No Hearts, No Roses

by Colin Murray

  ‘What’s up, Daff?’

  ‘What’s up? You and that Charlie taking his nibs off gallivanting when I’ve got all these cheques for him to sign.’ She indicated a bulky-looking folder. ‘I’m not happy.’

  ‘Come off it, Daff. I don’t want him to come with me to see Miss Beaumont. I’ll see if I can talk him out of it.’

  She gave me a ‘some hopes’ look, but then smiled. ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘If you can, I owe you a dance at the Christmas party.’

  ‘I’ll give it my best shot,’ I said. ‘I’ll get out the old silver tongue.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘save the silver tongue for the Christmas party.’ And then she actually winked at me.

  That was frightening. I was still shuddering when I knocked on Les’s door.

  Still, it was nice to feel that something approaching normality still existed in my life. Jerry, Bernie and now Daphne had reminded me that, usually, I didn’t find bodies or diamonds or young toughs waiting to ambush me. Usually, I listened to jazz, cooked tradesmen’s books, ate potato latkes with Bernie’s family and flirted with Daphne.

  Les eased himself out of his chair and glided elegantly round the desk. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Charlie’s waiting downstairs.’ He rubbed his hands together.

  ‘If you’re busy, Les,’ I said, ‘there’s no real need for you to come.’

  ‘Of course there is,’ he said. ‘Beverley’s one of my stars.’ He looked towards the door guiltily and lowered his voice. ‘To tell the truth, Tony, I think Daphne’s got something lined up for me. She’s got that look about her. You know: her mouth set in a straight line, a file under her arm. I’d rather make meself scarce.’

  I followed him out and gave Daphne a ‘nothing I could do’ shrug, and she mouthed, ‘I still want that dance,’ and winked again.

  I decided to give the office party a miss.

  Les and I made our way to Noel Street where the stately Rolls graced the seedy little road. We clambered into the back and Charlie swept us away.

  Les stared gloomily out of the window at the drab city. The bright sunshine emphasized the smoke-blackened dreariness of the big buildings. He slid a silver flask out of his hip pocket and took a swig. He offered it to me.

  ‘Bit early for me,’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘That’s because you haven’t got toothache,’ he said, pouring more brandy down his throat and screwing the cap back on the flask and slipping it back into his pocket.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘where we going?’

  ‘I don’t know. Somewhere in Kent,’ he said. ‘Charlie knows where. People hire these places and tell me afterwards. I’m just the poor sod who signs the cheques.’

  Or doesn’t, I thought.

  ‘All I know is it’s on the way to Folkestone. That’s by the seaside.’

  The seaside meant Southend or Walton-on-the-Naze on the annual Sunday School outing to me. Little tubs of whelks, candy floss, sticky rocks, painfully stony beaches, sunburn, cinders in the eyes when you poked your head out of the train window . . . The list of seaside delights was endless.

  After a few minutes of silence, I thought I might as well use my time with Les. ‘So, Les,’ I said, ‘what’s the story with this bloke Jenkins?’

  He looked at me blankly.

  ‘Jenkins,’ I said, ‘the City gent you met yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, him,’ he said. ‘Interested in putting some money into the company. Maybe he will. Incidentally, thanks. If it comes to anything, I owe you.’

  ‘Me?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. He mentioned you. Had your card as well.’ He paused. ‘Come to think of it, it was a bit odd. Him not recognizing you in reception.’

  ‘Nothing odd about it. I’d never seen him before,’ I said.

  ‘Wonder where he got your card then.’

  Good question. Richard? Rosemary? The Imperial Club? Dr Jameson? ‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘I do hand them out.’ Just not as much as Les would have liked.

  ‘Good investment those cards,’ he said thoughtfully. He winced. ‘Must get Daphne to fix up a visit to the tooth doctor.’

  We were out in the country now, winding our way along narrow roads and through picturesque little villages. It reminded me of France. Well, it was green and it had trees. These didn’t seem to have any Germans hiding behind them though.

  I peered out of the window and squinted at the signs. One was for Folkestone and one for somewhere called Hawkinge, which rang a bell. Since we were in Battle of Britain country, I assumed there’d been an airfield there or something.

  It was funny. I felt relaxed and alive. After my usual post-violence period of reflection, last night’s rumble had put me on my toes. I hadn’t thumped anything, apart from the heavy bag in the gym, in a long time.

  ‘What are you smirking at?’ Les said, holding his jaw.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. Mrs Williams once said that her late husband had only been truly, physically vibrant during the war. Oh, he’d been frightened, like everyone else, but there’d been something about him then and, when it was over, that fire inside him had flickered and died. She was talking about me as well.

  ‘You will be discreet, won’t you? Murders and all. Wouldn’t want Beverley upset,’ Les said. A distraught star can play merry hell with a filming schedule.

  Charlie turned off the road, into a big, flat field. In the distance, I could see a row of Nissen huts and one big hangar. We’d arrived.

  ELEVEN

  Miss Beaumont had been misled about the nature of the film she was making. Unless it was a romantic comedy set before the French Revolution.

  Although I’d been working for Les and Hoxton Films for a couple of years, this was only the second time I’d ever been on set or in a studio when they were actually filming.

  Or not filming.

  The reason that I knew the film was an historical drama and not a romantic comedy was that all the actors were wearing wigs and, depending on sex, frock coats and sashes or impressive gowns with ribbons and shiny costume jewellery.

  And the reason that I knew they weren’t filming was because they were all milling about outside the hangar in the bright sunshine, drinking mugs of tea, smoking and talking. And the soundmen and cameramen, in shirtsleeves and braces, were clumped together in a little knot, looking bored.

  Oh, and Les was furious.

  He’d taken one look at his watch, and his mouth had set in a thin line, the frown lines on his forehead had become deep furrows, and his complexion had darkened.

  As soon as Charlie parked, Les flung open the rear door and, without a word to us, strode off towards the technicians mooching around the refreshment van. They all huddled together in a rough circle, like a rugby scrum, and stared into their drinks or discovered some fascinating spot on the ground. They were working on the theory that if they pretended they hadn’t seen him then he would pretend he hadn’t seen them.

  It didn’t work.

  ‘George,’ he bellowed at the senior soundman. ‘George, come and talk to me.’

  The unfortunate George shrugged at his companions, swallowed some tea, carefully placed his mug on the nearest flat surface, a large cardboard box with ‘Props’ stencilled on the side, and shuffled towards Les.

  Les put a hand on the man’s shoulder and pushed him towards the hangar.

  Charlie hauled himself out of the Rolls and nodded towards the crowd of actors. ‘They’ll be laughing on the other side of their faces in a minute,’ he said.

  I wasn’t as familiar with the film-making process as Les or, apparently, Charlie, but it didn’t look all that unusual to me. The studio in Walthamstow where Grand-père had worked had long closed by the time I was born. So, I’d only ever set foot in a studio once before, and I don’t think they shot any film in the two hours I was there. They’d drunk a lot of tea, though. There’d been a technical problem. Something to do with the lights.

  ‘It’ll be a technical problem,’ I said.

  ‘Nah,’ Charlie sai
d confidently, shaking his head. ‘All the chippies and sparks are over there. No, it’ll be an artistic problem.’ He put a heavy emphasis on what Mrs Wilson had explained was the describing word. He scraped his foot in the dust and looked down. ‘Have you,’ he mumbled, ‘had a chance to say anything to the guv’nor?’

  ‘Not yet, Charlie,’ I said. ‘I could hardly talk to him in the car with you there. And this morning was not a good time to speak to Daff.’

  ‘When is it ever?’ he said morosely.

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘Yeah, well, I might give Daff a miss, but I will talk to Les,’ I said. I suddenly remembered that there someone else I was supposed to talk to. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a telephone around here,’ I said.

  ‘If there’s an office,’ he said, ‘there might be one.’

  ‘Bugger! I haven’t got the number anyway.’

  ‘Who you got to call?’

  ‘A police inspector at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Whitehall one two, one two,’ he said. ‘Just like they say on the wireless.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said lamely.

  Charlie looked around and poked the toe of his shoe into one of the many wide cracks in the crumbling surface. Tough-looking dandelions and clumps of coarse grass trembled in the light wind. They were in the vanguard. Nature was reclaiming this place. I looked at the rusting Nissen huts and tried to imagine the place as it would have been fifteen years ago, fizzing with young men fuelled by beer and fags.

  ‘What you been up to that Scotland Yard is after you?’ Charlie said.

  ‘Nothing, Charlie. You know me: clean in thought, word and deed. He’s probably got me mixed up with someone else.’

  ‘Yeah, some other Boy Scout,’ he said. ‘If there’s an office, it’ll be in there.’ He pointed to the hangar.

  I nodded and headed off in that direction.

  I was about to go in when one of the carpenters I vaguely knew shook his head.

  ‘I wouldn’t, Tony,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Fred,’ I said. ‘Good to see you. What’s going on then?’

  He rubbed his hand over his sweating bald head and sighed. ‘Beverley, the ice princess, is having one of her moments,’ he said. He put the back of his hand to his forehead and spoke in a ridiculous falsetto. ‘I just can’t today, Jimmy, I just can’t.’ As an impression of Beverley Beaumont’s husky delivery, it didn’t cut the mustard, but it was pretty funny, especially as Fred bore more than a passing resemblance to Kenneth Horne.

  ‘I thought she was usually very professional,’ I said.

  ‘Not on this film. Been complaining about everything all morning.’

  ‘Is there a telephone inside?’ I said.

  ‘I think so,’ he said, cocking a thumb to the left. ‘Just inside. If you sneak in, they may not spot you. On your own head be it if they do. It was all delicate diplomacy half an hour ago. Mind you, the gaffer’s entrance has probably put paid to that already. Not always known for his diplomacy when money’s a-wasting, the gaffer.’

  I nodded at him and slipped inside the big hangar, between the two huge, heavy doors. One of them hadn’t been fully shut.

  It was dark inside, after the sunshine, but there was one big spot shining at the far end of the hangar. It lit up part of what looked like a ballroom complete with a balcony and a wide staircase. I knew it was all canvas and wood really, but it was impressive from this distance.

  On the bottom step of the staircase was a little group of people.

  I could see Les in the thick of it, and there was George, standing apart from the main group, looking shifty. Jimmy the Lightning Bolt had to be there somewhere, and so, of course, did Beverley Beaumont. I couldn’t think who the others would be. An assistant director or two, I supposed, and maybe the leading man. And they’d all be trying to persuade her back to work. I felt a bit sorry for her. Being harangued by Les is bad enough at the best of times but, having suffered Jimmy threatening and imploring for half an hour, this wouldn’t qualify as the best of times.

  I looked around and saw a door marked ‘Office’ in the gloom to my left and was just starting towards it when Les broke away from the rolling maul that had formed around the leading lady and strode towards me.

  ‘Cometh the hour, cometh the man,’ he said, stopping me before I could slip into the little prefabricated room that had been plonked down in the great hangar. ‘I mentioned to her majesty that you had news for her, and she can’t wait to see you.’ He looked me up and down, a sceptical smile on his face. ‘Can’t see the attraction myself.’

  ‘There’s no accounting for taste, Les,’ I said. ‘After all, not everyone falls for your boyish good looks.’

  He ran his hand over his jowls and recovered some of his usual good humour. ‘You know what Raymond what’s his name, the fellow who wrote The Blue Dahlia, called Veronica Lake?’ He paused while I dutifully shook my head. ‘Moronica! I bet that’s nothing to what he would call some of our so-called stars.’ He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Sort this out and I’ll owe you a day’s filming. She’s costing me hundreds.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said, ‘but what I’ve got to tell her isn’t all good news.’

  ‘Can’t you leave the bad out? I’m serious, Tony. She’s in a right old state.’

  ‘Message understood, Les. I’ll be as tactful as I can.’

  ‘Good man,’ he said. ‘I’ll introduce you to Dolores Hart at the party tonight.’ He ran his hand over his five o’clock shadow again. It made a noise like sandpaper scraping across a freshly sawed plank. ‘Then we’ll see whether my boyish good looks can win against your sophisticated wit and charm.’

  ‘That’s no contest, Les,’ I said. ‘You’re so much taller than me when you stand on your wallet.’

  He slapped me on the back and laughed. ‘You’ll want some privacy,’ he said. ‘You can talk to her in the office.’

  He strolled back to the little tableau harshly lit by the spot.

  A few seconds after he entered the bright pool of almost-white light, Beverley Beaumont stood up, looked around in a slightly bewildered way, saw me and, painfully slowly, headed my way.

  She was wearing a sumptuous heavy gown and a ridiculous coiffed wig. Her natural pallor had been emphasized by thick black eye make-up and crimson lipstick. The small mole under her left ear had been obscured by foundation and powder, and replaced by a silly beauty spot on her left cheek.

  I held the door to the office open while she slipped inside. I followed, fumbling for a light switch and shutting the door at the same time.

  She had slumped into the rickety old chair and so I perched on the edge of the old desk that was the only other piece of furniture the spartan room boasted.

  ‘Mr Gérard,’ she said listlessly, ‘Mr Jackson says that you have news. About Jon.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Beaumont,’ I said, considering how and what to tell her.

  ‘Have you found him?’ she said. There was a hint of animation in her voice, and she raised her head and stared directly at me. There was something embarrassing about the frankness of her gaze, something too naked and too revealing about it.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I said. Her eyes misted over a little and became unfocused and so I added quickly, ‘But he found me. I saw him last night.’

  ‘And?’ she said, turning that longing gaze on me again.

  ‘He seemed well,’ I said lamely.

  She looked down at her hands in her lap.

  I remembered the shrewd look Daphne had given me and what she’d said. ‘He’s not your brother, is he?’ I said.

  She didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then she looked up at me again. ‘What makes you say that?’ she said.

  I shrugged and shook my head in an ‘I don’t know really’ kind of way. ‘He gave me something for you,’ I said thoughtfully.

  ‘What?’ she said. There was an eagerness in her sultry voice that hadn’t been there before.

  ‘It was a package,’ I said. ‘
I don’t have it any more. Some men wanted it and came to my house for it last night. Do you know what was in it?’

  Well, I might not have told her the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but this was an old aircraft hangar, not a court of law, I hadn’t sworn on a stack of Bibles and, anyway, I hadn’t actually lied to her. It was a package, I didn’t have it any more and two men had come for it the previous night.

  She looked around hesitantly. It was artfully done, which didn’t mean the hesitation wasn’t genuine. It was just that I could never forget that she was an actress.

  ‘It’s my . . .’ She paused for a beat or two, then said firmly, ‘It’s my medicine.’

  I looked the question at her.

  ‘I get the blues,’ she explained. ‘Jon gives me something that helps.’

  I didn’t say anything. I could see how a few diamonds might cheer you up if you were broke and miserable about it, but I couldn’t see anyone describing them as medicine.

  ‘I’ve got the blues now,’ she said vaguely. She started tapping her fingers nervously on her thighs. She looked up. ‘Do you have a cigarette?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I don’t smoke.’

  We sat in an uneasy silence for a few seconds. Her fingers fidgeted with a thread on the skirt of her dress. She picked at it assiduously.

  ‘I didn’t get the impression,’ I said carefully, ‘that the men who visited me last night were after “medicine”.’

  She looked puzzled. Again, I couldn’t help feeling that she was performing.

  ‘It’s a special medicine,’ she said. ‘Not entirely legal.’

  The penny dropped. She thought I’d brought her cocaine.

  I don’t think of myself as particularly innocent, but I can be very slow on the uptake. I just didn’t have her down as someone who consumed dangerous drugs. A washed-up American has-been might well, sure. But why would a fresh-faced English rose, making a career for herself?

  ‘I see,’ I said, although I didn’t. ‘Jon obviously leads a very interesting life – for a student.’ I remembered something Dr Jameson has said on the telephone the previous night. He’d picked up two packages on his brief trip to the college.