by Simon Brett
‘“Whiffler”? What is “Whiffler”?’
‘Giles Tortington, son and heir to the Earl of Hartlepool. Haven’t you noticed he’s been coming to see Frou-Frou practically every night?’
‘Oh, I never notice people like that. I can’t be expected to tell the Stage-Door Johnnies apart.’
‘Well, let’s line up the pot-shot from another angle. I can’t imagine someone who looks like Frou-Frou has the nature of a nun.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, do try to keep up, Jack! Don’t be a total voidbrain. I’m suggesting that Frou-Frou Gavotte must have had other bees buzzing round her honeypot.’ He still looked blank. ‘That she’s had other admirers!’
Finally, Jack Carmichael got the point. ‘Oh, good heaven, yes! Frou-Frou’s been passed around like a salt cellar. There can’t be an actor in London – well, an actor in London who’s interested in that kind of thing – who hasn’t had a taste of Frou-Frou.’
‘What about boddoes outside the theatre?’
‘I’m sure she’s had her fair share of them too. I mean, the girl was brought up in the gutter. No breeding at all.’
‘Unlike you?’ said Twinks contentiously. Breeding was a subject about which she knew a fair wallop.
‘I went to public school, you know.’ He mentioned a name.
‘Minor public school,’ Twinks observed dismissively. ‘And in Scotland. What did your father do?’
Jack Carmichael smiled with some pride. ‘He was a solicitor.’
So far as Twinks was concerned, that said it all. She would have left immediately, but for the fact that she still wanted to do further picking of the actor’s brain (if, she wondered, that wasn’t too grandiose a description of the organ in question). ‘I was asking about Frou-Frou’s boyfriends outside the theatre . . .’
‘Wouldn’t you rather talk about the American accent I used in the sketch Cowboy, Cowgirl?’
‘No,’ said Twinks coldly. ‘Come on, uncage the ferrets! Boyfriends outside the theatre?’
Jack Carmichael was by now too cowed to argue. ‘I really don’t have any names,’ he said. ‘But I know, in the early days of rehearsal for Light and Frothy, Frou-Frou used to be picked up at the end of the day by someone in a large black saloon.’
‘Did you ever see the stencher?’ asked Twinks, who had no doubts that they were talking about a villain.
‘No. The car was just parked outside the front of the theatre. On the few occasions when Frou-Frou and I came out together after we’d finished rehearsals, the car would be there, and she just let herself in.’
‘Front seat or back?’
‘Back.’
‘And you never saw anyone get out of the car?’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t see who was inside?’
‘No. The jolly old thing had tinted windows.’
Twinks was thoughtful. According to Blotto’s account, the car in which Whiffler had been abducted also had tinted windows. And there weren’t many vehicles in London which boasted that feature. ‘Hm,’ she said. ‘You don’t happen to know when Frou-Frou and Whiffler started sharing an umbrella, do you?’
‘As I said, I’m not particularly interested in the doings of Stage-Door Johnnies.’
‘Do you remember whether she had any special guests at the First Night?’
‘I actually do,’ Jack replied. ‘Because, at the time,’ he continued with some pride, ‘I had an aristocratic admirer who was going to be in the audience.’
‘Oh? And who was she?’
‘Baroness Godalming,’ he announced dramatically.
‘Only a Baroness,’ came the icy reply. ‘Anyway, what in the name of strawberries does this minor aristocrat have to do with Frou-Frou Gavotte?’
‘Ah. Well, I mentioned before the First Night that the Baroness would be there, and Frou-Frou said, “Ooh, I’m going to have an aristocratic admirer out there, and all.”’ The impersonation of his fellow performer was cruelly accurate.
‘So, that might well have been Whiffler . . . assuming that she didn’t make a habit of mingling with the peerage.’
‘She would have done, if she had got the opportunity. Frou-Frou’s always had an eye to the main chance. She can smell money like a truffle hound.’
‘Hm. Anything else you remember that might be relevant?’
‘Relevant to what?’
‘Relevant to the business of rescuing “Whiffler” Tortington from his abductors.’
‘Oh.’ He was put out. ‘Is that why you agreed to have dinner with me – to help your investigation?’
‘No, I agreed to have dinner with you because I thought we might have an interesting evening. When it became clear that that particular dish was not on the menu, I took the opportunity to further my investigation.’ Her explanation did not make Jack Carmichael look much happier. ‘Come on, don’t shuffle round the shrubbery. Anything else you remember from the First Night?’
‘Well, just before the show opened that night, I was by the stage door with Pierre Labouze . . . he’s the producer of Light and Frothy. Have you met him?’
‘No, but my brother has.’
‘Well, we were there when a special delivery arrived for Frou-Frou.’
‘What was it?’
‘Just a brown envelope, with her name on it. I assumed it was another Good Luck card. But the envelope hadn’t been sealed very well and, as the stage doorman handled it, something dropped out.’
‘What?’
‘A bullet.’
Twinks’s azure eyes sparkled. ‘Give that pony a rosette,’ she murmured.
‘And Pierre – Pierre Labouze, that is, said, “It serves the silly vache right. She should be more careful about the company she keeps.”’
‘And did he offer any further explanation for what he said?’
Jack Carmichael shook his head.
‘Maybe I should have a wordette with Pierre Labouze.’
‘Good luck with that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that our estimable producer is not easy to contact. He has no telephone. He allows no one near his rehearsals. He does not even do press interviews. If you try to make contact with him, I can guarantee you will fail in the attempt.’
‘Oh?’ Twinks was confident of her ability to winkle out even the most unsociable of molluscs. ‘Surely I can find him at the Pocket Theatre?’
‘He won’t speak to you.’
‘But he speaks to you. He speaks to the cast of his shows.’
‘Yes, but only on matters of work. Pierre Labouze is completely dedicated to his work. He watches every performance of every show he produces. Every evening he’s in the theatre half an hour before the curtain goes up. Every evening – however well the performance has gone – he comes round to our dressing rooms with notes for us. Pierre’s only interest is improving what he always calls “A Pierre Labouze Revue”. Nothing else matters to him.’
‘Isn’t he susceptible to feminine charms?’ asked Twinks, with a confidence born of the long catalogue of men who had fallen for her like deckchairs in a hurricane.
‘Not any feminine charms. Not even yours. He’s totally obsessed by his revues. Pierre Labouze would only speak to you if he thought you had the potential to become the next Frou-Frou Gavotte.’
‘Oh?’ Twinks looked gratified. ‘Well, I can warble a bit, and trip the light fantastic.’
‘However well you did that, Pierre Labouze would not be interested.’
‘No?’
‘No, you were born with far too much silver spoon in your mouth. Pierre likes dragging girls up from the gutter to create stars of them. Like the Piggy person that modern playwright Bernard Shaw wrote about.’ When someone like Jack Carmichael used the word ‘modern’ in connection to matters theatrical, it was not a compliment.
‘Pygmalion?’ Twinks suggested.
‘That’s the cove. Chap who makes a statue come to life. That’s how Pierre Labouze sees himself.
Making silk purses out of sows’ ears. He doesn’t like real aristocrats, he gets a thrill out of creating his own aristocrats.’
‘Jollissimo,’ murmured Twinks, seeing clearly what the next step in her investigation should be. She gathered up her sequinned reticule. ‘Thank you, Jack – for the dinner, if not for your incredibly monotonous and solipsistic conversation. I don’t think you have any more information that will be of use to me.’
And she swept out of the restaurant, with the poise of an Elizabethan galleon watching the last remains of the Spanish Armada wrecking themselves on the coast of Ireland.
Her departure left the maître d’ and the rest of the staff open-mouthed with astonishment. No woman had ever walked out on Jack Carmichael before. The revue star’s stock could not have diminished more rapidly if he had been heard speaking in his native Scottish accent.
8
Dinner after the Show – II
Blotto would have been embarrassed if Twinks knew what he was up to, but she had told him she was meeting Jack Carmichael at the restaurant rather than the Pocket Theatre, so he knew the coast would be clear. As soon as she’d left for her assignation, he had telephoned the stage door to see if Dolly Diller might be free to join him for dinner after that night’s performance of Light and Frothy. He was gratified to receive a message soon after that she would be delighted to be his guest.
He was not the only man in evening wear loitering outside the stage door. Though he recognised the others for what they were – Stage-Door Johnnies – it never occurred to him that he was now a member of their ranks.
He had asked Reception at the Savoy to recommend somewhere for him and his guest to dine and, perhaps unsurprisingly, they had suggested the Savoy Grill. Blotto thought it was very clever of them to name somewhere so close to where he was, and only a short drive from the Pocket Theatre. He notified Corky Froggett when he wanted the Lagonda outside the Savoy’s main entrance.
Dolly Diller looked stunning as she emerged from the stage door. Despite the warmth of the late spring evening, she was draped in a white fox-fur coat, which immediately made Blotto feel jealous. He felt sure she hadn’t bought the garment herself, and he already wanted to take his cricket bat to the stencher who’d bought it for her.
But he restrained the instinct, and was rewarded by an ‘’Ello, darlin’!’ and – even better – a big sloppy kiss, which left a rose of lipstick on his cheek.
Corky Froggett was standing by the car’s back door. His face was impassive as he opened it to admit the young master and his guest. Blotto was not entirely pleased that, before she got in, Dolly Diller gave the chauffeur an ‘’Ello, darlin’!’ and a big sloppy kiss as well.
Corky too was left with a rose of lipstick. It reminded him of the marks Yvette used to leave on his cheek back in those heady days of wartime.
Blotto was modest by nature. That modesty had been engendered and encouraged by his upbringing in the English aristocracy and the public school system. Boddoes of his breeding didn’t talk about themselves. Doing so was a bit beyond the barbed wire. If one of his muffin-toasters at Eton started talking about himself, that could very easily cross over the line into bragging. And bragging was a very small step from that most heinous of crimes amongst the English upper classes – and something to which foreigners (particularly Americans) were unforgivably prone – ‘showing off’.
So, Blotto was very unaccustomed to being asked as much about himself as he was by Dolly Diller. He supposed it was flattering, but it was also a bit embarrassing. ‘You don’t want to know about me,’ he kept saying. ‘I’m about as interesting as a nun’s diary.’
‘Oh, you do yourself down,’ she kept saying, in that wonderful throaty Cockney gurgle. ‘You’re the most interesting man I’ve ever met. Now you tell me about . . .’
Then she was off on another question. She wanted to know all about his family, where he fitted into it. She wanted to know about the history of the Lyminsters, right back to their arrival in England with William the Conqueror.
And she didn’t just ask general questions, pretending interest like some deb at a Hunt Ball. Dolly Diller got very specific. She enquired as to whether the current Duke was single. (Blotto told her that Loofah was married to Sloggo, a wife whom he had so far only managed to impregnate with girls.) Then Dolly wanted to know exactly how big the Tawcester Towers estate was, and what other sources of income the Lyminsters had. And she seemed to be particularly intrigued by what would happen to Blotto’s inheritance if his older brother the Duke were to die.
He kept trying to infiltrate questions about her, but Dolly seemed resistant to much disclosure. Blotto had never met a woman who was so selfless; she only seemed to be interested in him.
When he did finally get her on to the subject of her own background, she said, ‘I was born near the ’Ackney Marshes, but I scrub up all right. I’m an actress, see. I can do voices. If I ’ad to be a Duchess in a play, you wouldn’t be able to tell me from the real thing. Listen.’ And she went into her toff’s version of ‘“The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.” There, I sound like every Duchess you ever ’eard, don’t I, Blotto?’
Though in fact she didn’t sound like any Duchess he had ever heard, he was far too gallant to say so. Instead, he asked, ‘Where is Ackney Marshes?’
‘You’re ’aving me on, Blotto. You know ’Ackney Marshes. Near Clapton, Leyton, Stratford.’
‘Tickey-Tockey,’ said Blotto, recognising a word he knew. ‘Where Shakespeare came from.’
‘Who?’
‘Shakespeare.’
‘Don’t know him. Is he in the “business”?’
‘“Business”?’
‘Theatre.’
‘Good ticket. He’s bong in the middle of the theatre. Playwright.’
‘Oh.’ Dolly had lost interest. Most playwrights she met were poor, neurotic and not attracted to girls. She changed the subject. ‘How was your visit to the Earl of ’Artlepool then?’
Blotto did not think to question how she knew where he had been that day. He just considered it another example of her intuition and caring nature. ‘Oh,’ he replied ruefully. ‘Didn’t pot the black on that one, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s a bit of a slap in the face him not paying the ransom, isn’t it?’
‘Major damper, yes. He didn’t seem to give a tuppenny butterscotch about what might happen to Whiffler.’
‘And did you ’ave any other forts about how you might get the money?’
‘No, I’m a bit of an empty revolver when it comes to thinking.’
‘But your sister’s brighter, ain’t she?’
‘Oh, Tickey-Tockey, yes. Though even Twinks isn’t going to find a hundred thou down the back of the sofa, is she?’
‘Pity. And what’s Little Tickling like?’
‘Massive spread, you know.’
‘Earl of ’Artlepool’s quite well-’eeled, innie?’
‘Yes. For him, a hundred thou would be a couple of grains of sand from a five-mile beach.’
‘Maybe the kidnappers should’ve asked for more . . . ?’ Dolly Diller mused.
‘Don’t think it would have made a groat’s-worth of difference. The old fossil has no intention of doing anything to pull Whiffler out of the treacle pot.’
‘What’s the security like at Little Tickling?’ asked Dolly, with another of her abrupt changes of subject.
‘Security? Sorry, not reading your semaphore . . . ?’
‘I mean, Blotto, did you find it easy getting in?’
‘Oh yes. Just pongled up to the front door, pulled the old bell-pull, and Pentecost the butler let us in.’
‘And was he the only person guarding the place?’
‘Well, there must’ve been other staff around, but we didn’t see any. Pentecost wasn’t really guarding the place, anyway. People like us don’t really guard our places – except during wars, obviously. Tawcester Towers had quite big garrisons during the Wars of the Roses and the Civil War, of
course, but not now. We know the kind of people who’re likely to pop round, so we never lock the doors.’
‘So, anyone who wanted to,’ asked Dolly ingenuously, ‘could just walk into somewhere like Little Tickling, with no one trying to stop them?’
‘That’s about the right size of pyjamas, yes,’ said Blotto.
‘Thank you. You ’ave been so helpful. Not just a pretty face, are you, Blotto?’
‘Don’t talk such meringue,’ he said, blushing to the roots of his blond thatch.
Dolly Diller looked up at the restaurant clock. It was well after midnight. ‘Well, this ’as been lovely, thank you. But I need my beauty sleep.’
Blotto recognised this as a cue for a compliment. He’d never been very good at making them, but now was his moment to put all that right. ‘No amount of beauty sleep,’ he said, ‘could make you beautiful.’
The expression on Dolly’s face told him that, once again, he hadn’t got the words quite right. ‘Oh, biscuits!’ he said. ‘What I meant was: No amount of beauty sleep could make you more beautiful.’
‘Well, thank you, kind sir,’ said Dolly Diller, with a little bob of the head. But she did give him a slightly strange look.
‘Now, shall I order a cab for you?’ he asked.
‘Don’t worry about that, love. I have my own special taxi service.’
Outside the Savoy stood a black saloon with tinted windows. ‘Is this your special taxi service?’ asked Blotto.
‘Of course it is,’ Dolly replied. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’
She kissed him on the cheek and opened the car’s back door.
The imprint of her lipstick glowed, as he watched the vehicle disappear up a side street off the Strand. As he did so, he thought the image was familiar, and only then remembered that the night before he’d watched Whiffler disappear in similar circumstances.
For a moment, he had the thought that his friend might have been using the same ‘special taxi service’ as Dolly Diller, but then he remembered about how Whiffler had been manhandled into that car by men with guns.
