The Devil in Disguise

by Martin Edwards

  ‘You’re a bigoted old socialist,’ Harry said. ‘Now be quiet and watch the show.’

  He enjoyed the performance much more than he had expected. He’d never been a fan of musicals and occasional viewing of the works of Rodgers and Hammerstein or Andrew Lloyd Webber on the small screen had convinced him that the choice was usually between sentimentality or lush melodrama. A sixties sex comedy with a chorus line of seedy middle-aged businessmen clicking their fingers as they bemoaned the complexities of playing away from home was more to his taste.

  ‘Like it?’ Tim asked as they queued at the bar during the interval.

  ‘Mmmm. “Where Can You Take a Girl?” was fun.’

  ‘At least you and I aren’t married men. We don’t have to feel guilty if - we get involved with someone.’

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ Harry said, trying to keep Juliet May out of his mind, ‘but sometimes I wish I had cause for a troubled conscience where women are concerned.’

  Tim gave a sceptical laugh and then said quietly, ‘Can I speak to you - without prejudice, as you lawyers might say?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Tim fiddled with his tie and it dawned on Harry that the other man had made a special effort to look smart this evening. It helped that, for the first time in their acquaintance, he was wearing a suit that seemed the right size.

  ‘You may have guessed this already...’ Tim bit his lip. ‘You see, the fact is, I’ve become very fond of Frances. I don’t think she realises. Of course, while Luke was alive, she only had eyes for him. I’m not naïve, I knew that she’d never bother with me.’

  He paused while Harry gave the barman his order. ‘But what I wanted to say is - do you feel you have to tell her about my past?’

  Harry stared. ‘You mean, the business over your mother’s death? Look, it’s history. And the way Kim tells it, you were desperately unlucky. But whatever makes you believe Frances wouldn’t take exactly the same view? She’s a sensible woman, I’m sure if you tell her the full story, she’ll understand. Talk to her. I don’t think you’ll regret it.’

  If I had my time again perhaps I should come back as an agony columnist, he thought as he rejoined Kim. Soon he was absorbed again in Neil Simon’s take on the battle of the sexes. The second half of the show entertained him as much as the first. The three-piece band was playing a score written for a thirty-five-strong orchestra, but they made up for lack of numbers with such verve that they managed to drown a couple of the songs. Towards the end, after the latest betrayal of her two-timing boss the heroine sang ‘Whoever You Are, I Love You’ before taking an overdose. As the lyric washed over him, Harry mused about the impulses that can lead a person to end it all. For the hundredth time, he wondered if it was possible that he and Ashley were mistaken and that Luke Dessaur had indeed killed himself. But what could be the reason, what motive was strong enough?

  Just before, in time-honoured fashion, Fran and Chuck finally got it together, they performed the duet that everyone in the audience had grown up with. The one in which they agree that what you get when you fall in love is lies and pain and sorrow. So - for at least until tomorrow - they’d never fall in love again. The story of my life, Harry thought as the curtain fell for the last time to continuing applause.

  ‘Great fun, wasn’t it?’ Frances asked as they made their way out of the auditorium. ‘You two don’t have to rush off home, do you? Come and meet the cast and the backroom team.’

  ‘They did well,’ Harry said. ‘Tell you the truth, I didn’t expect to enjoy it so much.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘It’s such a relief when you think of the money we’ve invested in it. Far more than I thought wise, frankly.’

  Tim nodded. ‘If only Luke had been here today, he could have seen that his faith was vindicated. I must admit that I had my doubts. Musicals are so expensive, even when they are produced on a shoestring and the run is only from Tuesday to Saturday. They must be one of the highest-risk investments of all.’

  ‘Why was he so keen?’

  ‘Oh, he insisted that it was precisely the sort of imaginative venture that Gervase Kavanaugh established the Trust to support all those years ago.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Frances said. ‘The producer persuaded him that the show broke the mould of Broadway musicals, but once its run came to an end it disappeared from sight. The Waterfront Players were strapped for cash and he was keen to back their enterprise. Even though his taste in music was more Bach and Verdi than Bacharach and David.’ Suddenly she caught sight of someone and raised her voice. ‘Bruce! I’ve been looking round for you. Congratulations! A terrific production.’

  Bruce was a tall, slender man in a leather jacket and denim jeans who had just been smooching with the leading lady. His face was flushed with champagne and excitement. Harry recognised him from somewhere, and not just because of a passing resemblance to the young John Travolta, but for the moment could not place him.

  ‘I must admit I’m ecstatic,’ Bruce drawled, extricating himself from the clutches of the girl who had played Fran Kubelik and coming over to join them. ‘Thanks from the bottom of my heart. If it wasn’t for the Kavanaugh Trust, we’d never have been able to make it this far.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you would have managed somehow.’

  ‘Believe me, it’s true. In terms of conventional box office appeal, Promises, Promises isn’t exactly My Fair Lady or The Phantom of the Opera.’

  ‘I thought it was more fun than both of them put together.’

  ‘Me too. Maybe it’s because I come from New York City and I just adore Neil Simon’s one-liners. But whichever way you look at it, we owe the Trust a lot.’

  ‘It was Luke’s baby. He drove it through, he was the one to thank.’

  A shadow passed across Bruce’s face. ‘Yes - yes, of course.’

  ‘By the way, you know Tim, of course, but have you met Harry Devlin? He’s the Trust’s solicitor and this is his friend Kim Lawrence. Meet Bruce Carpenter - he’s the man who made the whole thing happen. The producer of the show.’

  They said hello and then Harry asked casually, ‘I thought I recognised you and now I’ve remembered. Didn’t I see you at Luke’s funeral?’

  ‘Yeah, I was there.’ Bruce’s smile faded. ‘Well, it was the very least I could do - in the circumstances. Anyway, it’s been great to meet you. And now - I really must circulate.’

  As he disappeared, Frances said, ‘A very charming young man. Rather too young and handsome for an old maid like me, but a good talker, that’s for sure. He could get most people eating out of his hand, I suspect.’

  ‘Is he a full-time producer?’

  ‘Heavens, no. The Waterfront Players are amateurs. They all need a day job to survive. At the dress rehearsal Bruce told me that he works as a barman. He’d love a career in showbiz, but he needs to keep body and soul together whilst he hopes for a break. Maybe tonight is just what he needs. Everyone seems to have loved the production.’

  She sighed and surveyed the crowded room. A champagne cork exploded and Matthew beckoned them over.

  ‘Come and have a drink with us to celebrate!’

  He broke off to kiss his bride-to-be and people cheered. The place was thick with smoke and everyone seemed to be talking at the same time. A press photographer approached the happy couple, but Matthew feigned shielding his face and pointed at Bruce Carpenter, who had rejoined a group of cast members.

  ‘Please, those are the people you should be taking pictures of. They’ve worked very hard to make tonight such a success.’

  Bruce shook his head graciously and said, ‘Like I just said to Frances, we owe it all to you and your friends from the Trust.’

  A flashbulb popped anyway, to Matthew’s evident embarrassment. Frances turned to Harry and said, ‘Just one thing bothers me.’

  ‘
What’s that?’

  ‘Why isn’t Roy here?’

  Harry spread his arms. There were other things that were bothering him. For example, he had just remembered that he had seen Bruce Carpenter on another occasion after Luke’s funeral, polishing glasses behind the bar at the Hawthorne Hotel.

  Chapter 16

  Dale Street didn’t seem the same without Davey Damnation’s wild eyes and pointing finger. As Harry left the magistrates’ court at half eleven the morning after the show, he turned his collar up against the rain and thought about the pavement prophet. The newspapers were full of his story. Davey was the hero who had single-handedly ended a reign of terror that had defeated the police forces of four counties. It was only a question of time before he became a card-carrying darling of the media, a lovable eccentric, perhaps a rent-a-quote pundit on ecclesiastical affairs. And what was wrong with that? At least he’d helped to make sure that the Scissorman would not strike again. Whereas Luke Dessaur’s murderer - if there was one - was still at large. It was time to have another word with Ashley Whitaker. Harry was convinced Ashley knew more than he had yet been prepared to admit and thought he might now be able to guess what it might be.

  The Speckled Band was quiet, as usual. Ashley was sitting behind his desk at the back, leafing through an old Inspector French mystery. He waved as Harry walked in.

  ‘Skiving off work? Don’t worry, my lips are sealed.’

  ‘I’ve just come from court. My client is an amateur footballer, a very good player. He scored a hat-trick in a vital match and now he’s in trouble with the law because of it.’

  Ashley tutted. ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘He was videotaped scoring the winner. The film was taken by inquiry agents acting for a local authority. Twelve months ago, he sued for crippling injuries he said he’d suffered after stumbling into an uncovered manhole. Claimed he was in constant pain and would never be able to play sport again. He was awarded two years’ salary. A good result, I was delighted with it. Of course, he didn’t tell me he was turning out for this pub team twice a week. Now he’s been sent down for obtaining by deception.’

  Ashley chortled. ‘Never mind, the coffee’s on and there are a few old pulp magazines on the shelf behind you, if you’re interested. Good stuff by Joel Townsley Rogers and Jonathan Latimer. Have a browse and a shot of caffeine while you lick your wounds.’

  ‘Thanks, but I really came to see you rather than the merchandise.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  ‘Specifically, I wanted a word about Luke’s death and the Kavanaugh trustees.’

  ‘Any more news? I saw a review in the morning paper of the musical Luke was so keen to back. Though there was probably more ink spilled over Matthew Cullinan’s engagement than there was about the show.’

  ‘He reckons he likes to hide his light under a bushel, but he’s news, isn’t he? Liverpudlian society isn’t exactly swimming with blue blood. As for the other trustees, there’s now a minor mystery about Roy Milburn.’

  Ashley’s face became inscrutable, but his tone remained light. ‘Not got himself into another scrape, surely?’

  ‘Dunno. It seems he’s disappeared.’

  ‘Hiding from his creditors, I expect. It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  Harry perched on a stool. ‘He and I missed each other on the phone yesterday, but Frances Silverwood spoke to him. She wanted to let him know we’ve found out Vera Blackhurst’s past. She has a track record of cashing in on the wills of wealthy old men. The odds are that we’ll be able to strike a deal with her over the Kavanaugh money.’

  ‘Luke would have been glad about that.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s by the by. Roy was supposed to be at the Pool Theatre last night, but he failed to turn up. And though I tried to ring him again this morning before I went to court, there was no answer.’

  ‘I’ve known Roy for a long time,’ Ashley said. ‘He’s a great character, but I wouldn’t ever claim that reliability is one of his virtues. Ten to one, he’s picked up a woman in a pub somewhere and persuaded her to take him home for the night. Going AWOL is nothing new for him. I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you.’

  ‘I’m not exactly worried. Curious, yes. The Kavanaugh Trust is surrounded by more than its fair share of mysteries.’

  ‘Shall we have that coffee while we chat?’ Ashley went to the front of the shop and put up the Closed For Lunch sign. ‘Rather early, but I don’t think I’m missing out on too many customers. Keep talking.’

  ‘For example,’ Harry said as Ashley fiddled with a filter machine in the back room. ‘Why was Luke so keen to put a large chunk of the Trust’s money into a little-known American musical at a time when funds were short?’

  Ashley frowned. ‘He did mention it to me. He had a good deal of faith in the Waterfront Players.’

  ‘Did he ever mention the name of Bruce Carpenter to you?’

  ‘I can’t recall it. Why?’

  ‘Carpenter is the producer of Promises, Promises. He accompanied Don Ragovoy to Luke’s funeral. And he works at the Hawthorne Hotel.’

  Ashley shrugged. ‘I’m not surprised he attended the funeral. As for the Hawthorne - I don’t see the connection.’

  ‘Neither do I - yet. But perhaps there is one. I’d started thinking that Luke stayed at the Hawthorne because it was convenient for Roy’s place just around the corner. But if he wanted to see Roy, why not have a quiet word with him after the meeting at the Piquet Club? If Luke wanted to see Carpenter, that might explain why he turned up at the hotel.’

  Ashley blinked. ‘To discuss what?’

  ‘Maybe Roy misled Luke about the Trust’s finances. If he put more money into the show than was wise, he may have wanted to pull the plug. He and Carpenter may have been the pair Julio overheard quarrelling - and Carpenter would have had a motive for murder. The man is crazy about the theatre. He might have flipped.’

  ‘Ingenious,’ Ashley admitted. ‘But I’m not convinced. As I understand it, Carpenter owed - and still owes - an enormous debt of gratitude to Luke. I can’t imagine them having a serious argument. Besides, if you’re right, why would Luke book an overnight stay? Sorry, but it doesn’t stack up. Anyway, the coffee’s ready.’

  After Ashley had poured, Harry said, ‘All right, then, what’s your theory? Let’s assume Luke was murdered. Whodunit?’

  Ashley started. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on. You’re a murder buff, you’re as bad as me if not worse. You can’t read a report in the papers about a mysterious crime without playing your own guessing game. You regard people who peek at the last page of a detective story long before they’ve finished reading as little better than savages. Your godfather is dead, you believe murdered. You must have ideas about a possible culprit.’

  Ashley pursed his lips. ‘I’ve never pointed the finger at anyone.’

  ‘Would you agree that if Luke was murdered, the truth is likely to have some connection with the Kavanaugh Trust?’

  ‘It seems an almost inevitable deduction,’ Ashley said. ‘He was retired and lived alone - not the sort of lifestyle where you make enemies. The Trust was his main interest in life.’

  ‘If we leave aside Bruce Carpenter, then Luke’s fellow trustees are the obvious suspects, given that one of them was deceiving him.’

  ‘I can’t disagree with what you say,’ Ashley said hesitantly.

  Harry finished his drink and put the cup down on the desk. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Ashley, but I’ve felt from the outset that there was something you were keeping from me.’

  Ashley’s features had become expressionless. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I’m used to being lied to,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve had years of practice. It comes with the job. And it’s occurred to me that Luke may have been more forthcoming about his
worries with you than with me. He claimed that he hadn’t and my original instinct was to believe him. But you were close, he trusted you. To you, he might just have been prepared to name the person he had in mind, perhaps even spell out what had happened. Talking to a solicitor, his instinct would have been to remain discreet, especially if he had little hard evidence. He wouldn’t want to defame anyone. It wouldn’t fit his sense of propriety.’

  Ashley bit his lip. ‘I suppose I owe you an apology. You’ve always been frank with me. Perhaps I should have been more careful to return the compliment.’

  ‘So Luke did spill the beans?’

  ‘You’re no fool, Harry. He did use me - well, as a sounding board, I suppose. I did think about telling you, but it didn’t seem fair to the person concerned. Several reasons for that. First, I might have been wrong about Luke having been murdered. I didn’t think so, but I couldn’t be sure. Next,

  the things Luke mentioned to me might have had no link whatsoever with his death. I might have pointed you in entirely the wrong direction. And finally, just as Luke was unhappy about blackening someone’s name without being able to prove a thing, so was I. It didn’t seem right.’

  ‘Might there have been a fourth reason?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Perhaps a sense of loyalty to the person in question.’

  Ashley flinched. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Am I on the right track?’

  ‘Maybe. But explain your reasoning.’

  ‘The way I see it is this. As far as I know, you only know one of the trustees well. You and Roy Milburn go back years. I’d assume that if you were trying to protect anyone, it would be him.’

  A long sigh. ‘Of course, you’re right. But it proves nothing, Harry, let me emphasise that. Just because Luke was unhappy about Roy, it doesn’t necessarily follow that Roy killed him.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me the story?’

  Ashley shrugged. ‘Now the cat’s out of the bag, I might as well. Luke was bothered about a shortfall in the Trust’s funds. A large sum of money had gone missing. Too much to be explained away as a downturn in investment income. He hadn’t realised how serious things were when he promised to underwrite the musical. When he looked at the detailed figures, he was shocked. Theft was the only possible explanation. Roy fobbed him off with some lame excuse. Luke