Eureka

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘Just off the Gray’s Inn Road. Swinton Street.’

  ‘Oh! I live on Frederick Street,’ said Billie.

  Joey nodded. ‘Ha. We used to have fights with the kids on Frederick Street.’

  ‘Bare-knuckle?’ asked Nat, arching an eyebrow.

  ‘We couldn’t afford no gloves. Though I did some boxing in me time. That’s how I got to know Harry and his mob – sparrin’ down the Old Kent Road.’

  Nat wondered if he’d drunk enough to dare a question – the question he’d wanted to ask Joey from the off. Sometimes you just had to plunge in. ‘And your duelling scar – from Heidelberg?’

  He quailed on noticing Billie widen her eyes in alarm, but Joey gave no sign of being affronted. He looked, if anything, a bit shy. ‘I ain’t been to Heidelberg, or to a duel.’

  Sonja, who had also been listening, said, ‘How then?’

  Joey blew out his cheeks. ‘’Bout six years ago, I suppose, I was comin’ up the escalator from Angel Tube, broad daylight. I saw this feller standing at the top, and thought, aye aye. But I didn’t notice the one behind me. I’d just reached the top when he pulls my jacket halfway down my back – pinions my arms, right? The other one comes at me … all I remember is a flash of his hand and then a sort of … wet. It was only later I realised he’d tooled me down the cheek. I was lucky, really.’

  ‘Lucky?’ said Billie, aghast.

  ‘Yeah, I mean, at least he knew about usin’ a cut-throat. You go across the face, see, you might sever an artery.’

  There was a brief appalled silence at the table. Nat swallowed and said, ‘But who would have … and why?’

  Joey squinted into the distance. ‘Never sure who. Someone from a firm south of the river. One of Harry’s rivals. All I remember ’bout the geezer was what he said as he walked off. “Nothing personal, mate.” I never supposed it was.’

  Sonja said, ‘You are very philosophical.’

  He took a drag of his cigarette. ‘Dunno about that. Unless “an eye for an eye” is philosophical.’ He laughed.

  ‘You mean, you …’

  ‘Well, you can’t let a thing like that slide.’

  He seemed to become abruptly aware of his audience – Nat, Sonja, Billie – staring at him, absorbing the implication. ‘Maybe I shouldn’ta told you that.’

  The next morning Nat woke with a crucifying hangover. They hadn’t left the bar until two – he barely recalled staggering up to bed. The last thing he had done was burn his lungs on a giant spliff Reiner had handed him. As he was packing his suitcase he realised he must have left his camera at the bar: he’d been snapping away while the roistering among the crew got louder and beerier.

  At the bar he found a waiter mopping the floor, and asked in his halting Italian whether a camera had been handed in the night before. Of course it hadn’t. The man returned a high-shouldered shrug that mingled expansive measures of pity and resignation: ‘Mi dispiace.’ His own fault; he should have been more careful. Some light-fingered local would now be enjoying the benefit of his long-lensed Nikon F. ‘Thievin’ wops,’ remarked Ronnie Stiles on hearing of the loss. On the drive to the airport Nat wondered what the thief would make of the photographs Sonja had taken of Gina and himself in his bedroom. Pity – he’d have liked them as a memento of their stay.

  Next to him on the coach sat Julie the script girl, who gave him a confidential nudge.

  ‘You’ll never believe what I’ve just heard,’ she said, smirking. Nat inclined his head to listen.

  ‘You know the French designer, Arthur Brochard?’ she continued, dropping her voice to an undertone. ‘Apparently, he’s having a sex change.’

  Nat bugged his eyes just so. ‘No! Where on earth did you get hold of that?’

  EXT. COURTYARD – DAY.

  CHAS comes down to find JANE with GEORGE and a young woman he recognises. Her suitcase indicates she has recently arrived.

  JANE

  Chas, this is Maud. I think you met one another at Bridges.

  CHAS

  Hello. You came by the ferry?

  MAUD

  Yes. George picked me up at the harbour. (Turns to JANE.) You look tired, darling.

  JANE

  Oh, I’m fine. And I’m very glad to see you. Let me show you to your room.

  JANE and MAUD exit. CHAS and GEORGE are left together, looking sheepish.

  GEORGE

  Look, Chas … I’m sorry about the other day. I know how it must seem, but this book – it’s consumed me.

  CHAS

  No, no, I’m the one who should be sorry. That little outburst of mine was unforgivable. I lost my head! Friends?

  CHAS extends his hand hopefully, and GEORGE takes it.

  GEORGE

  Friends.

  A short embarrassed silence intervenes.

  GEORGE

  By the way, if you’ve got anything valuable here, I’d advise you to put it in Jane’s safe.

  CHAS

  What do you mean?

  GEORGE

  Well, I can’t be certain, but I’ve a suspicion one of the maids has been rifling through my stuff.

  CHAS

  Has something gone missing?

  GEORGE

  Nothing valuable. (He looks around shiftily, lowers his voice.) I have a stash of – you know? Someone’s been at it, I’m sure.

  CHAS

  That’s worrying …

  GEORGE

  I know. Wonder if they ‘drop out’ while they’re doing the housework?

  CHAS

  You’ll probably be able to tell. Come back to your room and find the bed’s been used as a trampoline … or they’ve taken down the curtains and turned them into bell-bottoms.

  GEORGE

  (laughing)

  Yeah. If it is one of them they’d better be careful. That stuff is really strong.

  CHAS nods, and glances at GEORGE, appraisingly.

  INT. VEREKER’S BEDROOM – NIGHT.

  CHAS knocks at the door, and the NURSE answers it. He lingers on the threshold.

  CHAS

  I wondered if you needed a break. I’d be happy to –

  NURSE

  (glancing at the patient)

  Well, I’m not sure … Perhaps for twenty minutes?

  She nods, half grateful, and exits the room. It is dimly lit, and CHAS’s shadow as he enters looms on the wall. There is something faintly predatory in his movement as he approaches VEREKER and takes the seat at his bedside. The patient is propped up on pillows, asleep, so CHAS, with a guilty look over his shoulder, clears his throat.

  CHAS

  Mr Vereker? (He leans in, and raises his voice.) Hugh?

  VEREKER’s eyes flicker open. For a few moments he looks disorientated, and seems not to know CHAS. Then his gaze focuses, and by the merest twitch of his mouth he seems to greet his visitor.

  CHAS

  Good evening, sir. I’ve just come to say – to see how you are. Is there anything you need?

  A pause, while he waits for a reply. VEREKER makes no movement, but continues to study him. CHAS, nervous, looks to the door again before resuming.

  CHAS

  To speak truthfully, I was hoping to ask you a great favour. I wouldn’t do this in normal circumstances, but – well, I imagine you know what it is. You recall when we first met, at Jane’s that weekend, you told me something about your work, about the secret that informs every line. Every word. I called it ‘the figure in the carpet’, do you remember? (He stares at VEREKER, who remains impassive.) I know that George has got it. To be honest, I always thought he would – he’s smart. Much smarter than me. But it seems he’s not going to let it out the bag, not until he’s finished his book. I’ve asked him, and he’s refused. So I’m asking you, very humbly, if you’d … I’m at the end of my tether. I have to know. Can you please tell me?

  CHAS waits, uncertain. He sees on the bedside table the little notepad and pencil the old man used in communicating with JANE. He picks them up and holds t
hem out. VEREKER stares at him, his expression watchful, narrow. Is there a hint of pity in it?

  CHAS

  Please?

  Slowly, very slowly, VEREKER lifts his hand to take the pencil. CHAS almost fearfully places the pad in front of him. The old man seems to gather himself, and with painful deliberation he begins. He holds the notepad up so that CHAS can’t see what he’s writing down. He seems to be sketching rather than writing.

  CHAS, in an agony of suspense, watches him. Half a minute passes before VEREKER lays down the pencil. Then he turns the pad over to CHAS, who looks and reads – ‘O’. That is all. VEREKER has inscribed a circle on the paper.

  CHAS stares at it, baffled, then at VEREKER.

  CHAS

  What’s this? I mean – what is this?

  VEREKER blinks at him, looks away. He is tired, and no longer interested.

  CHAS

  (holding up the paper)

  Please. Explain. What am I supposed to think?

  No response from VEREKER. Desperate now, CHAS leans in close.

  Why would you let him know but not me? Just tell me. Please. Tell me.

  VEREKER stares off, his face a mask. CHAS grabs the front of his nightshirt and confronts him, eyeball to eyeball.

  For Christ’s sake, tell me. Tell me.

  At this point the NURSE re-enters the room, her eyes widening in shock at CHAS’s rough treatment of her patient. She hurries over, shooing him away.

  NURSE

  What are you doing? Can’t you see he’s a sick man!

  CHAS backs away, shaken, suddenly alive to his own behaviour. The NURSE settles VEREKER, then shoots a dirty look at CHAS. After a few moments CHAS exits the bedroom. He still holds the piece of paper with VEREKER’s mysterious ‘O’ on it.

  16

  Freya, at her desk, read through the two typescripts again. They were articles translated from German, one a report from a Munich newspaper of April 1950, about a fire that had destroyed the clubhouse of a local football team. The other was from a national paper, dated less than a year ago, about a warehouse fire at a Berlin film company. In both cases arson had been suspected. The clubhouse fire report mentioned that a youth had been taken in and questioned, before being released.

  It wasn’t much to go on. She made a clicking noise with her tongue and walked to the other end of the office where Delphine Frampton was on the phone. Seeing Freya she held up a finger – wait there – and hurried her call to an end with a curt goodbye.

  Freya waved the transcripts. ‘Your friend did a good job. Do thank her for me.’

  Delphine nodded. ‘Good old Mitch. Did you find what you were looking for?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. The youth the police interviewed about the clubhouse fire was Reiner, no question. I talked to his friend Veronika, who obviously suspected him. The other thing she told me, well, it’s tenuous but Reiner’s parents both died in a fire during a bombing raid on Munich. A whole shelter was hit, and instead of digging out the bodies they just covered it over. No funeral, no gravestone, nothing but the brute fact of their incineration. It’s bound to have affected him as a child.’

  Delphine made a doubtful face. ‘Tens of thousands died in fires during the war. It doesn’t mean –’

  ‘I know. It’s just that fire seems to have followed Reiner about. Whenever, wherever, he’s been crossed, something gets burned down. These two may be just coincidence. But with Harry Pulver’s yacht suddenly going up, you have to wonder. I was there that night, in Richmond, and people were pouring out of the pub to watch. The cast, the crew – but not Reiner.’

  ‘But what would he have against Pulver?’

  ‘Well, he had just assaulted Nat. And I remember Reiner was the first to help Nat to his feet. He said something to him …’

  ‘What?’

  Freya shook her head. ‘It was in German.’

  ‘Perhaps along the lines of “You will be avenged. I have matches in my pocket.”’

  She snorted at the satirical jab, but the idea of Reiner as the culprit was not so unlikely. She had also talked to the paper’s crime correspondent, who had been pursuing the story of the Thomas Bertram. According to the Met Police’s fire expert, the perpetrator was someone who knew the layout of the boat, and had chosen the engine room as the surest location to get a blaze going. Yes, there may have been an element of opportunism – the criminal’s ally – but there had been method and expertise in it, too. The problem with investigating a fire was that the evidence of intent would more often than not disappear in the conflagration. Nevertheless, Freya had enquired, might they assume that the saboteur had set fires before? Absolutely, came the reply from the crime man.

  ‘So what are you going to do with this?’ asked Delphine.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Freya bit her lip. ‘I have to wait for the fire service’s report to come out. Maybe that will turn up something.’

  She had turned to leave when Delphine called her back. She was holding up a piece of correspondence. ‘I had a very stern letter from your hotel in Munich. The Marienbad? Mitch was kind enough to translate this, too. They’ve enclosed a bill for damages – says a coffee table was burnt and covered in feathers.’

  ‘Oh God, I’d forgotten about that.’

  She stared in surprise. ‘What on earth were you doing?’

  Freya laughed and shook her head. ‘An accident. Some fucking fool, a film critic, actually, lit up a joint and fell asleep. I had to do some emergency firefighting with a cushion.’

  ‘They’re also charging for burns on the carpet.’

  ‘I’ll write them a cheque. That fire was a godsend, actually. I woke the next morning from a dream convinced about Reiner.’

  Delphine consulted the bill. ‘I’ll put it through as “research expenses”.’

  Holding her drink in one hand and a rung on the fold-up stepladder in the other, Freya climbed through the opening and onto Albany’s soot-smudged leads. A safety rail stood between her and a long drop to the tiled dormer below. Chimney pots, undisturbed since Regency days, presented a higgledy-piggledy shooting range above the blackened bricks. From this perspective the rooftops of Savile Row looked jagged and provisional, as if the street-planner had got his angles mixed up.

  ‘I never knew about this,’ she said to Nat, who had followed her through the trapdoor.

  ‘They call it a “roof terrace”,’ he said, ‘rather straining the definition.’

  ‘It’s a great view.’

  ‘Mm. On a clear day you can see the permissive society from here.’

  Nat was glowing from his sojourn. The whites of his eyes, which he had just shielded with his aviators, set off his Riviera tan. His mid-brown hair had gone blond in the sun.

  ‘That’s very Carnaby Street,’ she said, peering at his shirt of sky blue and primrose paisley.

  ‘D’you think? From Mr Fish. I’ve been worried I was too old to carry it off.’

  Freya rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t start that again. What about the film? You must be nearly finished by now.’

  ‘Almost. They’ve got a week in Rome and then it’s done.’

  ‘How’s my new friend?’

  ‘Sonja? A star at all times. Her party piece on the last night was a sensation. I had no idea she could sing! “Surabaya Johnny” – my dear, she quite brought the house down.’ Nat had been cherishing a memory of Sonja, topless, camera to her eye as he writhed on the bed with Gina. Best to keep quiet about that. He took out a packet of Peter Stuyvesant and lit them one each. The sun, dipping west, pasted its last honeyed rays against the Albany brickwork.

  Nat, sipping his drink, said, ‘And what of your travels?’

  ‘I liked Munich, from the little I saw. I met with a very nice woman who showed me around. We drank a lot of German ale and had dinner with a couple of critics who were very pleased with themselves.’

  ‘Ah, the same the world over. I once fancied I might earn a crust that way myself. You see, I possessed the critic’s most val
uable weapon.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Unerring judgement,’ he replied. ‘But the job wouldn’t have held me. Even being right all the time becomes a bore.’

  Freya smiled and blew a jet of smoke.

  After a moment Nat said, ‘And Reiner? Did you dig up any stories?’

  ‘Only one. But it’s a good one.’ She paused before recounting the story of Reiner’s revenge on his football coach, and of the fire at the Berlin warehouse. It was only a hunch, of course, but she felt certain that he had also torched Harry Pulver’s yacht. Nat, whose expression had shifted from bemusement to disbelief, now put up a restraining hand.

  ‘Hold on a minute. Are you seriously suggesting that Reiner is an arsonist?’

  Freya nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it. In all three cases he has had motive and opportunity. His means are unclear, but –’

  ‘Oh, Freya, really! The very idea. Where’s your evidence?’

  ‘I haven’t any. But once you know about his parents dying in a fire, the idea becomes perfectly plausible. And it could be the tip of the iceberg – or the spark from the bonfire. He may have been doing this all of his life.’

  Nat leaned in close, scrutinising her face. ‘Let me look at your eyes. Are you on something? I fear you must be to have come up with such piffle. I grant you Reiner’s an eccentric, but he’s not a pyromaniac.’

  ‘His old friend Veronika seemed to think otherwise. The problem with arson, as you might guess, is that the crime scene goes up in smoke. Unless the firefighters get to the blaze early enough it’s difficult to recover – what’s the phrase? – flame accelerants.’

  ‘So you’re really going to pursue this?’ He suddenly sounded anxious.

  ‘Yes, but’ – she shrugged – ‘with no great hope of success. Maybe we should talk about something else. What are you doing next?’