Mistress Murder Read Free Page A

to conduct Beethoven’s Fiff in the Albert ’All!’ he growled in his broad Cockney. ‘One night I’m going to wrap a bottle round his bleeding ’ead!’
    Paul Jacobs’ bland face stared hard at the barman. ‘It would cost you some if you did, Snigger,’ he said enigmatically. He turned back to the stage. Ray Silver, a plump Eurasian and owner of the club, was giving a build-up patter for the cabaret.
    All the acts had changed since Paul’s last visit a few weeks before and he listened to the new artistes with interest. The third and last performer riveted his attention even more firmly.
    Ray Silver bounced on to announce Fraulein Elsa and amid a roll of drums, a tall blonde drifted on to the stage. The cloud of silver hair was accentuated by the harsh blue light as she sung ‘Lili Marlene’ huskily and sensually in the style of the ageless German-American star, Marlene Dietrich. Her voice alone would never have made her fortune, thought Paul as he carefully looked her over, but the meaning she put into the words and the way she moved her long body inside the glittering sheath of her dress more than made up for an indifferent set of vocal cords.
    Elsa followed ‘Lili Marlene’ with a couple of even more glowing numbers from Eartha Kitt’s repertoire. Paul’s attention was so rapt that his usually steel-willed caution slipped for a few minutes.
    His eyes, focussed on the swaying silver figure, failed to notice Rita making furtive signs to a man who had just come through the swing doors. The man stood, as Jacobs had done, in the shadow of a pillar, staring intently at the pair at the bar.
    Behind Paul’s back, Rita made a little warning motion with her cigarette, pointing fleetingly at her escort. The stranger, a tall, broad man in his early thirties, gave a slight nod. Then he went to the other end of the bar and completely ignored the other pair for the rest of the night.
    Paul watched the Austrian singer intently until the end of her act. Already the germ of an idea as to Rita’s successor was taking root in his calculating mind. When she left the stage in a burst of applause Rita left to powder her nose. Paul swung back to the bar and called Snigger for some more drinks.
    Gigal leered at him.
    â€˜Nice bit ’o stuff, eh? The “frowline” stunt is on the level too – she really does come from Vienna.’
    â€˜Know anything about her?’
    The little cockney shrugged. ‘She’s only been here a week. No bloke hanging around her yet, if that’s what you mean.’
    â€˜Where’s she live?’
    Again Snigger shrugged. ‘Search me! I’ll put the whisper around, if you like.’
    Paul nodded then leant forwards across the bar.
    â€˜Snigger, have you noticed anyone hanging around Rita this last couple of weeks?’ He dropped his voice as he spoke.
    The ex-jockey’s brows went up again.
    â€˜A feller? No, she ain’t even bin in here … no, wait a bit, she was once. But on her own, she was. Straight up, that is.’
    Paul accepted his word and let the subject drop. He slid off the stool and stubbed his cigarette out.
    â€˜I’m going in to see Silver for a minute. Tell Rita I won’t be long.’
    The barman, looking incongruous in his whiskers and armbands, nodded. ‘Want me to keep my eyes skinned when you’re away?’ he offered tentatively.
    Paul scowled at him. ‘Don’t bother … I’m taking care of it.’
    Snigger shied off the delicate ground of Golding’s personal affairs. Theirs was a purely business relationship. The ex-jockey was a middleman in the dope business in the West End. He bought the stuff wholesale from Golding, broke it down into smaller packages and sold it at a handsome profit to the dealers.
    They had a series of safeguards which made it virtually impossible for the police to trace the supply back to Golding. For eight