The Gilded Madonna Garrick Jones (ebook reader online .txt) 📖

some thug’s hands after I’d slugged him,” I said quickly, interrupting the story, but not quick enough not to get a smirk from Steve.

“Well, I thought any enemy of a crook is an enemy of mine, so I took a swing at Clyde … did you know he’s a veteran guerrilla fighter, young fella? You can guess how that turned out.”

I interrupted Art’s chuckle and wink. It wasn’t the proudest moment of my life, discharging my pistol into the air in a crowded cinema to break up the crowd of well-meaning blokes who thought I was the one up to mischief. “So, Tyrone Power in Nightmare Alley?” I said.

“It was 1947, if I remember correctly,” my artist pal said and then went to his filing cabinet and searched through it for a moment. “Here we go. Movie Review, Volume six, number seven. He looks so young here.”

He placed the magazine on a bookstand next to his easel and took up his pencil and rubber. “Do you remember this man you saw in profile or full face?”

“Front on,” Steve replied. “His head down slightly, looking at me from under his eyebrows, if you get my drift.”

“I get your drift exactly,” Art said and then began to swiftly sketch Tyrone Power’s face. I couldn’t believe how exact it was, even though he’d been using a quarter profile photograph as his guide.

“Like that, but his face was skinnier, slightly longer, and the nose more aquiline, the tip covering the indent above his top lip …”

No more than a few minutes later, Steve stepped back, turned his head to look at me, and grinned, raising both eyebrows. Art was always on the money.

“Anything else?” the artist asked. “Hairstyle, shape of ears, colour of eyes, any distinguishing features?”

“It was pretty dark and most of the time … wait a moment, I remember his hair now. It was when the victim was on his knees and this guy had his—”

“You can spare Art the details, Steve,” I said. “He doesn’t need to know the nitty-gritty.”

When I’d grilled Steve for any more information he might have remembered, he’d told me that when he’d seen the killer and the victim start to get very amorous he’d been intrigued. Kissing and being passionate out in the open wasn’t the norm in places like that. It was usually more businesslike. Steve had told me the killer had been grinding up against the other man, their lips locked for quite a while. When Steve had seen enough, he’d decided to go back up to the trees near the road. The path through the bushes was fairly narrow, and just as he’d passed by them, he’d seen the killer gently push the victim to his knees. He’d guessed there was some oral action going on, because the killer had tilted his head back, sighing loudly, open-mouthed, to the sky. His hat had fallen off, but he’d caught it deftly with one hand and jammed it back on his head.

“Yes, of course, Clyde, I understand,” Steve said. He’d forgotten rule number one of being a detective—say little, listen a lot. “As I was saying, his hair was very short at the sides, and long—black, I’d say—cut in that Rudolf Valentino style that’s a bit popular now. You know, pointed sideburns to the bottom of the ear, and hair greased back straight over the head, no parting.”

“Like this?” Art asked and then sketched in a hairstyle precisely as Steve had described it.

“Perfect. Can you make the eyebrows more arched? Tipped up at the point where they turn down, closer to the outer edge of the eye?”

“Real movie villain stuff, eh?”

“Yeah. That’s how I remember it. He had a smug sort of smile, just the edges of his mouth turned up, as if he was holding in some inner secret. And, yes! I’d almost forgotten, he hadn’t shaved. I’d say about four days’ worth. It was shaped though, neatly shaved on the cheeks, and a clean patch underneath his bottom lip. No, wait, not one patch, two. One on either side of a bit of beard left in the centre, like a goatee … yes, that’s it! What a job you’ve done, Art.”

I took out my wallet and folded a tenner in my fingers, holding it out to the artist, like I would a theatre ticket to an usher at the cinema. He took it, ran it under his nose, and sniffed deeply. “Ah, I love the smell of red ones at nine in the morning.”

I chuckled. “Do you mind if I take a few snaps of your sketch, Art?”

“Only if you brought your own camera, Clyde.”

“You know me, Art. Only place I don’t use it is in the sack.”

“Wasted, my boy. I know a few sheilas who’d pay a bob or two for a nicely focused four by six of your sweaty arse cheeks pounding some willing—”

“Woah!” I said, bursting into laughter.

“Well, would you look at that?” he said, eyes wide, as I took my camera from its leather case. He whistled and then held out his hand. “May I, please, Clyde? I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“You can’t afford to pay for a new one if you break it, Art.”

“A 1955 Leica Model M3? How much did this set you back, mate? Did you rob a bank or something?”

“Had a nice win on the gee-gees, and this was my birthday present to myself.”

“What happened to your old one?” he asked, somewhat hopefully and none too subtly.

I chuckled. “I guess you pawned yours?”

He raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

“I’ll drop it ‘round one day, mate. You owe me one.”

“I owe you a good dozen, Clyde, and God bless your soul. I’ll look after it, I promise.”

*****

I dropped Steve off at my office. Tom was waiting for us to arrive, having retrieved the collection of photographs of the man we wanted Steve to identify.

“Your assistant, Tom. Is he …?”

“No, Steve, he’s not. But he’s incredibly discreet, and he’s the least judgemental kid you’re likely to meet. He