Curtain Call
Page 20
‘Thank you for the offer,’ she said with heavy irony, which Bee missed, because she immediately jumped in with an afterthought.
‘Not your old bedroom, though. I’m afraid I’ve taken that.’
Nina took a moment to construe this. ‘D’you mean to say – have you already moved in?’
‘Well, Mummy said there was no point in paying rent at Fulham, and with Mr Dorsch living in that big house –’
‘Wait – wait. You’re both assuming an awful lot. How can you be certain that Mr Dorsch will ask Mum to marry him?’
Bee shrugged. ‘She seems to think he will. And they looked very cosy together at the dinner.’
The dinner. This was an occasion Mrs Land had hosted for her three daughters and Mr Dorsch last week, ostensibly a casual affair but to Nina’s eye a scheme to encourage the widower to regard himself as ‘one of the family’. It had been quite a convivial evening, true – her mother was a good cook, and Mr Dorsch had brought round some fine Austrian muscat to drink – but Nina nevertheless sensed a misreading of the situation. While Mr Dorsch’s manner was cheerful and attentive, she detected no special warmth emanating from him towards his hostess, for all her vivacity. If he did have passion it was devoted to the pursuit of his charity work for the Spanish orphans still coming over in boatloads from the civil war. The toast he raised to Mrs Land in the middle of dinner was sincere but explicitly one of gratitude for her continuing good offices as a volunteer. Nina, making silent study of the moment, caught the tiniest glint of disappointment in her mother’s hitherto bright gaze. She felt almost sorry for her.
‘You don’t think she’s deluding herself? I’m not sure Mr Dorsch is really the romantic type . . .’
‘He doesn’t have to be romantic – he just has to marry her,’ said Bee, with a cold practicality that took Nina by surprise. ‘It’ll all work out in the end.’
Nina was very far from being persuaded on the matter. It had also become clear to her that Bee wasn’t going to budge about the house, being unable, or unwilling, to see the injustice of it. And further argument would cause the plaintiff more anguish than it would the defendant.
She took out a cigarette, offered one to Bee, and lit them up.
‘That’s a nice lighter,’ Bee remarked. ‘Is it actual gold?’
Nina nodded, feeling an absurd thrill of pleasure that it had been noticed. ‘A friend gave it to me.’
‘Must be some friend.’
She allowed herself a pause before answering. ‘I suppose he is. Well, when you meet someone as irresistible as me . . .’
Bee’s expression wavered, doubtful, until she realised that her sister was being droll, and merely raised her eyes to heaven in humourless reproof. Nina had a slight hope that Bee would enquire further, not that she would dream of naming Stephen but because she would enjoy being mysterious about him. The hope was disappointed: something had caught Bee’s eye, eclipsing any curiosity about the friend.
‘This business with the American woman,’ she said, gazing at an illustrated paper being read at the next table. ‘Is the King allowed to marry her?’
‘No. She’s twice divorced. Unless they make it a morganatic marriage.’
‘A what?’
‘It means he could marry her but she wouldn’t be Queen, and his direct heirs would be excluded from the throne. The Crown would pass on his death to the Duke of York’s eldest daughter instead. Elizabeth. But the government will fight him tooth and nail over it.’ She had got all this, including ‘morganatic’, from Stephen a few days ago, and amused herself by sounding so authoritative on the matter. Bee was staring at her in undisguised wonder – she looked almost stunned by her tone of assurance.
‘So, do you think – what if they tell him he can’t? Marry her, I mean.’
‘There’ll be the most awful row,’ said Nina, choosing her words pointedly. ‘Among the family as well.’
‘Really?’ said Bee, wide-eyed now.
‘Of course – if he abdicates. Poor old Albert. You don’t expect your nearest and dearest to leave you in the lurch. What sort of behaviour is that?’
She watched her sister carefully as she said this, wondering if it was a little heavy-handed. Bee puckered her mouth in disapproval. ‘Shameful, I’d call it.’
Interesting, thought Nina. Her sister had moral discrimination after all. A pity it should require the story of people known to her only through the headlines to exercise it. She thought she might have one more try, to see if she could awaken Bee to a parallel case. ‘It’ll cause bad blood. How would you resolve it?’
Bee gave this her most pettish frown, and for a moment Nina thought the penny had dropped. But what she said was, ‘I think the King should set an example – one must do one’s duty.’
Nina tapped the ash off her cigarette, and looked away.
‘Oh, one must,’ she murmured. ‘One must.’
The following night before curtain-up she found Dolly smirking at her queerly. She sidled over to Nina’s dressing screen and, with the proud flourish of a mayoress unveiling a plaque, plucked down a shimmering scarlet kimono.
‘Look what I found,’ Dolly crowed. It was a favourite item Nina believed had been lost, or stolen, weeks ago.
‘Where on earth –?’
‘Only down the back of that bleedin’ sofa! If you weren’t such a slattern I wouldn’t ’ave lost an eye lookin’ for it.’
Nina, cooing her delight, had taken the garment in her hands and pressed it to her nose. ‘Behind the sofa?’
And saying the words she now recalled when she had last taken it off. She had been late finishing up one night – Dolly had gone home – when Stephen dropped by unexpectedly. ‘I’ve only got an hour,’ he’d said, and in the frantic fumble of clothes being shed she had tossed the kimono across the shoulder of a sofa already doing duty as a chaotic open wardrobe. As those hurried horizontal minutes came back to her she blushed, and turned away lest Dolly should read the guilty pleasure in her face.
‘You’re so clever to have found it,’ she cried, quickly stripping down to her underwear and wrapping the kimono about her neat figure. ‘Ooh, this silk is like, it’s like . . . cool water rippling over your skin!’
‘Fancy,’ said Dolly, deadpan. At which Nina crossed her hands, grabbed a handful of silk in each and flashed a pose at her.
‘How d’you like that for a poster at the Gaumont?’
Dolly gave her a once-over. ‘Oh. Went well, then?’
‘Pretty well,’ said Nina, who had done a screen test that afternoon for Ludo Talman at the Marlborough Studios. The reaction had been encouraging, though Ludo said he would first have to show the reels to ‘the men with the money’ – his producers. So it wasn’t cut and dried quite yet.
She was imagining her first close-up when a knock sounded at the door. It was the call boy, whose muttered message Dolly relayed. ‘Somebody for you.’
Nina, who never allowed anyone in her dressing room before curtain-up, waved him away. ‘I can’t possibly –’
‘He sez she wasn’t stage-doorin’. A young lady – knows you.’
She paused, irritated yet curious. With a lift of her chin she indicated her acquiescence, and the call boy hurried off. A minute or so later she heard footsteps come to a halt, and a quiet tap on the door. The caller’s was not a face she had expected to see again.
‘Hullo,’ said Madeleine. ‘You remember we –?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Come in,’ she said. ‘This is Dolly, my dresser – it’s, um, Madeleine, isn’t it?’
Madeleine felt the fuggy warmth from the two-bar electric fire as she edged her way in; the place looked like a laundry room after a small tornado had whipped through it. Armchairs and sofa were heaped with clothes. Rainbow swipes of soft fabrics hung off every available upright. The bulb-fringed mirror overlooking the dressing table duplicated a wild landscape of pots and creams and brushes. Nina slyly took in her guest’s polite survey of her quarters, and laughed.
Madeleine smiled and took the proffered seat, as Nina plumped herself down on her own chair. Ludo’s screen test had put her in a cheerful mood, banishing the tension of yesterday’s encounter with Bee. And perhaps it was also the thought of Stephen that night with his hands all over her, in this very room. She wondered now, as she often did, if he was thinking of her.
‘So . . .’ she began, surveying her guest, attired for the evening in a black alpaca coat with a contrasting fur trim, and a felt cloche pulled low over her brow. She looked – what was the word? – fetching, which wasn’t how you generally thought of tarts.
‘I wanted to – what we talked about the other night –’ she said, halting, and her eyes flicked across to Dolly, who had seated herself at the ancient black Singer where she did running repairs on Nina’s clothes. She didn’t bother making a pretence of not listening.
Nina, understanding at once, put on her sweetest smile as she said, ‘Dolly, would you be a darling and make us a pot of tea?’
Dolly gave a fleeting twitch to her mouth. ‘All part of the service, I’m sure.’ She abandoned her sewing machine and, with a thwarted air, traipsed out of the room. When the door closed Nina tipped her head in invitation: they could now speak confidentially.
‘That drawing your friend did, the one you showed me the other night, of – him.’ Madeleine paused, forcing herself to recall his face. ‘I think I made a mistake.’
‘A mistake? What d’you mean?’
‘When I looked at it, you remember I said – I thought it wasn’t him.’
‘Yes, you said it couldn’t have been the man you were with, because he wasn’t bald. You seemed quite sure of it.’
‘I know. That’s what I thought. But something happened, recently – something that reminded me of that day, and I realised . . .’ She gave her head a brief shake, as though in self-rebuke, ‘. . . that he probably is bald.’
Nina tucked in her chin, disbelieving. ‘Probably? The man – you were there with him – surely it’s a straightforward thing if he’s bald or not.’
‘Yes, but – I couldn’t tell, because he was wearing a wig. When he was on top of me . . . at one point I managed to free my hand and grab his hair. And I felt it slip. I’d forgotten that – it was over in a moment, and all through I was panicking, trying to fight him off. By the time you entered the room he must have taken the thing off.’
‘Hmm. No wonder we couldn’t agree . . . But his face, I mean in the sketch. D’you think it was his face?’
Madeleine gave a rueful grimace. ‘I do now.’
Nina nodded. This put a new perspective on the matter. She thought again of the drawing she had presented to the police. It was hardly surprising that they hadn’t caught the man, given the unreliable picture they had of him. Even this woman who had been in his company couldn’t tell if he had hair or not. Oh, that she had ever got herself involved . . .
A silence intervened before Madeleine spoke again. ‘There’s another thing. Someone I know – from the club – met a man recently who was – she said he was asking about me. I’m pretty sure it was him.’
‘Oh God. How could you tell?’
‘Just from her description. He kept making knots with his tie – which is what he did when he was with me.’
‘Did she say anything else?’
‘Only one thing – he told her his name was Rusk.’
‘Rusk?’ The name unaccountably rang a bell in her consciousness. She stood and began to rummage through a heap of discarded Chronicles on her dresser. Somehow, through her own idiosyncratic filing system, she located the one she wanted, and riffled its pages.
‘Here!’ She spread out the paper for Madeleine to look at. It was a news story on the Tiepin Killer from a week ago, when the police first released a photograph of his face as sketched by ‘a member of the public’. Nina pointed to the reporter’s byline: Barry Rusk, crime correspondent.
Alice was right, thought Madeleine – they never gave their own name. ‘So he just took it from a reporter,’ she said.
But now a gleam had come into Nina’s eye. ‘Yes, but not just any reporter. He took the name of the one who’d written this story, as if it were a kind of joke. D’you not see what that means? Before we weren’t sure, but now we know the man has seen his own face in the newspaper – so the man we saw must be the killer!’
Madeleine, staring at the newsprint, slowly nodded her head. She was thinking about Alice, about why ‘Mr Rusk’ had not done her in like the others. And now it seemed obvious; he will use her to get to me. Of course. ‘They usually come back for more,’ Alice had said, and she would know. Madeleine had got her to promise to go to the police if she met him again, but what with her being half crazed on drugs, as Rita said, it was more than likely she’d forget, or wouldn’t bother.
Just then they heard Dolly’s shuffling steps, returning with the tea, and Nina quickly took Madeleine’s hand in hers. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said in a conspirator’s undertone, ‘I think I know what to do.’
‘There you are!’
Stephen looked up from his luncheon omelette to find Ludo Talman bearing down on him. He had been working on the mural since eight in the morning, and hoped to snatch a quiet moment in the smaller of the Nines’ dining rooms. But there was to be no peace here. Ludo was accompanied by a tall, well-dressed man whom he introduced with a hushed respect.
‘Stephen, this is Everett Druce, one of our sainted patrons at the Marlborough.’
Stephen made to rise, but Druce suavely held up his hands to stop him. ‘Please – we’ve interrupted your lunch. Talman said you were on the premises, and I was curious to meet you.’
‘Well, you’ll get to know one another soon enough. Druce is one of those to be immortalised on the mural. We’ve just been upstairs to have a look at it – you’re making good progress.’
Stephen nodded, wondering where he had seen the man before. ‘We should arrange a time for you to sit.’
Druce made an apologetic grimace. ‘I’m sorry to say my time is at a premium. If I don’t manage to see you here, perhaps you’d call at the house one afternoon – I’ve a few nice paintings you might care to look at.’
‘I’m sure I would,’ said Stephen, catching Ludo’s enthusiastic mumming in the background.
‘Excellent.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘And now I must away. Talman, a pleasure, as always. Mr Wyley,’ he said, dipping his head in farewell.
When he had gone, Ludo slid into the chair facing Stephen. He took out a cigar, dark and stubby as a turd, and lit it.
‘You’re looking rather pleased with yourself,’ said Stephen, blowing the smoke away from his omelette.
‘So would you be if you’d just renewed a contract with our Mr Druce. He’s a kind of sleeping partner at the Marlborough. Attends the occasional meeting, watches the odd screen test, never interferes – and invests a fortune in the company.’
‘What’s in it for him?’
‘A small return on his money. But mostly prestige. He loves movies, of course.’
‘And he’s rich, by the sound of it.’
‘Oh, rich as stink, as my mother used to say. Lives in one of those huge old Georgian houses down by the Embankment. When he mentioned those “nice” paintings he was being modest. He’s a serious collector – Cézanne, Monet, early Braque, you name it, and that’s just the moderns. There’s a Poussin in his drawing room that’s worth a visit all by itself.’
Stephen was still trying to recall his face. ‘I’ve a feeling we’ve met before. Did he study at the Royal Academy?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so. He’s spent most of his life making money – some City brokerage, I gather. That’s why he’s never got any time to spare.’
‘Talking of which
, I had a letter from the Palace the other day. You-know-who’s private secretary regrets to inform me that HM hasn’t time to sit for a portrait at present. I just wanted you to know that I tried.’
Ludo gave an irritated little jerk of his head. ‘Damn. Probably too busy tupping the gay divorcee . . .’
Stephen offered no comment on this prurient speculation. Rain, pattering on, blurred the tall window. Outside, the autumn sky was as murky as an old fish tank. He gave up on his omelette, wreathed as it was in cigar smoke, and asked the waiter for a cognac. Ludo, recovering his good mood, decided to join him. Stephen wondered if this might be the moment to broach another delicate subject.
‘I happened to see my friend Nina last night. She said you were very charming to her at the studio . . .’
‘Ah, yes, Nina Land.’ His producer’s tone was thoughtful rather than enthusiastic. ‘We auditioned her for a picture we’re making called Fortune’s Cap. She was very – spirited.’
Stephen didn’t like the sound of this. ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’
Ludo blew out a pensive jet of smoke. ‘It rather depends. She’s an excellent stage actress, there’s no doubt. But film-acting demands something different, a kind of restraint. “Less is more”, if you will. Miss Land’ – his mouth made a little click of regret – ‘she’s still projecting to the stalls. Row T would have no complaints, but it won’t look right onscreen. It might even look ridiculous.’
‘Surely a director could instruct her to, I don’t know, tone it down?’
Ludo gave a slow shake to his head. ‘The truth is, she’s not really what we’re after. If it were Strindberg I’d cast her in a shot – ha ha! – but this is a contemporary story about deception and murder. I just don’t see her in it. And strictly entre nous, some of the chaps thought she was a little old.’
‘She’s thirty-two!’
At which Ludo said, with a shrug, ‘The case rests.’
Hellfire, thought Stephen. And she’d told him straight out last night how pleased she’d been! Either Ludo’s charm had misled her or else she had properly deceived herself. It would be hard to bear, he knew, especially coming after her mother’s despicable behaviour over the will. He felt a tug of pity as he imagined her face on hearing the news.