London Bloody London

  LONDON BLOODY

  LONDON

  Ed Noon Mystery #24

  Michael Avallone

  STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

  BEVERLY HILLS

  2014

  Copyright © 2014 by Susan Avallone and David Avallone. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

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  Open Letter To

  Jean and Stan Ellin:

  I wanted to dedicate this book to you for several reasons, all of which are good enough for me. And any of which would fulfill the standard motives for dedications. But there's more here than meets any eye, even a private one like Ed Noon. This book is about him and London. Space limitations and the tight timetable inflicted on all murder mysteries being what they are, I could only get a pound's worth in of what I really feel about London. It's like George Apley's Boston for me—"a state of mind." I couldn't ring in the sound of Bow Bells, the rotunda of St. Paul's, the glory of Hyde Park at sundown and so many other sights and sounds that are so particularly the great city that most people only link with names like Winston Churchill, British film stars and tired World War Two lend-lease jokes. But since Ed Noon, as anyone who knows me certainly knows, is also me hiding behind his six feet of good looks and fast, breezy American intellect, perhaps the message will get across in that native New Yorker, flip, semi-hardboiled idiom that is so particularly his own, too. There's a far more serious message in this book too but I will leave that one to the people human enough to find it. But back to the Ellins, Jean and Stanley—

  You've always both been Specialties of the House, insofar as me and mine are concerned and anybody who could give Dante's last name without looking it up first, has got to be a friend of mine. And since one is easily one of the finest writers pounding a portable in captivity and the other is a sweetheart who's with him all the way, well—

  This one's from me to you, Dante and Beatrice, with love and kisses, con amore, and three sharp blasts on the sweetest trumpet this side of heaven—the typewriter.

  Further Deponent Sayeth Not,

  Mike Avallone

  East Brunswick, New Jersey

  The Cast of Characters

  . . . . according to their favorite London sights

  ED NOON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Big Ben

  THE PRESIDENT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Buckingham Palace

  DESMOND ALLAN CURSITOR . . The Marble Arch

  MARALEE MITCHUM . . . . . . . . . . Windsor Castle

  MR. BADGER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Madame Tussaud's

  DR. GREEN-JONES . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Thames

  SUPERINTENDENT GRIDLEY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . New Scotland Yard

  DETECTIVE ALLISTER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Imperial War Museum

  MALVOLIO MORROW . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Tower of London

  SEBASTIAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Maze

  TORIN BIRD . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Albert Memorial

  TROY O'CONNELL . . The Victorian Embankment

  CHRISTINE CLEARLAKE . . . . . . . . . . . . West End

  KEVIN FAIRCHILD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Brighton Beach

  DUSTIN FAIRCHILD . . . . . . . . . . . . Covent Garden

  . . . . and some of them become sights themselves.

  CONTENTS

  INVITATION TO A DANCE OF DEATH

  DIARY OF A DESOLATE MAN NAMED CURSITOR

  I SPY WITH MY LITTLE EYE

  FROM LONDON WITH LOVE

  THIS WILL WHIP YOU

  THE SLEEPING UGLY

  KILL ME IN PICCADILLY

  THE NOON AND SIXPENCE

  THE ONE-IN-A-MILLION KID

  THE BLOKE IN STOKE-NEWINGTON

  ONE MORE RARA AVIS

  AN UPSIDE-DOWN CAKE, TOASTED ENGLISH STYLE

  TIDBITS OVER TRAFALGAR SQUARE

  CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE CASSETTE

  FAREWELL TO ALL THAT

  HOME, JAMES BOND

  INVITATION TO A DANCE

  OF DEATH

  □ "I'm in Saigon," the President said in his quiet tomb of an office, "and you are not here. This meeting has never taken place. Not even in your dreams."

  I nodded quickly, acknowledging his rather stiff hello even though it was coordinated with a firm handshake. We both took our respective positions to either side of the ornate desk I remembered so well. A lot of Viet Nam, Civil Rights, ecology, and personal water had gone under his bridges and mine since then. And across that desk. We sat down simultaneously, as if we had rehearsed our cues. Espionage has its protocol, too. But he was still my client, somehow.

  September rain was an aquatic ballet on the wide windows behind him, tapping and slithering in a tempo stolen from The Sorcerer's Apprentice. The office looking-glasses still were overlord of that green wilderness outside the western side of the White House. We were remote within pale amber walls. Insulated, shut off. But still as close as two proverbial peas. The presidential pod was a vacuum of Security.

  He looked older, the way all men in public office do after the ceaseless campaigns and bittersweet realities take their toll. The familiar boyish look and vibrant voice had lost some elasticity. He made very little small talk those first few minutes of reappraisal. I was sure I looked older to him too. Those kind of mirrors are two-way with people who really know one another. No one fools a friend.

  More importantly, he handed across the desk a black, leather-bound book, not much bigger than a Texan's billfold. I took it without comment, noting 1971 lettered in gold leaf across the face of the thing. The book made rustling sounds as I splayed the pages open.

  "A diary," the President said, matter-of-factly. "Read only the entries for the month of July. From the date of the twenty-second on. Unfortunately, there's nothing beyond that. If there were, you wouldn't be here and—" His shrug held a world of ifs, maybes, might-have-beens, and wistfulness. "Six pages in all, actually."

  "Whose diary is it?"

  "Desmond Allan Cursitor."

  "Oh," I said.

  His eyes, browner than my own, targeted in on me almost accusingly.

  "Yes. He is still among the missing, Ed. Completely unaccounted for. What's that old expression—as if the earth had swallowed him up."

  "I read the papers, but—there has to be a simpler explanation than that. Especially in this day and age."

  "Please read the pages. It will give you more to go on."

  I began to read. Knowing he wanted something from me.

  Knowing I wasn't reading for pleasure.

  When you're the only confidential agent employed by the President of a country, a spy-without-portfolio, he never summons you to do crossword puzzles or act as a literary agent. Or to help him with lost collar buttons or his speeches. Or to keep tabs on a lady love.

  Never that.

  Always something far more important.

  World-shaking, as the cliche goes.

  Cursitor's diary, in my fingers, had the unmistakeable size and feel and texture of the usual. The norm. The customary.

  The presidential hot potato.

  Paris wasn't burning, but my hands were.

  I knew that feeling.

  I've had it so many times before.

  Too many times to be mistaken.

&nb
sp; And it turned out that it wasn't anything to do with France or the French. It was London Bridge that was falling down.

  And not the one that was sold to Arizona.

  DIARY OF A DESOLATE MAN

  NAMED CURSITOR

  Thursday, July 22nd, 197—

  The Good Queen Liz The Second. Away all Cursitors! For London Town. Pier 92 at 52nd Street. Great send-off. Docking the car was a snap, thanks to B. Stein's arranging things with the detective agency that seems to handle those matters. Stateroom #5094 (port side) is now home for the next week. Champagne, sangria, and a lot of good people to see us off. I have 102° fever. What rotten luck! Almost had a heart attack when I saw O'Connell strolling about on the aft deck as we passed under the Verrazano Bridge. Hurried below decks to avoid him. If they've sent him, I've run away from nothing.

  Friday, July 23rd, 197—

  A fantastic vessel, this Queen. A floating city a la the old Mary and the Michelangelo. But I'm sick—chills, high fever, and a writhing, twisting night in the sheets while Nan and the children slept like tops. The kids are in an eternal playground. Nan is living as she likes—waited on hand and foot, not lifting a finger for herself. I am beset and bewildered by my own devils. What bad timing—to be sick when so much is at stake. Fever climbed to 103°, but the handsome ship's doctor and his beautiful nurse (my God, how young these people all are these days!) merely said, "Oh, well—it will pass. You're on antibiotics at any rate, and one can't change prescriptions just yet—" I ran into O'Connell in the Double Down Room. He pretended great surprise I was on board. Insisted he had had a last second notion to see London. I'm sure he isn't carrying a gun. But with these people, how can I be certain? I'll need a food-taster now.

  Saturday, July 24th, 197—

  The Game Room was packed with tourists. Quite a Casino, the 736 Club. Roulette, a dice table, and Twenty-One. Played Blackjack badly no thanks to my up-and-down temperature, but managed to win $20 anyway. Invited to Captain Blair's quarters, just off the Bridge. Fine view of the QE2's prow cutting through the foggy mist. O'Connell was there, too. My traveling Tourist Class has fooled no one. O'Connell is First Class. America is so far away. We're mid-Atlantic now. But I can't seem to get away from O'Connell's beady, penetrating eyes. He has a way of looking at a man that is most awful. Damn them all anyway. Haven't said a word to Nan—she'd never believe me, and there's no point in alarming her or the children. Stephanie and Stevie are having so much fun. God bless them.

  Sunday, July 25th, 197—

  Van Heflin died. Pity. Always liked the man and the actor. Music, fun and games all over the ship. This mammoth jet-age dinosaur has attracted people from all walks of life. Many Indians, French, German, and Orientals on board. Leslie Caron was at the Blackjack table tonight. Very pale, very sad, atrociously dressed in something that did nothing for her. She was with a young man ages her junior. Curly-haired, dark, and the compleat gigolo, it seemed. I am beginning to feel my old self again. The fever is gone. Nothing to do now but worry about O'Connell. Will I live to see London? To do what I must do?

  Monday, July 26th, 197—

  Our waiter at corner table, port side, is Dominick. He asked us to call him Nick. He is too much what he seems —halting English, menial—to be one of their people. But I am on my guard. Nick is young Old World. He says "Thank you!" to everything. "Nick, this soup is cold." "Thank you." "Nick, I'll have kippers." "Thank you!" "Nick, you're a bloody fool." "Thank you." Stephanie is queen of all she surveys; her mother incarnate. Stevie's acting like a youngster out of school. He's all-holiday. Nan is disappointed in the QE2 cuisine. The potatoes are always most awful. No better than a Third Avenue greasy spoon cafeteria in the states. Glad I'm not a gourmet—it simply isn't important to me. Not now, of course. We've come near 3000 miles. Blue skies at last, after all the fog of preceding days. The QE2 ploughing serenely on. "Big Jake" showing in the ship's theatre. Took Stevie while Nan and Stephanie enjoyed tea time in the Double Down Room. Typical John Wayne movie. Broad playing at the expense of reality. Trap shooting off the ship's starboard rail at eleven. O'Connell was there, too. He rattled me. Missed all four of my clays. Not so he. Four for four. Damn the man. Wish he'd come out and say what he's up to. But then again, he couldn't, could he? The game would be up.

  Stevie and I saw a school of porpoise this afternoon. Leaping, jumping.

  Tuesday, July 27th, 197—

  Cobh—the coast of Ireland this morning. Grey, bleak at dawn, very green at sunrise. Wished O'Connell would have gotten off—to see his parents or something. No such luck. He is glued to me like flypaper. Turns up nearly wherever I seem to be. Stephen Michael Cursitor is 6 today. Happy Birthday on the High Seas. Not many boys have had that. When I was six, I was sweeping out chimneys in Ilford, helping my Dad. Our corner table was fine for the celebration. A nut cake, a bottle of Moet champagne, and a happy air. Took the rascal to see "Tora! Tora! Tora!" today. Most awful movie. Zanuck millions could not offset a rather bad personal drama, as presented. The film had none of the merits that distinguished "The Longest Day," for example. I've busied myself taking many pictures. Even snapped one of O'Connell as he slept all innocently in his deck chair on the boat deck. Blast the man. I've an insane desire to pitch him overboard. But, of course, I can't. Perhaps I am just imagining the whole thing—and his motives are all honest and above-board. After all, we are both older now and he could be done with that sort of business. But I'm still at it, unfortunately, and though I've paid my dues, as the Americans say, the wages are still fear. We must see what happens.

  Wednesday, July 28th, 197—

  Quel day! Le Havre quays and breakwaters at 0600 hours. And boats, boats, boats with jolly old Southampton looming sunnily. What a pleasant sight. It never fails to lift my spirits. Customs was a piece of cake, the Cursitor credentials notwithstanding. No one on hand to meet us, thanks to my instructions to the Home Office. Still, I'm sure there were CID men all over the dock. Following procedure, we took the boat train to London. In keeping with my plan. More murders have been effected in private vehicles on country roads than anywhere else. They won't catch me in a stalled limousine or cab with cows mooing in the background. My last sight of O'Connell was at Immigration in the Queen's Room lounge. He didn't seem too put out and was most cordial. Yet the moment left me feeling badly—damn the man and those eyes of his! Nan and the children were merely noisy and didn't notice a thing. How innocent and untroubled they are who are not involved in double-dealing . . .

  I stopped reading. There were no more entries after the twenty-eighth. The rest of the daybook was a total blank. Across the desk, the President's face was a grim reminder of trouble and worry. The last known words of Desmond Allan Cursitor seemed to echo hollowly in the office. Like a knell of Judgment Day. And I don't know what else. Today was September 9.

  "He was worried, all right. That's clear enough. Who's O'Connell?"

  "We don't know," the President said in a tired and defeated voice. "And that's the pity of it, the awful truth. Cursitor recognized O'Connell, accepted him at face value, and yet when we did all our checking, there was no record of such a man being aboard the Queen . . . therefore no passport photo, no credentials. Not a scrap of evidence. You see? When we checked the name O'Connell out with Interpol we thought at the very least they'd come up with one of their Blue International Circulars—you know—a man's track record and history, but no knowledge of what he actually looks like. As you have guessed, we didn't come up with anything. Mr. O'Connell is an X all the way. And that left us with precisely nothing and no place to start. O'Connell had been on board under an alias or had stowed away, as unlikely as that is. But the point is, we simply could not pin down that passenger list with any degree of certainty."

  "I see. And that's purely a rhetorical remark, Chief."

  "Ed, Cursitor must be found."

  "That much is obvious."

  "Do you want to know why? Do you have to know?"

  "Not if it's important that I don
't."

  "It's important that you don't."

  "It seems to me we've been down this road before."

  "We have. Too many times. And I regret it. You know I do. I'm always asking you to do the impossible. The fact that you've done that so many times has spoiled me. I admit that. I also admit that there isn't a man or a platoon or even an army that can give me the peculiar advantage your services always do. You understand me? I send in teams and divisions and experts and the whole world is onto my operation and my method. The press doesn't let up on me for a second. Utilizing you, I've got something no amount of money can buy me. An expert who knows what he is doing, has the highest degree of success, and is completely unofficial and unobtrusive. As such, about as indispensable as breathing to me."

  He let me light one of my Camels as we both matched full stares of appraisal in the brief silence that followed his Hooray-For-Noon speech. The room hadn't changed much in a solemn summer of being away. It was still large, still airy, still highly polished, with the desk, the floor, the furnishings, the Grand Old Flag, and the Presidential Seal facing each other high behind his head. It still commanded a superb view of the Treasury Building and the Senate Office Building, rising in the west, from measured and lovely expanses of green which Arnold Palmer would have loved to golf on. Palmer and the millions of divot diggers running wild in the country.

  "What do you want me to do this time?" I said it through a cloud of slow blue smoke. My own way of evening the odds between us.

  His smile was bleak, almost rueful.

  "Go to London and find Cursitor."

  "That's all?"

  "That's all."

  "What do I do when I do find him?"

  His smile deepened, even more drearily.

  "When you do, if you do, you'll know what to do. Take my word on that. It will all be very clear to you then."

  I flipped through the expensive, leather-bound diary once more, committing some of the points to memory. I had the feeling I wasn't going to be able to take the book with me, though Xerox copies would probably be provided for me to study. There were a couple of questions I had to ask. I asked them. Like a good secret agent should.