The Man from the Diogenes Club - [Diogenes Club 01] Read online

  Fred liked the idea of Lord Leaves flicking through a porn mag before writing his next morality song and seeing wifey’s bright little eyes staring up from a fladge lay-out. Under her wimple and robe, Lady Celia could easily be wearing black leather and straps. He tried to stop thinking of that. It was all Lesley Behan’s fault, for warping his mind.

  “I’ve looked over some of Lord Leaves’ recent speeches,” said Richard. “He continually harps on the theme of himself as the last moral man in Soho, surrounded by a rising tide of obscenity, crying ‘Halt!’ to the advance of corruption. He sounds like someone who wants something back. This whole square mile.”

  * * * *

  9: PRIVATE FILES

  Boddey was in handcuffs, being eased firmly towards the door and a waiting Black Mariah. About time too, thought Fred.

  “What are you doing him for, sir?” he asked DI Macendale.

  “Tampering with evidence, for a start.”

  “Freddo, it weren’t me,” pleaded Busy.

  “Files upstairs have been filleted,” said Macendale. “We’ve got enough to hang Booth and a whole lot more, but choice items have been spirited away....”

  Richard was interested. “What, specifically, is missing?”

  Macendale looked glum. “Hard to say. But gaps are obvious.”

  “Constable Boddey,” said Richard, “have you any ideas what ought to be there but isn’t?”

  “I didn’t touch it!”

  “I didn’t say you did,” said Richard. “I asked you if you knew what it was.”

  “Will it help me?” Busy asked, tiny spark of cunning twitching the corners of his mouth. It was the ghost of his smirk.

  “It will help us,” said Richard, gesturing to keep Busy’s attention.

  Macendale shook his head. He wanted to get home to his cocoa and be up early tomorrow to swoop on high-ranking bent coppers. He would already have Busy down as grass-in-training, and ready to cut a deal to get the higher-ups named. The people who’d let Booth get away with it all these years.

  Busy swallowed. He had got more tear-streaked throughout the day.

  “I’d have to look.”

  “Under no circumstances ...,” began Macendale.

  Richard unfolded a document and presented it to the inspector. Macendale’s lips moved and his eyes swivelled from side to side as he read. Richard kindly pointed out official seals and signatures.

  “Uh, carry on, Mr. Jeperson,” said Macendale, fuming.

  Richard took back the precious document, and slipped it into an inside pocket.

  “Let’s take Constable Boddey upstairs,” he said.

  Busy shrank with terror. Macendale at least got enjoyment from that, and manhandled his prisoner up to Booth’s office.

  A door that looked like a broom cupboard led to a tiny space lined with metal filing cabinets. Locks were smashed. Richard took an interest in the damage, which could have been done with a sledgehammer. He scraped dried scum from a shiny dent in the dull metal and showed it to Fred.

  Only two people at a time could get in the room, and they found it cramped if any drawers were pulled out. Richard withdrew and let Macendale supervise Busy as he went through the files. The inspector kept a close eye on the miscreant—as if expecting him to grab and swallow something incriminating. At that, Fred wouldn’t have put it past him.

  Richard took Fred aside.

  “Our Mr. Sludge has subtler habits than we thought,” he said. “Smash-kill-grind-crunch is one thing, but filching evidence from locked cabinets in a hidden room suggests a lighter touch. That’s where our summoner comes in.”

  “Still think it’s Leaves?”

  Richard considered. “Booth’s files would interest a moral crusader. In addition to protesting against the mere existence of licentiousness, I assume Lord Leaves agitates against folk who profit from immorality, encouraging their prosecution on criminal grounds. I imagine that’s why Booth was first on the to-kill list—it should have been his job to pursue Gates and the like for what I assume were many, many infractions of the letter of the law.”

  “Campaigners have tried private prosecutions,” admitted Fred. “Stooges fronting the sex shops or porn cinemas get slapped with huge fines, which are paid promptly in big bundles of cash. Confiscated stock is replaced by closing time, and some new face is behind the counter the next day. Burly Gates rarely even gets mentioned in court.”

  Macendale brought Busy out of the file room.

  “So?” asked Richard.

  “He’s shamming,” said Macendale.

  “I’m not,” whined Busy. “Honest. All that’s missing is old stuff. Records from the sixties. Memorabilia.”

  “Memorabilia?” asked Richard, intrigued.

  “Publicity eight-by-tens, brochures, mags. Too tame for today’s market, but nostalgia is booming. Private collectors pay high prices for vintage smut. Anything with Pony-Tail is worth a packet.”

  Fred and Richard exchanged a look. Pony-Tail, again. Was Grek still trying to rescue his tasselled princess?

  “Booth had it salted away. Came with the place. Called it his school fee fund. He had kids.”

  “That’s all that’s gone?” asked Richard.

  Busy wriggled, which was what a shrug looked like with handcuffs.

  “There’s something else,” said Richard.

  Busy couldn’t look away from Richard’s eyes.

  “It’s other ... investments,” admitted Busy. “Eight millimetre films of tarts who’ve got new lives and want to keep old ones forgotten. Explicit photos of girls, and some lads as well, with prominent people—film and TV stars, business magnates, politicians,policemen, judges, pop singers. You can imagine the kinkiness, and how eager they are to keep it hush-hush. Some were paying off like rigged slot machines.”

  “Blackmail,” said Richard.

  Busy wriggled again. “That’s it. That’s all of it”

  Fred remembered Zarana had mentioned Booth was milking a former stripper to keep her stag films out of the Sunday papers. Evidently, it was a cottage industry. That bulked out the suspect list, though with the goods flown it’d be hard to add actual names.

  “It’s no surprise Booth and Gates were in the blackmail racket,” said Fred.

  “Not Gates,” said Busy, surprised. “The other one, Schluderpacheru.”

  * * * *

  10: THE PARTY SCENE

  Golden Square, London W1. Handy for Wardour Street, where all the film companies—major and (very) minor—keep offices. A semisecluded haven of dignified mansions off Brewer Street, the (even) sleazier continuation of Old Compton Street.

  A hop South was the Windmill Theatre, where nude girls had been appearing nightly since the war. The Windmill boasted “we never closed,” despite air raids and police sweeps, working within the law of the day by presenting bare lovelies in posed tableaux. Vice squad officers kept reserved seats, allegedly prepared to haul the curtain down if a gooseflesh girl so much as blinked. Fred assumed the predecessors of Boot Boy Booth just enjoyed the ogling opportunities, and the thick envelopes of ten-bob notes mysteriously slipped into their programmes. The Windmill was now a dad’s idea of naughty—patriotic songs and patter comedians, and mere glimpses of skin. It was rendered outmoded by flickering X-certificate fare on offer in Piccadilly Circus at the Moulin and Eros sex cinemas (the latter opposite the statue of Eros), let alone the clubs, “reviews” and in-all-but-name brothels clustered at the lower end of Berwick Street. Plus Oh, Calcutta!, settled in for a long run at the Royalty Theatre: a Windmill show with sarky sketches and nudes that moved, suitable for trendy poseur and carriage trade alike.

  Konstantin Schluderpacheru’s townhouse might as well have sported a huge neon sign with “Bad Scene” written on it. The windows were open but curtained. Shifting, multicoloured lights gave the building a flashy, disco come-on look. Live music poured out, heavy on the bongos and the fuzz-pedal. Glittery people came and went, in states of disrepair. A Euro vision Song Conte
st runner-up clung to the square’s railings, bird-thin shoulders exposed by her backless dress, heaving liquid vomit into the bushes. A working-class novelist swigged from a pint-mug of vodka, and berated the pop princess. He blamed her for his inability to write anything worthwhile since moving from Liverpool to Hampstead and Ibiza.

  “No wonder Lord Leaves hates these people,” said Richard.

  Two doors down, His Lordship’s house was dark and shut up tight. At 10:30 in the evening, all good moral crusaders should be tucked into their twin beds, eyes screwed shut, ears plugged against the seepage of party noise. Or else peering with night-vision scopes at the comings and goings two doors away, keeping careful note of the names and faces.

  Schluderpacheru might be the King of Blackmail, but Fred had no doubt that the Festival would use the same tactics. Lord Leaves needed a flock of politicians and newspaper people in his pocket. No one made a better, more vocal supporter of decency than a dignitary with something to hide.

  As expected, Schluderpacheru’s front door was guarded like a Führerbunker. With the soaring death rate among the host’s known associates, extra muscle was packed in. Skin-headed ex-boxers in tuxedos stood by. Fred spotted a couple of off-duty plods stationed about the square, moonlighting to cover their hire purchase payments.

  “Come on, lads,” said Zarana, linking arms with Fred and Richard and steering them towards the door. “Teeth and smiles.”

  There were flashbulb photographers in wait.

  After Richard had theorised that it would be difficult to secure an entree into the Schluderpacheru house, Zarana pointed out that it was one of the many places in London to which entrance was impossible unless you were, or were with, a stunningly beautiful girl. She then dug out her standing invitation, initialled k.s. in green ink. When not working her Queen of the Nile routine, Zarana did a high society act as “Contessa de Undressa.” With different makeup and costume, she looked like a different person. In full Contessa drag, she wore a floor-length red silk evening dress secured by four tiny-but-sturdy clasps, an upswept blond wig (complete with tiara) and a boxful of impressive paste jewels. Thanks to spike-heels and the towering wig, she was a foot taller. She looked down her patrician nose like someone who would snub the Royal Family as middle-class German parvenus. If she kept her mahf shut, the illusion was perfect.

  To Richard, this was a stroke of luck. He had no qualms about letting an “s.b.g.” join the fun. A semiofficial amateur himself, he would take help from whoever offered, assuming they were capable of taking care of themselves. Even with multiple deaths and supernatural maniacs in the case, Richard saw it as a bit of a lark that would be jollier with a pretty face along. Fred was less cavalier: from their earlier chat, he knew Zarana would put herself in an uncomfortable position by taking up the green-initialled invitation. She assured him that Schluderpacheru’s guests could hardly be a bigger shower than the Skindy’s clientele and besides she could rely on him to protect her. That was a joke, but he took it seriously. She covered doubt well—she was a skilled performer, after all—but Fred picked it up. Again, it struck Fred funny that where Zarana was concerned, he was more in tune with the vibes than the supposed “sensitive.”

  Zarana presented the invitation to a squat, thick man who wore sunglasses after dark and turned on a full-wattage smile.

  “This is Happenin’ Herbert, the pop artist,” she said, indicating Richard, who flashed the peace sign. “And this is the famous Fred, who you must have read about in the Sunday supplements.”

  The goon clocked the k.s., returned the gilt-edged card to Zarana, and stood aside. The door opened.

  The mirror-lined reception hall multiplied their images to infinity. Fred wore a white dinner jacket appropriated from the Skinderella’s costume store (what act was it part of?) and now saw it didn’t really go with his jeans and Docs. He tried to be the sort of Fred who made sure he got written up as fashionable, then wore something else equally stupid when people copied him.

  One of the mirrors had a telltale grey-veil tint. There would be two-way glass all over the house, especially in the upstairs bedrooms, and cine-cameras grinding away, adding to the Blackmail King’s investment portfolio. Fred resolved not to use the toilet while he was here.

  Zarana made a kiss-mouth at the mirror.

  They proceeded into a large, half-sunken room full of chattery people and flashing lights. On a stage, a combo performed “She’s Not There,” trying not to mind that nobody was paying attention. In the centre of the ballroom was a bath of light—a swimming pool the size of a family plot, with a lighting array inset into the walls. A very drunk, very white girl wearing only a bikini bottom sat on the edge, splashing with her little legs, making waves that broke against the chest of a fully dressed, white-haired man who floated with a dreamy smile stuck on his face, puffing happily on a pipe of tobacco and hash, the wings of his Gannex raincoat spread out like lily pads.

  “That’s ...,” began Fred.

  “Yes,” said Richard.

  “And with him is ...”

  “Yes, her. She’s in all theSexploits films, and Stow It, Sandra. Not much of an actress, but she does this trick with her mouth and two golf balls that turns strong men to custard. I worked with her once. She’s a right cow.”

  “Blimey,” said Fred. “You wouldn’t have thought it. I’d have expected him to be with Lord Leaves’ crowd, protesting. He couldn’t exactly show up at his party conference with her on his arm and expect to get reelected.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Freddy,” said Zarana.

  “I’d say something about ‘strange bedfellows,’“ said Richard, “but I suspect that the beds here have seen a lot stranger.”

  A small, round man in a skin-tight moire caftan approached Zarana, pupils contracted to pinpricks, sweating profusely. He stuck out his tongue, which had a half-dissolved pill balanced on its end, and reached for Zarana with chubby, wriggly hands. Fred slapped him away and wagged a finger. He looked as if he was about to cry, then latched onto a passing black girl with a silver wig and matching lipstick and paddled along in her wake.

  “Business as bleedin’ usual,” she said.

  “Oil se trouve mine host?” asked Richard.

  She scanned the room. “Not here. There’s a room upstairs, for his inner circle. Wood panels, ghastly pictures of satyrs and fat bints, hundred-year-old brandy, private screenin’ room. Popeye holds court there. Though most of his cronies are here. You can tell them because they look bloody worried.”

  Dotted throughout the senseless crowd were furrowed faces.

  Richard hummed. “The oases of desperation do stand out somewhat. Or, at least, sobriety.”

  “Did you see that Vincent Price film about the fancy-dress ball?”

  Fred knew what Zarana meant. “Masque of the Red Death?”

  “This is that, isn’t it? Rich people makin’ animals of themselves tryin’ to have a good time, with the plague outside, ravagin’ the countryside.”

  “And the Red Death approaches the castle doors,” said Richard.

  “It’s time Death knocked here like bleedin’ Avon callin’,” said Zarana.

  “Let’s slide upstairs and try to see Prince Prospero,” said Richard.

  Fred turned to Zarana to tell her to find a loitering spot in the crowd and wait for them.

  “No fear, Freddy,” she said. “You’re not leavin’ me behind. It’s not safe here....”

  A couple of football players with enormous bouffant perms and mutton chops shaped like Roman helmet cheek-pieces caught sight of Zarana and began dribbling towards the goal area. They wore suits that flapped like flags.

  “Point taken,” said Fred.

  * * * *

  11: COMING IN AT THE END

  Without Zarana, they would never have found the inner sanctum. Schluderpacheru’s house was like a funfair maze: zigzag corridors that cheated perspective, flock wallpaper with an optical illusion theme, floor-to-ceiling joke paintings of doors, set decorat
ion left over from Gruesome Pictures, actual doors chameleoned into walls, burning bowls of heady incense. There were chalk-marks on the floor, recently scrawled runes.

  “Schluderpacheru has taken precautions,” said Richard, toeing a symbol. “I suppose he learned in the old country.”

  Zarana led them round a corner and they found themselves looking up at a nine-foot-tall man, with a distinguished rising wave of grey hair and a superbly cut, wide-lapelled suit. He was sleek, with shining, somehow wicked eyes, and wore a mediaeval armoured glove.

  It was a lifelike portrait, painted directly onto a wood panel.

  “That’s Popeye,” said Zarana. “Larger than life and twice as creepy.”