His glance had shown him a smart blue run-about parked outside the front gate. Jack Katanga’s car, he supposed. He thought it would be worth waiting to see if Katanga emerged. The ostensible reason for his visit was to discuss Katanga’s book, but he had a feeling that he would get more of the sort of information he really wanted if he could find Dorothy Katanga on her own.
Twenty minutes later his patience was rewarded. Katanga came out, jumped into the car and drove off. Tamplin gave him two minutes to get clear, then walked back to the Homestead and rang the bell.
The door was opened by an attractive black girl. She kept one foot behind the half-opened door and said, “Yes?”
“I’d like a word with Mr. Katanga.”
“He’s out.”
“Then perhaps with Mrs. Katanga. I’m from the
Highside Times
.” He pushed a card through the opening. The girl took it and retreated, leaving the door on the chain. He heard a murmur of voices, then she reappeared, removed the chain and said, “You can come in.”
He followed her down the short hall into the room at the back, which was full of sunshine, with a bow window overlooking a neat garden. Dorothy Katanga was sitting in a chair under the window, with an embroidery frame in her lap. His files had told him something of her history. The mission-reared little girl, who had defied her father and married at eighteen, was still there, somewhere, but hidden by the passage of time and the disciplines of experience. Tamplin had spent much of his professional life studying faces. He examined her with interest. Her eyes were grey; neither the slate-grey of morning nor the velvet-grey of evening, but an indefinite midday-grey. There was determination in the lines of the chin, contradicted by a charming dimple in the middle of it. Not an easy woman to assess.
He noticed that the girl, who must be Anna Macheli, had settled down in a chair beside the kitchen door.
Taking out his notebook he embarked on a few of the routine questions he had prepared. Had it been difficult to get out of Mozambique? Yes, very difficult. When they got here, had they been helped over immigration formalities and over finding somewhere to live? The Orange Consortium had been most helpful. So who were they? They were an organisation opposed to the policies of the South African government, which assisted people who had escaped from it; they seemed to have quite a lot of money and were generous with it.
Had she any relations in England? Only her father. He had a living in Norfolk.
His earlier questions had been dealt with confidently. They were questions she had been asked and had answered many times before. When he mentioned her father he had felt, for the first time, that he might be trespassing. He concluded that he would get franker answers if they were alone. He swung round on Anna and said, “Talking of fathers, I had a very interesting discussion with your—er—father yesterday.”
The inference, if a little pointed, hit home all right. Anna looked uncomfortable. Dorothy Katanga noticed it and seemed surprised. So, thought Tamplin, she doesn’t know about that little deception. Interesting.
Seeing that Anna was upset, Dorothy said, “Do you think you could get us all a cup of coffee, love?” Anna whisked off into the kitchen and shut the door behind her.
“A nice girl,” said Tamplin. “You were lucky. Home helps are difficult to get these days. How did you get onto her?”
“Someone sent us a note, out of the blue, giving details about her and mentioning the sort of salary she would expect – which was far from excessive. We snapped her up as quickly as possible. And now I hardly know what we should do without her. When we were in Hammersmith we had a woman – a Mrs. Queen. That was convenient, because she lived right next door. But Anna’s people are the other side of London.”
“Then I imagine you have to be reasonable about time off.”
“We allow her from after breakfast on Saturday to Sunday supper-time. That means she only works a five-day week, but we pay her for seven.”
“A generous arrangement. On the other hand, I suppose it’s nice for you to have your husband to yourself for two days in the week.”
Dorothy looked up sharply and then said, “Yes, of course.”
“And I imagine your father comes to visit you sometimes.”
“My father? No. He would not come here. He would not be welcome if he did.”
A flush had come into her face, colouring her high cheekbones with a crimson slash.
“Do I gather, then, that your father doesn’t approve of your husband?”
“He hates him. You look surprised. Of course he hates him. He was immensely kind to Jack as a boy. He had him into his house. He gave him hours of instruction. And then – how did he show his gratitude? By stealing his daughter and – I am giving you his view – by dishonouring him.”
“Not a very Christian view, surely.”
“I suppose he’s a Christian. But if he prays at all, he is praying that Jack will be sent back to Mozambique.”
“Even though he would be going to his death.”
“Because he would be.”
The flushed patches had faded from her face leaving her very pale.
“Well,” said Tamplin lightly, “it looks as though Mullen has got one supporter in this country at least.”
Conscious that she had said more than she meant to, Dorothy added, “I must ask you not to print anything about that.”
“I’ll respect your confidence,” said Tamplin with a smile. “But perhaps I might advise you to be a little more careful when dealing with representatives of the popular press.”
As Anna arrived with the coffee, the doorbell sounded. Dorothy, who had just picked up her cup, started and slopped some of the coffee into the saucer.
“It’s a woman,” said Anna. “I saw her coming up the path. Don’t worry. She don’t look like a reporter.”
“Then show her in. And fetch another cup.”
The woman who came in certainly bore no resemblance to any reporter Tamplin had ever met. She looked, he thought, like a crow. Wrong. Not a crow. When you took in her glossy black coat with its discreet white frontal, her sharp nose and her beady black eyes, you realised that she was a magpie; an inquisitive, bouncing magpie with its eyes wide open for treasure.
“Why,” said Dorothy, “if it isn’t Mrs. Queen! How sweet of you to come all that way to pay us a visit.”
“Not such a great way, my dear. Over Hammersmith Bridge, a bus down the Fulham Palace Road, a bus up Putney Hill and there I was. Almost, as you might say, on your doorstep.”
In fact, nearly a mile to go, thought Tamplin, but a mile would mean nothing to those stout little legs. The accent puzzled him. Not cockney, certainly. Original West Country, perhaps, overlaid with big city sophistication. Devonshire cream in an East London supermarket.
“And how is everything back in Hammersmith?”
“We’ve missed you, love, that’s a fact. The man who’s got your house, he’s a clurk. He’s got five squalling kids and a wife who squalls louder’n them. Oh, thank you, me dear. I always think a cup of coffee’s welcome at this time in the morning. I hope you look after the family as well as what I did.”
“I hope I do,” said Anna and bolted back into the kitchen.
“That’s a pretty child,” said Mrs. Queen. “Got a good figure, too.” She sounded like a Roman matron examining an item from the slave market. “It must be a great comfort to your husband having her here, I’m sure.”
Dorothy’s head jerked up. Before she could speak, Mrs. Queen added smoothly, “Look how nice she keeps the house. I’m sure she’s a better polisher than what I was.” She swung round to bring Tamplin under her guns. “The gentlemen of the press are here, I see.”
His car had been fully twenty yards up the road, but those button eyes wouldn’t have missed it.
“I suppose you’re here about that book Mr. Katanga’s written. Soon as I heard about it I went to our library and put my name down for it, but they told me it’d be months before I got it, it’s that popular.”
Dorothy said, “Perhaps my husband would lend you a copy.”
“Do you think he would?” The idea pleased Mrs. Queen. “We didn’t always hit it off. Not altogether. I had to stand up for myself, you know. But after a round or two we came to respect each other.” Switch to Tamplin. “I couldn’t altogether blame them for leaving Hammersmith. It was the neighbours. A nasty narrow-minded crowd, I called them. Their tongues longer than their noses.” Back to Dorothy. “But I’ll say this for you, dear. You’ve fallen on your feet and no mistake. You couldn’t hardly have found a more sheltered love-nest.”
There was a hint of malevolence in the way Mrs. Queen enunciated the words ‘love-nest’. Tamplin thought, if I knew what was really going on inside that bird-brain of yours I might have a chance of understanding these people.
One thing was clear. He had caught Dorothy looking down at her watch more than once. So, she was hoping that Mrs. Queen would have finished her coffee and hopped away before her husband came back. Mrs. Queen did not seem to share her apprehension. She had settled herself comfortably in her chair. If the master of the house returned she was more than ready for him.
All the time that she was speaking her head had been swivelling round as she appraised the contents of the room. Now she switched back to Dorothy. “Your husband must be doing well, with his books and his articles, love. And now he’s got himself involved in this shop-lifting business and that horrible policeman from South Africa. We’re all following it in the papers. As good as a serial on the television. You can’t tell what’s going to happen next.” Back to Tamplin. “It’s all publicity, isn’t it, sir?”
He said, “You hear people say, sometimes, that all publicity is good publicity even when it’s bad. Actually, I don’t believe that’s true.”
“Well, you should know. You’re in the game, aren’t you? Isn’t that his car? I hope it is. I’d like to see the great man again.”
It’s what you came down here for, thought Tamplin. This could be interesting.
When Katanga strode into the room he upset most of Tamplin’s preconceptions. He was a very good-looking man. As a boy, before life and responsibility had thickened him, he must have been stunning. The gossip columns had skirted delicately over his ancestry, but all of them had mentioned the Swedish blood. There was assurance in his face and bearing, but no arrogance, and there were lines round his eyes and mouth which might have been lines of humour, but could equally have been lines of cynicism. Mrs. Queen had called him the great man. He was not great yet and, hopefully, had enough humility to know it. But the promise of greatness was there all right.
“Well, if it isn’t my Queenie,” he said, “This is a surprise.”
“A nice surprise, I hope, sir.”
“Of course. What else could it be? Your brains are matched only by your unchanging beauty.”
“Soft soap.”
Ranging rounds, thought Tamplin. If battle were to be joined, it would not be one-sided. As a boy on a farm, he had seen magpies mobbing an eagle-owl.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” said Dorothy hastily.
“Coffee?” said Mrs. Queen. “Half past twelve isn’t coffee time, is it? Not unless I’m losing my memory. A glass of whisky before dinner and another one, or maybe two, before supper. That was the regular drill, wasn’t it?”
“You’ve an excellent memory,” said Katanga. “But there’s one thing I must correct you about. Now that we’ve moved up in the world, we call what we eat in the middle of the day lunch, not dinner.”
“Oh dear, oh dear. You’ll have to forgive my vulgar ways,” said Mrs. Queen, with a touch of pink in her cheeks.
Katanga had extracted a bottle of Haig from the corner cupboard. Now he paused in front of the sideboard to select one of the glasses on it. There was a larger one, Tamplin saw, half hidden behind a pile of books; not a drinking glass, more an open-mouthed glass pipkin of the sort chemists use for mixing their brews.
“Careful to pick the right glass,” chirruped Mrs. Queen. “We don’t want another accident, do we?”
If she hadn’t been piqued she wouldn’t have said that, thought Tamplin. Katanga swung round. “And just what exactly do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, sir. Nothing at all. What should I mean?”
“I’ll get you some ice from the fridge,” said Dorothy, halfway out of her chair.
“Stay where you are,” said Katanga. He turned about and made for the kitchen. Dorothy gave a small sigh.
The kitchen was only divided from the living-room by a partition and they could hear Katanga talking to Anna. He had evidently recovered his temper – if, indeed, he had lost it – and Anna was laughing at something he was saying.
By the time he came back with the drink, Mrs. Queen had, at last, concluded that she had outstayed her welcome. She had extracted herself from her chair and recovered her umbrella which, like so many Londoners, she carried more as a walking-stick and a weapon than as shelter from the rain.
“Are you off?” said Katanga, just politely enough. “Could I give you a lift home, perhaps?”
“In that nice new car of yours?” said Mrs. Queen. “That would be a treat. I hope you don’t have the same trouble starting it as you did with the old one.”
The silence which followed this innocent remark was crackling with undischarged electricity. Tamplin realised that the principals were so intent on their private fight that they had almost forgotten he was there. He decided, reluctantly, to break it up. Climbing to his feet, he said, “No need to drag Mr. Katanga away from his lunch. I can easily run you home myself.”
“Two gentlemen competing to do me favours,” simpered Mrs. Queen. “I’ll entrust myself to the gentleman from the press, if it isn’t taking him too far out of his way.”
“Hammersmith is on my way.”
“Then I have great pleasure in accepting.”
Whether it was a pleasure for her or not, one thing was clear to Tamplin. The thought of him having the chance of a private talk with Mrs. Queen was no pleasure to either of the Katangas.
Very
interesting.
As they were bowling north up Putney Park Lane, Tamplin said, “As it happens, I know the Castelnau area well. When I first came to London I lived just south of Hammersmith Bridge, in Riverview Gardens.”
“To think of that. Not a long way from my little house. The world’s a small place, isn’t it? Do I gather that you’ve moved off now?”