by Peter Corris
'I'd believe anything about this bloody madhouse. Tell me.'
'Dorothy's mother rang Vivien up yesterday and do you know what she said? She said, "When are you going to divorce Sir Laurence so that my daughter can marry him?" Can you imagine it?'
'Jesus!'
'Isn't it awful? What a terrible woman! And it made her so unhappy I'm afraid she drank far too much and we had to get the doctor and . . .'
I gripped her arm. 'Is she all right?'
'Yes, don't worry. You love her as much as I do, don't you? And Peter Finch adores her and Sir Laurence treats her like this. It's too awful.'
I gave her another cigarette and we smoked in confused silence for a while. 'She's going to London tomorrow to see a doctor. You will look after her, won't you Richard?'
Vivien sat quietly in the back seat on the drive to London. I thought I heard her sobbing once but couldn't be sure. I delivered her to Harley Street.
'Thank you, Rich. I'll be a few hours, I fancy. You can go off and see one of your girlfriends.'
I would rather have stayed with her to hold her hand, but I simply checked my watch and nodded. 'I'll be here, Miss Leigh. It's not my business of course, but I trust you get good news.'
She smiled, showing her perfect white teeth. 'Yes, that would make a nice change.'
She went up the steps into one of those buildings housing a bunch of medicos who are all angling for knighthoods and making a hundred grand a year. I drove around to the American Embassy and the Rolls got me admission to the carpark. Nothing further had been said about the uniform at Notley, so I was wearing a dark suit and looking quite the prosperous Yank. I'd earlier written to Australia House and got a copy of my birth certificate. I had the required photographs and a statutory declaration from Finch testifying to my identity and I knew the number of my lost American passport because it was easy to remember: 1001001B. I'd always liked the feel of that number.
Business was slack in the passport office and my application for a replacement passport was dealt with promptly and went through smoothly. I gave the clerk the Notley address and he looked suitably impressed. I paid the fee and was told the document would be ready within two weeks. Getting a new California driver's licence would be trickier, but I gave them the details and they undertook to help me with it. Altogether quite a pleasant experience. I think someone must have passed the word that I'd arrived in a Rolls—nothing impresses Americans so much as a high status automobile.
I had a quick drink and a snack in a pub and headed back to Harley Street. I was early and had to circle the block a few times. Eventually I parked, smoked a cigarette (outside the car of course), and Vivien appeared. She walked quickly towards me and indicated that she would sit in the back. I could see that she was furiously angry and I didn't dare question her.
'Notley, Miss Leigh?'
'Of course,' she said. 'Bloody, bloody Notley.'
I moved off and before I'd turned the first corner I heard her opening the cocktail cupboard in the back of the car and getting herself a drink. The bottle tinkled against the glass a second time almost at once and then again before we were out of the heart of the city. At this rate she'd be well and truly sloshed by Ealing. I picked up speed a little, wanting to get her home as quickly as possible. I heard the bottle and glass sound again before too many more miles and began to indulge a fantasy of carrying her inside. I could imagine the delicious lightness of her. I'd have to take her up the stairs to her bedroom. Perhaps Grace wouldn't be around and there'd be no one else to help her . . .
'D'you know what that bloody quack had the nerve to say to me, Rich?'
She was leaning forward and I could smell the whisky fumes. Usually, as I knew, she drank gin or vodka: if she wasn't accustomed to scotch it could hit her like a ten-pound sledge.
'No, Miss Leigh.'
'Course you don't, weren't there. How could you? Silly question. He said I should have a child and stop drinking. Have a child! How, I ask you? How?' She laughed, and this time there was nothing entrancing about the sound. It was like a sort of soprano gargle—high-pitched and desperate. I stepped on the gas and could hear her settling back in her seat again. I drove, worried about her, not fully concentrating on what I was doing. I was jerked back to attention by the sound of the police siren. I glanced at the speedometer and saw that it was touching seventy.
'Shit!' I eased off and moved over as the cop car pulled alongside and waved me to stop.
I brought the Rolls to a halt, set the brake and looked into the back seat. She was fast asleep, curled up in the corner like a kitten with her chinchilla coat wrapped around her.
'Out of the car please, sir.'
Two of them, one, older, with a stripe and one without. No guns of course, which was a relief. This'll be all right, I thought. They're bound to know Lady Olivier. I got out and stood on the side of the road.
'Licence please, sir?' The one with the stripe was doing the talking.
'Er . . . I'm afraid I haven't got one. That is, I've got an American licence but I've lost it. I've applied for a new one but . . .'
'You were doing seventy miles an hour, sir. Or thereabouts.'
'Well, my employer became ill and I was hurrying to get her home.'
'Take a look, Constable Clark. So it's not your car?'
No 'sir' now, you see. The old class system rearing its ugly head again.
'No, it belongs to . . .'
The constable came back and interrupted me. 'Woman in the back, Senior. Asleep. Strong smell of alcohol. Glass on the seat.'
The senior constable leaned towards me and sniffed my breath. 'Have you been drinking?'
'Couple of pints back in London, over an hour ago. Look, Senior Constable, I'm . . .'
He produced a notebook and a pencil. 'Yes, go on. Who are you?'
'My name's Brown, I mean Browning. I'm an American citizen and I work for . . .'
'Is it Brown or Browning?'
'Browning. And that's Lady . . .'
The two cops exchanged a quick look. 'Richard Browning?' the senior constable snapped.
'Yes.'
He put his pencil away, snapped his fingers and the constable produced a set of handcuffs like a magician conjuring up a rabbit. 'I have to inform you that you are under arrest,' he said.
7
'What's the charge?'
He clicked on the handcuffs. 'Attempted murder. I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.'
'I'm hardly likely to say much standing here on the side of the road, am I? What I want to know is what do you propose to do about Miss Vivien Leigh, or Lady Olivier, as you might prefer to call her—the lady in the Rolls Royce?'
The young constable's jaw dropped. 'Vivien Leigh! I didn't recognise her, but I think he's right, Senior. What are we going to do?'
The senior constable was made of sterner stuff. 'I don't care if it's Princess Margaret herself. This man is accused of a serious crime and I'm taking him in. You can drive the car.'
'A Roller, Senior? You want me to drive a Roller?'
'I don't want you to, lad. I'm ordering you to. Where does the lady live?'
The last remark was addressed to me. I folded my arms. 'I'm not saying a word until I receive legal advice.'
'Your lack of cooperation is noted, Mr Browning. Clark, get on the blower and find out where Lady Olivier lives. Then . . .'
'Notley Abbey,' I said exasperatedly. 'Near Long Crendon. Look, this is a farce. I've never murdered anybody or attempted to murder anybody in my life. Well, not really. I'm sure this can easily be straightened out.'
'Happen it can. You'll be glad to accompany me to High Wycombe police station, then, where we can deal with the matter.'
'Why the hell not?' I said. 'This country gets crazier by the minute.'
'Noted. On your way, Clark. I'll send a car for you.'
I wasn't really too worried, although I never like dealing with the police for anything more serious than jaywalking. So fa
r on this trip to England my only illegalities were a little smuggling, and driving while not in actual physical possession of a licence; but that hadn't stopped me being locked up once and now arrested. But attempted murder was absurd; there had to be some mistake.
I'd left the keys in the ignition and I stood by, under the watchful eye of the senior constable, while Clark started the Rolls Royce and drove tentatively off with a very drunk double Academy Award-winner in the back. It's a strange world.
Something about my demeanour must have discomfited the policeman, because he seemed wary of me on the drive into High Wycombe. I sat in the front seat. The handcuffs were a hindrance, but I managed to fish out and light a Senior Service. He didn't object, although he refused my offer of one.
'Nasty habit,' he said. 'I never could understand why people take it up.'
I decided it was time to start working on him. 'I couldn't agree more. Tried to quit but can't. Started during the war like a lot of blokes and, well, there you are.'
He sniffed. 'Well, you Yanks only came into it near the end, and I suppose you got your bloody smokes for free.'
'I'm talking about the first war, Senior. I was at the Somme with the Australians, and I don't think there was a man there that didn't smoke, except a few Holy Rollers. You got what comfort you could, believe me.'
He took his eyes off the road long enough to give me a hard look. 'You're not old enough.'
'I was a kid, it's true, but I was there—Ypres, Passchendaele. You'd have smoked and you'd have eaten roast rat like the rest of us and cried for your mother at night when the guns were going off. I suppose you were in the last show?'
'I was.'
'Me too, with the Canadians. Age up a few years for the first one, down a few for the second, bloody fool that I was.'13
I had him rattled now. I smoked and looked out the window as he drove. He was a big, beefy type, carrying beer fat and inclined to sweat. His radio beeped a few times and he made a mess of responding. It was getting to him—the notion of explaining how he'd stopped Sir Laurence Olivier's Rolls Royce with Vivien Leigh inside and arrested the chauffeur, who was an old soldier with a distinguished record in two world wars. It was time to turn the screws.
'I guess I can make a phone call from the police station? Get on to my solicitor?'
'Yes.'
'Fine. And you are Senior Constable . . . ?'
'Clancy.' '
'Clancy. Okay. I'll buy you an Irish whisky when we've sorted all this out.'
'I don't drink whisky.'
I rubbed my hands together and chuckled, clinking the chain on the cuffs. 'I think you will after this, Mr Clancy. I think you will.'
If it had happened in LA the news would have been all over the papers the next day:
VIVIEN LEIGH DRUNK IN ROLLS ROYCE. CHAUFFEUR ARRESTED FOR ATTEMPTED SLAYING.
Being England, there was nothing like that. All the muscle that was used, all the insults and threats that were thrown about, all the influence brought to bear and favours called in, remained unrevealed to the public. In fact, nothing appeared in the papers. Constable Clark didn't whisper anything to any journalist and neither did the copper who came out to Notley Abbey to pick him up; no one at the High Wycombe police station let anything slip and I doubt that Sir Laurence Olivier ever heard anything about it. Certainly, there's no mention of the incident in his autobiography or the various books on Vivien Leigh—I've checked. The only person to suffer was yours truly.
At the police station I was invited to explain how my passport came to be found in the garden of a house which had been burgled and the owner shot at and wounded.
Worrying, but not too hard to account for. 'It was stolen,' I said.
'Where, when and by whom?'
'By some negroes at the Charing Cross lock-up.' I gave the date as near as I could remember.
A Detective-Sergeant Harrington was asking the questions. He was a ferret-faced, balding type who seemed to have a grudge against the world, and particularly against men better favoured than himself. 'And what were you doing there?'
Tricky to explain but I did my best. I'm afraid it all came out a bit garbled—Peter Finch, Charlie Partridge, loss of memory. I could see Harrington didn't believe me and I became a bit desperate. 'Phone Sergeant Barrett at Charing Cross. He'll confirm what I'm saying.'
Harrington sent someone off to do this while he flipped through the pages of a notebook. I couldn't tell whether there was anything written on them or not. We were sitting in a small, airless room that smelled of disinfectant. Harrington had refused me permission to smoke and I was getting fidgety. 'Do you know a man named Simon Bentley?'
'I don't think so.'
'He knows you. He works at the Regent Hotel in Piccadilly.'
'Sure. Yes, of course. Simon. I do know him.'
'Right. Now when you entered this country you gave the Regent as your intended address. Inquiries were made there and Mr Bentley made certain admissions.'
Jesus, I thought. The cigarettes.
I was never much of a poker-face and Harrington noted my reaction. 'I think you know what I'm talking about.'
'A few packets of Luckies,' I stuttered. 'It's accepted, it's normal.'
'It's not expected by Her Majesty's customs service, Mr Browning. Not accepted at all. Mr Bentley further states that you were absent from the hotel for four nights after checking in.'
'I've told you—that's when I was in the lock-up.'
'Dates don't match.'
'I'm not good on dates.'
'That's when the burglary and the shooting occurred.'
'Jesus Christ, I want a lawyer.'
'Profanity won't help, Mr Browning. Why don't you come clean? It'll go easier on you.'
Senior Constable Clancy entered the room with a smirk on his face. 'No record of a Browning held at the Charing Cross nick, sergeant.'
Harrington lifted one scraggy eyebrow as he looked at me. 'Well?'
Of course. They hadn't charged me. 'Did you speak to Barrett?' I said desperately.
'On forty-eight-hour sick leave.'
'Fucking Jesus.'
'That's enough from your filthy mouth!' Harrington slammed his fist on the table. 'Stop making up stories and tell us what happened.'
'Not a word until I speak to a lawyer. I want to make a phone call.'
Harrington poised a pen over his notebook. 'Who to?'
'Peter Finch at the Old Vic theatre.'
Clancy and Harrington exchanged uneasy looks.
'He'll be onstage in Romeo and Juliet,' I said. 'But I want to leave a message for him to get a lawyer down here as soon as possible. Until then, I don't say a thing. And you'd better think hard about the penalties for false arrest.'
Harrington leaned closer to me so that I could smell his cheap aftershave. 'Smuggling, driving without a licence while under the influence of alcohol and exceeding the speed limit are serious charges, old cock. I wouldn't be making threats if I was you.'
It was all bluff and counter-bluff, of course. I could tell I had them worried that the burglary and attempted murder charges wouldn't stick; on the other hand, I was worried about what they did have on me. I also faced the prospect of losing my job at Notley and the other inducements Finch had offered. I made the call to the theatre and left the message. Then it was off to a holding cell for the night. I was becoming an expert on British nicks—the hardness of the bunks, the smell of the toilets, the harshness of the lighting. At least they gave me a cup of what they called coffee and some fish and chips and allowed me to smoke. I had a narrow cell to myself, a wafer-thin pillow and two hard, scratchy blankets. An Irish drunk down the corridor started to sing and my blood ran cold. There's no sound more terrible on this earth than a drunken Irishman singing flat, but this one had a surprisingly good voice and a wide repertoire. I've spent many worse nights.
Finch sent an overweight, middle-aged lawyer named Dudley Mathers. He wore a fawn suit with a flower in his buttonhole, suede shoes and smel
led of scent. The policeman who escorted him into the room where we were to discuss my problem could hardly conceal his mirth. 'I trust you gentlemen will be comfortable in here.'
Mathers gave him a winning smile. 'If we need anything, we'll know just who to ask.'
I sat, unshaven, crumpled and tieless across a table from his sartorial splendour. He produced and offered a gold case containing two rows of cigarettes. 'Turkish or Virginian?'
'Virginian, thanks.'
He took one of the other kind and lit us both up. 'No exotic tastes, Mr Browning?'
'Plenty,' I said. 'But I tend to forget about them when I'm in the nick.'
He shook his head. His full head of silvery hair scarcely moved but scent wafted. 'Bad mistake. Mustn't let them get the upper hand. Now, what can I do for you?'
I told him the story and he listened intently, scribbling in a tiny notebook with a Parker pen. 'This is outrageous,' he said when I'd finished. 'Poor Vivien, being driven around the countryside by Constable Plod. Larry would be furious! We mustn't let him hear about this. There'd be no end of a stink.'
'What about me?'
He glanced at his notes. 'You say this Sergeant Barrett will confirm your story?'
'Yes.'
'Good. I'll get on to him the minute he's back on duty. That should clear up the attempted murder nonsense.'
'That means another day and night in here for me,' I protested.
Mathers put his pen and notebook away in his tooled leather briefcase and heaved himself up. 'Best thing all round. Gives me time to talk to this Bentley chap at the Regent. That's your big worry, the smuggling business. See what I can do.'
'I thought you'd get me out now.'
'Don't be silly. They haven't formally charged you yet. If I pressed them now, they would. Then it'd be a full court hearing and a pretty penny you'd have to put up for bail. This way, all they'll have is the smuggling, maybe not even that, and the motor offences. We can see a magistrate tomorrow morning and have you out on a hundred quid recognisance. You have got a hundred quid, I suppose?'
'Sure.'
'Good. Leave everything to me. Twenty-four hours, Dicky. Cheerio.'
Back to the cell, running out of cigarettes, unable to drink the tea, unwilling to eat the food. Twenty-four hours passed and then another twenty-four. The drunk with the sweet tenor voice was released and replaced by a mumbling old sinner who hawked and spat all through the night. I was given a blunt razor, a cake of nasty-smelling soap and a thin towel and allowed a lukewarm shower. One of the coppers took pity on me and passed in a pack of cards. Well, almost a pack. It was missing the three of spades and the jack of hearts but I improvised with bits of the Senior Service packet and they helped to pass the time.