A Study in Victory Red Read online

  "This, my darling Joe," she said. "Is Victory Red."

  "I recognize it," he said. "It looks like the colour every woman wore during the war, as far as I can recall."

  "Precisely." Irene turned the tube over, admiring the colour. "A common enough shade, but with a name that speaks volumes. Now, eat up, Joe. We've a busy day ahead of us."

  Chapter IX

  With the Help of Working Ladies

  Irene perched on the couch, lounging over the back, watching Joe finish his last few bites. She was impressed with his cooperation and his eagerness to solve this case, and today his mood seemed exceptional.

  The solution was at hand, she just needed a few more pieces of the puzzle, and that included running some errands today.

  "Do you think," Joe said, gathering a bit of egg on his fork. "That by watching me eat, I will hurry?"

  "Yes," she said. "It works on Eddy."

  Joe used his last piece of bread to sop up the remaining egg. "There are many things which get me nervous, someone watching me eat is not one of them. I went too long without a good meal, and I shall cherish each one I get."

  Irene couldn't argue with that. She was never as good as her father at hunger strikes, and the war furthered her appreciation for food when hunger pangs were forced upon her, and most food she'd rationed was sent to her father's farm, for him and her uncle.

  As Joe gathered the dishes for Miss Hudson, Irene grabbed one of the Victory Red lipsticks. She'd always stuck with less bold shades, but as she held the lipstick to her face, she rather liked how the colour complimented her skin.

  She applied the lipstick, smacking her lips together, deciding to keep the other tube as well. She was donating the rest, as there was no possible way she'd wear them all and some of the colours did her no favours.

  "Victory Red." Joe stepped back and forth behind her, trying to catch a glimpse of his own reflection. "Looks nice."

  Irene tugged on her dark green fedora, the one with the black ribbon to match her olive and cream outfit.

  "May it bring us victory."

  * * * * *

  The cab driver gave her an odd look when she relayed the address of their first stop, but she didn't pay it any mind. She was used to odd looks.

  Soon, they were parked in front of the three-story house with the dark brick and dark curtains that she'd visited yesterday. Untouched by the bombings, it sat close to the seedier part of downtown, though the clientele the house served came from various parts of the city.

  A flash of colour on the curb caught Irene's attention. The same scuff marks from the crime scene, flecks of red throughout, scraped against the cement.

  Tires twelve feet apart.

  Long, large car.

  Another set, faded as if made a week or two ago, sat about five feet away, red flecks and all. This case became more interesting every minute.

  She led Joe down the alleyway to the side door. She hopped the few stairs to the door and entered the house, Joe hurrying after her.

  The large parlour was well-lit, but Irene didn't pause. She went through the door across the room, into a small sitting area.

  They weren't two feet in the room when Joe grabbed her arm.

  "This is a brothel," he hissed, making her stumble.

  "Yes," she said. The smells of perfume and noises from the second floor that drifted into the background from years of frequenting the house came to the forefront. Irene catalogued the smells, matching each perfume with its wearer.

  Joe glanced around, picking at the skin on his forefinger, nervous.

  "You're fine, Joe," she said. "These ladies are important to me. They've helped me on many cases and have been invaluable resources."

  "What resources could prostitutes offer?" he asked, eyeing her like she kept some dark secret. Catching his implication, she folded her arms across her chest, glaring.

  "If you're going to be rude and make assumptions," she said. "Then you can-"

  "Irene!" A pleasant voice called out. Irene threw Joe another glare and turned to Madame Jeannie. The tall lady glided into the room, all lace and silk, a white fur throw draped across her shoulders. Her pointed features were accentuated with makeup, hiding the age on her face, her dark hair done up in perfect rolls. She threw her arms around Irene, hugging her tight.

  "Hello Jeannie," Irene said, reciprocating the hug.

  "And who is this lovely fellow?" Jeannie released Irene, spotting Joe and holding out her hand.

  "Doctor Joe Watson," Joe said, voice a tad insecure. He took her hand, though.

  "Is he payment for the information we got you," Jeannie said, then saw the horror spread over Joe's face, and laughed. "I'm teasing, love. We never charge Irene for any information we procure."

  "However." Miriam, one of Jeannie's employees, waltzed into the room. "We do give hefty discounts to her friends, especially handsome ones."

  She slinked her curvy body over to Joe, eyeing him like a cat hunts its prey. He grabbed Irene's wrist, imploring her to help.

  "Settle down," Jeannie said. "This man clearly belongs to Irene."

  "Oh." Miriam immediately dropped her act. "I'm sorry. I thought he was maybe a special client. I was about to scoop him up."

  "You just had one, did you not?" Jeannie asked.

  Miriam rolled her blue eyes. "The hugger again, Madame. He barely speaks English."

  A switch clicked inside Irene's head. "May I inquire about this client?"

  "Of course," Jeannie said. "Tell them whatever they want to know, Miriam. And I'll get you those papers, love."

  She left the room, and Miriam slid onto the couch, picking at her nail polish.

  "The man just wants to sit," Miriam said. "Three times in the past month. Sometimes he stares at me, he asks for embraces a lot. But he's never made a move for me, not for intimacy or to abuse. He's polite and shy. Speaks with a heavy accent, German, I think."

  "What does he look like?" Irene asked.

  "Large," Miriam said. "He's in his forties, maybe older. He's got a wedding band on his finger but told me many times that he had no wife. Always smelled of booze, though he acted sober and sad. He seems an unfortunate man. He requests me every time."

  "Next time he is in," Irene said. "Ask him why he chooses you, please."

  "Normally, we are chosen because we each have certain talents men prefer." She winked at Joe. "But I've actually never asked him. Next time, though, I'll try to get some answers for you. I don't have that kind of relationship with my clients, not like Nancy and her American."

  "American?" Irene said.

  "Yeah," Miriam said. "Wanna talk to her about him? I think she's free."

  "Please," Irene said.

  Miriam hurried off to find Nancy as Madame Jeannie walked back into the room, a folder stuffed with papers in her hand.

  "The war produced all kinds of new poisons, apparently." She handed the folder to Irene. "These are the only ones he could get me in one night. The professor was quite excited when I asked him for these...in more ways than one. He couldn't make sense of those etchings on the pin, though. Said he didn't have any dates in his head or any number sequences that matched up."

  "This is all wonderful," Irene said. "I forgot, we do have something for you."

  She looked at Joe, whose face had turned slightly red during this whole exchange. He cleared his throat and dug into his bag, producing the pouch of lipsticks.

  "I've cleaned them all," Irene said. "I only needed a smudge or two from each, so they are practically brand new."

  Jeannie took the pouch, dumping the handful of tubes into her hand.

  "Oh, Irene," she said. "These are gorgeous. Thank you, love."

  Miriam walked back in with Nancy, and they sat on the couch. Nancy eyed Joe, giving him a shy smile, blinking up at him. Miriam elbowed her.

  "He belongs to Irene," she said. "Now, tell her about the American."

  "He's tall and blonde," Nancy said. "Really sweet. We have as much of a relationship as o
ne can in this profession. He seemed uptight when I saw him last. He said he had something really important to do, and he might be gone for a while. He seemed really nervous about it but said he'd been duped into helping the wrong people, and now he would make it right."

  Irene felt her adrenaline spike, and she tapped her foot on the ground. "He said nothing more? Even the slightest detail could help."

  Nancy shook her head. "Sorry, no. I can ask him more, next time he's in."

  Irene's adrenaline plummeted as she stared at Nancy. "I'm sorry, Nancy, but he won't be back. We're here because we're investigating his murder, unfortunately."

  "He's dead?" Nancy said, tears welling in her eyes.

  Irene nodded. Miriam pulled a handkerchief from her bosom and handed it to Nancy. An awkward silence hung over everyone for a second, before Jeannie stepped forward.

  "Nancy will be fine," she said to Irene. "We won't keep you any longer, but remember we are here if you need us."

  "Take care," Irene said. "And thank you, sincerely."

  "Anything for you, darling," Jeannie said, then looked at Joe. "You take care of our girl, Doctor. She's been good to us."

  "She's certainly capable of looking after herself," Joe said. "But I shall do my best to fill the gaps."

  Madame Jeannie let out a great laugh. "I'm sure you will, darling."

  Irene raised her eyebrow at Jeannie while Joe worked out the play on words. As Irene headed toward the side door, Joe finally understood the Madame's words and sputtered out an apology and an explanation all at once. Irene grabbed his arm, half-dragging him to the door.

  Joe huffed behind her all the way down the alley to the pavement.

  "I apologize, Joe," Irene said, clutching the folder close to her chest. "I failed to see how going into a brothel would affect you."

  "I was..." he started, then rearrange his words. "They were...lovely. I wasn't sure what to expect. But, I saw how much help they gave you."

  "They are invaluable," she said. "Like you."

  She waved a cab down.

  "And should you need any of...um...what they provide." Irene stumbled over her own words. "They are obviously quite nice for men-"

  "Oh, Irene." Joe's face turned bright red. "I appreciate it, but I'm good on that front, for now."

  "Yes, okay," Irene said.

  The cab pulled to the curb, and they climbed in. Irene rubbed her ears, trying to damp the fire. No topic made her blush, and this shall be no different. If she wanted to continue bringing Joe with her on future cases, she didn't need to worry about how specific places they visited affected him. He was an adult, and if he didn't want to be somewhere, then he could choose to stay home.

  She liked Joe, despite having palpitations in her heart every time he introduced himself as 'Doctor Watson'. She needed to overcome that feeling if he continued to live with her and become her colleague on future cases.

  "Irene?" Joe's voice cut through her thoughts. "You still with me?"

  "Yes," she said, slight irritation in her voice. "Of course."

  "Are we going back to Baker Street?" he asked. "You didn't give an address, and I assumed we had more errands than just the one."

  Irene gave the address and not a second later, Joe shifted, looking at her.

  "That's my old flat," he said.

  "Yes," she said. "I placed an ad for the missing jump wings pin. I told them to meet us at that address for eleven o'clock to collect the pin."

  "You're giving it away?" Joe asked.

  "I'm not certain yet," she said, then sighed. "I'll admit, I may have blundered. I was so confident that the person who would claim this pin would be our culprit, but after that visit at Madame's, my theory has altered quite dramatically. We shall, however, follow through with this meeting."

  "Who did you think was going to show up?" Joe asked.

  "The Drunk Man, of course," Irene said. "I thought he'd come back for the pin, but now I am not so sure. Either way, whoever shows up for this pin, shall hold a clue to our case. You didn't find any meaning in them?"

  He shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

  "Well," she said. "We shall see who turns up at this meeting."

  "Why my old flat?" he asked.

  "I do not have an office or consulting room," she said. "And I do not need people trying to guess my motives in my flat while I deduce theirs. Tell me, do you carry your old service revolver?"

  "Heavens no," he said. "Why would I need it?"

  "If the person who collects this pin is capable of murder," she said. "Then I shall expect them not to hesitate in using violence when they realize who we are. How is your hand-to-hand?"

  "You saw the extent of it at Constable Drebber's house, I'm afraid," he said. "I can defend myself, perhaps throw a punch or two. I can certainly take a beating, but don't count on me for anything more in an actual fight."

  Irene stared at him for a few seconds, glad he admitted his skills truthfully. Most men put themselves up as the best scrapper ever, despite what they can actually do.

  "You'll be my back-up, then," she said. "Should our culprit escape me, just use your weight to stop him, I can do the rest."

  * * * * *

  There was still a gaping hole in the house, and the tenants had all moved out, allowing Joe and Irene to stand in the empty garden and wait for someone to show up.

  At eleven on the dot, a cab stopped at the curb. A woman stepped out onto the pavement, and Irene tried her best to hide her surprise. Just before the woman shut the cab door, Irene spotted two suitcases on the seat.

  Her theories about this case shifted again, and as the lady walked toward them, Irene did a sweeping appraisal.

  Almost six feet tall and exceptionally thin, her body barely filled out the delicate dress she wore.

  Low neckline, high hemline.

  Long blonde hair spilling around her shoulders.

  Her face was delicate, yet sharp. Blue eyes scrutinizing everything.

  She had even less makeup than Irene, forgoing everything but a small amount of concealer to fade a beauty spot on her right cheek.

  The lady didn't waste a minute as she strode right to Irene and Joe.

  "You put the advertisement in?" she asked.

  She'd put on an English accent quite well, but her inflections on certain words betrayed her. Irene took a closer inspection. No pets, not a speck of dirt, except for a few long blonde hairs on her shoulders, from her relaxed hairstyle.

  "I did, yes," Irene said. "For an American pin."

  "Yes," she said, the right amount of sadness in her voice. "My husband's pin."

  "Your husband was American?"

  From her peripherals, Irene saw Joe look at her, questioning why she was so blunt with this woman.

  "Yes," the lady said. "You meet many young men from all over during the war. This one caught my attention."

  The lady hit all the points with her answers, but Irene pushed for more information. Why alter your accent if you were being truthful?

  "And you know he's been murdered?" Irene tried to shock the lady, but it failed. The lady nodded, studying the still chewed up lawn.

  "I am aware, yes," she said, then looked at Irene with her sharp eyes. "How did you come upon the pin?"

  "The police consult with me on difficult cases," she said. "And the way your husband was murdered was odd. Do you know if he had any companions that he would be inclined to meet in the middle of the night? Namely, a thin man?"

  A shocked expression flashed upon the woman's face briefly.

  "He has met this man before," the lady said. "I don't know who he is, but my husband saw him often. He had a very jealous wife. That much, I know."

  The clues pointed to the truth in the lady's story, but deep in Irene's gut, something didn't ring true about it all. The lady shifted her weight from one foot to the other and cleared her throat.

  "Forgive me," she said. "But his death is still so fresh. May I have his pin so I can mourn in peace?"

  I
rene dug the pin from her pocket but paused before handing it over.

  "Another question," she said. "I'm curious as to the etchings on the back of the pin."

  The lady smiled. "Our initials, separated by our wedding date, and two others important to us, but inconsequential to others."

  Irene saw no other option than to hand the pin over. The lady took it, tears welling in her eyes as she ran her fingers over the silver.

  "My sources tell me," Irene said. "Your husband frequented a brothel. Other sources tell me that he was conflicted because he was helping the wrong people but would soon turn that around. Do you have any idea what that could've meant?"

  The lady wrapped her fingers tightly around the pin, clenching her jaw. She inhaled deeply as if holding back a storm of rage. When she looked up at Irene, she was all soft smiles.

  "He had his vices," she said, words stiff. "And he felt like he was betraying America because he wasn't returning. Maybe that's what he was referring to. I must go now, thank you again, from the bottom of my heart."

  Before Irene could say any more, the lady spun on her heel and headed back to the cab. She paused, though, before climbing in.

  "That shade of lipstick you're wearing," she said, small smirk catching the corner of her mouth. "It's quite lovely."

  Before Irene could react to the statement, the lady shut the door, and the car sped away. Irene watched the car disappear, unease stirring in her stomach.

  She'd missed so much about this case. Where did the woman come from? There was no trace of her anywhere. How could she have missed that the American was married? Regret worked its way into her mind. She should've questioned the lady more and not given the pin back until she was satisfied with the lady's answers. She was still so undisciplined and out of practice that she was no closer to finding out who killed the American.

  "Did you find that as odd as I did?" Joe said. "She was telling the truth, I'm sure, but-"

  "How are you sure?" Irene snapped, her anger at herself coming out in her words. "There was no evidence of her presence at the crime scene and no ring on the American's finger."

  "A ring seems a frivolous thing," Joe said. "Especially during a war, when things were so scarce."

  "You're on her side, then?" Irene said, embarrassed at the whole scenario.