THE GAUDY SHADOWS Page 16

  Bored with sitting quietly and listening, Courcy had started chatting with Dagmar in tones too low for Laird to catch what they were saying.

  “All right,” Lewis said. “We don’t have a case, but we have something a mite better than what we had before. Now how best can I exploit this? There’s a big anti-narcotics panic on this summer—that might help. Do you think you could let me have a list of Tileman’s customers?”

  “I’ll get as many as possible out of Dagmar.”

  “Fine. If we can start by leaning on some of them, we may come up with something really solid.”

  “I’ll put the list in the mail to you,” Laird promised.

  “I look forward to reading it,” Lewis said cordially. “Congratulations, Walker—I’m glad you turned up!”

  Cradling the phone, Laird glanced round and discovered that Courcy and Dagmar, both barefoot, were standing back to back on the other side of the room.

  “Dagmar says she daren’t go home to get her clothes, and this is all she has with her,” Courcy explained. “But she’s just about my size, isn’t she? I’m sure I could lend her some of my gear for the time being— Hey! What did the policeman say?”

  Suddenly reminded, she darted towards Laird.

  “He wants a list of Tileman’s customers so he can start putting pressure on them. Dagmar, can you remember any of them?”

  “I think so.”

  “Courcy, find me a pen and some paper, will you?”

  Within half an hour he had noted twenty-seven names, mostly with addresses, though Dagmar said she couldn’t be sure of all the latter. But it was a good start. Laird put away the pen.

  “Well, we’re doing what we can—Courcy, is there anything wrong?”

  “I just thought,” she said very seriously. “Oughtn’t you to tell Sammy’s sister?”

  “Christ, I should!” Laird jolted forward in his chair. “But I don’t have a phone-number for her. Or even an address. Do you?”

  “Of course not. I didn’t realise Sammy had a sister until after he died.”

  Dagmar spoke up. “I have seen an address for her! Dr Tileman made me collect all the information I could about Sammy. I remember it was in Greenock, and the name of the street…” She drew her brows together. “Bell-something street! But the number was definitely eleven.”

  “Your boss has lost a hell of a good secretary,” Laird said. “I guess we can find the phone-number with that much. Courcy, how do I get long-distance information?”

  “I’ll do it,” she said, and came to perch on the arm of his chair.

  Restless, he rose and went to the back window. It was a brighter day than yesterday, but it was cool and windy. He lit a cigarette and watched the whipping branches of the trees.

  Behind him Courcy said, “It’s Bellhouse Road. But there isn’t a phone at number eleven.”

  “Christ, that’s a lot of help! They probably think phones were invented by the devil!”

  “Well, you could send a telegram,” Courcy offered.

  “Of course I could. What did I do with that pen?” He snatched another sheet of paper. “Here, send this: Polly Logan, 11 Bellhouse Road, Greenock—Brother’s death not natural stop inquiries continuing stop Walker. That look okay?”

  “Fine.”

  And, having read the text over to the operator, she added, “So what do we do now?”

  “Me?” Laird shrugged. “I stay within reach of this phone. Bitchy called while you were up in the kitchen, and promised to call back with any fresh news.”

  “In that case, if you don’t mind, I’ll stick around too.” Courcy licked her lips. She was wearing no makeup this morning, and she looked very young indeed. “You see… Well, while I was upstairs on my own I finally figured out something I hadn’t properly realised before. I was in love with Sammy, and the more time goes by the more I find I miss him. If you follow me. So I’d hate to lose the chance of helping to clear up after him.”

  Laird gave her a thin smile.

  She jumped up. “Meantime, though, I’ll go fetch Dagmar some clothes!”

  “It is so much trouble!” Dagmar protested.

  “Nonsense. If it hadn’t been for you, Laird might never have found out about Sammy. And—Laird!”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you been out shopping? I mean, is there food in the place?”

  “A few odds and ends. Not enough for a houseful. Why?”

  “Then I’ll buy something for lunch while I’m out. Won’t be long.”

  She turned for the door. At the same instant the phone rang and Laird snatched it up.

  “Maybe this is Bitchy now… Hello?”

  “Medea,” the phone said worriedly. “Laird, what in the world happened to you last night?”

  “I quit,” Laird said, and jabbed his cigarette at a handy ashtray.

  “But why?”

  “In case what happened to your late husband happened to me?”

  “I—I don’t understand!”

  “I do. I understand even better than Sammy. You know what became of him, don’t you?”

  “Laird, I can’t make sense of what you’re saying!”

  “It makes good sense to me?”

  “But Sammy was never involved in—in things like last night!”

  “On the contrary. Once he had a party all to himself, and it cost him a sight more than the regular thousand pounds?”

  “Laird, are you—? Well, are you drunk?”

  “Cold sober. And what’s more remarkable, alive?”

  He listened with detachment for a response. From the phone there came a noise suggestive of chattering teeth. He set it down.

  “That was Sammy’s wife, wasn’t it?” Courcy demanded.

  “Yes.” But Laird offered no more details. Instead, he reached for the list of names and addresses he had compiled from Dagmar’s dictation.

  “I almost forgot,” he went on. “Since you’re going out, you could put this in the mail for Inspector Lewis. Hang on while I find an envelope.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The waiting became intolerable. He paced the floor while Dagmar watched him anxiously, lighting cigarette after cigarette and stubbing them half-smoked. He felt imprisoned.

  “Did you ever know anything so crazy?” he burst out at last. “Simply because there was an official inquiry into Sammy’s death and it reached a wrong conclusion, we have our hands tied and it might as well be with half-inch hawsers!”

  Dagmar looked blank. A word like “hawsers”, of course, probably wouldn’t have been covered in English classes for foreigners.

  He made a never-mind-that noise and once again dropped into the chair beside the phone.

  “Who shall you call now?” Dagmar asked.

  “A doctor I know.” Laird leafed through the directory, volume S to Z. Luckily there was only one Stephen Shannon who was a doctor. He dialled and waited.

  Shortly a voice said, “Yes?”

  “Dr Shannon? My name’s Laird Walker. We had lunch together the other day.”

  “Yes, I remember. How are you enjoying your stay in London?”

  “Not too well. Listen, I want to ask a professional opinion from you—not about a person, about a drug.”

  “You mean one of the new ones? Some highly touted wonder drug? Try someone else!”

  “Not exactly. Look, do you know of an absolutely specific euphoric?”

  Shannon hesitated. “There are plenty of substances which specifically alleviate depression,” he said. “But if you mean is there a drug which automatically makes you feel the world is a wonderful place and everybody’s oldest chestnuts are hilariously funny—no, there ain’t such an animal.”

  “Yes there is. Never mind that you haven’t heard about it. What would you do with it if somebody gave you some?”

  “Do with it? Why, it’d be the best possible therapy for melancholics, of course. What are you talking about—tetracannabinol?”

  “I don’t know what it’s called. Shut up
and bear with me a moment. Have you ever run across an absolutely specific depressant? I don’t just mean something that makes you feel gloomy—I mean something that invariably and immediately makes you think the world is about to come crashing on your head.”

  “Are you writing a science fiction story or something?” Shannon demanded.

  “I’m telling you the sober truth! Assuming the drugs I’m talking about do exist, would they be any use in your hospital?”

  “Any use!” Shannon drew a deep breath. “You must be joking! They’d be the perfect treatment for manic-depressives, and I know a few people whose lives might be saved by them.”

  “Okay, that’s what I expected you to say. What about a drug that amplifies the pictures-in-the-fire effect, so that instead of seeing what’s really there you see what it reminds you of?”

  “I don’t quite get you,” Shannon said after a pause.

  Laird hunted through his limited knowledge of medical jargon in this area.

  “I guess you could say it’s a hallucinogen which doesn’t merely destroy superficial perceptual sets, like acid or mescalin, but brings forward the second level, the one that’s usually suppressed. Like if you’re on bad terms with a fat man and you hate toads, you literally and exactly see him as a toad, and all your other senses combine to tell you he’s warty and slimy and cold. With me now?”

  “You say this stuff exists?” Shannon asked incredulously.

  “I’m telling you. Well?”

  “Well! Right off the top of my head I can see one use you could put it to. You get a patient with some irrational phobia, you shoot him full of this stuff, and you show him the thing he’s frightened of. And instead of it merely reminding him of the trauma, it’s directly perceived as the original cause. Is this what you’re driving at?”

  “Basically.”

  “Hell, it sounds like what you called LSD—bottled re-enactment! Which LSD isn’t, of course. Why?”

  “Let me add one more question. What do you think of someone who uses stuff like what I’ve described to entertain his rich chums at fifty pounds a throw on Saturday nights?”

  “Entertain! Who’d want to be exposed to the revived effects of puerile traumata?”

  “You start with the euphoric to make sure the hallucinogen hits them in the right mood. That’s how I know the drug is a specific; it works with a wide cross-section of temperaments.”

  “You mean you’ve tried this stuff? When? Where?”

  “More, it was tried out on me,” Laird amended. “But I assure you everything I’ve told you is the sober truth.”

  “Then whoever has it is a criminal,” Shannon declared. “Lord, if I got my hands on just a few doses… Any more surprises up your sleeve?”

  “A specific antidote. After I’d been exposed for—oh, thirty or forty minutes, I guess—it whipped me back to normal in a minute or two. Although I gather that the longer you’ve been exposed the longer it takes for the antidote to work.”

  “My God,” Shannon said. “Have you any idea what you’re talking about?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  “Well, for one thing you seem to be defining a perfectly reversible metabolic change in the nervous system, which is something we’ve been hunting for decades. The only parallel case I can think of is the use of belladonna to counter some of the cruder nerve-gases, the early ones that the Nazis stockpiled during the war.”

  “Just a second.” Laird covered the phone. “Dagmar, did Tileman do any work on nerve-gases?”

  She looked vaguely surprised. “Didn’t I tell you that was the purpose of his laboratory?”

  “Thanks.” And to Shannon, Laird continued: “Sorry—just making sure how right you were when you said this man was a criminal!”

  There was a short pause. Shannon said awkwardly, “Look, I’m sorry, but I have a date to pick up my girlfriend. I’m likely to be late if I don’t run. Is there any chance of my getting my hands on some of the stuff you’ve been talking about?”

  “If I possibly can, I’ll fix that,” Laird promised. “Wish me luck!”

  He cradled the phone.

  Outside in the mews, a car engine sounded. Shortly, Courcy came hurrying in with a bundle of clothes under one arm and a bag of groceries dangling from the other.

  “Anything happen while I was out?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I put another nail in Tileman’s coffin,” Laird answered. “At least, I think I did. But it may have to wait until he goes on trial.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  It anyone had told me the day would come when I’d spend six hours alone with two beautiful girls and feel miserable, I’d have thought the guy was out of his skull. But—here I am!

  The time was full of frustration, that was the problem. They ate a meal; they talked a lot about Sammy, what he had been like, why they cherished his memory. And they waited for the phone to ring.

  It did not.

  Shortly before six, however, the doorbell did, and it was like a dam bursting. Courcy and Dagmar leapt to their feet. Laird ordered them back to their chairs.

  “It could be Tileman,” he warned, and their faces paled.

  He went to the window overlooking the mews and craned out. No, the caller wasn’t Tileman—not unless the chemist had shed a hundred pounds overnight and decided to show up in a neat grey-and-white dress with a black sombrero. On the other hand, the person at the door didn’t look like Medea, or Polly, or anyone else he knew in this country.

  Apprehensive against his will, he went down and opened the door.

  Under the brim of the hat two dark eyes fixed him. A sketch for a fringe showed on the pale forehead. But it was not until the visitor spoke that he identified the voice.

  “Laird, can I come in?”

  “Bitchy! Christ, last time I saw you out of fancy dress, you—”

  “Aren’t I entitled?” Bitchy snapped, and pushed past him up the stairs.

  Introductions completed, drinks handed around, he sat down where he had been and tried not to stare at the entertainer. Bitchy’s identity meant nothing to Dagmar, of course, but Courcy was unashamedly trying to solve the notorious “best-kept secret in London”.

  Half-embarrassed, though he knew Bitchy must be used to it, Laird said, “What brings you here?”

  “I wanted to see your pretty face,” Bitchy countered mockingly. “Ah, hell, that isn’t fair! Sorry. Laird, you gave me the fattest lead of my entire career—do you realise that?”

  Laird shook his head.

  “Well, it’s true, and I’m obliged. I had one once that led clear inside the Palace. I think I mentioned it to you. I never expected to get anything bigger. But I have it now.”

  “What the hell is it?”

  “Well, in my job after a while you develop a sense of what’s news merely because of the calibre of the people who would rather not talk about it. Without boasting, I’ll tell you I can go inside the cabinet if I want to, and when I discovered just how important some of the people are who know about Tileman and won’t discuss him, I decided to pull the last plug and let the water spill where it liked.

  “Laird, have you any idea what you’re bucking? Do you know who was at that party in Mill Hill last night?”

  “Dagmar probably does,” Laird suggested.

  “I doubt it! This isn’t the kind of thing a person in his position does under his own name.”

  Dagmar leaned forward. “Yes, there is one person who comes to Tileman’s parties who uses a wrong name, I think. I had instructions always to keep him at the door until the drug was being released.”

  “That could be him,” Bitchy nodded.

  “Who?” Courcy demanded eagerly.

  “He’s a senior Government spokesman in the House of Lords. And he’s just one of the names I’ve stumbled across. According to my rough calculations, directly or indirectly involved with this thing of Tileman’s there are fortunes which total a hundred and sixty million pounds, ranging from your chums
the Flanceaus to our governmental friend who is worth about fifteen million on his own account. You realise that’s more money than our current trade gap?”

  There was a tense pause.

  Laird said with an awful sinking feeling, “You mean—”

  “What I mean,” Bitchy interrupted, “is simply that if one of Tileman’s clients decides he cares more about keeping the doctor in business than about seeing justice done in the Logan case, not all of Scotland Yard can stop him. And that’s facts for you. I’ve lived for years in the sewers and cesspits of our society, and I tell you with authority.”

  “Christ,” Laird said unemotionally. “I thought we might have trouble overturning the coroner’s verdict. But this is something else.”

  “Surely there must be some way!” Courcy burst out. “What about the papers?”

  “I spent two hours this afternoon chasing down everyone I know on the papers which run crusades and exposes,” Bitchy sighed. “I didn’t find one reporter who wouldn’t rather keep his mouth shut and go on working than print the facts and risk having to leave the country.”

  “It’s that big?” Laird snapped.

  “I told you—I’ve never had anything bigger.”

  “In other words, there’s a way to commit murder in this country and get away with it.”

  “Provided you have the right method and the right friends,” Bitchy confirmed grimly. “And Tileman has both.”

  A silence like Arctic night fell in the room. Laird broke it by saying, “The man I know at Scotland Yard—”

  “Lewis? He has two children. It would take Tileman twenty-four hours to put the right kind of brighteners on the family. Next time you called Lewis, he’d say sorry, I can’t help you, goodbye. I’m telling you… this is a different side of London from what most foreign visitors see, but it’s down where I live, and I know.”

  “But it’s worse than at home!” Dagmar whispered. “There you can at least do something when you know a man has been killed!”

  “You’re kidding yourself,” Bitchy said sourly. “You know the right strings to pull, you can work the same trick anywhere.”