Another Woman's Shoes

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Darling, come quickly! It’s a terrible voice – “Mr Baxter, help me!” … and then a ghastly groan.’

  Mike ran into the room and snatched the receiver.

  ‘Hello? Mike Baxter here … Who is it?… Luigi? What’s happened?… Speak up, I can’t hear you … What’s that? Beaten up?… Where are you? Where are you phoning from?… Louder, man, I can’t hear … Did you say Euston?… The station?… Yes, but which tele—’ He swore and hung up. ‘I think he must have fainted. It’s Saltoni, poor devil.’

  ‘You think he’s been beaten up?’

  ‘Yes, it sounded like it. He’s in a phone booth somewhere on Euston station – heavens, there must be scores of them! Linda, listen! You’d better stay here. Get on to Rodgers and tell him what’s happened. If this chap pegs out we haven’t a hope of saving Weldon.’

  As he hurried out of the room Linda called out frantically, ‘Darling, be careful, please!’

  The only answer was a slammed door and a few moments later the roar of the Jaguar’s powerful cylinders.

  Linda telephoned the Yard and asked for Inspector Rodgers. After some delay she was connected. She told the Inspector what had happened.

  Rodgers swore briefly. ‘Right!’ he snapped. ‘I’ll get on to it immediately! Thank you for calling, Mrs Baxter. I’ll look after the ambulance.’

  Linda rang off and looked at her watch. It was close on ten o’clock. She asked Mrs Potter to fix some scrambled eggs, and when they came she toyed with her plate as she nervously awaited word from Mike. Eventually, after what seemed an age, the phone rang, but the line was so bad she had difficulty in understanding him.

  ‘Linda? Mike here. Something new has come up. I want you to change your dress – put on that black thing – get a taxi, and meet me by the booking-office on Euston station. Hurry!’

  ‘Can’t you come and pick me up, darling?’

  ‘No, I’m all tied up here. Grab a taxi.’

  ‘All right, but why the change of clothes? Are we going somewhere?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll tell you all about it when you get here. Do hurry, darling!’

  ‘Right. How’s Saltoni?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said how’s the Italian waiter?’

  ‘Pretty bad. I can’t talk now. See you.’

  Chapter Eight

  Mike spotted her taxi, opened the door, and paid the driver. They walked towards the place where the Jaguar was parked.

  ‘Tell me about Saltoni,’ Linda said. ‘Is he badly beaten up?’

  ‘Yes. And he doesn’t know who did it. He thinks there were two or three of them – they cornered him in a dark alley near his lodgings. I couldn’t get much out of him before he fainted again. He was still unconscious when the police arrived, but he did manage to say something about La Pergola night-club. And he said, quite distinctly, “Bannister is the man you want.”’

  ‘Bannister! That’s the man Sanders referred to when he thought he was talking to the Tarrant woman. Mike, this is exciting – I believe we might be on to something tangible at last! Have you told Inspector Rodgers?’

  ‘There really wasn’t much time. I decided not to bother him because he was livid at what had happened and kept blaming himself for not having booked Saltoni on the spot this afternoon. He went off to St Matthew’s Hospital with poor old Saltoni – I bet he’ll sit like a broody hen at the boy’s bedside all night. I did have time whilst waiting for you to give John a ring, though. He seemed to sit up when I mentioned La Pergola, though the name Bannister didn’t seem to convey anything.’

  ‘Did he give any indication why La Pergola interested him?’

  ‘Yes. It seems they’ve had the club under observation for some time. John wants us to meet up with one of his staff; it’s a girl called Jo Peters whom he’s planted there as a club member. We’re meeting her at the top of Baker Street, near the Park entrance, and then going to La Pergola as her guests.’

  ‘Is this Jo Peters very glamorous?’

  ‘Darling, she’s a policewoman, I assume. About six feet tall, with flat feet, and shoulders like a sandwich-board, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Mike Baxter’s guess proved to be a trifle inaccurate. The girl who came swiftly out of the shadows and slipped into their car at the bottom of Regent’s Park looked more like a fashion model than a flat-footed policewoman. They wasted little time and sped on their way towards Hampstead.

  When the girl spoke her voice was a soft North American drawl, slightly husky and very distinctive. ‘We’ve got about ten minutes for me to put you both in the picture,’ she began animatedly. ‘My name’s Jo Peters and we’re supposed to be old friends, so you’re Mike and Linda to me, and you call me Jo.’ She smiled at Linda and went on, ‘It has to be that way, Linda. The Superintendent filled me in on the Weldon case, so I know what you’re looking for. I pass as a good-time girl with plenty of money to throw around, given me by my over-fond Daddy. La Pergola isn’t cheap so they had to fit me up with a plushy cover. The last time I did a job for Goldway in London was in the Docks, peddling fruit from a barrow, so all this phony glamour makes a nice change.’

  ‘Are you Canadian, Miss … er … Jo?’ Mike asked.

  She nodded. ‘Now, about La Pergola. We’ve been watching it for a couple of months or so, not so much the joint itself as the types who go there. The club’s clean, but we’re not so sure about the clientele.’

  ‘Have you run across a man called Bannister there?’

  She shook her head. ‘Heard the name for the first time this evening when Goldway was briefing me. He’s the one you’re looking for, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Who runs the club, or owns it?’

  ‘Guy called Charles Corina. He’s worth watching. He’s some kind of a phony Prince with a Central European background that doesn’t quite jell. We’re working on it. Vital statistics: dreamy eyes, dark, thirty-sevenish, smooth dancer, slight foreign accent, smooth operator all round, especially with the gals – so watch it, Linda!’

  Linda laughed. ‘I’m glad there’s something in this for me too.’

  Jo caught the implication and answered it with typical candour. ‘Don’t let these war-feathers fool you,’ she said, flipping the pearl necklace at her white throat disdainfully. ‘It’s all borrowed finery and just part of the act. If you want to see the real me just come out to Saskatchewan one summer and watch me handle my Dad’s combine harvester.’

  ‘You certainly get around,’ Linda remarked enviously.

  ‘What’s the main attraction at La Pergola?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Charles Corina himself. Oh, the food’s good and the floor show is tolerable, but it’s Charles they all go to see. The women fight for a place in line so they can dance with him. If he didn’t remind me so much of a well-trained snake I’d go for him myself. Give him his due, he works hard keeping everyone happy. Round about two in the morning, though, he disappears. Doesn’t say he’s going, doesn’t say goodnight, just vanishes off the map. Ten minutes later the joint’s as dead as an empty barn.’

  ‘He sounds a remarkable young man. How does he manage to keep out of the divorce courts? Sounds like the perfect corespondent,’ Linda commented.

  Jo laughed. ‘Charles is much too clever. I tell you, his technique is worth watching. Well, we’re nearly there. I’ll have to sign you in, as I’m the only club member here. What name do you want me to put?’

  ‘I think we’d better play it safe – we might be recognised. Just plain Mr and Mrs Mike Baxter,’ he decided.

  A moment later they pulled into a side street and halted beside a neat pink-and-blue neon sign advertising LA PERGOLA.

  Inside the lighting was dim pink and the upholstery was done in a soft pastel blue. A sinuous brunette with a startling décolletée was trailing a hand microphone on a small stage, murmuring throaty declarations of love and anguish to the couples drifting on the pocket-handkerchief dance floor. The music from a Latin-American band was excellent of its type, and the pla
ce was packed.

  Jo signed them in and took Linda to the ladies’ powder room whilst Mike drifted casually over to the bar, from which position, perched on a high stool, he had a good view of the hazy, smoke-laden interior. He ordered a gin and tonic from a flaxen-haired barman who badly needed a haircut, and sat sipping his drink, getting the feel of the place.

  Finding he was out of cigarettes he asked for a packet and as he paid for them he said in an off-hand voice to the blond bartender, ‘Has Mr Bannister been in this evening?’

  ‘Whom did you say, sir?’ the barman replied. He had a crisp, faintly Teutonic accent which Mike placed as Bavarian or Swiss.

  ‘Mr Bannister.’

  The man shook his head, genuinely puzzled. ‘I do not know anyone by that name, sir.’

  ‘Maybe you’re new here?’

  ‘No, sir. I am with Mr Corina ever since he has the club.’

  It had been worth a try. Mike was fairly certain the barman was telling the truth.

  He turned on the stool to look for Linda and Jo, and found himself staring straight into the eyes of Victor Sanders. There was no mirror behind the bar so he had not been aware that anyone had approached immediately behind him.

  They exchanged greetings and shook hands rather stiffly. Sanders looked impressive in well-cut evening dress. It suited his ramrod figure and military bearing.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a member here, Baxter,’ he barked.

  ‘I’m not. A Canadian friend of ours dragged us along.’

  ‘Dragged? You don’t sound as if you were enjoying yourself.’

  ‘I might, if I were dressed for the part. You make me feel rather shabby.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about that. Look around you, there are plenty of others here in mufti. Ah, here’s Irene. Let me introduce you.’

  As Sanders had been speaking Mike had observed out of the corner of one eye the slow approach of Irene Long towards the bar.

  Mike held out his hand. Hers was icy. ‘We’ve already met once this evening,’ said Mike, for Sanders’s benefit.

  Irene Long was embarrassed. ‘Yes, Victor. I forgot to tell you, Mrs Baxter called at my flat just as I was getting ready. She wanted to see me about an alteration to her new suit.’

  Sanders frowned heavily, as though not entirely satisfied with a delinquent private’s excuse. ‘Rather an odd time to call, wasn’t it? After business hours?’

  Mike came to her rescue. ‘My wife and I are off to the South of France very soon, and Linda wants to take the new glad-rags with her, understandably enough. I gather there are three millimetres of lace too much, or something equally world-shattering.’

  With a nervous smile Irene Long excused herself and went towards the powder room. Mike and Sanders chatted for a while, then Sanders went off to speak to an acquaintance.

  A little while later, as Mike sat at a reserved table with Jo and Linda, he casually remarked, ‘There have been some interesting developments whilst you two girls were putting your new faces on. Victor Sanders and his lady are here.’

  ‘I know,’ Linda answered. ‘I saw you talking to him at the bar and we bumped into Irene Long in the powder room.’

  ‘Any tabs on them, Jo?’ Mike asked.

  Jo shook her head. ‘They’re regulars. I’ve seen them around quite a lot. The woman looked a bit flustered, we thought.’

  ‘What did you do to her, darling? Finally hit her on the head with a hat-box?’

  ‘Simpler than that. She hadn’t told the boyfriend about our visit tonight. He didn’t seem to like it at all.’

  ‘Interesting. What else had he got to say for himself?’

  ‘He gave me much the same routine as he told you this afternoon, about his flat being burgled by the voice impersonator. None of his expensive photographic equipment has been pinched, so he assumes it was Weldon’s part of the flat they were searching. I still think he’s making it all up. But you should have seen his face when I told him Nadia Tarrant had been murdered. Shook him rigid! And he didn’t like the idea of her digs being ransacked either. Just to complete his misery I told him about the missing shoe down at Farnham. I should say I’ve put paid to his evening fairly comprehensively.’

  ‘Hold everything!’ Jo interposed swiftly. ‘Here comes the Prince of Glamour himself!’

  Mike had somehow expected Charles Corina to look like one of the willowy gigolos of an earlier era, the type seen tripping into thé dansants on the Riviera in the wake of corpulent, sex-hungry dowagers. Corina, however, was sunburnt, muscular, with an undeniably aristocratic manner. His movements and figure were those of a man who spends a great deal of the daylight hours keeping in excellent physical condition. Had Mike met him in the street he might have placed him as the owner of a fashionable riding stables. He had a slight foreign accent which did nothing to detract from a considerable stock of charm.

  ‘Jo darling! You look ravishing tonight! Introduce me to your friends.’

  ‘Hi, Charles! I was just going to.’

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Baxter,’ he cut in, bowing low and raising Linda’s hand to his lips. ‘What a pleasure to welcome you here. Good evening, Mr Baxter, we are indeed honoured.’

  Mike shook hands stiffly. It was obvious that Corina had been making some discreet inquiries.

  Corina bowed to Jo, extended his arm, and swept her off towards the dance floor. The Baxters watched with grudging admiration.

  Mike muttered, ‘I know it’s very British not to be able to dance decently, but I sometimes wish I didn’t feel like such a bull in a china shop when I look at a chap like Corina.’

  Linda covered his hand with hers. ‘Actually, darling, you do rather well. And some of us girls are allergic to well-trained snakes, as Jo said.’

  Mike signalled to a pink-jacketed wine waiter and ordered drinks. ‘Just keep your allergies under cover if he asks you for a dance. Pretend you’re already drooling over him, but watch your step, he’s nobody’s fool. Don’t try to find out anything about Bannister until the evening’s worn on a bit.’

  Linda followed instructions and it was not until she had been on the floor with Corina several times that she ventured to bring the topic up. Later she reported back to Mike and Jo.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve drawn a blank. He says he’ll get his secretary to check the membership list, but my guess is he’s got all the names tabulated in that brain of his. And I really don’t think he was stalling me, either.’

  Mike nodded, not unduly ruffled. ‘Never mind, there’ll be other sources to try. Were you able to bring the subject round to the Weldon case?’

  ‘Yes. I arrived by devious routes – the coincidence of meeting Irene Long here, my new suit, her job at Conway and Racy’s, and so to Peggy Bedford and Lucy Staines.’

  Mike poured out more wine. ‘Any leads?’

  ‘None at all. I tried him on Nadia Tarrant, too, just to get his reactions; told him she’d been seen at the club. He was highly incensed – said he wouldn’t dream of allowing a woman like that in his well-conducted club. When I told him she was seen here with Irene Long he just buttoned up.’

  Mike said ruefully, ‘We were probably hoping for too much in expecting the mysterious Mr Bannister to come right out and turn the spotlight on himself.’

  Linda turned to Jo. ‘The first time you came here, can you remember whom you were with?’

  Jo considered for a few moments. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I hope his name was Toby Deacon,’ said Linda.

  Jo shook her head. ‘No, I wasn’t with any one man. There was a bunch of us, so that I could get submerged in a crowd. There was no Toby Deacon with us, never has been.’

  ‘Damnation!’ Linda muttered, toying with her wineglass and looking worried. ‘I fell for it!’

  ‘Fell for what?’ Jo asked swiftly.

  ‘Corina was trying to catch me out – has done, in fact. He spoke of this Deacon character as if he would be a close mutual friend of ours, and I fell for it. Pretended I knew him too. H
ow could I be so careless? Mike warned me there are no flies on this particular gentleman.’

  Their attention was distracted by the resumption of the floor show. When it had ended Mike danced several times with Linda and with Jo.

  ‘I haven’t seen any sign of the Colonel and his girlfriend for quite some time,’ Mike remarked to Jo. ‘I must have upset their evening.’

  Jo glanced at her watch as they circled the floor. ‘It’s nearly two o’clock. Mark my words, Corina will be off in a minute.’

  When they returned to their table Linda was looking perturbed. She handed Mike a card with the comment, ‘A waiter brought this whilst you were dancing. You aren’t going to like it, Jo.’

  The message on the card was written in a distinctly foreign handwriting, but the contents were clear enough.

  Dear Mr Baxter,

  I would like to talk to you privately. My address is 27b South Audley Street. I suggest you call tomorrow afternoon, any time between 4 and 5 o’clock.

  Yours sincerely,

  Charles Corina

  PS. Don’t bring your charming friend from Scotland Yard.

  Chapter Nine

  They made a somewhat silent and depressed trio as they drove back to the West End.

  ‘No ball, no strike, no score,’ said Linda ruefully.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Mike began.

  ‘It’s bad that Charles has blown my cover, I admit,’ Jo interrupted, ‘and Goldway will be furious. I wonder where the leak is? There aren’t many people who could have tipped off Corina. But I find it a bit odd, don’t you, Mike, that Corina has come out in the open and admits he knows I’m working for the Yard? And that he’s willing and anxious to do some talking.’

  ‘I’m with you there, Jo,’ Mike agreed. ‘On the surface we don’t appear to have achieved very much this evening, but all the same I’m not quite sure that we haven’t stirred up some kind of hornets’ nest. It will be interesting to see who gets stung. Now then, where do we drop you, Jo?’