JACK OF DIAMONDS

Chap 6 - Pt 1 (A PRINCESS IN INTERVENTION...)

Sonia checked her look in the small compact’s mirror.

One last time, she told herself, before turning the key and shutting the engine down. She pulled on the handbrake before touching the corners of her lips and wiping a small smear of lipstick she’d missed the first two times she’d checked; she had to ask herself if it even mattered anymore.

Really, who am I trying to impress?

There were no men in her life, which only made it sadder, she realized. She pushed her blonde hair into place and picked up her hat, carefully setting it in place and pushing the stray strands back into the bun she’d hastily tied up before leaving home. She pushed up on her breasts, making herself appear larger, fuller, firmer, for all of one second she thought, and then laughed at herself.

She was nervous.

Admit it.

There was no reason for her to be nervous, she knew. She’d been in many more nerve-wracking situations in her life. Her father had taught her a great many things—more than he would’ve taught her had her mother lived longer—and one of the most important things he taught her was self-confidence. It was a trait that would get you through anything, she knew.

Like the War, for one thing.

But this is different, isn’t it?

She felt like a nervous little schoolgirl entering a new school for the first time, rather than a new police station she’d just been assigned to; she’d felt the same way on her wedding day, she remembered. But that was a different nervousness, she reminded herself, thinking how she’d looked forward to finally being alone with Gerald for the night. She missed him, there was no denying that, and told herself she had to move on with her life. It seemed that was the problem.

Don’t think about it now, she told herself. It’ll only make you sad.

One final check in the compact’s mirror and she pushed the Bentley’s door open, holding the top of it to stop it from hitting the automobile next to her. An Austin 7, she noted. A good, dependable car, probably owned by an older man one would think—well, someone older than herself, she hoped—and next to it, a Triumph motorcycle. She’d seen plenty of those during the War. The messengers were usually young and foolish, willing to go anywhere, under any circumstances. They never questioned their orders. She’d seen plenty of motorcyclist in the wards with missing arms and legs, shattered bodies as well as shattered minds.

A good, dependable machine, all the same, she thought as she stepped out onto the running board, holding onto the edge of the windscreen as she did. She stepped down onto the gravel lot, making a quick adjustment of her skirt before looking about to see if there’d been anyone watching. It was just like her to do something in public and then think about the consequences later; she’d gotten herself into more trouble that way, she scolded herself. She looked up at the sky, deciding the threat of rain was no more than that—just a threat—and picking her purse up off the front seat proceeded across the parking lot. If it did rain, she’d come out and pull the canopy up, hopefully before everything got too wet.

The Chumley Police Barrack was a nondescript box-shaped building three stories tall, which made it one of the tallest buildings on the block. It served as more than just the Police Barrack. It also served as the City Hall, as well as the post office. Made of red and yellow bricks with narrow windows, she could see barred windows on the basement and ground floors, wondering if that was where the jail was located. It looked as if it might hold out against a siege should Civil War suddenly erupt.

Never scoff at the idea of another Civil war, her father once told her. The country’s seen its fair share of wars, and you know it. Civil Wars; insurrections, and rebellion.

And he was right, she realized. Just because this last war was supposed to end the threat of war for at least two generations, it really meant nothing, did it? Once everyone realized the treaty they’d spent all that time hammering out was nothing more than a means by which the other Nations might punish Germany, or that Germany would falter, possibly collapsing under the weight of so much financial hardship, the world would be ripe for plunder.

The people will not stand for it, she thought with a slow shake of her head.

Does he really think anyone will want to fight another war like the last one?

She pushed the door open and saw a short set of three stairs, ill-lit, leading to another set of double doors. A placard at the entrance told her the Police were located on the top floor, which made no sense. There was a lift, but she preferred using the stairs. Seventeen steps—she counted them—a turn and a small landing which led to the Land Office, another set of doors and then another dozen steps. Counting stairs was a habit she’d carried out of her childhood. She knew there had to be a medical name for it, but at the moment it didn’t matter. She could hear her heels clicking against the marble stairs, echoing through the narrow stairwell, and thought it must be a horrendous climb if you were bringing a drunken prisoner up the stairs, hoping to process him. There were posters that had been tacked to the walls in places, and she wondered if they’d been placed there to cover the chipped, or scratched walls. It wouldn’t be the first time, she told herself. That was how the Station House at Okehampton resolved the issue of whether or not to repaint.

She pushed through the double doors at the top of the stairs and paused. She could hear two voices at the end of the corridor, not so much raised in argument, but definitely loud enough to be heard. There was the sound of a typewriter in the distance, and a telephone ringing.

It isn’t as if the building’s unoccupied, she told herself, but still decided to wait.

“I don’t give a fuck what Okehampton told you, Charlie,” the one voice was saying. “I didn’t tell you to call them, did I?”

“Yes, you did,” the other man—Charlie—replied.

He almost sounds bored by the whole thing.

“I didn’t mean for you to call them direct! Jesus Christ, Charlie. You have to go through proper channels, and going through Okehampton isn’t going through the proper channels, is it?”

“Who did you want me to call?”

“Don’t you think Exeter would’ve been a good place to start? Rose? Exeter? Isn’t that going through proper channels?”

“Don’t ask me to get involved,” a woman’s voice called from what sounded like across the room. “I’m not the one wants to run around playing Sherlock Holmes.”

“What difference does it make?” The man Charlie asked. “Exeter rings up Okehampton and tells them to send someone out, which is exactly what they’re doing.”

“I’m not giving up my investigation, Charlie.”

“Your investigation?” Charlie laughed. “You’ve got a thief who robs a house, beats a man, and then steals a horse as his get away animal. Who steals a horse? I hardly think Home Office is going to send you the Chief Inspector, do you?”

“I didn’t want you to ask them to send us an investigator. I told you, we might need help with the investigation. It’s not the same thing!”

“What difference does it make? You’re going to need help, Nigel, and now they’re sending it out to you whether you want it or not,” the other man said.

Was that a note of exasperation she heard?

“And what does anyone living in Exeter know about Chumley? Or Okehampton, for that matter? Nothing! That’s what. All they know about the place is that most of it’s owned by a railroad tycoon—that’s the right word isn’t it, Rose? That’s what the Americans call someone like that, isn’t it? What was his name? That Standard Oil fellow?”

“How the fuck would she know what they call it in America? She’s never been there! But it’s a good thing they’re sending us someone from Okehampton, isn’t it?” the man named Charlie said with a lilting laugh.

“Look, I went through that place last night, and I want to go back and see what I can see with the daylight. I’m bound to have missed something in the dark, but I don’t want to have to explain things. Like this hankie,” he said, lifting up a small paper bag Sonia could see him holding up as she rounded the corner.

“It’s only obvious what it is—”

He stopped talking as soon as he saw Sonia; Charlie looked up as her slender figure blocked the light; Rose stopped typing.

There were three other desks, all of them unoccupied at the moment, and four offices that she could see. Rose, sitting under a blue cloud of cigarette smoke at a corner desk, looked up briefly from the typewriter she was working at, smiled, and then continued working.

The older of the two men looked at her, taking in the uniform—the hat, the skirt, the shoes—and then looked at the younger man.

“ ‘Allo, miss,” the man said with a genuine smile. “Come here from Home Office, have you? Sent up to help with the investigation, are you? Well now, Nigel, how’s that for you? They’ve sent you your help,” the man said with an undeniable note of sarcasm.

“Are you just in from Exeter?” the man named Nigel said, looking her up and down from head to toe. She was used to that sort of treatment from men, it was only natural for any man to look at her that way. It was one of the reasons she’d made certain her uniform was clean and pressed, her hair done up in regulation style, and what little make-up she wore, not too obvious. One little thing was sometimes all it took.

“I’m in from Okehampton,” she said with a note of confidence. “Special Constable, Sonia Nazar.”

“Nazar? What kind of Commie name is that?” Charlie asked, laughing at what he thought was his quick wit.

“It’s Arabic, and it means sight, or surveillance, or maybe attention, or other related concepts,” she said with a forced smile. She opened her tunic and the top button of her blouse, pulling out a small necklace, the pendant shaped like an eye as she held it in the soft light of the room.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Charlie asked.

“Lapis lazuli,” she said, dropping it back into her blouse and doing the button of her tunic up again. “It’s supposed to protect one against the evil eye. It looks like it doesn’t work, does? Hindi, Urdu, Pashto, Bengali, Kurdish, Persian, Punjabi, Turkish and any other language you can think of, they all use the term.”

“What term?” Charlie asked

“In Turkey, it’s called nazar boncuğu—”

“Enough!” Charlie said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m sorry I asked. I didn’t mean to imply that you were a Commie, when you’re so obviously a wog.”

“A wog?” she asked.

“Never mind, Charlie,” the woman behind the desk said, picking up a cigarette up from the overstuffed ashtray. She blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s a simpleton when it comes to women. Thinks all he has to do is stick his little wick in ‘em, they give him a kid, and that’s all there is to it. Doesn’t really know how to talk to one, do you Charlie?”

“Fuck off, Rose.”

“All that talk, eh Nigel? And they couldn’t even be bothered to send you a Sergeant,” she smiled, looking at Charlie. “Obviously you’re not here to take over Nigel’s investigation, are you Miss? Not if he outranks you,” she added, pulling the paper out of the typewriter and walking to a large filing cabinet across the room.

“Did you really think they’d send you an investigator to look into a horse thief?” Sonia smiled. “I’m as good as it gets,” she added.

“Have you ever investigated a crime before?” Charlie asked.

“Have you ever had one?” she responded.

“Oh, I like her,” Rose laughed.

“This isn’t something to be trifled with, then is it?” Charlie said quickly. “Tell me then,” he snatched the bag Nigel was still holding and tossed it at her. “What do you make of that?”

Sonia opened the bag and looked at the hankie inside. She carefully smelled it and looked at Charlie who was beaming at her.

“Like that do you?” he asked.

“It looks to me like it might be dried semen,” she said matter of factly. “And if you think you can shock me, or embarrass me, it’s not about to happen, is it? I was a Nurse in France during the war. There isn’t much I haven’t seen.”

“Ha!” Rose called out as she sat down and rolled another three sheets of paper into the typewriter.

“You were in France?” Nigel asked, a slight tilt to his head.

“You mean, you were a Sister?” Charlie said, not sounding as much a question as it did a statement.

“Again,” Rose said with a smile. “That’s Charlie. You’ll get used to him,” she added.

“Do I have to?” Sonia smiled.

“She means she was a nurse, Charlie,” Rose replied.

Charlie shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“All right then,” the man Nigel said with a laugh. “Perhaps we should ride out to Bedloe?”

“Ride?” Sonia asked. “I take it that’s your motorcycle out there? The little Austen is yours, then?” she asked, turning to look at Charlie.

“I didn’t mean that you should ride on the motorcycle with me. That would hardly be proper, now then, would it?”

“Proper? I have a proper Bentley,” she smiled.

“A Bentley?”

“A coupe,” she added.