Curtain Call (34 page)

‘Heavens! We'll have to see about that.' She glanced at Stephen, who was holding up a half-crown he had just fished out of his pocket.

‘Darling, the man we saw selling newspapers outside – be a good girl and get me a
Standard
, would you?'

Having secured a promise that she could keep the change, Freya departed. Nina, puffing out her cheeks, said, ‘My, she's a caution, isn't she? I can feel myself shaking still.'

‘Sorry about that. She just descended on me.'

‘I know it's a progressive school, but do they allow them to swan off to London?'

Stephen shook his head. ‘Of course not. It probably won't surprise you to hear she just – took off. She's AWOL.'

‘Why would she do that?'

‘Doesn't like the place,' he said, shrugging. ‘I don't blame her. It's all about growing vegetables and putting on theatricals. I'm not sure she's read a book since she's been there.'

‘Though she's learned some rather colourful language,' said Nina with a laugh.

‘Apparently the teachers think it's fine for the pupils to swear. Seems a rum sort of education to me . . . Freya's a cute one, though. She knew her mother was in the country this week visiting friends, and that I'd be holding the fort. A soft touch, you see.'

‘Your wife approves of the school, then?'

‘Oh, Cora thinks it's marvellous. Freya's going back whether she likes it or not, I'm afraid.'

Nina's expression turned curious. ‘Does Cora always get the last word?'

He heard the challenge in her tone. ‘Mostly. She runs things. Her personality is quite, um, forceful.'

She'll never let him go, thought Nina, with a sinking heart. If she gets wind of what's been going on, she'll give him hell, for sure. She'll make him pay. But she'll not let him go. Self-confident, stern, ‘forceful'. Freya, she supposed, was going to turn out just like her.

‘By the way, you should probably hold off with talk about my being in films. It may never happen.'

Stephen's pained expression admitted the fault. ‘Sorry. I don't remember even telling her that. Have you heard from Ludo yet?'

She shook her head. ‘Not a dicky bird.'

‘Well, you know film people – they take such an age to decide anything.'

Nina gave a sad little shrug. ‘I don't know. Ludo will have plenty of young hopefuls begging for a part. I may be holding on for nothing.'

Stephen sensed her air of despondency had an ulterior cause. He put his hand on hers. ‘The fellow who turns you down would have to be mad.'

She looked up at him sharply, and said, with an uncertain smile, ‘Why would you say that?'

He noticed through the forest of tables Freya returning. The time for intimacy was narrowing fast. ‘Why? Because you have an amazing talent. And because you're the smartest, funniest, loveliest woman I've ever met.'

He held her gaze for a moment before he straightened and smiled over her shoulder to greet his returning daughter. Nina was stunned. She had never heard him speak with such decision. She was the loveliest woman he had ever met.
Loveliest. Ever
. She smiled dumbly at Freya, who shot her a quizzical glance as she handed over the late edition to Stephen.

‘Dad,' she said with an amused curiosity, ‘did you
know
there'd be a story about you in the paper?'

IT WAS A
surprise to Tom when Jimmy pulled out a strongbox he had never seen from a bottom drawer in his desk, itself guarded by a stout Bramah lock. He slipped the catches and with the quick expertise of a teller counted out the cash note by note. Tom was then invited to recount it.

‘. . . £300, £310, £320, £325.' The banknotes crackled as Tom squared them up and eased them into a slim envelope.

Jimmy nodded, and furtively rearranged the contents of the box. A telltale clink sounded, and Tom caught a flash of jewellery.

‘What else have you got in there?'

‘Never you mind,' said Jimmy, clapping it shut. ‘The man Astill – “Roddy” – told me seven this evening, same place. Said that there'll be someone to let you in.'

‘I don't understand why he didn't get his man to pick up the cash when he brought the car. Wouldn't that have been easier?'

Jimmy chuckled. ‘You didn't see the feller he sent. Wouldn't have trusted him with your tram fare, let alone a wodge like this.'

Tom gave an irritated
tsk
and tucked the envelope in his breast pocket. ‘How nice for you to have a trustworthy employee,' he grumbled.

‘Talking of which, I shall also requrie your services as driver next week – for that.' He pointed to an elaborate invitation card resting on the chimney piece. Tom got up to peruse it. The event it announced was a Green Carnation Ball at a smart address in Highgate.

‘What on earth is this?' he asked.

‘Note the date – thirtieth of November. The anniversary of poor old Oscar. Some, ah, like-minded friends are throwing a bash in his honour.'

‘“Dress: Theatrical . . .”'

‘That means it'll be full to the door with poofs and drag queens.'

Tom continued to stare at the card. ‘And what am I supposed to do once we're there?'

Jimmy pursed his mouth thoughtfully. ‘They won't mind if you come in for a drink. Just so long as you don't start making eyes at anyone.'

After a prolonged coldness in his manner towards her Roddy telephoned Madeleine at her lodgings. He had a job, a punter from out of town. No reference was made to the night he had taken her out to dinner, or to her politely emphatic rejection of his advances. But a certain levity in his tone seemed to imply she was forgiven, and when he suggested that she wear ‘something saucy' for the occasion it was clear they had reverted to their old ways. Roddy was quite transparent, really; given how she despised him it was odd that this thaw in their relations should be so welcome.

In acknowledgement of the truce she decided to make an effort, and wore a black velvet cocktail dress with a provocative neckline. She knew he would appreciate a show of flesh. She also went heavy on the warpaint, even though she disliked it: the rouge and mascara lent her the faintly sinister look of a shop mannequin. A sable coat completed her outfit. When she presented herself to the inlaid mirror of her wardrobe she almost took a step back in surprise. She had never looked so much the part of a Soho working girl. On the bus into town she could not help noticing the way some gazes lingered on her, mingling desire and disgust.

At the Elysian Rita, spying her across the room, did a small double take. They had not seen each other since the night at the Blue Posts when she had first heard about Alice. Rita and a few of the other girls had gone to the funeral. The murder had plunged them all into a miasma of gloom and foreboding. After a long absence it was thought – it was hoped – that the killer had somehow vaporised, gone off like an evil phantom to torment some different netherworld. But he had not departed after all, he was still out there, stalking them.

‘My, look at you,' said Rita, sliding in next to her. ‘Your ship just come in?'

Madeleine returned a smile. ‘Roddy's got some punter he wants to impress. I thought I'd better show willing.'

‘Did you two fall out or something? He's had a face trippin' him these last weeks.'

Madeleine gave a brisk shake of her head. ‘Just a misunderstanding. You know what he's like.'

Rita took out a cigarette and lit it. She gave Madeleine a sidelong look, and hesitated a moment before speaking. ‘I can't stop thinkin' about Alice. I mean, you told her that feller Rusk –'

‘That's not his real name. It's just the one he gave her.'

‘Well, whatever he's called, you told her to steer clear of him. And she would have done, too . . . J'ever wonder if this “Tiepin Killer” is the same feller who was lookin' for you?'

‘I've thought it might be,' she said quietly. ‘But I couldn't be certain.'

‘You told her he was dangerous, remember? – the three of us were in the Blue Posts that night.'

Madeleine felt suddenly faint.
He's been looking for you
. She found her voice from somewhere. ‘I told her – I told her not to go near him.'

‘I know you did. Strikes me that, if it is him, he went back to Alice cos he was prob'ly out to find
you
. And the reason is, you've seen his face.'

She had thought the same thing, the killer forcing Alice to tell him, and her not knowing where Madeleine lived. And then making her pay for not knowing . . . ‘There's no telling if it's the same one I met. Could be there's more than one madman out there.'

Rita, eyes still bright with enquiry, conceded the point. In a sudden gesture of appeal she seized Madeleine's hand in hers. ‘I'm worried sick, though. You have to be careful, Maddy. This punter tonight, for instance, d'you know anything about him?'

‘I never ask. All Roddy told me was he's a big tipper.'

‘Hmm, I'll bet,' Rita said sardonically. ‘Just make sure Roddy's there when you meet him. Then at least you've got protection.' The idea of Roddy as her protector was so ridiculous she began to shake her head, but Rita was adamant. ‘Look, I know he's a swine, but he has an interest in keepin' you safe. You're one of his earners. Remind him of it.'

Madeleine said she would, mostly as a way of getting Rita off the subject.

Tom had never carried a large sum of cash on his person before, and thought that Soho at night was perhaps not the best time to prove himself as courier. The envelope in his pocket felt awkward and seemed to bulge beneath his coat. He walked down narrow streets where kitchen staff loafed outside restaurants on their break, past working girls in doorways, past men on street corners watching and waiting. He had a fanciful notion that an experienced mugger could divine the presence of money on someone, in the way that certain desert tribesmen were able to locate water.

Something else was on his mind. Having agreed to drive Jimmy to Highgate next Monday, he could have kicked himself on realising that it was the same night he had arranged to go to the pictures with Madeleine. After some consideration he reluctantly decided that the dress ball, or whatever it was, had to take priority: Jimmy had no other driver, for one thing, and he would sulk for days if Tom were to let him down. Madeleine, he knew, would understand, and there was now the additional thrill of being able to collect her in the Bentley. Only think of the look on her face when he drove up!

On Berwick Street he turned into the cobbled mews, even quieter at this hour and steeped in inky shadows. He found the door of Roddy's flat and knocked. After a few moments the downstairs light went on; he heard a chain being lifted on the other side and a bolt thrown back. The door opened and a man cautiously dipped his head forward, in a way that reminded Tom of a tortoise poking from under its shell. He gave Tom a once-over.

‘Are you here to pay for the car?' His voice was a flat, slightly adenoidal whine.

Tom nodded, and the man stepped back to admit him. In the weak light of the hallway he was revealed as a portly middle-aged fellow with dark hair and a feeble moustache. His unprepossessing demeanour was offset by an expensive-looking suit, though even this let him down, its too-long cuffs puddling on his wrists. The man led the way up the stairs to the living room, whose unexpected length accommodated a billiard table and even a small bar. Spread upon it was a newspaper his host had evidently been reading when he was called to answer the door.

‘Roddy's late, as usual,' he muttered, folding the paper away. ‘He was supposed to be here half an hour ago.'

Tom thought he might as well try a little civility. ‘I'm Tom, by the way, Tom Tunner. You are –?'

‘Oh, Johns,' he said, accepting Tom's hand.

‘So Roddy's a friend of yours?'

Johns tucked in his chin uncertainly, as if he might be deciding whether to claim an intimacy or not. ‘We've known each other for a while. I supply his club with wine and spirits, he supplies me with . . .' His expression turned shifty. ‘It's business.'

Tom sidled over to the bar and inspected the glinting line of whiskies along the shelf. He took down a bottle of Black & White. He was damned if he should be made to wait without a drink. ‘Care for a sharpener?'

‘Don't mind if I do,' said Johns, heaving himself onto one of the bar stools. Tom took down a couple of glasses and poured them each a hefty measure.

‘Here's how,' he said cheerily, and swallowed, feeling the pleasant burn of the Scotch inside his throat. He noticed that Johns took only a small sip. ‘I suppose in your line of work free Scotch isn't much of a perk.'

‘You could say,' he replied. ‘When I'm out for a big night I take it steady. No use in getting tight straight away.' There was something ill at ease about him; in spite of his profession he was decidedly not a habitué of Soho drinking dens.

‘A big night – I see. What does Roddy have planned for you?'

Johns allowed himself a dry snigger. ‘Oh, I'll probably go wherever the – er – lady wants to. I just hope she's got a bit more class about her than the last one.' He caught Tom's eye and gave a man-of-the-world shrug. ‘Of course with tarts it's the luck of the draw.'

Now Tom understood. Roddy pimped girls, and this was a nervous customer. ‘When you say “class”, you mean . . .'

Johns wrinkled his nose. ‘I can't stand to hear a common accent. The last girl was nice enough but she sounded like a bloody fishwife.'

So, a snob as well as a lecher, thought Tom. He felt sorry for the woman who would be his escort for the evening. Yet there was something piteous about
him
, too, stroking his little moustache; he looked such a lonely sort in his oversized suit and unpolished shoes. It was pity mingled with contempt, really – but sometimes those two were hard to tell apart. He drank down his Scotch and held up the bottle for another, but Johns refused, keeping his powder dry. The desultory chat continued, without enthusiasm. Tom glanced over at the billiard table and thought about suggesting a game – then decided against it. He could imagine no pleasure in beating such an opponent.