32
Three merry boys, and three merry boys,
And three merry boys are we,
As ever did sing in a hempen string
Under the Gallows-Tree.
JOHN FLETCHER,
The Countess read the search warrant, seemingly unperturbed as police prepared to file past her into the crevices of her bawdy-hoose.
‘This appears to be in order,’ she observed. ‘And it is such a pleasure to meet you in the flesh, lieutenant.’
The only part of his anatomy Roach could see was the hand holding the warrant and he wondered, not for the first time, if he had made a mistake by insisting that he come along to keep an eye on proceedings since it was his name on the warrant just under the sheriff officer’s.
‘You have been pointed out to me at the opera,’ the Countess continued serenely. ‘I believe it was
Verdi’s tale of a noble-hearted courtesan rang too many bells for Roach at this moment so he contented himself by taking back the search warrant, and signalling his men to move past into the bowels of the house.
‘Don’t break anything,’ he ordered, with a warning glance to Ballantyne who sped past, eager to take part in his first official raid.
McLevy had been chafing at the bit behind and now the courtesies had been observed, trampled them underfoot.
‘Alfred Binnie – where is he?’ he demanded, almost shoving in front of his lieutenant.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she replied but in the beat before this, he noted her eyes flick for a moment to the flight of stairs that led to the upper rooms.
‘The object of our search, madam,’ said Roach.
‘A hired assassin and acid-pourer, his speciality is the knife,’ McLevy threw at her.
It worried him slightly how calm the Countess was being; hopefully all that would change.
‘I do not know who you might mean, inspector –’
‘Then let me find him for you!’
Rudely interrupting her measured tones, he pushed past and moved with surprising speed up the stairs, his old black revolver in his coat pocket bumping reassuringly against his leg as he thrust upwards.
‘Bring some men with you!’ Roach called unavailingly, but then an uproar from the main salon distracted him.
An irate voice, one that the lieutenant found disturbingly familiar, rang out into the hall.
‘Take your hands from me, ye illiterate extraction!’
Then there was a roar of indignation and outrage before Ballantyne emerged with what looked like a brown wig in his possession.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he explained in some confusion. ‘The man resisted being moved and this came away in my hands.’
Another roar of outrage and Roach, to his horror, finally placed the voice. At the same time the butler who had admitted them at the door, then retreated out of sight, suddenly reappeared from the door of the salon, snatched the wig from Ballantyne and darted back inside to restore it to the rightful owner.
Another bellow resembling something that might have greeted Perseus from the middle of the Labyrinth came from the unseen presence, followed by some alarmed female shrieks a little further away.
Roach’s face was ashen.
Ballantyne’s strawberry red.
The sonorous baritone of the butler sounded, trying to calm the situation.
More shrieks in chorus.
The high tenor of outraged authority.
The Countess laughed softly.
‘Just like the opera,’ she murmured.
Meanwhile James McLevy had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had found the room, he was certain of that. It bore the marks of sequestered occupation – a single mattress bed jammed into a corner, a glass with dregs of stale beer, biscuit crumbs, a cheap case with a few items of male clothing – but nothing else.
The bird had flown.
He hauled up the window and looked down into the back garden where the snarling yelps of dogs could be heard.
Mulholland plus a few men were milling around in uncertain fashion and the constable looked up at McLevy with annoyance on his face,
‘That was the very devil!’ he shouted up. ‘Getting these dogs back in their kennel. Two of the men got bit.’
‘Never mind that,’ the inspector bawled back. ‘Did ye corner him?’
‘Binnie? No – do you not have him?’
‘No. Are ye sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure!’
‘Bugger!’
McLevy slammed the window shut again and scrabbled in the suitcase to see if there might be some clue as to where the fellow had gone.
But there was nothing but dirty underpants and smelly socks. The man was not house-proud.
And this was not proceeding according to plan.
Ballantyne came though the open door, which bore the mark of a hefty boot that McLevy had dealt the lock before charging in to find nothing behind it.
‘The lieutenant wishes your presence downstairs, sir.’
McLevy thought to ask why but decided to find out for himself; one thing for sure, it would not be congratulations on a job well done.
In fact he met Roach part way up the stairs, the lieutenant trying to put some distance between himself and looming catastrophe.
Just before they began talking there was the crash of china and a muffled cry from the Countess.
Roach was hissing like an angry alligator.
‘McLevy! I have just left a senior high court official in the downstairs salon, half-dressed, at least his wig restored, and not a happy man. Please tell me there is a successful conclusion to all this.’
‘Not so far,’ responded McLevy cheerily.
The lieutenant fixed him with a cold, saurian eye.
‘I authorised this raid against my better judgement and I now –’
‘Lieutenant Roach!’ a voice was calling angrily.
‘– regret it bitterly.’
The Countess suddenly appeared on the scene, eyes bright with fury.
‘Your men have just upset a most valuable antique!’ she cried in piercing tone.
‘Is it the court official?’ asked McLevy, just for devilment. When things were at their worst the imp of mischief often took a bow in his psyche and life became a sight more adventurous.
‘It is a Persian vase!’
