(A Ben Franklyn Mystery)
Author’s Note
Thanks to Raymond Chandler and Geoffrey Chaucer for their inspiration
“Trouthe is the hyeste thyng that man may kepe”
( One’s pledged word is the highest thing that one may keep” )
The Franklyn’s Tale – Geoffrey Chaucer – “The Canterbury Tales”
1 An Unexpected Guest
I’ve always had a soft spot for dames. So as sure as night follows day, or a hangover follows a night on cheap whiskey, I’ve found myself in trouble of one kind or another as a consequence. I’m talking here about my business affairs you understand – though to be fair the personal ones, which were few and far between, usually suffered the same fate.
My name’s Benjamin Franklyn (no, no relation to the American guy) and I run the Frankly Franklyn Detective Agency. You can find me in downtown Bentham behind a little doorway above the “Ruposhi” Indian Restaurant and takeaway. If you climb the stairs, and ignore the smell of curry you’ll find a door into the upper part of the restaurant and the office of Mr. Mirza.
Whenever he hears me on the stairs he manages to persuade me inside. His office is a kind of glass cubicle, like in those American films where the lieutenant invites some Hollywood hardman for a dressing down. Fortunately Mr Mirza only offers me tea, and sometimes advice, which I often don’t follow.
If your manage to reach the next floor you’ll find my outer office … and so it was that late one Monday night I rolled back there from a session in the Horse and Farrier. I’d had an uneventful conversation with a drunken newspaper hack and I decided that I needed a nightcap, so I stopped off at the office to get a shot of the rotgut whisky that I keep in my office drawer.
After a noisy assent of the stairs I noticed a crack of light from the outer office door. I sure wished then that I had the baseball bat to hand which I kept behind the desk. On the other hand I could turn round and go home. From the darkened room I heard,
‘I wasn’t sure if you were coming back, but the door was open…’
I hit the light switch and was confronted by a platinum blond wearing what is popularly called a little black number. Her legs were crossed but one leg was swinging gently with a three inch heeled shoe suspended on one toe.
‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Do as you like honey. This ain’t a public place and even if it was you’ll never see a cop, there all drinking in the Force and Harrier’.
She clicked her Pierre Cardin lighter and a quizzical look crossed her face as she blew a gentle column of smoke to the ceiling.
‘Sorry Honey the Horse and Farrier to you. In the business we call it the “Force and Harrier,” It’s full of cops – the force – and crime journo’s who spend there time harassing honest dicks like me.’ I smiled, ‘Come on into the office and sit down.’
I offered her a chair and grabbed a saucer which was supporting a thirsty spider plant. I sat down behind the desk offering her an impromptu ash tray.
‘I don’t know if this is the kind of thing you do?’ she asked
‘Honey so long as it’s legal I do it, though I have has been known to dabble in those grey areas now and again.’
‘Oh no, it’s nothing like that.’ She uncrossed her legs. ‘You see I’m a singer, I work in the Black Bull jazz club.’
‘Yeah I know it, used to be Smokey Joe’s ‘till the smoking ban came in.’
She nodded.
‘You see we have this great sax player in the band called Eddie Stobbart, and no he’s not related to…..’
‘Yes I know honey, I suffer from the same thing myself.’
‘The thing is he’s wasting his time here. He needs to spread his wings a little, after all Bentham ain’t really the centre of the universe for jazz musicians.’
I nodded in agreement.
‘I’m trying to find him some gigs in London. I’m sure he’d be appreciated there. I’ve been trying for a while but I don’t have the contacts myself.’ She flicked her ash into the spider plant saucer. ‘Well I’d almost given up when the other day a guy called Jack Carpenter came to watch the gig. He claims to have lots of contacts and said he could easily find Eddie some work, but there was one condition’
‘Yeah let me guess’.
‘No nothing like that – He wants me to sing in his club on a permanent basis. It’s called “The Tabbard “. Do you know it?’
I sat back in the chair , ‘Yeah I’ve heard about it. Ain’t it kinda like that French club, the Crazy Horse Saloon. If you accept the job I’d insist you keep your clothes on!’
For the first time she broke into a smile.
‘The thing is Eddie would go crazy if he knew I was talking to you. I’m sure he’d be up for working in the smoke, but not if he thought I’d done some deal for him.’
I reached for the whiskey bottle in the bottom drawer and poured out two glasses.
‘You two an item?
She took a glass from my outstretched hand and taking a small sip replied, ‘sort of.’
‘OK honey so where do I fit into this?’
‘I want someone to negotiate with Jack. I can’t do it myself but Bentham’s a small town and people talk a lot, especially entertainers. That’s why I came here incognito.’
I drained the whiskey glass. ‘My terms are fifty pounds an hour plus expenses.’
She stubbed out her cigarette
‘Only if the deal comes off.’
‘Done!’ I said as I stood up and took her hand.
‘I thought in Yorkshire when you made a deal you had to spit on your hands?‘
‘No that’s only for farmers.’ I replied. She stood up, ‘It’s alright, I’ll let myself out.’
She turned and left the room just like she was modelling on some catwalk and looking back over her shoulder added, ‘Keep me posted. Drop into the Black Bull sometime, I’m there most nights. I’ll tell Eddie your working on getting some alimony from my ex husband if he gets suspicious. Do you like Jazz by the way?’
‘John Coltrane’s part of my staple diet, along with the whiskey.’ I said waving the half empty bottle.
And then she was gone. I had another slug and said to myself. ‘The next time you are in the Co-op buy yourself a decent bottle of whisky.’
2 Jazz and Whiskey Sour
As we drank tea in Mr Mirzas office. Mr. Mirza asuggested
‘Why are you not working in a respectable job instead of this private detective nonsense?’
‘Because I’m good at finding things out, and that’s what I do. That’s what helps me do the job. The previous one disappeared with the internet’
‘Well I can understand that my friend. Everybody’s on Facebook. Tic Tok. twitter now. Waiters text each other – punters never talk to each other, click click click on their phones all the time. They spend more time photographing their food than eating it. Even the grandchildren are clicking on their phones. Any way this is not an excuse to work with ladies and dishonest cops, you’re going to get yourself into big trouble.’
‘My latest job ain’t dangerous. It’s just a simple negotiation between potential business partners.’
Mrs Mirza bought in more tea and some homely advice,
‘What you need is to find yourself a wife instead of hanging round nightclubs and public houses.’
‘Thanks for that advice Ma’ I replied. ‘and tell your son he makes the best Jalfresi this side of Lancaster.’
‘Hmmph’ said Mrs Mirza taking away the dirty cups. ‘ Stop trying to change the subject!’
I listened politely to Mr Mirza for a while. I made my excuses, and decided I needed to here some decent jazz.
I noticed that the restaurant was busy as I came down the stairs. On the way out I saw Jamil on the cash desk, so I stuck my head around the door and took the trouble to compliment him on his Jalfresi.
‘Thank you Mr Franklyn. Off to the pub are we?
‘Not tonight Jamil, I’ve been thinking all week about trying out the Jazz Club at the Black Bull I promised to look somebody up.’ I made my way out but the smell of the food nearly gave me second thoughts.
It was cold outside on Main Street, and so I pulled up my collar against the bitter wind. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed someone talking to Jamil as he paid his bill. Being a private dick brings a number of skills. One of them being that you can recognize a cop a mile away, and this one was only about 10 yards.
The Black Bull was heaving. Couples sat at tables seeking a good view of the band who were just about to start their first set. I recognised Eddie Stobbart straight away – faraway look in his eye as his purple lips caressed the reed on a battered tenor sax.
The bar was crowded – mostly academics I guessed from Lancaster University. From my experience Jazz and Universities go together like cocaine and credit cards. One tall guy was deep in conversation with a small group waving his left hand and wallet in the air. They were discussing “Was the mind separate from the body.” Squeezing my way through to the bar I gave a half intentional nudge which sent his wallet flying across the bar and onto the floor. Picking it up I apologized and added as I handed it back.
‘Well it sure proves that the wallet is separate from the hand!’
This piece of intellectual wit went down like a thunderstorm on a Bentham Show Day as the man in question went back to his previous conversation.
By now the barman was serving some other dude, who appeared to be the same cop who had followed me in from the Ruposhi Examining the beer sodden bar I noticed a small business card which must have fallen from the flying wallet. Being of a curious nature I picked it up and pocketed it for later.
The band started to play just as the barman noticed my outstretched £10 note, so whilst I ordered a whiskey sour I didn’t need to see that the lady had been right about his playing. Eddie Stobbart was cool, and this was only the first number. Getting into the groove I scanned the horizon. At a table near the front row six men were deep in conversation. One of them stood out above the others like a Gorilla at a Chimps Tea Party and Gorilla was a good description. The band stopped playing to prolonged applause. The bass player took the mic.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen Miss Maisy Miller’,
As the band struck up in glided Maisy. This time she was wearing a body hugging silk red dress with lips to match and bright red heels. With little effort she eased into Gershwin’s “Summertime”. I followed up with three whiskey sours letting the flow carry me along until the end of the first set. Picking up a damp beer-mat I peeled off the back and scrawled a quick note with the pen I always carried and shouldered my way to the stage. Maisy was in conversation with the drummer.
‘Excuse me Honey that was one of the best versions of ‘Summertime’ I ever heard’
She turned round. ‘Why thank you’ she replied smiling.
‘Do you take requests?’ I added handing her the beermat.
She read it carefully. It said ‘Meeting with Carpenter tomorrow. Song is “Don’t get around much anymore”.
‘Thank you – I’ll do that in the second set’
Having concluded my business for the night I weaved my way back to the bar and ordered another whisky sour. Finding a quiet corner I retrieved the business card I’d picked up earlier. It read “Blue Mountain, Fruiterers of Distinction, Bentham Market every Wednesday”. It was a plain card, no design features, no name, no address no phone number. I put it back in my wallet. I noticed my cop was still at the bar, so I thought I would check out his intentions. Pulling up my collar I made my way to the side door. As I walked down Station Road to what passed as my apartment I heard the distant sound of a blonde nightingale. ‘Don’t get around much anymore’, followed by the probing growl of a tenor sax. My place was located above the Liberal Club. As I stopped at the door, I looked back just in time to see a dark figure disappear into the Town Hall doorway.
My room was about the size of an Alcatraz cell but on the upside it didn’t cost much in electricity bills as the neon from the club sign outside my window provided me with all the light I needed. It also had the advantage of having a fire escape should I need a quick getaway. Access was via the snooker room which I could see was crowded as I reached the top of the stairs.
At the table was a large guy called Big Mac, his name relating to his stature rather than his eating habits. The Club was a hangout for all the lowlife flotsam and jetsam that Bentham could offer, but thanks to getting Big Mac off a murder rap we were now soul brothers.
‘Hi Mac what’s going down?’
‘Well sure ain’t my snooker balls.’ His companion looked to be on the way to a long break. ‘Have you been behaving yourself Benny boy?’ he said, optimistically chalking his cue.
‘You know me – I was just wondering if there’s been a cop sniffing around here anytime?’
‘He doesn’t happen to be wearing a fedora and a long overcoat?’
‘That’s the guy!’
‘Ha ha – so you have been a bad boy’
‘So why would you think that?’
The pool player continued his long break
‘Something is definitely going down’
‘Like what?’
‘Not interested man, it’s not my thing.’
His opponent had now managed to snooker himself.
‘One thing I would say,’ added Mac chalking his cue again, ‘is what kind of muffin do you eat with your latte?’
‘Chocolate chip, raspberry. Why?’
Big Mac broke into a broad grin and turned back to the pool table.
I made my way up the stairs taking care not to trip on the worn stair carpet, and pushed my key into the door. Before I turned it I checked above my head for the small piece of white card that should have been sticking out of the door jamb, but sure enough when I opened the door it was on the floor, hardly noticeable to the untrained eye.
‘Well well’ I said to myself ‘looks like we’ve had visitors!’
3 A Private Magic Show
I woke up late the next morning. The whiskey sours had had their effect. Thankfully in the entertainment world 11am is still early to discuss business. I made a whole pot of coffee, and drank a few cups before hoofing it to the “Tabard” Nightclub. No cops this time so 11:30 saw me knocking on the door. The grill slid open.
‘Ben Franklyn to see Mr Carpenter. I have an appointment’ I recognised the gorilla who opened the door from last night in the pub. He waved me in.
‘The Tabard’ was covered in red plush. The theme was based on a French Burlesque Club, so I’m led to believe. The dimly lit room was arranged in a half circle. At the front was a stage overlooking a collection of tables with small table lamps like you see in American movies. Behind them and slightly raised were a number of “stalls”. Divided so it was difficult to see who was next to you. Each had a table set at right angles to the stage so it meant you were sat sideways to the action, of which there was little at moment. The ‘Gorilla’ was a man of few words and pointed me to the middle stall.
Carpenter was already seated as he waved me to sit down. He was younger than I expected. He wore a smart suit and tie and wouldn’t have been out of place in a bank.
‘Welcome Mr Franklyn. Do sit down’. He shuffled the sheaf of papers in front of him, and passed over a stapled document. ‘Miss Miller is gonna be a great asset to this club. We need some class talent. People think we are little more than a strip joint but that just ain’t the case. I’m looking to develop more of a cabaret agenda. A classy singer is what we need and Miss Miller fits the bill exactly. When you have the chance to read the contract you will note that there is a condition that Mr Stobbart receives in return a contract to play in a top London jazz club. That will be no problem at all. I’ve plenty of contacts in that field’ Leaning across the table he pointed his pen to the bottom line. Miss Miller needs to needs to sign here, with someone to witness it – I guess yourself.’
‘Hold on buddy.’ I said ‘Do you know my part in this?,
‘Sure, you’re acting as her agent – I’ve already checked you out – that’s no problem, in fact Mr Franklyn I know more about you than you think. He clicked his fingers and a young woman with short black hair and deep blue eyes appeared from behind me where she had been waiting and slid a whisky sour in front of me and a Club Soda for her boss.
‘As I was saying I’ll arrange the gig for Mr Stobbart. I have some personal business to sort out in London so I’ll see to it personally. I’ll meet you a week today, Wednesday. Let’s say on Wenning Bridge at 12:00. If you can have this signed we’ll exchange contracts on the bridge. ‘If that’s all? I need to make some phone calls.’ He stood up.
‘No don’t get up – you enjoy your drink . Lola will keep you entertained, see what you think’.
Lola came and sat down opposite me and took off her jacket revealing a white short sleeved blouse.
‘So what do you do when you’re not being a waitress?’ I asked
‘I demonstrate table magic’ she replied revealing a pack of cards in her right hand. She shuffled the pack and fanned them out on the table. She had black hair in a short bob, and not one hair out of place. Looking me straight in the eye she said, ‘Pick a card any card, look at it then return it to the pack’. ‘I always wear short sleeves,’ she added, so that you can see that I’m not cheating’.
She shuffled the pack again and I picked a card.
‘Now tell me what the card is?’ I smiled and thought to myself that’s not hard my brother taught me that trick as a kid.
‘Two of hearts’ I replied.
‘In that case could you give it back to me?’
I looked baffled, ‘It’s there she said, folded up under your watch strap!’
‘Wow!’ I said. That is clever, I didn’t feel a thing’.
‘Really! If you look in your left jacket pocket you’ll find another card.’ I checked my pocket and pulled out the King of Hearts.
‘That’s not all’ she said, ‘I tell fortunes. I think you’re a man in need of love!’ she whispered leaning forward, ‘but don’t worry I see a woman coming into your life very soon. Look in your other pocket.’
And there in my other pocket was the Queen of Hearts.
‘Well I said, ’in that case what are doing tonight?’
‘Sorry I’m working, but before you go you will need your watch!’ I grabbed my now empty wrist and took my wrist watch from her hand. ‘And … your wallet.’ I smiled as I took it back.
‘Two final things,’ she added as I stood up to leave. She handed me a card. It was the Blue Mountain card I’d picked up in the Black Bull.
‘You need to be very careful about getting involved with this’ she said as she slid the card across the table.
‘Thanks for the advice’ I replied as I headed for the door.
‘Just a minute she said,’ stopping me in my tracks. ‘There was another thing. ‘I don’t work on Sunday nights’ and for the first time she smiled.
The cold air of the high street brought me round as I halted by the entrance. ‘So it’s Wednesday,’ I said to myself, ‘that means market day.’ I pulled out the wallet and looked again at the card which Lola had just returned to me, ‘Blue Mountain Fruiterers of Distinction, Bentham Market every Wednesday.’
The stall wasn’t so easy to find. I’d about given up and was on my way back to the office when there, on the car park, behind the Ruposhi Restaurant was The Blue Mountain fruit stall.
‘And what can we do for you sir?’– The stall holder was small and had a face like a weasel . I went for it on a hunch.
‘Can I have ½ kilo of Blueberries please?’
‘Sorry sir, as I am sure you know the sale of Blueberries is illegal. Have some of our finest cherries instead.’
Weasel-face carefully selected the cherries made a note with his pencil and wrapped them up in a brown paper bag.
‘Have these on me’ he said, quickly moving on to the next customer.
I made my way back to Station Road. I was so busy thinking of what was their angle that I hadn’t noticed I’d been followed. Suddenly a hand covered my mouth from behind whilst a cloth bag was pulled over my head. There was a screech of brakes a smell of burning rubber as I was pulled into a car and the bag of cherries yanked from my grasp.
4 Cops and Cupcakes
‘Run that past me again’ said Sergeant Knight. The light was shining directly into my face, and I felt a burning pain in my pupils. I couldn’t see Sergeant Knight but I could smell him – the smell of Capstan Full Strength cigarettes.
‘Look I don’t know anything about Blueberry smuggling’ I answered. ‘Sure I know Blueberries are illegal, ever since the States flooded the market and almost killed the trade in our own billberries.’
‘Whinberries,’ came a voice from the darkness. ‘We call them Whinberries where I come from.’
‘Thank you Constable Reeve for that useful piece of information’. Sergeant Knight carried on.
‘Don’t sound so worried Mr Franklyn, we ain’t gonna beat a confession out of you.’ He turned off the light. ‘We have other methods don’t we Constable?’
As my eyes became accustomed to the gentler light I recognised the overcoat and Fedora.
‘Tell you something Constable,’ I said – ‘If I were you I would ask for your money back from that Surveillence Competence Course you attended.’
‘Can we go back to beating a confession out of him Boss ?’ he said looking me straight in the eye.
‘No’ replied Knight, ‘ We’ll rely on evidence. What evidence have we got Constable Reeves?’
Reeves opened his notebook with a smile.
‘Number One – Maisie Miller, part of the suspected gang creeps into Franklyn’s office late at night.!
‘Nothing to do with Blueberries ‘, I said. ‘Can’t say what because of client confidence’
Constable Reeves licked a finger and flipped over a page of his notebook ‘
‘Number Two – Franklyn goes to Jazz Night, some suspects and users are there. Franklyn speaks to both.’
‘Client Confidence.’
‘Hm !’ Constable Reeves licks his finger again and flips over another page.
‘Number three Franklyn visits Tabard Night Club, known suspects in attendance.’
I looked him straight in the eyes
‘Client Confidence ‘
Constable Reeves flipps the page again. He hesitates and then a slow grin crosses his face.
‘Number four – Franklyn visits suspected supplier and asks for Blueberries. You ain’t gonna tell me that was client confidence?’
‘Nope I was just testing the guy out. He didn’t give me any Blueberries anyways.’
‘No but he did tell you where he could get hold of some!’ Knights face was two inches from mine and the rancid smell of nicotine was already inside my nose.
I said nothing. What was he getting at? What was his angle?
Knight drew back and smiled, ‘so you didn’t have time to look in your bag of cherries?’. He waved the brown paper bag in the air and pulled out a note . It read “Tuesday 10 o’clock – Hoggs and Heifers”
‘Well Mr Franklyn’ he said lighting another cigarette, ‘I think you owe me one.’
‘So how do you make that out?’, I said.
‘Well I’m doing my best to keep a low profile, and you blunder right into the middle of my latest case’.
‘So you don’t think I’m into the occidental dealers market.’
‘Don’t come any of your Harvard garbage with me. If you mean Blueberries say so, and no I didn’t think you were a dealer. No dealer would be stupid enough to walk right up and ask for ½ kilo of Blueberries, especially with a cop standing right behind him.’
Constable Reeve touched his forehead in acknowledgement.
A stupid grin crossed my face. ‘So how can I help?’ I said
Sergeant Knight sat back in his swivel chair and crossed his feet on the table.
‘They sure as hell took the bait, but I guess they’l wanna test you out. Check that you’re not working with us. which of course you will be !’
I opened my mouth to ask a question, but thought better of it.
Sergeant Knight stubbed out his cigarette and continued, ‘The “Hoggs and Heifers” is too public a place to meet so they’ll have asked nicely if the bar staff will pass an envelope on to you claiming they saw you drop it on the steps. It’s their usual trick. I guess they’ll send you all around the baseball pitch. You know what I mean by the baseball pitch ?’
‘Sure – touch one base, then another, then another until they are sure you’re not being followed.’
I was getting pretty worried, the way this conversation was going. ‘And what if they do work out that I am being followed?’
‘Oh they’ll probably shoot you.’
‘Thanks a million,’ I said, and I grabbed the bag of cherries, what was left of them, from Constable Reeve’s hand.
‘Cops!’ I said as I slammed the door.
5 Around the Baseball Pitch
On Tuesday morning I did as I was asked and headed for the Auction Mart. To my surprise the door to the “Hoggs and Heifers” was open at 10 o’clock, and a blond haired broad was polishing the bar.
‘ ‘Excuse me’ I said, ‘I seem to have dropped an important letter here last night. Did anyone hand in a letter by any chance .’ She pulled out an envelope and placed it on the bar. The man who handed it in was from the fruit stall at the market but he said not to give it to you unless you answered a question, What did you buy at his stall?’
‘Cherries’ I answered.
She handed me the envelope saying, ‘It is a good job there are still some honest people about.’
‘I’ll drink to that’ I replied ‘but not right now, thanks a lot’ and then I left
Just as Knight had said this was only first base. The message read,’ behind the wash basin in the Railway Station Toilet.’ From then on I was on a keep fit session criss-crossing most of Bentham. Next stop was the flag on the third hole of the Golf Course, then under the steps of the changing room on the football field, the hole in the Plague Wall on Low Bentham Road, the bus shelter next to the old library and finally guess where – the steps of “Hoggs and Heiffers”. I needed to sit down.
Doing a quick visual sweep of the Auction Mart car park I noticed the weasel faced guy from the market. He was leaning against a van smoking a small cigar his eyes firmly fixed on me. The van was white with a blue mountain painted on the side panel. I let him finish his smoke and casually wandered over,
‘I’m looking for cup cakes for a special event. Can you do me a deal?’
‘What kind you looking for ?’
‘Oh those American kind – the ones you don’t see any more’
‘Ah those. They can be expensive. Can you pay?’
‘Sure, but I need to see the goods first – you know check the quality’
Weasel face grinned and slid open a side door of the van revealing a whole set of baking trays full of cup cakes. ‘We’ll cook you a fresh collection. They work out at £5 per item, 10 for £45. Go ahead – taste the quality’.
I tried one it was pretty good, with a slightly bitter after-taste.
‘Here tomorrow at nine o’clock – don’t be late’. said weasel face as he slid the door shut nearly taking off my hand. Jumping into the driver’s seat he drove off and was away in a cloud of dust heading for Robin Lane.
I needed a drink after all that so I headed for the Hogg – but the steps started to move. Gee. I thought, that long walk sure took it out of me.
Veronica Lake came over to me and blew a perfect ring of cigarette smoke into the air. ‘Hi gumshoe,’ she said, ‘looking for some business?’ She was in black and white just like in the movies.
‘Tell me more’ I whispered. She leaned over pressing her lips close to me. A large tongue caressed my ear and then my face.
The Border Collie came into view as I found myself sitting in a sheep pen. A straight faced farmer was looking down at me as his sheep dog slowly licked me back to life.
‘Tha’ll have to move mate. I’ve got six yowes waiting to get in theer.’
‘That’s OK Mr Nunn I’ll sort him out’ Sergeant Knight appeared and dragged me to my feet.
‘What happened?’, I said
‘They drugged you.’ Sergeant Knight began brushing pieces of straw off my jacket.
‘Don’t worry, it all worked out fine. We had a road block at the top of Robin Lane, caught in possession of the goods too.’
As he straightened my tie he added ‘and thanks to your friend Mr Carpenter from The Tabard he cracked the London end of the supply chain and we caught the whole gang. That big bouncer of his was the “mule”.
‘The one that looks like a gorilla?’
‘The very one. Now I think you need to get yourself sorted out,’ he looked at his watch, ‘You’ve a meeting with Mr Carpenter on Wenning Bridge at 12. Oh and by the way the next time you decide to crash into a crime scene, check it out with me first.’
6 A View from the Bridge
My watch showed 11:55 as I reached the top of Wenning Avenue. Maisy Miller was waiting in a long overcoat, a headscarf and dark glasses looking like a worried Marylyn Monroe.
‘You OK ?’ I asked.
‘Eddie won’t do it.’
‘Won’t do what?’
‘Eddie won’t do it. He won’t go to London, he wants to stay here with me. He wants to marry me!’
‘Well that’s good ain’t it ?’
‘No, No– I promised Mr Carpenter to play in the club. Tell him the deals off. – but I will still play in his club. I promised. I always keep my promises.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes’ she said pushing me towards the bridge – ‘Now go on!’
I began to walk slowly across. Carpenter had parked his car at the opposite end of the bridge and he began his walk towards me. We met in the middle and he shook my hand.
‘Well done, he said, ‘helping the police with The Blue Mountain gang I heard all about it.’
‘You didn’t do too badly yourself’ I replied ‘But look we have a problem.’ I explained Maisie’s position word for word.
Carpenter thought for a minute.‘ Look here if the guy’s in love and she is happy let’s forget the contract – she doesn’t have to sing in the club. Although it might not look like it I do have a heart.’ He slapped me on the shoulder, turned round and went back to his car.
When I passed the message onto Maisy she hugged me. ‘That’s wonderful letting me off playing the club, but I can’t do that. I promised so I’ll do it. As we ain’t going to play in the smoke that might not be a bad result. Now what about your fee?’
I pulled a face. ‘Well I ain’t quite that honourable to be letting people off their promises but I did spend most of my time chasing blueberry cupcakes, and I didn’t actually deliver on the job – did I mention no win no fee. Oh well. Tell you what invite me to the wedding and we’ll call it quits.’
She hugged me again and kissed me on the cheek.
‘Wow’ I said I’ve never been kissed like that since… er.. well this morning but that was a sheep dog so I don’t think it counts.
6 Tea and Sympathy
Mrs Mirza was serving tea in Mr Mirza’s office. ‘So tell me how much did you make from this work?’
I sucked through my teeth. ’Well…A kiss and a wedding invitation.’
‘Mr Franklyn you are not a very good business man. So will this wedding get you thinking about finding yourself a wife?’
‘Well I’ve got a girlfriend – that’s a start.‘
‘Is she from a good family?’
‘Oh I don’t know, I just know her name, it’s Lola’
‘Does she work – is she a business woman?’
‘Well kind of. She’s self employed and gives people guidance about things.
‘Hmm- said Mrs Mirza shaking her head,’ Will you have some more tea?’
* * * * * * *
Tales from a Small Market Town 