I nodded. ‘Yours will, Daphne, don’t worry.’ I then smiled, ‘Just be careful of us men, that’s all. Don’t want to risk ending up with a rotter, do you?’
‘Rotter?’ She swirled her brandy in her glass. ‘You’re not a rotter, are you?’
‘Hope not. But there are quite a few about, you know.’
‘You don’t need to tell me about that, Tom. Meet all sorts in my job, I do. Nice ones, nasty ones, decent ones, dirty ones ...’
‘How did you meet that fellow you told me about? The one with a bit of money, who takes you to the Imperial sometimes.’
‘Oh, him.’ She shook her head. ‘No, not through dancing. No, he’s no need to come to a place like ours. Dances like a dream, he does ... er ... or so I’m told.’
I couldn’t figure whether her last comment was to conceal she had in fact danced with him, or was, in fact, the truth.
‘Your fiancée — what was her name again? Rebecca, that’s it — is she a good dancer?’
I nodded. ‘Very good. Loves it.’ I looked hard into those green eyes. ‘Always dragging me off in the afternoon to thé dansant, that kind of thing. That’s why she said I should have lessons, so that I could keep up with her.’
‘Funny that, my friend used to be a —’ She stopped suddenly. ‘Oh, never mind.’
‘No, go on.’
She shook her head. ‘No. Not important.’ This time she looked me in the eyes. ‘Do you mind me asking you something?’
‘Try me.’
‘Well, you don’t strike me as the kind of man who would come to a place like ours.’ She grinned into her brandy. ‘Or be dragged around by no girl, fiancée or not. It’s been bothering me ever since I laid eyes on you. So what —’
I didn’t like the way the conversation was going, so I cut in, ‘That’s what I meant earlier about the male species — appearances can be deceptive.’
‘All the same —’ she sipped her drink reflectively.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I take it this fellow of yours isn’t the type to be dragged around either. Or is he?’
‘Not ruddy likely. He knows where he’s going, he does. Nothing would stop him doing what he wants.’
‘What does he do for a living? I mean, where does his money come from?’
She looked at me suspiciously. ‘Oh, he — er — inherited most of it.’
‘Lucky man. Must be very nice to have had rich parents.’
‘No, it’s nothing like that. He’s had to work.’ She stopped and found refuge in her brandy.
‘But I thought you said he’d inherited money?’
She put down her glass. ‘Now, Tom, don’t let’s keep talking about my friends, for goodness’ sake.’ Her eyelids fluttered. ‘After all, I don’t keep asking you about yours, do I? Fact, I don’t wanna know. I like to think of you as, well, sort of unattached, like.’
She extended a hand towards my face. I drew back a little, in case her fingers found the secret of my moustache.
‘You know something, Tom, you’re quite a handsome chap. Do you know that?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’
Scarlet tips brushed my cheek.
‘I like handsome men. My friend is ever so good looking too. But in a different sort of way. But there I go again. Talking about him, when I’ve just ticked you off for the very same thing.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind.’
Her hand thankfully receded, as she looked appraisingly at me. ‘You know something, Tom? Maybe you’d look even more dashing clean shaven, despite what I said the other day.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. Most people tell me I look better.’
The hand returned and, calamity, closed over my upper lip. The green eyes scrutinized my face.
‘There. Let me see ... yes ... definitely. You’d definitely look better without it. I know it. You’re the open-air type. Moustaches like that are more for gigolos and fancy men, actors ... that kind of person.’
I didn’t dare tell her how very accurate her last named was, but gently took her hand down from my lip.
She frowned. ‘Ever so stiff, that.’
‘What?’
‘Your moustache. I’ve felt other men’s and they haven’t been as stiff as that.’
‘Virile hair,’ I grinned sheepishly. ‘Runs in the family. You could have brushed out a stable with my father’s moustache.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, you are a one, Tom. I like a man with a sense of humour. That’s the only thing about my friend —’ She stopped once more, so I helped her.
‘He hasn’t got one?’
She shrugged, then looked at her watch. ‘Cor, it’s almost midnight. I’ll have to go. My landlady locks up at twelve.’
She took hold of my hand across the table and squeezed it affectionately. ‘I’d like to invite you back, but she would throw me out. She’s ever so strict.’
‘That’s all right, Daphne,’ I smiled, then added, ‘Must annoy your friend that, doesn’t it?’
‘Not really. He takes me to a ho ...’ Her caution fought the drink and, unfortunately, won. She raised my hand to her lips and kissed it softly.
‘Thanks a lot, Tom, for this evening. It’s been lovely, it really has.’
‘A pleasure. You filled in beautifully for Rebecca.’
She kissed my hand again and looked at me, her eyes now soft and sad.
‘Did I really? You know, I don’t think I’d mind doing that again, if you’d like. You’re ever so nice, Tom.’
‘But what about your friend?’
She seemed not far from tears, as she answered, ‘I don’t think Michael would really care. That’s the awful shame.’
She did not seem aware she had let slip his name.
‘Oh, he must —’ I began, but she continued, her voice now beginning to break.
‘No, Tom, his trouble is he’s too much in love with himself to bother too much about anybody else.’
I signalled to the waiter and quickly paid the bill. We walked slowly up the street, her head resting against my shoulder, to where she lived about Riviera Modes, ‘the smartest dress shop this side of Bristol’. As she was about to put her key in the door, she suddenly turned and threw her arms around my neck.
‘Tom, you will be my friend, won’t you?’ she asked, her voice strangely desperate, as if pleading for help.
I hugged her for a moment and then said quietly, ‘Of course I will, Daphne. Promise.’ I tilted up her chin. ‘You’re afraid of something, aren’t you? Please tell me. I might be able to help.’
She looked up at me, then closed her eyes.
‘No ... no ... I’m not. I’m sorry, I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’
She moved away from me and back to the door.
‘Daphne ...’ I started.
She looked round and on her cheek a tear glistened in the light from the street lamp.
‘... be careful.’
She took a deep breath and forced a jaunty smile.
‘Always careful, aren’t I? Us hoofers can’t afford to be anything else. Never put a foot wrong, that’s our motto.’
She blew a kiss and was gone.
As I walked back to my La Salle, I prayed fervently that Daphne Phipps would live up to her motto.
*
I looked out of the inverted triangle of my window. But the sharply tapering lower wing cut off most of the view of the ground. Even so, I thanked my lucky stars that a flying chum of mine at Plymouth aerodrome had been able to wangle me a free RAS (Railway Air Services) ticket to Croydon. For, at least, I was airborne again, even though, damn it, I wasn’t in the green leather pilot’s seat I could see ahead of me.
We hit a thermal as we banked out over the sea and the Dragon Rapide creaked and vibrated its reception. A middle-aged passenger alongside me gripped the side of the seat in front with white knuckles. How could I tell him that the motion of the air was as natural as the motion of the sea, only, for me, a thousand times more exhilarating, more poetic.
He smiled at me nervously. ‘Noisy beast, isn’t it?’ he said to cover his embarrassment.
‘A little,’ I said and turned back to the window.
For again, to me, the pervading beat of the Gypsy Queens that filled the cabin was nearer Beethoven than a bugbear and I relished every crescendo, as the throttle settings were changed in the climb.
Very soon, however, at around eighteen hundred feet, we were in the cloud that had threatened since dawn, and even the very limited view I had enjoyed before disappeared, as if in wisps of silken wool. Though slightly disappointed that the world was no longer spread out below me, I at least found some solace in my cocooned state ― I had a little time to think and in my very favourite environment. I hoped the latter, as it had on many previous occasions, might prove an inspiration. I certainly needed some bolt from the blue, or on that day, I guess, grey.
We landed at Croydon just before noon, neither late nor early, as the flight was unscheduled. Normally, the Rapide, after its stop at Bristol, would have flown north to Birmingham and then on to Liverpool. But on that day, as luck would have it, that particular plane was being exchanged at Croydon for an ex-imperial Airways Rapide that was joining the RAS fleet. Hence the chance of a free ride for yours truly.
Tracy picked me up in her SS 100 and, bless her, had brought a spare flying helmet and goggles for our mad-cap dash, top and windscreen down, into central London. Being driven by Tracy was certainly the next best thing to open cockpit flying; and I had not a moment of fear with her capable hands at the wheel. For has she not, on more than one occasion, won the Women’s Open Race at dear old Brooklands, I told myself.
We grabbed a speedy lunch in a favourite haunt of Tracy’s in Knightsbridge, during which we mainly discussed my rather enigmatic employer. Tracy was as non-plussed as I was by her abrupt change of mood that afternoon. I added that Diana Travers was still oozing charm when I had telephoned in my promised twice weekly progress report on Saturday evening, despite the fact that I had discovered nothing very concrete or convicting.
‘Maybe she’s fallen for your own very distinct charms,’ Tracy smiled. ‘After all, she doesn’t seem to have a suitor at the moment, as far as I can tell.’
‘Heaven preserve me,’ I laughed, crossing myself.
‘You’re being unkind, Johnny. She’s quite a looker in my book. And she’s not exactly on her uppers. You could do a lot worse.’ She raised her wine glass and grinned. ‘Mind you, you could do a lot better.’
We clinked glasses. ‘Let’s drink to that,’ I laughed. ‘There’s something about Diana Travers that’s not quite ... right, somehow, and I get a feeling she knows a good bit more about this whole affair than she’s letting on.’
‘Because you saw Seagrave’s Alvis leaving that morning?’
‘Not just that.’
She leaned forward at the table. ‘Come on, Johnny, I know that look. What do you know that I don’t?’
I recounted the telephone call I’d had from my actor friend in London, and his revelation that Seagrave had often been seen with Diana Travers a few years ago, and that many people were surprised when they learnt he was to marry her sister and not her.
She sat stock still, more than a little stunned.
‘Good Lord,’ she gasped, then added, ‘Have you told Diana you know?’
I shook my head. ‘No. I think it better that she tells me first.’
‘Maybe she never will.’
‘Maybe.’
She thought for a moment.
‘Maybe she hasn’t told you because it’s totally irrelevant to the question of whether Seagrave murdered her sister or not.’
‘Maybe. And maybe because it is wholly relevant to the case. After all, it could provide a motive for her to kill her sister, couldn’t it?’
‘You’re joking, Johnny,’ Tracy exploded. ‘I know Diana at least well enough to know she’s no murderess. Anyway, the whole thought is preposterous.’
‘Is it? Think of it this way: Diana might not have intended to kill her sister. They could have had a hell of a quarrel and, in some kind of jealous brainstorm —’
She shook her head. ‘And you mean to say that Michael Seagrave concocted the car accident to protect Diana? I can’t believe it. From all accounts, he doesn’t come over as the kind of guy who would help anybody but himself. Anyway, if it were true and he is protecting her, why the blazes is she employing a private eye to prove that he did the murder? Wouldn’t she just let the whole affair end with the inquest findings?’
I looked hard at her. ‘Come on, Tracy, you know exactly why. She may never have forgiven him for what he did to her.’
‘Johnny, thousands of women have actually been jilted at the altar and not resorted to murder or mayhem, for goodness’ sake. Besides, from what you say, she wasn’t even engaged to him. They were just friends.’
‘All the same,’ I started, but then stopped.
Tracy smiled seductively. ‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you, my darling. Now, if only you’d do that a little more often with me, then ...’
I glanced at my watch, then got up to pay the bill. ‘... then Johnny wouldn’t be a dull boy?’
She joined me and linked arms. ‘We ought to go and see that agent. There’ll be time afterwards to test your imagination.’
‘I thought you said you were staying with a strict and bible-thumping aunt?’
She kissed me on the cheek. ‘I am. But she announced this morning that she would be out this afternoon and evening attending a Temperance rally in Aldershot. We’ll have her place to ourselves, my darling, so start buffing up your — whatever you need to buff up.’
‘My last train back leaves at seven thirty.’
‘A sleeper?’
‘Don’t think so.’
She narrowed her beautiful eyes. ‘What a pity, darling. I have a feeling you may find it a rather tiring afternoon.’
*
Stanley Trenchard’s offices in Wardour Street were somewhat of a disappointment, for I guess I had been expecting something akin to a set out of a Hollywood musical, all glass, white paint, chrome trimming and ultra-modern curved furniture. But the curves were restricted to a secretary who looked like Bebe Daniels, the rest being distinctly nineteenth century and about as dramatic and exciting as an accountant’s mind.
However, the man himself made up for it more than somewhat, being larger than life-size in almost every way. He must have weighed eighteen stone without his beard, and reminded me strongly of Charles Laughton in The Private Life of Henry VIII. Maybe, as a friend of Korda, he took pains to accentuate the resemblance.
We got through the introductory pleasantries in next to no time, Tracy seeming to want to propel the meeting along at a rate of knots for reasons I could guess only too well.
‘So, Mr Black, what can I do for you?’ He placed his hands together in front of him, like a Buddha idol.
‘Tell me about Michael Seagrave.’
‘Oh, I hope you won’t find your visit to London too disappointing, Mr Black, for I don’t know that much about him. And what I do know is pretty old hat by now. I know next to nothing of his recent life, beyond what Miss Spencer-King has told me.’
‘No, it’s his background that I’m more interested in, Mr Trenchard.’
‘Well, where would you like to begin?’
‘At the beginning, when you first met him.’
He glanced at Tracy. ‘I’ve told Miss Spencer-King some of this already. I apologize for any repetition.’
She smiled her forgiveness and he began.
‘I first met Michael Seagrave some years ago in a hotel in Brighton, where I was staying ...’ He stopped awkwardly, then added, ‘... with my wife and, er, there was this very handsome young man obviously employed by the hotel as a professional dancing partner for unescorted ladies at the thé dansant and in the ballroom of an evening.
‘His dark good looks certainly seemed to command interest from the female g
uests, so, at the end of the weekend, I approached him and asked if he had ever thought of becoming an actor. Well, he expressed some interest in the idea, so I left him my card. When the summer season was over, he turned up at these offices to see me and, to cut a long story short, I took him on my books.
‘He was, as I remember, almost twenty then and I managed to get him a few non-speaking roles in various second features and the odd part in provincial rep. But somehow, he did not seem to attract the attention of those who matter in this business, nor quite have the impact that his looks really promised.’
Trenchard shrugged. ‘Maybe he didn’t work at it enough. Or people were put off a little by his manner. I found he tended to lord it a little and he really did not have the experience to justify such an attitude. And he was very impatient too. Always berating me for not landing him star parts from day one. Michael Seagrave was a young man in a hurry and he thought I was being dozy.’
‘Did he make any particular friends at that time?’
His moon face broke into a sly smile. ‘Lady friends, do you mean?’
‘Yes. Or any others that spring to mind.’
‘Young Michael, I’m afraid, was more successful with the ladies than with us men. Men just didn’t seem to go for him. Maybe they saw him as too much of a rival, I don’t know. Anyway, he more than made up for it with the ladies, from all accounts. I’ve had more than one actress sobbing over him in this very office, I can tell you.’
‘He loved them and left them?’
He nodded. ‘Occasionally, they left him, I suppose, when they discovered his true nature.’
‘Remember any in particular?’
‘Not that would interest you, I would have thought.’ He fingered his beard. ‘There was one, though.’
‘What happened? Do you remember her name?’
‘Yes,’ he said reflectively. ‘She was one of Cochrane’s young ladies, in the chorus. Cute little thing. Nifty at tap.’
‘Was? Do you mean she is no longer on the stage, or what?’
‘No longer doing anything, I’m afraid. She took her own life. Electric heater in the bath. Soon after Michael and she split up, apparently.’
‘Because of that?’
‘Maybe. Who knows? Who knows?’
Black Eye (A Johnny Black Mystery) Page 9
