At first I felt happy and pleased and then a doubt crept in. What if she really was getting her own back? What if she had me going to Lyon’s and she didn’t show. Or worse, she turned up and poured a cup of coffee over me before beating a hasty retreat. Well, it was something I’d have to risk.
I glanced at my watch. It was nearly five. I reckoned I’d time for a wash and shave … no a bath, even if it meant running the gauntlet of the cranky geyser in the bathroom down the corridor. I needed to smell sweet. And to look good, too, which meant slipping into my best suit – well, my other suit to be precise. Then I’d still have time to visit Peter in hospital, have a morale-boosting whisky somewhere and be five minutes early at Lyon’s Corner House for my date with the delicious Miss Kendal. Suddenly life felt a lot brighter than it had been as I’d viewed it a few hours ago.
I’d just got myself into my dressing-gown, towel over my arm and toilet bag in my mitt when the doorbell rang. Who the hell…?
If it was a client, I’d tell them to come back in office hours. With some irritation, I pulled open the door, looking no doubt like a dodgy bath attendant.
My visitor was Leo Epstein.
He didn’t bat an eyelid at my appearance. ‘I think we’d better have a talk,’ he said.
thirteen
I’d never interviewed a visitor to my office in my dressing gown before and although I felt somewhat vulnerable and ridiculous, I attempted to adopt an air of nonchalance as I offered Leo Epstein a chair and, popping my towel and toilet bag on the filing cabinet, I took up my usual position behind my desk.
Epstein looked nervous, quite different from the smooth, smug, silent fellow he had appeared the day before. Something had ruffled his oily feathers. I decided to play on this and I waited for him to start the ball rolling. With measured deliberation I extracted a cigarette from the packet and lit it, blowing the smoke sideways as I stared at my solicitor friend with interest.
‘It’s about Pamela Palfrey,’ he said at last in a voice that was high and nervous.
‘I thought it might be,’ I smiled, taking another drag on my cigarette.
His hands fluttered to open his briefcase and he extracted a copy of that morning’s Daily Mirror. It was open at page four and the blurred picture of the dead girl stared out at me. ‘I recognized her picture in the paper this morning. A terrible business. Murdered.’
I nodded.
‘I wasn’t completely honest with you yesterday, I’m afraid,’ he said gazing at me from under hooded lids.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’ The eyes fluttered furiously with embarrassment. ‘I knew Pamela somewhat more … more intimately than I admitted.’
‘You slept with her.’
Leo Epstein looked shocked. His brown skin paled and his jaw dropped. The truth has this effect on some people, especially when it takes the form of a confession.
‘Just the once,’ he added as some kind of exoneration.
‘That in itself is not a crime, Mr Epstein. Indeed there were many men who slept with Pamela, so you are not alone. Tell me about it.’
He ran his long-fingered hand over his high forehead. ‘She was working late one night and we got chatting. She was a very attractive girl, you know. It wasn’t just her looks, it was the way she talked and moved. She had a very warm personality. I invited her into my office for a drink. It was harmless to begin with – at least I think it was. She got talking about how she dreamed of the better things in life. She was leading me on, I knew, and I was foolish enough to be led. Then she started playing with my tie and saying that there was nothing she wouldn’t do to have some of my wealth. I knew what she meant. She was offering herself to me.…’
‘For money.’
Epstein turned his head sideways away from my gaze. ‘Yes, I suppose you could put it like that.’
‘No, let’s only put it like that if it’s true, Mr Epstein.’ I steepled my fingers as he had done on the previous afternoon.
‘Yes, it was for money. We made love on the rug in front of the fire in my office.’
‘A sum of money changed hands.’
‘One hundred pounds.’
I whistled. ‘She didn’t come cheap.’
‘She wasn’t cheap – not in the way you’re suggesting. There was something very special about Pamela.’
‘You got your money’s worth then?’
Epstein flashed me an angry glance and his body tensed as though he were about to leap from the chair, probably to land one on me. That was no problem to me. I could handle myself but I reckoned he’d be more competent in smacking me with a writ rather than a left hook. And I wanted him riled; it would loosen his tongue further.
‘I looked on the money as a gift rather than payment. And it was just the one occasion. It never happened again and neither of us alluded to the … incident. The next day we just resumed the normal secretary and boss relationship.’
‘That was rather strange.’
‘I suppose so, but I think we both realized that we had crossed over a dangerous line and it was best to retreat as far back as possible.’
‘Did you know that she slept with other men for money?’
Epstein shook his head. ‘I didn’t know – but I suppose I guessed she must. Her clothes and jewellery were too smart to have been bought on the salary I paid her.’
I stubbed my cigarette and leaned back in my chair. ‘I see. Well, that’s been very interesting, but why are you telling me all this?’
‘Well, the last time we met it was just a case of a missing girl, but now it’s murder.…’
‘And you’re worried you’ll be implicated.’
‘Why, yes of course.’
‘And it will become known that you sleep with your young secretaries.’
‘Don’t mock me, Hawke. I told you that this was just the one time anything like that had ever happened.’
‘And you’ve regretted it ever since.’
He paused and threw me a wry smile. ‘No, I have not. I have not. It was wonderful. She was wonderful. It is a treasured memory.’
He meant it too. The girl had really got under his skin. You could see it in his eyes. The more I learned about Pamela Palfrey the more I’d wished I’d met her. Immoral or at best amoral though she was, I was becoming fascinated by this creature.
‘The question remains, why have you told me?’
‘I don’t expect you’ll believe me, but now she’s dead, I just wanted to tell someone, to share our secret. To set the record straight.’
‘Wouldn’t you be better telling the police rather than me, Mr Epstein?’
He looked away again. ‘I hope it won’t come to that. I had no connection with her once she’d left my employment. I was not involved with her at the time of her death. I cannot see how what happened between Pamela and myself has any bearing on her murder.’
‘The police need the full picture to help them with their investigations. You can’t withhold information like this.’
‘But I’ve told you. Surely that’s enough.’ He was growing agitated now and his hands were flapping like an injured bird in his lap. ‘This can have no connection with the murder of Pamela. Surely you can see that.’
‘The fact that she slept with you for money before she left home may have a great bearing on matters. You cannot keep stum on this, Leo, old boy, you must bite the bullet and tell all.’
‘I can’t.’
I sighed in a theatrical fashion. ‘Oh, yes you can and you will. Look, I’ll give you twenty-four hours to contact the Yard – Inspector Knight’s your man – or I’ll have to do it for you. And the consequences of that will be far worse than spilling the beans yourself.’
Epstein shook his head in despair and got to his feet. ‘I should never have come. I should never have told you.’
‘You’ll think differently when you’ve had chance to think about things. Confession is good for the soul.’
‘Think about things!’ he snapped. ‘I’ve thought of nothing else s
ince I saw her picture in the paper this morning.’
He made for the door.
‘Don’t forget Leo: twenty-four hours. Inspector Knight.’
My visitor swore and slammed the door behind him, rattling the pictures on the wall and rearranging the dust everywhere.
Well, I thought, when the vibrations had died away, another piece to my puzzle, but again one that does not join up with any other in any really meaningful way. Unless, of course, Mr Epstein was cleverer than I thought, and his story was some kind of smokescreen. I stored that observation away and continued with my ablutions.
* * *
Leo Epstein’s visit had thrown my timetable into disarray. I realized that now everything had to be carried out at double speed if I was to get to Lyon’s Corner House on time. God forbid that I was late. Certainly Eve would never forgive me. I doubt if I’d forgive myself. So I had to get ready in quick sticks. I had no sooner slipped my goose-pimpled body into the tepid waters and sloshed around in the rusty old container that professed to be a bath when I was out again, drying down my damp frame. A hurried, skimpy shave and then I was sloughing on my suit and knotting up my tie. A quick skim of the hair with the merest blob of Brylcreem to perk it up and I was ready.
It was nearly dark when I hit the streets and I was tempted to save time by taking a taxi to the Charing Cross Hospital but I decided to save money instead and walk. One never knew how expensive this night out might be. I didn’t want to run out of cash just as it was getting interesting. However, I was able to shorten my journey by taking a direct route, more or less. This meant traversing a great number of side streets which occasionally ran out into one of the main thoroughfares – Oxford Street, Regent Street and The Haymarket – and then I slipped back into the maze. I was within a bandage’s roll of the hospital, moving at a reasonable pace down Mitchum Street when I sensed that I was being followed. I just felt it. It’s all very strange. I’ve heard other detectives say that you develop a sixth sense about it. I had no real proof at all except the soft footsteps I heard several yards behind me. And they could have belonged to some innocent pedestrian – but I just knew they didn’t.
I avoided looking round in case I scared the feller off so I pretended that my shoelace was undone and knelt down to tie it up. Oh, I wish I hadn’t. I wished I had turned round and scared him off. Kneeling down, I had put myself in a very vulnerable position. The next thing I knew I heard an angry cry and felt a blow to the back of my head. Someone switched on a vivid array of fairy lights which danced angrily before my eyes and I felt a searing pain. I fell face downwards, the cobbles seeming to enfold me in their stony embrace. I realized that I was losing consciousness as I struggled to catch a glimpse my attacker. All I saw was a dark shape with a scarf across the face. The bastard raised his weapon to strike again. I was too far gone to feel fear and too far gone to do anything but lie there. I just remember hearing a voice crying out in the darkness, ‘Hi there, stop that!’ before I slipped from this conscious world completely.
fourteen
How long I’d been in the blackness I didn’t know but as I began to emerge once more into the light I was particularly aware of two things: Gene Krupa was practising a drum solo on my head and I was lying in a bed, the mattress of which was made out of concrete granules. I lay for some moments staring at the grey ceiling above me trying to get a hold back on my life.
Firstly, I told myself, let’s be logical. Logical? I responded to myself somewhat heatedly, how can you get logical with that mad drummer belting away on your bonce? Just put him to the back of your mind, I replied smugly. He’s already there, I snapped, and he’s beating up a storm!
This surreal and groggy intercourse was interrupted by the arrival at my bedside of a woman in a nurse’s uniform. That must be because she is a nurse, I told myself. And on this occasion I agreed with myself. And that must mean that you’re in a hospital, I added with authority.
‘Ah, you’re awake. That’s good,’ the woman in the nurse’s uniform said, turning my head gently to the side so she could examine the back. Gene Krupa upped the tempo.
‘Mmm, you’re still leaking a bit but it’s not too bad. This dressing can stay on for now.’
‘Leaking?’ I asked, my mouth dry and cobwebby.
‘You’ve had a nasty bump on the head, Mr Hawke, but we’ve X-rayed you and there’s been no serious damage done. We’ve put a few stitches in just to make sure your brains don’t drop out.’ She smiled. ‘You’ll feel a little disorientated for a day or two but there’s nothing to worry about. It’s the usual after effect of concussion.’
‘Can I get up now?’
‘No you cannot. If you did, you’d fall down. You need a good night’s rest before you’ll be fit enough to get dressed.’
A dreadful thought suddenly struck me. ‘What time is it?’
‘Time?’ she seemed nonplussed by this request. She consulted her watch clipped to the bosom of her uniform. ‘It’s half past eleven.’
‘At night?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh, bugger!’ I cried.
‘Now then, Mr Hawke, we won’t have any talk like that in here.’
‘I’m sorry, Nurse,’ I said, closing my eye to the pain and disappointment of the real world. She wasn’t to know that I’d gone and done it again. I’d left Eve in the lurch for the second time. Whatever was a worse consistency than mud, my name was it. Briefly, I had a vision of Eve sitting alone at a table in Lyon’s Corner House, repeatedly sticking a hat pin into a little male figure fashioned out of a doughnut. That doughnut man was me.
The nurse’s voice broke my wild reverie. ‘Can I get you anything? A cup of tea perhaps.’
‘I suppose a double whisky is out of the question.’
She gave me a smile. ‘It is. You’ll have a big enough hangover in the morning without the help of Mr Johnnie Walker.’
‘A cup of tea it is then and some water please. I’m very dry.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
My Florence Nightingale bustled off and as she did so I saw that there were screens around my bed. I was isolated from the rest of the ward. Perhaps my concussion was contagious.
When the nurse returned sometime later she had a cup of tea, a carafe of water and a plate of biscuits. ‘I’ve brought you some bourbons,’ she said with a grin. ‘You strike me as a chocolate bourbon man.’
I smiled back. ‘I’m more of a Kentucky bourbon man.’
We struggled together to get me into a sitting position. She was on the plumpish side and not particularly pretty, but somehow in my bedraggled state I found the closeness of her very sensuous. She smelled of lavender and her skin was smooth and warm. She aroused a spark in me which in my current mental state should have been dormant. Acting on impulse, I kissed her on the cheek.
‘Now, now, Mr Hawke, don’t you start something you know you definitely can’t finish,’ she warned me with a twinkle in her eye.
‘Sorry, Nurse.’
‘I should think so too. Now drink your tea, eat your biccies and then get a good night’s rest.’
‘I will, I will, but before you go could you tell me how I got here. I presume this is Charing Cross Hospital?’
She nodded. ‘Are you sure you want to deal with this now?’
‘I’m sure,’ I said, biting on a bourbon.
‘A chap brought you in. Says you were hit from behind and he managed to scare off the attacker before he could do any more damage. He then dragged you into casualty. Luckily you weren’t far away.’
‘What was this chap’s name?’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t know. He disappeared before anyone could get his name. Just a passer-by I guess,’
‘I guess.’
‘Looks like you’ll never get to know who your good Samaritan was.’
After the nurse had gone, I tried to remember the moments just before I lost consciousness but my brain wasn’t up to it. But one thing was clear to me. If Mr Samaritan
hadn’t acted as he did, I could easily be in another part of this hospital, on a slab with a white sheet over my face.
* * *
It was a different nurse who roused me from my dreamless slumbers. She was grey-haired and elderly, no doubt brought out of retirement for the duration. She had ‘no nonsense’ written all over her severe features. ‘Now then, I’m Nurse Williams and I’m here to change your dressing, young man, so no fuss please. Sit up, lean forward and let me get on with it.’
I did as I was told. With gentle, nimble fingers she removed the pad from my wound and laid it in a dish on the bedside cabinet. It was curved and crusted with dried blood, like a small scarlet crab.
‘Oh, that’s coming along just fine,’ she murmured, as she applied the new dressing to my wounded bonce. ‘You’ll live.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Right, that’s me done. Breakfast in half an hour and the doctor will be on the ward around ten.’
‘That’s all very well,’ I said with a grimace, ‘but I don’t think my bladder will wait that long.’
‘OK, I’ll get one of the duty nurses to provide you with a bottle.’
‘No, no. I’d like to … to go on my own.’
She tut-tutted me, but grabbed a dressing-gown from the bedside cabinet. ‘Let’s see if you can stand up before you try to wee, eh?’
My body felt as though it hadn’t been used for a decade and my head throbbed as though it might explode, but with Nurse Williams’s help I got myself out of bed and was able to stand more or less erect.
‘How do you feel?’ she asked, as she held the dressing-gown for me to navigate my arms into it.
‘I’ll manage,’ I said through gritted teeth. I did feel rough, but I was determined not to be incapacitated by a bump on the head, however nasty. I couldn’t wait around for the doctor to suggest I stay in hospital another day. I had things to do – a murder to solve. I had to get out of here. Nurse Williams guided me towards the lavatories. I felt part zombie, part geriatric and I certainly excited some interest with the other patients who gazed at me over their well folded linen sheets thinking I’d escaped from a Boris Karloff movie.
Forests of the Night Page 8
