Tune to a Corpse by Peter Drax

Author:Peter Drax
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2017-04-13T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A quarter of an hour later Thompson tried the door of Sammy’s Club. It was locked. He pressed a bell-push and listened. He could hear two men talking inside. He rang again.

“Hullo, Tim.”

Tim Daly stared at Thompson for a second and then he tried to shut the door. A number nine boot stopped that.

“You can’t come in.”

“Like hell I can’t.”

“Where’s your warrant?”

Thompson lowered his shoulder and shoved. Tim Daly staggered back against the wall of the passage. Then he recovered himself and tried to run, but Thompson caught him by one arm; Perry held the other.

Thompson grinned. “This isn’t the way to treat distinguished visitors, Tim. You ought to know better than that.”

“You’ve no right in here. This is a club.”

Tim Daly was breathing heavily through his mouth.

“Put the cuffs on him and keep him here while I have a look round,” Thompson said to Perry. He opened a door and looked into the bar. It was empty. So was the con room.

He walked down the passage and flung open the door at the end. A light was burning on the broad desk. The curtains were drawn over the windows.

A pen lay on the blotter. Thompson picked it up. The ink in the nib was wet. He drew back the curtains and looked down into a yard. There were three men there. Two police officers and Big Bill Connor.

Thompson put his head out and called: “Bring him up here.”

Bill Connor was sulky and silent as he was pushed into the room. Thompson slammed down the window-sash and turned a key in the lock of the door.

Connor was staring at the carpet.

“Well, now, this is a surprise. I didn’t know you and Tim had teamed up.”

Thompson’s gaze was straying round the room as he spoke. He knew Bill Connor and his capacity for silence.

“Nice place. Nice furniture.” He walked round the desk and tried the top drawer. It was locked. “Frisk him.”

The two plain-clothes men emptied Connor’s pockets and laid the contents before Thompson. A gold cigarette-case. A gold lighter. A silk handkerchief. A bunch of keys. Two wallets, and some silver and copper coins.

Thompson picked up one of the wallets. It was stuffed with notes and there were three visiting-cards in it. “M. Jerome,” he read. “That’s a nice name you’ve picked. Better than Connor. Sounds a lot better.”

Bill Connor kept his head bent down and did not speak.

Thompson opened the other wallet and took from it a folded map. “London and Environs” was its title. It was sprinkled with dots and crosses drawn in red ink.

They were thick in Piccadilly, Shaftesbury Avenue, and the Strand.

Thompson was frowning as he refolded it. There was a book of stamps half-used and an envelope in another pocket. A. Russ, 47 Fenwick Street, Southwark.

He held it out. “Where did you get this?”

Bill Connor raised his heavy head.

“Find out. I’m not talking.”

Thompson turned the envelope over. The back of it was covered with pencil writing. It meant nothing to Thompson, and he laid it on one side and turned out the remainder of the contents of the wallets.

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