No Hearts, No Roses

by Colin Murray

  I sat for a few minutes just listening to the reassuring hum of ordinary life.

  Violent death was not something I’d ever got used to. I’d seen my share during the war, and it always upset me. It was messy and sudden. Everyone developed a different strategy for dealing with it. There were even a few disturbing individuals who enjoyed it. Robert Rieux had been one of them.

  I’d always become a little introverted after seeing action and try to sit quietly for a while. Robert couldn’t understand this and went out of his way to disturb me, insisting on noisy drinking bouts or more unnecessary but extremely tense scouting activity.

  Oddly, I always feel the same way after playing football. I sit for a few minutes, listening to everyone else splashing about in the bath. It means that the water is filthy by the time I immerse myself, and I’m always the last one out of the dressing room, but it gives me a chance to think through what’s happened. I’ve always consoled myself with the thought that bathing in scummy water is probably no worse than sharing the bath with twenty-odd men who think the height of sophisticated humour is releasing little bubbling farts. Not that I’m that fastidious. If I were, I’d look for a football team with changing facilities that include showers.

  ‘How long’s he going to be, Daff?’ I said.

  ‘God knows. It’s a potential investor. Well, I assume it is. He had me producing figures most of the afternoon. Production costs, profit margins and all on a couple of pictures chosen at random.’ She snorted derisively. ‘“Chosen at random”, my Aunt Fanny.’ She swallowed tea. ‘The two most successful films we’ve ever made.’

  ‘Can I make a telephone call?’

  ‘Sure you can, Tone. Here, use this one.’

  She stabbed a plug into a socket and when I picked up the big, black receiver it purred in my ear like Fluffy after a fish tea. Fortunately, it didn’t smell as bad.

  I dialled very carefully, and Jerry picked up on the fifth ring. Louis Armstrong and Sidney Bechet were blending beautifully in the background.

  ‘“Perdido Street Blues”,’ I said.

  ‘Of course, Tony. I’m glad you phoned. There are a couple of messages for you. A Dr Jameson called this afternoon. And a Detective Inspector Rose about ten minutes ago. Would you be so kind as to call them? Tomorrow’s fine for the policeman. What you been up to? I assume it can’t be too bad as you don’t appear to be in custody.’

  ‘I’ll tell you later, Jerry. Could you give Ghislaine a yell? I’d like a word.’

  ‘Sorry, Tony. She went out about half an hour ago. A couple of people turned up for her, and she left with them.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Who?’

  ‘How would I know?’ he said. ‘I just popped out for fifteen minutes, to pick up a pair of shoes from the mender, and I got back in time to see them leave in the car.’

  ‘What car?’ I said just as the door to the left of Daphne’s reception area opened and Les appeared with a tall, silver-haired gent in standard City clothes of black jacket and striped trousers. He was carrying a tightly furled umbrella and a bowler hat.

  ‘The car that was parked outside,’ Jerry said. ‘It was black and looked new. Well, it was quite shiny.’ Jerry knew and cared less about cars than the average Girl Guide.

  ‘OK,’ I said, watching Les shake hands perfunctorily with the City gent as Charlie Lomax appeared and led him down the stairs. ‘I’d better go.’

  Les wasn’t looking as pleased as he might be. Maybe the meeting hadn’t gone well.

  ‘Les,’ I said, ‘I really need a word.’ Worrying about Ghislaine would just have to wait for a few minutes.

  Les waved me through to his office.

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked as I sat opposite him.

  ‘A potential business associate,’ he said offhandedly.

  ‘Not called Jenkins by any chance, is he?’ The name just popped into my head.

  ‘Of course it is,’ he said, which puzzled me, but, before I could say anything, he changed the subject. ‘So, what’s so important that you turn up after hours? More exes?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘the Beverley Beaumont thing – it’s taken a very nasty turn.’

  I told him everything, and this time he didn’t show any surprise.

  ‘I understand your position, Tony,’ he said, ‘what with a police murder enquiry and everything, but I’d appreciate you still looking. Discreetly. I wouldn’t want you implicated. I know Miss Beaumont would be very grateful. So would I.’ He rubbed his thumb against his fingers in a universal gesture.

  ‘I don’t know, Les. This is all a bit deep. The kid’s involved in something.’

  ‘Exactly, Tony, exactly. That means Miss Beaumont and the studio could be dragged into it too. Forewarned is forearmed, Tony, and a man of your calyber is just the one to warn us.’ He stood up to indicate that the discussion was at an end.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I’m not going to stick my neck out.’

  ‘No one expects you to, Tony.’ He sniffed. ‘And I really will be grateful. I’ll arrange for a something special in this month’s pay packet.’ He held his hand out, and I shook it and turned to leave. When I reached the door, he called to me, ‘Here, take this. There’s a party tomorrow night. Bring someone. It’ll be glitzy. We’ve just finished Death in the Desert, Jimmy Bolt’s first war film. Right up your street – the Desert Rats and all that. We’re having a screening tomorrow afternoon and then drinks in the evening. The stars’ll be there.’ He paused. ‘Miss Beaumont isn’t in this one, but I can persuade her to come . . .’ He winked at me and held out a thick piece of card.

  I took the printed invitation, glanced at it and smiled at him. ‘Thanks, Les. Don’t think I’ll make it to the screening though. I’m going to be busy.’

  I left the office and tapped the invitation against my chin. Les Jackson was by no means a parsimonious man, but the promise of ‘something special’ was unusual.

  ‘A penny for ’em,’ Daphne said.

  ‘I think they may be worth more than that, Daff,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she said.

  I slipped the invitation into my pocket and smiled at her. I’d just thought of something. ‘Must go, Daff,’ I said, moving to the door. ‘I’ve got to see a man about a dog.’ Well, not a dog exactly. More, see a man about a man. Ghislaine would have to wait.

  And I desperately needed to force some pie and mash down me neck. I was starving.

  SEVEN

  Charlie Lomax usually parked the Roller in one of the grubby little side roads that ran between Wardour Street and Berwick Street. He said that he felt uncomfortable with the car on a main road where it could so easily be scratched. There was an element of truth in that but, since he tended to sit it just outside a quiet pub where he could keep an eye on it while he sipped a glass of Mackeson’s, that wasn’t all there was to it.

  Charlie’s little vice was an open secret but, as he invariably restricted himself to two glasses between twelve and two and another two a little after six, no one – and certainly not Les – felt compelled to mention the matter.

  Well, that’s not strictly true. Daphne had been known refer to it, but, because Charlie ferried Les to and from his various liaisons, she regarded him as complicit in her ex-husband’s assorted peccadilloes, and that made him fair game.

  It was just after six so the Rose and Crown had opened, though the interior was so dim that it was difficult to tell. The Roller wasn’t to be seen, which meant that Charlie hadn’t got back yet. I stood on the pavement, kicking at some litter, hoping that Charlie’s posh passenger didn’t live in Amersham or Harrow.

  The market had closed a while before, but the earthy smell of decaying vegetables still drifted on the warm, evening wind and a few wooden crates had been tossed into a pile at the Berwick Street end of the road.

  After a few minutes of waiting, I realized that I could use the time profitably and strolled off to the telephone box there. I trod carefully
through the market debris piled around it – the slimy cabbage leaves, an orange with a delicate dusting of pale mould and a broken wooden crate – and rummaged in my pocket for some coppers, and then in my wallet for the sheet of paper David Jameson had written his telephone number on. The smell of ripe fruit in the box was very strong, which was just as well. Someone had mistaken it for a urinal in the recent past.

  I dialled the operator and then waited patiently while she connected me. After ringing plaintively ten or more times, the college telephone was eventually answered by someone who sounded rather like the old drill sergeant who had yelled at me so ineffectively back in basic training.

  Well, I thought, as I waited for Jameson, drill sergeants had to do something when they were too old to be useful to the army. And standing in the porter’s lodge at some college barking at students seemed harmless compared to the damage they had done to the more vulnerable and less coordinated recruits. If it was the same vindictive old bastard, he’d probably be obsequious to all the senior members of the college. He’d certainly fawned over every officer in sight. (As my new-found mate at the time, Bernie Rosen, had said, ‘So far up the CO’s bum, all you can see are the hobnails in his boots.’)

  Eventually, David Jameson came on the line. ‘Mr Gérard, thank you so much for calling.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, it’s more a matter of my having some information for you. According to one of the college servants, Jonathan Harrison came back to Cambridge yesterday. All he did was collect his post and leave: some letters and two small packages. A car delivered him and took him away. No details, except it was black and rather small.’ He gave a little muffled cough, which could have been a half-hearted chuckle. ‘College servants are snobbish about cars. If it’s not a Bentley, they don’t recognize it. I know that’s not a lot of help, but it’s all I have.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘it’s more than I’ve come up with.’ I decided not to tell him about Richard Ellis’s murder. I don’t know why. I guess I just didn’t want to upset him. That was a job for the police. They’re rather good at it.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘by the way, I’d take a little care with Madame Rieux. Monsieur Rieux is a powerful man with a long reach. I also have the impression that he wouldn’t smile on his wife, erm, playing around.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘I appreciate the warning, but it isn’t necessary. Robert and I have locked horns in the past. And Ghislaine and I are not, as you put it, playing around.’

  ‘All the same,’ he said. ‘He’s no respecter of borders, or facts, now that I think about it. He’ll come after her.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘I just thought I’d mention it.’

  ‘Thanks, again. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound graceless. It’s just that I know Robert and what he’s capable of. Probably better than most.’ He grunted something that sounded a bit dismissive. ‘I’ll be in touch if anything occurs and I find Jonathan.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said abruptly and cut the connection.

  I saw the Rolls-Royce turn into the street and glide almost silently to a halt outside the apparently deserted pub, still giving its world famous impression of the Marie Célèste. I caught up with Charlie before he opened the door to the public bar.

  ‘Tone!’ he said. ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘And you, Charlie. Listen, I need some information. That bloke you showed out a little while back, Mr Jenkins, the City gent with the silver hair and the bowler, did you take him somewhere?’

  ‘Sure. The governor said he was very important and I was to look after him. And he is a gent. He slipped me five bob.’

  ‘Where did you drop him off?’

  ‘One of them St James’s clubs.’ He looked up at the ratty old pub sign, seeking inspiration. ‘The Royal something.’ He paused. ‘The Royal Commonwealth Club.’

  ‘Thanks, Charlie. Not a word to the governor, OK?’

  ‘OK, Tone, if you say so.’

  ‘Charlie, you’re a wonder. I owe you. Now, where is this place?’

  ‘I can’t exactly give you the address, Tone. It’s in one of them little roads that doesn’t go anywhere, behind Piccadilly, just off St James’s Street, by Green Park. He directed me there. I’ll tell you what. The governor doesn’t want me for an hour or so. I’ll drop you off there, if you like.’

  I was in the front passenger seat before Charlie had finished speaking. When he climbed behind the wheel I smiled at him. ‘The Royal Commonwealth Club, James,’ I said in my best BBC accent.

  Charlie grinned and put his right index finger to his brow.

  It’s the only way to travel. And it’s certainly the only way to arrive at a posh St James’s club.

  Even if the doorman was nonplussed by the fact that my suit and tie were more Montague Burton than Savile Row, he recognized a near-vintage Rolls-Royce when he saw one, and so was considerably more circumspect than he might have been if I had rolled up on an old green Raleigh bike. The fact that Charlie got out and opened the door to the Roller for me probably helped.

  And, of course, it wasn’t that long since Mr Jenkins had arrived in the same vehicle.

  Charlie, ever helpful, gave me a big wink on the blindside of the doorman as he closed the car door. ‘Would you like me to wait, Mr Gérard, sir?’

  I nodded in a suitably imperious manner.

  ‘Very good, sir. I’ll be just round the corner in St James’s Street,’ he said, lifting his right index finger to his temple and then rolling smartly back behind the wheel.

  The interior of the club wasn’t quite as grand as I’d been expecting, but then I had no experience of St James’s clubs to speak of and so had only the vaguest notion of what awaited me. It was all a bit obvious, really – lots of polished wood, a high ceiling built to echo back the quietest of whispers, the inevitable wide, sweeping staircase and an atmosphere of hushed deference – very much the clichéd gentleman’s club of the films. There was even a brown sofa against the wall behind me, the hard leather cracked at the edges and comfortably worn. But the carpet that led along the hallway to the staircase was threadbare, and even in the dim light from the dusty chandelier I could see that the place needed a coat of paint nearly as much as my office.

  I stood at the concierge’s desk, sweating a little and feeling very self-conscious.

  Eventually, a small, straight-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed grey moustache marched out of the little cupboard-sized room behind the desk, straightening his uniform.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he said briskly, pulling at a frayed cuff.

  It seemed that the officer class, even out of uniform and in peacetime, still found it useful to have NCOs around to keep the hoi polloi at bay. I cleared my throat and prepared to do battle with my second pensioned-off sergeant of the evening.

  ‘I’d like to see Mr Jenkins, please,’ I said. ‘Could you tell him I’m here?’

  ‘Who shall say is asking for him?’ he said, picking up the receiver of his telephone.

  ‘Tony Gérard,’ I said.

  ‘Is he expecting you?’ he said.

  ‘Er, no,’ I said as nonchalantly as I could manage.

  He firmly replaced the receiver. ‘I’m afraid, sir, that Mr Jenkins left specific instructions that he is not to be disturbed.’ I recognized the tone. There was firmness there, but with just the hint of regret, implying that it might be possible that those instructions could be forgotten.

  ‘That’s unfortunate,’ I said, conscious that I was trying to sound much posher that I am and failing by a nautical mile. ‘I’ve come a long way. Perhaps you could tell him that I’m here and I’d like to talk to him.’ I slid two half crowns across the counter.

  The expression on his face didn’t change as he smoothly pocketed the coins and picked up the receiver again in one fluid and well-practised movement. ‘Very well, sir. What is it regarding?’

  ‘Tell him it’s about a mutual acquainta
nce,’ I said.

  He spoke into the telephone with his back towards me. He apologized and explained that I’d said it was very urgent. Then he listened before ending the call with a decidedly servile, ‘Very well, sir.’ He turned back to me. ‘Mr Jenkins will be down shortly, sir. Would you care to take a seat?’ He indicated the old sofa by the wall.

  I looked towards it and nodded at him as offhandedly as I could manage. Then I sauntered over and sat. Sweat was trickling from my armpits and the back of my neck was prickling uncomfortably. Either the place was seriously overheated or I was out of my depth and worried.

  Jenkins didn’t appear for some minutes. Then, suddenly and, it seemed, out of nowhere, he was looming over me, blocking out the light from the chandelier. He was wearing a dinner suit and black bow-tie and carrying a dark raincoat and a black hat.

  ‘Mr Gérard,’ he said, pronouncing my name correctly, with acute accent and all. He did not, however, offer his hand.

  I stood up and didn’t see any point in offering mine.

  He was a tall, slim, good-looking man in the Anthony Eden vein, with slicked-back silver hair and strong, regular, patrician features. I wondered if he might be a Conservative politician. He must have been at least a major in the war.

  He looked across at the concierge. ‘Sergeant Metcalf,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you would be so good as to open up the snug bar for –’ he glanced down at the wristwatch that slid out from beneath his snowy cuff – ‘ten minutes.’

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but walked towards the staircase and turned sharply right, stopping at a big, dark-oak door.