Off the Record

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Winded, Jack tried to speak, but could only manage a croak. He heard a shout and the crunch of a blow from above, then a huge noise as someone slid down the roof. A shape hung from the gutter for a moment, then the weakened gutter gave way altogether in a cracking of wood and a rain of splinters and mud. There was an agonized cry, followed by the whimper of a groan.

  Jack, his chest like fire as his breath returned, struck a match. Carrington was standing against the garage wall, gun in hand. Lewis was lying at the end of the passage, crumpled against the wooden door. Jack, from behind Carrington, saw the terrified gleam in Lewis’s eyes as Carrington raised his gun.

  Jack started forward, grabbing Carrington’s arm as he fired. The bullet ricocheted from the walls in a terrifying whine of sound. Carrington twisted in his grasp and broke free. Jack propelled forward, fell in front of Lewis, covering him with his body. Getting to his knees and gasping for breath, he struck another match.

  ‘Haldean!’ It was Carrington. ‘Get out of my way. I don’t want to hurt you.’

  Jack got to his feet and shook his head dumbly.

  Carrington’s gun was levelled at his chest. ‘If you don’t move, I’m going to shoot you.’

  Jack’s eyes met his in the last of the match’s light. Carrington’s head went back as if he’d been struck. Jack tried hard and managed to speak. He wished he could see Carrington’s face, but he was only a black shape against the gloom of the passage. ‘I’m walking towards you. Give me the gun.’

  ‘I’ll kill you!’ The words were hardly audible.

  ‘Then kill me.’

  There was a sound like a sob. Jack reached forward and took the gun from Carrington’s unresisting hand. A noise behind him made him whirl and, kicking out, he sent Lewis’s automatic flying.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ said Lewis wearily. ‘It’d be better if I shot him. He’s going to hang.’

  Jack delivered the unresisting Carrington into the care of Superintendent Clough. He talked to Carrington, a soothing flow of words, but the man was sunk in complete apathy. He didn’t think Carrington had heard anything of what he’d said.

  ‘Good work, Major Haldean!’ boomed Superintendent Clough enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together. ‘My word, I’ll be glad to have this chap under lock and key and no mistake!’

  ‘Make sure he’s treated properly,’ warned Jack. ‘Inspector Rackham and I will be along to see him later. Can you get hold of a doctor? Mr Lewis fell off the roof. I think he’s crocked his ankle. He’s in the passage by the garage. See someone attends to him, will you? I wouldn’t be surprised if Inspector Rackham needed some attention as well. I’m not sure, but I think he’s a bit worse for wear. He’s on the upstairs landing.’

  He went into the house where he found Bill coming groggily down the stairs, clutching the banister with one hand and holding his jaw with the other. ‘That bloody idiot, Lewis, laid me out,’ he said. ‘He fetched me the dickens of a wallop and I hit my head against the wall. I was trying to stop him loosing off with that damn gun of his.’ He blinked at Jack. ‘Did we get Carrington?’

  ‘Safe and sound. Come and sit down, Bill. You look all in. Superintendent Clough can see to anything that needs doing.’

  Bill sank into a chair in the hall with a groan. ‘So it’s over,’ he said distantly.

  ‘For the time being, yes,’ answered Jack.

  ‘For the time being?’ asked Rackham with a groan, propping his forehead on his hand. ‘What happens next?’

  ‘I need to have a talk with Hector Ferguson,’ said Jack. ‘But that can wait till tomorrow.’

  SIXTEEN

  ‘In my opinion, Lewis,’ said Hector Ferguson earnestly, ‘it would be a crying shame not to carry on with Carrington’s work.’

  It was three days after Gerard Carrington’s arrest. Stephen Lewis and Hector Ferguson were sitting in the bar of Goodyers, Lewis’s club in St James. Hector Ferguson, his whisky completely ignored, was enthusiastically leafing through diagrams. ‘I was in Scotland yesterday,’ he said. ‘My chief engineer’s absolutely aching to complete this improved version of the machine. These diagrams are copies, you understand? He’s got the originals and, based on what Carrington’s already done, he’s confident he can have a working machine ready within the fortnight.’ He hunched forward in excitement. ‘Just think of it, Lewis. In two weeks’ time – two weeks! – we can change the future of recorded sound. However, I don’t want to proceed without your agreement. Carrington’s your cousin, after all, and I suppose, not to put too fine a point on it, you are his next of kin.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that unless Carrington’s made other arrangements, you’ll inherit his property.’

  Lewis drew back as if stung. ‘For heaven’s sake, Ferguson, that’s pretty cold-blooded. He’s not dead.’

  Ferguson sucked his cheeks in. ‘Can you not treat the situation with a degree of what I might call . . .’ He coughed and suddenly looked very uncomfortable. He was obviously choosing his words carefully. ‘With intelligent anticipation, Lewis? There’s no point avoiding facts. Carrington’s been arrested.’ He drew his finger across his throat. ‘Is there really a chance of any other outcome?’

  Lewis looked at him with an appalled expression. ‘But even so, man, I can’t just wade in and help myself to his property. God knows, Carrington’s put me through the mill. If it wasn’t for Haldean he would have shot me the other night.’

  ‘So I understand,’ agreed Ferguson.

  ‘But even so, it seems wrong. I don’t dispute what you’re saying, but wouldn’t it be more . . . more seemly, I suppose, to wait?’

  ‘And if we do wait,’ said Ferguson, hunching forward, ‘there’s every chance we’ll be pipped at the post.’ He tapped the table firmly. ‘Electrical recording is the next move forward. We’re not the only people who are developing this sort of system. The Americans are nearly there and so are the Germans and the Danes. And you know as well as I do that there aren’t many prizes for coming second. The winner will scoop the pool and there’s a lot of money to be made.’

  Lewis took a deep breath and lit a cigarette. ‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘Let’s say, for argument’s sake, I agree. I want to be involved.’ He raised his eyebrows sardonically. ‘As Carrington’s next of kin, I should be.’

  ‘And will. Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘All right. Who will own the new machine?’ asked Lewis cautiously. ‘The legal tangle about ownership is a nightmare.’

  Ferguson waved the legal tangle to one side, nearly knocking the ashtray off the table. ‘That doesn’t matter! Well,’ he added, seeing Lewis’s face, ‘of course it does, but it’s a secondary consideration. Oddly enough, Haldean asked me the same thing. He wanted to know who owned the rights and how close the machine was to production.’

  Lewis drew back. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I said who owned what was a very moot point, but in any case it would be some time before the machine could be sold commercially.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ said Lewis. ‘It’ll take some time to set up a production line. This question of ownership really does need to be thrashed out, though. Let me get this straight. You’ve still got Professor Carrington’s original machine, yes?’

  ‘No,’ said Ferguson unexpectedly. ‘As I said, I was in Falkirk yesterday. I had the Professor’s original machine, complete with all the ribbons and various bits and pieces boxed up and sent to you at Stoke Horam. It should arrive today.’

  Lewis choked on his whisky. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why not? As a matter of fact, you have Haldean to thank for it. It was his idea.’

  Lewis’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Haldean’s idea? What, that you should send me Professor Carrington’s machine?’

  ‘And all the bits and pieces, yes.’

  Lewis blinked in bewilderment. ‘But why? Don’t misunderstand me, Ferguson, I’m grateful. I really am grateful, but what the dickens has Haldean got to
do with it?’

  ‘Nothing, as such. As I say, he came to see me, principally, as far as I could make out, to see if Dunbar’s owed Carrington any money. He thought it could go towards Carrington’s defence. At least,’ he added in a dissatisfied voice, ‘that’s what he said.’

  ‘What else could he want?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said Ferguson with a shrug. ‘He asked me a dickens of a lot of questions about my stepfather, that’s for sure.’ He laughed nervously. ‘I didn’t really care for his manner. I know Carrington’s your cousin, Lewis, but I won’t be sorry when it’s all over.’ He caught Lewis’s expression and looked away. ‘Anyway, I told Haldean that Dunbar’s didn’t owe Carrington anything but he knew about the machine, of course. I mentioned the Professor and his connection with Dunbar’s. I showed him the Professor’s original machine and said I didn’t really know what to do with it. He wasn’t really interested, I could tell, but I asked him for his advice and he suggested sending it to you. I don’t know if he meant it – he was quite offhand – but I thought, why not? I’ll be frank, Lewis. I wanted to convince you that I was a trustworthy person to work with and I thought, however offhand Haldean had been, it wasn’t a bad idea.’

  ‘Well, I’m very pleased to have it, of course. You do realize that I could go ahead and develop it myself ?’

  ‘That’s the chance I took,’ said Ferguson earnestly. ‘The Professor’s machine is a wonderful achievement, there’s no two ways about it, but it’s a pig of a thing to operate. Take the ribbons, for instance. They’re so awkward to use they’d drive any customer up the wall. In the new version the ribbons are encased in a holder and are easy to handle. The old ones won’t work on the new machine, but that’s not a problem. We’ll simply make new ones. What d’you say, Lewis? Let me complete Carrington’s work.’

  ‘I must say I’m tempted,’ admitted Lewis.

  Ferguson brightened visibly. ‘You won’t regret it.’ He spread his hands out encouragingly. ‘We can talk about the finer points of ownership afterwards. The great thing is to have a working machine up and running. If you’re still interested in a merger, it’s something I’d like to do.’

  Lewis ran his finger thoughtfully round the top of his glass. ‘It makes sense to proceed, I must say. Quite apart from the huge technical advance, Otterbourne’s has taken such a battering that we do need a new product. What about your mother, though? What’s her opinion? After all, she owns the company.’

  ‘My mother’s happy to let me have my head,’ said Ferguson. ‘She doesn’t want to be bothered with business. You can take it I’m speaking for her. There won’t be any trouble.’

  Lewis picked up his whisky and drank it reflectively. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Ferguson happily, boxing his papers together. ‘I’ll go ahead and you should hear from me very shortly. I’ve just taken the lease on a new recording studio. It’s in Bridle Lane, Soho. Why don’t we meet up there? Under the circumstances, with Carrington and all, it’s perhaps inappropriate to give a party, but we should mark the event in some way. I know my mother’s interested and she really should be there. Why don’t you bring Mrs Lewis? I’ll provide cocktails and so on.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ said Lewis with a very satisfied smile. ‘And I’ll look forward to hearing from you soon.’

  Molly sipped her cocktail and looked round Hector Ferguson’s new studio. It seemed odd, in a way, that the whole evening should be focused on the two modest wooden boxes sitting on the table. Those wooden boxes were, she knew, It. The new machine, the Big Advance, the Great Step Forward, as Steve had enthusiastically described it. Ever since he had agreed to Dunbar’s producing the new machine a couple of weeks ago, Steve had been like a different person. He had, he said, something genuinely to look forward to. Otterbourne’s would merge with Dunbar’s and they would have an unbeatable product.

  The worry that had clouded him, the worry that had plagued him ever since he received that telegram about his uncle, had vanished. Quite simply, Steve was fun to be with once more.

  His arm encircled her waist. ‘Shall we dance?’ he said, his mouth close to her ear. The gramophone – a Dunbar’s gramophone naturally – was playing a foot-tapping American song, Do It Again! ‘Or shall I take on Mrs Dunbar?’

  ‘Dance with Mrs Dunbar if you must dance,’ she said with a giggle.

  ‘Beast,’ he said softly. ‘She creaks when she moves. I think she needs oiling.’

  ‘I think she wears corsets. Mrs Dunbar,’ she called, turning, ‘my husband was wondering if you would care to dance.’

  ‘Molly!’ said Steve in apprehension, then moulded his features into a smile as Mrs Dunbar bore down on them.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Dunbar, ‘but later, perhaps?’ Steve’s sigh of relief was so heartfelt it tickled Molly’s ear. She gave him a warning nudge with her elbow. He grinned and slipped away to refresh his glass.

  ‘What do you think of Hector’s new studio?’ asked Mrs Dunbar. ‘He’s been so busy up in Scotland that he hasn’t been able to spend much time here, but he assures me it will become a centre for this new music he’s so fond of.’

  Molly knew all about Hector Ferguson’s ideas for his studio. He had treated her to an account of his plans whilst mixing her a White Lady. He had spoken at some length. The new studio was, in fact, nothing more than an empty room in Soho, with a cloakroom and two box rooms. According to Ferguson, it was ideally placed to lure the hottest jazz musicians from the clubs. They would clamour, he said, to be recorded. They were, apparently, standing in what would be the dynamic heart of jazz.

  The odd thing was that she had heard Hector Ferguson on the subject of jazz before and he had overwhelmed her with his enthusiasm. On this occasion, in his new studio with his new recording machine, when he had every reason to be on top of the world, he sounded flat and uninterested. He had said the words, yes, but there was no passion behind them. She shot a glance to where he was standing, back against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He was staring at Major Haldean. He’s nervous, she thought with sudden insight, looking at the way he pulled on his cigarette. The man’s alive with nerves.

  With an effort, she dragged her attention back to Mrs Dunbar. What had she been talking about? Oh yes. ‘Mr Ferguson’s ideas sound very interesting,’ she said, adding politely, ‘I do like the decorations.’ Mrs Dunbar, she knew, had been the force behind the Chinese lanterns, roses and wreaths of glossy green leaves that adorned the newly painted white walls.

  ‘It makes it more of an occasion,’ said Mrs Dunbar in a satisfied way. ‘I wanted Hector to hire a couple of waiters, but he said he didn’t want anyone to know about this new machine until he and your husband were ready to demonstrate it to the Press. Hector says that the publicity will have to be handled very carefully, with Mr Carrington being . . .’

  Molly felt as if a hand had gripped her heart. She knew her face betrayed her. She saw Mrs Dunbar’s expression change and heard her voice falter.

  Gerry! she thought bleakly. Damn Gerry. Despite everything, she couldn’t get him out of her mind. Life should be good but not an hour passed that she didn’t think of Gerry. And it was so unfair to Steve. He deserved better. She had tried – really tried – to forget Gerry, to give the man she was actually married to the wholehearted attention he deserved. Steve couldn’t ever really appreciate how mixed her feelings were. One feeling she had isolated was anger, that burning resentment of betrayed trust. She had believed in Gerry. Once before, when he had been accused of murder – the murder of this woman’s husband, she reminded herself – she had clung passionately to the belief he was innocent and rejoiced when he was free. Steve had tried to warn her, but she hadn’t wanted to listen. ‘I’m sorry,’ she managed to say. ‘Please, do carry on.’

  ‘The circumstances are so difficult, aren’t they?’ said Mrs Dunbar lamely. ‘What does your husband think, my dear?’ she added with an attem
pt at brightness.

  Molly felt as if she’d reached some firm ground in the shifting sand of her emotions. ‘Steve? He hasn’t really talked about it,’ she said, looking across the room to where Steve, his thick fair hair streaked with red light from the Chinese lanterns, had strolled across to Major Haldean.

  Mrs Dunbar glanced about her conspiratorially. ‘I was so grateful to your husband, Mrs Lewis,’ she said in hushed tones. ‘I know he was instrumental in freeing Hector from that awful suspicion. I have never felt so desperate in all my life as that terrible night Hector was arrested. When he was freed, it was as if I’d come to life again. I can never thank your husband enough for what he did.’ She reached out and held Molly’s arm confidingly. ‘I know you have endured a great deal, my dear, but you have a lot to be grateful for.’

  And that, presumably, was Mrs Dunbar’s tactfully clumsy way of referring to Dad. No one would ever forget what her father had done. How could they, when he had made such a parade of his virtues? She suddenly remembered when she was very small and Dad was very big, a sunlit memory of Dad in the garden. He’d thrown her up in the air with a shout of laughter. Her mother’s voice: Charles, don’t drop her! Molly, helpless with joy, trusted Daddy would catch her and he had. She’d always trusted him until the ghastly truth had poisoned all her memories. That was when the anger had begun. When she had first found out what her father had really been like.

  ‘It’ll be much better when Mr Carrington is convicted,’ said Mrs Dunbar with brutal sympathy. ‘We can forget all about it then.’

  Molly suddenly couldn’t take any more of Mrs Dunbar. ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure we shall,’ she lied, backing away. ‘Excuse me, I want a word with Steve.’