The Right Sort of Man

by Allison Montclair

  “He was unhappy over having the Brigadier lower the boom on him. He was all gung-ho for digging into my background.”

  “Did you appease him?”

  “I doubt it,” she said, not wanting to go into the discomfiting details. “I wish I could set things right there.”

  “If you turn up someone who is not the man they’ve already charged as the killer, you won’t be endearing yourself to him or the Yard.”

  “Oh, God. That’s true, isn’t it? Well, there’s no turning back now.”

  “Of course there is. You could leave it all alone.”

  “Then Dickie Trower hangs for a crime he didn’t commit, my bureau goes down in flames, and the man who killed Tillie La Salle remains free to do it to some other poor girl.”

  “Unless he was satisfied with just the one,” commented Andrew. “This sort of thing is usually personal.”

  “I agree,” said Iris. “Still, one would hope for—no, that’s a silly, Pollyannaish thing to think.”

  “Hope for what?”

  “Justice,” said Iris. “But we both know that there is no such thing in this world.”

  “It’s only a fancy word for vengeance, anyhow,” said Andrew.

  “I’ll settle for vengeance,” said Iris grimly. “It’s better than nothing. Dear Lord, this is setting the wrong mood again. I’m sorry.”

  He leaned over and kissed her neck.

  “Does that help?” he asked.

  “It’s a start. Keep at it, soldier.”

  “Shall we continue this in the other room?”

  “I’d rather not waste time moving,” she said. “By the way, you’re still wearing clothing.”

  “A problem easily remedied.”

  * * *

  Gwen, thinking ahead to the ’ale and ’earty, pulled out one of her Utility Collection dresses, not wishing to draw attention to anything that would mark her as someone capable of affording more. The “Margo,” they had called it, one of the approved designs. She had used eleven precious coupons for it in ’45, the first thing she bought when the war ended. It was of a muted rose, with enough trim detail on the bodice to make it interesting without going over the fabric limits, and a large pocket into which she made sure to place a clean handkerchief, given the unreliability of her tear ducts. The skirt had a few wide pleats which allowed some swirl as she walked.

  She left early, sneaking into Ronnie’s room to kiss him on the cheek before he woke. She skipped her morning toast, having only a cup of tea to sustain her. She walked through Kensington, then took the long way around the perimeter of Hyde Park for the added exercise.

  She carried the borrowed issue of Good Housekeeping to use as a shield should there be any photographers lurking about the office. She poked her head around the corner of her street to reconnoiter before walking down it. Sure enough, a man with a camera with a large flash attachment was hiding ineffectively in a doorway across from their building.

  “Did you know that we have a back entrance?” said Iris behind her.

  Gwen nearly jumped out of her Margo.

  “Please don’t ever do that to me again,” she said when she recovered.

  “Sorry,” said Iris, clearly not meaning it.

  “How did you know I would be coming this way?”

  “You are a creature of habit,” said Iris. “I, on the other hand, never take the same route twice in a row. Follow me.”

  She led Gwen back half a block, then ducked down a narrow alleyway, past dustbins and piles of scrap lumber. She came up to a wooden fence and slid aside a loose board. She stepped through, then held it open as Gwen did the same.

  They were in the rear of the lot where the building next to them had been demolished. The rear wall still stood in part, giving them cover from the street.

  “Aren’t we trespassing?” asked Gwen as Iris replaced the board.

  “Technically,” said Iris. “Mind your footing. There are some dodgy bits back here.”

  She strode confidently through the rubble, reaching the rear of their own building. Gwen picked her way carefully after her, trying to place her feet in the same locations so as not to twist an ankle or damage her stockings. Iris walked down a narrow stone ramp to a door marked Deliveries. She pulled out her keys from her handbag, riffled through them, then selected one. She unlocked the door and held it open.

  “It’s dark,” she said. “Go straight ahead. You’ll see the light by the stairwell.”

  “I didn’t know we had keys to this door,” said Gwen as she entered. “I didn’t know this door even existed.”

  “We didn’t have keys,” said Iris, shutting it behind them and locking it. “I made a copy of Mister MacPherson’s spare.”

  “When?”

  “When we first moved in. Here’s another one for you. You’ll need it now that you’re a fugitive from the press.”

  “You’re very prepared. Were you anticipating a need for a way to sneak into our own building from the beginning?”

  “No,” said Iris. “I was anticipating the need for an escape route.”

  “Why? An escape from what?”

  “You weren’t in London during the Blitz. I was. You always need an escape route. Here’s the stairs. Let me get the light.”

  Gwen looked upwards to where distant daylight glimmered somewhere.

  “I feel like—who was the girl Orpheus fetched up from Hades?”

  “Eurydice.”

  “I had better not look back,” said Gwen as she climbed the stairs.

  “Orpheus was the one who looked back,” said Iris. “Because he couldn’t resist her beauty and mostly because, being a man, he couldn’t follow even the simplest of directions.”

  “If it had been you, would you have looked back?” asked Gwen.

  “I’ve never loved anyone so much that I would go to Hades for them. How about you?”

  “If I found him in Hades, I would stay there,” said Gwen.

  She reached the ground storey and risked a peek out the front door.

  “He’s still there,” she said. “Looking both ways.”

  “Good,” said Iris. “Let’s get to work.”

  The telephone was ringing when they opened the door to their office. Iris dashed to her desk and snatched the receiver up.

  “The Right Sort Marriage Bureau, Sparks speaking, how may we help you?” she said. “Ah, Miss Sedgewick, how are you? What? The article in the Mirror? Yes, I’ve seen it.”

  Gwen looked at her in dismay. Iris pulled a clipping from her handbag and handed it to her. On top was a picture of Gwen, her expression startled, as she was walking to work the previous day. A headline read, PROCURESS OF DEATH!

  “No, utter nonsense,” continued Sparks. “Don’t give it another thought. You want what? Well, I’m afraid that we can’t do that. It’s in your contract, look at Paragraph Nine. No, it’s nonrefundable. What? Stuff and nonsense! Seriously, what are the chances of us having two murderers amongst our clientele? No, I’m not saying Mister Trower is a murderer, quite the contrary. I’m certain it was a misunderstanding—don’t believe what you read in the papers, especially the Mirror. Don’t worry, Miss Sedgewick, I’ll find you one who won’t kill you. Good-bye.”

  She hung up.

  “Although, God help me, I might change my mind,” she muttered.

  The telephone rang again.

  “It’s going to be a long morning,” sighed Iris as she answered.

  Gwen read the article rapidly, then again more slowly.

  “‘Slumming society girl,’” she said when Iris hung up. “How dare he?”

  “He makes his living daring such drivel,” said Iris. “That was Terence Robicheaux on the phone. Same conversation, different register. I wish I had a phonograph and a record I could play with my response for each of these.”

  “At least the photo wasn’t clear,” said Gwen. “Thank goodness my face was in motion. I wonder if they’ll dig up any of my old society shots from their archives.”
r />   The telephone rang again.

  “Shall I take this one?” asked Gwen.

  “No, you’re still in a state of high dudgeon over that article,” said Iris, answering it. “Hello, the Right Sort Marriage Bureau, Sparks speaking.”

  “Hello, Sparks, it’s Jessie Kemp. I’ve got that information you wanted.”

  Iris momentarily drew a blank, then remembered.

  “Yes, yes, Jessie,” she said, grabbing her pad and pencil. “What’s the verdict?”

  “Only mildly criminal,” said Kemp. “Matilda La Salle, also known as Tillie, no other known aliases. Nicked once in September, ’44, using fake clothing coupons. Got off with a fine and seems to have walked the straight and narrow since, or at least has got away with anything else. Think she’s still marriage material?”

  “Not anymore, but not because of that,” said Iris. “Was she charged with anyone?”

  “As a matter of fact, she was,” said Kemp. “An Elsie Spencer. Why? Is she another candidate?”

  “Not yet,” said Iris.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not a thing. You’ve been grand, Jessie. Thanks awfully.”

  “Just find me a good one, Sparks. Mum’s been pressuring to set me up with a widower who dribbles soup in his beard. I’m contemplating throwing myself in the Thames as an alternative.”

  “Don’t do either, Jessie. I’m on the case. I’ll be in touch soon. Good-bye.”

  She hung up.

  “What was that all about?” asked Gwen.

  “My source with Records at Scotland Yard,” said Iris. “Miss La Salle was caught with counterfeit clothing coupons two years ago. Skated with a fine and a wrist slap.”

  “So your instincts about her were correct,” said Gwen.

  “Maybe,” said Iris. “She had an accomplice.”

  “Who?”

  “Our new best friend Elsie.”

  “Really? That’s too bad. I liked her.”

  “Just because she tried to pull a fast one once doesn’t mean that she’s rotten to the core,” said Iris.

  “No, I know that,” said Gwen. “How does this affect things?”

  “We’re searching for another reason why someone would want to kill Miss La Salle,” said Iris. “Jealous lover is one possibility, but if she was tied into counterfeiting, that could be another.”

  “Counterfeiting clothing coupons hardly seems like a scheme worth murdering anyone for.”

  “Maybe not,” said Iris. “But we should follow up on everything we have—”

  “Which is not much.”

  “Are you giving up already?”

  “No, of course not,” said Gwen. “So we visit the shop where she worked this afternoon, then go from there to the pub?”

  “That’s the plan,” said Iris.

  “What about the bureau? Do we close early?”

  “Perhaps I could help you with that,” said a man’s voice from the doorway.

  “Sally!” exclaimed Iris, running up to give him a hug.

  “Hello, darling,” he said, squeezing her as lightly as he could, which nevertheless produced a muffled oomph from her. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. No ribs broken, I hope?”

  “Not this time,” she said, extricating herself. “You remember Gwen, don’t you?”

  “Mrs. Bainbridge, a pleasure to see you again,” he said, stepping into the office and extending his hand.

  Gwen placed hers in his, feeling like a child shaking hands with a grown-up.

  “It is nice to see you as well, Mister Danielli,” she said politely.

  “How did it go with the Cornwalls?” asked Iris.

  “Oh, it was simplicity itself,” he said. “I put on my second-most fearsome persona. I thought I’d save the full growly monster for the finale, if it should come to that. But I doubt that it will.”

  “Wonderful,” said Iris.

  “You didn’t hurt—anything, did you?” Gwen asked hesitantly.

  “No damage done, neither to human nor property,” said Sally. “I have a return engagement at dinnertime to collect your well-gotten gains.”

  “Less your commission.”

  “I have not forgotten,” he said. “Now, as to your immediate problem, what is the situation and what may I do to help?”

  “We are investigating a murder,” said Iris.

  “How very public-spirited of you,” said Sally. “Why?”

  “You haven’t seen the Mirror by any chance, have you?”

  “My sweet girl, do you possibly believe that I would ever bother with that trashy tabloid? You don’t mean to tell me that you’re in it?”

  Iris filled him in on the relevant details.

  “My, my, ladies,” said Sally, his face creasing in sympathy. “You have been through it. So, you need a secretary for the afternoon, do you?”

  “Yes, in a nutshell,” said Iris.

  “I could be bounded in that particular nutshell,” said Sally.

  “You? Goodness, darling, I could scarcely ask you to sit here and answer the telephone for four hours.”

  “Why not? What other use for my skills are there today? My dear, I am at your disposal. What’s the drill?”

  The telephone rang.

  “Watch and learn,” said Iris as she answered it.

  Sally listened intently as she placated yet another worried client.

  “Sounds simple enough,” he said. “Paragraph Nine, was it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m getting to know your contract better than you. Appointments?”

  “In the unlikely event that there are any, here’s the book. Try and make them for the mornings this week, as we expect to be out sleuthing in the afternoons.”

  “Sleuthing,” said Gwen. “I like that.”

  “It does sound quite thrilling, doesn’t it?” said Sally. “And if any intrepid reporters show up at your office door, what are my standing orders?”

  “Break out that most fearsome persona,” said Iris.

  “Lovely,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to put that one to the test. I quite hope they do show up now. Ladies, you have yourselves a secretary. May I have the use of your typewriter? I’m working on a new play.”

  “Of course,” said Iris, taking up his massive hand between hers. “But no pounding. The poor girl’s had a rough week.”

  “I am capable of the utmost delicacy when the situation demands it,” he said, kissing her hand gallantly. “I shall return at one.”

  He turned to Gwen and repeated the gesture. She accepted it without flinching. Then he left.

  “How do you know him exactly?” she asked when he had gone.

  “Cambridge,” Iris replied. “Then we worked together during the war.”

  “And I will question you no further,” said Gwen. “We are now in the no-point-in-asking territory.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What’s remarkable is how he showed up on our doorstep without either of us hearing him come up the steps. It’s as if he manifested himself in response to our wishes.”

  “I have often suspected him of being a genie,” said Iris.

  “Is the fearsome aspect only an act?”

  “Not at all. He’s decorated. Parachuted behind enemy lines, blew up an astonishing number of targets. We used to joke that he could bring a bridge down merely by jumping on it, but we would never say it to his face. He’s sensitive about his size.”

  “And he’s a playwright?”

  “He hopes to be. I thought his student work showed promise.”

  “He seems quite devoted to you,” said Gwen.

  Iris shrugged noncommittally.

  “When you write your memoirs, send them to me first,” said Gwen. “If there’s anything left after the censors get through with them.”

  “Hey, did you hear that?” asked Iris.

  “Hear what?”

  “The sound of the telephone not ringing for five minutes now. Maybe we’re out of the woods.”

  “
Not everyone reads the Mirror,” Gwen reminded her. “I pray that no one connected to Lady Carolyne does.”

  “Ah, yes. How did last night’s meeting go?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” said Gwen.

  “That bad?”

  “You have your private matters, I have mine,” said Gwen.

  “Fair enough,” said Iris. “Shall we get to work at long last?”

  “Please.”

  “I drew up a cheque for Miss La Salle’s family. I had it with me yesterday, but there was no opportunity to leave it. Would you write them a note? You do that sort of thing so much better than I.”

  “Because of my handwriting?”

  “Because you’re more sympathetic,” said Iris.

  “Very well,” said Gwen, grabbing a sheet of stationery.

  * * *

  Sally returned at ten minutes to one and wedged himself carefully behind Iris’s desk.

  “Here’s the key so you can lock up,” said Iris, tossing it to him. “Same time tomorrow?”

  “And tomorrow and tomorrow,” he said as he scrolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter. “Good hunting, ladies. Tantivy, tantivy, and all that.”

  “Tantivy, tantivy,” replied Iris. “Thanks, Sally.”

  The two women paused to look out the window from the stairwell landing.

  “Persistent, isn’t he?” commented Gwen as she spotted the photographer.

  “And he’s multiplied,” said Iris, indicating a small knot of reporters nearby.

  “I nominate the back door.”

  “Seconded. Carried unanimously. We’ll dispense with the recording of the vote.”

  They descended to the basement. Mister MacPherson, who was mopping the floor, looked up at them in surprise.

  “Do you need anything?” he asked, clearly hoping that they didn’t.

  “We’re going out the back door,” replied Iris.

  “The back door? Why?”

  “We like the view,” explained Gwen.

  This time, Iris led Gwen to a different section of fence directly to the rear. She eased another board out of the way.

  “It’s convenient how many loose boards there are,” commented Gwen as she passed through it. “Surprisingly poor craftsmanship among our local fence-builders.”

  “I may have loosened a few,” Iris admitted as she replaced it.