by Colin Murray
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘omelette aux fines herbes.’ Then she looked in my larder and amended that to, ‘Omelette sans fines herbes.’ And then she curled her lip when she hesitantly sniffed and tasted the block of marge and saw what remained of the sliced white loaf I’d bought the day before and decided that perhaps she wasn’t hungry after all.
I stripped the sheets off the bed, grateful that Fluffy was off prowling about somewhere else, and found some clean ones and an old shirt for Ghislaine to wear; then I went out into cool night air in the backyard. Jerry was still playing some jazzy blues, and I still didn’t recognize it, but the faint sounds coming to me as I peed were very pleasant. I stood outside his window for a minute or two – partly to listen, partly to allow Ghislaine a little time to change – and then I went into the scullery and splashed water on my face, cleaned my teeth in a desultory fashion and emerged into the living room.
Ghislaine had somehow contrived to be completely naked when I appeared, and she made no great effort to pull on my old shirt, fiddling with it as if she couldn’t quite work out how it went over her head. She was, I suppose, letting me see what I’d be missing.
She didn’t have to remind me. It may have been ten years since I’d seen her without clothes, but my memory was not so bad and she hadn’t changed much. Then I realized that she was trying to show me something else.
She was standing directly under the light in the centre of the room. It was harsh on her pale body and threw dark shadows across her belly and ribs. After a few seconds, I walked across to her and confirmed that they weren’t all shadows.
‘Ghislaine,’ I said, putting a hand on her shoulder as gently as I could. ‘Did Robert do this?’ I said.
She nodded.
‘What happened?’ I said. I didn’t like Robert much, but I had never thought of him as a wife-beater.
She put her arms around my neck again. ‘Hold me, Antoine,’ she said.
There was a terrible sadness in her voice, and I wrapped my arms around her.
‘I told Robert that, unless he gave up his mistress, I was leaving him. At first he laughed and said that I couldn’t, and then he grew angry and hit me. The next day I went to my mother in Rouen, but I knew he would follow me – or have some of his men follow me – so I borrowed money from her, caught a ferry in Le Havre, and here I am.’
‘Ghislaine, I’m so sorry,’ I whispered. ‘Do you need to see a doctor?’
She shook her head against my chest.
We stood there for what seemed like a long time, then she started to shiver. I pulled away, picked up a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her.
‘Well, you’re safe here,’ I said.
She clutched the rough blanket tightly, but shook her head again. ‘I’m not safe anywhere,’ she said.
I grabbed the back of my old leather chair. ‘I’ll just take this through to the other room,’ I said.
‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you or make you responsible for me,’ she said.
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I grunted that friends looked after each other, and I pushed the chair through the doorway.
I stood by the window. It had started to rain a little, and a few drops ran down the dirty pane. The street gleamed darkly in the light from the street lamps. There was a man standing under the Gaumont’s awning, smoking a cigarette. As I watched, he pulled his hat down and turned the collar of his suit jacket up, and then stepped out into the rain and turned the corner. I fancied I could hear his footsteps slowly receding. A dark car swished slowly along Church Road, its headlamps throwing a yellowish beam on the slick road, and turned the same corner. It stopped a little way along Lea Bridge Road, just out of my sight, and then I heard the muffled whump of a car door closing. After that the idling engine was banged into gear with a screech like sheet metal tearing and the car roared off.
I hoped it was just a coincidence that the vehicle was a Humber Super Snipe.
I went back into the living room to collect a blanket. I could hear Ghislaine downstairs in the scullery splashing water around.
She was wearing my shirt when she came back. She looked at me sadly and then slipped quickly between the sheets. ‘Stay with me for a few minutes,’ she said.
I sat on the bed and stroked her head. She closed her eyes, and her steady breathing grew deeper. I looked at her unblemished face and thought bitterly that it was typical of Robert that he’d been careful to leave that unmarked.
As quietly as I could, I stood up, turned off the light and left the room.
My grandfather’s chair, which survived the doodlebug that did for the house, is very comfortable, but I didn’t fall asleep immediately. I was conscious of Ghislaine in the next room. I found myself hoping that Robert would find her with me, but I knew that the chances of him coming himself were slender. Robert had never been short of thugs.
There had always been something unsettling about Ghislaine. She was altogether too unpredictable and impulsive for me. What had seemed attractive when she was eighteen was less so now. But I still liked her, and I knew that I’d protect her, if I could.
I suddenly realized that I was getting set in my ways. A little excitement might not be a bad thing. And Ghislaine was guaranteed to provide that. But Mrs Williams had to be considered. I thought of her and fell into a shallow sleep, fractured by fragmentary dreams involving the Imperial Club and, oddly, Les Jackson.
FIVE
And it was Les Jackson I thought of first when I awoke. The hole in my finances must have been weighing on my mind. What I’d withdrawn from the bank on Monday had been earmarked for rent, food and the gas and electricity meters and had not been intended as walking about money. It was only Wednesday, but at the current rate of expenditure the money wouldn’t last another day, let alone another week – and that was without force-feeding the electricity meter like a French goose.
I made a mental note to ask Jerry for any change from his taxi money.
Still, the Wardour Street office carried some petty cash. I’d try to pop in sometime in the morning. If Les was there, I might manage to prise out a little more information about Beverley Beaumont and her brother. A little more? Who was I kidding? I might be able to extract some information about them.
A few cars and a trolley bus splashed through the early morning rain as I lay there, uncomfortably hunched in the chair, staring at the scorch mark on the right arm. A lot of people on foot were scurrying along. In the distance, I heard the hooter from the Caribonum factory announcing that its workers only had ten minutes to get there.
I struggled into my clothes before the melancholy horn could boom out again at eight thirty.
Ghislaine was rummaging about downstairs in the scullery when I emerged.
‘Antoine,’ she called when she heard me, ‘where is the coffee?’
‘On the shelf above the gas stove,’ I yelled, looking at the neat little mound of her clothes, carefully folded and piled on top of the wooden chair I’d borrowed from Jerry. Ghislaine’s stockings hung down, empty, sad, wrinkled and baggy-kneed.
I heard her bare feet swishing across the stone floor.
‘Well, I can’t find it,’ she shouted. She sounded a little petulant.
I grinned and ambled down to the scullery. She was wearing my old shirt. Fluffy – back arched, tail erect – was rubbing himself lasciviously against her leg. She reached down and scratched the back of his head.
‘It’s in the bottle marked Camp,’ I said.
‘That is coffee?’ she said, reaching up to take the bottle down. She unscrewed the cap and took a doubtful little sniff. ‘No, Antoine,’ she said. ‘You are mistaken. I don’t know what this is, but it most certainly isn’t coffee.’
‘Well, it’s what passes for it over here,’ I said.
She wrinkled her nose dismissively and screwed the cap back on tightly.
‘I can make you some tea,’ I said.
‘No, Antoine,’ she said firmly, ‘you can take me to a café for p
roper coffee.’
‘So young, so innocent,’ I said in English. She looked puzzled and pouted ominously so I added quickly, ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I did. But, Antoine, I must have coffee.’ For a moment I thought that she was going to stamp her slim, elegant foot, but, fortunately for Fluffy, who was still weaving sensuously in and out between her ankles, she didn’t.
‘Get dressed,’ I said. ‘Let’s see what Enzo can manage.’
As it turned out, and unsurprisingly, Enzo didn’t manage too well, but he did produce a beverage that Ghislaine accepted as coffee. Not very good coffee, but coffee. The burnt toast smeared with marge met with less enthusiasm.
I drank my tea, ate my bacon sandwich and half-listened to Ghislaine’s entertaining recitation of dismay.
Enzo, standing behind the counter, was out of customers, washing up and sorts, and so, having no Daily Mirror to flick through and grunt at, he, irritatingly, fiddled with the dial of the big, brown wireless, moving between the Light Programme and the Home Service and back again, before finally deciding on Housewives’ Choice, as he always did at this time. I ignored him, more or less, only grunting that I didn’t know where Jerry was, when he asked.
I was trying to plan the day ahead. So far I hadn’t proceeded further than: visit the address in Kennington that Jonathan Harrison had been dossing at and then drop in at Hoxton’s office. As plans go, it lacked a little something.
Ghislaine wondered if there was any chance of getting a refund from the boarding house. She pointed out very reasonably that she hadn’t slept there or used any of the facilities and looked outraged when I said that, sadly, I doubted reason would come into it and suggested that if she wanted her suitcase back she might be advised not even to ask.
I then realized that what had seemed a woefully inadequate plan only seconds before did have the considerable advantage of flexibility. I could drop Ghislaine off at the boarding house, and so make sure that she didn’t find out just how wonderful London policeman and hoteliers are, take the short stroll from Bloomsbury to Wardour Street, and then risk the uncharted territory south of the river after tapping Hoxton’s coffers for money and Hoxton’s boss for information.
I left Ghislaine, with her suitcase, a key to my flat, instructions on how to get there and fare for the journey, in a café in Greek Street that served decent coffee, and even something that resembled a croissant, and made my way to Hoxton’s office.
We’d run into a dishevelled, yawning Jerry as we’d prepared to dash out into the light drizzle, and he’d promised to keep an eye on Ghislaine when she returned and – a little too reluctantly, I thought – found twelve bob change for me.
The rain had stopped, but the streets were still damp and the air was warm and moist. Soho smelt a bit like an old compost heap.
I passed the door to the Imperial Club, but it was firmly shut. The baker’s was throbbing with customers, though, and the warm, yeasty smell of fresh bread lured me in. I bought a large slice of dark, moist and sugary bread pudding and munched it contentedly as I strolled along.
It was ten to eleven when I entered the cramped reception area of Hoxton Films and encountered the usual scene of noisy chaos. Canisters of film, boxes of posters and piles of brown envelopes, heavy with scripts and contracts, lay over the desk, the little mud-coloured sofa and much of the floor. And four messengers – two boys and two old men – stood about, talking in quick staccato bursts about the relative merits of West Ham and Spurs, drawing greedily on hand-rolled cigarettes, waiting to present themselves, when Daphne, the grey-haired harridan who ruled the front office, deigned to call them to her.
She saw me as I came in, took the cigarette from her mouth and waved with it. ‘Go on through, Tony,’ she said. ‘His lordship was hoping to talk to you.’
‘Thanks, Daff,’ I said. ‘I’ll stop by for a chat when you’ve got a moment.’
‘That’ll be the day,’ she said, beckoning to one particularly elderly messenger she’d decided to take pity on and see before he expired. He coughed thickly in response and shuffled over to the desk.
I peered through the little window next to the door to Les’s office. He was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling while dictating to his new, glamorous secretary.
I knew that she was new and glamorous without looking at her. Les’s secretaries were always aspiring ‘actresses’, and they always moved on very quickly. Either they were amenable to his advances or they weren’t – but, either way, they didn’t stay long. The accommodating ones were found a bit part as a salt-of-the-earth barmaid in some cops and robbers production. One or two of them had even been able to act. The less obliging ones were lucky to last three weeks, and their acting abilities would remain a mystery.
Les leaned forward and saw me. He stood up and beckoned to me. ‘Tony,’ he said and beamed. ‘This is Brenda, my new secretary. Isn’t she lovely?’
And she was, in a cantilevered, blonde and vacuous kind of way.
‘Good to meet you, Brenda,’ I said. ‘I’m Tony Gérard. I’m the odd-job man.’
She giggled.
‘You’d better get on with those letters, dear,’ Les said, and she swayed out of the office, her pad and pen clutched to her pneumatic bosom. Les watched her appreciatively. He didn’t run his tongue over his lips, but he might as well have done. ‘Wouldn’t kick her out of bed, would you?’ he said.
I shrugged in a non-committal way, and he gave me a fruity, condescending, no-point-in-lying-to-me laugh.
I shrugged again. ‘You know, Les, you and your approach to amour reminds me of a bloke who used to manage a football team I played for a few years ago. Before we’d go out on the pitch he always gave the same pep talk. What it boiled down to was: if it moves, kick it; if it doesn’t, kick it till it does.’
‘Meaning?’ he said.
‘Come on, Les, even you can work that out,’ I said.
Les likes everyone to think that he’s their mate, a no-nonsense, what-you-see-is-what-you-get sort of bloke. He even draws attention to the origins of his wealth by still wearing the thin, spiv’s moustache that he cultivated during the war when he worked the black market. And the sharp, shiny suits and the loud ties say it in spades. ‘While you were mug enough to be off overseas having your balls shot at, I was making my packet back home – and probably shagging your missus, as well,’ he seems to shout. So it never hurts to behave as though you’re taken in and have bought the Les he tries to project.
But he isn’t as simple as that. He’s a clever and hard-headed businessman, a shrewd deal-maker who’s as devious as they come. Sometimes, I even wonder if he was a black marketeer during the war. But Daphne says he was, and she should know. She was married to him at the time.
‘Pull up a pew,’ he said. ‘Plonk your arse down where the beautiful Brenda’s was.’
He leaned back in his chair again and resumed staring at the ceiling. I sat and wondered what he saw up there. There were a few cobwebs in the corners and around the light fitting, and it could have done with a lick of whitewash. But it was just a ceiling.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Found Miss Beaumont’s brother yet?’
‘I’m working on it, Les,’ I said. ‘I’ve got an address. I’m off there just as soon as I’ve picked up some exes.’ He didn’t say anything. He just kept staring at the ceiling. ‘It’s in Kennington. I’ll have to take a cab.’
He sat up and shook his head dismissively. ‘Don’t worry about the expenses,’ he said. ‘Ask Daphne for what you need.’ He looked at me. ‘I’m a bit worried about Miss Beaumont, Tony. The sooner you can bring her some good news, the better. We’re days behind schedule, and I don’t want to lose any more time. You’re the only man who can help me. Find him, Tony. I’m relying on you.’
I nodded slowly. At least he wasn’t putting me under any pressure. ‘I’ll do what I can, Les. But if he doesn’t want to be found . . .’
‘O
f course he wants to be found. Why else would he write to her?’
There was nothing to be gained by telling him it was unlikely to be that easy or by pointing out that young Jon had already legged it away from the only lead I had.
‘Tell me about her, Les. Give me some background. What’s she like?’
He sniffed. ‘Fancy her, do you? Well, forget it. I’ll tell you the truth, Tony. I’ve always thought she was a bit of a cold fish.’
I smiled.
‘I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not that. She’s not my type. You know I prefer ’em a bit more cuddly.’ He held his hands in front of his chest as though holding two large grapefruit and gave a half-hearted leer. But his heart wasn’t in it. ‘I’ve never even tried it on with her.’ He shook his head thoughtfully. ‘You can always tell a game one. And she isn’t.’ He leaned forward. ‘Don’t get me wrong, though. She’s not hoity-toity or anything. And she’s good on the set. Very professional. And she comes across on the screen. Although sometimes it’s the devil’s own job to get a performance out of her. Jimmy says she’s always asking about her motivation.’ He shook his head again.
Jimmy Bolt is Les’s favourite director. He has a well-deserved reputation for bringing films in on time and under budget. They aren’t necessarily any good, but they don’t lose money. He tends to go with the first take, so he’s known by all the crew and some of the actors as the Lightning Bolt because he never strikes in the same place twice.
‘You know the story about Madeleine Carroll and The 39 Steps?’ Les said. I did because he‘d told me before. But no more than three or four times. There was no point in mentioning it, as he’d tell me again anyway. ‘Hitch couldn’t get her to look as shocked as he wanted when the two blokes turn up on the moor so, at the crucial moment, he whips out the second half of his name. That got the reaction he was looking for. I always think about our Miss Beaumont when Hitch tells that story.’ He grinned.
