The Mammoth Book Of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits Part 9

The pageant officials pinned a b.u.t.ton on Bat's lapel that identified him as a judge, and agreed to give O'Farrell some sort of a guest b.u.t.ton. So armed, both O'Farrell and Bat joined the party in the tent.

There was a stage with a big band on it, playing their hearts out while a male and female singer alternated songs. Guests in various stages of dress were filling a dance floor, or milling about holding champagne gla.s.ses or martinis or wine, all of which was being circulated by uniformed waiters. Money had been paid out, whether it was for a license, or just a bribe, but the giggle juice was flowing freely.

The men were wearing expensive suits and, in some cases, tuxedoes. The women flaunted jewelry rings, bracelets, even tiaras and the fashions of the day, in some cases their six-inch hems flying even higher while they danced the Charleston, the Shimmy, the Fox Trot or even the Black Bottom. It seemed as if many of the women who were young enough to care thought they had to do something to compete with the bathing beauties. Indeed, O'Farrell realized that some of the women on the dance floor were the contestants, themselves. He could imagine Georgie out there dancing among them, and it made him angry angrier than he'd been since he first discovered her body.

A male singer started to sing "My Time is Your Time," and couples moved in closer to dance together.

"See him?" Bat asked.

"Who?"

"Your client?"

"Not yet."

"I see somebody you know," Bat said, pointing to Detective Sam McKeever of the New York Police Department, who was fast approaching with another man in a suit and some uniformed New Jersey police in tow. Right on time.

"Val," McKeever said, "this is Detective Willoughby, of the Atlantic City Police."

"What did you find out?" O'Farrell asked McKeever, after tossing Willoughby a nod.

"She was killed sometime Thursday night. Both doormen have alibis," McKeever said. "They were both seen on duty by other tenants."

"They could have slipped away long enough to kill her," Bat offered.

"You're muddying the waters again, Bat," O'Farrell said. "There are three logical suspects for this crime."

"And you've cleared the doormen?" Bat asked, looking at McKeever.

"Yeah," McKeever said, then, "Hey, you're Bat Masterson."

"At your service," Bat said.

One of the uniformed police said to the others, "That's Bat Masterson."

O'Farrell saw Bat's chest inflate until another officer said, "Who's he?" and a third said, "Newspaperman, I think.'

"Did you manage to keep this from Lieutenant Turico?" O'Farrell asked.

"Yeah, but he ain't gonna like it."

"I wanted you to get the collar," O'Farrell said.

"Wait a minute," Bat said. "You said there were three logical suspects-"

"Well," McKeever said, "four, but I'm clearin' Val, here."

"Okay," Bat said, "so if you've cleared Val, and the two doormen, that leaves-"

"There he is," O'Farrell said cutting Bat off. He started to push through the crowd, causing several people to spill their drinks.

"Follow 'im," McKeever said to the other cops, and Bat followed them.

O'Farrell was faster than they were, though, and was not being careful about who he b.u.mped. As he got closer Vincent Balducci turned and saw him coming towards him. The millionaire was impeccably turned out in a black tuxedo, and was holding a champagne gla.s.s. He was chatting with some people one of whom was a matronly lady covered in jewels that did nothing to hide the fact that she was not one of the contestants. He frowned when he saw O'Farrell coming towards him, then saw something in the detective's face he didn't like. He turned and started pushing through the crowd. O'Farrell increased his speed, leaving McKeever and Bat and the other police to struggle through the crowd behind him.

The band started playing an up tempo number and people started doing the Charleston, again. Balducci was trying to run, now, and as he burst out onto the dance floor a heavyset woman trying to keep up with the music slammed into him with her hip and sent him flying across the floor. He b.u.mped into a man whose arms and legs were flailing about in an obscene caricature of the dance and they both fell to the floor. The man shouted, but Balducci in excellent physical condition jumped up and began running again. He got a few steps when a slender but energetic girl in a flapper's dress banged into him with a sharp-boned hip and knocked him off balance. He managed to stay on his feet and finally made his way across the dance floor to the exit next to the bandstand.

O'Farrell, following in his wake, managed to avoid all the traffic Balducci had encountered and was right behind him.

It was dark outside. Balducci headed for the marina. O'Farrell wasn't even sure why the man was running, but he took his .45 from his shoulder holster just the same.

The millionaire ran to the end of a dock, then turned to face O'Farrell.

"You can't shoot me!" he cried out, waving his hands. "I'm not armed."

"Why would I want to shoot you, Vincent?" O'Farrell asked. He holstered his gun. "In fact, why are you running from me?"

Balducci was sweating so much that some of the dye from his hair was running down his forehead.

"Wh why were you chasing me?"

"Was I?" O'Farrell asked.

"You came at me . . . the look on your face . . . I thought . . ."

The man was too fit to be winded from running. He was out of breath for another reason.

Suddenly, there was a small automatic in his hand. O'Farrell cursed himself for holstering his gun.

"I I didn't mean to," Balducci said. "She told me about the s.e.x . . . and I just went crazy . . . it wasn't my fault."

"Is that the gun?" Georgie had been shot at close range with a small caliber gun. "Where'd you get it?"

"It was hers," he said. "I gave it to her for protection. I I never thought she'd try to use it against me."

"You must have frightened her."

"She . . . she was mine! She wasn't supposed to be with anyone else."

O'Farrell felt badly about that. Maybe if he hadn't slept with Georgie she'd still be alive now. or maybe it would have happened later, with someone else.

"Come on, Vincent," O'Farrell said. "If you shot her by accident, then you're not going to shoot me deliberately."

"You know," Balducci said, "you know . . . I knew it when I saw your face. I I can't let you tell anyone."

O'Farrell wondered where the d.a.m.ned police were? And where was Bat Masterson? He was wondering how close he'd get to his gun if he tried to draw it now.

"Vincent-"

"I'm sorry," Balducci said, "I had no idea it would come to this when I hired you. I'm so sorry . . ."

Balducci tensed in antic.i.p.ation of firing his gun, but before he could there was a shot from behind O'Farrell. A bullet struck Balducci in his right shoulder. He cried out and dropped his gun into the water, then fell to his knees and clutched his arm. O'Farrell turned to see Bat Masterson standing at the end of the dock with an old Colt .45 in his hand. He turned to check that Balducci was neutralized, then walked over to Bat.

"Thanks, Bat."

"I still got it," Bat said.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Hey, all the guns in my desk aren't harmless replicas, you know."

Behind Bat, Sam McKeever came running up with the other policeman.

"d.a.m.ned Charleston," he said. "How'd you get across that dance floor without slamming into somebody?"

"I'm graceful."

"Did he do it?"

"He did it," O'Farrell said. "He confessed. I'll testify, but I don't think I'll have to."

The other detective, Willoughby, waved at his men and said, "Go get him."

"You'll need divers," O'Farrell told both detectives. "The gun fell in the water when Bat shot him."

"The same gun?" McKeever asked, surprised.

"Yeah," O'Farrell said, "for some reason he was carrying it around. He said he gave it to her for protection."

The uniformed police helped Balducci to his feet and started walking him off the dock. When they reached O'Farrell and the two detectives they stopped.

"I'm sorry I slept with her, Balducci," O'Farrell said. "It just happened, but she shouldn't have died for it."

Balducci's mouth flopped open and he said, "You slept with her, too?"

As they marched him away McKeever said, "One of the doormen. Apparently he went up there when Balducci wasn't around."

"So he didn't know about me and her," O'Farrell said.

"He does now," McKeever said.

"And so do we," Bat said.

"You dog," McKeever said.

"I wonder if his money will be able to buy him out of this?" Bat asked.

"Don't matter to me," McKeever said. "My job's just to bring 'im in."

Bat and McKeever started after the other policemen. Let them rib him, O'Farrell thought, bringing up the rear. It wasn't his fault she was dead. That's what counted. Now he could be sad for her, and not feel any guilt.

"There would have been murder"

IAN MORSON.

One of the believed threats of the 1920s was a communist revolution in Britain. There was considerable social unrest which manifested in, amongst other things, the General Strike of 1926. When I first conceived this anthology I had not given much thought to the rise of communism, so I was surprised to receive not one, but two stories based on that theme. Fortunately both were ingenious stories and totally different. See Mat Coward's for the other one. Ian Morson is best known for his series about medieval Oxford academic and detective William Falconer, who first appeared in Falconer's Crusade (1994).

Sunday afternoon, 22 April 1923.

The British Empire Exhibition site

"It looks like murder, Inspector."

"Superintendent, if you please." James O'Nions's retort was short and abrupt. He was particularly sensitive about his new rank. It had taken him long enough to attain too long, in his opinion so he was at pains to correct his sergeant's albeit natural error. Sergeant Banks blanched at his mistake. He knew how thin-skinned his guv'nor was about his recent elevation. But he had been calling him inspector for so long, it was difficult to get out of the habit. Still, he was quick to mumble his apologies.

"Sorry. Superintendent."

He returned to contemplating the charred remains in the hole at the foot of the tower. O'Nions, meanwhile, was scanning the almost completed building. The new Empire Stadium rose steeply above them with its two ma.s.sive white towers breaking up the long and imposing facade. Many had commented favourably on the exterior, but O'Nions was not impressed. He thought the towers resembled nothing more than giant pepper-pots. But then, he was in a bad mood. He hated being called out on a Sunday. Or rather Mrs O'Nions hated him being called out, and that was enough for him to hate it too. The Sunday roast would not keep, and nor would her temper.

The site in Wembley was still a hive of activity, even with the Cup Final less than a week away. For between the new stadium and the main road stretched out the bustling building site that was to become the British Empire Exhibition the following year. Large ferro-concrete pavilions had already begun to spring up across the area, and the whole affair was attracting a great deal of attention at home and abroad. Which was why Special Branch in particular had been called in to peer down a hole at a partially burned body at the foot of one of the stadium's towers.

O'Nions voiced his contempt for the new structures.

"They look like oversized garages. Either that, or redundant aeroplane sheds."

"Sorry, sir?"

"No matter, Banks, you would not understand. Get down there and tell me what you can see."

Sergeant Banks stared wide-eyed down the slippery clay embankment. All he could see was a vision of a Belgian trench, that the curled-up body did nothing to dispel. He squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head to clear away the noise of the whiz-bang in his skull. Reluctantly, he scrambled down into the hole that had been due to have been backfilled that morning. Until that is, the workman given the job had peered into the tower's footings, and spotted a suspicious bundle. The sides of the hole were steep, and the red clay smeared all over the seat of the police sergeant's trousers. Now he knew why his guv'nor had stayed up top. He was never one to get his best brown boots dirty. Banks gulped back the bitter taste in his mouth as he examined the grisly remains, blackened and curled up in a ball.

The posture made it look as though whoever it was had tried to protect himself from the flames. There was a scattering of white powder on the body too. He reached out a hand to touch it.

"Don't touch, Banksie. It's probably quicklime. Give you a nasty burn, can that."

Banks nodded his thanks to O'Nions's timely warning. He also hoped the familiar tone from above meant that his guv'nor's irritation at his gaffe was forgiven. So he deemed it now safe to speak. He bent over the body and looked closely without touching anything. "Looks like there's no head, guv'nor. Nor hands neither. They didn't want us to know whose body it was. Going to be a h.e.l.l of a job identifying it."

Superintendent O'Nions just grunted, and Banks wondered if he already had some idea of the body's ident.i.ty. The guv'nor was brilliant at what Banks called "leaps of deduction". Guesswork, some of his detractors would call it, but not the sergeant. O'Nions, for his part, didn't disabuse his sergeant of his a.s.sumption of uncanny powers. He quite relished a bit of hero worship. The trouble was, he hadn't the faintest idea which of the three missing men it was.