London Bloody London Page 4

  "Bully for Maralee Mitchum," I said very sincerely, meaning every word. "I'm going to see every movie she makes. More than a few times apiece. Everybody should be so gorgeous."

  "Not my sort," the Doctor said almost apologetically. "I lean to the Vivien Leigh side, which I suppose gives my age group away. I've often preferred women to be ladylike and slender."

  "Those were the days," I agreed. "Can you answer some questions for me, Doctor? I feel like a newborn babe."

  "I expect you're keen to know many things, Mr. Noon. Fire away. I'll answer as best I can."

  I smiled in spite of the darkness, the lack of knowledge, the helplessness, and the still-throbbing dull reminder that made each eyeball feel like a grape floating around in hot oil. The only reason I hadn't panicked altogether was the bedside manner and brisk, medically sane voice of the man in the room with me. Whoever he was and wherever I was.

  "Where am I? To coin an original phrase."

  "Tower Parkside. The Kensington District. Perhaps five miles from Piccadilly. We're quite a fashionable hospital, considering the budget."

  "How long have I been here?"

  "Roughly forty-eight hours. It's nearly twelve o'clock of the new day. You were brought to us day before yesterday."

  "Wow. That bad, huh? I can't remember a thing."

  "Not surprising. You were in a good deal of pain, Mr. Noon. A greater deal of shock. Sedation was the only answer. You've been under for most of your stay in this room. Do you recall talking to me at an earlier time than this?"

  "Negative. I draw a complete blank since the airport. Did they catch Mr. Badger by the way?"

  "Not likely. No one seems to have seen the gentleman at all. Only you, writhing about on the ground, helplessly. Screaming and pawing at your——well, that's all done with now."

  "Where's my luggage? I was last seen wearing a Colt .45."

  "All here. In the room closet. The airport sent it along. I trust you'll find everything in order. Your weapon and harness is intact."

  I drew an inner sigh of relief. The attache case, my small arsenal of personal killers, courtesy the Chief's Lab boys—they were nothing strangers should be poking about. They could blow themselves up. My unknown Doctor must have noticed my expression and somehow interpreted its meaning. There was a slight cough of sound.

  "On that score, Mr. Noon, I'm afraid the official nonsense is about to begin. Not my province, you understand."

  "Such as, Doctor?"

  "There are two representatives of Scotland Yard in my office right now. They have been waiting rather patiently for you to be up to answering their questions. Do you think you could face up to them in say ten minutes or so?"

  "A cop is a cop is a cop," I said with ungrammatical regret.

  "I'm afraid I don't——"

  "No way has been invented of not talking to them. But I'm not kicking. If I'm not blind, I'm way ahead of the game from one point of view. Thanks to Maralee Mitchum, thanks to you."

  "Sensible way of looking at things, Mr. Noon. Well, if you agree, I'll go roust them out."

  "Doctor?"

  I could hear him pausing at the door of the room. A knob clicked in the stillness. It sounded like a cricket rubbing wings.

  "Yes, Mr. Noon?"

  "How soon before you can take these blinkers off?"

  "Oh, tomorrow won't be too soon, I should think. We'll need to test you for vision, perceptual damage, but—don't worry. The initial diagnosis was most satisfactory. Shouldn't vary, I'd say. You'll see, Mr. Noon. We have an excellent staff of physicians at Tower Parkside."

  "I'll take that literally, Doctor—what is your name?"

  "Green-Jones. With the hyphen, I'm afraid. Do rest easy. I'll send the gentlemen on up. Bye for now."

  I heard the door close and he was gone.

  I let myself relax and didn't try to wrestle with the immediate problems. I seemed to be safe for the time being, if not too sound. I could feel the hospital gown, coarse and woolen, covering my nudity. I could tell by touch that I was in a bed. It felt white, too. It just did. I couldn't smell anything but an antiseptic, fresh, clean nothingness. My body was okay, my senses now alert as if the dulling sedation had finally worn off. Except for the dull throb of my eyeballs, I seemed a hundred percent. But my eyes weren't so much an ache as the fact that I was now aware of them. You take them for granted for so long, and then one day, you know you have them. You just know. And the Lord bless all gorgeous, six-foot strawberry blondes everywhere. Maralee Mitchum was another kind of MM—one I would long remember for far different reasons.

  The gauze shielding my eyes were like two soggy sponges.

  I tried not to think about the Chief, Cursitor and his damn diary, Badger and his phony camera, or anything that related to a flyfield basking in the sun. Something was very wrong. They had struck me down, tagged me good and plenty, whoever they were. They had known I was coming. It couldn't be a payoff for another time, another crime, another caper. London had no backlog for me. Not that way. Nobody resting in an English jail was my handiwork.

  There couldn't be anyone out to even old scores.

  This was a different ballgame altogether.

  And I didn't even know any of the players, except Cursitor.

  Someone had simply known I was a big fish looking for bigger fish. A private operator out to join the school somehow.

  Something by Kipling, suddenly ran through my head. Maybe it was the English climate, but it certainly omitted nothing. I had six honest serving men—they taught me all I knew; Their names were Where, and What, and When—and Why and How and Who. You needed Rudyard's six principles of proper storytelling if ever you planned to write for a career, but those six boys were even more important in real living when your bag is the life-and-death one of espionage.

  Where was all this leading up to?

  What was going on?

  When was the next move going to be made?

  Why was it all happening?

  How had it all started?

  And last and never least, Who was pulling the strings and calling the shots? Who, indeed.

  I didn't have part of an answer to any of those questions.

  I still didn't have them when the door to the room opened again, following a brief, firm knock, and soft authoritative footfalls walked in on me. A chair scraped back along the floor, there was a polite murmur of voices, and a tweedy, pipesmoker's aroma filled the confines of my current home away from home. But it wasn't smoke of any kind. It was simply the heavy unmistakeable aura of men. There had to be two of them, as Dr. Green-Jones had said. A standee and a sitter, judging by the small sounds they were making.

  And neither of them had actually said Hello, yet.

  "Did I pass Inspection?" I asked flatly toward the direction of the foot of the bed where I was sure the standee was. I pegged the sitter as being somewhere off to my left. I tried to picture my two visitors, but knew I was falling into the cliche trap when I mentally drummed up bowler hats, military mustaches, and ulsters over tweed suits. Bellsize types in Night Must Fall and the police investigator of Sleuth. And thick heavy brogans, of course. Scotland Yard really doesn't look like that anymore. Maybe it never did.

  "We'll make this as brief as possible, sir." The voice was gruff and amiable and apologetic. "Won't keep you too long."

  "There's no hurry, Inspector," I said, resignedly.

  "Begging your pardon, Sir. Superintendent Gridley here. This is my aide, Detective Allister. Didn't Dr. Green-Jones identify us for you, sir?"

  There was a humorless grunt from the chair-scraper's direction. I sniffed toward that corner. The odor of tobacco came from there. As if Detective Allister were sucking on a cold pipe or a dead cigar.

  "You have some questions for me," I said. "Fire away. Just call me Grilled American." I was borrowing the idiom and flavor of the absent Green-Jones. When in Rome, etcetera.

  The bad pun was either over their heads or deemed unfunny.

  Superintenden
t Gridley breezed right on by the levity.

  "Good enough, sir. That is why we are here. May I ask how you are feeling? Dangerous business, the eyes."

  "Not very tophole, Superintendent, but they tell me I won't need a dog or a cane. That made my day, believe me."

  "That is good news, sir." The Superintendent sounded as if he genuinely meant it "Wouldn't want your trip to London mucked up in such a beastly fashion. Now, then —" He broke off hastily and then the amiable voice waxed official again. Oh, still very pleasant, but just a shade more pointed and direct. His business voice.

  "As we got the story, sir, you were on your way to the terminal building at Heathrow when this gentleman, supposedly a photographer, accosted you and asked to take your picture. And you refused?"

  "Now do you magicians know that?"

  "Eyewitnesses. You were seen to brush on by the photographer. You didn't stop to pose, you might say, and he persisted, hounding onto your tail as it were. Isn't that so?"

  "Right on, Superintendent. He said he was Badger of the Telegraph. But I suppose that isn't so, is it?"

  "No, it is not. We checked, of course. There is no one of that name working at the Telegraph offices."

  "Figures."

  "Any reason for not letting him snap you, sir?"

  "None in particular. Just didn't feel I looked particularly fetching that morning. Especially after a long plane ride. You know how it is. Besides, Maralee Mitchum is much more photogenic, wouldn't you say? I'd say."

  "Oh, quite. Quite." There was a pause and then the Superintendent launched off in another direction. "Could you give us a description of your Mr. Badger? It would help us greatly."

  "He's not my Mr. Badger, and you're welcome to him. He'd be a cinch to spot in your files if he's there. Very thin, undersized like a ninety-seven-pound weakling. Bony face and hands. Real thick eyebrows and walrus mustache. Big eyes too—pop-eyed, you might say."

  "Rather a theatrical appearance, wouldn't you say, sir?"

  "Very. But I was in too much of a hurry avoiding him to pay too much attention, you see."

  "Yes—you've made that very clear. Tell me, if you will. Do you know of any reason why you should be attacked in such an outlandish manner as soon as you arrive in England?"

  "None that I know of. Of course, I am a detective for a living, and there is always the element of revenge, isn't there?"

  Superintendent Gridley must have smiled broadly, because suddenly a definite chuckle escaped from Detective Allister's side of the bed. Somehow the odor of tobacco had dissipated, too.

  "Yes, sir, there is that," Gridley agreed amiably. "And if I may say so, we are rather familiar with your reputation. In truth, you were the subject of a lecture at the Police Academy, it may come as a surprise for you to know. Our department head referred to you as a shining example of the lone operator, shall we say, who sometimes can succeed where a multi-headed, multi-armed organization can fail. Oh, dear me, Mr. Noon. We know you. Yes, we do. Which is precisely why I am now compelled to meddle in your affairs."

  "And that means?"

  "I must ask you, sir, if it is official business which brings you to London."

  I didn't hesitate. I know the sound of an old grey fox when I hear him. "Yes, it is, Superintendent."

  There was another pause in which I imagined that Scotland Yard was exchanging glances, as if startled by my ready acknowledgment of something they obviously suspected anyway. Or maybe knew.

  "May I ask what that official business might be?"

  "No sweat, Superintendent. I'm on a special assignment for my government. The President asked me to come here personally and study your Black Museum. The whole works, from top to bottom. It has something to do with our Federal Bureau of Investigation wanting a complete picture of what you have so that they can update their own archives. It's my understanding that you have some mighty impressive weapons in the Museum that ought to be known about, as well as all that Famous Criminal material."

  "Extraordinary!" The word was almost a blurt of final disbelief from Superintendent Gridley's lips. I even heard Detective Allister snort with some kind of derision. But then again, the explanation was just far-fetched enough to have the ring of truth.

  "What's extraordinary?" I echoed. "That the FBI is interested in Scotland Yard or that the President sent me?"

  "No, no—" There was a hasty, badly-timed apology from the Superintendent. "Forgive me, sir, but do you have any credentials or papers stating such an assignment?"

  "I do not," I said as coldly as I could manage. "I don't question my government's orders. But I see no reason why you can't check it out if you feel the need to. I'm sure your Prime Minister could call the White House. Or some such—"

  "Please, sir," Superintendent Gridley cut in. "We'll let the matter drop right here. I'm sure the Yard will cooperate with you in every way. You'll be amazed with the Museum, Sir. It's quite a thoroughgoing exhibit now. Closed off to the general public, of course. The Curator will have no end of things to show you. There's the collection of skeleton keys that can open just about everything there is to open, the microdot system that's a wonder, the walking stick that telescopes, opening out into a Commando ladder—" He broke off. "Well, no sense going on about it, is there? You'll see soon enough for yourself, won't you?"

  "I mean to, Superintendent. I really do. Any more questions? I'm a little tired now and I'd like to catch some shut-eye."

  What a laugh that was.

  Detective Allister, as if he had been waiting for a cue and maybe received one, suddenly broke his own silence. His voice was the direct antithesis of his superior's. Nasal, unfriendly, and as biting as a sharp knife cutting into a thick loaf of bread.

  "Does the name Troy O'Connell mean anything to you, Mr. Noon?"

  "Can't say that it does," I lied, hoping my face hadn't betrayed a guilty flicker of recognition. "Should it?"

  Allister ignored that and asked another question.

  "Do you know of a person known as Malvolio Morrow?" Again his voice was a snapping, biting, right jab to the midsection.

  "Who could forget a handle like that? No—I don't know him, either. Again, may I ask, am I supposed to?"

  "One last question, sir," and this time Detective Allister slowed down, as if relishing and tasting the query he was about to serve me straight from the shoulder. "Torin Bird. Torin Bird. What do you say to that one?"

  I put my teeth together, not liking his tone, not caring for the Third Degree bark of his voice or the sudden sharp swing away from dead center that the conversation had taken.

  "I've never heard that name either," I said very truthfully. "And who are all these people? Candidates for your House of Parliament? My vote's no good, you know. I'm an American citizen."

  "That will be all, Allister," the calm and amiable voice of Superintendent Gridley edged in, effortlessly and without heat or reproof for either myself or his hard-hitting subordinate. "Well, sir. We've taken a deal of your time. We'll pop off now. I do hope you're up and about very soon. Do enjoy your stay in London. Where will you be staying, by the way, should we want to ask you to identify this Badger if we manage to box him?"

  "Regent Palace, as soon as I crash out of sick bay."

  "Good enough. Hope you've booked in advance. Dreadful business getting rooms——"

  "I'm booked, Superintendent. Goodbye for now."

  He was no dummy at cues. He took his. And took Detective Allister with him. In a few seconds, the room door closed behind them both, and I was left with a fair degree of fresh respect for Scotland Yard, a lingering odor of tobacco, and a general feeling that somebody knew something I didn't. Superintendent Gridley and-or Scotland Yard had some kind of lead on O'Connell, the man mentioned in Desmond Allan Cursitor's diary. Troy O'Connell. The U.S. hadn't even known that much about him—his full name. As for Malvolio Morrow and Torin Bird, I drew total blanks. Who the hell were they and where did they fit in the big picture? Malvolio made me think of Shakespeare's Twel
fth Night, naturally, and Torin Bird merely sounded like someone Limey. Beyond that, nothing. Nothing at all.

  My cover lie about the Black Museum was no problem. I'd really give the place a one-day tour once I got official permission from the right party. I didn't think Gridley would dare call me down on that one or try to check it out. It was such a harmless lie, he'd had to believe it. Allister wouldn't buck Gridley, either.

  But I was still left with bigger problems. King-size ones.

  Why had Badger blinded me? Why hadn't it been a kill attempt?

  Who wanted to stop my clocks? And again, why not permanently?

  Did it have anything to do with Operation: Find Cursitor?

  And what was I going to do next? If I had a second chance?

  Nothing, that's what, until I left Tower Parkside and the tender mercies of Dr. Green-Jones and his talented staff of healers.

  My eyes suddenly ached again. Two pin-points of flame.

  Small wonder. Apart from the normal amount of irritation, pain, and discomfort, I'd never been so much in the dark before.

  So really in the dark.

  And the dark was not light enough.

  It never would be. Christopher Fry, notwithstanding.

  It never can be.

  I was a private eye in London, temporarily as blind as a bat, with nothing to do but go to sleep and wait.

  Troy O'Connell. Mystery Man Number One.

  Malvolio Morrow. Mystery Man Number Two.

  Torin Bird. Mystery Man Number Three.

  Three names. Three people. Three identities.

  Three ciphers, at that exact moment. Three unknown quantities.

  They could be the Marx Brothers for all I knew.

  Without Zeppo, the straight man.

  Just as legendary, just as famous, but probably not as funny.

  And Desmond Allan Cursitor, the President's missing man.

  Where had he gone, how had he gone, and more importantly, was he dead or alive? In some kind of prison or just on the beach?