Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“Wi’ fuckin’ Special Branch, that wouldnae surprise me.
They cunts shoat an uncle o’ mine dead oan Gallowgate in broad fuckin’ daylight back in ’08.
He’d done business with some Fenian publican up in Rutherglen, see.
Said he wiz armed and dangerous, but nae cunt even looked into it.
Nae investigation, nae arrests. Fuckin’ law untae theysaels. ”
Duncan nodded. It wasn’t the first story of the sort he’d heard.
“Question Ah have for ye, though.” Crammond frowning now. “Ye say Hardy wanted tae keep ye away from Irene Rush. How would he know about her in the first place?”
“Haven’t worked that out yet. But he did. See, when I turned him down, Hardy was furious. He lost his rag, made some comment about affairs of state being more important than the troubles of cooks, seamstresses, and C3 bookkeepers who should have kept better watch over their children.”
“Charmin’.”
“Aye, he’s an officer-grade cunt. But what’s interesting is the C3 bookkeeper line.
That’s a very specific government-administered grading system.
Only came in just before the war. Now, I had Garner make inquiries about Irene Rush over in Macclesfield, and one of the details he turned up was exactly that—she was a C3 qualified bookkeeper. ”
“An’ cooks an’ seamstresses? Whit did he mean by that?”
“Ellie Furlough’s mother works part-time as a seamstress.
And the cook might be Luisa Grimaldi. Hardy had to have been looking into my client list.” Duncan gestured with his mug.
“That’s maybe to be expected. Thing is, in Irene Rush’s case, he knew something about her that I didn’t.
Before I spoke to Garner, I had no idea.
She didn’t tell me. But somehow, Hardy knew. ”
“Been keepin’ tabs oan her before ye showed up, aye. And didnae want ye involved.”
“Looks that way.”
“And noo he has Mimi. Ye think he’s put her back wi’ her mam?”
Duncan grimaced. “I’d like to think so. But if he was happy to see that happen, why try to stop me working the job in the first place?”
“And why put a hole in ye when ye delivered? Aye, he’s likely no’ got the lassie’s best interests at heart. Ye want me tae have someone check round oan the mother?”
“No, that I can do myself. I’ll head over there tomorrow, see what’s what. What I want you to do is find out where they’re holding Niamh. That’s first order of business right now.”
Crammond nodded soberly. “Awright. Ah’ll put the word oot. Goat a few inside men oan the force, paid tae look the other way when we need it. Mostly beat boabbies, but we’ve a couple o’ ears inside the stations, too. Can see if any of them know anything.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Ye’re more than welcome. Anythin’ to give the Branch a bloody nose. And look—if we can find Niamh an’ get her back, Ah can find ways tae stash her, too. Goes wi’oot sayin’.”
“Not to me, it doesn’t. I’ll cover your costs for that. You have my word.”
“No ye fuckin’ won’t, ’cause Ah’ll no’ let ye.
” Crammond lifted his eye patch for a moment, ground the heel of his palm into the scar tissue knotted beneath.
“Fuckin’ itchin’ again, man.” He put the patch back.
“Ye dae enough, Duncan. Ye dinnae realize it, but no’ one in a hundred men came back fra’ that meat grinder over there and still cares the way ye dae, still acts the way ye dae, like things still actually fuckin’ matter. ”
Duncan chuckled. “C’mon, man. The Lamb’s is getting to you.”
“Ah mean it, Duncan.” Awkward, rising emotion in the other man’s tone.
“Ah see it every fuckin’ day in ma line o’ work.
Broken men, worn-oot men, twisted-tae-fuck evil men, men old afir their time, men wha’ve given up anythin’ but clingin’ tae life day tae fuckin’ day, coz that’s aww they had fir four years, and now, in this land fit fir fuckin’ heroes we apparently live in, they cannae even find a job tae keep a roof over they heads.
These are faithless times, man. Times o’ betrayal. ”
Duncan tapped the long score mark in his head. “Tell me about it.”
“Aye, meant tae say—that disnae look too pretty.” Crammond sipped his rum, visibly thankful they were headed back onto safer, less emotive ground. “An’ ye look like boiled shite, by the way. Ye sure that tree lassie’s fanny did the trick?”
Duncan fingered the bullet crease more carefully. It had the faint itch you sometimes got from old scar tissue, but beyond that he’d healed faster and more fully than any mortal had a right to.
“Right as rain,” he said.
“Well, if ye plan tae stay that way, we’d best keep ye oaff the streets, at least fir now.
Truth is, I’m no’ sure hangin’ around in Irene Rush’s neighborhood durin’ daylight hours is the smartest thing ye could dae wi’ yir time tomorrow.
Still cannae believe ye just waltzed up tae the stand like that the night, large as fuckin’ life.
And the polis right there across the street. ”
“They’re not looking for me, Billy. I’m a dead man, remember?”
“Aye, well, ye look it right enough.” Crammond drained his mug. “C’mon, enough o’ this shite. We’d better find ye a safe bed fir the night.”
—
Duncan knew already that he wouldn’t be bunking at Crammond’s place, and, truth be told, he was thankful. Last thing he needed was May following him around the apartment with her tinker’s Sight and disapproving scowl. But it was a few minutes before he cottoned on to where they were actually going.
“Oh, c’mon man,” he said as the taxi turned onto Salter’s Row. “I got to listen to other people fucking all night long?”
Crammond laughed. “It’s an undereaves room. No’ much but storage goin’ oan up there midweek. Ye’ll be fine.”
“And if they get raided?”
“No’ gaunnae happen, pal. Belle pays good money tae see that it disnae. Whole point of puttin’ ye up there in the first place.”
“You tell her who I am?”
“Ah have not. And she disnae need tae know. That’s what Ah pay her for.”
The taxi pulled to the curb. Duncan climbed out and dragged his pack after him.
He looked at the discreetly darkened frontage of the Doorbell Club and sighed.
Crammond bustled past him to the door and knocked.
The black-painted, paneled wood opened a crack, let a long, sharp tongue of light out into the street.
A fright mask face looked out, saw Crammond, approximated a smile with its inhumanly distorted features.
“ ’lo, Sergeant.”
Crammond nodded. “Arthur. Belle about?”
“She’s at the bar,” said Arthur, and opened the door wider.
Duncan caught more of the face, the shiny doll simplicity of the features, the obvious wig atop it.
It was pretty bad, one of the worst he’d seen.
From build and stance, he thought Arthur might still be a young man, but the burns damage and the resulting plastic surgery made it impossible to tell.
He looked the man in the eye, then affected an interest in the warmly lit hall interior beyond. You didn’t stare. It was a given.
“Good man.” Crammond banged Arthur on the shoulder with his prosthesis, led Duncan inside and down the hall.
They went past a front-room parlor dimmed and cold with disuse, no fire in the grate.
By contrast, the next door on the right let into a larger, longer room kitted out to look like an American speakeasy.
Red flock paper on walls and ceiling, some damask weave pattern, wall lamps casting cherry-red light over empty booths on the right.
A long mahogany bar down the room on the left, somewhat brighter lighting behind it.
No customers there either. A solitary barman stood wiping cocktail glasses at the end.
Halfway down, a rake-thin blond woman sat in full flapper regalia in front of her own cocktail and smoked from a long, jade cigarette holder.
She raised a languid arm, gestured them over.
“Pirate Billy Crammond!” Greeting him with airy French-style kisses on each cheek. Her voice was throaty, her accent neutral, no local twang, but no attempt at faux French allure either. “So nice to see you after all this time. You come by so rarely these days. How is marital bliss treating you?”
“Ach, stop that, Belle. Ye ken Ah’ve been busy.”
The blond woman pulled back from her embrace with Crammond, looked Duncan brusquely up and down.
Her eyes were muddy green, cocaine-blasted pupils enormous.
Her hair was fashionably short, stiffly coiffed up off her neck, tangled artfully across her brow.
She would have been about forty, he thought, but the intensity of her stare shaved some of that off, gave her a more nubile, seductress air.
She sipped at her cigarette holder, plumed smoke directly at him.
“And this will be the friend in need you mentioned. Mr…. Campbell, was it?”
She put out the languid arm and Duncan took her hand. Firm, dry grip, faint hint of a tremor from the snow. “I am Belle. Belle D’Or. Welcome to the Doorbell Club. Always happy to help out another of our brave boys.”
Perhaps she wanted to see if he’d laugh at the pun. He stayed expressionless.
“Is it that obvious?” he asked.
“That you have been a soldier? Yes, it is, but then I have a great deal of experience. A lot of our clientele here have been through the fire, some”—a brutally pointed glance at Arthur—“more literally than others. But the common stamp is in you all. I find it in the eyes, Mr. Campbell. And you should know that here we do our best to reward men like you for your sacrifices. Inspired by the illustrious Mrs. Meyrick at Dalton’s Club, you might say.
Providing comfort to troubled young men returned from war, and so forth. ”
Crammond grunted. “Didnae fly fir Meyrick, that line. Ye seen they closed her doon again. Fined her twenty-five quid intae the bargain this time.”
“You worry too much, Billy. We’re a little less…flamboyant up here than La Meyrick. We’ve made fewer enemies, too. Now, Mr. Campbell. A few house rules.”
“Hands off the girls?”
Belle D’Or sipped smoke, looked at him. “Is certainly one of them, yes. As is confidentiality about anything or anyone you see within these walls. We are a discreet establishment and you will need to play your part in that.”
“Fair enough.”
“If you should require a…companion, of course, that can be—”
“I won’t,” said Duncan shortly.
The tunneled cocaine stare held him again. “Man of conviction. I like that. Will you have a drink with me, at least?”
Duncan shuttled a glance at Crammond, then back to Belle. “Is that the price of my bed for the night?”
For the first time since he’d met her, Belle D’Or smiled. It wasn’t a wholly reassuring look.
“More or less,” she said.