Mask of the Verdoy Read Free Page B

apart. The country’s gone to the dogs, George … and I’m afraid your precious Mr. Ramsay MacDonald has made as big a hash of it as the rest of ’em. And now, on top of everything else, we’ve got all these anarchist bombings! Bloody foreigners! Someone needs to sort it all out.’
    ‘Believe me—that someone is not Sir Pelham Saint Clair and the British Brotherhood of sodding Fascists. You should listen to what Max Portas has to say about him—he talks a lot of sense.’
    ‘I’ve told you before, George—I’ve had it with your Labour Party. They had their chance—and look what they did with it. Besides, his old man’s a commie, ain’t he? “Red Jack Portas”—remember? The fruit don’t often fall far from the tree.’
    ‘Maybe that’s not such a bad thing—Jack Portas is as honourable a man as I’d like to meet; fought all his life for workers’ rights. He did sterling work in the dock strike of eighty-nine.’ Harley stifled a yawn. ‘Listen Vi, I’d love to discuss this further with you, but maybe another time? I really need to get some shut-eye.’
    ‘Oh, sorry George! Listen to me on me soapbox! I’ll be up Speaker’s Corner next. Of course dear, you get yourself away. I’ll—’
    ‘Hold on Vi—what was that?’ asked Harley, carefully resting his fish and chips on the wall and vaulting over to push Vi’s front door open wide.
    ‘What was what?’
    A long, wailing scream emanated from Vi’s hallway.
    ‘ That! ’ said Harley, sprinting up the stairs.
    ‘Sounds like Miss Perkins, in number six— on the top floor! ’ Vi shouted up after him.
    By the time the portly landlady—now flushed and out of breath—had caught up with Harley, he was already crouched in front of a near-hysterical Miss Perkins, holding tightly to her wrists. The normallytimid young woman was thrashing about, struggling to catch her breath between frantic sobs, with angry red scratches below her cheeks and a thin line of spittle hanging from her chin.
    ‘Oh my gawd, George! What’s going on?’
    ‘Don’t know, Vi—she’s not making any sense. But the window’s open, and when I got here she was sat on the bed, scratching at her face, shouting something about a mask.’
    ‘A mask? Tabitha! Look at me dear; stop thrashing about so! Tabitha …  Tabitha! Oh, out the way George!’
    Vi bent over her tenant to deliver a solid slap to the face with a heavy, be-ringed hand.
    ‘There, there … it’s alright now,’ she said, planting herself on the bed next to Miss Perkins, who had been shocked enough by the slap to at least make eye-contact. ‘Now dear, tell us what happened.’
    ‘I was getting ready for my bath … getting … getting undressed … for my bath, you see. I always have my bath on a Friday, at eight-thirty.’
    ‘Yes, dear—but what happened? Was it a man? Did a man get in somehow, Tabitha?’
    ‘No, no—he didn’t come in . He was out there … out there—on the fire escape. A foreigner … with a mask .’
    ‘Oh my gawd, George! It’s one of those anarchist buggers—it’s got to be!’
    ‘Hold on Vi, we don’t know anything yet. Tabitha, can you tell us what he looked like? What kind of a mask was it?’
    ‘I was smoking a cigarette … over there. I don’t like the stale smoke in the room, you see? I was smoking … then he was just there, out of nowhere … a mask a bit like, a bit like Tragedy  … said something foreign … something I couldn’t … he blew me a kiss! He blew on my face, blew something on my face, on my face—’ She began to frantically scratch at herself again.
    Vi grabbed at the flailing wrists and Miss Perkins promptly vomited down her nightshirt.
    Harley walked over to the window and poked his head out to inspect the fire escape.
    ‘You’re not thinking of going out there, are you George? That old thing’s rotten.’
    ‘I know the bit leading down is missing, but it still looks pretty solid up here. If it took this