'Well, you have now, duck,' said the woman on the stall as she dropped a quantity of small coins into his hand. 'Are you going to count them?' She handed him the mug of tea.
He was still holding his wallet. He stuffed it into the outer pocket of his trenchcoat and took the tea.
Poppy moved in. She wasn't leaving this to some beginner in the trade. She stood as if waiting in the queue. With her left hand she flicked up the pocket-flap and felt for the wallet.
To her horror, a hand gripped hers inside the pocket. She could not remove it. The man turned and grinned. He still held the tea in his right hand. It was his left, drawn across his front and through the division in the coat lining, that was holding hers.
He said, 'Well, Poppy, I'd say that was like taking sweets from a baby.'
She said, 'I got me hand caught.'
'You certainly did, and I don't intend to let it go. If you don't want trouble keep it there and hold yourself against me. I've got a taxi waiting up the street.'
'Are you taking me in? Give us a chance, mate.'
'Just walk, Poppy.'
She obeyed. She was afraid that her small boy accomplices might try to stall them and get caught as well. Alone, she couldn't get done for much.
When they reached the taxi in Whitechapel High Street, he released her hand. She was expecting him to handcuff her, but he didn't. She said, 'Here, are you the law, or what?'
He pushed her firmly into the cab and sat beside her.
'Poppy darling,' he said with another grin, 'it's your birthday.'
'What the hell do you mean? Where are you taking me?'
'To choose a present, sweetheart.'
'I don't know what sort of girl you take me for, mister.'
'Calm down. I'm just taking you for a ride, aren't I?'
They drove through the City and Holborn to Oxford Street. Poppy glared at her companion, trying to fathom who he was. She hadn't seen him in the Lane before this morning. He was dressed like a gent, which he obviously was not.
The taxi turned left into Bond Street and stopped.
'What are we doing here?' demanded Poppy.
'Get out, and I'll show you. But don't embarrass me, will you? It's a very nobby area.'
He steered Poppy, wide-eyed, towards a dress-shop she had only ever read about in magazines. 'Choose one,' he told her, 'for a party.'
'Hold on a mo — what do you really want?'
'I'll tell you, Poppy,' he said, as they both stared into the window. 'I was told that you're the smartest dip in London and I want to hire your services for an evening. It's a party, so you need to have a dress. What do you think of the black number over there with silver sequins? If you enlist with me, you get a decent uniform. And you keep it. Right?'
3
In her large house on Putney Hill, Lydia Baranov was using the telephone. She had been using it ever since she got back from her audition. She was shouting into it. She told whoever it was on the line that he was incompetent. She said she failed to understand why a simple matter created such monumental difficulties.
Downstairs in the hall, the front door opened and Walter came in. Sylvia, the housemaid, was waiting as usual to take his hat, coat and umbrella.
The tirade on the telephone continued. Walter glanced upstairs. He looked at Sylvia and raised his eyebrows questioningly. Sylvia shook her head. Walter made a grimace. He went into the drawing room, poured himself a whisky and downed it in a gulp.
When he got upstairs, Lydia was saying that her time was too precious to waste talking to idiot clerks. She said she would expect a call from the manager in the morning, not before ten and no later than eleven. She hung up the phone.
'And what sort of day did you have?' she asked in a way that brushed his answer aside before he made it.
'Extremely frustrating,' he said with emphasis, i take a very poor view of people who waste my time. Two broken appointments, without a word of explanation. You'd think people would have the common courtesy to notify the surgery. I suppose I can expect no better from Lady Burke. She's notoriously absent-minded. She'll probably come in tomorrow in a state of high agitation. But the second patient, Miss Webster, has her wits about her and really ought to know better. We've given her the same time on the same day for the last three weeks. It's not as if she suffered any pain. I find it inexplicable.'
'If you've finished,' said Lydia, 'perhaps you would like to know what happened to me.' With her dramatic training, she knew all about up-staging. This morning she had been to an audition for a minor part in The Gay Lord Quex at the Richmond Theatre. She was thirty-four. She had not appeared on the West End stage since 1914.
'I gather it was disappointing,' said Walter.
'Disappointing? It was ridiculous. A joke.' If a casting director had seen Lydia like this, she would have been assured of major roles for the rest of her career. Outrage transformed her. Her usually pale skin was feverishly pink. The black curls danced with each swift movement of her head. Her nostrils flared and her brown eyes blazed with gypsy passion. 'The director's mad. I couldn't possibly work with him. It would finish my career. The man has no idea what the play is about. He doesn't understand Pinero.'
'Who got the part?'
'Some little trollop with six weeks' experience in revue. They said I could understudy. You know what that means? Selling chocolates in the interval. 1 told them I was in The Second Mrs Tanqueray.' 1
'What did they say about that?'
'They said this was comedy. They said my experience was unsuitable. I agreed with them. I said they had made it crystal clear that the sort of experience they were looking for was what one learned in Mr Cochran's chorus line, and I was glad to say I hadn't sunk to that.'
'Quite right.'
'With that, I left the theatre. I was so incensed that I left my book of notices there.'
'Perhaps they'll look at it and realise what a mistake they've made.'
'Small chance of that. Anyway, the play is cast now. I wouldn't take the leading role if they offered it. I have my pride. But I will need my notices.'
'Of course you will.'
'Walter, darling.'
'Yes, my dear?'
'Would you collect them for me?'
'I don't have time tomorrow. I have a full day of appointments.'
'Go tonight, then.'
There was a moment of silence between them.
'It won't take more than an hour,' said Lydia. Til ask cook to keep your meal warm.' She kissed him lightly. 'You know 1 couldn't bear to lose my notices.'
He collected his hat and coat from Sylvia.
From the window, Lydia watched him go down the hill to get a taxi at the station. His patients might be in awe of him, but at home he did exactly as she asked. It was out of gratitude. Without her money and farsightedness he would still be hawking his ludicrous mind-reading act round the shabby music halls of the provinces. She alone had persuaded him that he was totally unsuited to the stage. She had pointed out the potential profits in dentistry and as a token of her confidence she had married him. She had paid for his apprenticeship at Reading as a dental mechanic and his three years at the Dental Hospital at Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Walter had never been so happy in his life. He had found his vocation. They rarely saw each other, because she was in The Second Mrs Tanqueray. Acting exhausted and fulfilled her.
Their marriage had continued as a part-time occupation until Walter passed his final examination in 1914 and became a dental surgeon. He came down to London for the graduation ceremony. Lydia took him to lunch at Frascati's. Noises kept coming from the kitchen. The waiter asked if they had heard the news. Mr Lloyd George had made a statement in the Commons. The country was at war with Germany. Unmarried men below the age of thirty were urged to volunteer for service. Walter was married. He was thirty-nine. He called at the recruiting office in the Strand. For the next four years he pulled soldiers' teeth for King and Country in the north of Scotland.
Lydia had a less distinguished war
. There were not so many good productions to audition for. Most able-bodied actors had enlisted. She was in The Harbour Lights at Woolwich with a leading man so decrepit that when he knelt before her to declare his love she had to help him to get upright again.
By 1917 she was so discouraged that she took a rest from the boards. She passed the time reading her notices from pre-war days in the big house she had inherited from her father on Putney Hill. She was sexually frustrated. She formed a secret passion for the bearded man on the tea counter in Fortnum and Mason. It never came to anything. Life in Britain was made harder by the German U-boats. There were shortages of food. There was talk of rationing. Hoarding was made a criminal offence. Lydia's housemaid was a gossip. When the house was searched, the police found 68 packets of Fortnum and Mason tea. All but a few were confiscated. Lydia was fined?10 with?7 costs. Her name was printed in the newspapers. It was the first notice she had ever received from The Times.
Walter climbed into the first cab on the rank. In less than twenty minutes he was paying the driver outside the Richmond Theatre. It was a few minutes after seven. The theatre was quiet. Evening performances started at 8.30, so that people could dress and dine first. The current show was a revue. Lydia had been right; music hall was dying. Mind-reading had gone out with animal acts and Dan Leno.
He told the girl in the booking-office what he wanted. She sent him to the dress circle bar. There was a crowd inside. Cigar smoke lay on the air. The postured hands and clipped, projecting voices told him these were professionals, the director and the new, elated cast of The Gay Lord Quex.
Walter bought a dry sherry and stood near the main group. From the conversation he learned that the man they called Jasper was the director. Jasper had his hand on the shoulder of a pretty, red-haired girl who trilled with laughter at almost everything he said. She had one of the new, backless dresses. She looked ten years younger than Lydia.
He waited for a break in the conversation. Jasper asked the girl if she would have another martini. He turned to the bar to order it. Walter introduced himself.
'Enchanting name, my dear,' said Jasper, 'but I don't believe I know you.'
'Lydia, my wife, auditioned for you this afternoon.'
'The same again, George,' Jasper called to the barman.
'She didn't get the part.'
'My dear, auditions are quite hateful for all concerned. I'm sure mistakes are made from time to time, but we never conduct post mortems. It just isn't done.'
'She left her book of notices with you.'
'Oh, I see. Heavens, I wonder what we did with it.'
The girl with the backless dress turned, it's over there, darling. I was reading it. I'll say one thing — she's a lot more experienced than yours truly.'
'I wouldn't say that, Blanche,' commented a voice heavy with innuendo.
'Some people have minds like sewers,' Blanche said world-wearily.
'There's your drink,' Jasper said curtly. He took Walter's arm and crossed the room with him to the table where the book was. 'Lydia auditioned well. She's a professional, Mr Baranov. You have a talented wife. If it had been left to me alone — '
Walter interrupted without seeming to raise his voice. 'I have worked in the theatre. I have listened to hypocrisy like that since 1 was three years old. If you really have a scrap of interest in my wife's career, do her the credit of telling me the truth.'
The rebuke was the more telling for being so reasonably expressed.
The bar was suddenly quiet. Someone called across the room, 'Is everything all right, Jasper?'
'Yes, perfectly,' said Jasper. To Walter, he said, 'If you really want to know, she's too mature for these young girl roles, and she isn't ready to play dowagers and matrons.' To soften the remark he added, 'Not for a long time.'
Walter said nothing. He picked up the scrapbook.
'It's always a difficult phase in an actress's career,' Jasper went on. 'Possibly if she could be persuaded to go into some other sphere of production, it would be all to the good. With her experience, she must know a lot about make-up. Costume, if she's any good with a needle and thread.'
Walter gave him a disbelieving look. 'Where can I get a taxi?'
'At this time, by the station. Right outside the theatre, then right again. Thank her for coming in, won't you?'
Walter went downstairs and followed the directions. At the station, he got into a cab. As they moved off, his eye was caught by something. He tapped the driver's shoulder.
'Would you stop a moment? The flower shop. I want to buy some flowers for my wife.'
'You'd better be quick, mate. I'm obstructing the rank.'
In the florist's, he glanced over the bunches in their pots.
The shop assistant came from the back. 'Good evening, sir. Can I… Oh.' She stopped, staring at him.
'Yes, please. I, er… Why, it's Miss Webster, isn't it?'
Alma answered in a whisper, 'Yes.'
'Walter Baranov, your dentist. Remember? You missed your appointment today. Did you realise?'
She was pink with embarrassment. She said nothing.
He was clearly embarrassed too. 'I'm so sorry. It sounds as if I'm checking up. Just seeing you like this, quite by chance, I was taken by surprise.'
'Oh.' She had a stem in her hand. She was snapping it into small pieces.
'You see, my wife had an audition today at the Richmond Theatre. She's an actress.'
'Yes. You told me.'
He was still holding Lydia's book. 'She left this behind. All her notices. Very precious. I came to collect it.'
Outside, the taxi-driver sounded his horn.
'I wanted some roses,' said Walter. 'A dozen, I think.'
'Yes. Any particular colour?' She crossed the shop to the vases. There were several shades of red and pink roses, as well as yellow and white. 'They are ail three shillings a dozen.'
He put the book on the counter and felt in his pocket for the money, it doesn't matter. The pink.'
'I could make a mixed bunch.'
The horn sounded again.
'If you please.'
'Would you like to pick them out?'
He stood beside her and selected a dozen of various colours. She wrapped them. He handed her the money. 'Thank you. 1 must hurry, I'm afraid. I have a taxi waiting.' He raised his hat. 'I hope to see you again, Miss Webster.'
He had left the shop and the taxi had pulled away before Alma noticed the scrapbook left on the counter.
4
To locate another lady in the story, the setting moves to Paris.
Wherever Marjorie Livingstone Cordell found herself on a Friday evening, she liked to have a hot bath, preferably Turkish, followed by a full body massage. As a reviver, it beat strong coffee, liver salts, cocktails and walking in the park, all of which she had tried. She was proud of her reputation for vitality. She enlivened any party, and she was invited to plenty. Her age was a secret, but she was into her third marriage and she had a daughter of twenty-two. The nice thing about the Friday massage was that she relaxed completely. In New York City, where she lived, she had a marvellous little man from the Bronx with hands like velvet, and he knew more about her private hopes and fears than any of her husbands.
This evening she was on the table in the massage parlour of the Paris Carlton, where she was staying with Livy, her third. They were vacationing in Europe this year because her daughter Barbara had just completed a course in fine art at the Sorbonne, and they were going to travel back with her to New York. She communicated this in simple English to the Algerian who was easing the tension in her shoulders. He was quite good-looking, with sleek hair and a pencil-thin moustache, only there was garlic on his breath. She turned her face the other way.
'Would you do my ankles now?' she asked, wiggling a foot in case he didn't understand. 'I'm really grateful to the Good Lord for supplying me with such beautiful ankles. Would you believe that each of my three husbands was attracted to my ankles first? Regular massage keeps th
em slender- my ankles, I mean. Good — that's terrific. Livy — that's short for Livingstone — he's my third — a wonderful guy — no Douglas Fairbanks, I grant you, but quite good-looking in his way — Livy sometimes asks me to let him massage my ankles, but I don't allow it. I say that's a job for a professional. Hm. You're pretty good. What's your name?'
'Alain, madame.'
'Well, Alain, it's my opinion that a woman ought to take care of her body. She never knows when she's under observation. I'll tell you something that happened to me four years ago in the Biltmore Hotel in New York. I was caught in the elevator with seven men, all strangers. Really caught, I mean. It was stuck between the second and the third floors for almost an hour. I was petrified, but, do you know, Alain, that was how I met Livy. You think I'm going to tell you he was one of the guys in the elevator, don't you? Well, he wasn't. He was on the second floor watching when the maintenance men finally got the sliding doors open. The car was way above their heads, so all that he could see of me was my ankles, and he couldn't take his eyes off them. Isn't that romantic?'
"Charmant, madame.'
'We got married the same year, and I still catch him sneaking looks at my ankles when he thinks I won't notice. We're devoted to each other. I just wish my daughter Barbara was as fortunate as I am. She's beautiful, I mean really pretty, with my white skin and classical features and the most amazing chestnut hair, only she scares men. She's so severe. She majored in mathematics and all she would talk about was coefficients and things like that. We sent her over here for a year to broaden her education at the Sorbonne, thinking maybe the Parisians would teach her some other things. Well, she's crazy about Greeks now.'
'Greeks, madame?'
'Of the fifth century B.C. She spent this afternoon showing Livy and me around the Louvre. Okay, it's a change from logarithms, so we went. I had just a small hope that there might be some young professor there who was the real attraction. I was wrong. It was strictly antique objects. Well, there are some very fine Greek statues in the Louvre. Manhood unadorned and large as life. Larger, here and there. I said to Livy this may not be a bad thing. But do you know, Alain, my daughter Barbara led us right through the rooms with the statues without stopping once. She didn't even turn her head. She wanted to show us the Greek vases. Vases! She adores them. I was so depressed I just collapsed onto a bench.'
The False Inspector Dew Page 3