2 The Affair of the Mutilated Mink

by James Anderson

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  'How is he?'

  Mabel Turner paused outside her bedroom door at Alderley and turned to see that Cyrus Haggermeir had approached.

  She said, 'Oh, he's going to be all right, thank you. They're keeping him in for a few days, that's all.'

  'Swell. You just got back from the hospital?'

  'Yes, I must pack our things and leave straight away. I'll stay in Westchester until Ned's released, though I saw Lady Burford just now and she asked me to stay on. I said no, of course, but I was very touched.'

  'Well, I figure we were all impressed by his guts in jumping Carter.'

  'That's what the Countess said. And they're not going to do or say anything about my impersonating Cecily. It's a great relief.'

  'Can I come in a minute? I'd like to talk with you.'

  She looked surprised. 'Yes, of course.'

  They went into the room and she looked expectantly at him.

  'Did you like him being a stuntman?' he asked.

  She hesitated, then said, 'Frankly, no. It used to scare me stiff.'

  'Ever try to persuade him to give it up?'

  'Certainly not. He was a stuntman when I married him. I've no use for women who marry men with dangerous jobs and then try to make them change. It's thoroughly unfair.'

  'All the same, you must have been relieved when he had to give it up?'

  'In a way I was. But it made him so miserable.'

  'But you wouldn't have wanted me to give him a job?'

  'Oh, you're wrong, Mr Haggermeir. I would, for his sake. It's his one ambition to get back to work.'

  'Well, I gotta warn you, I ain't going to.'

  'I didn't think you would.'

  'You see, I could find a couple of dozen guys in Hollywood who could have pulled off that motor-bike stunt. Even Quartus managed it. Chiefly, though, Ned's too old. It's a young man's job.'

  She nodded resignedly. 'I know. I only hope I can persuade him to accept that and look for some other line of work. But I'm not hopeful. Movies are his life.'

  'Do you mean movies are his life, or movie stunting is?'

  'I don't think that he's crazy about stunting as such. But he just loves the film world. Stunting was the only way he was qualified to earn his living in it.'

  'I don't think you're right there.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Honey, what I saw from him over this weekend was a terrific acting job.'

  She smiled. 'He thinks he overdid the characterization.'

  'Sure he did. He didn't have any direction. But he fooled a lot of people a long time, ad libbing the whole thing. I don't mind saying I'm impressed. I think he ought to take up acting.'

  'At his age? With no experience? He'd never get parts.'

  'I got a part for him.'

  Mabel gave a jump. She whispered, 'What?'

  'Now, it's a small one, but nice: English character in a movie that's scheduled to start shooting soon. Quite an important little role. We haven't been able to cast it. Couldn't find anybody just right. But it's Ned's if he wants it.'

  Mabel's face was a study. 'Oh, Mr Haggermeir, I can't believe it!'

  'Yeah, well, he's gotta prove himself. But if he handles it OK - and I don't see why he shouldn't - there's no reason he couldn't carve a niche for himself as a character actor. Other stuntmen, like George O'Brien, have made the switch. I'll pay his fare out of course, and yours.'

  'I - I don't know what to say. You're so generous!'

  'Don't say things like that! I want him for the part or I wouldn't be doing it. Here.' He reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. 'I wrote him a letter, laying it all out, before I knew I'd be seeing you again. Take it and show him. If he calls at my London office when he gets out, we'll fix all the details.' Then, as she started to stammer out her thanks, he added, 'OK, take it as said. I gotta go now. I'll be leaving here soon myself, but there's sumpin' I must do first and before that I gotta find Rex. So long.'

  He went out. Mabel sank down on the bed and started to cry.

  * * *

  'You saved my life,' Gerry said.

  'Yes,' Hugh said simply.

  'It was incredibly brave, what you did.'

  'I know.'

  'You mustn't say that!'

  'On the contrary, I must. For about first time in my life I feel rather pleased with myself, and I shall no doubt keep talking about it for a very long time.'

  'You're impossible!'

  'No, I've been impossible. I know that. I've been a boor and a cad. I've behaved abominably, to you and everyone else. But you know why, don't you?'

  'I think so. But tell me, all the same.'

  'I could see myself losing you to Carter. And it was making me utterly wretched. I'm crazy about you, Gerry. You know that, don't you?'

  She nodded silently. Her eyes were bright.

  'At one time I thought I had a chance. Then you seemed to be leaning towards Carter and I got terrified. I was always certain he was a rotter. When you invited me here for the weekend again, I couldn't believe my good luck. But then I found out he was here, too, and I had to watch you getting closer and closer to him and farther away from me. It was the most miserable few days I've ever spent.'

  'I never intended it like that. I meant to treat you both exactly the same. For the first day or two it was your own fault. You were such a bear.'

  'I realise that.'

  'And then, of course, it seemed Paul was going to be falsely charged with murder, and naturally I had to spring to his defence. Nitwit!'

  'You weren't a nitwit. He had a lot of charm. In fact, I have to admit that, except when he was murdering people or robbing them, he was much nicer than I am. Anyway, now you have at least seen me at my worst.'

  'That's nice to know.'

  'So Gerry, will you marry me? I'll make an awful husband, but I do love you very much.'

  'To distraction? I could never marry a man who didn't love me to distraction.'

  'Positively to distraction.'

  'Aren't you rather taking advantage of the fact that I'm grateful you saved my life?'

  'Of course I am. Do you blame me?'

  She said slowly, 'I'm a little scared of you, Hugh. I always have been. And you frequently infuriate me. Probably I shall often hate you. We'll no doubt have the most awful rows. But, well, I've never been one for a quiet life. So the answer's yes, without any doubts at all.'

  He took her in his arms.

  A minute or two later she said, 'You don't mind people saying you're marrying me for my money?'

  'Not in the least. Do you?'

  'Oh, of course not! I think it takes an awful lot of guts and character for a poor man to marry a rich girl and not let it make any difference. But I must admit I do worry a bit for your sake, about what people will say.'

  'Let the oafs say what they like.' He kissed her again.

  'Young man, don't you think it's time you stopped teasing my daughter?'

  They sprang apart and spun round. It was the Countess, who'd entered the room silently and was gazing at them severely.

  Gerry said, 'Mummy! I - er—' She took a deep breath. 'Hugh just asked me to marry him.'

  'And clearly you had the surprising good sense to accept.'

  Gerry stared. 'You approve?'

  'I do. It's high time you were married. And you're obviously in love with each other, which is always an advantage.'

  Gerry nodded vigorously. 'Yes, but I thought perhaps you'd raise objections to my marrying someone who - who . . .'

  'Object to your marrying the only son of the Marquis of Gower? Why on earth should I? It's a most excellent match. His family owns five thousand acres in west Wales and a considerable amount of property in London.'

  'What?' Gerry gaped. 'Hugh, is this true?'

  ' 'Fraid so. How did you know, Lady Burford?'

  'Chiefly your name. Quartus was your mother's maiden name, wasn't it? She and I came out together in '05. Then again, you have h
er eyes. I haven't seen her for well over twenty years. How is she?'

  'She's very well, thank you.'

  Gerry said dazedly, 'But - but why didn't you tell me?'

  'When we first met I didn't want it to look as if I were using my family position to get an unfair advantage with you over Carter. Oh, I knew it wouldn't make any difference to you, but I thought if I won he might think it had. I wanted to fight on equal terms without the privilege of rank. Besides, I'd put all that stuff behind me.'

  'But why?'

  'Because I was fed up with Society. All the trappings of the sort of life people like us lead was making me sick. Besides, I wanted to paint. Father wanted me to take over the running of the estate, so he could concentrate on his collection and his other hobbies. But I was convinced I had what it takes to make the grade as a serious artist. Father challenged me to prove it. Well, if I wanted to be a professional it was no good dabbling at it: I had to have a real incentive to get on. I'd never get anywhere if I could just stop painting whenever I felt like it, because I'm basically a very lazy person. If I was to succeed not just artistically, but commercially - I had to need to succeed. So I took just fifty pounds, went to London and started to paint. Father and I agreed that if I had not made the grade in six years I'd give up all my pretensions to art and go respectable again. I changed my name and cut myself off from all my old crowd. The last thing I wanted was a lot of chaps I'd been at Harrow with, and debs I'd taken to parties, finding out and buying my pictures or commissioning portraits, to help me.'

  'But you pretended to be really poor.' Her voice was indignant.

  'Pretended? Pretended? In six years I've sold forty-four pictures at an average price of a little over fifteen guineas a time. I've been living on about two pounds ten shillings a week! Unless I sell something else, I've got just twelve pounds four and sixpence to last me until the end of April.'

  'Why April?'

  'Because that's when the six years are up.'

  'Oh, I see. And what are you going to do then?'

  'What do you think? Give it all up, with great relief, go home to Wales and start running the estate.'

  'I thought you hated Society and all the trappings.'

  'Well, in spite of everything that's happened here, the last few days have made me realise that there is, after all, a great deal to be said for three square meals a day. I still don't approve of big houses and lots of servants, but I can happily learn to live with them again after six years of the other thing.'

  'You're not going to be a great artist, after all?'

  'Of course I'm not. I haven't got what it takes, and I've got it out of my system. But I do know a lot more about painting than I did. Moreover, I know what it does take to become a worthwhile artist. I can recognise talent in others now. So I intend to become a patron, do everything I can to support and encourage good young painters, and also start a collection. Collecting can be an art in itself, and my collection will become world-famous. I shall, in addition, write scathing criticisms of bad art. I shall use every ounce of pull that money, position, and powerful friends can give. I shall become the most influential, admired, and feared figure in British art. That, my lady, is what I'm going to do.'

  Gerry couldn't speak. The Countess said, 'That sounds highly satisfactory. Be sure to repeat to George what you said about collecting being an art. That will put you very much in his good books.'

  Hugh said, 'Heavens, I suppose I should speak to him, ask for Gerry's hand and all that sort of thing.'

  Lady Burford nodded. 'Yes, I think it's pleasant to keep up the old customs. I shall go and find George now and prime him, so you needn't be apprehensive that he'll refuse his permission, or anything ridiculous like that. Come along to the library in fifteen minutes. You'd better telephone your parents, Hugh, and then we can put the announcement in The Times immediately. A June wedding, I think. I don't approve of long engagements. Here, or in town, I wonder? I rather favour London; it's so much more accessible for most people. St. Margaret's, Westminster, I think, and the reception at Claridge's.' She went out.

  Gerry grinned at Hugh. 'Satisfied?'

  'Completely.'

  'Me, too. Who'd have thought this time yesterday that everything could turn out so spiffingly so quickly.'

  'Things have turned out pretty well for nearly everybody. Ned Turner's got a new job.'

  'And Jemima, or Ann or whatever her name is, got her woman.'

  'And Rex Ransom got a blackmailer off his back.'

  'You know,' Gerry said, 'I've been meaning to ask you: what do you think she was blackmailing him for, on what grounds? What was he doing in that photograph she took?'

  'There's only one thing I can think of,' Hugh said. 'I'm afraid it must be drugs.'

  Her eyes grew big. 'You mean he's an addict? Surely not!'

  'I agree he doesn't look it. But what else could it be? He was alone in the room. She must have got a snap of him giving himself an injection.'

  'Nothing so dramatic.'

  The voice came from the door, which the Countess had left open an inch or two. It was Rex.

  Gerry and Hugh stared at him in horror as he came into the room. Gerry stammered, 'Rex, I — I'm terribly sorry. I didn't—' Then she stopped as she saw that he was smiling.

  'It's OK,' he said. 'You wouldn't be human if you didn't speculate. And I'd probably think the same if it was someone else. Like to see the famous photograph?'

  Hugh said, 'Certainly not! It's your business.'

  'It's all right. I'd like you to look at it.' He reached into his pocket, took the photograph from it, and held it out to them. 'Here.'

  Hugh took it and he and Gerry stared at it together. Expressions of bewilderment appeared on their faces.

  The picture was of a man, wearing shorts and an undershirt. He was standing, holding a couple of strange, limp, shapeless objects in one hand. A large stomach bulged over the top of the shorts and he had a high domed, bald head.

  Gerry said, 'But I don't understand. This isn't—' She broke off with a gasp. 'It is! It's you!'

  Rex bowed. He raised a hand to his head, pulled at the thick blonde hair, and it came away to reveal a gleaming, egg-like pate. Hugh and Gerry goggled at him.

  Rex jerked a finger at the photograph. 'The other object I am holding is, I regret to say, my girdle. I'd just taken it off.'

  'All she was threatening to publish was this?' Hugh said incredulously.

  'All? You're joking! Can't you imagine the effect that could have on my career? The romantic, swashbuckling hero wears a wig and a girdle? I'd be a laughing stock. It'd finish me.'

  Gerry said, 'Yes, I can see. Golly, no wonder your manner was so odd that night!'

  'I was in a terrible state. I could see my whole world crumbling. When I first had the brush with the intruder I couldn't be sure what was behind it. It might be blackmail, or just a hoax. Even when I discovered - as I believed - that it was Gilbert, I still hoped he might just be a pathological snooper. I confronted him, but I couldn't accuse him straight out. If he hadn't thought of blackmail, I didn't want to let him realise there were grounds for it. But he was apparently scared, too. Then he said he was leaving and it seemed important to stop him. I thought it less likely he'd have the nerve to apply the squeeze while we were under the same roof. I used a little blackmail myself, threatened to see he didn't script The King's Man. I even made up a lot of hogwash about Cyrus's attorneys questioning the copyright situation. All I really knew was that Cyrus had mentioned he'd forgotten to check on who held the rights. Anyway, it seemed to work. He agreed to stay, if you okayed it, Gerry, and apparently climbed down. I decided that I'd either misjudged his motive or that he'd thought better of it. By that night I figured I was in the clear, which made the shock of finding that photo and the note in my room all the greater. I was in a real stew. Even if I paid and got the negative back, how could I be sure that dozens of prints hadn't already been made? I could see myself paying through the nose for years.'
/>   Hugh frowned. 'But now you're quite prepared to have the photo published. Why the change?'

  'In the picture gallery earlier I suddenly got nauseous at the lie I was living. I decided to face up to what I am: middle-aged, fat and bald. I don't care who knows it. It's a tremendous relief.'

  'But your acting career?' Gerry said.

  'My acting career is finished. I'm getting out.'

  'What will you do?'

  'Something I've had a hankering to do for many years: direct. I've got a story all lined up, too. Arlington's going to do the screenplay.'

  'Mr Gilbert?' Gerry exclaimed.

  'Yeah. We've had a long talk. He's not at all a bad guy underneath the bluster. He started all that rudeness when he was successful, as a sort of gimmick. And he's had to keep it up so people wouldn't guess he'd fallen on hard times. Oh, and by the way, I've explained to him about you and your hoax, Gerry.'

  'How did he take it?'

  'He laughed. I think it was quite an effort, but he managed it eventually. Anyway, whatever his faults, he's a first-class screenwriter. I've spoken to Cyrus and he's willing to give us a chance.'

  Hugh looked surprised. 'You've patched up your quarrel, then?'

  'Heck, yes. That was nothing. We've both apologised and shaken hands. He even borrowed two hundred pounds from me, though I don't know what he wanted it for. He's quite enthusiastic about the story idea; particularly as he's gotten a sort of personal interest in it, as you have, too, Gerry.'

  'Me? What is the story?'

  Hugh said, 'Good heavens, it's not a murder mystery based on this weekend?'

  'Not likely! Who'd believe it? No, I'm going to make a movie called The Adventures of Aylwin Saunders. And I've an old rival and buddy of mine in mind for the lead. I hear he's thinking of changing studios.'

  Gerry whispered, 'Not — not . . . ?'

  'Yes,' Rex said. 'Errol Flynn. Who else?'

  * * *

  'Gower?' said the Earl. 'Yes, know him slightly. Eccentric, naturally, like all Welshmen. Collects coins. And he fanatical it seems. Can't see the appeal myself. And he gets these old crazes for things, jazz or breeding rabbits or something. They never last, apparently. Strange way to behave. Vague sort of fellow, too, terribly absentminded. Nice chap, though. Very amiable. Fine old family, of course.'