Chapter Ten

Pony Peavey was a local gambling den owner and a fellow of what one might call all-around ill repute. He had a rough reputation, and he'd never been amongst the circle of acquaintances that Uncle Mick considered friends. But we operated in the same general area, and our paths had crossed, professionally speaking, on a few occasions.

It seemed to me that Pony was the ideal person to ask about the men we were looking for. He had runners in every area of the city, and he dealt in information as much as he did in the illegal drugs he sold to the gamblers in his club. If one wanted to know what was going on in some area of the criminal underworld in London, one usually had to go only as far as Pony's Place in Harrow.

I did not, of course, relate this idea to Major Ramsey. I knew Pony well enough to know he wouldn't take kindly to my bringing a government man along to his establishment. And, despite his telling me I should speak to my contacts, I knew Major Ramsey well enough to know that he would not want me going around alone asking questions at a place like Pony's.

And so it was best that I kept the whole business to myself for the time being.

Major Ramsey left me with few parting words, as he was wont to do when he was in a bad humor. He hadn't enjoyed dealing with Nico Lazaro; I, on the other hand, was secretly pleased that he had been annoyed at Mr. Lazaro's flirting with me.

I went home, but Nacy was at the shops and Uncle Mick was out on a job, so I scribbled a note that I would be home for dinner and left it on the kitchen table. I didn't tell them where I was off to. With any luck, I would be home before them and able to retrieve the note before they even saw it.

Uncle Mick might have been the most logical choice to go and visit Pony Peavey, but I thought I might have more luck finding out what I wanted to know. Pony would be wary of Uncle Mick, but he had known me since I was young and was the sort of bloke who wouldn't expect a young woman to have ulterior motives. There was a chance I could charm him into telling me something.

I held no illusions he'd be interested in helping for the sake of pure altruism, whether we were fighting a war or not. Pony was not the sentimental type, and the sort of business he ran could function just as well in wartime as in any other time. Better, perhaps. I had no doubt wartime produced a thriving market for drugs.

These unsavory thoughts aside, Pony was the best person I could think of to help me locate the men we were looking for. I had to hope that he would be in an obliging sort of mood.

I bundled back up and went out again into the frigid afternoon air.

I took the Tube, glad to be out of the cold wind for a short while. I will not say that, as the train trundled toward Harrow, I didn't have a few qualms about the errand I was on. Pony was a rough customer, and the type of men who hung about his establishment were nothing to write home about either. But if I could get answers, it would be worth the small risk. Besides, Uncle Mick's own reputation as a man not to be crossed would provide me with an added bit of protection.

It was approaching sunset as I came out from the Underground tunnel and began walking in the direction of Pony's. Looking up at the orange-and-pink-streaked sky, I hoped the Germans avoided London again tonight. I didn't wish the bombs on anyone else, but I was also immeasurably glad that the bombs had ceased to fall every night. It was difficult to state the impact being bombed for nearly two months straight had on morale. In one sense, we had rallied tremendously and withstood everything that they threw at us. We were strong, and they hadn't been able to break us. But even unbroken objects could wear down under constant strain.

Pony's establishment wasn't so much a pub as it was an underground gambling den. It could have existed a hundred years ago, the dissolute sons of wealthy families looking to spend an evening and a few pounds of their inherited money slumming it amongst the lower orders.

There was still something of the same atmosphere now, though it was mostly the lower orders that had won out. You didn't see too many swells at Pony's Place.

It was, as it had been for years, in the cellar of an old haberdasher's shop that had gone out of business. The building had a deserted, derelict look about it, which suited its purposes fine. As Pony was running an illegal gambling establishment, along with assorted other criminal dealings, it was just as well that the building called no attention to its occupants or their movements.

It had occurred to me on the Tube that there was the possibility the building had been lost in the bombings. If that was the case, I'd have to ask around to try to locate Pony.

As I rounded the corner of the street, however, I saw the place was still standing, though there were two other buildings on the street that had been reduced to rubble. The thought crossed my mind—uncharitably, perhaps—that if anyone's building deserved to be razed to the ground, it was probably Pony's. But fate didn't play favorites, and neither did Luftwaffe bombs.

I gave four sharp raps, the standard signal if I remembered correctly, on the tarnished brass knocker on the front door of the haberdasher's shop. It was opened a moment later by a redheaded woman I didn't recognize. She nodded an indifferent greeting and moved back to the chair where she had been sitting, a glass of amber liquid and a game of solitaire laid out on a battered wooden table.

Those in the know required no directions, and it seemed I had passed the first test.

I moved through the shop, past the shelves that still held out-of-fashion hats, now bedecked with dust and cobwebs, toward the door in the back that had once led to a stockroom. There were shelves in that room, too, piled with moldering hatboxes. Another shelf held hatless wooden mannequin heads with peeling painted faces, looking out on the proceedings with weary disapproval. The stories those ladies could tell would fill a book, I was sure.

To one side of the stockroom was a heavy wooden door, behind which was the rickety staircase that led down to the cellar where Pony Peavey held court.

Evening was coming on, and I knew there would be a decent crowd in the place. Nightlife may have gone dim in London, but that didn't mean it had died out. Even Felix and I had been to a nightclub on a couple of occasions, dancing and enjoying the music, despite the ever-present threat of enemy bombs.

So much had changed that I didn't blame anyone for trying to go on as normally as possible.

I pulled open the door and descended into the thick atmosphere of cigar smoke and liquor fumes. Pony was here, then. He had smoked those foul-smelling cigars for as long as I had known him. Not that I minded the smell of a good cigar, but these were clearly cheap. The odor reminded me of burning rubbish, and they were strong enough to override the dozens of cigarettes being smoked in the same vicinity.

The cellar was bigger than one might have imagined, given the size of the building above, stretching back into shadowy corners where barrels and crates were stacked. There had been no concessions made to décor. The walls were grime-streaked brick, and several tables were scattered about with unmatched chairs. A long, well-stocked bar stood against one wall, the wide array of gleaming bottles being the only hint of the sort of good money Pony pulled in.

In one corner, at a lopsided old piano, an elderly gentleman was playing an indifferent jazz tune.

It wasn't yet time for the night crowd, but there were, as I had expected, several people already here playing cards, and no one paid me much mind as I reached the bottom of the steps.

I knew Pony and his closest associates always sat at a table in the corner, and I made my way in that direction. Sure enough, he was seated there with two other men, cards spread on the table before them, pint glasses of ale already drained to bubbles despite the fact it was too early for dinner.

Pony Peavey was a big man, tall and broad, with a wide face from which flashed watchful dark eyes. The ever-present cigar was clamped between yellowed teeth. He noticed me before I reached the table.

"Ellie McDonnell," he said with a crooked grin. "What brings you to my fine establishment?"

"How are you, Pony?" I said. "I've come for a favor."

He chuckled, expelling a cloud of smoke. "I like a girl who's straight to the point."

"I thought you might." I moved to the table, pulled out a chair for myself from a nearby table, and took a seat, as it was clear none of the men intended to offer me one. "I need to know if you've heard anything about the burglary at that swell's flat in Mayfair. Nico Lazaro's his name."

He eyed me shrewdly, and I knew he was inwardly assessing the reason for my interest. I let him ponder. I wasn't going to volunteer any more information than necessary.

"I heard about it," he said at last.

"Do you have any idea who might have done it?"

"I've been wondering about that myself," he said. There was little expression in his tone, but I understood from the words that he wasn't happy about it. Pony was a man who liked to be in the know, and, if he was in the dark about it, it was another hint that we might be dealing with out-of-towners.

"I heard they busted in during his dinner party, bold as brass," I said, hoping to get him talking. "They must've planned it that way so they could steal from all the guests."

"Didn't take much in the way of valuables." The rough, low voice came unexpectedly from the man beside me. I looked over at him, but his eyes were on his cards. One side of his face was badly scarred by what looked like the remnants of a broken bottle in some long-ago bar fight. "And none of the uncles I know have seen any of the goods."

Uncle was an old slang term for a pawnbroker. If the thieves weren't attempting to off-load the valuables they'd stolen, it was yet another sign that the robbery was meant to hide other motivations.

I glanced at Pony, wondering if he would be displeased that his associates were talking to me, but he was motioning to a buxom barmaid in a low-cut dress to come and refill his glass.

"Not even Sooty?" I asked the scarred man beside me, referring to Sooty Smythe, a local pawnbroker who was well known as the person to see about fencing stolen goods.

"No, and he's the first bloke they'd go to, if they was local."

"Word is they were using Lugers," the man across the table said as he fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

"German guns?" I asked casually.

"Not impossible to come by, of course. But an interesting choice." Just before the cigarette reached his lips, he remembered his manners and offered it to me. I didn't relish it given the state of his fingernails, but, in the spirit of things, I accepted it. The fellow beside me struck a match and lit it for me. His knuckles were more scarred than his face.

"Interesting indeed," I said, inhaling deeply before blowing out a stream of smoke. It was a cheap brand, but at least it didn't taste like Pony's cigars smelled.

"What would a group of stickup men with German guns be looking for at some toff's dinner party?" I mused.

Pony had taken a deep drink of his ale, but as he set the mug back down on the table his dark eyes came back up to me. "What's all this to you, Ellie?"

"I came here to get information, Pony, not give it." I flashed a smile at him to soften the words, but I didn't intend to give him any more information than that.

He chuckled. "You're your uncle's girl, all right. Never met a fellow could keep his lips tighter than Mick McDonnell."

I nodded, still smiling, then examined the tip of my cigarette as I asked casually, "Do you suppose, if you do learn something, you can let me know?"

Pony didn't say anything for a long moment. Then he motioned, and a man stepped out of the shadows and came toward him. It occurred to me that a lot of Pony's associates had a similar look: like you might not want to run across them in a dark alley.

"There's a card game over at Red's tonight," he said to the man. "I want you to go. Ask around. See what else you can find out about the stickup at Nico Lazaro's in Mayfair last week."

Red's, I knew from vague talk I had heard, was a pub that even I wouldn't have dared to venture to, where the worst sorts in London congregated. I was gratified that the information wheel was already beginning to turn on my behalf.

The man nodded and left without comment.

I smiled at Pony. "Thank you."

He smiled back. "You know I don't give anything away free, Ellie. I don't suppose you'll mind owing me a favor now."

It wasn't unexpected, but I didn't like the idea of owing Pony Peavey anything. Still, what else could I do?

I nodded. "Fair enough."

The week was putting me rather in debt as far as favors went.

I stubbed out my cigarette in the overflowing ashtray at the center of the table and rose from my seat. I nodded at the men before turning back to Pony. "I look forward to hearing from you."

He raised his glass in salute. "Always a pleasure, love."