The Stand-In (20 page)

“Just so, Julius.” Boy did some figuring. Cyril must have shot over to Carr's place as soon as he'd said he would tell the police about Desmond's threats to Ronnie. Boy felt his heart banging in a most primitive way:
“Now I've got him! Now I've got him!”
He pressed his hand against his heart to quiet it but had to wait, breathing deeply, before he could speak. “Julius, I say—” He had to raise his voice because Julius was washing his hands in the basin behind the Coromandel screen, “will it injure my leg if I try to get about on it?”

Julius emerged, drying his hands. “Haven't you been listening? I've just been telling you that it is because you are so lazy and self-indulgent that you need this course of physiotherapy.”

“Of course you told me, Julius, so you did. Well, I promise to turn over a new leaf tomorrow. Thank you, Julius.”

Something about Boy was disconcerting. It was the way he was now tracing a pattern in the rug with his stick; it was his shark's smile. “Boy, about this suicide attempt—this is strictly confidential, you do understand that? I shouldn't want anyone official to learn I hadn't reported it. I could find myself in a spot of trouble if this got out.”

“My dear Julius, I would be the last person to be indiscreet! Why, if you were in trouble, what would the lot of us do?”

But this suddenly blooming new leaf frightened Julius, this change from querulous boredom to liveliness. “Boy—Boy, I really must insist you do not mention it. You know how gossip spreads. In fact, should it spread, I will spread some gossip on my own.” Cyril had blackmailed him and now he was blackmailing Boy, but at least Cyril had stooped to it to help his young friend, whereas he had no such excuse. He wished fervently that he hadn't succumbed to the temptation to make Boy jealous because Boy wasn't looking jealous.
Vicious
. Dr. Finney nodded to Boy's manservant who, handing him his coat, looked more like a bodyguard. For the first time he believed Boy capable of action that might require a thug in attendance.

23

Millie had tried to telephone Desmond from her room after she told Coral off. Five times. Each time she asked the operator to keep ringing and, while waiting, watched Kitten playing with Dumbo and thought that if not for him Kitten would be dead. She knew just what she was going to say. She was going to say that he had asked for a miracle, and now there was a miracle.

What else could you call it?

Again the number didn't answer, and Millie banged the phone down and packed two bags. She left the rest of her luggage in the room. She wasn't going to check out because they might expect her to pay them out of her own money if she walked out on Mr. Ossian. As the elevator came up, she tightened her grip on the suitcases because she intended to carry them herself and save a tip.

In the cab she asked the driver to take her to a decent hotel, but not expensive. (Thank God she wasn't in a country where she couldn't speak the language.) The driver said to his way of thinking, pound for pound, shilling for shilling, the Cumberland Hotel at Marble Arch did you best.

“If you like a bit of life, madam.”

Kitten was very much interested in all the restaurants in the Lyons Corner House next to the Cumberland,
“one to suit every need and every pocket, you wouldn't believe.”
Millie encouraged the driver to talk because of Kitten's shining eyes. Anyhow, what was the good of going over and over what she was going to say to him, and what was the good of going nuts because every minute he didn't get away was a minute wasted?

Millie understood what the taxi driver meant by “a bit of life” when she saw the crowd milling about the lobby. The reservation desk said she was lucky they could give them a room, and Kitten sighed with happiness. Millie didn't know what Mr. Ossian had been paying, so she couldn't tell whether it was a bargain, but the room was nice, with kind of a little hall where the bathroom was and then another door to the bedroom so she could keep it quiet for Kitten.

As soon as she was settled, Millie got on the phone again. There was still no answer so, because Kitten wanted to, they had ham and eggs in the Ham and Eggs room. It was very crowded and Kitten was a slow eater, and by the time they got back it was eight-thirty.

This time there was an answer, but she didn't recognize the voice. She said, “I want to talk to Desmond, please,” feeling funny saying his name, but the man mumbled very quick and English, and hung up without asking who was calling.

Kitten announced that she wasn't a bit tired, which meant she
was
, poor kid. Millie sent her to see what color tile
this
bathroom had and gave Desmond's number again hoping now he would pick up the phone himself. When a strange voice answered again, she said, “I must talk to Desmond. Look, I
got
to talk to him! I got to!”

Cyril rubbed the receiver against his forehead and looked toward the bed where Desmond was lying, motionless. He had never before realized that sleeping people are always stirring, maybe barely perceptibly but not being absolutely still like that. It was terrifying. Except to pick up the phone, and he had only done that out of a ridiculous notion that all that ringing would disturb Desmond, he himself had not moved, either. He couldn't take his eyes off that stillness, actually holding back each breath for Desmond's, and now felt distinctly faint. Suppose he fainted? That would be dangerous for Desmond, so that if this persistent woman was the hospital sister Desmond had told him about, if she
was
—He said quickly, “I beg your pardon, are you the sister?”

“Yes, I'm the sister.” If Desmond had told this man about her and Coral, did that mean he knew everything?

Cyril decided to ask for help. From all indications, the hospital sister was devoted to Desmond. She was a trained nurse and would know what to do; every minute he sat there with Desmond looking like marble, he felt more and more nervous that the boy would die. “Sister, you're a—a—very good friend of Desmond's, aren't you?”

“Sister”
—Millie suddenly realized he meant nurse, not Coral's sister. He meant that nurse from whose room Desmond had taken the white uniform and cape and wig. She said, “Yes, I am a very good friend.” Well, she was.

“Sister—Desmond needs you badly. I—look here, sister—”

“What is it? Stop that! Tell me!”

“Desmond is unconscious. I'm afraid this afternoon he tried to—” he dropped his voice, “kill himself. Oh, the doctor's been, but—” Cyril paused because he was making such a bad job of it. He had already told her about the suicide and also that a doctor had seen Desmond, which could make Julius vulnerable. Then it seemed that he had been talking to her for hours and that while he'd been out of the bedroom the liquid in the bottle had stopped feeding into Desmond's arm. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Sister, I really think you had better come here at once, if you can, prepared to stay, that is if you are Desmond's good friend.”

“I'll be right there. I have the address.”

Cyril hadn't even tried to get a look at her in the street lights when he called out “Key! Key!” and threw it down, because it frightened him to leave Desmond alone. When Desmond had told him about this sister he had conjured up—yes, he had—Anna Neagle, a genuine English beauty, because she had played Florence Nightingale in a film. (Desmond wouldn't have known who Anna Neagle was!) When he opened the door, he saw that she didn't look at all like Anna Neagle or British, nor was she a beauty, barely pretty. She wasn't in uniform and was holding a child by the hand, and the child was clutching a huge toy elephant. “I'm Cyril Moore,” he said. “Thank you for coming. Please come in.”

“I'm Millie Williams. This is Kitten,” she added, watching his face. He could still know about Kitten even if he didn't know about
her
, but he only looked like he'd never
seen
a kid. “How is Desmond?”

“I know Desmond,” Kitten said.

She'd had to tell Kitten they were going to stay in Desmond's house because the poor thing wanted to go to bed and not be dragged out again. “Sh, sweetie. Where is he?”

Cyril pointed. “Look here, sister, a child oughtn't to—surely—”

“Kitten will be okay out here. Kitten, you curl up on that couch and take a little nap with Dumbo.” Millie headed for the bedroom door and, staring uncertainly back at Kitten, the man followed her. When she saw how Desmond looked, Millie almost cried. “You better close the door.” She got the feeling this guy didn't want to be shut into the room with her.

Cyril told himself she was a nurse, not merely a woman. What did it matter if she were completely undistinguished, badly dressed, too, if only she was competent? He picked up the empty pillbox from the mantel where Julius had put it and handed it to her. “I found him just in time, the doctor said.” (What good to call Julius “the doctor”? If she was to nurse Desmond, she would have to meet him.) “Dr. Finney. Pumped his poor tummy. Did all the necessaries. Medically speaking, everything that can be done has been done, but now expert nursing is required. But you would know all about that, wouldn't you? Dr. Finney said Desmond could be unconscious two or three days.”

She turned very pale. “Oh, no!” Two or three days!
Days!
The miracle she was bringing him was time, and what good was time now?

She had almost sat on his hand, plopping into the chair he had pulled up for her. “Surely, sister, you've nursed unconscious people before? I realize that Desmond's a—a
friend
and not just another patient, but—” She had dropped her head and was biting her underlip and pulling it from between her teeth, once, twice, thrice. “Had I better get you something, sister?”

“No, thanks. I said, ‘No, thanks.' Do we need to whisper? I'm okay. Look, when you say ‘sister,' you mean a nurse? You asked me was I a sister on the phone and I said yes.”

Not a sister?

“I'm Coral Reid's sister. The movie star? Well, they're always calling me ‘sister' because I'm her sister, so when you asked me I just said yes.”

“I see.” He rubbed his forehead. “But then you're not the sister Desmond—uh—knows.”

“Look, it sounds funny to you, but that's because you're English. When you say sister, you right away think of a nurse, but I'm American and sister just means sister or a nun. I just thought Coral's sister, I wasn't trying to fool you.”

“I see.”

Millie knew she had to be there. Maybe he would come to sooner, or she could get him away. “What's the difference?” she said. “So I'm not a nurse, but I've had plenty experience, believe me. My sister was too busy in Hollywood and I took care of my mother until she passed away. Of course, all Mom talked about was how wonderful Coral was. Excuse me, that was uncalled for.”

“Wonderful! I don't share your mother's opinion. What she did to Desmond yesterday wasn't very wonderful.”

“Coral? My sister? I don't get it. I don't get that.”

“Quite the opposite of wonderful! Cruel, vulgar, if you'll forgive my saying so, inexcusable! I believe it was your sister's laughing at his high voice that made poor Desmond take his life.” He had decided this was the safest motive.

“When his voice gets like a woman's?” Would Coral recognize him as the nurse? “And Coral laughed at that? It figures.”

“I know how sensitive Desmond is about his voice, so when I heard how she had mortified him, I was concerned and popped in.” He put his hand over his eyes. Cyril wore a big ring on his little finger. “I should have stayed with him!”

If this guy believed Desmond had tried to kill himself over Coral, he didn't know a thing. She told herself to be careful. “Don't blame yourself, he fooled you. He could keep things to himself.” She said quickly, “I was with him last night, and I didn't guess anything much was wrong.” What was she doing? Giving him an alibi was what. She had also told Coral she'd been with him all night, yes. Yes.

Cyril almost said, “So you were the one?” but caught himself because that was implying it could have been some other woman. Very tactless, that would have been. “Well, Desmond is an actor, after all.”

An actor? After she had made up a bed for Kitten on the couch in the living room she settled Kitten to sleep. And Kitten let her rush through the kissing game and didn't ask for water or the toilet or use any other excuses to stay awake. Now she knew he was an actor, but she wanted to know a lot more.

To start Mr. Moore talking, she made them some coffee and brought a chair in from the living room.

When she found out about the lousy breaks Desmond had had—his awful mother, being Bran's stand-in and stunt boy, the My-Oh-My Club—she felt as if he and she were the opposites of Bran and Coral. It was like they were twins.

After talking almost two hours, this Mr. Moore went away, and then she had to turn Desmond on his back again. She stared down at him and said, “Wake up! Wake up! You got to get away, wake up!”

But he didn't hear a thing.

Millie bit her lip, drew her hand back, and slapped his cheek so hard it stung her palm, but it didn't do any good. The only way to move him unconscious would be in an ambulance, and you couldn't escape in an ambulance. She became frantic with time dripping away like the liquid in that bottle. It was the second night in a row she hadn't slept but, sitting where she could see his face and the bottle, she was wide awake.

Boy Flyte-Martin was wide awake, too, as he waited for the police. The murder had been reported on the wireless, but he learned no more than Cyril had told him. Boy had the greatest difficulty refraining from ringing up the police to report Carr's threats, but he decided that such eagerness might make them attribute his call to a personal grudge. No, it would be more effective if the information from the Honorable Boy Flyte-Martin came reluctantly. And, because of Julius, he could not be the one to tell the police about the suicide attempt. But find out they must, because it helped to tie Carr to Ronnie's death.