by Graham Ison
‘It was something that Lorna said, sir.’
‘Lorna?’
‘My wife, sir.
‘Oh, that Lorna.’ Hardcastle turned as a man approached him, followed by the assistant to whom the DDI had first spoken.
‘I’m the chief security officer. My name is Crosby,’ announced the man, doing his best to refrain from smiling. ‘I understand that you told Miss Raynor you were police officers.’
‘That is correct.’ Hardcastle introduced himself once again and showed Crosby his warrant card.
Crosby laughed. ‘I knew it was you the moment I set eyes on you, sir. You won’t remember me but I was a PC at Vine Street when you were a detective sergeant there. I finished my time as a section sergeant at Gerald Road on B Division and got this billet when I retired from the Job, well, just after, really. I was deputy to start with, but when my boss retired I got his job.’
‘Yes, I do remember you,’ lied Hardcastle, aware that he needed this retired policeman’s assistance. ‘This is Marriott, my first-class sergeant.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Skip,’ said Crosby, and shook hands with each of the detectives. ‘Now, sir, what can I do to help?’
Hardcastle explained about the missing Lily Musgrave and that Captain Lucas had claimed that he left her at Harrods’ main door yesterday morning at about half past ten. ‘I reckon that if she did come into the store she’d have come into the ladies’ fashions department.’
Crosby turned to the department manageress. ‘Would you be so kind as to check whether a Miss Lily Musgrave purchased anything in this department sometime yesterday morning, Miss Raynor?’ He paused and turned to Hardcastle. ‘Is it likely that Miss Musgrave is an account customer, sir?’
‘Most likely it’s her father’s account, Mr Crosby. His name is Austen Musgrave.’
‘Oh, the MP!’
‘That’s the one.’
Miss Raynor disappeared again to busy herself with checking the previous day’s sales. When she returned a few moments later, she was clutching an order book.
‘I recall now that I did serve the young lady,’ she announced. ‘She purchased two silk georgette Charleston dresses, one in emerald green and one in scarlet. They’re a new line especially imported from the United States of America and are proving to be very popular with the younger ladies, particularly as they retail at forty shillings.’ As if to emphasize her sales pitch, she waved an arm at a rack of dresses.
‘They don’t look long enough to be frocks,’ said Hardcastle, wondering if Miss Raynor was trying to sell him one. ‘Are you able to tell me the time she made this purchase, Miss Raynor?’ he asked.
‘I think you said that Miss Musgrave arrived in the store at about half past ten, Inspector. We don’t record the time of a sale but I would opine that it was somewhere between the time you say she arrived and half past eleven, when I take my break.’
‘Thank you for your help, Miss Raynor,’ said Marriott. He knew that Hardcastle was a trifle short on the social graces but it did no harm to show gratitude for the woman’s assistance on the basis that the police may need her help again one day.
‘D’you want to check any of the other departments, sir?’ asked Crosby.
‘No, thank you, Mr Crosby,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ve confirmed that she actually came to the store yesterday morning, which is all I needed. What I don’t know is where she went from here, but that’s not your problem.’
‘I don’t know if it’s important,’ said Miss Raynor as the detectives were on the point of leaving, ‘but there was a gentleman with Miss Musgrave.’
‘What did he look like, Miss Raynor?’ Hardcastle turned and took a step closer to the saleswoman.
The manageress adopted a pensive expression before eventually answering. ‘He was about the same height as your companion,’ she began, indicating Marriott, ‘but much older than Miss Musgrave. I would imagine he was about thirty. He had a moustache and dark hair. He didn’t say much, but when he did speak you could tell he was very well educated. Cultured, I’d say.’
‘Thank you, Miss Raynor. That’s most helpful,’ said Marriott as he scribbled a few words in his pocketbook. Not that he thought the woman’s brief description would be of any use in attempting to trace Lily Musgrave’s latest escort. It certainly did not fit Oscar Lucas, and in any case he had stated that he dropped the girl off at Harrods’ main entrance.
‘I wonder who that was with Lily, Marriott. It wasn’t anyone we’ve come across so far,’ said Hardcastle as the two detectives made their way out of the store. ‘Sounds like some ne’er-do-well with more money than sense, but I wonder what he gets in return.’
Marriott did not think Hardcastle’s rhetorical question worthy of a reply; they were each cynical enough to think they knew the answer.
The commissionaire at the main door of Harrods blew his whistle and raised a finger of his gloved hand. A cab glided to a standstill in front of him within seconds. Crossing the pavement, he opened the door of the cab and touched his top hat.
‘Much obliged,’ said Hardcastle as he and Marriott got in, but did not offer the commissionaire a tip.
‘Bloody skinflint!’ muttered the commissionaire as the cab drew away.
Hardcastle tapped on the dividing window of the cab with the handle of his umbrella. ‘Victoria Station,’ he said when the cabbie responded.
‘Where are we going now, sir?’ asked Marriott, once again taken aback by another of Hardcastle’s sudden inexplicable decisions.
‘Brighton, Marriott. I’ve a shrewd suspicion that we might find young Lily with her mother who, according to Crabb the butler, is hoofing it on the stage of the Brighton Hippodrome.’
‘Shouldn’t we check first, sir?’ Marriott was amazed that Hardcastle should be undertaking the journey purely on speculation. ‘Crabb might be wrong or Mrs Musgrave might’ve moved on to another theatre.’
‘You’ve got to have confidence, Marriott, otherwise you’ll never get the job done. Anyway, once you start making enquiries someone would tell the lady in question and I don’t want her to know we’re on our way to interview her.’ Hardcastle leaned back in his seat and looked out of the window until they arrived at Victoria Station.
‘Get two tickets, Marriott, and make sure they’re second class.’ As a DDI, Hardcastle was entitled to second-class rail travel, as was anyone of a lower rank travelling with him. ‘And I’ll have a copy of the Star when you buy your own paper.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Marriott knew that he would never be reimbursed for Hardcastle’s newspaper.
The Brighton Hippodrome was in a narrow street a few yards up from King’s Road, the thoroughfare that ran along the seafront.
‘Don’t look much like the sort of theatre we’re used to in London, Marriott.’ For a moment or two, Hardcastle gazed up at the façade of the theatre. ‘I don’t see Marie Faye’s name on the billboards.’
‘Perhaps Crabb the butler got it wrong, sir.’ Despite the DDI’s excuse for not making enquiries, Marriott still thought they should have done so and taken the risk of the woman finding out.
‘Quite possibly, Marriott, quite possibly. I don’t think he’s too reliable a witness, as you might say.’ Hardcastle pushed at one of the doors of the theatre but found it locked. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Just gone five o’clock, sir.’ Marriott could never understand why Hardcastle always asked him the time when he had a watch of his own. On one occasion, Marriott jokingly remarked to his wife Lorna that Hardcastle thought he might wear out his watch if he looked at it too often.
‘I wonder what time first house is.’
‘Twenty minutes to seven, sir,’ said Marriott, pointing at the billboard. ‘And second house is at a quarter to nine.’
‘Better see if we can find the stage door, then.’ Hardcastle set off in search of a side entrance to the theatre. ‘Ah, here we are.’ Once inside, he approached a small glass-panelled cubicle and tapped on the window.
The
aged stage doorkeeper, who had clearly been dozing, woke up with a start. After a few moments in which he attempted to recover himself, he opened the window. ‘What’s all the fuss about?’ he demanded of no one in particular, and then focused on Hardcastle. ‘If you’re after one of them chorus girls, they don’t turn up till about six o’clock. Which one of ’em is your bit of fluff, eh?’ He gave the DDI the sort of look he reserved for lecherous old men who were up to no good with girls half their age.
‘I’m not looking for a chorus girl, I’m a police officer,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘And I suggest you get a new pair of glasses.’
‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, guv’nor. I thought you was—’
‘You haven’t got the equipment for thinking, so don’t try,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’m looking for an artiste called Marie Faye who I’m told is appearing here.’
‘Ah, our Marie. Yes, she’s the goods, she is.’
‘I’m not interested in your opinion of her; I just want to know where she is.’
‘Go down them steps, guv’nor.’ The doorkeeper emerged from his box in order to give directions and pointed a grubby finger. ‘Her dressing room’s the third door on the right. It’s got her name on it.’ He sniffed and wiped his unkempt moustache with the back of his hand. ‘But you might find as how she’s got a gent with her. She often has.’
Hardcastle and Marriott made their way down the steps and along a dank corridor. The DDI pushed open the door marked Marie Faye and entered. The woman was seated on a stool in front of a mirror and was vigorously brushing her long black hair. Reclining in an armchair, his feet pushed out straight in front of him, was a man attired in full evening dress. Overweight and at least fifty years of age, his rubicund complexion and heavily veined nose betrayed a martyrdom to gin.
‘Don’t you knock before entering a lady’s dressing room?’ Without turning, the woman addressed Hardcastle’s reflection in the mirror.
‘Are you Marie Faye?’ Hardcastle answered the woman’s question with one of his own.
‘I think I must be,’ she said, swinging round on her stool. The peignoir she was wearing fell open to reveal a scanty fur-edged red basque and shapely legs encased in tights. ‘Anyway, that’s the name on the door,’ she added, placing her hands on her knees.
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
‘I don’t think they’re auditioning for policemen today.’
‘Just listen to me,’ snapped Hardcastle, fast losing patience with this rather foolish woman who seemed prone to making flippant remarks. ‘I’m here because your daughter Lily has gone missing and my job is to find out what’s happened to her.’
‘Gone missing?’ Marie Faye closed her legs and wrapped her peignoir more closely around herself as if covering her brief outfit would emphasize the seriousness of the situation. She glanced at the red-faced man. ‘Bugger off, Percy.’
‘Yes, rather, what?’ Percy ferreted about on the floor to retrieve his walking cane and opera hat, and with some difficulty levered himself out of the chair in which he was sitting. ‘How about a spot of supper after second house, Marie, darling?’
‘Not tonight, Percy. And it’s no good you calling round after the show because the answer will still be no.’
‘Ah, yes, right. Perhaps tomorrow night, eh what, old girl?’
‘Before you go, perhaps you’d give your name to my sergeant, sir,’ said Hardcastle.
‘I don’t see that’s any of your business, Inspector,’ exclaimed Percy and turned towards the door of the dressing room, only to find that Marriott had taken up a position which blocked Percy’s exit.
‘I think my inspector asked for your name, sir,’ said Marriott in what could only be construed as a menacing manner.
‘Ah, yes. It’s Percy Fortune.’
‘And your address?’ Marriott wrote the name in his pocketbook.
‘I’m staying at the Grand Hotel on the seafront, don’t you know.’
‘Is that your permanent address?’
‘Well, not exactly. I do have rooms in Knightsbridge, in the Brompton Road actually, but I’m not often there. Bit of a stage-door johnnie, you might say. Tend to follow the shows around, don’t you know. Especially those starring the lovely Marie.’ Fortune shot a hopeful glance in Marie Faye’s direction but she ignored him.
‘Were you in Harrods this morning?’ Marriott wondered if he had been the man accompanying Lily Musgrave in the ladies’ fashions department, despite his not fitting Miss Raynor’s description.
‘Good grief, no. Never go near the place. If I need anything I send my man or ring them up and they deliver it.’
‘Thank you, Mr Fortune,’ said Marriott and stood to one side to allow the man to leave, something he did somewhat hastily as though extracting himself from an unsavoury situation.
‘Now, what’s all this about my daughter going missing, Inspector?’ Marie Faye seemed to have abandoned her flippancy now that Percy Fortune had left. She swung back to her dressing table and took a half bottle of gin from a drawer. She poured a substantial amount into a tumbler and added an equal amount of water from a carafe. ‘Would you coppers care for a drink?’ she asked.
‘Your husband—’ began Hardcastle, ignoring the woman’s invitation.
‘What about him?’ said Marie.
‘Yesterday morning, Mr Musgrave informed the police that his daughter had not been home since the previous Thursday evening when she left his house in Vincent Square. Mr Musgrave had no idea where she’d gone but our enquiries indicated that she spent the evening at the VanDoo Club in Rupert Street.’ Hardcastle thought it unnecessary to tell Marie Faye that Austen Musgrave had reported the matter direct to the Commissioner.
‘Good for her,’ said Marie. ‘And now, I suppose, you’re going to tell me that she went off with some man.’
‘She did, as a matter of fact,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Well, she is something of a free spirit, Inspector, and young women today are far more liberated than my generation were allowed to be.’ Marie sighed. ‘When I think of those dreadful long skirts and corsets with whalebone stays it makes me shudder, but now things are different, thank God. A lot of women did men’s jobs in the war and they’re not prepared to be put back in their little boxes now that it’s over. And we’ve got the vote. Well, about forty per cent of us who are over thirty, but even that will change, you mark my words, Inspector.’
‘Mrs Musgrave, I don’t—’
‘I prefer to be called Miss Faye or, better still, just Marie.’
‘Miss Faye, I don’t need a lecture on the emancipation of women.’ Hardcastle’s response was blunt to the point of rudeness. ‘I’m concerned in finding out what happened to your daughter.’
‘The fact that she left home on Thursday evening and probably spent the weekend with some young blade is not a cause for concern, Inspector. After all, Thursday evening to Monday morning isn’t a lifetime.’
‘Although she was seen in Harrods on Monday, she has still not returned home to Vincent Square.’
‘Well, I don’t see how I can help you.’ Marie took another sip of her gin and water. ‘Are you sure you won’t join me in a drink, Inspector? I hate drinking alone.’
‘No, thank you.’ Hardcastle did not imagine that Marie Faye had too much of a problem drinking by herself or, for that matter, finding a drinking companion. ‘When was the last time you saw Lily, Miss Faye?’
‘Just after Christmas. I was appearing in Cinderella at Worthing. She stayed with me for a week but spent most of her time with the man playing Buttons.’
‘What was his name?’ asked Marriott.
‘Sidney Preston,’ said Marie without hesitation, ‘and he was much older than Lily, not that it matters these days.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Like the rest of us, Sergeant, wherever the job happens to take him. It’s not all beer and skittles, this game, you know.
It’s one dreary set of theatrical lodgings after another.’
‘Well, d’you know where he’s appearing now?’
‘No idea, but I do know he’s not seeing Lily any more. Like the old song says, “his wife won’t let him”.’
‘Let me know if you do see or hear from her again,’ said Hardcastle in a manner that brooked no argument. ‘My sergeant will give you the telephone number. By the way, that Mr Fortune who was here …’
‘Percy’s just a drunken sot who’s trying to work his way into my bed, Inspector.’ Marie laughed scornfully. ‘There’s no chance of that, of course, but as long as he keeps buying me slap-up meals, I’ll keep him guessing.’
SEVEN
By Wednesday morning the tram strike had been settled and Hardcastle was at the police station by a quarter past eight. But Marriott was already there, waiting outside the detectives’ room for the DDI’s arrival.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘What is it, Marriott?’ As usual, Hardcastle did not return his sergeant’s greeting but swept straight into his office.
‘There’s a Detective Sergeant Gandy in my office, sir. He says he has information for you.’
Hardcastle paused in lighting his pipe and frowned. ‘He’s not from Special Branch, is he?’ The DDI had an intense dislike, almost to the point of paranoia, of what was known internally as the ‘Political Branch’. On several occasions he had been unwillingly embroiled in their enquiries and always got the impression that the head of the branch, the fearsome Detective Superintendent Patrick Quinn, was never quite satisfied with what he had achieved. Fortunately, at least as far as Hardcastle was concerned, Quinn had retired on the first of January last.
‘No, sir, he’s from W. He’s Mr Fowler’s first-class sergeant.’
‘Well, show him in, Marriott. Don’t stand there shilly-shallying.’
The man who entered the DDI’s office was at least six-foot-two-inches tall and well-built. He had a luxuriant moustache and a permanent frown that gave the impression of a stern personality with whom it would be unwise to argue. In fact, he was the sort of officer it would be useful to have on your side in a rough house rather than against you.
