Without Conscience (Johnny Hawke Novels, 2, Band 2) - Hardcover

Davies, David Stuart

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0312382103 ISBN 13: 9780312382100

Verlag: Minotaur Books, 2008

Inhaltsangabe

Forests of the Night introduced the intrepid John Hawke, an exciting new detective operating in London during the Blitz. Now Johnny Hawke is back in this atmospheric, thrilling sequel.

Set in 1942, Without Conscience finds Rachel Howells in London for the first time, trapped in a web of violence. Her companion, army deserter Harryboy Jenkins, will stop at nothing--not even murder--to enjoy his illicit freedom. Meanwhile, private detective Johnny Hawke is involved in the bizarre murder of one of his clients. At the same time he is trying to find Peter, the runaway boy he had befriended in an earlier case.

Inexorably the paths of Harryboy and Johnny grow closer together until they collide with frightening consequences.

This is a stunning follow-up to the critically acclaimed Forests of the Night and is sure to win Davies a whole new set of fans.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

An internationally recognized expert on Sherlock Holmes and Conan Doyle, David Stuart Davies is the editor of the crime fiction magazine Sherlock and the author of several books on Sherlock Holmes. He also edits the Crime Writers' Association's monthly Red Herrings magazine. Forests of the Night was his first Johnny Hawke novel. He lives in West Yorkshire, England.

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Without Conscience

A Johnny Hawke NovelBy David Stuart Davies

Minotaur Books

Copyright © 2008 David Stuart Davies
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780312382100

ONE
She didn’t even knock. She just strolled into my office as though it were her own living-room. Mrs Sandra Riley. Her features were bleached white with powder and a fierce red gash of lipstick gave the impression that someone had cut her face open. Along with her intimidating manner, she was in possession of a glance like an acetylene lamp. The fur of some dead creature loitered around her shoulders. She fancied herself did Mrs Sandra Riley all right. Her whole demeanour announced to the world that she believed that she was irresistible. She was mistaken. I could resist her. Women like that terrify me. But that’s my problem. Her problem was of a different kind.
‘I believe my husband is being unfaithful to me.’
He wouldn’t dare.
Over several cigarettes she told me her sad story. It was delivered in a dramatic Joan Crawford fashion, peppered with sighs and emotional pauses but the eyes remained dry and the make-up firmly in place. It was quite a performance. Apparently hubby Walter was playing away from home with some trashy femme fatale in the city. Or that’s what Mrs Riley suspected. She wanted me to obtain proof of Walter’s lapse so that she could instigate divorce proceedings. During her recital she demonstrated no real feelings of being hurt or distressed at the thought of her husband’s infidelity; she just wanted ‘to nail the bastard’. I got the impression that she saw a rosy future for herself as an attractive divorcee, wrapped in furs and dripping in diamonds, enjoying a very pleasant lifestyle financed by most of Walter’s money.
Being a private detective in London during the war is like riding a dysfunctional big dipper with more lows than highs. Sometimes I do have challenging and financially rewarding cases which take me up to the heights, but more often than not I am zooming downwards to the deepest depths where the mundane and generally grubby investigations just about keep me above the breadline. This was going to be one of those cases.
The war seemed to have relaxed and loosened many people’s morals. It was a case of snatch some happiness, warmth, love, today, however illicit, for God knows if there’ll be a tomorrow. As a result, I spend a fair bit of my time checking up on errant husbands or wives, exposing their desperate attempts to bring a little love and joy into their insecure lives. It certainly wasn’t what I expected or desired when I set up Hawke Investigations at the end of 1939. I had been invalided out of the army because a rifle exploded in my face during army training, causing me to lose an eye. As a young but fragile Cyclops I was offered only a safe desk job by my old employers, the police, so I decided to set up as a private detective and enjoy the adventure and high drama of the profession as portrayed in the thousand films featuring the breed that I’d been watching since I was in short trousers.
If I couldn’t fight the Hun in some foreign field, I could at least make some meaningful contribution on the home front. Well, that had been the plan.
And so here I was about to peek through another bedroom keyhole.
Sure enough, some days later after my encounter with Sandra Riley I found myself sitting in the foyer of a cheap hotel off the Strand waiting for the arrival of her husband Walter’s illicit lady friend.
According to his wife, Walter was employed at the War Office. He regularly worked late on Tuesdays and Thursdays, not getting home until past midnight. It was on these evenings that Mrs R thought that he was seeing his new paramour. He came home ‘smelling of alcohol and perfume’ and on one occasion she had found an ear-ring in his jacket pocket.
The following Thursday I tailed Walter. Contrary to his story, he left the office building early, just after four, carrying with him a suitcase and a rather guilty look. It seemed as though my lady client’s suspicions were correct. He ate a meal in a small café in Piccadilly on his own and then repaired to the aforementioned seedy hotel. Apparently he had already had a room booked there in the name of W. Riley.
With the aid of a shilling, I obtained the room number from the desk clerk, an ancient fellow whom I guessed from his weary expression and mechanical manner was used to such enquiries. It was that kind of hotel: it smelt of damp and casual sin. The guests drifted surreptitiously through the foyer like guilty shadows.
After a decent interval – the only thing decent in the whole establishment – I made my way up the narrow ill-lit staircase to the room and listened at the door. It was most probable that the girl had already been waiting for Walter. However, there was no sound at all from within. Crouching down, I applied my ear to the keyhole. Still nothing. Not a squeak of a bed spring, not a rattle of a bed head, not a suppressed moan – nothing. Don’t tell me that I’d missed all the action and they’d fallen asleep.
I waited a while longer but I still heard nothing through the door. There was only one course of action to me. I sighed and knocked discreetly. There was no response. I was beginning to think I had the wrong room. I knocked again, much less discreetly this time. More like a hammer blow. Loud enough at least to prompt a head to poke out into the corridor two doors down. It flashed me a guilty look and then vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
At last I got a response from Walter’s room. I heard a muffled female voice say, ‘Just a minute.’
Eventually the door opened, and, boy, was I in for a surprise.
Standing before me was a heavily made up blonde, rather plump in proportion, ineffectually squeezed into a black evening gown. She fluttered her sooty eyelashes inexpertly at me.
‘Yes, what is it?’ she said, in a rather throaty manner, not quite achieving the more desirable higher register.
For a moment I was lost for words and then I couldn’t help it: I had to smile. ‘Oh, Walter,’ I said, ‘what have you been up to?’
Half an hour later I was sitting opposite Wilma Riley – as Walter preferred to be called when wearing his feminine attire – in a drinks club known as The Loophole. The place was full of gentlemen of a similar persuasion to Walter/Wilma, some decidedly and convincingly glamorous, some comically less so. Somehow stubble and face powder don’t mix. And there is a way of crossing your legs that ladies have that doesn’t involve creating a draught. As one of the few men wearing trousers in the place, I felt strangely uncomfortable.
‘I’ve always had a liking for women’s clothes,’ Wilma was saying, fingering her glass of gin and tonic nervously. ‘When I was a kid, I’d go upstairs when my mother was out and try on her things. At first it was just for the novelty … and then it became a sort of compulsion. I can’t really explain it: it just makes me feel … good, makes me feel safe. And when my marriage to Sandra started to hit the rocks, I sought solace in dressing up properly. Make-up, high-heeled shoes – the lot. And so Wilma was born. I actually went out and bought clothes for her. It was the best fun I’d had in years.’ He gave me a wan smile. ‘Then I found out about this place and realized that I wasn’t alone. There were others...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Minotaur Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2008
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0312382103
• ISBN 13: 9780312382100
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 224
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar