As if by Magic

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘I don’t think Nigel will leave London until the Pegasus is well and truly launched, Grandfather,’ said Anne. ‘Even then, there’s a great deal to do.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Mr Lassiter reluctantly. He sighed uneasily. ‘If only Culverton was alive it would all be so very much easier. It’s a pity he wasn’t spared to us. A very great pity. Sometimes I don’t know if we can go on without him.’

  The following evening, Jack, resplendent in full evening dress, knocked at the door of Bill Rackham’s rooms.

  Rackham opened the door. ‘Hello,’ he said in surprise. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. Come on in. Can I get you a drink?’

  Jack followed Rackham into the sitting room. ‘Thanks. I’ll have a gin and lime, if you’ve got it. I was on my way to see a bit of night-life,’ he added, taking off his coat. He sat on the arm of a chair. ‘I wondered if you fancied ankling along with me. It isn’t mere pleasure-seeking. I was hoping to pick up some trace of Culverton’s dodgy club.’

  Rackham, bottle in hand, turned. ‘Not really. I’m fairly tired and was looking forward to an evening in. Besides that, we’ve got some men trying to track it down.’ He stopped, staring at his friend. ‘Jack, stand up.’ Jack did so. ‘Come into the light for a moment.’ Jack obligingly stepped forward. ‘What,’ asked Rackham in awe-struck tones, ‘are you wearing, for heaven’s sake?’

  Jack, grinning broadly, tweaked his tie, picked up his top hat from the table, gave the nap a brush with the sleeve of his coat and twirled the hat on his stick. ‘You’ve noticed?’

  ‘Noticed?’ Rackham looked Jack up and down, taking in the gleaming, slicked-down hair, the sparkling diamond shirt-studs and the white tie edged in silver.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Jack. ‘How do I look? The studs are paste, by the way.’

  ‘You look like a damn dago,’ said Rackham bluntly. ‘The sort that gives dagos a bad name.’

  Jack laughed. ‘Exactly. I am Señor ‘Aldeanez, ze ’unter of ze clobs.’ His dark face grew harsh. ‘I am an Argentine. I am on the prowl, si usted entiende?’

  ‘Just say that again slowly, Jack. You can’t expect a Northern boy like me to understand foreign lingo.’

  ‘I’m an Argentine on the prowl, if you understand.’

  ‘Oh, I understand, all right.’ He came closer and peered into Jack’s face. ‘Good God, you’re wearing make-up!’

  ‘Theatrical make-up. Just a touch round my eyes.’ Rackham breathed in heavy disapproval. ‘Nobody will be able to tell it’s false in a nightclub. The lights aren’t strong enough. I needed to look a trifle more dissipated than nature intended. D’you know, if I’d been a major in the Romanian army it’d be expected of me to wear make-up? They had to forbid the use of it to junior officers.’

  ‘Foreigners,’ grunted Rackham. ‘What do you expect? If it cheers you up, I think you look perfectly awful and I imagine most men would want to kick you. God knows what most women would want to do.’

  ‘Well, that’s the point, isn’t it, old scream,’ said Jack, sitting back down in the chair. ‘I went out last night as my usual suave self and the answer was a lemon. I thought if I was hunting for a den of secret vice I’d better look as if I was in the market for some. Vice, I mean.’

  ‘Our chaps haven’t turned anything up yet either,’ said Rackham, putting Jack’s drink on the table. He sat down, took another look at Jack and shuddered. ‘What did your pal Lassiter have to say about the fancy dress?’

  ‘He went out before I appeared in all my glory.’ Jack drank his gin reflectively. ‘It’s probably just as well. I didn’t want to explain what I was up to. No,’ he added, swirling the liquid round in the glass. ‘George has got a date.’

  ‘Has he, by jingo.’

  ‘Yes. He got a letter by this morning’s post from the lady in question, a letter written, I may say, on lilac-coloured scented notepaper, enquiring after his health and well-being and asking if he could telephone as she was worried about him. He was on the telephone quicker than lightning and that resulted in supper and a show. He’s been like a dog with two tails all day, bombarding me with questions as to what he should do and where they should go. He’s settled on Hurry Along! followed by that little restaurant off Montague Place.’

  ‘I’ve seen Hurry Along!,’ said Rackham with interest. ‘I enjoyed it. Er . . . who’s the girl and why’s she so worried about him?’

  ‘A Miss Aldryn. Stella Aldryn. She’s Nigel Lassiter’s clerk. George met her yesterday, when we visited the factory. She worried about him because she gave him the dickens of a shock.’ He related George’s encounter with Stella Aldryn.

  Rackham stared at him. ‘He can’t be serious, Jack. He dreamt it. There wasn’t a girl in the kitchen. We know that.’

  ‘Well, yes, we do,’ agreed Jack. ‘Funnily enough, George thinks so too.’

  ‘So what does the girl say about it?’

  ‘She’s completely baffled. When Dr Maguire explained things she was no end relieved and, really, it’s the only explanation I can think of which holds water.’

  ‘It more or less has to be, doesn’t it? That’s if your pal isn’t simply making it all up.’

  ‘He gave himself a pretty nasty scare if he is.’

  Rackham frowned. ‘I don’t like it, Jack. It all sounds very odd to me. What’s the girl like?’

  ‘A stunner,’ said Jack positively. ‘Really something. George was pleased as punch when he got the letter. She’s a shy sort of girl, a bit of a shrinking violet. It’s obvious he thinks she’s the bee’s knees and he’d convinced himself that he’d frightened her rigid, talking about this nightmare or whatever it was he had.’

  Rackham shook his head. ‘Well, it sounds a little out of the ordinary, I must say. Is he all right? After his relapse, I mean?’

  ‘Physically he’s fine,’ said Jack. ‘He was a bit shaken up yesterday, as you’d expect, but he had an early night and was okay this morning. He’s as puzzled as we are about what happened, though, and there’s a definite atmosphere between him and Mrs Lassiter as a result.’

  ‘Anne Lassiter?’ asked Rackham. ‘Why’s she upset?’

  ‘She rang him last night. She wants George to see the boyfriend, Maguire, to have his bumps properly felt. George dug his heels in and said there was nothing to see Maguire about, that Maguire had given him his opinion at the time and, as far as he was concerned, that was that. What’s more, he couldn’t afford the fancy fees that a Harley Street loony-doctor would stick him for. Anne said he was just being stubborn and that Maguire had offered to see him free of charge, and so George got het up about the idea of accepting charity and all in all it was a bit of a relief when Miss Aldryn’s letter arrived. It stopped him brooding, even if I have had to listen to him on the subject of Stella Aldryn for most of the day. Mind you, she’s quite something. She’s the kind of girl that makes you want to leap up and open doors for her. Sort of asks to be looked after, you know? She’s got lovely smudgy blue eyes with a kind of My Hero expression in them.’

  ‘That’s the second time you’ve raved about her,’ said Rackham with a grin. ‘I thought it was Lassiter she made the impression on. It sounds as if he might have some competition.’

  Jack laughed and shook his head. ‘No takers. I could see why she got to George, but she’s a bit round-eyed and wondering for me.’

  ‘What in Manchester we’d call a bit gormless?’

  ‘Not gormless, exactly,’ said Jack, ‘but I’d think you’d run out of conversation pretty quickly. She might have hidden depths. I don’t know. Anyway,’ he added, ‘despite Dr Maguire’s explanation, the whole business puzzles me. To be honest, that’s my real reason for calling in. I wanted to talk it over with you.’

  ‘Why? Dr Maguire’s explanation seems likely, wouldn’t you say?’

  Jack scratched his chin. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘When George asked me if I believed it, I said it sounded plausible and it does, Bill, there’s no doubt about it. But talking about that night in the kitchen to
Anne and old Mr Lassiter threw up some odd details. For a start, on that evening and that evening alone, the servants were out and the kitchen was empty. The cook had taken everyone to see her nephew on the stage and Corby, the butler, was confined to bed with a bad cold. Just assume for the moment George saw what he said he did.’

  Rackham shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘He can’t have done.’

  ‘I don’t think he could have done either,’ said Jack. ‘But don’t you see? If Maguire’s explanation is correct, then George’s girl could be anyone, a passing stranger in a railway station or on the street. However, not only does the girl turn out to be real, she’s connected with Lassiter’s. And that, when you think about it, is weird.’

  Rackham sipped his whisky. ‘Yes,’ he said reflectively. ‘It is weird.’ He looked at Jack. ‘Couldn’t it be a fantastic coincidence?’

  ‘Of course it could,’ agreed Jack, ‘but I don’t like it, Bill. Look, George said the house seemed creepily familiar. That was partly why he was attracted to it in the first place. He was getting himself all worked up about ghosts and so on, but his creepy feeling had a perfectly natural explanation. I was just wondering if this girl, Stella Aldryn’s, appearance in George’s nightmare had a rational explanation too.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Rackham, offering Jack his cigarette case.

  Jack took a cigarette, frowning. ‘I’m damned if I can think of one. The point of George’s story was that the girl died – and she hasn’t done.’

  Rackham shook his head. ‘I’d think a lot more of Lassiter’s story if Constable Thirsk and Mrs Lassiter had found Stella Aldryn either alive or, as he insisted, dead. We know he was ill, really ill, and the hospital told us he was half-starved.’ He lit his cigarette. ‘He must have imagined it, Jack. What are those things blokes see in the desert?’

  ‘Camels?’ asked Jack, his eyes crinkling.

  Rackham laughed. ‘Not camels, idiot. Mirages, that’s it. Well, they’re not real but people see them, don’t they?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Jack, entranced by this new departure, ‘mirages are real. It’s to do with the atmospheric conditions. The image is projected from the actual place by a trick of the light so you see it where it isn’t, if you see what I mean.’

  Rackham laughed once more. ‘Call it a projected image if it makes you feel any happier. I still think he imagined it. Incidentally, you know I appealed for any taxi driver who’d driven Culverton on the 31st? A Mr Albert Kyle came into the Yard. He picked up Culverton in Cooper Street just after six thirty and got to the Mulciber about quarter to seven. There’s a rank not far from Culverton Air Navigation and he’d driven Culverton before. No other driver’s come forward but I’m still hoping.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you checked up on Dr Maguire’s alibi, did you?’ asked Jack. ‘I haven’t got any earthly reason to suspect him but I’m thinking of the look of limpid sincerity he gave you when he said he’d been in the Continental.’

  ‘Unfortunately, he was telling the exact truth. Irritating, isn’t it? I thought there was something not quite right about that part of his story as well, but the cloakroom attendant knows Dr Maguire and remembers him coming in that evening.’

  ‘How can he be so sure?’ asked Jack. ‘After all, it’s some time ago now.’

  ‘The cloakroom bloke took Maguire’s wet coat and umbrella – it was raining – and made some reference to the fact that it was the last day of October and it had been a chilly autumn. Anyway, he referred me to a crowd of Maguire’s particular cronies and he’d been there, sure enough.’

  ‘I suppose he could have sneaked out,’ said Jack. ‘He very well might have done, in fact, and gone on somewhere he doesn’t want us to know about.’ He frowned. ‘Even if he did, so what? I can’t see he’s got the slightest motive to bump off Culverton. He’s fairly close to Nigel Lassiter and he must know the situation the company’s in.’

  ‘And what situation’s that?’

  Jack leaned forward. ‘They’re up against it, Bill. They really needed Culverton. I spoke to Joe Hawley on Saturday. He works for Aviation Monthly and he said that Lassiter’s are very nearly next door to Queer Street. If Nigel’s plane isn’t ready soon, they’ve had it. It should have been ready weeks ago but the flying trials are supposed to have gone badly and the press presentation, which they’re pinning a lot of hope on, might have to be called off. The maiden flight should have been at the presentation but it’s had to be put off until Friday the 30th, if it comes off at all. They’re planning a dinner on board the aircraft to mark the occasion. Joe thinks it could be all right, but with Culverton dead, there’s been an unholy spanner thrown in the works. Lassiter’s might do it but it’ll be a close-run thing. It’s an open secret how close to the edge they’ve been sailing and they’ll find it difficult to raise the money. Apparently all the usual investment bankers are very leery of them. Joe thinks that David Lassiter should consider cutting loose, ditching the seaplane and concentrating on the Urbis and the LE series.’

  Rackham looked at his friend thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure that’s not just journalists’ chit-chat?’

  ‘Joe’s pretty reliable. Besides that, although he didn’t spell it out quite so starkly, it’s what old Mr Lassiter thinks too. He’s very worried indeed now Culverton’s gone. He said as much.’

  Rackham’s brow wrinkled. ‘That seems like an odd conversation to have. After all, he’s only met you a couple of times. I’m not surprised the company’s in trouble if Mr Lassiter’s spilling the beans to everyone about how hard pressed they are.’

  ‘He wasn’t really talking to me. I just happened to be there.’ Jack drained his glass and stood up. ‘Anyway, I didn’t get dressed up like this for nothing. I’d better get a move on if I’m to seek out the raptures and roses of vice, as I’ve heard it expressed.’

  ‘Just as long as you don’t seek out a knife in the ribs,’ said Rackham. ‘The Lassiters might have needed Culverton but he worried someone, Jack. Don’t you do the same.’

  Jack leaned over the Embankment, watching the Thames lap against the green-slimed stone of the walls. It was now Saturday morning and, he thought moodily, he was still no further forward than he had been at the beginning of the week. There was one thing: Bill needn’t have worried about his safety. Despite spending the past three evenings as a true child of the Jazz Age, Jack had uncovered nothing of the slightest interest to Scotland Yard. He was feeling distinctly chewed up, a fairly predictable result, he told himself, with a rueful smile, of a series of late nights, smoky clubs, loud music and bad champagne. However, there hadn’t been even the slightest hint of the raptures or, worse luck, the merest whiff of the roses of vice.

  There were, if he cared to pursue them, opportunities – his smile broadened at the thought of one particular opportunity who assured him she loved Argentines and adored the way he spoke – but they were all very private enterprises and he was looking for something a great deal more organized.

  This chasing round in and out of nightclubs was crazy. Rather than trying to match the club to Culverton, it was surely far better to match Culverton to the club. But what clubs had the blasted man been in? He didn’t, according to Mrs Culverton, particularly care for clubs as such, preferring dining rather than dancing. Gilchrist Lloyd had provided the police with a list of Culverton’s favourite restaurants, but they all seemed to be wearisomely respectable.

  He was going to another respectable restaurant for lunch, the Continental, on Tilford Lane off Northumberland Avenue. George had been there on Thursday evening with Stella Aldryn and run into Roger Maguire. As Maguire said, it was one of his favourite haunts. The encounter had resulted in Maguire inviting not only George and Stella but Jack as well, to lunch on Saturday. George, once reassured that Maguire didn’t intend to bring up the idea of offering his professional services once more, had warmed to him. For one thing, Maguire was very pleasant to Stella and sympathetic about the trials she endured in working for Nigel Lassiter and, for anot
her, Maguire said that Anne would like it.

  George was feeling guilty about Anne and the brusque way in which he’d spoken to her on the telephone. He had made amends, so he believed, at Michael Walsh’s funeral, but hoped lunch would smooth down any remaining ruffled feathers. They were meeting at one o’clock. Jack looked at his watch with a start. Crikey, he’d better get a move on. Plunging into the traffic, he threaded his way across the road, up Savoy Place and fetched up at Chandos Row at twenty-five to the hour.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said to the waiting George as he walked into the sitting room. ‘I’ll be ready in two ticks.’ George’s face showed just how impatient he was. Not only that, but Boots, the kitchen cat, was wrapping herself in and out of George’s legs – Boots adored George – and was being completely ignored.

  ‘Come on,’ said George, glancing at the clock. ‘I don’t want to be late.’

  ‘Relax,’ said Jack, taking off his coat. ‘I’ll be with you in a jiffy. I’ll just have a quick wash and brush-up.’

  He glanced at the table on the way to his bedroom. There was a tray with two coffee cups, a milk jug and a sugar bowl. ‘You’d better move either the cat or the milk,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘We can’t leave them in the same room.’

  ‘There’s an easy answer to that,’ said George, pouring out the last of milk into a saucer for the expectant Boots.

  ‘Who was your visitor?’ asked Jack, coming out of his room after a hasty wash, towel in hand.

  George looked at him blankly. ‘I didn’t have a visitor.’

  Jack frowned at him. ‘You must have done.’ He walked to the table and picked a cup up from the tray. There were the remains of sugar visible at the bottom and a trace of what looked like lipstick on the rim of the cup. George never had sugar in either tea or coffee and he certainly didn’t wear lipstick. Jack wiped his finger over the stain and rubbed his finger and thumb together. It was a darkish rich red, rather like a morello cherry in colour. A very faint perfume seemed to cling to the cup. ‘It’s all right, you know,’ he said, puzzled. ‘I don’t mind you having people round, George.’