By the time I’d finished, she was on her third Balkan Sobranie. As silence then ensued, I went on.
‘So, Miss Travers, I intend seeing Miss Phipps a few more times, in the hope that I can discover exactly why a man like Michael Seagrave would be seeing a girl from a ballroom dancing school, when heiresses seem much more his cup of — glass of champagne.’
‘Have you any other routes of enquiry? This Miss Phipps may prove a blind alley.’
‘Before I left Bigbury on Saturday, I made an arrangement with the man who is in charge of the hotel garage and chauffeur’s quarters. It cost a little, but I think it may be worth it. He is going to ring in whenever he sees Mr Seagrave’s Alvis. I’ve given him a description of both car and driver so he shouldn’t make any mistakes. Besides, Alvises aren’t exactly Morris Eights. They’re pretty thin on the ground down here. So I should be able to keep track of at least some of the times that Mr Seagrave is seeing Susan Prendergast.’
‘Is she pretty?’ Diana Travers asked, stubbing her cigarette into a Queen Mary Maiden Voyage ashtray.
I trod carefully. ‘She’s pleasant enough. Vivacity, I would say, was her main attraction.’
‘Seventeen, you say?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Michael will be hanging about outside schools soon.’
I made no comment, but went on, ‘Then I may have to pop up to London some time to acquaint myself a little with Seagrave’s background. I gather he was in rep in Bromley and also, I believe, in Croydon — my old home town.’
She ignored my homely remark. ‘I would have thought it was far more important for you to be spending your time in Devon, rather than running up big expenses going to London. It’s not so much Mr Seagrave’s background that needs looking into, as what he’s been doing round here. After all, he didn’t murder my sister in London, did he?’
‘A private investigator needs all the information he can get on a case, Miss Travers. Ninety-nine per cent of it may well be irrelevant but that one per cent —’
‘Don’t give me a lecture on detection, Mr Black. After all, I gather you have not been practising your profession all that long, have you? Lectures should only follow considerable experience, I would have thought.’
I didn’t rise to it. My sorely needed income from Miss Travers, once terminated, would also prevent my gaining any of that experience.
She rose from her chair and I took it as a signal that the audience was at an end. But, without warning, her mood totally changed. With a now alluring smile, she said, ‘Thank you, Mr Black. You seem to have made quite a promising start.’
I dipped my head and made to leave, but she went on, ‘I usually have some tea around this time. Would you care to stay and join me?’
As she was now standing between me and the door, and her invitation, whilst softly delivered, was accompanied by a look in her eyes that defied contradiction, I said, ‘Some tea would be very pleasant.’
And so it turned out to be. Between sips, Diana gave me a slight glimpse into her private life for the first time, and gushed on about the kind of friends she liked, honest and fearless, it would seem, and thus, rather thin on the ground — and how she hated parties of any kind, particularly of the weekend variety, as they brought out the worst in people didn’t I agree? I wasn’t sure I did, so parried the question with a smile. Thereafter followed her favourite films (strong dramas), actors (Colman, Cooper, Leslie Howard), and relaxations (tennis and croquet).
When I did at last manage to leave, I was more than intrigued as to why she had suddenly felt the need to turn on the charm.
Six
At the Friday morning’s hoofing lesson, the moustached John Thomas Conway at last made some headway. The ambitious Miss Phipps agreed to come to the cinema and have dinner with me that evening, ‘seeing as how you’re a gent and your fiancée is away for the weekend’. Whether, in her mind, she thought she might replace my fictitious fiancée, I did not know, but I certainly hoped the evening would end with some useful information, rather than endless embarrassment.
In the afternoon, I went over to see Bobby Briggs. He was armpit-deep in the bonnet of a crashed Avon Standard Ten, when I arrived.
‘Hello, Johnny’ he smiled. ‘I can guess why you’ve turned up.’ He wiped his greasy hands on an even greasier cloth.
‘Not sure you can,’ I replied, peering into the rather ritzy interior of the special bodied Standard.
He sniffed. ‘You’ve come to tell me you’ve worked off what Black Eye owed me. That’s it, isn’t it?’
I had to admit I hadn’t thought of that, my guilt towards him having obfuscated my mind about the duration of my sleuthing services — or, to be more currently accurate, non-services.
‘You’re right, Bobby,’ I invented quickly. ‘My observation on your wife’s activities really terminated yesterday afternoon.’
‘Well, thanks, Johnny, for what you’ve done. Must have been a boring old job keeping an eye on my old woman.’
I turned away, so he wouldn’t see my face.
‘Just sorry I didn’t turn up too much. I must say, your wife is a most industrious lady. Seems to me she’s always on the go. If it isn’t washing, it’s ironing, mangling, white-washing, black-leading, shopping. She hardly has time for anything else, I would have thought.’
‘But you said you saw a figure lurking one day?’
I shrugged. ‘Could have been anybody, couldn’t it? Poacher, tramp, trespasser, even the village idiot, for all I know.’ I grinned.
‘Your village got an idiot?’
‘Yes,’ he grinned back. ‘Me.’
‘You, an idiot, Bobby? Not in a month of Sundays.’
He put an arm on my shoulder.
‘Yes, I am. And you know I am, don’t you, Johnny?’
I didn’t like the tenor of the twinkle in his eye.
‘No, I —’
‘It’s all right, I don’t hold it against you.’
‘Hold what?’ I asked, but I was now rather afraid I knew.
He laughed. ‘My wife has told me everything. All about her arrangement with the errand boy and her other little arrangement with you, old lad.’
I could feel myself blushing.
‘I’m — er — sorry, Bobby, er ...’
‘No need to be sorry — except about your professional skills, of course. Fancy getting spotted by my wife so quickly. Just hope you’re cleverer with your other clients, that’s all. Otherwise, your Black Eye won’t even last the ruddy month out.’
I took his hand. ‘You’ve got a rare lady there, Bobby.’
‘That’s why I’m not annoyed with you, you idiot. You only met her once and I reckon you summed her up right on the button. She’s quite a one, my Ada. Taken her for granted all these years and then she comes up with a ruddy clever scheme like an imaginary Casanova. You have to hand it to her.’
I sighed with relief that the subterfuge was now over.
‘So she’s happier now, is she? I’m glad.’
He nodded. ‘The daft thing is, Johnny, so am I. I should have spared some time to go out with her right from the start, really. Think of all the ruddy years we’ve wasted, not going to the flicks or the beach or even out for a meal somewhere. No wonder we grew apart.’ He nudged me in the ribs. ‘Funny thing is, all our new outdoor activities haven’t half improved our indoor ones. Get my meaning, Johnny?’
I’d got his meaning and was glad. For both of them.
‘Bobby, I’m very pleased things are turning out so well. And when you want the money I owe you, just give the word, old chap.’
‘You’ve done more than enough, don’t worry.’ He winked. ‘What I’m getting now is worth more than a tenner.’
The time had now come to bring up the real reason for my visit. I pointed to the low cycle-winged sports car parked behind his office hut.
‘How’s the old Frazer-Nash going?’
‘Like a bird. Noisy one, mind you. But the racket’s half the fun of t
hose things. Like to have a look at it?’
We walked over to the car, its British racing green coachwork shimmering its shine back at us.
‘Simonized it yesterday, I did. Like ruddy new.’
I walked around it, taking particular note of the multi-spoked wire wheels with their projecting centre lock spinners.
‘Get in,’ Bobby urged. ‘You feel really something behind the wheel. King of the Road.’
I climbed over the cut-away sill, there being no doors, and eased myself in behind the large steering wheel. The bonnet ahead was shorter and much lower than I was used to with the La Salle, but the fold-flat windscreen was a joy.
‘Like it?’ he enthused.
I nodded, then looked back and down to my right. The knock-off spinner was clearly visible proud of the skimpy rear wing and I had visions of a long scarf being easily gobbled up by the wheel’s wire spokes.
I clambered out again and peered underneath the rear of the car on the passenger side. The chain-drive mechanism was quite evident but, as the inquest had reported, was much less likely to have caused the tragedy than the spinners in the wire wheels.
‘Bit old-fashioned, isn’t it?’ Bobby commented.
‘You’d think they’d have got round to prop-shafts and spiral-drive by now, wouldn’t you?’
‘Frazer-Nash are a bit like Morgan, I guess. Do things their own way.’
‘Don’t we all?’ he smirked.
I toyed with the outside handbrake and gear lever that sprouted from where the driver’s door would have been.
‘Haven’t found anything in the car, have you?’
The scrap dealer frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, any bits and pieces Seagrave might have left in it by accident.’
He thought for a second. ‘Not really. Just got the car, the instruction book, the log book and the original sales invoice from Torbay Motors,’ He grinned. ‘What did you expect me to find? Bits of scarf?’
‘No. Just wondered, that’s all. People do leave things in cars sometimes, when they sell them.’
He came up to me. ‘What’s your interest, Johnny?’
His eyes narrowed and he looked more like a bulldog than ever. ‘Oh, nothing,’ I shrugged.
‘Nothing, my eye,’ Bobby persisted. ‘I thought it was funny when you asked about the Frazer-Nash. Not your kind of car, this isn’t. Too ruddy stark and old-fashioned. You go more for the ultra-modern, don’t you, Johnny? Like that La Salle I sold you. Not this kind of iron hard, haemorrhoid special.’
I wondered how much I should tell him. I had toyed with involving Bobby Briggs before, because he, like Ted Shilling, knows most of what is going on in Torbay and the South Hams, legal or illegal. And thus could be a damned useful set of extra eyes and ears. Especially to a single-handed sleuth.
‘All right, Bobby. I’ll come clean. You’re right. I’m on a case. I want to find out as much about the previous owner of this car as I can.’
A slow smile softened his tough face.
‘Seagrave? Might have known it. Didn’t like the feel of him one bit. Though I got a good deal out of him, mind.’ His voice went to a whisper. What’s he been up to, then, Johnny? Or can I guess?’
I put my finger to my lips. ‘I think for the rest of this little tale, we’d better go to your office, old chap.’
We started walking over.
‘You mean my old scrapyard might have ears?’
‘Why not?’ I shrugged. ‘It’s got just about everything else.’
*
I kept my disclosures to the minimum and made him swear to keep his mouth shut. For it would be a disaster if word of my investigations got out. And probably not just for me.
All that Bobby Briggs really knew, by the time I took my leave, was that someone (unnamed) was employing me to double check on the facts of Deborah Seagrave’s death; and I let him live with his own assumption as to who my employer might be — Mrs Seagrave’s or someone else’s lawyers. For Bobby had jumped to his usual conclusion that money lies behind everything in the whole wide world; and thus that Deborah Seagrave’s will might have been a bone of contention amongst members other family and if they could hang something around her husband’s neck — like a noose — then they might be, as they say, quids in.
I myself left the scrapyard little wiser than when I had come. Not that I really expected much from examining the Frazer-Nash, for it had, no doubt, been gone over with a fine-tooth comb by the Devon constabulary many times and I had read their detailed evidence at the inquest from the files in the Torbay Express offices. That’s why I had not placed much priority on bothering Bobby Briggs about the matter before. But all the same, there’s nothing quite like seeing for yourself. And from the car’s seat, it was clear as daylight that, thousand to one shot that it might be, Deborah Seagrave’s death could have been caused by her scarf tangling in those spinning hubs.
When I got back to my office, there was, surprisingly, no sign of Babs around. I guessed Mr Ling was keeping her nose to the grindstone and her hands to packing and invoicing all his tin, Bakelite and celluloid Hong Kong novelties. Babs had presented me with an example that reposed on my windowsill — a tiny tinplate clockwork aeroplane, with an evil-smelling celluloid pilot sitting in the cockpit. ‘To remind you of your real lover,’ she had cooed. I thanked her for the thought, but added that I hoped I didn’t smell like that in my flying days; and that it wasn’t the reason my student lost all his senses and dived us both into terra ultra firma.
Whilst I was still gathering my thoughts, the phone rang. It was Tracy. She was staying in London and wanted an update on how I was doing. I gave her one, more or less, and she wished me luck on my date with Miss Phipps. I thanked her and she then added that she had just met a man who might be of some use to us.
‘A friend of mine wangled me an invitation to a reception Alexander Korda was giving at the Ritz for the cast of his new film, Fire over England. You should have been there, Johnny. Come to think of it, I take that back. If you had come, I might have missed out on meeting the most gorgeous hunk of man I’ve ever clapped eyes on.’
‘I don’t have an identical twin, old girl,’ I teased.
‘Shut up, darling. It was that Laurence Olivier. You know, the virile young actor who’s all the rage right now. Trouble was, I think he really had his eyes on someone else. Pretty girl I’ve never come across before. A Vivien somebody or other. Plays a lady-in-waiting or something in the film, with whom he’s supposed to have fallen in love.’
‘Okay, okay. But get to the point. Who is this man you met who might be useful?’
‘A Stanley Trenchard.’
‘He’s an actor?’
‘No, an agent. That’s the point. We got talking and, apparently, he took on Seagrave when he was only just nineteen. Thought he might have potential, with those looks and everything. When it soon proved his judgement was wrong, Trenchard dropped him.’
‘Bit long ago, isn’t it, all that?’
‘Might be. Who knows? But an interesting fact he let drop might help to explain Seagrave’s connection with Miss Phipps.’
‘Oh?’ I said, now genuinely interested. ‘Tell me more.’
‘When the agent discovered him, he wasn’t an actor at all.’
‘What was he?’
‘A professional dancer. He was paid to sit around in thés dansants ready to partner idle ladies like yours truly.’
I was silent for a moment, savouring this new piece in the jigsaw of Michael Seagrave. Then I asked, ‘When did Trenchard drop him from his books?’
‘About five years ago, I think.’
‘Just because he didn’t show any promise? With Seagrave’s Tyrone Power looks I would have thought a good agent, like Trenchard must be, could have made some money out of him — after all, Alex Korda doesn’t invite riff-raff to his parties.’
‘Well, I’m only passing on what he told me. Like me to try to make an appointment for us to see him?’
‘Yes, you and me. Tell you what, darling, if you popped up sometime over the weekend, we could possibly see him on Monday.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Unfortunately, with a rather snooty and excessively puritan aunt of mine in Chelsea. A family cross I have to bear, but luckily, only about once a year.’
‘If you can try to make it Monday, any time from two or so onwards, I’ll get up to London in the morning.’
She seemed a trifle disappointed that I was obviously not going to help her out with her aunt. But there were things I wanted to do with my cottage that had to be started sometime and the coming Sunday seemed like a good day.
‘All right, darling, see you then. Drive carefully.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of driving.’
There was silence for a second, then she said disbelievingly, ‘Johnny, you’re not thinking of doing anything as stuffy and old-fashioned as coming by train, are you?’
‘No, old girl,’ I replied jauntily. ‘I’m going to try to cadge a lift on a plane.’
*
Daphne Phipps, given a choice of Barbara Stanwyck in King Vidor’s Stella Dallas and Ronald Colman in Lost Horizon annoyingly chose the former. Still, I suppose it was just as well. My moustache would have featured in the latter.
After the show, I took her to a small restaurant where I knew I was unlikely to meet any of my friends. All through dinner, however, she insisted on reliving the film and enthusing over Barbara Stanwyck’s performance — an actress Daphne obviously found much to her taste, being gutsy, ambitious and very certain of where she wished to go in life. So it was a long and rather tedious time before I could get her back to reality. In fact, we were at the coffee and brandy stage by then and she was starting to show some of the effects of the alcohol with which I had continually plied her. Her green eyes had exchanged excitement for a kind of tired sensuality and her thoughts were certainly not as marshalled and sequential as they normally were.
‘I like a happy ending,’ she sighed. ‘Life should always have a happy ending, don’t you think so?’
Black Eye (A Johnny Black Mystery) Page 8
