by Joyce Porter
The Hon. Con scowled. Now she tells me!
Charlie had dolled herself out in the uniform she was supposed to keep for high-class weddings and funerals. Peaked cap, high collared, silver buttoned tunic, breeches and shiny leather gaiters. The Hon. Con examined her enviously. Some people had all the luck.
They drew up in front of The Martyr’s Head.
‘Do you want me to come in with you ?’
The Hon. Con drew herself up before making a dash for it through the rain. ‘Certainly not!’ she said haughtily. Well, it was one thing to indulge in a spot of harmless dalliance in the privacy of a taxi but quite another to be seen hobnobbing with a uniformed chauffeur in the precincts of Totterbridge’s poshest hostelry. The Hon. Con had her position to think about
The Martyr’s Head was one of those establishments that deserves five stars for pretentiousness in anybody’s handbook. In the dining-room the length of the menu and the price of the dishes were only slightly less intimidating than the effortless contempt displayed by the waiters for their customers. All the bedrooms were naturally equipped with central heating and the early morning hammering in the pipes was guaranteed to wake all except the extremely dead. And most visitors soon found that wall-to-wall carpeting, optional colour television and private bathroms were all very well in their way but that they didn’t really compensate for unemptied ashtrays, the total absence of toilet paper and the funny smell coming from the wardrobe. Complaints, however, were remarkably few, owing in part to the extreme difficulty of finding any members of the staff except at tipping time.
Even as the Hon Con sprinted from her taxi The Martyr’s Head was preparing a characteristic welcome for her. The commissionaire, with a timing which would have turned many a theatrical knight green with envy, emerged from his cubby hole in the entrance hall and got his big umbrella unfurled just too late to afford our heroine any protection whatsoever from the driving rain.
The Hon. Con took this ineptitude in very good part and laughed uproariously as she shook herself like a dog. ‘Evening, George!’ she roared and, since he was still fiddling with his umbrella, obligingly held the swing doors open for him.
The commissionaire passed through in front of her without a word of gratitude, his name being Reginald.
The Hon. Con began stripping off her raincoat. ‘ Mr Welks in?’ For years she had assigned the commissionaire’s surliness to the fact that the poor fellow was hard of hearing so, getting no response to her question, she repeated it. ‘Mr Welks, the manager, HE IN?’
The doorman cringed and clapped his hands over his ears. ‘ I’m not deaf, madam.’
‘Not much!’ chuckled the Hon. Con sotto voce and filled her lungs for another effort
‘Constance, darling!’ The voice behind her was softly reproachful.
The Hon. Con swung round. ‘Welks, old fish!’ The entrance hall vibrated with the exuberance of her greeting. ‘Just the chappie I was looking for!’
‘Surprise, surprise!’ murmured Mr Welks, his hand closing like a gentle limpet on the Hon. Con’s arm. ‘How about coming into my parlour, duckie? We’ve got sound-proof walls there.’
‘Isn’t he a card?’ boomed the Hon. Con, generously sharing the joke with the doorman.’ You’ll be the death of me, Welks, honest you will!’
‘This way, lovie!’ Mr Welks, who was much tougher and stronger than he would ever have dreamed of looking, propelled the Hon. Con through a scattering of interested spectators for all the world like one of those little tugs nosing an Atlantic liner into dock.
‘Golly gosh!’ exclaimed the Hon. Con as Mr Welks hastened to close his office door on the outside world.’ You’ve had the old den done up again!’
Mr Welks shimmied across his new carpet which faithfully reproduced the skin markings of a giraffe and sank gracefully down on a purple chaise longue. ‘It’s Jeune Joan Crawford. Do you like it?’
The Hon. Con blew her cheeks out doubtfully. No point in antagonizing old Welks before she’d got what she’d come for but she had her own artistic integrity to consider. She compromised. ‘Jolly interesting, old bean! And – er – original. Do it all yourself?’
Mr Welks simpered modestly. ‘You know I’ve always had a flair for interior decorating. You should let me come and do up your little bijou residence for you sometime.’
The Hon. Con looked up at the mauve ceiling and the rather precocious putti which hung down from it on thin wires.’ Must have cost a packet,’ she observed.
‘It cost a king’s ransom!’ retorted Mr Welks indignantly and then he sniggered. ‘The owners think we redecorated the dining-room!’
‘Oh.’
‘However, that itsy-bisty morsel of information is practically a state secret, Constance, mon brave, so I am trusting you to be like dad and keep mum.’
‘Only,’ said the Hon. Con, who believed in giving Mr Welks’s natural generosity every support, ‘if you do something for me.’
Mr Welks snapped into a sitting position on his chaise longue and prepared to sell his assistance dearly. ‘Not if it involves giving preferential treatment to that revolting butch taxi-driver of yours, duckie! We all know her and her taking ways, thank you very much!’ He got up and went to soothe himself in front of a large wall mirror embellished with clusters of pansies in barbola work. ‘Reginald and I have our own chums to look after.’
‘Reginald?’
‘The doorman, love! Who do you think summons hackney cabs to this establishment? Reginald’s very fair – if you keep an eye on him. He hands out the jobs to one of his mates or to one of mine in strict rotation. So, you see’ – Mr Welks flounced away from his reflection in the mirror and collapsed into a rather creaky lotus position on his Bokhara rug – ‘the old pal’s act is full. Besides, that jack-booted horror of yours would scare half our clients to death.’
‘Dunno what you’re talking about,’ said the Hon. Con patiently. ‘All I want is a bit of information.’
Mr Welks frowned, and then remembered what that did for your crows feet. ‘Constance, mon ange, you are not by any chance doing another of your so justly celebrated impersonations of Sexton Blake, are you.’
‘That O’Coyne girl was murdered practically on my doorstep.’
‘All the more reason,’ said Mr Welks fastidiously, ‘for turning a blind eye. After all, we do have all those wonderful boys in blue, don’t we?’
‘The cops?’ The Hon. Con gave a contemptuous sniff. ‘I’m way ahead of them.’
The fairies, who had no doubt presided at Mr Welks’s christening, had not neglected to bestow a generous allowance of spitefulness on their protégé. It showed now. ‘If you’re going to enquire about the whereabouts of a certain Torquil Herbert Pollock, grandson of one Mrs Urquhart, on the night of the murder, I can only tell you what I told that delightful Sergeant Fenner. As far as your sordid little murder is concerned, the boy has a cast-iron alibi, provided’ – Mr Welks dropped his head coyly – ‘by yours truly.’
‘Oh, heck!’ The Hon. Con sought relief for her feelings of acute frustration by lashing out with her foot at a nest of occasional tables.
Mr Welks immediately rushed to the defence of his furniture, folding it to his bosom as though it was a frightened child.
‘Sorry,’ muttered the Hon. Con.
‘I should think so! With those great clumping boots of yours, it’s a miracle you didn’t kick it into a thousand fragments.’
The Hon. Con sat down heavily on the nearest chair. ‘ Tell me about Torquil,’ she said.
‘Well, there’s nothing much to tell, duckie.’ Mr Welks pranced back to his mirror and began to fluff out his hair. ‘He arrived here on Monday night about half past six in a taxi driven by that beefy Amazonian Jehu of yours, as if you didn’t know. I happened to be on the reception desk when young Master Pollock, came waltzing in as large as life and twice as handsome, and asks for a room. I ask, very politely of course, to see the colour of his money. My dear, he had fifty pounds, all in crisp one po
und notes! A going-away present from his old grannie – and cheap at the price, too, I shouldn’t wonder! He also had a one-way air ticket to Rome and the cheeky monkey even suggested flogging it to me for the price of his room. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to oblige, The Martyr’s Head not yet having been reduced to bartering.’
‘Just a sec, old fruit!’ interrupted the Hon. Con. ‘You don’t usually ask your guests for payment in advance, do you?’
‘No, but don’t think I wouldn’t like to! Nasty beasts! And search their luggage before they left, too. I’m just waiting with trepidation for the day one of them gets away with an entire bedroom suite.’
‘Then-why?’
‘Because I know Torquil Pollock of old, dearie! Once bitten, you know. He was always coming in here trying to get drinks and meals on tick or telling us to send the bill to his grandmother. Well, we did once, when some fool of a barman went temporarily out of his mind, and la belle-dame was extremely shirty about it. After that I gave firm instructions that the Pollock boy wasn’t to get so much as a handful of free potato crisps unless he had a few coins of the realm jingling in his pockets. ‘Now,’ – Mr Welks glared crossly at the Hon. Con – ‘do you wish me to tell you about Monday night or would you rather drag a few more red herrings across my path?’
‘I’m all ears!’ said the Hon. Con.
Mr Welks recovered his good humour and tittered delightedly. ‘Many a true word, lovie! Not that plastic surgery or even wearing your hair a little longer wouldn’t do wonders. Still, let’s not worry about that just at the moment. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, young Pollock had his bags sent up to his room and then retired to his spiritual home – the bar. Where he remained for the rest of the evening getting more and more squiffy on Gran’s fifty quid, less the modest charge I had extracted to cover his bed and board. Well, it was getting on for midnight and our current barman – a charming Greek lad whom you simply must meet sometime – wanted to go to bed. Torquil was getting somewhat boisterous and so I was summoned – you’re on the go twenty-four hours a day in this job – to deal with him. My dear, he was absolutely paralytic! Stiff as a board! It took all my devastating powers of persuasion to induce Theofylaktos to give me a hand but we eventually hauled Torquil up to his room. As soon as we’d deposited him on the bed, the treacherous Greek cleared off, of course, absolutely refusing to linger longer. So I’ – and here Mr Welks rolled his eyes in a manner so extravagant that it struck even the Hon. Con as a bit off – ‘ had to undress the revolting child and tuck him in between the sheets all on my ownsome. Not that it was a completely unrewarding exercise. That boy’s got the most gorgeous body! Rippling muscles under a smooth brown skin.’
‘Really?’ said the Hon. Con, wondering why Mr Welks had gone so pink. It wasn’t all that warm in the office. ‘ Still, the girl may have been killed after midnight for all the police know. The murder may have been committed as late as one o’clock in the morning according to the information they gave me.’
Mr Welks dabbed his brow with a pale blue paper handkerchief and dropped it delicately into the wastepaper basket. ‘By a happy chance I was able to provide Torquil Pollock with an alibi until 2 am.’
‘Oh?’
Mr Welks shrugged his shoulders. ‘I told you I had to put him to bed single-handed.’
‘And it took you two hours ?’
‘That’s just what the constabulary asked me, dearie!’ Mr Welks broke into a high-pitched giggle and happed a hand skittishly at the Hon. Con. ‘ Haven’t you all got suspicious old minds. And it’s no good snorting like a fractious horse, Constance! That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.’
Chapter Nine
And on this point, Mr Welks proved disappointingly adamant. While still not choosing to elaborate further as to why the bedding of Torquil had taken such a time, he nevertheless reiterated his claim that he had been in the young man’s company until well after the time of the murder.
The Hon. Con’s face settled into a disappointed sulk.
‘Well I’m sorry, duckie,’ said Mr Welks airily, ‘but you can hardly expect me to put a noose round the neck of an innocent boy just to keep you happy, can you?’
‘Suppose not,’ grumbled the Hon. Con without much conviction. ‘Pity, though. He looked tailor-made for it. As soon as I heard he hadn’t left Totterbridge that night I …’ She sighed. ‘Oh, well, I suppose it’s not your fault.’
‘Oh, ta very much!’ said Mr Welks sarcastically. However, he was in his own way very fond of the Hon. Con so he added in a kindlier tone, ‘How about a little drinkie, just to keep your pecker up?’
‘Sooner have a cup of coffee, if you don’t mind,’ said the Hon. Con, still brooding. ‘Got to keep the old brain cells firing on all cylinders.’
‘Suit yourself, duckie!’ Mr Welks, who made it a point of principle never to let a drop of The Martyr’s Head coffee touch his palate, picked up the house phone and gave the order. While they were waiting for it to arrive, he poured himself out a generous glass of madeira.
‘Where’s Torquil now?’
Mr Welks gave another of his elegant shrugs. ‘Search me! He surfaced about lunch time the following day and staggered into the bar for a couple of hairs of the dog that bit him. By then the news about the murder had got around and everybody was talking about it. As soon as he heard the girl’s name, he went as white as a sheet and all but threw up right on our new carpet. I was just about to suggest that he might be better off amidst the hygienic tiling of our gentlemen’s powder room, when he seized hold of me in the most thrilling way – I do so love being grabbed by nubile youths, don’t you? – and informed me that he was departing on the instant.’
‘Whereto?’
‘Rome, of course, and I had to spend simply ages booking him on the first available flight and checking train times for him. However,’ – Mr. Welks simpered deprecatingly – ‘that’s me all over – helpful to a fault. In the circumstances I felt it was the least I could do.’
‘Huh,’ said the Hon. Con. ‘Sounds jolly queer to me.’
Mr Welks paused, put his glass down very deliberately and turned to face the Hon. Con, arms akimbo. ‘What does, dear?’ he demanded ominously.
The Hon. Con glanced at him in astonishment. ‘Torquil ratting off to Rome,’ she explained. ‘Sign of a guilty conscience, if you ask me.’
‘Oh, that!’ Mr Wilks relaxed. ‘I suppose he just didn’t want to get involved.’
The coffee arrived on a little silver tray. It was cold and had a peculiar after-taste of stale mushroom soup but the Hon. Con didn’t appear to notice, being too busy trying to purloin some of the little packets of sugar which had come with the coffee. Some people might consider that this was conduct unworthy of the daughter of a peer, but the Hon.Con herself reckoned she’d paid for it and was entitled to as much as she could pocket without being spotted.
‘Welks, old fellow,’ said the Hon. Con, unscrewing her face after an especially foul mouthful, ‘ Torquil was by way of being a regular customer here, wasn’t he?’
‘I wouldn’t exactly say that,’ said Mr Welks warily. ‘He came in several times, of course, but we don’t exactly encourage teenagers. The Martyr’s Head is hardly their scene, is it? We cater for the more sophisticated customer who doesn’t wish to pass all his time kicking the juke box to pieces.’
‘Didn’t know you’d got a juke box.’
‘I was speaking figuratively, Constance, my beloved!’ wailed Mr Welks reproachfully. ‘Anyhow, young Pollock didn’t come here often, only when he’d got some drab of a floozie he wanted to soften up.’
‘Torquil came with a girl?’
‘He came with several assorted girls, if I remember correctly. I told you – it was part of his technique. He picked up one of these nauseating little tarts and brought her in here just to show her what a terrific man of the world he was.’
Even though she had got every available finger crossed, the Hon. Con hardly dared put her next question. ‘One of
them wouldn’t by any wild chance happen to be Teresa O’Coyne, would she?
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’ Mr Welks shot his cuffs with impressive indifference. ‘I have something better to do with my time than go around ogling girls.’
‘She was Irish,’ ventured the Hon. Con.
‘It wouldn’t make any difference if she was a South Sea Islander in full war paint!’ snapped Mr Welks. ‘ They all look exactly the same to me.’
‘Maybe your barman would know?’
Mr Welks pursed his lips. ‘ Theofylaktos? Well, he might. In spite of a good deal of evidence to the contrary, I believe he does occasionally have his eyes open when he’s dispensing drinks. Have you got a photograph?’
A photograph?’ The Hon. Con shook her head and inwardly cursed the obstacles with which the path of the lone ranger was strewn. No doubt every Tom, Dick and Harry in the local police force was armed with hundreds of pictures of the murder victim, whilst she … Oh, it was enough to make you sick! ‘ Perhaps Theo-whatdoyoucallit would remember her name?’
‘I doubt it, dearie. English names’ – Mr Welks grinned wickedly – ‘are all Greek to him!’
The Hon. Con was not amused. ‘ O’Coyne is Irish,’ she pointed out coldly. ‘And, I must say, Welks, you’re not being very helpful’
‘My dear Constance, what more can I do?’
The Hon. Con rose majestically to her feet and, standing fair and square on legs which would have done credit to a concert grand, confronted Mr Welks. ‘You can conduct me to your bar and introduce me to your barman. I wish to cross-examine him.’
‘Hey, wait a minute!’ Mr Welks had alarming visions of a Peasants’ Revolt sweeping up from the kitchens whither the ingrates usually retired to compose their ultimatums. ‘Theofylaktos isn’t in the dock, you know.’
‘Not yet,’ agreed the Hon. Con grimly.
Theofylaktos, much to the Hon. Con’s disgust, proved to be one of those aggravating foreigners too shiftless or too stupid to learn English properly. When he got rattled, and with the Hon. Con towering over him he got rattled rather quickly, he tended to seek refuge in would-be placating smiles and his own outlandish tongue.