A Tale of Two Cities

125

Starsky and Hutch arrive at New Scotland Yard to interrogate a woman connected to an international jewel thief and find her not at all what they expected.

 

Author’s Note: This story was originally written in 2004 as a Secret Santa gift for a Starsky and Hutch fan. I hadn’t read it in so long, I’d forgotten the plot!

---

Climbing out of the red car, Starsky stared up at the three sided glass and chrome building. “Doesn’t look a thing like any Scotland Yard where Sherlock Holmes would go.”

“That’s because this is new Scotland Yard, Starsky,” Hutch informed him loftily. “This was most probably built in the ’60s, like Parker Center. Sherlock Holmes’ London went the way of pea soup fog, farthings, and barley water.”

“There isn’t any more pea soup fog here?” Starsky pulled his leather jacket tighter. It was drippy, overcast, and cold, but then again, it was London in December. The sun was due to set in mere minutes, and it was going on four in the afternoon.

“The fog is still here, but the pea soup quality was caused by the horrendous pollution of the Victorian era,” Hutch explained.

“They had pollution back then?” Starsky asked aghast. He was a history buff, but he must have overlooked that one. Probably because he tended to equate smog with cars.

“Coal fires, really dirty. And the currency changed over to one similar to ours recently. No more worrying about ha’pennys.”

“But they still call ’em pounds?” Starsky muttered, fishing out a bill with Queen Elizabeth’s portrait on it. “I thought they’d changed over to the metric system.”

“Pounds and pence. Centimetres instead of inches, but don’t even ask what a stone is,” Hutch said ominously. “And I don’t think you can park the car there.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s the wrong side of the street, dummy, for one thing. The cars on this side are facing the opposite way, and I think you side-swiped a taxi when we were going through Piccadilly Circus.” Hutch pointed to a car park across the road. “I’ll go find out if they have the witness ready for us while you manage to avoid an accident going around and around that roundabout.”

“See if you can rustle us up some food, I’m starved!” Starsky called, getting back behind the wheel of the red Jaguar with the black interior he’d splurged on at the rental agency. No way would BCPD reimburse him for the fee, but he’d wanted to drive on the right in a real British car. As Hutch had predicted, going around the one-way system, and back to the car park turned out to be more than he bargained for. Especially having to adjust for cars coming at him from a different side than he was used to, and shifting with his left hand. He was only slightly rattled when he finally managed to slot the long nosed automobile into a space next to a tiny Mini Cooper. Locking the powerful car reverently, Starsky dashed back to Scotland Yard to find his partner.

A uniformed woman with a thick accent that reminded Starsky of Peter Sellers directed him up several flights of stairs, and through a maze of offices. Wandering around the unfamiliar, but strangely still the same as his own detective squad room, Starsky reflected on the case that had sent them completely across the globe from California to London, England. A jewelry shop in Bay City had been robbed of close to a million dollars in both set and unset stones: not only diamonds but emeralds, sapphires and rubies, by a man all the employees described as handsome, cultured, and British. When a search of local fences turned up nothing, Hutch had suggested that the man–known only as Good Time Charlie by some of the Bay City gemologists–had skipped the country. However, a checkpoint at the gate to international flights had been a bust. Either Charlie hadn’t left California, or he’d done so the day of the robbery, and before customs was alerted.

Then, a friend of Captain Dobey’s, a British Detective Inspector who had been to Bay City on a police cultural exchange a year earlier, had called them up, saying that he knew of a jewel thief referred to as Good Time Charlie. The man had been seen in London as recently as three days previously. Not only that, but the man had a girlfriend who had recently come into some money. With nothing to lose, and no other breaks on the case, Starsky and Hutch had boarded a plane to the United Kingdom.

Now, if Starsky could only find where Hutch had disappeared to.

“Excuse me, sir, may I help you?”

Still disconcerted by the British accent, Starsky swung around, nearly smacking a cup of tea out of the hand of a ginger haired detective with a long, horsy face. “I’m looking for my partner? American, kinda tall, blonder than any adult man has a right to be?”

“Oh, yes, Sergeant Hutchinson, right this way.” He pointed in the direction of a corridor full of doors. “I know your Captain Dobey. I’m D. I. Thomas Wardley-Smythe, if you need anything. Cuppa tea?”

“Got coffee? We’ve been in a plane for fourteen hours,” Starsky complained.

“Certainly, and I’ll send in some chocolate biscuits, as well.”

Resisting the urge to say ‘jolly good,’ Starsky picked the door he thought most likely to be an interrogation room, and peeked in. Hutch was talking to a nice looking woman wearing sleek black trousers and a green and blue woolen jumper over a blue silk blouse. Her clothes exactly matched the emerald and sapphire jewelry she wore at her neck, and on her fingers. All together she had on several hundred thousand dollars worth of gems–and Starsky couldn’t even figure out the conversion rate to pounds in his head.

“Madam Morrigham, this is Detective Starsky, my partner,” Hutch introduced graciously, which Starsky thought was a little out of the ordinary for his partner concerning a suspect. “We haven’t gotten into the actual questions yet until Thomas comes back with the tea.”

“I asked for coffee.” Starsky was still grumpy and tired. This country was completely backwards to the US, driving on the opposite side, offering tea instead of coffee, and chocolate biscuits, what was that about?

“I’ve always enjoyed a pick me up in the middle of the day,” the woman said sweetly. “If there’s caffeine involved, anything will do.”

“We got a tape recorder here?” Starsky asked, not really wanting to get chummy with someone who was most probably in cahoots with a known gem smuggler.

Hutch however, appeared to be fawning all over her, pulling out her chair, offering to open the grimy window to let in some air, and acting like she walked on water. Starsky pouted, since he’d had big hopes that once this interview was over, he and Hutch could find the no-doubt substandard hotel that BCPD was footing the bill for, and burrow under the covers for some prime nookie on British soil. A first for both of them on this continent. But the way Hutch was going, Starsky might be out on his ear in the next hour. And that pissed him off.

“Thomas needed to find a blank tape,” Hutch explained. “Madam Morrigham…”

“Please, call me Mogs.”

“Strange first name,” Starsky interjected.

“It isn’t my given name, just what most of my friends call me. Sort of a reference to owning cats.”

“What about your boyfriends?” Starsky asked.

“Here we are!” Thomas pushed into the room carrying a tray heaped with goodies. There were several white mugs, one with a chip but still useable, a packet of cookies, and several strange looking objects that appeared to be rotund, fried balls. “Sid’s been ’round to the pub just now, so he brought back some Scotch eggs for my lunch,” Thomas said, setting out the food. “Brand new cassettes from Marks and Sparks, for the recorder, and some coffee and biscuits for our American friends.”

“Cookies!” Starsky crowed, bypassing the eggs for a handful of biscuits. He stuffed one into his mouth and washed it down with a long swallow of instant coffee. Watery, but better than nothing.

“Just what exactly are Scotch eggs?” Hutch asked with interest, selecting one.

“Best eaten with a pint of stout, puts hair on your chest, it does,” Thomas declared, tucking the cassette into the correct port in the recorder. “Sausage meat covered in bread crumbs, wrapped around a hard boiled egg, and then fried.”

“I’ll have one. Been a long time since I had a Scotch egg,” Mogs said.

“I think I’ll pass,” Hutch said distantly. “Sounds more like something Starsky would eat.”

“I’m good.” Starsky shrugged, eating another Cadbury cookie.

“This inquiry will now commence,” Thomas began, pushing play on the cassette player. He listed who was in the room for posterity, and then nodded at Hutch.

“Can you state your name for the record?” Hutch asked Mogs. “And your address?”

Sourly, Starsky thought Hutch was just hoping to find out where she lived so he could follow her back to her flat later on. He wasn’t sure why he was being so possessive about his lover. It wasn’t like they’d been completely exclusive in the past, but he’d wanted Hutch all to himself for the first time in a foreign bed. Like a giant, blond teddy bear to ward off the strangeness of a different country that still spoke their language. Sort of. He still wasn’t sure why Thomas had called these terrific cookies biscuits.

“And how long have you known Charles Windsor?” Hutch asked formally.

“For the record, I have never met the Prince.” Mogs leaned forward slightly when she spoke, her voice a little breathy now that she was having to answer their questions.

“Not that Charles Windsor.” Hutch grinned. “This one.” He slid the still photo taken from the security camera in the jewelry store. It showed Charlie plainly removing gems from a smashed glass case. The only one where his face could even be seen, it had him in profile, with a grin of triumph as he scooped up the jewelry.

“That’s Charlie Wensleydale!” Mogs picked up the picture to examine it. “Not one of the royals. He claims he’s titled, but I’ve never believed him.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Hutch persisted. “How long did you live together?”

“Pardon?” Mogs smirked, shaking her head. “I don’t fancy that git, he’s my sister’s beau. They used to live together in Upper Lower Rumple.”

“Your sister?” Starsky finally spoke up, wiping away the cookie crumbs. “We had it on good authority that you were seen meeting Charles Whateverhisnameis at Gatwick airport last week…”

“On December 13th,” Hutch added from his notes.

“Accepting a package from him before getting on a flight to Spain,” Starsky finished, not believing the woman in the least. He wondered if Thomas could scare up a lie detector from wherever he’d found the food and tape player.

“Must have been our Mags,” Mogs said disdainfully. “My sister. She flogs jewelry for that man. Done a runner, has she?”

“Flogs?” Hutch repeated.

“What do you call it in those American copper shows?” She wrinkled her brow. “She’s a fence.”

“Then where were you on December 13th?”

“In my villa in the South of France, Cherie.” Mogs smiled. “That’s why it’s so lovely to taste plain English fare. I’ve been eating fois grois, petit fours and camembert for absolutely months.”

“Where did you get the money for all that, travel, jewels, a villa?” Hutch hammered at her, sounding unimpressed. Starsky was proud of him–his head might have been turned by a pretty face but Hutch had higher values than just looks. He’d never go out with a woman who’d accepted stolen goods. A prostitute, maybe, but not a fence, no matter what nationality she was.

“I won the Irish Sweepstakes–it was in all the papers,” Mogs answered.

“Might’ve been in the papers here, miss, but not where they come from,” Thomas put in gruffly, eating the last Scotch egg, since no one else had.

“Oh, right, across the pond.” Mogs laughed.

“Thomas, can you find any recent arrest warrants for her sister?” Starsky asked. “Mags? Maggie, or Margaret?”

“Margaret Mary Morrigham,” Mogs supplied.

“Right on it!” Thomas scurried out, a strange sight in so large a man.

“What’s your full name again?” Starsky stared pointedly at her, still not convinced this woman who had nearly seduced his Hutch wasn’t a smuggler’s moll, but warming to her in spite of himself.

“Mogs.” She stared back defiantly, unfazed by his belligerence. “I truly cannot tell you where Mags and her paramour have been. I’ve owned my villa outright for half the year, and bought these baubles the day the prize money was presented to me. I’m a rich woman–my sister is not. If she went to Spain, I reckon you’ll have to search Madrid for her. I haven’t seen her since Christmas last.”

“A year ago?” Hutch growled, crowding her. “Not very close, are you?”

“We’re identical twins, actually, but never kept to the same circles, you might say. I can prove that I was in France for all of September, October, November, and up until the present. Many friends, and all my servants, saw me there. Including the Lord Mayor of Nice.” She grinned at them, obviously unruffled by their suspicions. “Isn’t that nice?”

“Terrific,” Starsky grumbled, looking around for more cookies, but there were only chocolate crumbs left. “We came all this way f’nothing.”

“Is that it, then?” Mogs stood, running a hand through her hair. Starsky was glad to see that Hutch paid her less attention now that she wasn’t their prime source of information. The woman thought a moment, raising a well-manicured finger. “However, I can tell you that Mags always calls our mum on Christmas morning–if it’s that important to you, p’haps putting a tap on the receiver might work? You could trace her whereabouts.”

“Good idea.” Hutch frowned, folding his arms across his chest. He seemed to want to have her on their side, but not quite convinced yet.

“She’s right, gentl’men.” Thomas came back into the small room with two arrest folders. The one for Mary Margaret Morrigham had a recent photo of a glowering woman, identical in every feature to Madam Mogs Morrigham, but holding the obligatory arrest number under her chin. She’d been arrested for fencing stolen goods for a British thief. There were numerous offences going back many years. The second file had a similar picture of a much younger woman posing grumpily for the police photographer.

“That’s me,” Mogs pointed to the second one. “Arrested one single time for protesting the nuclear power plant–chained ourselves to the gate, we did.”

“Dabs don’t match,” Thomas affirmed, checking the fingerprints in both files. “There are two different gels.”

“Lucky woman, proven innocent.” Hutch took her hand as she started to rise. “So, using madam instead of miss or Mrs., is that from living in France?”

“Partially.” She smiled in an amused sort of way which piqued Starsky’s interest as nothing she’d done previously had. “Is this your first visit to London?”

“Yep,” Starsky volunteered, willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, even if Hutch was holding her hand. He took the other one, to give Hutch a bit of his own medicine.

“I went on a class trip in high school, we toured Parliament,” Hutch answered. “And had an audience with the Queen.”

“How lovely for you,” Mogs said dryly.

Starsky was surprised, because he hadn’t heard that story and was determined to remedy that oversight, and soon. “Anything we can do to apologize for mixing up you and your sister?”

“Not the first time it’s happened. Find her and clear up this whole mess?” Mogs arched an elegant eyebrow.

“That goes without saying.” Hutch turned to the detective inspector who was rewinding the tape. “Put out an all point bulletin out on…?”

“Mary Margaret, yes, already done so when I realized there were two of ’em.” Thomas collected up the used mugs and biscuit packets.

“Guess there’s nothing else f’us t’do.” Starsky shrugged, grabbing his partner’s now vacant hand. “We gotta check into the hotel, babe.”

“But later, p’haps dinner?’ Mogs offered sweetly, the secret smile still playing on her lips. “My treat. I know a great place, cozy and private. ”

“How could we refuse, huh, Starsky?” Hutch nodded his blond head. “But I insist on paying.”

“Don’t worry about a thing.” Mogs opened her handbag, extracting a small business card without having to search for it. “Here’s the address, you’ll understand once you get there.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Arriving in front of a crescent of Georgian houses just before 8 p.m., Starsky and Hutch were impressed by the quiet elegance of the street. It looked just like the ‘Who will Buy…’ dance number in the movie musical of ‘Oliver,’ which Starsky and Hutch had recently taken Molly and Kiko to at the local Kids Approved movie night at the Rivoli in Bay City. Molly had gone all mushy over Jack Wild as Artful Dodger, and tried out her terrible Cockney accent all the way home in the car. Kiko liked nasty Fagin and the scary Bill Sykes better.

“You sure this is the right address?” Starsky asked, taking in the long curved length of the street with all the identical red brick houses, and the little private park in the center of the road, with a wrought iron fence all around it. A woman in a headscarf was walking her Corgi on the path.

“You were driving, Starsk.” Hutch banged the lion head knocker on the front door, which was opened by a liveried butler.

“Good evening. How may I help you?”

“Ken Hutchinson and David Starsky,” Hutch said formally. “Madam Morrigham invited us?”

“Come right in, your table is waiting.” The man walked stiffly into a wide, softly lit room with about a dozen tables. Only half were filled, but the atmosphere was congenial, and all the patrons were eating and drinking with enjoyment. Starsky and Hutch were seated at a round table near the fireplace, which gave off a lovely warmth after the near freezing temperatures of a London evening in December.

The meal was a set menu, with only two entrees to choose from, so Hutch chose the Veal parmigiana, and Starsky decided to take the other one, Chicken Cordon Bleu. There was a bowl of vichyssoise for the starter, and a mixed salad after the entry, as well as Fromage de la belle France, and Gateau Chocolate to complete the meal. A bottle of French wine was opened before Mogs arrived at their table.

“How is everything?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

“This potato soup is great!” Starsky enthused. “You own this place, don’t you?”

“One of many.” Mogs sat down, pouring herself a glass of the lovely pale wine. “I dabbled in the stock market even before I won the prize money. But enough about my life–what about yours? I take it that you two have some free time in London, until my sister’s whereabouts are confirmed? Or Charlie is brought in?”

“Pretty much,” Hutch agreed.

“How’s your hotel? I happened to notice the paper Starsky pulled out as we were all leaving Scotland Yard. Not the best part of town for tourists, really.”

“No kiddin’.” Starsky looked up with interest as the waiter brought over the food. A plate of the chicken was placed in front of Mogs, as well. “Place reminds me of where my Uncle Gus used to stay when he was in town t’visit my ma in New York.”

“Uncle Gus?” Hutch asked with a doomed sigh. “Was he the one who died at the Battle of the Bulge?”

“I had an Uncle Gus who died at the Battle of the Bulge.” Mogs laughed in surprise.

“Nope, that was Uncle Alphonse. Uncle Gus went when he was–uh,” Starsky glanced over at Mogs, unsure of whether to impart such an unsavory demise in front of a lady of her standing. “He was gettin’ physical with a working girl, you could say. His heart just stopped, right in the act.”

“Most unfortunate,” Mogs said delicately, while Hutch was rolling his eyes with a groan that sounded almost sexual to Starsky’s deprived–or maybe it was depraved–ears. Starsky gave a sigh himself, he needed to get his partner horizontal in the worst way. “I know someone who recently had that happen to her, right here in my place,” Mogs added. “Messy business explaining it to the Sweeney.”

“The wha…?” Starsky asked with a forkful of chicken to his lips.

“You would call them the cops, or the fuzz. In French, we say ‘les flic’.”

“Believe me, Starsky’s confused enough about the differences in American and British English, don’t impose French on his tiny little brain,” Hutch said, toasting Mogs with his long stemmed glass. “Merci, Madame, pour le diner magnifique.”

“Vous parlez Francais!” She flirted with him over the rim of her wineglass before taking a sip.

“Un peu,” Hutch admitted, holding two fingers barely an inch apart. “My Spanish is better.”

“Not much,” Starsky grumbled, still remembering the time Hutch tried to teach him to say ‘Donde esta Ramon?’ so he could get the whereabouts of their snitch from a Mexican bartender, and got beat up instead.

“Well, language lesson ended now,” Mogs said smoothly. “This is a private hotel, only for select customers. I would be honored if you’d take a room here–so much safer to have constabulary on the premises.”

“Don’t think Captain Dobey, ma’am, would cough up the dough for a place like this.” Starsky dug into his salad, still hungry. Must be the jet lag, he told himself. What was it, eight hours difference? At home he’d be sleeping in his bed, if Hutch hadn’t kept him up all night. Which happened, quite often, in fact.

“No worries. It’s a donation to your police fund, if you need to list the expenses. I’m mistress of my own domain, you might say, and entertain frequently but there are several vacancies just now.” She pursed her lips as if she’s revealed something shocking, and Starsky realized just why she might be called ‘Madam.’

“The rooms are that way.” Mogs waved at a small white door next to an authentic 15th century tapestry depicting the hunting of a unicorn. Two young men were picked out in silk thread, one dark and the other light, wearing tight green hose under their jerkins. And very large ornamental codpieces. The dark one had his hand only millimeters from the fair haired one’s groin, and held a long staff in his other hand. The pretty blond had his arm around his friend’s waist, showing him an arrow.

Starsky felt himself flush at the erotic sight of the two hunters, who seemed far less interested in either the unicorn or the bevy of princesses all wearing tall pointy hats with floaty scarves trailing behind. The maidens were chasing the unicorn in earnest, while the guys seemed off in a world of their own.

“Too much wine?” Mogs noticed, with a smile. “What is your decision? I’ve already had Jeeves turn back the sheets of the bed for you.”

“The bed?” Hutch looked astonished, and Starsky was glad to see that pale Nordic skin blush ever redder than his own probably did. “You thought…? Starsky and I?”

“Isn’t it true, then? Sorry if I misinterpreted, but your body language, the way you touch each other…”

“No, no, you sussed us out all right.” Starsky grinned lecherously at his partner, and openly held Hutch’s hand in the restaurant. Not one of the other patrons noticed. “It’s just that you seemed pretty interested in blondie here back in the interrogation room.”

“Well, there’s no law against a woman flirting with a handsome man, is there?”

“I can’t speak for Hutch here, but I’m all for crawling into a bed pretty soon,” Starsky said, giving Hutch’s hand a squeeze. “Right after dinner. This whole meal is great–but please tell me a Gateau Chocolate isn’t a cat.”

“Always thinking with your stomach first, buddy,” Hutch said affectionately. “You’re very astute, Mogs. What gave us away?”

“I’m a student of human interactions–I notice more than the average viewer.” She nodded discretely at Jeeves, who brought over a platter of cheeses and fruit, another bottle of wine and the gateau. “The French word for cake, and the Spanish word for cat do sound alike, don’t they? But here in London we like our little airs, and calling a nice bit of choccy cake with a French name makes us feel special. My mum used to call all desserts pud.”

“I’ve always wanted to try some of that Spotted Dick.” Hutch cut off a hunk of white Cheddar to top his slice of apple.

“That sounds scary, like it’s got a social disease.” Starsky watched with a growling belly as Jeeves cut generous portions of cake for each of them.

“Spotted Dick is a pudding with currents in it, but the name causes more titters amongst the tourists,” Mogs explained, pressing her fork into the rich, fudgy frosting of the cake. “Thank you, Jeeves, that will be all.”

The butler gave a short bow, walking away with a stiff back.

“This is just like Upstairs, Downstairs,” Starsky marveled, tasting his cake and then rolling his eyes with happiness. A goodly portion disappeared down his gullet in short order. After the last mouthful was swallowed, and Starsky had scraped the icing off the plate, he rubbed his tummy ruefully. “I think I ate too much.”

“Perhaps a short rest to help you digest before some light exercise?” Mogs suggested, standing.

She was wearing a long silk kimono that swirled around her body like a cloud, but Starsky was glad Hutch didn’t seem to notice a thing. Starsky directed his attention to watching Hutch sink the point of a knife into a thick round of cheese, those long fingers gripping the hilt of the knife just like they usually held his manhood.

“I think just a trip up to our room might be what the doctor ordered,” Hutch said slyly, offering Starsky a wedge of Camembert. “I’ve never known you to pass up food, how about some of this?”

Starsky bit down on the smooth, sharply flavoured cheese with a moan of pleasure. “More?” he asked, after swallowing, totaling ignoring the fact that he’d just been full two minutes before.

“I can have Jeeves deliver a tray of late night delicacies to you, after…” Mogs offered. “Please feel free to partake of all that my establishment offers. We also have a fine display of leather goods, for rent at a nominal fee.”

“I’ve always liked leather,” Starsky agreed, savoring the luscious cheese. “Whatcha got?”

“Paddles, straps, all manner of restraints…” Mogs trailed off with an amused expression.

“I’m full,” Hutch declared without warning, yanking Starsky up from the table with such force Starsky dropped his napkin on the floor.

“Hey, I was still eating!”

“Mogs said she’d send stuff up later, for a midnight snack,” Hutch reminded, his bright blue eyes so beautiful Starsky was momentarily at a loss for words. Hutch chose that moment to dive in for a kiss. “Mmm, nice flavour, chocolate, cheese,” Hutch murmured. “And a hint of Sherry.”

“You taste pretty good yourself, blintz,” Starsky licked his lips, the burn from Hutch’s stubble barely registering when those fabulous lips were locked on his mouth again. Behind him he heard applause as the other diners showed their approval at the kissing. Starsky just caught a glimpse of Mogs watching with rapt attention before Hutch whisked him through the door next to the tapestry, and up a winding staircase to a place of enchantment.

FIN