini. “Oh, yes, but more than just that. They are actually great appreciators of fine poetry.” Eliot smiled at Hale's quizzical look. “Last year they came out with the first UK edition of my
Waste Land
in book form, for example.”

Hale chuckled. “Okay, they run a high-quality publishing house. But tell me about Leonard.”

“He's the literary editor of the
Nation
. Before that, he edited the
International Review
and the international section of the
Contemporary Review
. Several years ago, he and some of his friends founded the 1917 Club just down the street from here. It's kind of a Bohemian mirror image of a gentleman's club, and it's not restricted to gentlemen - or even to men. Very egalitarian.”

“Named 1917 in honor of the Bolsheviks, I take it.”

Eliot nodded. “Membership is about what you'd expect - Ramsay MacDonald, Aldous Huxley, H.G. Wells, and that sort.”

“How did Woolf meet Virginia?”

“He was a friend of her brother Thorby at Cambridge.”

Hale nursed his Manhattan. “What do you know about their marriage? Do they get along?” Considering the fragile state of Eliot's own union, this, too, was delicate territory, but he had to ask. Eliot didn't seem bothered.

“By all accounts they're very devoted to each other. But there is a girlfriend in the picture.”

“Woolf has a girlfriend?” This was not what he'd expected.

“Not that I know of. But Virginia does. Her name is Vita Sackville-West. She's a writer and gardener married to a diplomat called Harold Nicolson.”

Hale had known enough artistic types not to be shocked by that, but he quickly saw that his vague idea of Alfie being killed by Leonard Woolf out of romantic jealousy wasn't looking very likely. He expressed this thought to Eliot.

“Oh, I think both Woolfs regarded Alfie affectionately, rather as they would a puppy dog,” Eliot said. “He realized he had no particular talent, but he liked to consider himself friends of those who did. And what he lacked in talent he seemed to make up for in money. Even socialists find that a useful commodity.”

“Let's talk to Aloysius. He'll know who Alfie's friends and enemies were, and be more objective about it than Sarah. He's usually downstairs by this time.”

Since the murder of Langdale Pike a couple of years previously, Hale's former colleague Aloysius Bone had largely succeeded in his ambition of taking Pike's place as the premier purveyor of gossip to the real trash papers, like
The Daily Megaphone
. Slight of stature, swarthy, with dark curly hair and an ingratiating manner, Bone had a way of inspiring confidences. Thus he was able to acquire information for free and sell it at good prices.

Hale and Eliot picked up their cocktails and went down to the basement, where a five-piece jazz band held forth and the dance floor was crowded. Rudolf Valentino had once been mistaken there for a waiter. Hale looked toward the tables and chairs clustered along the sides of the dance floor until he spotted Aloysius Bone sitting at what had become his “usual” table. Bone had succeeded in placing himself far enough from the band so he could hear and be heard as he traded information, and near enough to the stairs so he would see all who came and went (and who they were with).

Currently this specialist in the sleazy underbelly of journalism was talking to a pudgy, balding man that Hale recognized. His name was Hitchcock - Hitch, for short. Four years earlier, at the time of the Hangman murders, he had been a title designer at the Famous Players-Lasky moving picture studio in Islington. Hale had heard something about him becoming a director.

Hitchcock noticed Hale coming their way before Bone did. He bowed slightly in the journalist's direction. “Good evening, Mr. Hale.”

“Hello, Hitch.” He introduced Eliot to Hitchcock and Bone. “I must say I'm surprised to find you here.”

“Are you the Hitchcock who helped write
The White Shadow
?” Eliot asked.

“Not only did he write it,” interjected Bone, “he designed the sets, edited the footage, and was the assistant director.”

Bone really liked to show off everything he knew, thought Hale.
I hope he is as forthcoming with what I need.

Hale looked at Eliot. “I didn't realize you were such a film-goer.”

“Not much of one, but you know how I love mysteries. This one has good and evil twins, chance meetings, a mysterious disappearance, and madness. Quite an exceptional piece of work really.”

Hitch looked like he was about to burst his waistcoat buttons from the complements.”I appreciate the kind words, sir. Actually I'm just doing some research at the moment. My next film will require a scene in a seedy cabaret.”

“I see.” With someone else, Hale might have assumed that was just an excuse. But Hitchcock was eccentric enough that it just might be the truth. “Aloysius, I was hoping to have a word with you.”

“That is very interesting,” Bone said in his soft voice, “because I have something to tell you as a matter of professional courtesy. Excuse us, Hitch. Good luck with your German project.”

Hitchcock bowed again and walked away. As soon as he was out of earshot, Bone said:

“I had a visit from a Scotland Yard inspector, a fellow named Rollins. He woke me up at my residence at the ungodly hour of just past noon. His manners are somewhat lacking. He asked me whether I'd seen you and the former Sarah Bridgewater together since her marriage.”

“You told him no, of course.”

Bone sipped a pale pink drink. “By no means, old boy. I couldn't lie to Scotland Yard, could I?”

“What?”

Eliot looked at Hale strangely.

“But you couldn't have seen me with Sarah!” Hale protested to Bone.

“I certainly did. Don't you remember? Both of you were right here at The 43 about six months go.”

With a shock, Hale realized that Bone was right. He shook his head and slid into a chair at the table. He had completely forgotten - or more probably repressed the painful memory. “But I didn't bring Sarah here. I was alone. I just happened to run into her. She was with Alfie. It was all quite awkward.”

“I'm sure that's true, if you say so. But I don't remember seeing Alfie that night. I just know that I saw you talking to Lady Sarah.”

“That's because he was away from the table at the moment. I wasn't going to talk to her while he was there, although I really don't know why not. Our conversation was along the lines of, ‘How are you?' ‘I'm fine, how are you?'It was all very banal and awkward.”

“Well, I didn't get close enough to hear that, although I tried. That Rollins chap seemed very interested in what I saw.”

“I bet.”
Damn the infernal luck
. Hale wished he had the time to wring Bone's neck. “Listen, I wanted to ask you about Alfie. I only met him once. To hear Sarah tell it, he was too loveable for anybody to want to kill him. What do you know about him?”

“Oh, he was a hail-fellow-well-met, all right - very popular because he was quite free with loaning money to his friends. He seemed to get along especially well with his brother-in-law, Charles. I've seen them here together a few times, along with Charles's fiancé and her brother. In fact, it was Sidney Lyme who told me about the dust-up Alfie got himself into last night.”

“You mean with Lady Sarah?” Hale didn't know Lyme, but he was surprised that he would be sharing what was essentially family business with a professional gossipmonger.

Bone's dark, Levantine-like eyes widened. “He had an argument with her, too?”

“Never mind that. What were you talking about?”

“You can read about it tomorrow. I sold a paragraph to-” Hale had leaned forward until his nose almost touched Bone's. His
I want to know and I want to know now
look was unmistakable.”Oh, all right, Hale. He had a very loud row at the Constitutional Club last night with Howard Carter. Do you know him?”

Hale didn't know the Egyptologist, but he knew of him. The entire civilized world had heard of the man who, thanks to unfailing persistence over several years and the sponsorship of Lord Carnarvon, had discovered the treasure-laden tomb of King Tut.