claret. Johnny pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his nose. Blood wasn’t the only thing that had leaked from the victim. He walked over to the open window.
“He who was living is now dead.”
“What?”
“Eliot. The Wasteland.”
“If you say so,” said Matt. “He’s Karl Broster. A tallyman.”
Someone else who milked the misery of the poor.
“Is he German?”
“If he was, he didn’t have an accent. Not very popular with the neighbours though. Too fond of beer.”
“You can see that.” Johnny pointed at the proud pot-belly.
Matt sniffed disparagingly. Smells never troubled him. “I think we can say that the motive wasn’t sexual.”
“Wrong! We can’t all have a body like Tarzan.” While Matt was no ringer for Johnny Weissmuller, his body attracted almost as many admirers. The only thing Johnny had in common with the actor was his Christian name. “Sex must have something to do with it. Mind you, he’s nothing like the other two.”
“Well, he’s dead – and died slowly. It takes a while to bleed to death.”
“Perhaps he was unconscious.”
“Look at the wrists and ankles. The restraints have sunk into the flesh. He was awake all right – and he must have fought for as long as he could.”
“Christ! Imagine having your cock chopped off.”
“I’d rather not,” said Matt drily.
“It must hurt like hell.”
“Pray you never find out. If it’s any consolation, it appears to have been a single slice. Quick and clean.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Commander Inskip blocked the doorway. They had been so engrossed in the horror of the scene they’d failed to hear the stealthy tread of the superior officer. Matt turned pale.
“Get out, Steadman, before I have you arrested.”
“Get out of the road then. I was just passing by on my way to work. As you’re no doubt aware, I happen to live around the corner.”
Inskip didn’t move. He was at least six feet four. His deep-set eyes glared at Matt.
“Turner, escort your friend off the premises.”
The way he said it, you’d have thought friend was a dirty word. However, Inskip was the one rumoured to be dirty.
Johnny, once again, was glad of Matt’s company. Had he not been there it would have come as no surprise if the Commander had clipped him round the ears or even cuffed him and given him a kicking. Their paths – and swords – had crossed several times.
They paused in the hall before opening the front door.
“Sorry for getting you into hot water.”
“It’s hardly the first time,” said Matt. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle Inskip.”
“More trade secrets? Care to tell?”
Penterell, oozing smugness, appeared on the landing.
“Not now,” said Matt. “Let’s just say, if I go, he goes.”
“So what else is new? One of these days his luck will run out.”
“It will if you have anything to do with it.”
The door swung open to admit two men with a stretcher. “Sorry, gents,” said Matt. “The photographer’s not here yet. You can leave that here, but you’ll have to wait in the van.”
The men rolled their eyes and – like Tweedledum and Tweedledumber – toddled off down the steps.
There was no sign of any other pressmen. Johnny needed to capitalize on his head start.
“Thanks for the wake-up call. Which reminds me – I must telephone Lizzie today. I’ll do my best to put her mind at rest.”
“Do that.” Matt put a hand on his shoulder. “Careful what you say though.”
The thousand words – more colour than content – were on PDQ’s desk before 9 a.m. Johnny scanned the other newspapers. His competitors were as much in the dark as he was. There was nothing new about Adler’s attackers or the double murders. The New York Stock Exchange had introduced a fifteen-point plan intended to beef up protection for public investors. The Great Depression refused to lift.
“Excellent stuff!” Quarles was still wearing his coat. “Not many facts though. I’m sure Patsel, wherever he is, will splash on this, but see what else you can find out.”
He went off in search of the tea-lady.
It was too early to contact Adler, and Matt would still be out making enquiries. To pass the time, Johnny picked up a copy of a new weekly magazine called Picture Post. The cover showed two women in polka-dot blouses leaping in the air.
“Colposinquanonia!”
Louis Dimeo, who wouldn’t let anyone forget that Italy had won the World Cup again in June, was breathing down his neck.
“Sixteen letters,” said Tanfield. “Estimating a woman’s beauty based on her chest.”
“How on earth d’you know a word like that?” said Johnny, looking at Dimeo in astonishment. “Anything over seven letters usually gives you a headache.”
“That would be telling.” The sports freak bestowed a dazzling smile upon his colleagues. “That said, breast-stroking is the national sport of La Bella Italia – after football, of course.”
“A quid says no one can get the word in the paper,” said Johnny.
“You’re on,” said Dimeo and, before nipping smartly back to his desk, took the risk of ruffling his red hair in a gesture of friendship. He was wasting his time; Johnny would never forgive him for sleeping with Stella, even though he knew how Johnny felt about her. Dimeo’s behaviour was rarely sporting.
Johnny had only loved one other woman more than Stella – and Lizzie was married to Matt. He’d made up his mind to ask Stella to marry him but instead of meeting him at St Paul’s so he could get down on one knee she had deliberately disappeared. It turned out that she’d been secretly seeing Dimeo as well. And that wasn’t the only way she’d betrayed him.
“What was that about?” Bertram Blenkinsopp, a reporter before Johnny was even born, watched Dimeo chatting up a secretary from the seventh floor.
“Nothing. Ask Valentino. What are you working on?”
“Suburban neurosis.”
