Lestrade and the Deadly Game by M. J. Trow

Author:M. J. Trow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BLKDOG Publishing
Published: 2021-08-05T16:00:00+00:00

‘My card,’ the man with shoulders like tallboys said.

Lestrade had had enough that morning already. A furious Inspektor Vogelweide had hauled an embarrassed Constable Bourne into the superintendent’s office demanding to know why this schwuler had been following him. At first he thought it was the cut of his lederhosen or that his luck had changed. Then, on flicking Bourne over his wrist and smashing his head against a wall, he frisked his pockets and realized he was a policeman. Why, he wanted to know, had Lestrade given orders to Bourne to follow him? Was this the Yard’s idea of co-operation? Was this how a British policeman extended courtesy and help to a bruder-officer, by having him followed? In future, Vogelweide would work on his own and he would only trouble Lestrade again when he needed to extradite the murderer of Hans-Rudiger Hesse.

And now this. Lestrade looked at the card – an open eye and the legend ‘We Never Sleep’.

‘Maddox,’ the huge man said, ‘the Pinkerton Detective Agency.’

‘How may I help you, Mr Maddox?’ Lestrade was almost afraid to ask.

‘It’s the other way round, brother.’ Maddox slumped in a chair and lit himself a cigarette. ‘Smoke?’ he said.

‘Yes, I do,’ Lestrade confessed.

‘Well, that’s something we have in common,’ and he put the packet away. ‘Now, look, Lootenant . . .’

‘Superintendent,’ Lestrade said.

‘Right. I’m over here to check up on these Limey officials at the Games, see. Been givin’ our guys the runaround. Breakin’ the tape an’ all.’

‘Yeah, well your blokes can’t run in a straight bleedin’ line, that’s the problem,’ Hollingsworth felt compelled to chime in.

Maddox sat upright, his massive fist clenching and unclenching.

‘I’m sorry about him,’ Lestrade said. ‘He’s got a bad ankle.’

‘And a bad mouth,’ Maddox added.

Sensing Anglo-American relations were not all, at that moment, that they could be, Lestrade dismissed the constable to make a pot of tea.

‘Never touch the stuff,’ Maddox assured him. ‘Coffee. Black and lots of it. You know, I don’t know how you guys stick it, drinkin’ that stuff all day.’ He reached a silver hip flask from his pocket. ‘Red eye?’

‘Yes,’ Lestrade patted his bandage. ‘But it’s getting better.’

Maddox shrugged and swigged in one fluid movement. ‘Effie Jennings,’ he gargled.

It was Lestrade’s turn to sit upright. ‘Who?’ he said.

‘Don’t come that with me, Lootenant. You’re investigatin’ the dame’s death.’

‘No, she had no title as far as I am aware.’

‘So you are investigatin’ her?’ Maddox grinned triumphantly. United States, one; Great Britain, nil.

‘Just what is your interest, Mr Maddox?’

The Pinkerton man puffed on his Old Glory. ‘Effie Jennings was the fiancée of J. C. Carpenter, our All-American star athlete. It’s bad enough that your guys loused up the four hundred metres for him, but when one of ’em cuts loose on his girl, well, we never sleep.’

‘So I’ve heard.’ Lestrade patted the calling card with his finger.

‘What have you got?’ Maddox asked.

‘An awful lot of paperwork,’ Lestrade sighed.

‘Come on, Lestrade. I gotta right . . .’

‘No, Mr Maddox. I’m afraid you have no rights at all.

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