I nodded. ‘Okay, Jimmy. I’ll see what I can find out.’ I put on my Borsalino. ‘I’ll be waiting at the car, tell Skelly to bring my car keys out to me.’
Fresh air was a relative term in Glasgow, but it was good to get out of the Empire and onto the street. I ignored the grubby tenements and looked up above the roofs and smoke stacks. It was past ten but the sky was still reasonably light. Scotland’s latitude made for long summer evenings. There was a burst of noise behind me as the pub door swung open. I turned and saw Skelly come out; his stooge Young was at his side.
‘Here’s your keys, Lennox.’ Skelly smiled his yellow-toothed smile and held them out to me.
‘Thanks.’ I took the keys in my left hand. ‘And I’ve got a tip for you…’
I reached inside my jacket pocket with my right hand. For a minute, from the expression on his face, I think Skelly really thought I was going to hand him a ten-bob note. I pulled out the flat, spring-handled blackjack and in a continuous, backhand movement, whacked him in the side of the mouth with it. The sound was somewhere between a snap and a crunch and he dropped like a stone. His friend took a step towards me and I held out my hand, making a beckoning gesture with my fingers for him to keep coming. Young clearly decided to decline the invitation and backed off.
I leaned over Skelly. He was coming round. His face was a mess of blood. From the look of it, I had done him a favour: he clearly wasn’t too keen on toothpaste and I reckoned he would have a few less teeth to clean in the future. I patted him down with my free hand until I found what I was looking for, reached into his jacket pocket and took out the small Webley Three-Two.
‘Here’s your tip, Skelly… never, ever pull a gun on me. Even an antique like this. If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll kill you. That’s not just an expression: I’ll stop you breathing. Got it?’
He made an incoherent moaning sound behind his broken teeth. I took it as his assent. I pocketed the Three-Two and turned to the sandy-haired goon.
‘If I see your face again, it’ll end up in a worse condition than his. Have you got that?’
He nodded.
‘Have a nice night, girls,’ I said amiably, then I climbed into the Atlantic and drove off.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I spent the next couple of days paddling hard and getting nowhere. Nowhere with what had happened to Sammy Pollock. Nowhere on what was going on with Bobby Kirkcaldy. I was considering changing the name of my business to Sisyphus Investigations. The one good thing was I was able to leave a message with Big Bob at the Horsehead for young Davey to get in touch. I would maybe have something for him to do after all.
Sheila Gainsborough was back in town. She called me on her return from London and didn’t sound at all pleased that I had so little to report. She insisted on talking face-to-face and asked if I would meet her at Sammy’s apartment. I drove over that afternoon.
When I got there the place was unrecognizable. The disorder was tidied and the air in the apartment was scented with beeswax.
Sheila had gathered her blonde hair up with pins and was dressed for serious housework: a red checked shirt-style blouse, the shirt tails tied in a bow at her navel, exposing a couple of inches of pale midriff above the sky-blue Capri pants. She had none of the sophisticated couture she had worn at our last meeting and her face was naked of make-up, other than a quick sweep of crimson around the lips. And she still looked a million dollars.
‘I had to tidy the place up,’ she said. ‘It makes me feel better. Getting it nice for Sammy to come back to, I mean.’
She asked me if I wanted a coffee and I decided to risk it: coffee in Glasgow was typically some chicory sludge from a bottle, mixed with hot water. But Sheila was anything other than typical Glasgow. She returned with a tray encouragingly laden with a percolator, two cups and a plate of pastries. She poured our coffees and sat down opposite me, her knees angled, ankles together, finishing-school style. I thought again about how good a job they had done on her.
She offered me one of the pastries. It was one of those over-sweet things that had become popular since rationing had ended: a doughnut with cream and jam filling — what we used to call a Burlington Bun back home in Atlantic Canada. I didn’t know what they called them anywhere else.
‘No thanks.’ I smiled. ‘I don’t have a sweet tooth.’ I noticed she put the plate back down without taking a pastry herself. That figure was a piece of work.
‘The last time we spoke I was really worried about Sammy disappearing…’ She bit into her crimson lower lip and I found myself wishing she had been biting into mine. ‘Now I’m frightened, Mr Lennox. He seems to have vanished from the face of the Earth. And you don’t seem to have the slightest clue…’
‘Listen, Miss Gainsborough. I have found something out. I didn’t want to tell you on the ’phone, but do you remember Paul Costello, the guy we came across at Sammy’s apartment?’
She nodded. I could see the trepidation in her eyes.
‘Well,’ I continued, ‘I’m afraid he seems to have gone missing too. Same set-up.’
The trepidation became fear and Sheila’s eyes glossed with tears.
‘I really think you should contact the police,’ I said, placing my coffee cup on its saucer and leaning forward. ‘I know you’re really concerned and, if I’m honest, so am I.’
‘But the police…’ She paused and frowned. ‘Why do you think they’ve both disappeared?’
‘My theory is that there is some truth in what Costello said about this mysterious Largo. I don’t think Costello owed him money, the way he claimed, and I don’t think this Largo would send heavies here to Sammy’s place if he wasn’t in some way involved. But Costello denied that too.’
‘So what do you think is going on?’
‘I honestly don’t know, but I’m guessing that Sammy and Paul Costello were involved in some kind of deal with Largo and something has gone wrong. If I’m right, that’s not necessarily bad news. It could mean that Sammy and Costello have simply gone into hiding. Voluntarily. That would explain why they’re so hard to find. That’s the way they want it. But it’s just a hunch. I think you should go to the police. There’s something clearly not right here. Even if Sammy has headed off under his own steam, it would suggest that he’s got something to be afraid of.’
‘No. No police. If what you’re saying is true, then there’s a good chance Sammy’s broken the law. Seriously broken the law. He wouldn’t be able to stand prison.’ She frowned her cute frown for a moment then shook her head decisively. ‘No. No, I want you to keep looking for Sammy. Do you need more money?’
‘I’m fine for the moment, Miss Gainsborough. The only thing I’d ask is that you tell your agent that I don’t work for him. I’ve nothing to say to him about anything. I deal with you directly. Are you okay with that?’
She nodded. I reached into my pocket for a cigarette, but my case was empty.
‘Oh, hold on a minute…’ She stood up and looked about herself. ‘Sammy smokes. I’m sure I found some cigarettes when I was tidying up. Oh yes…’ She crossed to the dresser against the wall and brought over a silver desktop cigar box. She flipped it open and offered me one.
‘They’re filtered,’ she said apologetically. Then she frowned. ‘Look… they’re the kind you asked about. The butt you showed me with lipstick on it.’
I took a cigarette and examined it. It had two gold bands around the filter. ‘Yeah… they’re Montpelliers. A French brand. There’s a lot of them about, it would seem.’ I lit the cigarette and drew on it. It was like straining steam through a blanket. I nipped off the filter between finger and thumb and dropped it into the ashtray, pinching the ragged end tight.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Filters are okay for women. But for me they kill the flavour.’
Sheila smiled the smile of somebody responding to something they hadn’t listened to. ‘So you’ll keep looking?’ she asked.