I had picked Foggy up and put him under my arm because there was not only a milling crowd, there were also donkeys, goats and chickens running free in the street and Fogg was particularly fond of chasing chickens. We wound our way through to a side road which backed onto the Hotel Al Shami.
A pair of heavy wooden gates opened onto a walled garden. The sun was dropping and pale light washed the expanse of earthly paradise as the day fell into dusk. A chap with a turban and what appeared to be a long curved sword sat motionless in a cubby hole half-hidden in the shadows. I assumed him to be a guard and paused for an instant to consider the armed men in the desert – it may look like paradise, but danger, it seemed, rippled not far beneath the surface. I put my little dog down onto the immaculate lawn and he raced off to bark joyously, his ears flapping in his wake.
‘You like flowers, effendi? There are many roses. Damascus roses, see.’ He pointed to rambling briers clinging to old stone walls surrounding the peaceful garden. ‘And jasmine and gardenia, and more roses around the pavilion.’ He indicated a pretty domed folly in the centre of the garden. ‘Also hibiscus and bougainvillaea by the terrace.’ He waved a hand toward a quiet spot where wicker chairs and circular tables were arranged. ‘And the yellow…’
‘Yes, thank you, Jamal,’ I interrupted the botanical litany. ‘Don’t happen to know Miss Persephone Carruthers do you?’
‘Ah, the English pearl. A lady of distinguished beauty,’ he said. ‘If I may so express, effendi.’
‘Yes, well, of course. Is she staying here?’
He bowed. ‘Indeed. But lady’s quarters are top floor, it is Ladies Row. No men allowed. No sir.’ He shook his head. ‘Only for ladies.’
‘But you could give her a note from me?’ I asked.
‘I will do my most excellent best, effendi.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She is making movie today, with the Americans. Very fine peoples Americans. Give dollars. Very fine, sir.’
‘Ah, yes, of course.’ That gave me pause. Perhaps I was supposed to give dollars for tips and whatnot? Where would I get some? ‘Erm, well never mind that. Who exactly are these Americans?’
‘They are loud mens and beautiful ladies. They have camera and shout with cone. It is all very fine.’
I can’t say that was very illuminating.
‘Lennox,’ Swift called as he strode into the garden from the same gate by which I’d arrived. Fogg barked and ran to him, his bottom wagging with his tail. ‘I saw you leave. We should find Persi.’
‘She’s filming, apparently.’ I noted that he too was considerably more neat in his cream suit and without his trench coat.
‘What time is it?’
‘Almost six,’ he replied. ‘Where are they filming?’
‘No idea. When is dinner served, Jamal?’
‘When you wish for it, sir.’
‘Really?’ This place was improving all the time. ‘Well, I think I’ll take a snifter first.’
‘Lennox, we need to contact the Chief of Police. We should put in a request to see Charles Langton immediately.’ Swift said as we followed Jamal back into the hotel through the deserted terrace, passing wicker tables and chairs as we went.
‘They’re hardly likely to be open at this time of night,’ I admit to being keen to sample the hotel’s selection of brandy.
‘But if he’s dying…’
‘Well, just one drink first.’ I quickened my pace before he could change my mind.
We arrived at the central courtyard from an entirely different direction than Fogg and I had left. I spotted the bar, complete with mahogany counter and barman, behind a small jungle of greenery on one side of the courtyard.
Suddenly, a slim lady with long blonde hair ran from a distant archway and looked about her. She stopped in front of the low wall of the fountain and desperately turned this way and that. Her chiffon dress fluttered as she clasped her hands to her bosom in obvious distress.
At that moment, a man in a smart tuxedo appeared, his face dark and brooding. His arm was outstretched and, even at a distance, I could see he was holding a gun.
‘No, no,’ the woman shouted, flinging out her arms as though to implore him.
‘I can endure it no longer, Beryl, I am in torment, you have brought me to this,’ her pursuer replied in dramatic fashion.
His hand shaking, he pointed the gun and pulled the trigger. In a flash, a loud shot ran out and his victim crumpled to the floor, her hands once more clutching her chest.
Chapter 4
That stopped us in our tracks. Fogg sniffed the air, paused for a heartbeat then raced off up the stairs toward the bedrooms. Swift was almost as quick to move, he ran toward the woman and I made a dash for the man with the pistol.
‘And now, I will bring an end to my misery.’ He aimed the muzzle at his temple with another dramatic flourish. I barrelled into him with a rugby-tackle while grabbing the gun, which fired with a bang into the air as we crashed to the tiles in a heap.
‘Oomph,’ the man cushioning my fall grunted.
A shriek rang out from above. ‘Aargh.’
‘Cut, cut,’ an angry voice bellowed from behind. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing you pair of dumbbells?’
‘Ow, you oaf, get off,’ the man I’d flattened complained.
I climbed to my feet, keeping a grip on the pistol, then looked up for the source of the ‘aargh’ I’d heard. I couldn’t see anyone so I turned back to the man now rising to stand. Apart from a squashed suit, he appeared unharmed and was already smoothing himself down. I left him to it and strode over to join Swift who was kneeling beside the woman. He was feeling her neck for a pulse.
‘You just ruined my big scene.’ A squat chap bounded up, practically bouncing with rage. He wore a checked shirt, braces and oversized trousers. He stabbed a finger up at me as he spoke in a brash American accent. ‘You got any idea what this costs? You bulldoze in here, like a pair of big lummoxes, knocking over my stars, what the…’
‘She’s dead,’ I interrupted him.
‘She’s acting!’ he blazed. ‘It’s a movie!’
‘She’s dead,’ Swift pronounced firmly as he stood up.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ the dapper man, who I now assumed to be an actor, came over to stand beside the stocky chap. He was quite short too. Perhaps they had to use small people so they would fit into the camera frame.
‘She’s been shot,’ I said. ‘She’s bleeding. Look at her.’
The stocky American didn’t look. He wasn’t listening to a damn word I said. ‘We’re using blanks you blockhead. What do you take us for? Idiots?’
I eyed him more closely, he’d insulted me three times now and it was becoming annoying. I was still holding the pistol, I put it to his forehead.
‘I’ll shoot you, shall I? Shouldn’t be a problem if they’re blanks.’
He stopped shouting. Actually he stopped doing anything. He just stared up at me in piggy-eyed fury.
‘Lennox,’ Swift reproved.
I lowered the gun.
All attention switched to the lady at our feet, as our words finally struck home. A red stain had started to seep from under her clutched hands and she was lying very, very still.
‘She’s dead?’ The actor’s face paled.
‘Of course she’s dead. You just shot her,’ Swift said.
‘Good Lord, she’s dead?’ He dragged his eyes from the body toward me, then back to the bleeding lady. ‘But, how… you mean the gun? I shot her? My God!’
The stocky man in the checked shirt bent over for a closer look, then suddenly straightened up. ‘Mammie,’ he yelled. ‘Mammie. Where’s the lawyer?’
He trotted at a half run in the direction he’d come from.
I turned to see a man in overalls handling a large camera on a tripod. It was
positioned in front of a group of people gathered in the far corner of the courtyard. They looked on goggle-eyed, as though transfixed, and at the front of the pack was Persi Carruthers.
Dressed in lavender-blue, her blonde hair coiled into a neat bun, she looked as stunningly lovely as I remembered her. Her expression was one of astonishment, then, as if woken from a daze, she leapt to her feet and ran towards me.
‘Heathcliff! You came!’
‘Persi,’ I reached out my arms and she launched herself into them.
‘Oh, it’s been ghastly.’ She stifled a sob as she buried her face in my chest.
I patted her shoulder, then placed an arm around her slim waist but decided against a kiss as things were rather confused. The gun was a bit of an impediment, too.
I tried some soft words. ‘Erm, well, no need for tears, old stick. And I should be helping Swift with this dead woman.’
‘What?’ She suddenly released me. ‘You mean she’s actually dead?’ Her focus switched to Swift and the woman on the floor, who was still bleeding and looked more dead as the minutes ticked by.
Swift attempted a reassuring grin. ‘Good evening, Persi. We came as quickly as we could.’
‘Oh heavens!’ Persi clasped both hands to her face. ‘She’s truly dead?’
‘Yes, she’s dead!’ I repeated, why on earth don’t people listen?
‘I couldn’t hear from over there,’ she explained. ‘We’re not allowed to move or make a sound when the camera is rolling. The director, Mr Vincent, gets terribly angry if so much as a pin drops.’ She turned to look back at the spot she’d come from. The man with the camera had stopped gaping and was now rapidly removing a large film container from the contraption. The stocky American, who I assumed to be Vincent, had vanished.
‘Who is she?’ Swift indicated the expired actress.
‘That chap said she was called Beryl.’ I pointed to the actor who had left us for the comforts of the bar and was even now downing a large whisky.
‘No, that was part of the script, Heathcliff.’ Persi lowered her hands and attempted to pull herself together. ‘Her real name is Josephine Belvoir.’
That gave us a jolt.
‘This is the lady your ex-fiancé was accused of trying to kill?’ Swift asked, the surprise apparent on his face.
Persi nodded, a blush rising over her high cheekbones.
I glanced down at the corpse. I hadn’t observed her closely amid the drama. Long blond hair the colour of spun gold had fallen back from her heart-shaped face. There was a trace of pink lipstick on her cupid’s-bow lips and her mouth was slightly parted, as though a faint gasp of surprise had escaped her. Wide eyes, flecked with green and gold, stared into the distance — her gaze must have been mesmerising in life. It remained so in death – although it probably wouldn’t for much longer.
I turned to take a better look and my heart suddenly lurched.
‘She had the most extraordinary effect on men,’ Persi was saying. ‘The more susceptible kind, anyway. She brought out the Sir Galahad in them.’
‘Well, she won’t anymore,’ Swift replied.
‘No…’ Persi paused again to stare at the lifeless body. ‘What happened?’
‘The gun must have been loaded with live ammunition.’ Swift turned to me. ‘Lennox, check the magazine would you. I’ll be back in a minute.’
He strode toward the reception desk, where a number of waiters were peering over the top of the counter.
‘What?’ I was mesmerised by the body at our feet, her slim wrist extended to reveal a gold and diamond bracelet, glittering in the lamplight. The clasp had a curious engraving of a galleon or some such thing. Her pink and blue chiffon frock was spread about her, a glossy confection of gauze and silk. She reminded me of Ophelia lying in the lake, I felt tears prick my eye and I…
‘Heathcliff?’ Persi was staring up at me.
‘Um… What?’
‘Did you hear what Inspector Swift said?’
‘Um, no… yes. I… erm.’
Persi put a hand on my arm. ‘Heathcliff, are you all right?’
I looked down into her blue eyes. ‘Persi?’
‘Yes?’
‘Not Heathcliff, old thing. Never liked it.’
‘Sorry. But Swift said…’
‘Right.’
I focused back on the gun. I’d taken it for a Colt 45, but on closer examination I saw it was actually a Kongsberg-Colt. I popped out the magazine and pulled back the slide to eject the round in the chamber and gave her the emptied pistol. ‘These are all live. Here, hold this.’
I emptied the magazine into my palm, examined the bullets, then pocketed the lot before retrieving the gun from Persi and slotting the magazine back in place. It was only then that I remembered I was supposed to be careful about fingerprints.
‘Someone exchanged the bullets!’ Persi exclaimed.
‘Yes, who?’
She paused for a moment. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, who supplied it?’ I asked.
‘It… it was being used as a prop in the film. It’s rather strange because the gun they’d brought with them disappeared a few days ago and then Vincent produced this one today and said it should be used instead and… and…’
I could see she was flustered and tried a softer tone. ’Come on old girl, try to spit it out.’
She took a breath and pulled herself together. ‘Right, yes. The bullets were checked this morning, they were definitely blanks. I saw them myself. And Harry Bing loaded it into the magazine. Harry is the actor you flattened,’ she explained then faltered again. ‘I… I don’t understand how this could happen.’
I thought perhaps this was an occasion where I should hug her or some such thing, but I wanted some answers first. ‘Persi, who does this gun belong to?’
‘Heathcliff… I…’
Swift returned to interrupt. ‘I told Hamid to call the police. He hadn’t moved from reception, I suppose they’re used to shooting around here. Were they live rounds, Lennox?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded.
‘Who’s the actor?’ Swift asked, glancing toward Bing at the bar.
Persi didn’t answer, so I told him.
‘Harry Bing?’ Swift repeated.
‘Yes,’ Persi found her voice. ‘He’s the second lead.’
‘Not the star?’ Swift asked.
‘No, that’s Dick Dreadnaught.’
‘Dick Dreadnaught?’ Swift and I both repeated in incredulity.
‘It’s his stage name, he wanted something memorable,’ she explained.
‘Well, he certainly succeeded in that,’ Swift remarked.
‘Never mind all that, Swift. Persi just said something significant.’ I told him about the incident of the missing gun and the blanks.
‘Do you know who the gun belonged too, Miss Carruthers?’ Swift asked.
Her lips trembled.
I sighed, feeling like a heel and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. ‘Come along, I’ll find you a drink, a snifter will buck you up.’ I led her in the direction of the jungle camouflaging the bar.
Half-way across the courtyard she suddenly stopped. ‘Wait, Heathcliff. There’s something I must tell the Inspector.’ She turned before I could utter another word and dashed back to where Swift was standing guard over the corpse. I stared after her, sighed in exasperation, shoved my hands in my pockets and carried on.
Harry Bing was halfway through a bottle of whisky and had the look of someone who was in for the night.
The bartender took one glance at me and poured a large brandy. I downed it. He replaced it with another on the polished counter.
‘I didn’t do it.’ Bing leaned on the bar, clutching a crystal tumbler of amber liquid in one hand and a damp handkerchief in the other. His voice was well enunciated with a polished
accent. I assumed he was English.
‘Yes, you did. I saw you.’
‘Well, it was hardly on purpose. Someone must have switched the gun, or bullets, or something.’ He sniffed.
‘Really?’ I gave him a hard stare.
He took another drink. ‘She was evil, you know.’
‘What?’
‘Josephine.’ He knocked back the whisky, which was instantly refilled. ‘Terrifying combination – beauty and evil. And she hid it so well. The evil, I mean.’
‘How was she evil?’ I wondered if he was a bit unhinged by the shock.
‘In so many ways, old boy.’
That begged more questions than I could cudgel so I changed tack. ‘You’re English. Thought all the movie people were American.’
He gave a grim laugh. ‘Vincent and his wife are American, they’re the money. The rest of us are a mixed bag.’ His shoulders fell. ‘Good God, she’s dead. She stole my heart, and never gave a damn. What a bloody fool she made of me.’ His forced smile faded as his eyes rolled. He hiccupped, then slumped slowly onto the bar.
I regarded him, or the back of his head anyway, and suddenly felt terribly tired, dejected and a long way from home.
‘Sir,’ Greggs appeared at my elbow, he spoke in a half-whisper. ‘Sir?’
‘What?’
‘There’s a body, sir.’
‘I know, Swift and Persi are with her.’
‘Not the lady, sir,’ he hissed. ‘Upstairs on the walkway. It’s the bath-draw boy. I think you may have shot him.’
Chapter 5
‘What?’
‘I fear so, sir.’
‘Good Lord, how?’
He eyed my snifter and cleared his throat.
‘I came to my door when I heard shouting. The bath-draw boy was on the walkway and he leaned over the railing to see the cause of the commotion and then a shot was fired and he collapsed to the floor.’
‘And you are sure he’s dead?’ I asked, realising it was probably the cause of the ‘aargh’ I’d heard.
‘I cannot say, sir.’ Greggs’ face was pale above his butlering togs. ‘Blood ran from his head and as I went to help, two rather large ladies came and dragged him away. I tried to intervene but they were insistent and… and…’ He puttered out of words.
Death in Damascus: A 1920s Murder Mystery with Heathcliff Lennox Page 3