No Hearts, No Roses

by Colin Murray

  Les gave Charlie an address in Regent Street, and we glided off, Charlie sitting just a little straighter than usual.

  Les nodded towards Emile. ‘What’s the story there?’ he said.

  ‘It’s a little complicated,’ I said, ‘and involves some old friends from the war. They turned up the other day. Emile here is a sort of watchdog.’

  ‘Watching you or watching out for you?’ Les said.

  ‘A bit of both,’ I said. ‘But he’s a nice enough lad.’

  ‘Tony,’ he said, ‘why is that I always have the impression that your life is a lot more interesting than mine?’

  ‘If it is, then yours must be particularly boring,’ I said.

  ‘That would explain it,’ he said. ‘By the way, you look like someone’s been using your head as a cricket ball.’

  I put my hand up to the lump on the back of my skull.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me what’s been going on,’ he said, ‘but I might be able to help, you know.’

  ‘If I thought you could, Les,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t hesitate to ask but, believe me, you’re better off not knowing. The Old Bill has an interest, and you may prefer to remain in a state of blissful ignorance.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, if you need Charlie and a motor, they’re yours.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. It occurred to me that a trip to Cambridge would be more pleasurable in the Rolls than in a train.

  The Rolls pulled in to the kerb next to a long colonnade of shops opposite the Café Royale. Les pointed to a door between two swish clothes shops. Even from the car, without being able to read the price tags, I knew that buying a suit here was out of the question. ‘Fourth floor,’ he said, ‘for the charming Mr Cavendish.’

  The door opened when I pushed it, and Emile and I entered a dim and smelly corridor. There was a board on the right-hand wall with a directory of the offices in the building. Sure enough, The Cavendish Theatrical Agency was listed between Brampton’s Fine Tea Importers and Frasier’s Tweed and could be found on the fourth floor.

  There was an old lift with a cage door that you pulled across, but I’d had enough of lifts for the day and made for the dingy brown staircase next to it. Emile didn’t demur, and we trotted up at a respectable pace.

  The smell of the stairwell wasn’t evil or disgusting, just musty and old. It was the smell of generations of scampering rodents and elderly dust. It was the smell of damp, water gone bad. And it stuck in your chest and slowed you down.

  As we climbed, the lift whirred into action and started to rise very slowly, creaking, grinding and lurching alarmingly. The cable hauling it up looked far too insubstantial to hold it, and I shuddered slightly at the thought.

  The lift groaned to a halt on the fourth floor, just as we came to the door that led into the corridor. I was in the lead, and I was able to see through the window in the door. And I saw Alfred, his left arm in a sling, pulling open the cage door of the lift and ushering another man into it. The other man was Jenkins.

  I held my arm up to stop Emile bursting through the door and pointed. He looked out and then grinned at me, pointing at his arm with boyish enthusiasm for the damage he’d inflicted.

  Then we stood and waited, breathing in that ancient air, until the lift had started moving unsteadily downwards with a dismaying lurch. Once it was in motion I reckoned it would take a while for it to change course and thought it was safe to venture out into the corridor and find David Cavendish. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to him. The connection between him and Jenkins was probably Miss Beaumont and that worried me.

  Cavendish’s office was directly opposite the lift and had his name painted on the glass. And Les had been right. David Cavendish was not enjoying the luxury of a day off.

  He was in his little reception area, talking casually to his secretary, sat on the edge of her desk. The walls were covered with photographs of Cavendish with the rich and famous. There was even a small picture of him beaming, with his arm draped around Beverley Beaumont. She didn’t look as happy.

  He and his secretary both glanced up when we entered: the secretary, a middle-aged lady wearing large spectacles and a solid-looking perm, with a professional smile, Cavendish with a puzzled frown.

  ‘Mr Cavendish,’ I said, ‘we haven’t actually met, but we have encountered each other a couple of times. I’m Tony Gérard. I work for Hoxton Films, and I wondered if I might have a few words about one of your clients – Miss Beaumont.’

  His handsome features took on what I recognized as their accustomed look, poised halfway between disdain and anger.

  ‘I don’t know that I have anything to say to you about Miss Beaumont,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ I said, going for conciliatory, ‘but she is rather upset and has asked me to assist with a personal problem. I thought you might like to help.’

  He looked thoughtful and stood up. He stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger. In the still, quiet air they rasped against his beard growth. He was older than I’d first thought, in his late thirties or early forties.

  ‘Of course,’ he finally said. ‘Let’s go into my office.’

  TWENTY

  David Cavendish waved airily, and more than a touch imperiously, at an elderly, straight-backed wooden chair in front of his small, cluttered desk. I sat down in it stiffly, imagining that he perhaps thought that it did something for his clients’ postures. Or maybe it was his way of suggesting to aspiring acts that austerity and sacrifice were still the order of the day in the theatrical world.

  He relaxed into his leather chair and started fiddling with a couple of files. Through the smudged panes of the window behind him I could see a jumble of rooftops and chimney pots in higgledy-piggledy contrast to the elegant if grubby facade that I’d entered through. It was a bit like a film set: the palaces, castles and elegant homes that you saw on the screen were just an illusion, a lie constructed of canvas, paint and plywood. Behind the backdrop was an unsightly clutter of paint-spattered newspapers, dirty brushes, empty pots, rags and sawdust.

  I thought of the ruined London I’d returned to after the war. The pinched-faced, dispirited people hadn’t looked like victors, and I certainly hadn’t felt like a conquering hero. Things were better now. Definitely. All the same, the city still looked grim and shabby, in spite of the new concrete buildings that had been put up by the Thames for the Festival. Even when, like today, a clear, blue sky showed them at their best, the people still looked down at heel and a little bit mean.

  I suddenly ached to see Paris again, just once, even if only for a couple of days.

  David Cavendish coughed nervously. I smiled at him, wondering what he’d done in the war. Probably been active in essential work, like entertaining the troops, a tireless administrator for ENSA, selflessly and assiduously booking acts he had an interest in.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s this all about?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, deciding on a degree of formality and a flatness of tone learned in the bureaucratic limbo I’d found myself in while still in uniform after the war, ‘Miss Beaumont asked me to help track down a young man she had an interest in. I was able to do so, but he has subsequently disappeared. I was hoping that you might be able to shed some light on that.’

  He sniffed, picked up a yellow pencil and started sharpening it with a small penknife with a tortoiseshell pattern on its handle. ‘How much do you know about Beverley Beaumont, Mr Gérard?’

  ‘Not very much,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve known her for eight years. Ever since she was a gawky sixteen-year-old playing the maid in provincial productions of JB Priestley. In all that time there’s always been a young man that she has “an interest in” and it’s never been the same young man for longer than a few months. Beverley Beaumont likes young men, Mr Gérard. Pretty young men.’ The last phrase came out with a little sneer and a vicious stroke of the penknife. I seemed to recall Daphne saying much the same thing, only without the violen
ce and the sneer. She’d just been spreading malicious gossip. ‘I can think of at least nine and, without exception, they have all been spongers and wastrels who have threatened her career in one way or another, either through scandal or bad advice. Some of them stole from her, all of them leeched off her. I don’t imagine that this latest one is any different, and if he really has disappeared I will breathe a huge sigh of relief. I wish they’d all disappear. Permanently. Nothing could make me happier.’ He paused. ‘Even if I knew what had happened to him, I wouldn’t give you any information that would help to find him.’ He inspected the pencil and then placed it on his desk, folded the blade away and slipped the penknife into the pocket of his dove-grey waistcoat. He stood up and looked at his watch. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have another appointment.’

  Much as I wanted to get off the instrument of torture that was numbing my backside, I remained seated. ‘Thanks for your time and your, er, candour,’ I said.

  He sighed. Clearly, I was an exasperatingly stupid nuisance.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ I said, deciding that I could bear to annoy him for a few more minutes. ‘Those men who left before I arrived. What did they want?’

  ‘What the hell’s that got to do with you?’ he said.

  No question I’d managed to annoy him with that one.

  ‘It’s just that I’ve come across them before, and I wondered what business they had with you.’ I paused. ‘If you don’t want to tell me, I can always ask them . . .’

  He had coloured up considerably and looked as if he was about to explode, but he evidently thought better of it and sank slowly back into his seat. I could almost see his thought processes. Was I bluffing? Would I jeopardize whatever he was up to if I wasn’t? He picked up the pencil and tapped it against the desktop, breaking the lead. He gave it a venomous look and hurled it into a waste-paper bin. It landed with a dull thunk.

  ‘If you must know,’ he said after a few seconds, ‘I met them at a club I go to. We got talking, and it turns out that they’re interested in becoming angels.’

  ‘Angels?’

  He sighed again. This time it was, presumably, at my ignorance. ‘They’re looking to put money into a show. And they’d like Beverley to star.’

  ‘I thought Miss Beaumont had an exclusive contract with Hoxton,’ I said.

  He looked at me viciously, and I had the impression that he’d like to hurl me into the bin too. ‘This is only a possibility at the moment. Exclusivity clauses are always open to negotiation,’ he said very carefully. ‘Anyway, they would like a meeting with Beverley, and I was just arranging for them to go to her flat.’

  ‘Now?’ I said. The worry I’d felt earlier turned into a full-blooded anxiety. They must be looking for Jon. Since he wasn’t there, she’d probably be all right, but . . .

  ‘Why not? I’d appreciate it if you’d keep all this under your hat. There’s absolutely no reason for Hoxton Films to be involved yet. I’ll talk to Les Jackson in good time.’ He stood up again. ‘Now, I’m afraid that I really must ask you to go. I have an important client waiting.’

  With some relief, I stood up and attempted to stamp some life into my right leg. I offered him my hand, but he chose to ignore it, instead sitting back down at his desk and opening a dark-brown folder which contained a single sheet of paper and a large glossy photograph.

  I nodded at him and left. Only Emile and the secretary were waiting in the reception area. There was no sign of his important client. He must have gone to the lavatory. Or Cavendish had lied to get rid of me. I wondered what else he’d lied about.

  I led the way slowly out of the office and down the stairs.

  Once outside, Emile and I stood by the shops in the long arcade in Regent Street. He was staring in at the window of one. I had the feeling that he was admiring his reflection rather than looking at the expensive tailoring on display, but I might have been wrong. I was watching the traffic and wondering what to do.

  It seemed to me that there were two courses of action. I could follow Alfred and his boss to Beverley Beaumont’s flat. If Cavendish didn’t call to alert them to our conversation, I would have a slight advantage. Or I could contact Jameson in Cambridge.

  A couple of buses and a taxi roared past, and two well-dressed men, wearing bowlers and brandishing tightly furled umbrellas, gave me a wide berth and some filthy looks. I guess I must have appeared to them as unappetizing and disreputable as I felt.

  Well, when caught on the horns of a dilemma, it’s always best to act decisively. I chose a third option.

  ‘Emile,’ I said, ‘let’s go and have a drink.’

  Connie was fussing with her battered Oxo tin when we clumped up the musty staircase to the dingy landing outside the Imperial Club. She turned around when she heard us and scowled impressively. Emile’s handsome face expressed surprise.

  Well, perhaps shock would be a better description.

  ‘Afternoon, Connie,’ I said amiably. ‘Are you open yet?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Roger in?’

  She nodded again. Somehow, she managed to impart a certain amount of suspicion into her nods.

  I was moving towards the door when she spoke.

  ‘She’s not a member,’ she said, pointing an accusing finger at Emile, who was showing some reluctance to follow me in and still registering some level of astonishment at Connie’s appearance.

  I suppose she was a slightly disturbing sight at that time of day. She was wearing one of her wispy, ethereal white gowns and was extravagantly coiffed in a ringletted blonde wig. Unfortunately, she didn’t appear to have shaved that morning and, in spite of a thick layer of orangey-brown make-up, the general effect was a little undercut by her luxuriant beard growth, which thrust its way through in a dark, surly and decidedly menacing way. There was also a large, rainbow-coloured bruise on her left temple.

  ‘I thought maybe you’d let us in for a few minutes,’ I said. ‘I need a word with Roger.’

  Connie sucked in her cheeks and thought about it for a moment. ‘All right,’ she finally said, ‘since she’s so pretty.’

  ‘Thanks, Connie,’ I said, wondering what Emile would have done if he’d understood her. ‘I owe you.’

  ‘Just bring that sweet-looking one you were with the other night back,’ she said, ‘you faithless little tart.’

  I was nearly through the door when she called me back.

  ‘Here,’ she said, thrusting a small rectangle of cardboard at me. ‘Just in case the law drops by. Temporary membership.’

  I looked at her big, calloused hand for a moment. ‘But you don’t have temporary memberships,’ I said.

  ‘Sometimes we do,’ she said and handed the card to Emile, who looked at me helplessly, baffled by what was going on.

  I smiled at him and told him that he needed membership, as this was a club, a special club. He looked at Connie and said something that I think would probably best translate as ‘no kidding’, with an expletive used as what Mrs Wilson back at Church Road Primary would, I’m sure, have called an intensifier.

  I smiled at Connie. ‘He’s French,’ I said.

  ‘I know, dear,’ she said. ‘And I very nearly understood what he just said.’ Then she laughed heartily.

  Roger was, of course, standing behind the bar, surveying his badly lit domain, which was, of course, almost empty.

  ‘The wanderer returns,’ he said. ‘What can I get you? And your charming friend?’

  ‘I’ll have a brandy, Roger, please. And so will Emile.’ I put a pound note down on the counter. ‘And have one yourself. And keep the change.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ll just have a little half,’ he said, picking up the quid delicately, between thumb and forefinger, as though it were a rare and exotic flower, and carrying it carefully to the till as if he were adding it to his valuable collection.

  He poured the drinks and brought them over. Then, looking at me thoughtfully, he leaned across the bar conspiratorially. ‘I�
��m guessing – and this is only a guess, mind – that you’d like a chat,’ he said.

  ‘You must be clairvoyant,’ I said.

  ‘That’s me,’ he said. ‘Madame Roger. Cross my palm with silver and I’ll tell your fortune.’ He took a delicate sip of his beer. ‘So, what can I tell you?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ I said.

  ‘Well, let me guess again,’ he said. I shrugged my agreement. ‘You’d probably like to know what your friend David Cavendish said to that nice man from Special Branch who came in yesterday.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s with Special Branch,’ I said. ‘Big man? Silver hair? Looks a bit like Anthony Eden? Calls himself Jenkins?’

  ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘He and Mr Cavendish got quite friendly. I missed what was said, but there was an exchange of business cards and the distinguished-looking gent left.’ He sipped some more beer. ‘Incidentally, thanks for the warning about the boys in blue. They turned up, and we helped with their enquiries, but not, I’m afraid, very much.’

  I sipped cognac. That was disappointing. He’d confirmed what Cavendish had said. That didn’t suit me. I really wanted Cavendish to be guilty of something. Besides being an insufferable and arrogant ass, that is.

  Emile was perched uneasily on one of the tall stools next to the bar. The place seemed to bother him as much as it had Jerry. He peered into the semi-gloom of the billiards room as if he expected something awful to come lungeing out. Funny, I would have had them both down as being more broad-minded than that.

  Richard Ellis had seemed comfortable enough in the place.

  ‘Richard’s mate,’ I said, choosing my words as carefully as I was able, ‘Jonathan. How did he fit in? Here.’

  Roger shrugged. ‘The life and soul of,’ he said. ‘Very popular. Everyone liked him.’ He gave a particular emphasis to ‘liked’.

  I finished my cognac and pushed the glass towards Roger and nodded at it.

  ‘On the house,’ he said as he plonked the refill down in front of me.