Songs in the Key of Death

by William Bankier

  “I’m going to go in and ask a few questions.”

  “O.K., I’ll wait.”

  “Thanks, but there’s no point. If I get no joy from the desk clerk, I’m going to hang around and watch the place.”

  “More fun for two to watch than one.”

  “No, really, I’d rather wait alone.” He had an idea how to persuade her. He took his key from his pocket and handed it to her. “Go home to my place and wait for me. If Barbie phones like you said, you’ll be there to take the message.”

  He watched the Mini gun down the street and swing abruptly onto Bayswater Road, then he crossed over to the hotel, pushed open the glass door, and went inside. The lobby was simply the former living room with a narrow reception desk added. The rest of the furniture looked like the original pieces. Through a doorway he could see a bar in the adjoining room.

  The desk clerk was a young Asian in a pale-blue suit, white shirt, and maroon bow tie. “Sir?”

  “I’m looking for a Miss Barbara Birtles. Could you tell me if she’s registered?” He spelled the name while the clerk ran down the guest list. When they drew a blank, he asked for Lucy Feather but she wasn’t staying at the hotel, either.

  “Is it all right if I buy a drink in your bar?”

  “We welcome the public, sir.”

  Birtles went next door, ordered a large whisky, and took it to a seat where he could watch the foot of the staircase in the lobby. His mind began to wander—so far that he almost missed the girl when she appeared. It was the splendid thighs in tight, expensive denim that caught his attention. Lucy Feather was in the lobby, holding out her hand, waiting for someone to come down the stairs and join her.

  The companion turned out to be a Eurasian, one of the most handsome men Birtles had ever seen. He was in his early thirties, lean and muscular in white slacks and an open-necked shirt. His black hair swept in a wave across his broad forehead above widely spaced almond eyes.

  It was the color of the eyes that shook Birtles. In that creamy coffee face, they were a pale, transparent blue. Birtles could have believed they were contact lenses worn for some spectacular stage effect. The man clasped hands with Lucy and they went out into the gathering darkness.

  His heart pounding, Birtles tossed back his drink and hurried after them. They were walking not far ahead, the Feather girl in flat shoes, her hips rolling provocatively, her loose-limbed companion padding beside her like some jungle animal. He stopped an approaching stranger, an American-looking youth, and said something. The young man produced a lighter and put a flame to the Eurasian’s cigarette. Birtles noticed the American’s face as he continued on and thought he looked dazed, as if he had been spoken to by a movie star. It must have been those eyes.

  The couple went into a pub on the corner. Birtles gave them a minute to settle themselves, then followed them in. They were still at the bar. He worked his way through at the far end and ordered a pint. By the time it had been pulled and paid for, they were sitting on an upholstered bench, part of an island arrangement in the middle of the room.

  Birtles was able to find a place to sit where his back was to them. He could make out only part of what was being said. The Eurasian had a quiet voice; his remarks to Lucy Feather came across as those of a patient father handling a difficult child. “It can be done,” he said at one point. “Anything can be done.” And later: “Isn’t it enough just to go and let them wonder?”

  Lucy’s voice rose after a few minutes. “No, I can’t. I was riding her a couple of days ago. You’ll have to.”

  He felt his stomach tighten. A few days ago she was in his daughter’s room, he had heard the hectoring voices through the wall. Was that what Lucy was referring to—had she been riding Barbie, nagging her about going to India? If so, what was it her companion would have to do?

  Birtles stood and carried his glass on a wide circle so that he approached them from the bar. He managed to look surprised when his eyes met Lucy’s, and before anything was said he slipped onto the bench beside her.

  “Hello, Lucy. You don’t recognize me. I’m Norman Birtle’s, Barbie’s father.”

  “Yes, of course.” She was nervous. Her big, moist lips grimaced over perfect teeth. She tossed her head and her bound-up hair shook like a horse’s mane. “This is my friend, Ezra Monty.”

  Monty gave Birtles a warm handshake. The blue crystal eyes met his and Birtles felt penetrated. He felt studied and stripped down and emptied out, but the surprising part of it was he didn’t mind. A lot of casual conversation was going on and he couldn’t have remembered a word of it.

  “Well,” Lucy was saying as he began to emerge from his stupor, “funny to run into you here. Quite a coincidence.”

  “I used to live around here,” Birtles improvised. “I come back sometimes to see the old neighbourhood.” They knew he was lying. There was an attentiveness around the table and Birtles imagined heads lifting in the jungle, nostrils sniffing the air.

  “I’m worried about Barbie,” he said to Lucy. “She left home the other night. I woke up in the morning and she was gone. With all her stuff.”

  “I understood she was leaving for Canada.”

  “Not till next week. And she’d never go without saying goodbye.”

  “Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she just decided to go.”

  “Silently?” Birtles demanded. “In the dead of night?” He implied it was the sort of thing Lucy Feather might do to her parents, but not his daughter.

  Monty leaned across Lucy and touched Birtles on the arm. “I understand your concern,” he said. “I have many contacts in all sorts of places, I travel a good deal. Barbara Birtles—Lucy will give me a description. I’ll put out the word. Don’t worry, sir. We’ll find your daughter.”

  It was an incredible sensation—Birtles felt as if a heavy load had been lifted from him. Ezra Monty was in charge and everything was going to be all right.

  “And now”—Monty glanced at a sliver of gold in his wrist—“we have something we must attend to. Lucy?”

  They were on their way out the door when the spell wore off and Birtles realized he mustn’t lose them. More than ever, he sensed there was a link here with Barbara. He tried to drink some beer, almost choked on it, got up, and hurried out onto the dark street.

  The couple were climbing into a car a short distance up Inverness Avenue. Birtles lurked in the pub entrance and watched them drive away with Lucy at the wheel. When they turned onto Bayswater Road and headed west, he began looking for a taxi. A car horn tooted, attracted his attention. It was Anitra in the Mini, cruising slowly toward him.

  He climbed in beside her and slammed the door. “Bless your heart, I told you to go home.”

  “I thought you might need help.”

  “Turn right.” She turned, causing a double-decker bus to brake and sound its horn. “There’s a black Volvo ahead, can you see it?”

  “In this traffic?”

  “It’s Lucy Feather and her boy friend. I talked to them in the pub. I have a feeling they’re hiding something.”

  After driving as far as Notting Hill, Anitra said, “They could have gone anywhere. They might be on the way to the airport.”

  “I didn’t see any luggage. They may be going to her place. Stop here.” Birtles ran to a call box and checked the telephone directory. He found a Feather listed on Southside Common in Wimbledon. Back in the car, he gave Anitra the address and she took off. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Keep me alive for a while longer.”

  Anitra’s ability to cover the ground brought them to the Feather residence in record time. It was a three-storey gabled house that bespoke generations of money, probably starting with dividends from the East India Company. There was no black Volvo in sight.

  “It was Heathrow like I said,” Anitra predicted.

  “Once around the Green,” Birtles told her.

  She took it easy and when they turned back onto Southside the Volvo was there. Anitra pulled over, engine off, lights out. Luc
y got out of the car ahead and Ezra Monty followed, both easing the doors shut.

  “Why are they acting like that? Isn’t it her house?”

  “It could be anything,” Birtles said. Their movements as they left the car and crept down a laneway beside the house filled him with fear. They were like a military patrol out to silence an enemy position. During the drive he had told Anitra about the conversation in the pub. Now he said: “They might even have Barbie locked up here.”

  “Kidnapping? Is that possible? How would they have got her out of your place at night without your hearing them?”

  Several minutes went by. Through the open window, Birtles could smell the delicious freshness from the Common, all those trees breathing in the night. Now there was movement at the entrance to the lane. Lucy ran out, turned and beckoned—she seemed impatient, in a state of high excitement. Monty followed and stood in front of the girl, put his hands on her shoulders, and shook her gently.

  Her head fell back, and in the streetlight Birtles saw her eyes closed, her mouth open. If she had just inhaled some intoxicating substance, this would have been her reaction.

  Monty fed her into the car and closed the door. He ran around and got in at the driver’s side, switched on, and drove away. Birtles touched Anitra’s shoulder and she began to drive ahead slowly. As they passed the laneway, he noticed something on the pavement. “Stop!” he told her and when she did he jumped out. By the time she parked and joined him, he was examining a dark wet smear on the concrete. He touched it and lifted his stained finger. “Blood,” he said.

  “Oh, God, get the police.”

  “I have to know. Have you got a flashlight in the car?” She ran away and brought it to him. He aimed its dim light at the ground and walked down the lane. Anitra kept close enough to touch a hand to his back every now and then.

  They came to an out-building. The main house was a dark mass to the right. He saw grass, a concrete birdbath, rose bushes. The door was open in the shed beside him. As Birtles moved into the doorway, he smelled the pungent odor of a stable. He flashed the light over the board partitions of a stall, a leather harness on a hook, brass fittings, a saddle—then, on the stone floor, the body of a horse lying on its side. The animal was not quite dead—a leg kicked convulsively.

  “Stay back.” Birtles moved in closer, felt beneath his feet the pool of blood that Monty had tracked to the street, saw the gaping opening where the broad chestnut neck had been cut through. “Insane,” he whispered. They’re both insane...”

  When they were driving again, he told Anitra to take him back to the hotel. She wanted to get the police but he said he was only concerned about his daughter and if they wasted one minute they might lose Feather and Monty. “I think they came out here to do this and now they’ll be on their way.”

  “That must have been her own horse. Why would she kill it?”

  “I don’t know. In the pub she said, ‘I was riding her a couple of days ago.’ I thought she meant arguing with Barbie.” Birtles nursed his fear as Anitra gunned down quiet roads.

  When they arrived at the Candide, they found the Volvo parked outside. Anitra pulled in and idled. “The police?” she said plaintively. “Can we have the police now, please?”

  “O.K. I’ll get out and watch. You drive to the police station—there must be one near here. If you see a cop on the street, stop and tell him.”

  Birtles got out and positioned himself where he could watch the hotel entrance. The Mini wheeled down the street and turned the corner. Almost immediately, the glass door was pushed open by Monty carrying a couple of expensive-looking suitcases. Lucy Feather followed with a zippered flight bag. Monty loaded the luggage expertly, closed the trunk, and went to join Lucy in the front seat.

  Birtles had to make up his mind. He ran forward, opened the back door, and slid inside just as the car pulled away.

  Lucy glanced at him in the rearview mirror as she moved into traffic. “You again! What gives?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out. Why did you kill your horse?”

  Her voice hardened. “Take care of him.”

  Monty turned and gave Birtles a look of admiration. “Were you out there tonight?”

  “I’m looking for my daughter. I’m convinced you two know where she is.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I found a Candide Hotel envelope in her room with some pot in it. And when I came down here I ran into you and Lucy. Lucy visited Barbara a few days ago—I heard them arguing in her room.”

  “He’s quite a detective, Lucy. He’s a determined man. I like that.”

  “All right,” Lucy said. “I gave Barbara some stuff when I went to pick up the book. We argued because I wanted her to come with us but she wouldn’t.”

  “End of story,” Monty said. “We know nothing about your daughter, Mr. Birtles.”

  “I think you do. Anyway, we’re going to have it out. My girl friend went to get the police.”

  Lucy gave him a contemptuous glance. “That’s pathetic. Do you know who this is? I told you Ezra Monty—his real name is Eric Merlot. You know the book I got from Barbara? It’s about him.”

  Birtles had read the book, had glanced at a couple of badly reproduced photos in the centerfold. This could be the man.

  “He’s killed eleven people already. You mean nothing to him. He’ll blow you away as soon as look at you. Where shall we go, Eric? Out in the country?”

  Merlot laughed and patted her shoulder. “She’s my greatest admirer. When she heard there was a book about me, she had to get a copy right away.” He became serious. “Nobody’s killed anybody here and nobody’s going to. This is England, not India. I said I like you, Mr. Birtles. Barbara’s a lucky girl to have a father who cares about her as much as you do—I can tell you that from experience. And I can see the same qualities in you that I like in her.”

  “You’ve seen her then.”

  “Of course I have. I was keeping quiet because she asked me to. She’s agreed to come east and work for me. I provide a service for young people traveling out there and Barbara would be ideal.”

  Birtles looked at the handsome face watching him across the upholstered seat. Those pale eyes caught what little light there was—all he could see was intelligent, honest, friendly eyes. “She never said anything to me.”

  “She wouldn’t. She cares about your feelings. I’m offering her glamour, excitement, her own apartment in one of the nicer hotels in Singapore. That beats a cubbyhole bedroom with Daddy listening through the kitchen wall.”

  Nobody spoke for a few seconds. Then Birtles said: “You’ve been in my house, Mr. Merlot. When was that?”

  “Eric, you’re going to have to kill him. This is getting worse.”

  “Just drive the car. Mr. Birtles is an intelligent man. Sir, I’ll admit I was there. We came in the other night using Barbara’s key. She sent us to get her backpack. She’d decided to come with me. O.K.? I’ve told you the truth.”

  “And her traveller’s checks. You got those too?”

  “Of course. She said not to forget her traveller’s checks.”

  “But one thing still doesn’t fit. Even if Barbara had decided to go with you she would have told me. But she hasn’t, and that means something’s wrong.”

  “Eric?” Lucy said in a voice that combined a supplication and a warning.

  “And if she’s going with you to Singapore, how come you two are driving away without her?”

  Merlot laughed. The laugh announced that Birtles was the most entertaining company he’d encountered in a long time. “I’m going to have to give you the rest of it. Barbara wanted your feelings spared—that’s why you haven’t heard from her. The fact is, she and I met through Lucy and there was this physical thing between us. Can you understand that? She moved in at the hotel and all she cared about was—well, two things. She also loved what I gave her to smoke. She’s been stoned out of her mind for the past three days.”

  Birtle
s waited. Yes, he could believe any woman might become infatuated with Eric Merlot. He hated the idea of Barbie falling into that existence. But right now all he wanted was to find her and see that she was all right.

  “I decided,” Merlot continued, “that the best thing for me to do was disappear. Since she’s so young. So I left her in the room at the Candide—I paid for another couple of days in advance. When she wakes up and sorts herself out, she’ll come home. And, Mr. Birtles, please don’t tell her where I’ve gone.”

  The car slowed down and halted at a traffic light. “I’ve been told so many things,” Birtles said. “First, you were taking her to Singapore. Now you’ve left her and she doesn’t know you’ve gone. It could all be lies.”

  “Shut up,” Lucy snapped. “Just shut your mouth and get out of the car.” She pulled on the hand brake, leaving herself free to sprawl back over the seat and open the back door. “Just get out and go away. And consider yourself lucky.”

  Birtles got out. He slammed the back door and opened the front door beside Merlot. He put an arm lock on the younger man’s head and dragged him from the car. “You’re going, too,” he said. “I want you with me until I find my daughter.”

  The light changed. They were in one of the middle lanes and Birtles had to dodge cars as traffic began to move. Lucy had no choice but to drive on. When they reached the sidewalk, Merlot laughed in a high shrill voice. “Fabulous!” he screamed. “You incredible sonofabitch, that’s the sort of thing I’d do!”

  He was still laughing when they reached an Underground station. As they went down the steps, Merlot’s arm firmly held by Birtles, the Eurasian said: “That’s how I got away from the police in Rajasthan. Impulse. A window was open, so I climbed through and ran across a yard and out the gate. You keep your eyes open and you take quick, decisive action.”

  They missed a Central Line train heading east and had to wait on a deserted platform. Merlot glanced at the hand locked onto his upper arm. “Getting tired?” he asked. “I know how hard it is to hold somebody who doesn’t want to be held. That’s why I use a lot of drugs. You should buy me a coffee and put a few capsules in it.”