by Bruce, Leo
‘Same as me, I shouldn’t be surprised. Only she’s Got On, hasn’t she?’
‘She certainly has.’
‘Her chauffeur was in just now. I thought he was ever so nice. Dicky Biskett his name is. He says she’s an old B.’
‘I don’t think he exaggerates.’
‘He says she’s married but hadn’t seen her husband for years till he turned up about three months ago. He says he’s a funny little man—nothing at all to look at. Well, that’s often the way, isn’t it? There’s a sister, too, he says. She’s very nice from what he told me. Not a bit the same style as Her.’
‘No?’
‘Not by what he says. She’s a little dumpy woman who really does know about food and that. It seems She learned it all from her, to start with. Now her sister just manages one of the restaurants.’
‘You seem to have had quite a chat.’
‘Oh we did. Dicky was telling me…’
‘Dicky?’
‘Dicky Biskett. Her chauffeur. I was telling you about.’
‘Oh yes. And what was he telling you?’
‘About some of the stars she knows…’
They were interrupted by Rolland.
‘I want to speak to you,’ he said in an urgent low voice. ‘I daren’t ask you into the office. They would know I’d told you.’
‘Come up to my room, Number 8, in five minutes’ time,’ said Carolus, looking at his grey-tinted skin and agonised eyes.
Rolland went out.
‘Whatever’s the matter with Mr Rolland?’ asked Gloria. ‘I expect it’s having Her here. She’s enough to upset anyone, isn’t she?’
Entering Carolus’s room with a backward glance as though to see if he were followed, Rolland looked as though he was about to collapse.
‘They’ve come,’ he said. ‘Rivers and the man he calls Razor Gray.’
‘You’ve seen them?’
‘Yes. They came in a big Jaguar.’
‘Did you get the registration number this time?’
‘Yes,’ said Rolland and repeated it. ‘They’re in the bar now. I know they going to make a scene at dinner.’
‘Surely that is a matter for the police? If you tell them what they’ve threatened? At least you can get support if you ask them to leave.’
‘I daren’t!’ said Rolland, a note of hysteria in his voice. ‘They’d kill me afterwards. What am I to do?’
‘Can you rely on your staff?’
‘No. You saw this afternoon how Antoine let me down. They’re all like that.’
‘If you won’t call the police and you can’t get the help of your staff in ejecting them I don’t see what you can do except let things take their course.’
‘There is one thing. I could pay.’
‘Yes. There is that.’
‘Do you advise me to?’
‘I can’t advise you, Rolland. You must decide for yourself.’
‘I won’t!’ Rolland cried in a high-pitched voice. ‘I won’t! They would want more and more till everything was gone.’
Carolus shrugged.
‘I see your point,’ he admitted.
‘Can’t you do anything?’ asked Rolland, rounding on Carolus. ‘I came to you for help.’
‘I warned you that I could do nothing in this situation. I need time in which to observe these people.’
‘Oh God!’ said Rolland and made for the door. But even now he remembered to be cautious in leaving the room.
When Carolus went down for dinner he was given a table next to that prepared for Imogen Marvell and her secretary. On the other side of it was a table already occupied by two men whom he easily recognised by description as Jimmie Rivers and Razor Gray; the one a beefy brute in a slick expensive suit, the other a taciturn individual less dressy but more dangerous in appearance.
Stefan came for his order. He was an immaculately dressed rather handsome man in his late forties and, in spite of his professional urbanity, Carolus saw that he was drunk. However he began to take his order with automatic politeness.
Carolus ordered an omelette and this produced a blurred protest from Stefan.
‘Arent’u go have the scampi, sir? Speshalty of the house.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ said Stefan unexpectedly. ‘Sick of the bloody things myself.’ He pulled himself together. ‘I’ll send the wine waiter, sir.’
He went away with the deliberate walk of a man controlling himself while intoxicated.
Molt the wine waiter was businesslike and brisk. Also approaching fifty he had greying hair and a plain English face. He took Carolus’s order without comment.
Then Imogen Marvell made her entry. It was very splendid, more operatic than theatrical. She advanced to her allotted place with only one indicative gesture from Stefan as though she could not be mistaken about her table, or about anything else. Miss Trudge scurried after her and although Imogen seemed to move with slow deliberation one had the impression that the secretary had to run to keep up with her.
Imogen Marvell sat down and gazed critically around her, examining the other diners as though they were film extras surrounding a star.
Stefan stood slightly behind her while she examined the menu so that she could not see his glazed eyes. But Miss Trudge could and they doubtless added to her anxieties. As Carolus watched he was startled to see Stefan give the secretary a smiling wink which threw Miss Trudge into a turmoil. She flushed to the colour of raw meat and nervously rearranged the silver in front of her.
‘Don’t fidget, Maud,’ said Imogen crisply. Then half turning to Stefan without looking up, she said, ‘I …’ it was an emphatic and long-held monosyllable, ‘shall have the Scampi à la Rolland.’
‘Yes, Miss Marvell,’ said Stefan, writing or pretending to write.
‘And …’ She paused before naming the other pretentious dish. ‘The Canard au pamplemousse.’
‘And, madame?’ said Stefan as though he had been waiting impatiently for the pleasure of taking Miss Trudge’s order.
Miss Trudge flushed again.
‘Oh, anything for me.’
‘How many times have I told you, Maud, that is no way to treat good food? Or a good maître d’hôtel,’ she added with a backward smile for Stefan. ‘Make up your mind, dear. We haven’t got very much time.’
Miss Trudge fumbled wildly with the menu.
‘Sole?’ she whispered.
‘Certainly, madame,’ said Stefan. ‘Sole Royale Montceau. And perhaps Cailles flambées aux raisins to follow?’
Miss Trudge nodded hurriedly without realising that she had ordered an elaborate dish of quail which would bring Stefan to the table with a trolley. Perhaps Imogen Marvell did not either, for she made no comment.
But Miss Trudge never ate that quail for after swallowing several of her scampi, apparently with relish, Imogen Marvell turned a greenish white and rose uncertainly to her feet.
‘Trudge!’ she cried. ‘Quick! I have been poisoned!’
The diners who were already aware of her identity now stared in wonder. Miss Marvell swayed for a moment then with no attempt at grace or even concealment was violently sick on the floor.
‘Call a doctor. Call the police,’ she said in a strangled voice. ‘Call the proprietor! Disgraceful! I shall sue …’
She sat down violently and vomited again. Rolland hurried into the room, Stefan watched blearily and several customers made a hurried exit.
‘Scandalous! Abominable!’ screeched Imogen Marvell, while Miss Trudge tried to hold her forehead.
Then the most horrifying comment of all was heard for Jimmie Rivers laughed, heartily and long, while Imogen Marvell was carried from the room.
Five
Carolus had been more interested in Rivers and Razor Gray than in the scene at the next table. He had studied the faces of the men as though he meant never to forget a detail of them and followed their reaction to Imogen Marvell’s distress. Carolus decided that this had been anticipated by the two,
their curiosity aroused only by the form it might take. Perhaps if the famous gastronome had left the room without attracting any attention to herself they were prepared for another kind of action. But the melodrama of Imogen Marvell’s departure had exceeded all their expectations.
Carolus left his table inconspicuously and went up to his room. If there had been observers they might have been surprised by the movements of one whom they supposed to be a respectable schoolmaster. He opened his suitcase and took out two souvenirs of the last war, one an American airman’s windbreaker designed to give freedom of movement and warmth at the same time, and the other a Nazi souvenir, a genuine rubber truncheon which could render a man insensible without cracking his skull. He put on the windbreaker and concealed the truncheon in it before he left the room.
He went out to the car park and picked out the Jaguar designated by Rolland. He tried the handle and found it was unlocked. Nothing had been left on the seat.
Returning to the hotel he found Rolland.
‘Switch off the outside lights and keep them off,’ he said.
Rolland looked at him tragically.
‘What does it matter now?’ he asked.
‘It matters to me. And to you. Will you make sure the car park lights are left off?’
Rolland nodded and Carolus left him. Then quite unhurriedly he went out to the Jaguar and made himself as comfortable as possible on the floor behind the front seats.
It was not as foolhardy as it appeared. Carolus had noticed how infrequently anyone getting into a car bothers to examine the rear interior, especially when anxious to drive away quickly, and it would need quite careful scrutiny to discover him. He assumed that the car would make for London, a mere thirty miles away. It would be awkward, he owned, if it was to start on an all-night journey to Scotland or Cornwall for even if the two men left the car for a drink or anything else Carolus was determined to remain with it to its destination. This was the only way at present possible to discover more about them.
He calculated his chances of success at something like sixty per cent and knew that failure would be highly dangerous. But there it was. For his own satisfaction he had to do something.
The two men came out of the hotel sooner than Carolus anticipated. Perhaps they felt that their work had been so effectively done for them that they could make for home at once. As they approached the car Carolus heard Razor Gray say curtly ‘I’ll drive’ and knew what he had already suspected—that Gray was, between the two of them, the boss.
They did not speak as they opened doors on both sides and got in simultaneously without, Carolus could safely deduce, a glance at the back seat of the car. The engine started and Carolus could no longer hear any conversation that may have passed between them.
They seemed to be an eternity in transit and the movements of the car, from where Carolus crouched, were nauseating. He guessed from the growing frequency with which they stopped at traffic lights that they were approaching London. Then there was a halt in which the engine was switched off and Carolus felt sure they had arrived.
‘Want me to come up?’ asked Rivers.
‘No. I’ll go. I shan’t be long,’ Razor replied, and the door slammed.
It was time for action and this would be brief. Carolus pulled out his truncheon. There was a sudden jerk of movement from Rivers—it was evident that he had seen something in the driving mirror—but before he could even turn his head Carolus brought the truncheon down on it and he slumped in his seat.
Carolus felt the pulse and it was beating, though Rivers was unconscious. He had time to dive into the man’s breast pocket and remove his wallet. He had planned this because he believed it might contain information or some means of identifying Rivers under his own name. Then he followed the man Razor into the block of flats before which the car was standing. He was amused to think that people had been passing the car throughout this operation.
He saw the name Gaitskell Mansions as he entered the showy entrance hall. He was baffled. There was no sign of Razor Gray and the dial by the door of the lift showed that it was motionless on this floor. He made for the staircase.
‘Now, then, now then, where might you be going?’
Carolus turned to see a tall heavy individual with a large well-trained moustache. He was emerging from the concierge’s cubby-hole and wore full uniform. Carolus crossed to him.
‘Did a man in a grey suit come in just now?’
The concierge whose name was Humbledon had learned in a life dedicated to the collection of gratuities that eager questions led to a sure source of revenue.
‘He might have,’ he replied.
‘Do you know him?’
‘I might do,’ said Mr Humbledon.
Carolus passed him a fiver.
‘What is his name?’
‘Ah, I don’t know his name,’ replied the porter, suggesting by his tone that he knew everything else. ‘Not his name I don’t know. But I know him all right. Seen him often.’
‘Who does he visit?’
‘I don’t know whether you would say he visits anyone. Not to say visit, that is. He calls to consult Mr Montreith, like a good many others.’
‘Who is Mr Montreith?’
‘You don’t know who Mr Montreith is? I can see you don’t know much. Big solicitor. Handles a lot of important business. He has offices on the first floor and lives above them. He’s had a staircase made to his flat.’
‘Is there another way out of here?’ asked Carolus, who had been watching the car and thought he saw signs of movement.
‘Only the staff entrance. That gives on Wilsey Place.’
‘Show me it, would you?’
He knew it was useless to ask Humbledon for secrecy. Even Razor Gray as he came down in a few minutes would be told, for a tenth of what Carolus had paid, that a man had followed him in and enquired about his movements, and though Humbledon would maintain that he had given no information Gray would read Humbledon at least as well as Carolus had done. The hope, so far as the future was concerned, was that Rivers had not seen enough of him in the driving mirror to recognise him, and that neither of them had reason to connect a man they may have seen dining in the restaurant with anyone at Gaitskell Mansions.
‘What street is the front of the building on?’ asked Carolus as Humbledon took him to the staff entrance.
‘Attlee Avenue,’ said Humbledon.
Only when he had walked to the corner and examined the plate giving the street’s name did he realise that he was in Bayswater. He went to a phone box and called a Hire Service headquarters for a car to take him back to the Fleur-de-Lys.
Before turning in he left a note asking that copies of all the daily newspapers should be sent up to his room in the morning and after breakfast he lay in bed reading these. He was surprised to find what appeared to be a conspiracy among pressmen to report the incidents of yesterday with a certain slant.
Imogen Marvell had been given her full share of publicity, for she had so exposed her life to public view that details could not be withheld when she provided them, but in such a way that her collapse was the news, not the cause of it or the restaurant where it had happened. ‘In one of the restaurants most highly recommended in her Gourmet’s Vade Mecum, Imogen Marvell …’ were the opening words of one account, and short of a picture of her in the act of vomiting nothing was spared her of humiliation. The name of the Haute Cuisine was not mentioned but the woman whom one paper called ‘the Grande Gourmette’ being carried out of an eating house she had praised just after she had decorated the chef with the cordon bleu was shown in all its irony.
The explanation lay in the arrogance she had displayed in her dealings with the press. In order to explode this it had been necessary not to identify the place where her fall had been lest an action for libel might lie. Not that the dangerous words ‘food poisoning’ were ever actually used. The implication was rather that Imogen had been hoist with her own petard.
This would bring small relief
to Rolland, Carolus thought. He would still have to face her action for damages if evidence of food poisoning was discovered, and he would still be subject to the dilemma created by Rivers and those he represented. But Imogen Marvell would be enraged.
There was a knock at his door and a little sour-faced woman in an over-all came in with another newspaper. This, he guessed, was Mrs Boot the daily cleaner.
‘Here you are. Rolland wanted a read of it first.’
‘Thank you,’ said Carolus.
‘That’s just like him. Taking someone else’s paper then sending me up all those stairs with it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ returned Carolus vaguely.
‘They’ll be the death of me, those stairs. Up and down them fifty times a day. And it’s worse with Ur in number four.’
‘Do you mean Miss Marvell?’ asked Carolus who did not suppose she was referring to the city of the Chaldees.
‘Yes. They’ve put her in there though she hadn’t booked. She’s making the most of it. I don’t know why she wants to make a fuss about a little bit of a turn like that. No one’s going to write about it in the papers if I bring up my dinner, are they?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Her secretary’s been up since eight o’clock telephoning all over the place for doctors and specialists and I don’t know what-all. They say her sister has been sent for and her husband has decided to come down this morning. All for a bit of collywobbles. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Carolus admitted.
‘I’ve no use for anything like that,’ went on Mrs Boot. ‘Not that it doesn’t serve that Rolland right. This was a nice quiet pub before he came here. I used to work here in Mistr’an Misses Cheeseman’s time and it was very different, I can tell you. No chefs and that with French names though they’re no more French than what I am. As for that Stefan, as they call him, he’s on the booze half the time.’
‘You don’t seem to care for it much,’ said Carolus.
‘Can you wonder? What with those two Arabians waiting to stick a knife in you any minute. They give me the creeps—I can tell you that. Did one of them bring your breakfast in this morning?’
‘Yes.’