by Bruce, Leo
‘He’s obviously very scared and I don’t blame him,’ said Stefan. ‘I’ve heard of this sort of thing before. It’s difficult to cope with because people are afraid to give evidence. Do you connect it with the Marvell’s death?’
This was a question which Carolus himself would like to have put and he evaded it by saying: ‘Do you?’
‘I thought the coroner was too easily satisfied,’ Stefan said. ‘I was not asked anything except about the scene in the dining-room.’
‘Had you anything to say?’
‘I don’t know whether it’s relevant or not but there was a small incident.’
‘Really?’
‘During her last afternoon the Marvell asked for me personally and I went up to her room. She was perfectly calm so I can’t help thinking that her hysterics afterwards were a bit forced. She said she wanted a bottle of champagne put on the ice and brought up to her at half past nine. No one was to know about it and I was to bring it myself. “Just as a nightcap,” she said.’
‘You took it up?’
‘Of course. I didn’t know she’d been given an injection to make her sleep. I went up at just half past nine with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. I knocked at the door but there was no answer. So I went in.’
‘The light was on?’
‘No. And I did not switch it on—there was enough light from the passage. She was snoring like a pig. I put the tray down on a table near her bed. Not on the bedside table—there wasn’t room. Then I tiptoed out.’
‘You are sure there was no one else in the room?’
‘Pretty sure. But the door into the bathroom was shut.’
‘What happened to the bottle?’
‘One of the Moroccan boys brought it down in the morning. It was empty. I hope the poor secretary had it. It was good champagne.’
Twelve
This was not bringing Carolus any nearer to information about Montreith and he decided to visit the Old Cygnet Inn. This meant that long and tedious approach to London which drivers from the provinces know and Carolus reflected that any one of the 150 horses whose power was theoretically concentrated in his engine could have drawn him for the last ten miles in a third of the time before the coming of motor cars.
However by putting his car in an underground car park a mile away and securing a taxi he eventually reached the Old Cygnet at shortly after eleven. George Porter, the much photographed proprietor, had just reached his office.
The Old Cygnet had been constructed from antique materials on a site once occupied by an inn of that name. It was dark with oak blackened, some of it, by time and smoke, some by artificial means. The architecture was so Tudor that one’s head was in constant danger of being bumped by overhanging beams and its decoration included a miscellany of eighteenth century curios, warming-pans, horse-brasses, hunting horns, all the familiar items from the shops of the more conventional antique dealers. It was served by ‘wenches’ in mob caps and waiters wearing leather aprons and knee-breeches.
Mr Porter resembled, and intended to resemble, the caricaturist’s image of John Bull, complete with side-whiskers. He at first refused to see Carolus who had sent in his name as John Barber but on being told that Carolus was a friend of Mr Rivers had him admitted to his office.
‘Well?’ he said.
Carolus affected to be no less terse.
‘We’re bringing out a guide-book of restaurants and clubs,’ said Carolus.
‘Who is we?’
‘You know who we are. Advertisement space costs a hundred quid an inch. I’ve put you down for two inches.’
Mr Porter flushed furiously.
‘I don’t want it.’
Carolus started to rise.
‘Very well. I’ll tell them,’ he said.
‘This is monstrous,’ said Mr Porter.
‘Think so?’
‘I never undertook…’
‘No. This is something new. A pet scheme of the boss’s. He’s very keen on it. Very keen. He expects to get full collaboration.’
‘Not from me,’ said Mr Porter. ‘I’ve done enough already.’
‘You know your own business best.’
‘I told Rivers distinctly that I would do no more.’
‘This was unforeseen then.’
There was an impasse.
‘How often is this supposed to appear?’
‘It’s an annual,’ said Carolus. ‘We did think of making it quarterly. Perhaps you’d like Rivers to come and see you about it?’
Mr Porter glared at him with open hostility.
‘How do I know that something else like this won’t crop up?’
‘You don’t. We’re an enterprising firm. Always thinking out something new for our clients.’
‘Blackguardly. I shan’t pay. You can do what you like.’
‘Unfortunate, that Imogen Marvell business,’ said Carolus chattily.
Mr Porter stared.
‘That?’ he said. ‘My God!’
‘I’ll be running along,’ said Carolus.
‘Wait a minute. Suppose I take an inch?’
‘The boss won’t be pleased,’ said Carolus.
‘The boss! Who is this boss you keep talking about? I don’t believe he exists!’
‘Perhaps you’d like to make his acquaintance? He might lunch here one day with some friends.’
‘I’ll take one inch. That must satisfy you.’
‘In one pound notes, please,’ said Carolus.
‘I haven’t got them. I can give you a cash cheque.’
Carolus smiled, he hoped grimly.
‘Quite a sense of humour,’ he said. ‘Single pounds. I’ll wait.’
After a moment Mr Porter left the room. He was gone for about four minutes and returned with a packet of treasury notes.
‘You haven’t been telephoning, or anything silly like that, I hope.’
‘No. But it’s the last time.’
He handed the packet across and Carolus threw it back.
‘Mr Porter,’ he said seriously. ‘I have been satisfying myself that you are being blackmailed by a gang running a protection racket specialising in clubs and restaurants. I already know a good deal about these people and I mean to know more.’
Porter accepted this quickly.
‘You the police?’ he asked.
‘No. A private individual.’
‘What do you mean by coming to my office with this tale of a guide-book?’
‘You lay yourself open to it. Haven’t you the courage to expose this thing?’
‘What thing? I know of no such thing. Rivers is a friend of mine.’
‘And Razor Gray?’
‘It’s not the slightest use your coming to me for help. I shall simply deny this conversation.’
‘But if the gang were broken?’
‘How?’
‘Arrested.’
‘On other charges, you mean?’
‘On sufficient charges to keep them indoors for twenty years. Would you have the courage then to help convict them?’
There was a pause.
‘That’s all in the air,’ said Porter. ‘I don’t know who you are or what you’re up to but you’ll get nothing out of me. I’m not putting my head in a noose.’
‘Do you know Gaitskell Mansions in Bayswater?’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘Ever met a man who calls himself Mandeville?’
‘Don’t know the name.’
‘How much have you paid out already?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You’re a coward, Porter. You want to see this ring broken to save your money but you won’t lift a finger to help. Well, you may find you have to.’
‘Will you kindly leave my office?’
Carolus walked out. In the restaurant as he passed through there was a heavy smell of roast meat. Baron of beef or haunch of venison? he wondered.
The Tourterelle when he found it had a very dif
ferent ambience, being so extravagantly Gallic that a Frenchman would have recoiled. It looked expensive with its pseudo-bistro throw-away simplicity and the hand-written à la carte menu showing at the door proved that it was so. Scampi à la Tourterelle cost 30s., Carolus noted, and other items were proportionately priced. The bistro atmosphere was maintained inside where the waiters were casually dressed and the proprietor, whom Carolus recognised from published photographs, wore clothes that might have been designed by a Parisian couturier.
He approached Carolus.
‘ ’Ave you raysairved a table, m’sieur?’ he asked.
‘No. I’m afraid not.’
‘All the tables are raysairved.’
‘I’m a friend of Jimmie Rivers.’
There was a pause. Gaston Leroy was sizing Carolus up.
‘This way, pliss,’ he said shortly.
He was probably in his fifties, but with a cleverly designed blond wig and a face-lift he could have passed at a distance for thirty-seven. He minced rather than walked and took Carolus to a table in a corner. It was not yet one o’clock and the restaurant was still half empty.
He brought out a menu covering a large area of expensive paper and put it before Carolus at the same time whispering fiercely in his ear: ‘If you start one thing, one single thing, I’m going to have you taken down the cellars and beaten up so that your mother won’t know you. Get that.’ Then loudly: ‘M’sieur will have hors d’œuvres pair’aps?’
‘Half a dozen Whitstable oysters. Who said I was going to cause trouble? Just came to see how you were getting on.’
‘I’m getting on all right. No thanks to your lot. What do you mean by sending that woman in here last week? And to follow, M’sieur?’
‘What woman?’
‘I’ave some vairy good faysan. You know very well. She said she’d found a cockroach in her food—the wicked bitch. The waiter saw her getting it out of her bag.’
‘I think perhaps an entrecôte. Things were in arrears, weren’t they? It’s always best to keep up to date, then there are no misunderstandings.’
‘The braised celairree? You’re a lot of wicked greedy bastards, that’s what you are, and you’re not going to get away with it much longer. I’ve got some here as tough as you are if you start coming round again.’
‘Yes, that would be very nice. Listen, Leroy. Take this in quickly. I’m trying to smash that lot—I’m not one of them. I want your help.’
‘Then to drink, sair? What d’you mean? Are you the law?’
Carolus examined the wine card.
‘No, I’m not the law. I’m a private individual. But I believe I’ve got this lot. Do you know Montreith?’
‘Montrachet? Cairtainly, sair. I’ll talk to you later.’
Leroy approached a group which had just entered. To see him leading two women and a man across the room one would never have supposed he was a cockney who had built up a reputation for French cooking and was now being blackmailed. He looked sprightly and debonair.
The restaurant was now filled with prosperous-looking people. A very good business, Carolus thought, but scarcely able to meet the demands of Mr Montreith and his friends if these were the same as those made to Rolland.
Leroy approached again.
‘M’sieur’s oysters were satisfactory? Do you know Montreith by sight?’
Carolus shook his head.
‘He has just come in with a woman. The third table from the door.’
‘Does that mean trouble?’
‘No. But expense, the wicked bloodsucker. Lunch, Champagne, everything of the best. It is intolerable.’
He moved away again walking with a peculiar springy motion and small steps.
Carolus looked across casually to the table indicated and saw a man who answered to Bridger’s description, ‘pale, pasty-looking, about forty-five, cold nasty eyes.’ Yes, this could be Montreith. The eyes were curiously hooded. A killer, if ever there was one. A man of strong will-power, cruel and vain. The girl with him was well-dressed and did not look very intelligent.
Towards the end of the meal Leroy returned and whispered quickly: ‘We could meet in the station buffet at four o’clock.’
‘Good,’ Carolus replied and added that he would have a brandy.
Leroy looked conspicuous in the unbeautiful surroundings of a station refreshment room but when Carolus had brought from the counter a cup of tea and taken the place beside him, the two men were free to talk without professional interpolations.
‘You tell me, first,’ said Leroy. ‘What is your connection with this?’
‘I do a certain amount of investigation in an amateur way. Chiefly murder. But a man who keeps a hotel and restaurant in the country came to me for help. He was being blackmailed under threats of disturbances and faked food poisoning in his restaurants, not to mention personal violence to himself.’
‘That’s Rolland,’ decided Leroy.
‘So I became interested. I discovered Montreith’s place of business and flat.’
‘How?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I know where it is. And I know at least three of you who are paying ransom.’
‘Who’s the third?’
‘Porter of the Old Cygnet.’
Leroy seemed pleased at this.
‘Is he really? Well! He can afford to. He gets the tourists with his steak-and-kidney pudding.’
‘He’s scared,’ observed Carolus.
‘Aren’t we all? You don’t know what it is to be in my position. I daren’t go to the police. And what could the police do? There’s no proof of anything.’
‘I know it’s difficult. But if once the police have enough evidence to arrest Montreith it would be different.’
‘Suppose he got off? Where should I be then?’
‘I think if you have followed recent cases you would find that the police don’t move till they are sure of a conviction. And that means a good many years’ sentence.’
‘I daresay. But how can I chance it? I don’t want to be dragged out of the river. Or lose my business.’
‘I’ll make a pact with you, Leroy. I won’t ask you to make a statement unless I’m quite satisfied that there will be no unpleasant consequences.’
‘I don’t know what to say. I feel I can trust you, though I don’t know why I should. I know nothing about you.’
‘True. But you’ve got to trust someone. You can’t go on paying out blood money.’
‘You mean you won’t ask for a statement till Montreith is under arrest?’
‘On very serious charges. Murder, perhaps. Certainly enough to put him away for years.’
‘He might get bail.’
‘No. There would be no bail in this case.’
‘I’m not a man to be easily scared,’ said Leroy, ‘but these people are dangerous.’
‘I know.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to agree. You may not believe it but it’s that man coming in and ordering what he likes and never even asking for a bill which infuriates me far more than the actual money.’
‘Yes. I think I can understand that.’
‘All right then. When you tell me I can talk I will. But meanwhile you’ll keep me out of it?’
‘I will.’
‘You think you can do this? Break them, I mean.’
‘I think so.’
‘I hope you do. It’s a damnable thing. What will you get out of it?’
‘Oh, a certain personal satisfaction. “Something attempted, something done, has earned a night’s repose.” And there are other questions to which I am looking for an answer. I want to know how Imogen Marvell died.’
‘You don’t think they…?’
‘I don’t think anything at all, at least not aloud. You had better leave here first, Leroy.’
‘All right. I suppose I shall hear from you?’
‘Or of me, yes.’
‘Good luck to you then.’
He stood up and Carolus watched him go out with his spr
ingy steps. He continued to sit there for ten minutes before leaving the buffet. Then he waited at the station entrance for a taxi and told the driver to take him to the car park where he had left the Bentley Continental. From there he drove to Rutland Gate.
Thirteen
The door of the late Imogen Marvell’s house was opened by her housekeeper who had been described by Mr Smithers as ‘a most deserving woman’. Deserving of what? Carolus wondered when he saw her.
Though nowadays the London districts can no longer be said to produce types, Mrs de Mornay was instantly recognisable as all that we once meant by South Kensington, that is near-smart, would-be up-to-date, inexpensively With It. Her clothes, like her slang, were last season’s and she clanked with handmade peasant jewellery. Her voice was unnaturally cultured and everything about her, complexion, manicure, movement, was just off-elegant. Her hair had been done according to the mode of the moment but by ‘a clever little woman down the road’, and one felt that she knew a dozen such in each of the luxury trades. ‘You can’t tell the difference’ might have been her motto. But you could.
Carolus rather vaguely explained himself but Mrs de Mornay at once asked him in.
‘I’ve got the place to myself now,’ she explained. ‘Biskett the chauffeur looks in from time to time; otherwise the house is empty.’
‘Miss Trudge has gone?’
‘With the wind,’ said Mrs de Mornay. ‘Mr Smithers gave her a month’s wages and told her to move out. I’m staying on as long as he wants me.’
There was a suggestion of fervour about this remark. Carolus caught it and wondered.
‘As a matter of fact,’ added Mrs de Mornay, ‘I may stay on altogether.’
She did not enlarge on this and Carolus enquired no further.
The house was, of course, a nightmare of modern décor, a set constructed for a film called The Charm of Living or some such thing. Invited to sit down Carolus occupied a bucket seat designed to resemble a giant inverted lemon with its centre cut out, and faced Mrs de Mornay squatting on a white toadstool with white-spotted scarlet upholstered top.