Is Skin Deep, Is Fatal

by H. R. F. Keating

  ‘Oh, but of course,’ Ironside said. ‘I forgot you might be preoccupied with your own affairs. Dear me, I must indeed be ready for retirement.’

  ‘What do you want?’ said June impatiently.

  ‘Well, first,’ said Ironside, ‘let me bring you a little good news: the unfortunate Miss Twelvetrees will not be taking up her dazzling prize.’

  June’s eyes lit up.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘You’re not having me on? This isn’t one of your bloody stupid jokes, is it?’

  ‘No, not one of my bloody stupid jokes. It’s a plain fact that Miss Twelvetrees has admitted to adding to her natural charms with two devilish pieces of foam rubber. And so has forfeited her chances in the great Miss Valentine contest.’

  ‘Padding in her bra? The stupid little twerp.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, you put it well,’ said Ironside. ‘And now perhaps by way of exchange you’ll tell us just where you’ve put Master Spratt.’

  June’s eyebrows came together in a sudden frown.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  A smouldering anger hung on the heavy lines of her lips.

  ‘Spratt,’ said Ironside, ‘I want to know where he is.’

  ‘How the hell should I know? He’s one of your men, isn’t he? You keep tabs on him. It’s your business.’

  ‘Your business too, I think,’ Ironside said.

  ‘Now what on earth makes you think that?’

  Ironside sighed deeply.

  ‘Oh, policemen get to hear so much,’ he said. ‘We trick people into telling us things, you know. And then other people insist on us getting to know things because they think it will cause unpleasantness. All that sort of thing. It’s very distressing, of course. But useful.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know where Jack is,’ June said. ‘Where’s he meant to be?’

  Ironside’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Where are any of us meant to be?’ he asked.

  June shrugged her splendid shoulders.

  ‘I’m going over to the Star Bowl offices,’ she said. ‘They may be wanting to see me. I don’t want to run myself out of the competition.’

  She turned to go through the droopy curtain.

  ‘No,’ said Ironside.

  In an instant she had swung round.

  ‘No? What do you mean, no? I’m in a hurry. This means something to me.’

  ‘Then by all means go,’ Ironside said. ‘But first I’d like you to satisfy Constable Lassington here that you don’t know where his friend Spratt is.’

  ‘What is this, for the hundredth time?’ June said.

  ‘Jack’s gone,’ said Peter cautiously. ‘He didn’t turn up first thing today, and then his wife told us he hadn’t been home all night.’

  ‘Well, I can’t help that, can I?’

  Ironside peered at her in the poor light. Even with sunshine outside, even with capricious and frivolous sunshine, the little semi-subterranean room was not well lit.

  ‘We think you can help,’ Ironside said.

  It was June’s turn to peer.

  ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I know him. We’re quite friends. But if you imagine I can account for his every movement, you’ve got another think coming.’

  ‘My, isn’t it surprising how reluctant people are to admit knowing that young man more than slightly,’ Ironside said. ‘Don’t you think you could change that statement just a little, Miss Curtis?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Won’t you try?’

  ‘Look, I’ve told you all I’ve got to tell you. I know Jack, yes. But I’m not his nursemaid. And if you’ve gone and lost him, then you’d better go and find him.’

  ‘Dear me,’ Ironside said. ‘Such vehemence.’

  ‘Oh, run along.’

  ‘So, you don’t want to know what’s happened to your lover, Miss Curtis?’

  June, who was once more making for the mysterious curtain, wheeled round.

  ‘He’s no lover of mine. Whoever gave you that crazy idea?’

  Ironside smiled.

  ‘I generally say “a little bird told me”.’

  ‘Well, you can tell your little bird that they’ve got on the wrong track.’

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. Tell me, Miss Curtis, just what are you doing here?’

  Ironside stepped sharply across the little room till he stood between June and the curtain.

  But all she did was to smile, slowly and with calm.

  ‘You don’t think I’m hiding him, do you?’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’ Ironside asked. ‘What could be more natural? After all, think what he did for you.’

  ‘For me? What do you mean?’

  Ironside did not answer. Instead he turned to Peter.

  ‘Lassington,’ he said, ‘tell the lady the idea that flashed through your fertile mind. Without prejudice, of course. Without prejudice.’

  Peter shifted about uneasily.

  ‘Do you think I ought. . .’

  ‘Oh, come, yes. We’ll put it on a regular basis. We’ll make it plain that this is all supposition. Just a notion. But let’s hear it.’

  Peter looked straight at June.

  ‘We’ve reason to believe your mother wrote to Teddy Pariss just before she died,’ he said.

  June betrayed no emotion.

  ‘They used to be friends,’ she said. ‘Before Teddy went up in the world, and Mum went down. But he wouldn’t have anything to do with her these days.’

  Ironside tutted a little but made no comment. Peter went on.

  ‘Her letter was missing from Pariss’s office,’ he said.

  Again June looked at him calmly.

  He put down another card.

  ‘It occurred to us,’ he said, ‘that there might be something in the letter you wouldn’t want Pariss to know.’

  ‘What is this?’

  June still sounded mystified.

  Peter flared up.

  ‘Didn’t you get Jack to go and find that letter?’ he asked. ‘And didn’t he have to kill Pariss to get it?’

  ‘And I suppose you think I’m hiding him because of that?’ June said.

  Her eyes were flashing with plain fury.

  ‘Well, don’t be too bloody clever,’ she stormed on. ‘Don’t be too bloody clever. All right, so Jack was my lover, if you want to call it that. But don’t think he ever meant so much to me. He kept hanging around and asking, and every now and again I gave in to him.’

  She turned and glared at Ironside with an air of challenge.

  ‘My dear young lady,’ he said, ‘I’m sure you had no alternative.’

  June swung back to Peter.

  ‘Just because of that you don’t think I owe him anything, do you?’ she snapped. ‘I don’t want him tagging on when I go for the Miss Globe title. And I’m no particular friend of his. If anyone’s his friend, it’s you, Mr Clever Peter Lassington.’

  ‘I’m no friend of his,’ Peter shouted.

  He grabbed control of his temper.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘where is Jack?’

  ‘Look for him,’ said June.

  ‘Perhaps we had better go through that formality,’ said Ironside.

  He left it to Peter. But standing with his hands in his pockets and a slight smile coming and going on his face, he made good and sure that the search was in fact by no means a formality.

  And not until it was over and no sign of Jack had been found, did he let June go hurrying off to claim her inheritance at the Star Bowl offices.

  When she had left, thudding rapidly up the narrow stairs, he stood with Peter looking appraisingly at the beach scene mural. Its energetic girls strained every muscle to entertain him. But for all their efforts they could never really know whether what they offered was to his taste.

  Yet their entertainment is widely assumed to please all men.

  At last Peter ventured to interrupt the scrutiny.

  ‘You know, sir,’ he said, ‘if Teddy Pariss got to know Ju
ne was Jack’s mistress, he may have been using it to put pressure on June. And Jack would have taken that pretty hard.’

  ‘Well, you’re the expert on Mr Spratt,’ said the superintendent. ‘We musn’t forget your long-established friendship.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to be a particular friend of Jack’s to know that, sir,’ Peter answered, a little crossly. ‘You must have known it for yourself. It’s easy to see he’s got that sort of temperament. It’s no use blinking the fact.’

  ‘It is indeed no use blinking any facts. Not the fact of the telephone call, nor the fact of the forced window, nor the facts of who was where at what time.’

  ‘But, surely, sir, there are always some odd unexplained items?’ Peter said.

  ‘There are. But then there have been many cases which left me quite unsatisfied, even after the judge had pronounced sentence.’

  Ironside turned and started slowly pacing round the low-ceilinged room where in happier times couples danced cheek to cheek. Or in less happy times.

  ‘There were a lot of people who might quite reasonably have murdered Teddy Pariss,’ he said eventually. ‘Of course, we’re asked to say that murder is unreasonable, but somehow I prefer to think of it as eminently reasonable, but forbidden.’

  Peter kept his face impassive.

  ‘Yes,’ Ironside went prosily on, ‘there’s much to be said for the view that Pariss ought to have been murdered. Assassinated, for the public good. Because, you know, he was a prime example of a peculiarly modern public menace. He did something which is not far short of unforgivable: he used sex. He used it for commercial reasons. And that to my mind is a great deal worse than simply making money out of it, like an honest brothel owner.’

  He smiled a lugubrious smile.

  ‘My goodness,’ he said, ‘what a wax he would have got into if he’d heard himself accused of making money out of sex. You remember what were more or less his last words? His recorded testament on the Dictaphone. All that stuff about dignity. Oh, no, Teddy Pariss wasn’t doing anything as sordid as selling sex. All he was selling was tickets. Tickets for dance halls. But he sold them all by using sex. By spreading the notion that every little girl is a creature of infinite desirability and attractiveness.’

  He sighed.

  ‘I suppose we’ve got to reconcile ourselves to that sort of thing,’ he said. ‘But don’t let’s pretend it isn’t evil.’

  He wheeled round and faced Peter.

  ‘Lassington,’ he said, ‘you don’t look as shocked as you ought to be.’

  He smiled again.

  ‘Perhaps it’s because you’re bored. The maudlin reflections of a superannuated policeman. And yet you ought to listen, you know. After all, I might be pointing infallibly to the murderer of Teddy Pariss. I might, indeed.’

  18

  Back at the Star Bowl ballroom a surprise was awaiting them. As they pulled up outside the stage door a familiar face peered blearily out. It was Bert Mullens, or, as some people preferred to call him, Charles Hake.

  As soon as he saw Ironside’s broad-shouldered, spare frame emerge from the dark blue car he whipped his head back into the shadows.

  Ironside moved quickly.

  He was across the pavement and into the building in a second. Just in time to see Bert making a shuffling departure in the direction of the narrow corridor leading through the pass-door to the ballroom itself.

  ‘No,’ Ironside called out. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Bert slowed his shuffle to a half-hearted creep.

  ‘Mr Mullens,’ Ironside said, his voice echoing a little in the gloomy back-stage area, ‘we shall want to see you in five minutes’ time in Mr Pariss’s office. You will be there.’

  By now Bert had altered the creep away into a creep towards. He sidled towards his familiar box.

  ‘Hallo, Mr Ironside,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you, Mr Ironside.’

  ‘In five minutes. Mr Pariss’s office,’ Ironside said.

  Bert looked at the still-open stage door.

  ‘Lassington,’ the superintendent called, ‘have a word with my driver, will you? Ask him to remind Mr Mullens here when five minutes are up.’

  Bert looked away from the open door. His eyes were blinking hard. Outside the errant sun dazzled and flickered, transforming the narrow back street with a deceptive sparkle of gaiety.

  ‘Right,’ said Ironside to Peter, ‘five minutes to get ourselves sorted out and then we’ll see what our friend has to say this merry morning.’

  He marched off towards the little office where Teddy Pariss was now only the blurred remains of a chalked outline on the thick square of red carpeting.

  And as his hand went out to open the lockless door he stiffened.

  With a gesture behind him he signalled to Peter to be silent. Peter froze where he was. Ironside inclined his head so that his ear, which was large and well-formed, came up against the door. Gravely he stood listening.

  But apparently there was little to hear, because after a few seconds he straightened up and, with one hand on the doorknob, pointed forward to indicate to Peter that he was about to burst in.

  Behind him Peter crept to the point which would give him the maximum view of the room the moment the door opened.

  Ironside nodded acknowledgement of the manoeuvre. Then he took a breath and gave a sharp push to the door.

  It opened wide. Ironside stepped a pace inside.

  At the desk, once a typist’s table and now covered with the excessively luxurious items that Teddy Pariss had ordered to be placed there for his own use, Daisy Stitchford was bending. The lowest of the three drawers was wide open and she was methodically going through its contents.

  ‘Ah, investigating, I see,’ Ironside said.

  Daisy Stitchford had begun to get up at the sound of the door opening. Now she sat down quickly on Teddy Pariss’s black, padded chair, a seat which during his lifetime she would hardly have dared to usurp.

  She opened her mouth twice but found nothing to say.

  Ironside stood by the door looking down at her, equally silent.

  After a few seconds Daisy pulled her high-buttoned white blouse sharply down. She glanced quickly at Ironside and cleared her throat.

  But still said nothing.

  For what seemed minutes, if no worse, the battle of wills went on. And at last it was Daisy who broke.

  ‘Well,’ she snapped, ‘have you got nothing to do this morning, Mr Ironside?’

  ‘Oh, certainly, certainly,’ Ironside replied. ‘A great deal. Too much, indeed. An old man on the very edge of retirement. It isn’t fair.’

  ‘Then don’t let me stop you getting on,’ Daisy said.

  Ironside looked down at the little desk, his eyes big with regret.

  Daisy took the point. She bounced up.

  ‘If all you need is the use of this desk,’ she said, ‘I’m sure I’m not going to stand in your way.’

  She marched towards the door.

  ‘Did you think I would be taking the morning off?’ Ironside asked.

  Daisy tossed her head. The sparse, grey hair brushed hard on to the scalp lost not a jot of its severe tidiness.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know how you conduct your work,’ she replied.

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Ironside soothingly.

  Daisy looked towards the door again.

  ‘Otherwise,’ Ironside went on, ‘no doubt you’d have chosen some other time for your researches.’

  Daisy’s head jerked round.

  ‘Just what do you mean by that?’

  Ironside’s eyebrows quietly climbed up.

  ‘What do I mean? Why, simply that you wanted to know how my case was going and thought I might have left some tell-tale evidence behind,’ he said.

  ‘How dare you,’ said Daisy. ‘I – I shall report this.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ironside said, ‘I suppose that would be the thing to do. Of course, it’ll get you nowhere. Quite soon I shall be in the depths of the
country. My mind will be full of the mating problems of the rabbit. I doubt if I shall even answer letters. Certainly not ones of complaint.’

  Behind her glinting spectacles Daisy’s eyes poured out furious scorn.

  ‘In any case,’ she retorted, ‘if this is a sample of your work, there wouldn’t be any need for me to go through papers to find out how you’re getting on.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ironside, ‘then that is what you were doing. Now, I wonder why you should be so interested.’

  But Daisy was not so easily caught.

  ‘Mr Ironside,’ she said, each syllable clicking out like knitting needles being sharpened for single combat, ‘Mr Ironside, I have already told you that I was not looking in that drawer for any papers of yours.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Ironside unexpectedly.

  Daisy gave him a look of biting shrewdness.

  Ironside remained unperturbed.

  ‘You were looking for Mr Pariss’s papers,’ he said. ‘The ones he wouldn’t show you in his lifetime.’

  Daisy said nothing. Her dried-up little face never had much colour at the best of times but now it grew slowly drabber and drabber.

  ‘I – I’m sorry,’ she stammered out. ‘I’m not – I’m not feeling well.’

  Behind the gimlet glasses her eyes closed. She swayed.

  ‘Now, now,’ Ironside said in a crooning, gentle voice.

  He held a big, fleshless hand under her elbow and guided her into the shabby little kitchen chair in front of the desk.

  She sprawled there reticently and gave a quiet moan.

  ‘Lassington,’ Ironside said, his voice for once loud enough to hear, ‘go and see if you can find Miss Stitchford a glass of water. And I’ve got some brandy in a flask in the car, I think I’ll get that too.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Peter said.

  He turned to the door.

  And like a flash the superintendent’s hand went out and stopped him. He turned.

  Ironside’s finger was on his lips. He nodded his head towards the corner under the little window. Peter crept towards it and stood stock still.

  The superintendent stepped over to the door, opened it briskly and then shut it. He swung round to look at Daisy, still lying back in the hard chair, still with her eyes tight closed.