by Eric Brown
Hermione looked up. ‘We’ll make arrangements to leave this afternoon, Mr Langham,’ she said quietly.
Langham nodded and followed Ralph from the apartment.
In the lift to the ground floor, Ralph said, ‘Nice bit of detective work there, Don. I didn’t see it coming – that Fenton and the old bag had an affair.’
‘I would never have guessed it, if it hadn’t been for the painting.’
‘Think they really will see sense and skedaddle?’
‘They’d be bloody fools not to, Ralph. What now?’
‘How about we tootle along and drop in on this butler chappie?’
Langham led the way to the car.
TWELVE
They motored across London Bridge and along the Old Kent Road.
‘You ever met an off-duty butler before?’ Ralph asked.
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘Strange coves.’
‘In what way?’
Ralph frowned and lit up a Capstan, filling the car with its acrid fumes. ‘They’re just like you and me, really. Underneath. No better and no worse. Only, see, they think they’re a cut above everyone else.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Well, I reckon it’s ’cos they work all the time with toffs. I mean, stands to reason, doesn’t it? You hob-nob with aristocracy from sparrow-fart to midnight, and what happens? It rubs off on you, is what.’
Langham smiled to himself. ‘What rubs off on you?’
Ralph blew a plume of smoke at the windscreen. ‘Superiority is what. The idea that you’re better than everyone else. I mean, just think about the bitch we just left. Right piece of uppity goods, she is. The way she looks down her snout at everyone, her hubby included. Well, butlers are just like that. Mark my word, you’ll see when we meet this Gittings character. He’ll think he’s God’s gift, and no mistake.’
‘We’ll see,’ Langham said.
‘And if it’s OK with you, Don, I’ll do the talking.’
‘Fine by me.’
‘I know how to handle these types. Don’t let ’em get above themselves, and if he tries it on, take him down a peg or two.’
Langham turned left along a street of small, red-brick houses in the shadow of a vast gasometer. ‘What number is it?’
Ralph peered out. ‘Forty-five. There,’ he said, pointing.
Langham slowed down and pulled into the kerb.
‘Least it’s stopped raining,’ Ralph said. He peered up and down the street and sniffed. ‘We looked at a house a couple of streets away, after the war. Annie wanted to be closer to her mum in Deptford, but I reckoned nothing to the area. Give me Lewisham any day. I mean, just look at it! Grim.’
He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt end through the window. Langham was about to suggest they make a move when the door of number forty-five opened and a tall, dark-haired man in his forties, smartly dressed in a Crombie coat and bowler hat, stepped from the house and walked along the street away from the car. He carried a rolled-up newspaper under his right arm and looked for all the world like a city banker.
‘That the chap?’ Ralph asked.
‘That’s him,’ Langham said.
‘We could nab him and ask him to accompany us back to his place?’
‘Wait,’ Langham said, pointing.
Joseph Gittings stopped at the kerb, looked both ways and crossed the road towards a public house. As they watched, he pushed through the door to the snug.
‘Better still,’ Langham said, ‘how about we join him for a jar?’
‘Could murder for one,’ Ralph said, jumping from the car.
They gave Gittings a couple of minutes to buy his drink and find a table, then crossed the road and entered the Globe Tavern. The butler had settled himself at a corner table and was opening his Daily Mirror and taking an inch from the top of his Guinness.
‘I’ll get them in,’ Langham said, ‘while you mosey over and say hello, friendly like.’
Ralph nodded. ‘Mine’s a Fuller’s.’
Langham ordered two bitters. Ralph sat next to Joseph Gittings and showed the butler his accreditation. Gittings scowled suspiciously at Ralph, then looked across the room and saw Langham. His expression registered recognition, quickly followed by alarm.
Langham picked up the pint pots and crossed to the corner table, nodding cheerily. ‘We meet again, Mr Gittings, under somewhat more auspicious circumstances this time.’
The butler shrugged and, as po-faced as ever, looked from Ralph to Langham. ‘Said all I have to say to the rozzers,’ he muttered.
‘So they caught up with you?’ Ralph said.
‘They came and went last night, and they don’t have anything on me.’
‘And why should they?’ Langham said. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong, have you?’
‘Not a thing,’ Gittings said. ‘So why’re you nosing around?’
Ralph said, ‘We just want to know more about the geezer who employed you, don’t we? This Maxwell Fenton chap.’
Gittings took a mouthful of Guinness. ‘What makes you think I know much about him? He hired me for the night, gave me instructions, then slipped me a fiver and left me to it.’
‘And then,’ Langham said, ‘he blew his brains out all over the library wall at the end of the night.’
Ralph lit up another Capstan. ‘Bit unusual, that, eh? Not what your employers normally get up to, is it? And then you high-tail it before the boys in blue turn up.’ He shook his head. ‘How do you think that looks, chummy?’
Gittings lifted his pint. His hand shook. ‘So what if I heard the shot, looked in and saw …?’ He shrugged. ‘I ask you, what could I do? He was dead, stone-cold dead.’
‘So you panicked and ran?’ Langham said.
‘I suppose I did. Best out of there, I thought. Didn’t think the rozzers would trace me. Nor you, for that matter.’
‘When was the first time you met Maxwell Fenton?’
The butler took another drink. ‘That afternoon two days ago, as arranged. He told me that he was expecting guests, six of them, and they’d all have invitations. I was to show them into the sitting room, then liaise with him about when I should escort them all to the library.’
‘And when I showed up, without an invitation?’ Langham asked.
‘I thought I’d better clear it with Mr Fenton. He didn’t like it, but when I said you’d take the missus home if you weren’t allowed in, he instructed me to let you in and set out an extra chair.’
‘And he said nothing about what the little get together was all about?’ Ralph asked.
‘Not a thing.’
‘Did he say anything about the guests, who they were, his dealings with ’em?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
Ralph knocked ash from his cigarette into the tray with a flick of a nicotine-stained finger. ‘And when you got to Winterfield that afternoon, there was no one else about?’
‘Not a soul – only Mr Fenton.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘What about a car in the drive?’ Ralph asked.
‘Nothing, no car. Nothing at all. Made me wonder how Mr Fenton got around. I reckoned he used taxis.’
‘And once inside,’ Ralph went on, ‘you didn’t get the impression that there was anyone else in the house – keeping themselves to themselves, like?’
‘No, as I said, there wasn’t a soul about – only Mr Fenton.’
‘He didn’t mention anyone else? Friends, relatives, acquaintances?’
‘No, no one. He gave me his instructions and left me to arrange the drinks trolley.’
‘What time was this?’ Ralph asked.
‘When Mr Fenton contacted the agency, he left instructions that I was to arrive no later than five. I arrived at Winterfield at one minute to and rang the bell at five on the dot.’
‘Commendably punctual,’ Langham murmured.
‘And how did Fenton seem at this point?’ Ralph asked.
/>
‘Seem?’
‘I mean,’ Ralph said, drawing on his Capstan and watching the butler through narrowed eyes, ‘did he look like a geezer who was planning to blow his skull to smithereens?’
Gittings took a long drink, considering the question. ‘That’s the strange thing,’ he said reflectively. ‘You see, looking back, that’s what struck me as odd. He didn’t seem in the least preoccupied or melancholy. Not at all like someone who was planning to kill himself. He seemed, well, quite chipper, to tell the truth.’
‘Chipper?’ Ralph said, dubious. ‘Like, happy-go-lucky?’
Gittings frowned. ‘I wouldn’t say happy-go-lucky so much as breezy, confident. He was smiling and quite chatty, asking me about the trip down and about how long I’d served as a butler.’
‘And that is, as a matter of interest?’ Langham asked.
‘Almost twenty-five years, fifteen of them for Lord Hailbury. When he passed away, I decided to go part-time, and I joined the agency.’
‘So back to that night,’ Ralph said. ‘He gave you instructions about greeting the guests, but what about afterwards?’
‘He said the evening would end at approximately ten o’clock, and that I was to be on hand to see the guests out.’
Langham exchanged a look with Ralph. ‘What were his exact words?’ Langham asked, leaning forward.
Gittings regarded his half-finished pint. ‘Just that: he expected the evening to end at ten, and that I should be ready when the guests left.’ He hesitated. ‘That’s why, when he did what he did, it was so shocking.’
Langham sat back, regarding his pint.
Again, he thought, there was something not quite right here. Fenton’s words had not matched his deeds – just as his threats to the guests on that fateful evening had not matched the act of taking his own life.
There was something very wrong about the whole thing, but for the life of him Langham could not guess what that might be.
An old man bustled into the bar with a tray, selling cockles, pork scratchings, and pickled eggs. Ralph bought three eggs and wolfed them down in short order.
‘So you looked in on hearing the gunshot,’ he said around a mouthful of masticated egg, ‘saw what he’d done and off you scarpered?’
‘That’s about the top and bottom of it, yes,’ Gittings admitted.
Langham said, ‘And you drove straight back to London?’
‘When I reached Ilford, I decided I needed a drink to steady my nerves. I stopped at a pub and had a quick few pints.’
Langham said, ‘And you didn’t, on the way, take a detour to the village of Lower Malton and the house of one of the guests, Doctor Bryce?’ He paused. ‘You didn’t happen to meet up with a dark-haired woman at Bryce’s place—?’
‘I don’t know anything about any woman,’ Gittings said. ‘But the inspector asked me about Bryce. He wanted to know what I was doing between midnight and five in the morning.’
‘Let me guess,’ Ralph said. ‘You told the rozzers you were tucked up all comfy in your pit, right?’
‘Not at all,’ said Gittings, relishing what he said next. ‘I told them that between midnight and five I was locked in a cell at Battersea police station.’
Langham leaned forward. ‘Come again?’
‘You see,’ Gittings said, ‘I had one or two too many at Ilford, and after leaving the Swan and almost making it home, I was pulled over just around the corner and found to be drunk in charge. I spent the night in a cell at Battersea.’
‘Well, blow me down,’ Ralph said, laughing, ‘if that ain’t about the best alibi I’ve ever come across!’
‘Never thought I’d be glad to find myself in the slammer for the night,’ Gittings admitted. ‘Funny how things work out, isn’t it?’
Langham finished his pint and pointed to the butler’s glass. ‘Care for another?’
‘I don’t mind if I do, sir.’
Langham took half a crown from his pocket. ‘I’ll put this behind the bar for a couple more,’ he said, ‘and then we’ll be on our way. Thank you for your time, Mr Gittings, and be careful how many you have. You don’t want to spend another night in the cell, do you?’
The butler smiled. ‘I’ll mind your advice, sir, and limit myself to just one more.’
Back in the car, Langham said, ‘Well, so much for your theory that all butlers are uppity aristocrats-in-waiting. He seemed quite a decent chap, all things considered.’
‘The exception that proves the rule,’ Ralph muttered.
‘So, what do you make of what he said?’
‘Only thing that struck me as odd, Don – Fenton’s manner. Chatty and breezy, not like a man planning to snuff himself.’
‘That’s what I thought. Right, what now?’
‘I want to nip round the corner and check with the rozzers to see if Gittings was banged up like he claims.’
‘You doubt him?’ Langham said, pulling into the road.
‘Just crossing all the t’s and dotting the i’s, Don.’
Langham drove to the end of the street, turned left, then right, and motored along the main street until he came to the police station.
Ralph hopped out. ‘Back in a jiffy.’
A few minutes later he tapped down the steps of the station and resumed the passenger seat.
‘Well?’ Langham asked.
‘He’s legit,’ Ralph said. ‘Found drunk in charge of a road vehicle and thrown into the cell at five to midnight, released at dawn.’
Langham set off and headed north. ‘Next stop,’ he said, ‘the Kersh and Cohen Theatrical Agency.’
THIRTEEN
They parked on Holborn High Street and walked down an alleyway towards a Chinese laundry, a grille at ground level belching out clouds of steam and the overpowering reek of bleach.
‘The agency’s above the Chinese place,’ Ralph said. ‘I had a stroke of luck on the blower. I asked the receptionist if any of their acts had been hired by a Maxwell Fenton. Then I added “Maxwell Fenton of Winterfield, Essex” and, hey presto, the woman said that someone called Mr Smith of Winterfield, Lower Malton, had booked an actor a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Odd. Why would Fenton use an assumed name?’ Langham asked.
‘Search me. Good job I mentioned Winterfield, though, or we might never’ve had the lead.’
‘That’s what’s worrying about this job so much of the time – how we rely on chance and blind luck.’
‘And brains and legwork, Don. Don’t forget that.’
‘I supply the former and you the latter, right?’ Langham said, straight-faced.
‘Aye, and your old mum was the Queen of Sheba.’
They halted before the Chinese laundry. Beyond an open door, a flight of cracked linoleum steps rose to the theatrical agency. Ralph led the way up to the first-floor office.
A harried-looking man in shirtsleeves was barricaded behind a desk overflowing with papers and folders. He was in his sixties and balding, with thick black glasses and a Biro pen lodged above his right ear. Buried in the avalanche were two constantly ringing telephones and an ancient upright typewriter.
‘The Astounding Baldini at the Metro, Bracknell, on the fifth? Of course. Five guineas a night.’ He waved Langham and Ralph to a padded bench that ran along the wall opposite the desk, then slammed the phone down and answered the second.
‘Hello? Right, right. You doubt me? I swear! Fine act. Listen to me, he was treading the boards with Irving. No word of a lie.’ He scribbled something in a ledger and picked up the first phone when it began ringing. ‘Kersh and Cohen. The Carringtons? They’re the finest man-and-wife mind-readers north of the river. Six guineas a turn, available from the tenth.’
At this rate, Langham thought, they could be waiting till dusk.
The walls of the office were plastered with black-and-white photographs depicting, presumably, the many acts that Kersh and Cohen represented: debonair matinee idols and sultry leading ladies, stand-up comedians and clowns, plate-spi
nners and magicians. Several pictures showed the man behind the desk smoking a fat cigar, his arms yoked possessively around the shoulders of blonde starlets.
He slammed the phone down and a sudden, ringing silence descended.
‘God help me,’ he shouted as if still on the blower. ‘What a business! The world is full of chisellers and crooks, my friends. And me, poor Mannie Kersh, I’m in the middle, squeezed between grasping impresarios and griping talent. And you are?’
‘Ryland and Langham,’ Ralph said, ‘I phoned yesterday—’
Mr Kersh raised a hand. ‘Don’t tell me! Comedians, right? And you’ – he pointed to Langham – ‘you’re the straight man.’
‘I spoke to a Miss Mankowitz—’ Ralph tried again.
Kersh rolled his eyes. ‘Between you and me, I’d be better off employing a monkey. Would you believe she called in sick again? Influenza this time.’
‘That’s terrible, but …’ Langham began.
‘I’ll say. I can’t be answering the phone all day.’ He looked from Langham to Ralph. ‘Go on.’
Ralph blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Kersh clicked his fingers impatiently as if keeping time to a bossa nova. ‘Let’s have it, but I warn you – I’ve seen ’em all before. And double acts? Hard sell these days. Individual stand-ups, fine. But double acts—’
The phone shrilled and he snatched it up. ‘Kersh and Cohen. That’s right. He’s a star, and reliable. You won’t be disappointed. Three guineas a night and board and lodging. I’ll send him along.’
As soon as Kersh dropped the receiver, Ralph said, ‘We’re not comedians, Mr Kersh.’
The agent blinked. ‘Mind-readers, right? But as you’ll no doubt know’ – he laughed at his little joke – ‘I’m fully booked with mentalists.’
‘We’re private detectives,’ Langham said, ‘and we’re here to enquire about one of your customers, a Mr Smith of Winterfield.’
Mr Kersh spread his hands. ‘But why didn’t you say, boys? Private detectives! I’ve had everything in here, my friends – but gumshoes, never! A first!’ He leaned forward. ‘How can I help?’