Free Pulp Fiction | The Stone-Cold Dead in the Market Affair by John Oram by Unknown Page A

hard night."
    She spat out a rude Welsh word. "You think spending the night dodging trucks on the highway is a rest cure?" she demanded.
    She dumped the poodle on the floor and peeled off her traveling coat. The poodle trotted happily around the room sniffing at the furniture, its stump tail wagging like a semaphore. Illya went to the telephone and called room service for coffee and toast.
    Solo came from the bedroom. He was fully dressed, but his grooming was far from perfect. There was an ugly blue bruise from his swollen left ear to his cheekbone and his left eye was almost closed. He said, "You made good time. Thanks for coming."
    "You're welcome." She stared at his battered face. "What hit you?"
    He put a hand to his cheek. "A boot, I think. Forgive my lack of a shave. The skin's a bit sensitive."
    "I can imagine. You should take something for it."
    A bellboy arrived with the coffee, set the tray on a table convenient to the big couch, took his tip and went out quickly. The poodle trotted over to the table, sniffed, then got up on her hind legs and pirouetted like a ballet dancer, front paws outstretched.
    "She can smell the toast," Blodwen explained. "That pooch has just one thought in the world. She's still to young for the other."
    Illya poured the coffee and handed a cup to Blodwen. She said, "Thanks. Now, let's have the story."
    Solo outlined the events of the previous evening. She listened without interruption. When he had finished she picked up the medallion and looked at both sides. Without raising her eyes, she asked, "What do you want me to do?"
    He smiled. "Have you ever worked as a dance-hall hostess?"
    "Me? Not on your celebrated nellie."
    "Well, here's your chance to broaden your experience," Solo said. "I want you to get yourself a job at the Gloriana. That shouldn't be difficult. Keep your eyes and ears open for any odd scraps of information — but above all, wear the medallion in plain sight. Never show yourself without it."
    "You think Anna is at the bottom of the nonsense?"
    "I don't know," he replied. "But she's involved somewhere along the line. I want to know just how deeply."
    "Check! And where do I live?"
    "Get yourself a room in Soho — Greek Street, Wardour Street, somewhere like that. Not too expensive, but not too cheap, either. The kind of place any hardworking tramp would choose."
    "That's what I love about you," Blodwen said. "You always pick the graceful phrase."
    She stood up. "Now, if you boys will excuse me, I'll borrow the bedroom for an hour. I'm dead on my feet. Wake me at nine and I'll start house-hunting."

Chapter Ten
    Solly Gold arrived at noon. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and his normally pale face looked almost deathly. A badly-rolled cigarette drooped from a corner of his mouth.
    He took the whiskey Solo gave him, drained it at a gulp and held out the glass for a refill. He said, "At my time of life I've got to be up all night chasing stiffs. I should have my brains examined. You seen the dailies?"
    Illya said, "We've read them. They don't say much."
    "So what's to say? They got a body. They got a name for the body. The Yard is making inquiries. What else? You think the police are telling what they know?" He puffed futilely on the dead cigarette, took it out of his mouth, looked at it distastefully and tossed it into the fireplace.
    "There's no doubt it was Price Hughes?" Solo asked.
    "Not a chance. The face his own mother wouldn't recognize. Whoever carved him took a real pleasure in it. And there were no papers in his pockets. But the prints were positive."
    "Fingerprints?" Illya repeated.
    "Yeah, prints. It seems he wasn't always a do-gooder. Criminal Records had a full set of his dabs from 'way back.' For what, don't ask. Even me they're not telling." He sounded genuinely indignant.
    "According to the Express the police have got a lead," Illya said.
    "Oh, sure. Like always. You think they're going to admit they're up a gum tree? No weapon? No suspects? No