She looked puzzled, then after looking me up and down, invited me in, apologizing for the smell of fish that permeated the place.
‘I’m cooking my husband’s supper. He loves a bit of steamed fish, he does, when he comes home.’
We went into the parlour. The black-leaded grate shone like a guardsman’s boots. She took a huge black bundle of fur, that turned out to be a cat, off a chair. His green eyes flashed their anger at his displacement for a stranger. Mrs Phipps perched on the arm of the chair opposite.
‘Now what’s this about my Daphne? You say she’s been away from work?’
I nodded. ‘Yes. I just wondered if you knew when she might be returning.’
She rubbed her work-worn hands together.
‘I didn’t know she had been away. You see, we haven’t got a phone and our Daphne isn’t much of a one for putting pen to paper.’
Frowning, she went on, ‘Anyway, Mr Conway, why did you come to us? I mean Mr Feather or that Mrs Lovelock, her landlady, would know better when she’ll be back, wouldn’t they? And how did you get our address? Did Daphne give it to you?’
The last statement was spoken with a high degree of disbelief.
I was about to give a hesitant and hedging reply, having no wish to worry the mother prematurely, when I suddenly had the urge to come clean as to who I was. I put my hand to my lip and winced, as I tore off my moustache.
‘Look, I’m very sorry,’ I said quickly, as Mrs Phipps put her hand to her neck in amazement. ‘I have misled you. My name isn’t Conway. It’s Black, Johnny Black. No don’t be alarmed, please.’ I handed her my card. ‘I run a detective agency in Torquay called Black Eye and I urgently need to get in touch with your daughter.’
Her mouth fell open. ‘What’s she done wrong? What’s my Daphne — ?’
‘Nothing,’ I cut in. ‘Absolutely nothing. It’s not anything your daughter’s done. The case I’m working on is about someone I think your daughter has been meeting recently.’
‘A man?’ her mother asked, her intonation hardly praising the male as a species.
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. A man.’ I leaned forward towards her. ‘Now, has Daphne recently told you anything about going out with a man with a considerable amount of money?’
I followed her nervous glance across the tiny room. On a table in the corner lay a handbag.
‘Well, er, I don’t know whether I should say. Oh, I do wish Mr Phipps was home. He’d know how to —’
‘Look, Mrs Phipps, this is very important. You must tell me. What do you know about this man? It may be vital to my case.’
She started to bite at a nail. ‘Oh dear, I don’t know what to say. Really I don’t.’
I pointed to her handbag. ‘Has Daphne sent you some money recently?’
I could see my guess had been spot on.
‘Oh dear, oh dear ...’
‘She has, hasn’t she? A lot of money?’
‘Please, Mr Black, are you sure our Daphne hasn’t done anything wrong?’
‘Sure,’ I had to lie.
She took a deep breath. ‘Well then, I got a letter from her about ten days ago, I suppose it was. I wasn’t half surprised. She doesn’t write normally more than once in a blue moon, as I told you.’
She got up from the chair arm, walked slowly over to her handbag and picked it up.
‘But that wasn’t the big surprise, Mr Black. When I opened it, you could have knocked me down with a feather.’
She opened the handbag and took out a bundle of notes. They were white and neatly folded.
‘These were inside, see. Well, one more than I’ve got here, to tell the honest truth. Mr Phipps and I spent most of one of them the other day on a gramophone. For Daphne really, when she comes to visit. She does so like to listen to records and we thought it might save her being bored, you see.’
She unfolded the notes. There were four left. So Daphne had sent her parents the princely sum of twenty-five pounds. No wonder her mother’s first assumption had been that it was her daughter who had done something wrong.
She looked up at me. ‘I felt guilty the moment they arrived, I did. But Mr Phipps, he laughed at me. “Take ’em, old girl,” he said. ‘‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” he said. “Depends what the horse has done to get ’em,” I told him. But he laughed again and said that what our Daphne had written in the letter was probably God’s own truth.’
‘What had she said, Mrs Lovelock?’
‘That she was going out with some fellow who had taken a real fancy to her. And that he was “loaded with money” — those were her exact words — and that twenty-five pounds to him was just a drop in the sea and there’d be more where that came from.’
‘And that was all she said?’
‘Yes, as far as I can remember. I haven’t got the letter any more. I threw it on the fire a day or two back.’
She suddenly came right up to my chair. ‘’Ere, Mr Black, I’ve just remembered. You didn’t answer my question a little while back, did you? About why you’ve come all the way out here rather than making enquiries round Torquay. Mr Feather would probably have given you the name and address of Daph’s landlady. I mean, she might be ill in bed or anything, mightn’t she?’
I could see from her eyes she knew she was wishful thinking. So I had, reluctantly, to tell her that it wasn’t just work to which Daphne had not returned.
She subsided into a chair.
‘Oh, my Lord,’ she gasped, biting the knuckle other finger. ‘I know what she must have done. What Mr Phipps will say, I just dread to think.’
‘H’mmm?’ was all I could think to say.
‘She’s run off with him without a word to no one. That’s it, right enough. She’s gone and run off.’ She looked across at me. ‘She was always headstrong, Mr Black. Always knew better than her old mum and dad. Wouldn’t take no advice, never. And I know why she’s not getting in touch. Because she’s ashamed of what she’s done, that’s why. She’s too ruddy afraid of what we might say.’
She stopped to bite a nail, then concluded, ‘And he won’t respect her for it, he won’t. No man does. He’ll love her and leave her, he will, once he’s had his way with her. Oh, silly, silly, silly girl. The way to get any man to the altar is to make ’em wait for it.’
She blushed, as she realised the strength of her feelings had made her forget she was talking to a stranger.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Black, for talking this way. But I know the truth of it, you see. I’ve seen enough of life. Daphne hasn’t, whatever she may think. Maybe, one day, she’ll learn after she’s left high and dry by some man or other ...’
Soon afterwards, I left the house, with her illusions still intact. I did not dare share my more terrible fears — that Daphne Phipps’ learning days might well be over, at least in the world we mortals know.
Eight
‘Things going wrong, Johnny?’
I looked up at Babs, who was making her third little visit that morning.
‘What makes you think they are?’
‘Each time I’ve popped by today, you’ve looked so — well, down in the dumps.’
I put on a smile.
‘No, things are fine, Babs. I’ve just got my thinking cap on, that’s all. It’s a tight fit. Always makes me frown.’
She giggled and it was nice to hear. I needed a lorry load of giggles right then. For Daphne’s disappearance and what I had learned from her mother the previous evening had certainly put a giant-sized dampener on my spirits. On the drive back from Plymouth, I had been tempted to involve the police right away, but the cold light of morning had exposed the frailty of my case only too well. For, after all, what could I prove? Nothing, as yet. I couldn’t even demonstrate that Seagrave was actually the man that Daphne had told me about, let alone the man off-loading the fivers, in return for ...? There, I don’t even know that. It could just as well have been for her favours as for her silence. And if it was the latter, what was she being paid for
being silent about? I had no evidence that she knew anything about Seagrave’s wife’s death. What’s more, if my suspicions were totally wrong and Daphne eventually turned up safe and well, having gone off with some other fellow, as her mother had suggested, then there would be not only egg on my face, but big black blotches all over Daphne’s personal reputation. The latter I certainly did not want and the former would hardly be the greatest launch in the world for Black Eye of Torquay.
‘Still, anything I can do for you?’ Babs went on, hopefully.
‘What about Mr Ling?’
‘He’s always getting colic.’
‘Must be the chink in his armour,’ I grinned.
She didn’t even blink. ‘What must be?’
‘His stomach.’
‘Oh, yes, I suppose it must. Not surprising though, the rubbish I’ve seen him eat. Sweet and sour this, chow mein that and little wriggly things’ She stopped as she saw me get up from my desk.
‘You off now, Johnny?’ she asked, her big eyes fluttering her disappointment.
‘Yes, Babs, it’s high time for me to take the stage once more,’ I replied in a dramatically actor-manager manner.
She frowned.
‘Don’t worry, Babs,’ I laughed. ‘I’m only popping round to the Drake Theatre.’
‘Coo, what are you going to see?’
‘A dancer’s friend,’ I said.
She thought for a second. ‘Haven’t heard of that one. Anyway, best of luck in getting tickets for it.’
‘Thanks,’ I smiled. ‘Right now, I need every ounce of luck I can get.’
*
To my relief, just one ounce did come my way. The theatre was open and the company was in rehearsal on stage. Directly I dropped the magic name of Tubby Trouncer, the stage doorman let me in and I walked around the back of the stage and down the side stairs into the modest auditorium.
The scene took me back to my brief days treading the boards, but it was only memory working, not the pull of nostalgia. For I had never been drawn to acting for acting’s sake, but only as a fairly simple means of filling in time between my crash and my eventual resurrection. I understand the appeal of grease-paint and the roar of the crowd (in my case the latter was usually only a desultory handclap) but I suppose I’m nowhere near narcissistic enough myself either to need them or revel in them. So I was glad enough to pack it all in, once I had worked out what my resurrection was finally going to be.
I sat down quietly in a back seat. In front of me I could see the unmistakable dumpy silhouette of Tubby Trouncer bouncing away trying to get some sense into the still hesitant movements of the actors on stage. It was obviously only day one or two of rehearsal of a new farce of the Ben Travers variety — notoriously difficult to mount without the comic genius of a Robertson Hare or Jack Hulbert. By the end of quarter of an hour, I felt distinctly sorry for my old friend.
At the first real break, as the actors and actresses shuffled off stage, I moved forward and tapped on Tubby’s rounded shoulder. It took a second for him to recognise me in the dim light.
‘My God, it’s you, Johnny.’ He clasped me by the arm. ‘Don’t tell me, you’re fancying the old footlights again.’
I shook my head. ‘No, I’m letting others have a bit of a chance. Wouldn’t be fair on people like Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud and Robert Donat, for me to return, would it?’
He laughed uproariously, then led me to the end of the row of seats to stand in the aisle.
‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Johnny, old lad?’ I kept my explanation to the minimum. He already knew about Black Eye, of course. He had even seen my advertisement in the paper.
‘So you wonder if I’ve got a Henry in my company?’
I nodded.
‘So that you can ask him some questions about a young lady who is involved in the case you’re working on?’
‘Right again.’
His normally jocular expression turned serious for a moment. ‘This Henry of yours is not up to his little ears in something naughty, naughty, is he? Because I’ll tell you, Johnny, I can’t afford to lose any member of my company right now, friend or no friend.’
I didn’t rise to his question. ‘So you’ve got a Henry,’ I smiled.
‘Two, in fact, old love. But only one a young lady would deign to go out with. The other is seventy-two and would love to oblige, but time has rather robbed him of what little magic he might once have possessed.’
‘I think it’s the first,’ I said.
He gripped my arm. ‘Scout’s honour, you’re not going to get him into trouble?’
I gave the salute. He returned it the wrong way round, then pointed back stage.
‘You will find him in the big dressing-room with the boys. He’s wearing a tweed jacket and corduroys. Name of Henry Swindon. You can’t miss him. Brushes his hair forward to hide his bald patch.’
He bustled down the aisle and up the stage steps ahead of me. ‘But you’ve only got ten minutes, mind, old love. I need him in the next scene. Oh, and you can use my office, if you like. Swindon will show you.’
And with that, he exited stage left, every jaunty step of his reminding me of James Cagney. I exited via the door at the back of the set — a manor-house style library — and instantly regretted it. How was I to know I would trip over the maid necking with the butler?
*
‘Yes, I’ve been out with her, so what?’
His eyes flitted nervously around the office, its walls lined with framed and signed photographs of minor stage stars.
‘The “so what’’ is where has she gone, Mr Swindon?’
He re-crossed his legs, rasping the corduroy of his trousers. ‘How should I know? I’m not Daphne Phipps’ keeper, am I?’
I tried to soften his defensive tone.
‘But you’re her friend, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, well,’ he cleared his throat, ‘she’s got other friends, you know?’
I leaned forward in my chair.
‘Look, Mr Swindon, I haven’t come here to accuse you of anything―’
‘I should ruddy well hope not.’
‘I just want to ask you a few questions about Miss Phipps, that’s all.’
‘Who asked you to?’
I thought quickly. ‘Her friend at the dancing school, Dolly Randan. She’s worried about what might have happened to her. That’s all.’
‘Oh. Her,’ he said, with a certain amount of disdain and I could see he was trying to work out what the likes of me was doing with the likes of her, as they say.
‘Well, fire away. I’m back on in a minute.’
‘Okay, I’ll make it brief,’ I said firmly. ‘Question one. Do you have any idea of where Daphne Phipps could have gone?’
He shook his head, then checked his bald patch cover had not been shifted by the movement.
‘No. I mean Daphne is a pretty impulsive girl. She could be anywhere. Doing anything. With anybody, for that matter.’
‘So you’re not worried?’
‘Not really. It’s too early yet — a couple of days or so. Maybe I will be after a week.’
‘Question two. Has she told you anything about a supposedly rich man she’s been seeing recently?’
I noticed his hesitation.
‘Daphne has lots of friends, I’m sure, that she keeps from me.’
I looked him directly in the eyes, which he averted instantly.
‘Are you saying she has told you or hasn’t told you anything?’
‘Use your imagination, Mr Black. Would a girl be likely to tell one boyfriend about another boyfriend — especially if the first just scrapes a living as an actor and the other is loaded to the skies? Daphne wasn’t that cruel, you know. Ambitious, but not a bitch.’
I passed on.
‘Question number three. Have you noticed any signs recently that Daphne has, shall we say, come into a little money?’
For a second, annoyance flicked across his clean-cut but ra
ther weak features. But he was the master of instant recovery.
‘Hardly,’ he smiled. ‘Daphne has about as much chance of coming into money, as I have of being chosen by Lilian Bayliss to play Hamlet at her Old Vic.’
‘Maybe,’ I persevered. ‘But that doesn’t mean to say that a little bit of someone else’s money might not have ...’ I was going to say rubbed off on her, but hesitated and changed to ‘... come her way.’
‘You’re back to this rich fellow you harped on earlier?’
I nodded. He shrugged.
‘As I told you, who am I to know?’
‘I thought you and Daphne are pretty close friends.’
‘She doesn’t tell me everything, any more than I do her. We’re not married, you know.’ He looked at his watch. I was amused to see it was marked ‘Aeroplane’. I had seen them advertised in flying magazines ― five shillings down or twenty-five shillings cash. ‘I must be going. Mr Trouncer despises lateness.’
He rose from his chair.
‘One last question, Mr Swindon.’
‘Better be short.’
‘It is.’ I too got up. ‘How can you afford to run a car on what Mr Trouncer must pay you?’
Now anger did flood his face and stay there.
‘What the hell’s that got to do with you?’ He strode to the office door, then turned. ‘If you want to know, Mr Nosey Parker, the car you are no doubt talking about was bought by three of us in the company, pooling every ruddy penny we’ve got. Twenty-seven pounds, ten shillings. And we take our turns in using it for our dates. That satisfy you?’
The slamming of the door would have precluded a reply, even if I’d had one ready.
*
I just did not believe the scene when I arrived back at my office. I well nigh walked out again, thinking it must be some nightmare or I must have come to the wrong address. But Babs ran up to me and confirmed that it was all only too real.
‘It’s all my fault, Johnny,’ she gasped.
I tried again to open my office door fully, but it would not budge past the nearest of what seemed like a mountain of packing cases stacked inside.
Black Eye (A Johnny Black Mystery) Page 11
