Stephen felt himself winded. The house he had grown up in – for sale! It was inconceivable to him. How like his father to introduce such a bombshell with ‘by the way’ . . . The boiled potato was still on his fork, his hand for the present immobilised.
‘Are you – I mean – is this really a good idea?’
‘Yes, while I’m still able to move, it is. I’ve been thinking about Sussex – a little place near Arundel. Walking on the Downs, bit of golf, sea air and all that.’ Into the silence left by his son he added, ‘You can always visit, of course! It’s beautiful countryside around there.’
Stephen was shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe you want to . . . The house must mean –’ But what did the house mean, beyond his own reverence of its memories, and of a vigil kept while his mother faded away? His father had lived in Addison Road for over forty years, and if he was as reconciled to abandoning the place as he seemed why should it be such a wrench for him? He didn’t know why, but he felt a shiver in his bones that might have been a forewarning of age, or of death itself.
Mr Wyley, seeing the mournful attitude into which Stephen had sunk, took on a consoling tone. ‘Don’t be glum about it, old chap. You know it was never the same place after she was gone.’
On that point he couldn’t disagree, and eventually they talked of something else.
The address was a cobbled mews off Berwick Street. Warehouses of blackened brick hedged it about on three sides, blocking most of the grey November light. Spotting a suite of garages at the end, Tom puffed out his cheeks. This would be the fifth they had seen since Monday.
He turned to Jimmy. ‘So he said he’d be here?’
They ambled up to the row of garages, wooden half-doors indicating their former use as stables. There was nobody about. Tom called out a tentative Hullo? and knocked on one of the windows. With any luck the vendor had forgotten all about it and they could go home instead.
Behind them a door opened; and from one of the mews flats they had walked past a man emerged. He was shrugging on a jacket over his violet-coloured shirt and patterned tie.
‘Gents,’ he said, with a lift of his chin, ‘come to see the motor?’
Jimmy agreed that they had, and following a brief introduction, the man unlocked one of the garage doors and invited them within. A heady stench of petrol and burnt dust assailed their nostrils. He snapped on a light, and they beheld a car, or rather the shape of a car, modestly shrouded in a dust sheet. Sliding it away he revealed the long-winged body of a drophead Bentley, its sober dark green coachwork a foil to the impudent brightness of the red leather trim. For a moment no one said anything. To Tom it looked like the sort of car you could only drive at Le Mans, preferably wearing goggles and a white scarf.
‘Good Lord,’ said Jimmy.
‘A beauty, isn’t she?’ said the man, with a smirk. ‘A 1928 Bentley Vanden Plas, six-and-a-half litre. Four-speed manual gearbox, six-cylinder engine. Runs like a dream.’
‘It’s enormous,’ said Tom. ‘Are the brakes all right?’
The man stared at him as if he were simple. ‘Course they are. Why wouldn’t they be?’
Tom didn’t care for his tone, but said nothing. He walked around the vehicle, pretending an air of one who knew what was what, while Jimmy amused himself with an anecdote about the first time he had ridden in a Bentley (a jaunt on the Côte d’Azur, as he recalled) and the close shave his party had had on a narrow mountain road. By the end of it Tom could see that the man was perfectly indifferent to Jimmy and his story; he didn’t look a type susceptible to charm. His only object was to sell them the motor.
‘This model costs £2,800 when new,’ he drawled. ‘The one you’re lookin’ at’s done a few miles but it’s still bright as a new tack. I don’t see it going for less than £425.’
Jimmy squinted at him. ‘We have to take the lady out before we start haggling over the bill, Mr – erm . . .’
‘Astill. Call me Roddy.’ He fished in his pocket and plucked out the keys, dangling them in front of Jimmy like a hypnotist with a watch. ‘Take her for a spin, why don’tcha?’
‘My, um, associate will take care of them,’ said Jimmy, who had just managed to stop himself calling Tom his ‘chauffeur’. Roddy, glancing at the designated driver, lobbed the keys across the bonnet to him. The offhandedness of this did not impress the catcher. Tom decided he would treat the fellow with the aloofness he deserved, and got into the driver’s seat without comment. Jimmy climbed in next to him, and after some puzzled hesitation over the dashboard, they were off.
It was getting on for five o’clock as they turned onto Regent Street. It was the hour the West End took on a glistening look, the street lamps and the shop windows all lit up against the mauve dusk. People were flocking home and the pubs were about to open, and newsvendors cawed the late editions at Piccadilly Circus. They crossed into Mayfair, and steered twice around Berkeley Square just for the fun of it. The sleek length of the vehicle and its open top made Tom feel he was piloting a boat rather than a car; the streets flowed serenely on like a river, the pavement its banks. Despite himself he was enjoying the ride, not just the irresistible thrum beneath but the awareness of the car as a cynosure – he could see pedestrians watch them as they cruised past like royalty. On Park Lane they stopped at a traffic light alongside a bus, and Tom saw faces gawping through the windows at the magnificent beast with its growling engine.
Jimmy, seeing them too, turned to Tom and gave a lordly laugh.
They probably think we’re a couple of swells, thought Tom. He put his foot down and they roared off again. They had got into the quieter roads north of Oxford Street when Jimmy, looking straight ahead, said, ‘He doesn’t know I used to horse-trade. Bet you I could get him down to £350.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Even that’s too much. You said £250 was your absolute limit.’
‘Well, that was before we clapped eyes on this. Admit it, have you ever driven a finer jalopy?’
‘That’s beside the point. You’re already spending money you don’t have. Remember what Wootton said about the Revenue.’
‘Oh fie on Wootton and his counting house. For the sake of another hundred we could live like millionaires! Leave the scrimping and scraping to others.’
Tom kept the silence of disapproval, prompting Jimmy to cast around for a different angle of attack. It didn’t take him long to find one. As they happened to pass a smartly dressed young woman walking a dog, Jimmy remarked airily, ‘I dare say your Miss Farewell would enjoy a trip out in the country for a day. I can just imagine her sitting here, face tilted towards yours, her scarf striping the air behind –’
‘Belt up,’ said Tom with a half-laugh.
But now he came to think of it he could picture Madeleine next to him, quite easily. Indeed her face, her voice, had been in his head since the lunch at Jimmy’s, he couldn’t have rid himself of her even if he’d wanted to. Tom had had his share of love affairs over the years – there was even a short-lived engagement with a girl back home in Deal – but there’d been no one for a while. Most of the last nine years had been devoted to Jimmy, and he was not alone in feeling their relationship in that time was something closer to domestic than secretarial. He would probably never have introduced her if Jimmy himself hadn’t insisted on it. He was right about her face, it was remarkable, and it jolted him now to think that he might be in love with its owner.
His mind was playing a trick of indirection as he said, ‘Do you really think you can knock him down to £350?’
Jimmy’s look was sly. ‘Putty in my hands, dear boy.’
‘I don’t know – he looked a bit of a chiseller to me.’
‘Ha! I’ve been my whole life around crooks, and that feller looks no worse than the ones I’ve dealt with on newspapers.’
‘Hmm.’
Jimmy heard the note of scepticism. ‘Very well. Let’s make it interesting. Dinner on you at the Café Royal if I beat him down to £350.’
‘And if you
don’t?’
‘Breakfast, lunch and dinner at a place of your choosing.’
They were back in Soho, turning into Wardour Street. Tom was confounded to think he was now egging him on to get a price for the motor. He knew he ought to be the responsible one. Jimmy was a pathological case: it was tantamount to betting an alcoholic that he could drink x number of Scotches without falling over. And yet . . . He steered the Bentley into the narrow mews, and there was Roddy, cocksure and beaming at the prospect of a deal. It was surprising how quickly you could take against someone. He sensed Jimmy’s face at an enquiring angle.
‘£350,’ Tom muttered, and they shook surreptitious hands.
Jimmy didn’t beat Roddy down to £350. He beat him down to £325. Tom found it rather like watching an old prizefighter move a keener but less experienced opponent around the ring; the tricks and feints were remarkable to behold. Roddy had taken instant and angry offence at the lowness of Jimmy’s first offer (‘That’s just insulting’), and made to walk off. Jimmy coaxed him back, claiming that he was only ‘testing the water’, though his next offer was scarcely an improvement on the first. Somehow he had intuited that Roddy’s hopes of selling the car were tinged with desperation: he wanted rid of the thing, and Jimmy was quick to scent his advantage. It became essentially a contest between patience and aggression, with all the guile belonging to the former. Twice more the owner threatened to walk away, and each time he was lured back into haggling. By degrees he was worn down. Once the price had inched towards £325, Roddy seemed almost bored with arguing, and he gave in.
Feeling magnanimous, Jimmy paid his victim a little compliment. ‘I suppose you must be quite prosperous to keep yourself in such style.’
‘I do all right,’ Roddy shrugged. ‘I’m in the entertainment business.’
‘Is that so?’ said Jimmy with a glint in his eye. For answer Roddy took out his wallet and handed him a business card. ‘The Elysian Nightclub?’ said Jimmy. ‘That name seems familiar,’ he mused, looking at Tom, who in turn stared at Roddy.
‘A friend of mine works there. Madeleine Farewell . . .’
Roddy’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know Maddy? How?’
Tom was pleased to match his terseness. ‘We were introduced.’
‘Quel petit monde!’ cried Jimmy, delighted by the coincidence. ‘We had Miss Farewell to lunch only last week. And a lass unparalleled she is.’
Tom watched Roddy frowning at this flamboyant turn of phrase. He could read his thoughts as if they were a cartoon bubble over his head: This one’s a poof. The dislike he had conceived of the man was turning slightly toxic. Tom cleared his throat in a pronounced way.
‘Are we done then?’ He was already backing towards the entrance of the mews.
Jimmy, buttoning his coat, said, ‘I dare say you’ll want cash . . .’
‘Always,’ said Roddy, who was still gazing after Tom, now well out of earshot. His expression had turned narrow. ‘Your friend,’ he said, in a curious voice, ‘knows Maddy pretty well, does he?’
‘Not that well,’ Jimmy said, adding with a low chuckle, ‘though I’ve never seen him so smitten.’
Roddy gave a slow nod, then turned to Jimmy. ‘Get the cash to me Tuesday evening. I’ll be here around seven.’ He paused for a beat. ‘Tell your friend to bring it.’
‘Of course,’ said Jimmy, who had had no intention of doing the job himself. ‘Tuesday, seven sharp it is.’
As they walked back through the evening streets towards Bloomsbury Jimmy was exultant. He couldn’t have been more tickled about his new purchase, or prouder of the cunning that had enabled it. He replayed his favourite moments of the recent negotiation, permitting himself a chuckle on catching Roddy’s tone of petulant gruffness. (The thwarted actor had become a good mimic.) On passing a gents’ outfitters he urged Tom to consider buying a pair of driving gloves – they would be useful for their ‘jaunts’ out of London.
‘Perhaps I should get a peaked cap, too,’ said Tom.
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,’ replied Jimmy, momentarily deaf to the sarcasm. A new thought occurred to him. ‘We could run down to Deal for the day – visit your parents.’
This was a trip Jimmy threatened from time to time. Tom could only imagine what his dad, landlord of the Black Cow in Deal, would make of his employer. It was not an encounter he would relish in the smallest degree. To change the subject he said, ‘Fancy that spiv being owner of the Elysian. I can’t recall Madeleine ever mentioning him.’
‘Hmm. That probably tells you something. By the way, he wanted cash – and he was quite particular that you should deliver it.’
‘Why me?’
Jimmy pulled a who knows face. ‘Maybe he took a shine to you. In any case, just think – once he gets his money you can drive us to the Café Royal for dinner!’
He looked to Tom in the expectation of a dry response, but his companion was staring into the dark distances ahead, brooding.
15
STEPHEN WAS ON his way to Tite Street when the headline leapt out from a news-stand at him. TIEPIN KILLER CLAIMS FOURTH VICTIM. He hurried up the stairs to his studio, a copy of the Chronicle in his hand, sick to his stomach with curiosity.
Another prostitute, this time found strangled in an alleyway off the Strand. Like the girl before, she had also been badly beaten. He was still reading the report when the telephone rang, making him jump. It was Ludo Talman.
‘Have you seen the newspaper?’
‘I’m just reading it now,’ said Stephen. ‘Shocking, isn’t it?’
Ludo paused before he spoke. ‘Yes . . . I suppose it is.’
‘It’s obvious the police don’t have a clue.’
There was another pause, then Ludo said in a hesitant voice, ‘I’m not sure we’re talking about the same thing.’
‘Oh . . . I’m reading about the latest Tiepin murder.’
‘Er, no. Not that. You may want to sit down for this.’
Stephen felt a sudden lurch within. ‘Tell me.’
‘I’ve got The Times, but it’s also in the Telegraph and the Mail. Carmody has been leading you a dance. That dinner you attended – the fund-raiser – it wasn’t for the Marquess Theatre at all. It appears to have been a front for something called the British People’s Brigade.’
Stephen had anticipated those last three words before Ludo had spoken them. He swallowed hard. ‘I see.’
‘Some reporter has been investigating him. He’s got it in black and white, bank records, payments diverted from one account to another. The worst of it is they’ve published a list of Carmody’s backers. I’m afraid you’re on it, Stephen.’
‘What?’
‘You wrote him a cheque?’
Oh Christ, thought Stephen. The cheque. He hadn’t even remembered that. ‘Yes, but on the understanding that it was for –’
‘The question is, did you make it out to the fund, or to Carmody himself?’
Stephen’s silence acknowledged the mistake. How could he have been so naive? When Ludo next spoke it seemed to come from a long distance.
‘I presume you have a lawyer.’
Stephen heard himself say his name.
‘He’s good,’ said Ludo. ‘He can probably make a case for fraud.’
‘I thought I was supporting a theatre . . .’
‘Of course. But you’ve made it difficult by writing a personal cheque. Your name is linked to his.’
Another long pause intervened as Stephen glimpsed a blighted future. Whatever help he might get from the law, the court of public opinion was swift to condemn. He realised Ludo was thinking precisely the same thing.
‘It looks bad, doesn’t it?’
Ludo gave a sighing exhalation. ‘People will think “no smoke . . .”, what with this and the photograph of the handshake. The club will make a stink about it. I have to tell you, the committee has just called me in for a meeting.’
‘Already?’ This was more precipitate than Stephen had imagined.
‘Stephen, listen to me. I know you’re not to blame for this, and I will offer a proper defence on your behalf. But these things gain their own momentum. It takes just one member to voice his disapproval, then they all join in.’
‘Even if I’m innocent?’
‘Yes. Even then.’
They talked for a while longer, though Stephen took little of it in. He felt himself being harried towards a cliff edge, with disgrace lying at the bottom. What on earth could he do? Put an advertisement in the paper denying involvement in Carmody’s chicanery? Too late for that. He traced back his error in stages. He had written the cheque just before the Carlton Hotel dinner. He had been at the dinner only because Carmody had hinted at the possibility of blackmail, having spotted him with Nina that afternoon. And he had been with Nina because – well, on that score he was guilty. Retribution had simply taken its time coming round.
He tormented himself with the thought of friends and colleagues hearing the story. The people who knew him would dismiss it as libellous nonsense. They knew his lofty indifference to politics. Others would shake their heads and deplore his careless choice of friends. And might there be those tempted (heaven forbid) to take him for a Fascist and gloat over his exposure? The shame of it. If he were to be damned for anything it was for self-delusion, his unthinking disregard of all the dangers that came in associating with a man like Carmody. But he could also lament his bad luck in being caught in company with Nina. And then what of his father finding out? This the man who had fought in two wars defending the freedom of his country, a freedom that the British People’s Brigade and their like strove to curtail.
A few minutes after Ludo rang off the telephone went again, and he answered in the certainty it would be a gentleman of the press wanting a quote. To his relief it was Nina. She had just finished rehearsals.
‘I suppose you’ve seen the paper?’
‘Yes, I have,’ he replied.
‘Isn’t it frightful?’
Stephen, miserably aware of the ambiguity, said, ‘Best you should be specific.’
Curtain Call Page 24
