Jack Higgins: Brought in Dead

Lazer shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that exactly. The fancy boy is Max Vernon. Came up from London about four months ago and bought out Harry Faulkner. Took over his betting shops, the Flamingo Club — everything.”

“What about his minders?”

“The big boy’s called Carver — Simon Carver. The little guy’s the one to watch. Stratton — I don’t know his first name.”

“Have they been leaning on you?”

Lazer bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. “Nothing quite so obvious. Let’s say I’ve got a very nice little business and Mr. Vernon would like a piece of the action. For a consideration, of course. All nice and legal. Unfortunately, I’m not interested in selling.”

Vernon paused a couple of yards away, Carver and Stratton on either side of him. “Hello there, old man,” he said cheerfully. “I was hoping to find you in. Time we had another little chat.”

“Not in my book it isn’t,” Lazer replied.

Carver took a step forward, but before anything could develop, Miller said quickly, “That’s an Old Etonian tie you’re wearing, did you know that?”

Vernon turned, his smile still hooked firmly into place. “How very gratifying. You’re the first person to recognise it since I’ve been here. Of course, we are a little far north.”

“Dangerous country,” Miller said. “We’ve been known to roll boulders down the hillside on unwary travellers — stone strangers.”

“How fascinating.” Vernon turned to Lazer. “Introduce me to your friend, Chuck.”

“A pleasure,” Lazer said. “Nick Miller. Detective Sergeant, Central C.I.D.”

Vernon hesitated momentarily and then extended his hand. “Always a pleasure to meet the law.”

Miller stayed where he was on the bench, hands tucked casually into his pockets. “I can’t say it’s mutual.”

“You watch your mouth, copper,” Carver said harshly.

He started to move, Lazer whistled twice and the Dalmatians arrived on the run. They stood beside him, pointing at Carver, something rumbling deep down in their throats.

Carver hesitated, obviously uncertain, and Miller laughed. “Know why they call them carriage dogs, Carver? They were specially bred during the eighteenth century as travelling companions to take care of highwaymen.”

Something glowed deep in Carver’s eyes and Vernon chuckled. “That’s damned good. Damned good.” He grinned at Carver. “See, you learn something new every day of the week.”

He turned away without another word and walked back to the Rolls, Carver and Stratton hurrying after him. Lazer leaned down to fondle the ears of the two dogs and Miller said softly, “I think you could have trouble there, Chuck.”

“If it comes, I’ll handle it.”

Miller shook his head. “You mean I’ll handle it and that’s an order.” He got to his feet and grinned. “I’ve got to get moving.”

Lazer stood up and produced a small gold-edged card from his breast pocket. “I know it’s illegal to do it this way, but there’s a membership card. Why not drop in? It’s been a long time since I heard you play piano.”

“I might just do that,” Miller said and he turned and walked away across the grass.

As the Rolls-Royce moved out into the main traffic stream, Max Vernon leaned forward and slid back the glass panel of the partition.

“This chap Miller,” he said to Carver, “know anything about him?”

“Not a thing.”

“Then start digging. I want to know everything — everything there is to know.”

“Any special reason?” Carver said.

“Well, let me put it this way. The only other copper I’ve ever met who made a practice of wearing sixty-guinea suits is doing a five stretch in the Ville for corruption.”

Carver’s eyes widened and Vernon closed the glass panel, leaned back in his seat and lit a cigarette, a slight smile on his face.

Henry Wade was fat and balding and his several chins and horn-rimmed spectacles gave him the deceptively benign air of a prosperous publican or back street bookie. He was neither. He was head of the department’s Forensic section with the rank of Detective Inspector and the ready smile concealed a brain that in action had the cutting edge of a razor.

When Miller went into the small office at one end of the police lab, he found Wade at his desk filling in a report, covering the paper with the neat italic script that was his special pride.

He turned and smiled. “Hello, Nick, I was wondering when you’d turn up.”

“Anything for me?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. Come on. I’ll show you.”

Miller followed him into the lab., nodding to the bench technicians as he passed. The girl’s clothing was laid out neatly on a table by the window.

Wade went through the items one by one. “The stockings are a well-known brand sold everywhere and the underwear she bought at Marks & Spencer’s along with just about every other girl in the country these days.”

“What about the dress?”

“Reasonably expensive, but once again, a well-known brand name available at dozens of shops and stores. One interesting point. Just below the maker’s label, a name tab’s been torn out.”

He picked up the dress pointing with a pair of tweezers and Miller nodded. “I noticed.”

“I had a hunch about that. We matched up a piece of the tab that was still attached to the dress and my hunch paid off. It’s a Cash label. You must have seen them. Little white tabs with the individual’s name woven in red. People buy them for schoolchildren or students going away to college.”

Miller nodded. “Thousands of people, including my sister-in-law. Her two kids have them sewn into just about every damned thing they own. Is that all?”

“No — one other thing. When we checked the nail scrapings we discovered a minute quantity of oil paint. There were one or two spots on the dress, too.”

“An artist?” Miller said. “That’s something.”

“Don’t be too certain. Lots of people do a little painting these days.” Henry Wade grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. “You shouldn’t have joined, Nick lad. You shouldn’t have joined.”

Grant was still working away at his desk when Miller peered round the door. “Got a minute?”

“Just about.” Grant sat back and lit a cigarette. “How’s it going?”

“So far, not so good, but it was something else I wanted to mention. What do you know about a man called Vernon?”

“Max Vernon, the bloke from London who took over Faulkner’s casino and betting shops?” Grant shrugged. “Not much. The Chief introduced him to me at the Conservative Ball. Obviously a gentleman. Public school and all that sort of thing.”

“Right down to his Old Etonian tie.” Miller suppressed a strong desire to burst into laughter. “He’s leaning on Chuck Lazer.”

“He’s what?” Grant said incredulously.

“It’s true enough,” Miller said. “I was chatting to Lazer in the Square outside his place when Vernon turned up with a couple of heavies named Carver and Stratton. No comic Vaudeville act those two, believe me. Vernon wants a piece of the Berkley Club. He’ll pay for it of course, all nice and legal, but Chuck Lazer better play ball or else…”

Grant was a different man as he flicked one of the switches on his intercom. “Records? Get on to C.R.O. in London at once. I want everything they’ve got on Max Vernon and two men now working for him called Carver and Stratton. Top priority.”

He turned back to Miller. “What happened?”

“Nothing much. Vernon didn’t say anything in the slightest way incriminating. On the face of it, he’s making a perfectly legitimate business offer.”

“Did he know who you were?”