The False Inspector Dew

by Peter Lovesey

  'It's not so bad, madame.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'You didn't look at the vases?'

  'I told you I was bushed.'

  'On the vases, madame, many little men.' Alain indicated the size with finger and thumb. 'No clothes. Maybe Barbara start with little men.'

  'Oh.' Mrs Cordell considered the suggestion. She began to giggle. 'Little men. I like that.'

  'I am not so big myself, madame.'

  She laughed. 'I don't care what size he is, but my daughter's husband has got to be rich.'

  5

  When Walter got back to Putney, his dinner was not fit to eat. Cook said she would make him a salad.

  Lydia had heard them talking about it. 'You took your time,' she remarked as he came into the drawing room.

  'I thought you would like these.' He handed her the roses.

  She was agreeably surprised. While he was out, she had been thinking about leaving him for good. 'Where did you get them, Walter?' It was the nearest she could get to thanking him.

  'I didn't take them from a neighbour's garden.'

  She handed them back. 'Ask Sylvia to find a vase for them. Did they give you my book?'

  'Yes.'

  But it wasn't tucked under his arm, and as she asked him she saw his free hand tighten suddenly. 'Who did you see?'

  'The director. He was still there in the bar.'

  'That doesn't surprise me. He reeked of gin this afternoon.'

  'He said you were very good, my dear.'

  'Hypocrite. They always say that.'

  'He paid you a very nice compliment.'

  'Hm.' She set her mouth contemptuously.

  Walter said, 'I'll give these to Sylvia.'

  'What was that, then?'

  'What was what, dear?'

  'The compliment.'

  'Oh. He said you were a real professional.'

  'A fat lot he would know about that!'

  That wasn't all he said.'

  'What else, then?'

  'I'll just find Sylvia.' He had crossed into the hall. 'Would you like them in your room? They might look rather good on the stairs in the majolica jardiniere.'

  'Leave it to Sylvia. Put them on the table in the hall and come and tell me exactly what Jasper said.'

  He called back from the passage to the kitchen, 'Would you like a glass of Burgundy? I might enjoy it with the salad.'

  She made a sound of irritation. The wretched man was so evasive on occasions. She could not be sure whether he really had something interesting to impart, or whether he was covering up about the book. He did this sort of thing deliberately. He knew the force of the theatre in her life. She craved it like a drug. It was painful parading herself for auditions in the provinces, but she went on doing it because she could not stop.

  For as long as she could remember — she had actually been born backstage in one of the six theatres her father had owned — everything that mattered to her had been connected with the stage. Before she was twenty she had met Pinero, Barrie and Shaw. She had played at the Adelphi. Sir Herbert Tree had told her that in a year or two she would have the power to enslave a West End audience. Yet she had seen the danger of a life devoted wholly to the theatre. It was vital to her character and her art to keep a link with the real world outside. She had married Walter and financed his dental training with part of the legacy her father had left her. Walter was her hedge against unreality. What could be more down to earth than a husband who pulled teeth?

  He came back into the drawing room with his salad on a tray and two glasses of wine. He handed one to her ceremoniously. He sat opposite her in the tall armchair her father had used for saying family prayers. She twitched her skirt impatiently.

  'My dear,' said Walter, 'I have something rather important to discuss with you.'

  6

  The sign on the flower shop door said "closed". The blinds were down. The till was cleared and the money put away in the safe. Alma was performing her last duty of the day, assembling the bouquet that a fortunate bride would carry into church next morning. Her mind was so full of Walter Baranov that she had almost forgotten it. Her unsteady fingers snapped the head off a carnation as she wired it. She reached for another.

  She was more excited than nervous. He had taken her completely by surprise, simply walking into the shop like that. It was as amazing and romantic as the arrival of Everard Monck at the desert encampment during Stella's unhappy honeymoon in The Lamp in the Desert. What Walter had said may not have amounted to much, but the fact that he had come had told her all she needed to know. He cared enough to have found out where she worked.

  He must have gone to extraordinary trouble. She had not mentioned the flower shop to him before. She had not made any reference to it on the form she had filled in for the nurse. Walter — she had already discarded his surname in her thoughts — had located the address and he had come to find her: after one missed appointment. He could not have told her more clearly that he desired her. He was a married man, and it made no difference. He wanted her more than his wife.

  She was flattered and intrigued and aroused. She was gripped by the sort of recklessness that was so often the making or undoing of women in books. She had always promised herself that in a situation like this she would take her chance with destiny. She would be spirited, vivacious, zestful, exuberant — all those dazzling adjectives that were applied to heroines.

  But she had not performed too well at the start. She had been tongue-tied when he had come into the shop. She needed to cultivate confidence. She was secure in the knowledge that she was paramount in Walter's life, so there was no reason to behave like a nervous schoolgirl. She would resist the wild impulse to go looking for his house tonight with the scrapbook he had so conspicuously left on the counter. She would wait till her lunch hour tomorrow and take it to the surgery.

  Tonight she was going to take it home and look at it.

  7

  Lydia sipped her Burgundy and let Walter hold the stage. She seldom gave him the opportunity. It was hardly likely that a man who spent his days investigating open mouths would learn anything of consequence to pass on. This evening was exceptional. She listened closely.

  'Of course you and I know the state of the modern theatre,' he said, liberally sprinkling the salt over his salad. 'It doesn't need a puffed-up provincial director to tell us that talent hardly matters at all these days. Just think what you've come up against at auditions in the last few months: bribery, nepotism, the old school tie, politics and sexual trafficking. I sometimes ask myself if you wouldn't be wiser to employ your marvellous experience in some other area of production — at least until sanity returns to the theatre. Curiously enough, Jasper made the same suggestion.'

  'That I should try something different?' said Lydia in a calm voice.

  'Well, yes. It's worth considering, I feel.'

  She smiled. 'Darling, I have reached the same conclusion. It's no use going on with this. It makes a mockery of my life in the theatre. It has a terrible effect on my nerves and my digestion. In the end it will undermine our marriage. You are absolutely right. I shall not attend another audition in the English theatre. I am going to America.'

  Walter stopped eating. 'America?'

  'You do sound surprised.'

  'Are you serious, my dear?'

  'Totally. I am going to offer my talent to the cinema.'

  'Good Lord.'

  'It is another area of production.' She was pleased by the effect of her announcement. Walter was white.

  'It wasn't quite what I had in mind.'

  'Think it over. The only films of any quality are being made in America. And it's obvious, isn't it, that the cinema is short of actresses of my experience. Look at Mary Pickford. What has she ever done in the theatre? The Gish sisters. Theda Bara. They are known to millions, Walter, and what do they know about the art of acting?'

  'I rather think that acting in the theatre isn't quite the same thing. Bernhardt isn't much of a s
uccess in films.'

  'Bernhardt is an old woman.'

  'But film is such a different form of art, Lydia. There's no sound. Your voice expresses so much in the theatre. It would be such a loss.'

  She had expected him to try to thwart her. He would not succeed, i shall make more use of gesture and expression. My mind is made up, Walter. You heard me on the telephone this evening. The house is going up for sale. I've already made enquiries about booking a passage. I want to leave as soon as possible.'

  The tray shook as he put it aside. 'What about me? What about my practice?'

  'Didn't I make it clear? I want you to come with me. We can sell the practice and start a new one in Hollywood. There must be plenty of cinema actors wanting their teeth improved. The cameras come in so close.'

  He got up and stood by the window, looking out. He was clearly very shocked.

  Lydia could sympathise. She had suffered shocks enough at auditions. Walter had led a sheltered life of late. He had settled into a comfortable routine. The life of a dentist might seem unutterably boring to most people, but Walter enjoyed it. He was making a success of it. He didn't have the income yet to justify the Eaton Square surgery, but there was the prospect of full financial independence in a year or so. Giving it up for America would be a sacrifice.

  He was very transparent. He turned and said that he had read that life was dangerous in California. He described the violence between rival film companies. He talked of hired thugs, and shootings, and studios behind high fences, patrolled by armed guards with dogs.

  Lydia was unperturbed. She said she was sure the companies looked after their leading players.

  Walter got more earnest. He recalled the efforts he had made to build his practice. He said it would be madness to abandon his distinguished patients and his handsome surgery.

  Lydia said that if it meant so much to him he had better stay behind and let her face the perils of California alone. Noticing a certain look in his eye, she added that he would have to manage without her money.

  He switched the subject back to her career. He said he had a duty to point out that her reputation on the English stage was beyond dispute, but it was unlikely to have reached America.

  Lydia smiled. 'My dear,' she murmured, 'I'm afraid you're misinformed. It's time that I confessed to you that I've been holding something back. It happens that I have an associate in Hollywood. His name is not unknown in the cinema. Mr Charlie Chaplin.'

  'Chaplin? You know Charlie Chaplin?'

  'From before the war, when he was with the Karno Troupe. Charlie and I were on the same bill at the Streatham Empire. That was when Papa was owner of the Empire, before I became a serious actress. I was in a song and dance group called the Yankee Doodle Girls and Charlie was the comic drunk in Mumming Birds. He must have been about eighteen, no more, and he had an eye for the girls. He used to watch us from the wings. He looked so funny standing there with eyes like saucers and that red nose and his white tie and tails that we used to giggle. One night I laughed so much, I slipped and hit the boards with an almighty bump. My friend Hetty Kelly winked at Charlie and he fell hopelessly in love with her. She was only fifteen and he proposed to her. Oh, yes, I knew Charlie very well. I've got a cutting in my book to prove it. Go and get it. I'll show you.'

  Walter looked round for the wine. 'Would you like some more? He was very good in Shoulder Arms. I saw it up in Scotland. Did you ever see it?'

  She put her hand over her glass. 'First, I would like to show you the notice in my book.'

  He said, 'My father was in America, remember. That was when he had his accident. I wonder if he met Chaplin.'

  'Walter, tell me what has happened to my book.'

  He cleared his throat. 'I'm not entirely sure that I can. I collected it all right, but when I came in I didn't have it with me.'

  'What do you mean — you've lost it?'

  'Left it somewhere. In the taxi, I suppose. I'm fearfully sorry, my dear.'

  She got up from her chair. She despised him. In a quiet voice she said, 'That book was the most precious thing I owned. No amount of money can replace it.'

  She ran from the room. In the hall she picked up the roses he had bought and flung them on the floor. She ran upstairs to her room and locked the door. She collapsed on the bed and wept.

  Later, she smoked a cigarette. She heard cook leave the house by the tradesman's gate. She heard Sylvia go up to her room in the attic.

  There was a soft tapping on her door. Walter's voice said, 'Are you awake, Lydia?'

  She did not answer. She had nothing to say to him.

  She heard him turn the handle and find that the door was locked.

  'Lydia, my dear, it's me.'

  She said flatly, 'Go away.'

  'I just remembered where I left the book. I saw the roses and remembered. It was in the florist's where I bought them. I put the book on the counter when I chose the colours. I had a taxi waiting outside and he was sounding his horn. In my hurry I left the book in the shop. I can get it back tomorrow. The shop is next to Richmond Station. Lydia, do you hear? I'll collect it in the morning.'

  'No you won't.'

  'What?'

  'I wouldn't trust you again. I'll go myself, and it had better be there.'

  'But the girl in the shop doesn't know you.'

  'Idiot. The book is full of pictures of me.'

  There was a pause. 'About the other thing,' he said. 'America, I mean. Let's talk again when we have both had a chance to think the matter over.'

  'There's nothing to talk about. I've made my mind up. I'm going, Walter. You can do what you like.'

  8

  Poppy shared a flock mattress with her sister Rose — all the sisters were named after flowers — in the family's rooms above the dairy in Chicksand Street. Rose was seven. She liked to wake at first light and go downstairs to see the milkmen harnessing their horses to the carts. This was Poppy's opportunity to stretch her arms and legs and roll into the centre. She would sink into a deeper sleep, secure from Rose's lively knees and elbows. She usually slept until eleven, except on Sundays. She had no conscience about sleeping late. She kept the family clothed and fed from her takings in the Lane.

  This Monday morning she was startled and annoyed to be disturbed from sleep by Rose, pulling at the blanket. It was not much after nine o'clock.

  'Pop, wake up.'

  'Leave off, or I'll murder you.'

  'Man downstairs wants you.'

  'What man?' She sat up, swearing, and shuffled to the stairs and looked down. 'Him!' She jerked back out of sight and started nervously fastening the buttons of the shirt she wore at nights. 'Strewth.'

  'What's he want?' asked Rose, interested.

  'Tell him I won't be long.' She went to find her clothes. She had practically forgotten her adventure of the day before. The stranger who had trapped her in the market had warned her with mysterious threats to say nothing of their "business". She had so far dismissed it from her mind that she had got three parts drunk on stout that night and felt like death this morning. She had decided anyway that the bloke was strange. She had probably had a narrow escape.

  Yet he hadn't tried anything. And here he was this morning, just as he had promised, to take her to that nobby dress shop.

  She shouted after Rose, 'Make him some tea.' Then she took off the shirt and considered what to wear.

  When she got down, he was sitting in father's chair. He was quite good-looking, with wide blue eyes and slicked-down, honey-coloured hair. She didn't mind him taking stock of her. She had put on a crepe-marocain dress supposed to have been worn in the Savoy. She had bought it secondhand in the market and made some adjustments. She was clever with a needle and thread. The blues had faded rather, but it fitted better now.

  'What are you wearing under that?'

  He was strange after all. She gave him one of her withering looks and poured herself some tea.

  'I only mention it,' he explained, 'because you'll have to take off
the dress to be measured.'

  She hadn't considered that. She went back to her room and found some underclothes.

  As they left the house, Poppy was disappointed to find no taxi waiting. It was round the corner, in the next street. She laughed, and he asked her what was funny. She chanted a rhyme she had learned in the streets about "that demmed elusive Pimpernel".

  He didn't seem amused. He said, 'My name is Jack.'

  The taxi took them only a short way and stopped. Poppy looked out. At the same moment, Jack put something into her hand. It was a bar of lavender soap. They were outside the public baths in Aldgate High Street. 'Blooming cheek!' she said. But she thought of that elegant dress shop and said she wouldn't be long.

  When they finally got to Bond Street, she was grateful for Jack's forethought. After the gratification of having bolts of fine materials unrolled before her while she sat in a beautiful gilt chair to make the selection, she was taken to be measured. Without Jack looking on, she expected the assistants to treat her differently, but they still called her madam and helped her out of her dress and put it on a padded hanger as if it were the latest thing from Paris. It took three of them to measure her. One was there to provide conversation in the form of compliments on Poppy's looks and figure; another used the tape measure; and the third wrote down the measurements. Poppy said little. She had chosen a gold crepe de chine that made her throat ache with anticipation. The dressmaker asked her to come for a fitting on Wednesday afternoon.

  On Friday it was finished. For once the assistants spoke the truth: madam looked exquisite.

  'Now,' said Jack when they had left the shop with the dress wrapped in white tissue in a black and silver box, 'we will choose some shoes and stockings. Then I will take you to my flat.'