‘Thanks Ted,’ I raised my glass.
‘What for?’ he pretended. ‘Didn’t have to go out of my way now, did I? I just stand behind the bar and keep my eyes and ears open, that’s all.’
‘Anyway, thanks. You may have given me the first decent lead I’ve had so far.’
He leaned forward again and his glasses were now perilously near the precipice. I took the liberty of pushing them back for him. Wasn’t the first time.
‘Going to brush up your own technique then? Quicken your quickstep, tune up your tango, freshen your foxtrot?’
I smiled. ‘Thought I might. Bit of a waste of time though, if 1 end up with the train.’
He laughed out loud. ‘You won’t, Johnny boy. One look at the likes of you and they’ll pedal out their prettiest, don’t you worry.’
I sipped at my Scotch thoughtfully. For right then, getting to see the right dancing teacher wasn’t really my main worry. The telephone call from my friend in London had seen to that.
*
Next morning, before leaving for Torquay, I telephoned Mrs Briggs to check that our subterfuge seemed to be still working. She roared with laughter and reported that my last progress report to her husband, where I had invented seeing a male figure hovering around her house, had worked a treat. That very night he had taken her to see Ronald Colman in The Prisoner of Zenda and then had taken the whole of Saturday off and taken her to Dartmouth and Blackpool Sands in the Frazer-Nash. She said it was the first time he had taken her to a beach since their courting days.
Once in my pokey office, Babs fixed onto me like a leech and tried to suck me dry as to how I was getting on with my ‘Big Case’. I replied, ‘Fine’ and ‘It’s a bit early yet to report any progress but I’ve put out a few feelers here and there.’ My guarded replies patently disappointed her, so I changed the subject and stunned her by asking where she had learned to dance.
After a baffled silence, she stuttered, ‘Nowhere, Johnny, nowhere.’
‘Picked it up as you went along?’
She shook her curls. ‘Haven’t been along very much.’
‘You can dance, though?’
‘Sort of. All right on the waltz and the quickstep. But I sit out the rest usually. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, I just wondered if you knew anything about that ballroom dancing school up by Woolworths.’
‘The Adrian Feather Tap and Tango Academy,’ she intoned with reverence.
‘Is that what it’s called?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve got a friend who goes there. It’s quite posh inside, she says. All palms and shiny panelling. And they’ve got four radiograms.’
‘That’s a lot,’ I smiled. ‘But I dare say they need them.’
She suddenly grasped the edge of my desk, her eyes more goo-goo than ever.
‘Coo, Johnny, why do you want to know about the dancing school?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Something going on there? Spies, are they? My friend says Adrian Feather’s real name is Gottenberg. So they could be.’
I shook my head.
‘White slavery. That’s it, isn’t it? Wow! To think we’ve got white slavers right by Woolworths!’
I reached across and patted her hand
‘Hang on, Babs. It’s nothing like that at all. I’m not investigating the dancing school. I want to use it. Learn the latest dances. All that. Perhaps even toy with tap.’
She slumped like a rag doll. ‘Oh,’ was all she could find to say.
‘So,’ I said, ‘do I have to make an appointment with them or can I just walk straight in? What does your friend do?’
‘She has a class once a week, I think. But she says sometimes one or two of the teachers are just sitting around listening to records. So you could try just walking in.’
I got up from behind my desk. ‘I think I’ll do that Babs.’
She looked horrified.
‘You mean you’re not going to work on your Big Case this morning?’
I danced around her question. ‘Private eyes needs fancy footwork sometimes, Babs.’
She held the door open for me. ‘If anyone rings, where shall I say you’ve gone?’
‘To Gottenberg,’ I grinned, cad that I am.
*
I went to my La Salle first. Took out the false Ronald Colman moustache I had put in the glove locker before leaving home — one of my theatrical left-overs — and a dab of glue later, left the La Salle as Mr Tom Conway, a dapper but slightly shy chap who wished to brush up his Terpsichorean technique.
The academy was just as Babs had described, and once inside there seemed to be more palms than people. Adrian Feather né Gottenberg, greeted me himself, his very English apparel of black coat and striped trousers contrasting heavily with his Conrad Veidt accent. I explained what I was after and he listened patiently.
After a few minutes’ thought he said, ‘If you’re not quite sure of ze exact height of your fiancée, then it may be somewhat difficult for me to find a match for her.’
‘Perhaps, if I could see some of your instructresses, then I would have a better idea.’
He struck a pose. ‘Well, vone or two are busy with zeir students right now, but I vill see vat I can do.’
I nodded my thanks and he disappeared behind a large screen decorated with a sun-ray motif. A couple of minutes later, he was back, ushering in two girls; one a willowy blonde around twenty-six with a longish nose and powder an inch thick; the other, praise be, more or less matching Ted Shilling’s description of red head, snub nose, around twenty et cetera. All I needed to discover now was whether she answered to the name of Daphne. But dear Adrian didn’t help. He proffered the blonde.
‘Zis is Miss Randan.’ Then the red head. ‘And zis is Miss Phipps.’
I pretended to appraise both. ‘I think that, er, er — Miss, er ... I pointed to the red head, ‘... is nearer my fiancée’s height.’
Adrian almost yawned as he explained. ‘Mr Conway here is most insistent he takes lessons from someone who is as near his fiancée’s height and figure as possible, girls.’ He turned back to me. ‘So you zink Miss Phipps is nearer your ideal, Mr Conway?’
I would have fingered my moustache at this point, but I was afraid it might come off. ‘Yes, well, er — Miss ... er ...’
‘Phipps,’ Adrian repeated.
‘Miss Phipps certainly has a figure very similar to my fiancée. The height I’m not quite ...’
He led the red head up to me. ‘Perhaps, if you tried a turn with Miss Phipps, it might help you decide.’
He went to a radiogram in the corner of the small dance floor and put on a record — ‘I’m Young and Healthy’ from the film 42nd Street.
I looked as nervous as I could, then put my arm hesitantly around the red head’s waist, as if she were made of porcelain. We did a couple of turns, then I stuttered, ‘Miss Phipps, I’ve never danced with anyone before without ... er ... knowing them.’
‘Don’t be shy,’ she smiled. Think of me as your fiancée. What’s her name?’ Her accent was two parts Cockney to one part Devon. I found out later she’d been born in Balham.
I thought quickly. ‘Rebecca.’
‘Nice name.’ We swirled on and I winced as I deliberately trod on her toe. I was reckoned quite a hoofer at parties and it was difficult pretending to need lessons.
‘Maybe I would feel better if I knew your name.’
‘Oh ... all right. Mine’s Daphne. Daphne Phipps.’
I breathed a silent sight of relief and disengaged.
‘Veil, vot do you think, Mr Conway?’ Adrian Feather asked, rather impatiently.
‘Yes’ I said. ‘Fine, Mr Feather. Er, I think Miss Phipps is just the girl I’m looking for.’
*
I had to attend the academy for three mornings in a row, before I felt I had wormed my way sufficiently into Daphne Phipps’ confidence to suggest a little extra-mural activity. But after my tango lesson of the Wednesday, which ended at twelve thirty, I dared to suggest she might li
ke to join me for a quick drink ‘to celebrate my good progress in your hands’, before she trotted off to lunch. She eyed me a little suspiciously but soon accepted, when I explained my usual haunt was the Imperial bar.
‘We’re not really supposed to,’ she had grinned, ‘but seeing as how you’ve got a fiancée ...’ Then she added with a Cockney lilt, ‘But not a word to Mr Adrian.’
I think she was disappointed when she found she had to walk, but I had deliberately left my old La Salle behind, for the same reason I was sporting a moustache. I just hoped none of my old cronies would be around at the hotel, but it was a risk I had to take. As we walked into the bar, I lifted a finger to my lips as Ted Shilling’s jaw dropped when he spotted me. He winked his understanding and went on serving his customer, whilst I propelled Daphne to a secluded table in the corner where I hoped I could remain incognito.
‘I like it here,’ she said.
‘Been here before then?’ I asked.
‘A few times. Someone brought me here only last week, ’smarter of fact.’ She looked up. ‘In case you’re wondering, mine’s a gin and orange.’
I went to the bar and waited for Ted to finish doing the rumba with his cocktail shaker.
‘That the girl, Ted?’ I whispered when I’d got his attention.
He nodded. ‘She’ll have a gin and orange too, I’ll be bound.’
‘You’re bound,’ I said.
He fingered his upper lip and started to pour out the gin.
‘Look like Errol Flynn,’ he muttered.
‘Funny,’ I said. ‘They sold it to me as a Colman number.’ I leaned forward. ‘By the way, may name is Tom Conway.’
He chuckled. ‘He’s got a moustache like that as well.’
‘Who has?’
‘Tom Conway. The actor fella. Often in double features. You know, George Sanders’ brother.’
Hell. I’d forgotten. My alias could certainly have been better chosen. I added a splash to my Scotch and picked up the drinks.
‘Wish me luck, Ted,’ I said out of the corner of my mouth.
He laughed and winked. ‘Be a change for the likes of her, I expect.’
‘What will?’
‘Someone trying to get something out of her, rather than into her.’
I raised my eyebrows and returned to the table. Really, Ted can be a little too racy at times. And I don’t just mean the two thirty at Newton Abbot.
*
It took me two more rounds to really get her going. The trouble was she wanted to talk about everything under the sun but what I was interested in — her men friends, with particular reference to Seagrave. After twenty minutes I knew her father was now a docker in Plymouth; her mother was a daily maid for a lady in Plympton but didn’t like it; her sister had run off with a door-to-door brush salesman from Exeter and her brother was next door to being an alcoholic and was the reason she had left home and taken a tiny room above a shop in Torquay that ‘sold the fanciest frocks this side of Bristol’. There, apparently, she spent most of her time playing Bing Crosby and Rudy Vallee records on a wind-up gramophone, if she wasn’t reading romantic novels from Boots library or sitting in the one and threes at a Gaumont or Odeon.
This final piece of riveting information, at last, gave me an intro. As you may gather, she very rarely seemed to stop for breath — save to down some more mother’s ruin.
‘I don’t much like going to the cinema alone,’ I ventured. Thank goodness, it worked.
‘Oh, I never go alone. No.’ She looked across at me, eyelids a’flutter. ‘Always get a young man to take me, don’t I?’
‘I bet you’ve got lots of boyfriends, Daphne — a girl with your looks.’
She tidied a non-existent stray hair from her perm. ‘Oh ... I have my share, certainly.’
‘You must meet lots of young men in your work.’
She made a face. ‘Don’t go for many of them. Not my type. They’re either too nervous or too bold. Besides, if they were any good, they’d know how to dance, wouldn’t they?’ She suddenly stopped and a blush fought a battle with her rouge. ‘Whoops, sorry. I don’t mean to include you in that lot, Mr Conway, honest I don’t. You’re different somehow. A real gentleman, you are. ‘Sides, you’ve obviously got a lot of money behind you, if you don’t mind me mentioning it. I mean, just look where you go for a drink. Most of my dancing partners look as if they can hardly afford the lessons, let alone take a girl out to a place like this.’
I smiled. ‘So you like a man with a little bit of money, do you, Daphne?’
She looked a trifle taken aback. ‘Well, why not? My old mum says money can’t buy happiness, but as I always tell her, when she’s off to clean somebody else’s silver or polish their heirlooms, lack of it gets misery for free.’
I laughed. ‘So you aim to marry a man with money, eh? Well, you’re living in the right place, Daphne. Plenty of well off farmers round here. Then there are the holiday makers in the summer.’
She sipped her gin and orange, then smiled. ‘Can you see me, Mr Conway, as a farmer’s wife? All that mud, cows and horses and things. No, not for me. None of that. I will only settle for someone with a bit of sophistication.’
She glanced up at me, her eyelids slightly lowered, whether from the gins or an attempt to be alluring, I wasn’t quite sure. ‘More like yourself, really. Pity you’ve already found yourself a Miss Right.’
‘Well, yes,’ I stammered. ‘And then again, no. But you sound as if you might have somebody in mind?’
She sighed. ‘Having in mind and having in your pocket, so to speak, are a bit different, Mr Conway. But I can’t deny ...’ Her voice trailed away, but I helped her back on this rather promising path.
‘The man who brought you here last week, I would hazard a guess.’
She played with her glass with crimson-tipped fingers.
‘Might be.’
‘Is he nice?’
She pursed her equally crimson lips. ‘Well, don’t know about nice. But he’s certainly exciting.’
‘Been out with him long?’
‘So, so,’ she hedged. ‘Nough times to know.’
‘That you like him?’
She suddenly looked hard at me. ‘Here, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you so interested in my boyfriends?’ You’re not one of those —’
I cut her off. ‘No, Daphne, I’m definitely not one of those.’
She looked down at her Ingersoll watch. ‘Hang on, I’d better be going. Had no idea it was so late.’ She rose from the table. ‘I won’t have time to grab a sandwich if I don’t get a move one.’ She smiled and, for a second, let a touch of innocence through her brittle defences. ‘Anyway, thanks awfully for the drinks. Will I see you tomorrow?’
I realised it would take a few more lessons to glean what I wanted, so I nodded. At that very moment, I saw what I had been dreading the whole time — a crony bearing down on me.
‘Hello, Johnny. Hey, love the new moustache, what?’
Daphne frowned at me, as I rapidly starting propelling her towards the exit.
‘Hey, you said your name was Tom, not Johnny.’
I thought quickly, a bit too quickly as it turned out.
‘It’s my other name,’ I muttered. ‘Mother christened me John Thomas Conway. But I prefer Tom.’
‘Oooh,’ she cooed as we went through the door. ‘John Thomas, eh?’ With a dirty chuckle, she added, ‘I hope your fiancée likes your John Thomas anyway. I’m sure I would, if I was asked. Bye.’
She blew a kiss as she sashayed down the hotel drive. ‘By the way, love your new moustache too. Don’t you go and shave it off.’
When she was out of sight, I instantly disobeyed her last injunction and a few minutes later, it was again bristling in the glove locker of my La Salle.
*
When I got back to my office, Babs was waiting impatiently at the door.
‘I’m so glad you’re back, Johnny,’ she gasped. ‘You’ve had a phone call.’
&n
bsp; By her expression you would be tempted to think it was either the Irish Sweepstake committee or maybe even His Majesty himself.
I went in. ‘Calm down, Babs. Who was it from?’
She consulted a scrap of paper in her hand.
‘A Miss Diana Travers, she said her name was.’
‘Any message?’
‘Yes. She said would you contact her directly you’re back from Gottenberg.’
I laughed. ‘You didn’t tell her I’d gone there, did you Babs?’
She blushed heavily. ‘Did I do wrong, Johnny?’
I put my hand reassuringly on her shoulder. ‘No, Babs, not to worry.’
‘I must say, she did seem a bit surprised when I told her.’
‘I bet she did. Anyway, thanks, Babs. You had better get back before Mr Ling starts ranting and raving.’
Diana Travers was in when I phoned and, seemingly, in a somewhat tetchy mood. I quickly explained about Babs’ message but all she really wanted to hear was whether I could go up to Ashburton that afternoon and explain my progress. I decided I had better, so we made an appointment for three o’clock.
There was, thankfully, no red Alvis in the drive when I arrived and Diana Travers, with the minimum of greeting, ushered me into her drawing-room. As I sat down, she lit up a Balkan Sobranie in her long holder.
‘So, Mr Black. I had been expecting you to call before.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Travers, I was going to ring directly I had any real leads, but it’s still fairly early days and —’
She cut in. ‘I would like a progress report from you at least twice a week, Mr Black, if that’s not too much trouble.’
‘Yes, fine. I’ll remember that.’
She relaxed back in her chair and crossed her slim, elegant legs. In a curious way, her impatience with me heightened her physical attraction and had lent an excitement to her face that had been lacking at our first meeting.
‘So, what have you discovered so far, Mr Black? I do hope you’re making some progress.’
I had prepared what I was going to tell her on the drive over — which was, really, everything save for the information that my theatrical friends in London had provided. At this stage, it seemed to me premature to involve her with that. And, maybe, rather foolish.
Black Eye (A Johnny Black Mystery) Page 7
