The Stand-In (12 page)

Ronnie said, “You fool, you bloody abysmal fool!”

The wrong kid. The wrong kid. How could it be?

“No, I'm the fool! I'm the bloody idiot, and I deserve everything that's going to happen. How could I be such a fool as to think you could do anything right!”

For the time it took to carry the kid upstairs again Desmond could believe it was a plant, that they'd got this columnist to go along, and had a photo taken with some kid. They were trying to pull a fast one, that was all, that was all. But he had taken
The Chronicle
with him when he grabbed up the kid (because he didn't want her to hear Ronnie putting him down). As soon as he got her upstairs he showed her the picture, asking who it was. She had a milk mustache and licked at it, studying the picture, taking her time. He pointed to Coral Reid. “That's mommy, isn't it?” She stared up at him. “Isn't it?”

But it was Aunt Coral and Uncle Bran.

She asked, pointing, “Is it Cornie?” She wasn't sure of the kid standing between them.

“Who's Cornie?” As if he didn't know.

“She has a car that really goes. It's in Beverly Hills. My mommy says I'm going to get a little car like Cornie's that really goes if I'm a good girl and do like Mr. Ossian says.”

“Cornie is Aunt Coral's little girl?” Cornelia. He knew the kid's name was Cornelia, but the nursemaid said they called her Kitten. Kitten-Cornelia, why not?

“Acourse,” she said. “I want some more milk. Can I have—?
May
I?”

He went to the window to try to think up something to say to Ronnie, but he knew nothing would come; no more
click, click
, I.B.M.

“I want my mommy. Please, I want my mommy.”

She was looking at him the way he had looked at his mother when she had left him in how many lousy little bedrooms. He remembered what it had felt like. When his mother had shacked up with that dirt farmer—that's all he really was, anyone could talk his mother into bed—he had slept in a room like this one. There had been a wooden chair like this, no,
two
wooden chairs that he'd used to play planes with, and it'd had the same kind of window, too high up for a kid to see out of and impossible to open. (He remembered standing on a chair trying to shove it open. Jesus, how hot that room had been, as hot as this one was cold.) He picked the kid up and sat her on the bed, pulling the cape around her. “You be a good girl. If you want that car, you got to be a good girl.”

The tears were rolling down her face and she looked at him the way he looked at his mother when she walked out on him, and he had closed her in the room the way his mother had closed him in and, crying, she took it the way he used to have to take it because she was no star, she was used to taking it. No wonder she'd been so easy.

He went back downstairs. He knew Ronnie was waiting to let him have it again but nothing clicked, he had nothing to say that would stop Ronnie, so he just picked up the milk bottle and then wrapped the paper cups and crumbs and what was left of the bread and cheese in the newspaper. He could only let Ronnie run down. Maybe he had it coming, although he still couldn't make out why. Why hadn't Coral Reid just told him when he spoke to her last night that it wasn't her kid? Why had she played along? Finally he couldn't take any more and told Ronnie, okay, he'd had it. “I didn't ask you to get into the act, did I?”

“No. That's the worst of it.”

“Then don't hang it on me. What did you say before—hard cheese? So hard cheese on you, we'll only get a reasonable sum.”

“You can't be that much of a fool! No one could be! You can't think I'm going to play the necktie game for any reasonable sum?”

“You think the cops have been called in?”

“Matter of fact, I don't; anyhow I couldn't care less. It just doesn't matter, you nit, that column was plain enough. We know now that they don't give a bugger's damn about this kid.”

“I don't get that, Ronnie.”

“You don't think any such item would appear if they did care whether your little prize is alive or dead?”

“You don't understand the business, Ronnie. This is just publicity. It must have been set up days ago, weeks, maybe. You don't know the movie game like I do. This is strictly routine.”

“And you think they wouldn't have stopped the story? Listen to me, you cretin, if they cared at all about that child, they'd have put dynamite under Fleet Street before they'd permit that particular routine story to be published. They let them print a photo of the child who
is
worth money to show us what we've got. Listen, fool, allowing the picture to be published says, ‘We couldn't care less.' Well, I care. That infant's life isn't worth a shilling to them, but mine is worth a great deal to me. What do you think is going to happen if she gets back to them and starts spouting about a nurse and her friend Ronnie?”

“Jim. I called you Jim.”

“And she called me Ronnie. Screw what she called me, she could call me Father Christmas, but one way or another, if she got back they would find me out.”

She was crying again. He could hear her crying up there. “She's crying,” he said. It just came out.

“Bugger her.”

“It's not her fault she isn't Coral Reid's kid.”

“No, not her fault, her bad luck. Now I've shocked him,” Ronnie told an imaginary audience. “He's so solicitous now, do you notice? Do you know why?”

To Desmond, Ronnie's imaginary audience became Boy Flyte-Martin.

“I'll tell you why our Desmond is suddenly so solicitous—because now the kiddie is Desmond. She's no longer Collier's child, she's Collier's stand-in, his whipping boy, in other words she's our Desmond himself. She's the one who takes all the chances, does all the stunts. She's the perpetual holder of the dirty end of the stick.”

He could almost see that bastard Boy holding out that walking stick of his with the loaded tip.

“Notice how the milk of kindness doth flow! If he could, I assure you our Desmond would squeeze milk out of his falsies for the kiddie now. Better not, Desmond, better not do it!”

“Do what?”

“Identify with her, because it will only make what we're going to do more difficult for you.”

“What? Do what?”

“You know, old man. Why the sick dog expression? Surely you were ready for it with the other kid if things went sour?”

“But—”

“But that was the other one? That was Coral Reid's kiddie, Branton Collier's kiddie?” Ronnie gave his snirt of laughter.

“Ronnie, listen. I didn't do it for the money, I was sore. I didn't think it through, Ronnie, but I wouldn't have touched the kid. Listen, I was wrong to let you think it was the real thing, this kid or Bran's, I wouldn't have touched her.”

“You never meant business? You never wanted the lovely money?”

Desmond told Ronnie he could get out now. He had over fourteen hundred dollars left. Ronnie could get out of the country with it. Desmond said he wouldn't take any risks, since he knew that risks to him might be risks to Ronnie. He wouldn't touch the money in case it was marked, how about that? All he would do was turn the kid loose where she could be picked up. They didn't even need Ronnie's Jag, they would walk.

Ronnie, smiling, shook his head.

“Wait a minute—You wouldn't want her picked up near this house, okay, drive us to the nearest Underground and I'll take her that way.”

Desmond said Ronnie was exaggerating the danger to him. “You can still be out of it, why not? Suppose they get me—why you? I'll keep you out of it. Whatever England is now, they still don't use the third degree. So I'll go to jail.”

“You sound positively reconciled. Oh, Desmond, Desmond, I see it all! Your damned King Charles's head! I can see
The News of the Week
now: ‘Desmond Carr's Own Story.' The poor little boy who was a stand-in to his own mother!”

“Cut it out, Ronnie! I've had it! I'd just rather do time than hurt the kid.”

“Sorry, she's for it! The only difficulty is a cliché. How do we dispose of the body?” He went to the window, pulling at the red curtains. “Easy.
Here!
None of the filming will take place outside. All we have to do is bury her far enough away from the house so no one sees the dug-up ground and becomes curious. After the filming is finished, the place will be empty again and, if I know the aunts, will stay empty. They're not going to permit a developer to put up nasty little prefabs, and nobody's going to want to live in this ghastly old wreck again, and when the aunts pop off, I inherit.

“Yes, we quietly kill her here.” He choked an imaginary neck, let an imaginary body drop. “In Great Britain one is not hanged by the neck if there isn't a weapon used. I'm not quite sure if that means any weapon or specifically a gun, but bare hands are best. No, gloves, gloves since they may be able to trace fingerprints even on tender baby flesh.” Now he stretched both hands toward Desmond with the fingers spread, snickering when Desmond shrank away. Before he clicked the curtains back he looked at his watch.
Click, click
went the brass rings.

“We'll have to make the phone call we promised, Desmond. If we don't they'll have the police in, because they will be dead certain we read them right. We have to keep them guessing. No, we call and tell them where La Reid is to meet us, reasonable sum in hand. I hadn't quite found the right place last night because of all your restrictions, but now any spot will do.”

Desmond said, “No. It's got to be the kind of place I laid out!”

“Oh, don't be such a bloody fool, Desmond!”

He wasn't going to be waiting anywhere with the kid. He wasn't going to hand her over anywhere. Ronnie would bury her here. Ronnie wanted to choke her dead.

11

Coral hadn't allowed the chambermaid to do the rooms or make the beds. The suite was messy and smelled of dead cigarettes and Scotch.

Nube came in at nine forty-five. He had slept the night in the Turkish bath and finished up, as usual, with a massage. It gave his dark skin a pinkish glow, a pinkish, waxy look. He was wearing a white silk mock turtleneck sweater under a brown corduroy jacket with his highly polished brown tassled moccasins matching his shiny brown eyes. Seeing him, Millie gasped and turned to her sister, silently begging her to ask him, ask him. Coral nodded that she would. “Nube, have you got the fifty thousand pounds?”

“I said I would, didn't I?” Nube looked around, speculatively wrinkled then pulled his nose straight.

“And you know that they took Kitten—that it wasn't Cornie? Yes? Good. See, it's all right, Millie.”

“You should try to relax, Mrs. Uh … Why don't you lie down? She should have a sedative, Coral, and lie down.”

“She won't take anything.”

“She should. Well, would you go lie down in the bedroom, anyhow?”

“Millie wants to be right here when they call again, Nube. They just called about ten minutes ago, and they're going to call before I have to start out with the money.”

“Did your sister speak to them?”

“Bran did, but …” Coral was trained to take directions from Nube and saw now that she had to get Millie into the bedroom whether Millie wanted to go or not. She picked up the letter from Kitten and gave it to Millie to take with her and then, holding her by the hand—it was the only way—pulled her into the other room. “I think Nube wants to talk business.” Poor Millie. “I know, honey, but that's how he is, and he did get the money; that's what counts. Lie down. Close your eyes.” She knew Millie wouldn't, because she knew what Millie would see if she closed her eyes. “Well, lie down.”

Nube had picked up the newspapers that Bran had left on the floor. “You read this paper, Coral?”

“No. Bran did. He said there was nothing in it about finding Kitten—you know—dead—” She caught his expression. “Was there something? Was that why Bran went away again?” She came to him with her hand outstretched.

“Nothing like that. Take it easy.” He folded the paper down the center. “Where did your husband go?”

“I don't know. He was out most of the night.”

“I spoke to him about one o'clock.”

“Yes, he told us. Then he went out and came back when it got light and then after they called he went out again.” She saw Nube smiling. “You're always so hard on him, Nube. Can't you imagine the atmosphere here, with Millie?”

“This time I don't think he went out to escape the atmosphere, it was me, Coral, me! He knew I'd be up here to tell you I'd done what I promised but he doesn't want to do what he promised.”

“All right, so he doesn't, but he will.”

“I don't think so, doll. I don't think he will, and that's why he isn't here now.” He gave Coral the folded paper. “Read Eunice Merson's column.”

She barely glanced at it. “With our picture? Very nice. You're great at getting coverage.” He was tapping at the paper for her to read it. “Oh, Nube, I just can't
care
about
Peepshow
now!”

“Darling!” He held her chin between his fingers and pulled her face from side to side. “If you look at that particular photo you will notice Cornie is there, you and Bran and your five-year-old daughter Cornelia Collier. If you read the column, you will see that it is the release about your sister's little girl taking over Cornie's part.”

Her beautiful eyes filled and she let the tears come as if tears were, as so many times they had been, what he wanted from her. “You mean if they had waited one more day they wouldn't have taken poor little Kitten?” Nube's fingers were hard on her chin. He was making her look into his brown eyes. Coral said uncertainly, “You mean if they'd read it—”

“No. I mean they've read it by now. They'd definitely be watching the papers, and you know how many carry this column. I mean they have read it by now and that the kid's probably dead.”