The Stone-­Cold Dead in the Market Affair - Oram John (версия книг .TXT) 📗

"On the other hand, she has no police record and the club is in the clear. We know her floor manager is a thug, but again the story is that he's keeping his nose clean."

Illya nodded. "And that's it. There's not a shred of evidence to connect the club or anyone in it with the killing. Or, for that matter, with the attack on you last night. It seems to me that our one solid lead is the medallion."

"That's what I'm banking on," Solo said. "I think Dancer will make a move when Blodwen shows up with it around her neck. Meanwhile we'll start checking on Anna's daily rounds."

The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver. Blodwen's voice came cheerfully over the wire. She said, "I've got a flat in Berwick Street. You'll like it. It's got rummage sale furniture, plumbing straight from the Ark and mice behind the walls. The rent book says seven pounds a week but I had to pay the landlord twenty — and six months in advance. Ain't life wonderful for us working girls?"

"My heart bleeds for you," Solo said. "Want us to come over?"

"Yes, do that. In this house a girl's nobody without gentlemen callers. In fact we put ads up in a neighborhood store to encourage them."

"You're learning fast. We'd better get over there before replies start coming in."

A taxi dropped them in Brewer Street and they walked the rest of the way, shouldering through the bargain-hunters crowding the stalls in Berwick Street's open market, where you can buy anything from a rusty flintlock to a string of Spanish onions. The number Blodwen had given Solo turned out to be a narrow doorway sandwiched between two shops. A woman was leaning against the doorpost, smoking a Gauloise cigarette. She wore a peasant-type silk blouse that strained against massive breasts, a tight black skirt, and patent-leather shoes with heels that were more like six-inch nails. She had coarse black hair piled high and gray eyes that had seen everything.

She switched on a smile that was meant to be inviting. "You boys looking for something?"

"Just visiting," Solo said. "A friend moved in here today."

"Oh, her." She lost interest. "She's up on the second floor. If she's in."

The staircase, covered with ancient gray carpet, was steep and rickety. It had a sad, indefinable smell compounded of cheap perfume, damp and grime. The once white walls bore marks of the passing of many bodies.

On the door facing the head of the second flight a cheap printed visiting card was secured with a thumbtack. It read: Miss Yvonne Grey. Modeling.

Solo pressed the yellowing doorbell and a two-tone chime sounded through the wood.

The girl who opened the door wore a black nylon blouse, skin-tight scarlet jeans and black stiletto-heel shoes. Her hair was tightly curled and bright red. Lashes thick with mascara fringed eyes of startling china-blue.

She smiled widely and said, "Surprise! Surprise!"

"My God!" Solo said. "What have you been doing to yourself?"

She put a finger to lips the color of over-ripe tomatoes. "Can't talk on the doorstep. Let's go in."

She led the way into a pocket-size sitting room that was overcrowded with shabby pseudo-Scandinavian furniture. The poodle cocked a beady eye from its basket near the gas fire, yapped briefly and subsided.

"A drink?" Blodwen asked.

"No, thanks. You still haven't explained the fancy dress."

"Protective coloring," she said. "If I'm going to join the soiled doves in the Gloriana, I have to look the part." She struck a Mae West pose and patted the incendiary curls. "Don't you like it?"

Illya said, "Your eyes. What happened to your eyes?"

"Contact lenses. No gal should be without them." Then more seriously she said, "There's always the chance that somebody might show up who saw me in Corwen or Newport. I had to do a complete remodeling job."

"That makes sense," Solo agreed. "Have you been around to see Anna?"

"No need. She doesn't employ regular hostesses. Any girl who's free and over twenty-one can put in an evening's stint as decoration at the bar — provided she's properly introduced. And that's been taken care of." She grinned. "I expect you met my chaperone downstairs."

"The girl with the armor-piercers?"

"The same. She has the flat below. She's one of those hard-boiled hustlers with a heart of gold., and she's taken me under her wing. I do my first stint at the Gloriana tonight."

"Well, watch it," Solo warned. "There are limits to what Alexander Waverly expects in the line of duty."

"Don't worry. I'm a long-time student of Dear Abby."

There came a faint morse-like tapping. Blodwen said, "Uh-oh!" and went to the door.

The woman in the peasant blouse came in. She looked from Solo to Illya, then back to Blodwen. She asked, "Everything okay, dear?" Her low-pitched voice had a Continental intonation.

Blodwen said, "Everything's fine, Merle. These are two old friends of mine. They just dropped in to see I was settled properly."

"That's okay, then." She switched on the smile. "Pleased to meet you."

Blodwen went to a glass-fronted cabinet, got out a bottle and poured four large gins.

Merle raised her glass in a gesture that embraced them all. "Cheers!"

They drank.

Merle said, :Excuse me for dropping in, dear. I was worried. I thought they might be fuzz."

"The Law?" Blodwen said. "These boys? That's a laugh."

"I'm glad." She didn't ask any questions.

Illya said politely, "This is a nice place you have here."

She looked around. "Not bad — but the overheads are killing." Then to Blodwen: "You better be getting ready. I thought we'd have a bite together before we go on to the club. I shake up a good ravioli — out of a can."

Blodwen poured her another gin. "Give me a couple of minutes. Talk to these guys while I'm putting on my face." She disappeared into the bedroom, the poodle at her heels.

Merle looked after her. She said, "She's a nice kid. You known her long?"

"Quite a while," Illya said. "We have a mutual uncle."

"That's nice. I didn't realize you were relatives or I wouldn't have butted in."

"We're glad you did," Solo assured her. "She can use a friend."

"Yes, she don't seem to know anybody in the Smoke — excepting you, of course."

"If it isn't a rude question, how did you come to meet her?" Illya asked.

"I was having an eye-opener in a pub by the Windmill Theater and she drifted in. She didn't seem to have a place to go, so I fixed her up. A girl can get into bad company if she ain't careful. And like I said, she's a nice kid." Her mouth twisted bitterly. "Too good for them bleeding Maltese to get their hooks in her."

"She'll be all right with you, though," Solo said.

"Sure. I'm an independent operator, you see. I don't have no truck with the rings."

Blodwen returned. She had exchanged the slacks and sweater for a green sack dress that ended four inches above her knees. The medallion swung at waist level from a long rolled-gold chain.

Merle eyed it, puzzled and astonish. She said, "Look, kid, you can't wear that thing in the Gloriana. Not if you don't want trouble."

"Why not?" Blodwen demanded. "It's pretty."

"Pretty or not, you can't wear it. I'm not asking where you got it. That's not my business. All I know is, the last time I seen it was around the neck of French Louise, and if she catches you with it there'll be bloody murder. So be a sensible kid and take it off.