A Shot in the Dark

by Lynne Truss

  Brunswick felt that the identity of Jack Braithwaite’s murderer was inexorably emerging. This was honestly one of the most exciting and fulfilling days he had experienced since the unfortunate cessation of global hostilities in 1945 had brought an end to his jumping out of planes.

  ‘Going somewhere, Miss Cavendish?’ he said, not unpleasantly, indicating the open suitcase. Penny explained what had happened; how she had hoped to go home, but that the play would go on, in response to the ghoulish demand for tickets. She looked broken, Brunswick thought. It was terrible that something like this should happen to a woman so young and lovely.

  She invited him to sit on the only armchair in the room, while taking her own place at the dressing-table. She swallowed, and briefly closed her eyes. ‘Is this about Jack?’ she said, bravely.

  ‘Yes. Well, it’s more about a friend of Mr Braithwaite’s, actually. A man named –’ (and here he consulted his notebook) ‘– Bobby Melba?’

  Penny was alarmed; her immediate thought was that she didn’t want Bobby to be dragged into this. He had been so kind to her last night. She also didn’t want to admit she had spent the night in his digs. She knew how it would look.

  The sergeant smiled at her reassuringly. ‘It’s probably nothing. Just doing my job.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, as if reassured (she wasn’t). ‘Look, do you mind if I do my hair while we’re talking? I’ve suddenly got quite a lot to do. I have to make my way to the theatre as soon as possible.’

  Brunswick said he didn’t mind at all, so she turned to her mirror, and for a moment he was slightly overwhelmed. It turned out that Penny was as beautiful from the back as she was from the front.

  ‘So. This friend of Jack’s?’ she prompted.

  ‘Ah, yes. I’m interested in someone called Bobby Melba, and I believe you met him yesterday morning.’

  Penny took a steadying breath and then answered, as offhandedly as she could, ‘Bobby? Yes, I did meet someone called Bobby yesterday.’

  ‘That’s excellent.’

  ‘He’s an old friend of Jack’s. They were at drama school together.’

  ‘That’s right. They were. Did he happen to mention what he does for a living nowadays? Is he still an actor, for example?’

  Penny hesitated for a moment. ‘Is he under suspicion for something? I do hope not.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to ask him some questions, let’s put it like that. He was definitely one of the last people to see Jack Braithwaite alive. So, did he say what he does for a living, miss?’

  She turned to face him, adopting what she hoped was a guileless expression, and pretended to search her memory. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said, carefully. ‘I think the subject just didn’t come up. We talked mainly about Jack, you see. Jack was like that. He tended to dominate proceedings and he had a lot on his mind. But Bobby seemed awfully nice.’

  Brunswick smiled. ‘I see,’ he said, making a note. It was obvious she was lying. She was terrible at it.

  ‘Is this Bobby staying down here in Brighton, do you know? In a hotel or some such? Does he live here, perhaps? Or was he down for the day?’

  ‘Oh. Down for the day, I think,’ she said, quickly – glad of being handed a convenient lie to use. ‘Yes. ’Yes, he definitely mentioned he was down for the day.’

  ‘Well, that’s very helpful, miss. Thank you. Just one last thing: did he and Mr Braithwaite talk about being together in Leeds at some point?’

  Penny could see no harm in admitting to that. She brightened. ‘Yes, they did. How did you know that?’

  ‘Can you remember what in particular they talked about?’

  ‘Yes. It was quite strange. Jack mentioned a landlady there who’d experienced a robbery at the same time Bobby was in Leeds too – although what Bobby was doing there, er, I don’t remember, but it was something else, somewhere else, not in the play with Jack.’

  She realised she wasn’t lying very convincingly, but didn’t know how to set it right. ‘What I’m saying, you see, is that Jack was acting in a play there, but Bobby wasn’t. It was a play called Clogs on the Batty Stones. It never came to anything because Mr Crystal destroyed it in the paper. That was why Jack first hated him – for attacking that play. Apparently the man who wrote it is working in an ice cream parlour on the seafront here. Bobby told Jack that yesterday. His name’s Harry Something.’

  Penny stopped. She realised she was trying too hard. ‘Sorry, I’m prattling on, aren’t I? Jack would have said, “You never know when to belt up, you silly bitch!”’

  ‘Really?’ Brunswick was surprised. ‘And you’d have let him?’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t mean it. It was just his way.’

  Brunswick stood up. He was aware she was on the brink of tears.

  ‘Miss Cavendish, I know this must be very hard for you. I was there last night at the scene, and I promise I’ll do all I can to bring the person who did this to justice.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Penny, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘I keep thinking of it myself, the furniture all overturned, the curtains torn… Blood on the fireplace!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Brunswick, then paused. ‘Hang on, how do you know about the blood on the fireplace?’

  ‘Oh.’ She pretended to think about it. Bobby had mentioned the state of Mrs Thorpe’s living-room when they’d met last night. ‘The manager of the Theatre Royal must have told me, just now.’

  ‘Must he?’ Brunswick said. But the answer seemed to satisfy him. He merely added, in a bemused tone, ‘Well, I wonder how he came to know about it.’

  Brunswick pocketed his notebook and extended his hand.

  ‘Miss Cavendish, that’s all very helpful, and it’s been a pleasure to meet you, and I wish it could have been in more pleasant circumstances. I also wish you a great success with the play tonight.’

  ‘That’s very kind. Thank you.’

  He hesitated, then said, in a rush, ‘I expect this isn’t the right time to mention it, but I saw you a couple of years ago in a production of Lillian Hellman’s The Children’s Hour.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And you were wonderful – flaming wonderful.’

  ‘You remember me in that? It wasn’t a big part.’

  ‘No, but you really caught my eye. I think you’ll be a great star one day. In fact, I’m sure you will.’

  ‘Oh.’ Penny didn’t know what to say. Brunswick felt awkward, too.

  ‘And if you happen to see Mr Melba –’

  ‘Oh, but I won’t. I’m sure. He was just down for the day, as I said.’

  She felt bad about lying to the nice policeman, especially now that she knew he was a fan. But it was too late to change her story. She turned her head away.

  ‘Well, as I say, if you do see him –’ repeated Brunswick, but then he stopped dead. He seemed to have noticed something about her appearance, but what?

  ‘Is there something wrong, Sergeant Brunswick?’

  ‘That’s a very lovely hair-thing you’ve got there,’ he said. ‘Can I take a look?’

  She was relieved. ‘Of course,’ she said, carelessly. She took it out of her hair. ‘Here it is. I picked it up this morning.’

  But she instantly regretted saying this, when she saw how Brunswick was studying it.

  ‘Picked it up?’ he queried, still smiling, with the Victorian emerald-and-diamond-studded hair-comb in his hands – a piece whose photograph had been circulated to all the pawnbrokers in Brighton two weeks ago after its theft from a wealthy colonial widow in Hove.

  Penny looked scared. ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason, miss,’ he said, handing it back to her. ‘But that’s a real find, if you ask me. Don’t wear it out in daylight, whatever you do. There are some desperate people about.’

  Brunswick left Penny’s hotel sensationally happy with his progress. He still didn’t know how to find Bobby Melba, but two hours ago he had never heard of him, and now he knew three significant things about him: that he
had been posing, cross-dressed, as an Opinion Poll lady; that he was definitely resident in Brighton; and that he had stupidly given priceless stolen jewellery to the grieving girlfriend of Jack Braithwaite. On top of which, it was possible that Bobby Melba had actually described the murder scene to her as well, because someone had.

  Back at the station, Brunswick would see whether forensics had come up with anything, then he would telephone the constabulary in Leeds and find out what else had been happening there (specifically, in the world of entertainment) in the precise week last summer when Clogs on the Batty Stones was playing. Meanwhile, he would need to find someone to tail Penny Cavendish, who was clearly protecting Bobby Melba, for reasons unknown. Brunswick felt he was walking on air. He was solving a murder! It was his first proper case in years! He had told Penny Cavendish that she was good in The Children’s Hour! And to top it all, the great Harry Jupiter was on hand to write in the Clarion about how brilliant a detective he was!

  Eight

  Constable Twitten alighted from a taxi in Aldersgate, carrying his two canvas holdalls, and entered the Albion Bank at a brisk pace. If there was one place he could hide safely until the coast was clear, surely it was here. He felt scared, but confident. Crystal’s hat might be too large for his head; Crystal’s shoes might be too small for his feet; but what fitted him perfectly right now was the task ahead: of mentally unpicking the events of yesterday and identifying Crystal’s murderer. (We won’t mention the clothes, because of the latent smell, which was beginning to revive in response to Twitten’s body warmth.)

  Within his bag of evidence – which included not only the scraps from Crystal’s flat but also the play-text of A Shilling in the Meter, the original file on the Aldersgate Stick-up (commandeered from the inspector’s desk) and his own personal typed-up notes – was surely contained the answer to who had shot Crystal and why. Was it a stroke of absolute genius to return to the very place where the stick-up had occurred? Twitten rather thought it was. What unfortunately hadn’t occurred to him was that the Albion Bank in Aldersgate might still employ people who’d been in some way complicit in the Stick-up. This was an error he would later have cause to regret.

  On his arrival, Twitten asked for the manager, and there was a brief period of confusion because he wasn’t in uniform; then he was ushered through to the office of Mr Arnott, who was expecting him. Coming here had not been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Twitten had conceived his plan while at Crystal’s flat, and had telephoned ahead, explaining to Mr Arnott that he was from the Brighton Constabulary, pursuing new leads in the Aldersgate Stick-up case, consequent to last night’s shocking cold-blooded murder of Mr Crystal in Brighton.

  Arnott had absorbed this information and offered whatever help he could give. And now they sat opposite each other in Arnott’s office – a dark room reeking of pipe tobacco and brass polish, with a loudly ticking clock. Beyond the solid oak door could be heard muffled voices and the odd tinkle of female laughter; also distant footsteps on the tiled floor of the echoing banking hall. Twitten was quite excited. So this was where it had all happened! Where persons unknown had produced firearms seven years ago and got away with £25,000!

  Taking his seat, he dispensed with preamble and flipped open his notebook. ‘Can I ask you what you remember about the Stick-up, Mr Arnott? Were you the manager then?’

  Arnott sucked his pipe, which was unlit. He seemed nervous. ‘No, I was the deputy undermanager. Mr Crystal was my superior. It will all be in your files. I was sorry to hear what happened to poor Mr Crystal last night. You surely don’t think it was connected with the bank robbery? That was so long ago.’

  ‘It’s just one line of enquiry,’ admitted Twitten, truthfully. ‘Mr Crystal had quite a large number of enemies. He was a terribly unpopular figure. Was he always so hateful, I wonder?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, we all loathed him here, I must say. The chief cashier, old Mr Lyons, didn’t mind him so much, but of course he’d lost his sense of smell at Passchendaele.’

  Arnott’s nose twitched. ‘You’ll find this odd, Constable,’ he said, ‘but ever since you came in today, I’ve been oddly aware of Mr Crystal again. A kind of presence. It’s like he’s in the room.’

  Twitten fidgeted on his chair. ‘Very warm today,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to remove your hat and coat?’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Twitten, jumping up. He felt foolish. But having hung the hat on a convenient hat-stand, he thought better of taking the coat off, and stopped. ‘Perhaps later,’ he said, sitting down again. And then, quickly, ‘But you were telling me about the robbery.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can only tell you what I told the police on the day, Constable. There were two of them, dressed in everyday clothes; it was a quarter to twelve. No one took much notice of them, as they appeared to be just ordinary customers, huddled together with their heads down in the corner. Suddenly they turned, and they had masks over their faces, and had produced guns.’

  ‘And one was a woman.’

  ‘Yes. I can’t remember whether I knew that at the time, or found out afterwards…’

  His dot-dot-dot was audible, as his expression and voice became oddly wistful. It was as if he were narrating a flash-back in a film.

  ‘It had been a fine morning, constable. I do remember that, for some reason. We had all the top windows open. The banking hall was full of dappled light on account of the ancient plane trees outside. I wouldn’t say we were less than vigilant that day; I would never say such a thing. But I must confess there was no reason to expect criminal interest. On the seventeenth of the month, you see, we generally handled a large sum of cash from a particular diamond merchant in Hatton Garden; this made us a target, we knew. But the Stick-up occurred on the sixteenth, as you know.’

  ‘That’s right. And it’s very interesting. That the robbery took place on the wrong day.’

  Arnott laughed. ‘Mr Crystal actually informed them they were robbing the bank on the wrong day, did you know that?’

  ‘Yes, it’s in the file.’

  ‘You should have come tomorrow, he told them. That’s the kind of person he was, I’m afraid. Very critical. Quite obnoxious. Even when tied to a chair with a bag over his head. But he paid for it later, of course. He had a breakdown a few months after, you know, poor man, and then he had to give up banking altogether.’

  Arnott made it sound as if having to give up banking altogether was the most devastating thing that could happen to anyone.

  ‘Can you give me any description of the robbers?’

  Mr Arnott shrugged. ‘I really didn’t see them. I was on the floor from the minute they told us to get down. Crystal was the one who bandied words with them.’

  ‘Would anyone else here remember anything new?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But if anyone had remembered any detail after all this time, they would have told Mr Crystal himself – the other day, you know – and they didn’t.’

  Twitten was puzzled. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘What do you mean, the other day? Did Mr Crystal visit the bank?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He was here quite recently. I assumed you knew.’

  ‘When did he come?’

  ‘About two weeks ago. It was very upsetting for all of us – raking it up again. He interviewed both myself and Miss Hutchinson – she’s my secretary – wanting us to recall details about the day of the robbery. And I’m afraid he was very disappointed, almost angry, that we couldn’t help him.’

  ‘Angry?’

  ‘He seemed a bit desperate.’

  ‘Gosh, I wonder why.’ Twitten made a note. ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘No, he came with a bossy German woman. She said she was his “assistant” – “helping him” to write a book – but between you and me, I could clearly see that she was the person driving things, not him.’

  ‘Really?’ said Twitten, looking up. ‘What an interesting remark, Mr Arnott. What makes you say that? Are you sure you’re not just
being anti-German? Or even anti-lady?’ (Twitten knew that Miss Sibert was actually Austrian, but decided to let it pass.)

  Mr Arnott bristled. He didn’t appreciate being called anti-anything. ‘What makes me say that she was driving things is that she kept shouting at him.’

  ‘Shouting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, it was horrible. They were engaged in some sort of psycho-nonsense exercise, and Miss Hutchinson and I were very uncomfortable, being forced to witness it. “Bring it beck! [He pronounced ‘back’ with the German accent.] Bring it beck, Algernon! It iss vital that you bring it beck!” At one point the poor man was rolling on the floor of the banking hall with tears streaming down his cheeks. Thank goodness we did all this after closing time.’

  ‘And what did he bring back?’

  ‘Ah, that’s the thing. He didn’t. Nothing came. And you’d think she would be sympathetic, but she wasn’t. She seemed furious.’

  Twitten felt inspired. It was time to get thinking. ‘Mr Arnott, that’s all very helpful. Is there somewhere private I can sit for an hour or two?’ The clock on the wall said 1 p.m.

  Arnott stood up. ‘You can use this office if you like. I have an appointment at the Holborn branch. I’ll tell everyone not to disturb you. We close at three.’

  ‘That’s marvellous, thank you. I’ll take off these shoes, if you don’t mind. They’re killing me.’

  ‘As you please,’ said Arnott. At the door he paused and looked round. ‘I just can’t get over the sense that he’s here, Constable,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But I can’t quite put my finger on it.’

  * * *

  Penny needed to be at rehearsals, but she also needed to talk to Bobby. As soon as the sergeant was out of sight, she slipped out of the hotel by the back entrance and made her way to the Hippodrome. It was her only chance of seeing him before the evening.