In spite of logic, the feeling of treachery remained. Charles Paris had deserted his friend in a crisis. Charles Paris had incriminated his friend by his statement.
He had to do something. At least find out all the circumstances, at least check that no mistakes had been made.
He hurried back to the house in Hereford Road, went to the pay-phone on the landing and dialled Gerald Venables’s office number.
Gerald was a successful show business solicitor whom Charles had known since Oxford. Armed with a boyish enthusiasm for the whole business of detection, he had collaborated with Charles on one or two investigations, starting with the strange death of Marius Steen. In the current circumstances, it was an immediate instinct to ring Gerald.
An efficient, husky voice answered the phone.
‘Is that Polly?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Charles Paris. Could I speak to Gerald, please?’
‘I’m sorry, he’s not here.’
‘Oh, sod it. Is he on his way home?’
‘No, he’s out with a client, I’m afraid. He was called down to Breckton mid-morning and he’s been there all day.’
‘Oh my God, of course. He’s Hugo Mecken’s solicitor, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. That’s who he’s with. I gather you’ve heard the news.’
‘Yes.’ It wasn’t worth going into details of how he had been the first to hear it. ‘Stupid of me. I’d forgotten. Gerald sorted out Hugo’s divorce, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. And he was a bit shocked when he discovered what it was about this time.’
‘That I can believe. Look, Polly, have you any idea when he’ll be back? I mean, is he reckoning to go back to the office?’
‘No. He rang about half an hour ago to say he’d go straight to Dulwich from Breckton. And asked me to ring Mrs Venables and say he’d be late.’
‘Why didn’t, he ring her himself?’ Charles asked irrelevantly.
‘I think it sounds more businesslike if I do.’ Polly replied with a hint of humour.
Yes, that was Gerald all over. ‘Polly, when he says “very late”, what do you reckon that means?’
‘I honestly don’t know. He said I was to say ten-thirty at the earliest to Mrs Venables.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Polly. He didn’t say anything else about… you know, the case… or Hugo… or anything.’
‘No. Well, there isn’t really much to say, is there?’
‘I suppose not.’
Charles spent an unsatisfactory evening and drank too much. He thought of ringing Frances, but put it off again. Round eight he realized he hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours.
He didn’t feel hungry, but he thought he ought to have something.
Going out to a restaurant was too much effort. He was too jumpy to sit down and relax over a proper meal. He looked round the room. There was an opened packet of cornflakes on the table. No milk. He tried a handful. They were soft, cardboard.
He rooted through the grey-painted cupboard, shoving aside scripts, half-finished plays, empty bottles, socks and crisp packets. All he came up with was a tin of sardines without a key and a tin of curried beans.
The menu was dictated by his antiquated tin-opener, which wouldn’t grip on the sardine tin., He slopped the beans into a saucepan still furred with boiled milk from the previous week and put it on the gas-ring which was hidden discreetly behind a plastic curtain.
The curried beans didn’t improve anything. He took a long swill from the Bell’s bottle as a mouthwash. Except he didn’t spit it out.
Then he addressed his mind to thought. Serious thought. He had been in criminal situations before and he had even, by a mixture of luck and serendipity, solved crimes before. But this one mattered. He had to concentrate, sort it out. He was motivated by his affection for Hugo and his abiding sense of guilt.
His first assumption remained Hugo’s innocence. No logic for this, just a conviction.
If only he could see Hugo face to face, talk to him, ask him. Then he would know, he felt sure.
But how do you get to see a man who has just been arrested for murder? Gerald would know. All action seemed to hinge on speaking to Gerald.
Half past nine. The evening was passing, but slowly. Perhaps another generous Bell’s would speed up the process.
He looked at the floor through the slopping spirit in his glass. The image was refracted and distorted. Like his thought processes.
The obvious solution was that Hugo had killed his wife. In a wild reaction to the collapse of his dreams he had taken the terrible kamikaze course of the disillusioned romantic. ‘Yet each man kills the thing he loves…,’ as Oscar Wilde wrote in his despair.
The only way to escape the obvious, solution was to provide a feasible alternative. Either to prove Hugo was doing something else at the time that Charlotte was killed. Or to prove that someone else did it.
Charles’s brief experience of the Backstagers told him that emotions ran high in the group. Charlotte had antagonized the established stars by her success as Nina. Vee Winter, for one,, felt herself usurped by the newcomer.
But that kind of jealousy wasn’t sufficient motive for murder. A sexual impulse was more likely. A woman as beautiful as Charlotte was bound to cause reverberations wherever she went and no doubt her appearance among the Backstagers had let to the snapping-off of a few middle-aged husbands’ heads by middle-aged wives who saw eyes lingering with too much interest. Indeed, Charles had seen evidence of this with the Hobbses.
But that was still not something for which a sane person would kill.
It must be a closer attachment. Clive Steele. Charles thought back over the conversation he had heard in the car park. The young man’s passions had been demonstrably immature, but they had been strong. He was supposed to be away working in Melton Mowbray for the whole week, but it might be worth investigating his movements.
Or then again, why should the murderer have anything to do with the Backstagers? Charlotte did have other contacts. Not many but a few. Diccon Hudson, for instance. He had made some sour reference to having gone around with her before her marriage. Probably nothing there, but anything was worth looking into to save Hugo.
After all, Diccon could have been the mysterious lover of whom Hugo had spoken. Charles didn’t know whether to believe in this personage or not. It could just be a creation of Hugo’s fevered imagination. But if such a person did exist, the possible permutations of violent emotions were considerably increased.
Equally, if he did exist, Hugo’s motive for killing his wife was that much stronger. But Charles put the thought from his mind. He had to start by assuming Hugo’s innocence.
He was full of nervous excitement. He wanted to do something, get started, begin his task of atonement.
He looked at his watch. Twenty-five to eleven. Thank God, he could try Gerald again. The need to do something was now almost unbearable.
Kate, Gerald’s wife, sounded disgruntled. No, he wasn’t home yet. Yes, Charles could try again in half an hour if it was important, but not much later because she was going to bed.
Charles stood by the phone, seething with energy. There must be something else he could do. He could start piecing together Hugo’s movements from the time he left the Back Room on Monday night. Someone must have seen him leave, someone might even have walked him home. Details like that could be vital.
The only Backstager’s number he had was Geoffrey and Vee’s. Geoffrey answered.
‘Have you heard about Hugo?’
‘Yes, Charles. Horrible, isn’t it?’
‘Horrible. Look, I’m trying to find out what he did when he left the bar on Monday night.’
‘Amateur sleuth work.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. Thing is, you’d know — who are the real barflies up at that place? Who was guaranteed to have been there at closing time and seen him go?’
‘Well, Bob Chubb’s the obvious one. He was on the bar, wasn’t he?’
‘Do you have his number?’
‘Yes, sure. I’ll get it. I — what’s that love?’ Vee’s voice was asking something in the background. ‘Just twiddle the aerial round to the right. Sorry, Charles, our television’s on the blink. Extremely unwilling to get a decent picture on BBC2. Comes of buying cheap junk. Ah, here it is.’ He gave Charles Robert Chubb’s number. ‘I only hope it bears fruit. It seems incredible, doesn’t it? The idea that Hugo… I keep thinking that it’ll all turn out to be a mistake and all be cleared up somehow.’
‘It depends what you mean by cleared up. Charlotte will still be dead.’
‘Yes.’
Robert Chubb answered the phone. His voice was bland and elocuted. When it heard who was calling, it took on a colder note. And when it heard what Charles wanted to know, it became positively snappish.
‘As I have already told the police, Mr. Mecken left the bar at about ten-thirty. On his own. I don’t really know why I should waste my time repeating this to you. I know everyone likes to see themselves as a private eye, but I really do suggest, Mr. Parrish, that you should leave criminal investigation to the professionals.’
‘And I really do suggest, Mr. Chubb, that you should do the same with the theatre.’ Charles slammed the phone down.
He was beginning to run out of small change. He rested his penultimate 10p on the slot and dialled the Gerald’s number again,
The solicitor answered, sounding formal, even pettish. ‘Oh, hello, Charles, Kate said you’d rung. Look, could you ring me later on tomorrow? I’m dog-tired. I’ve just got in and I’m sure whatever you’ve got to say will keep.
‘Gerald, it’s about Hugo.’
‘Oh. Oh yes, of course, you were with him when he found the body — or claimed to find it.’
‘Yes. How’s it going?’
‘What do you mean — how’s it going?’
‘With Hugo.’
‘Charles, I’m sorry.’ Gerald sounded exasperated and professional. ‘I know you are a friend and we are talking about a mutual friend, but I’m afraid, as a solicitor, I can’t discuss my clients’ affairs.’
‘You can tell me where he is, can’t you? Is he in prison — or where?’
‘He’ll be spending tonight in the cells at Breckton Police Station.’
‘And then what?’
Gerald sighed with annoyance. ‘Tomorrow morning he’ll appear at Breckton Magistrates’ Court where he’ll be remanded in custody. Which means Brixton. Then he’ll be remanded again every week until the trial.’
‘Hmm. When can I get to see him?’
‘See him — what do you mean?’
‘You know, see him. I want to ask him some questions.’
‘Well, I don’t know. I suppose it may be possible for him to have visitors when he’s in Brixton. I’m not sure how soon — ’
‘No, I want to see him tomorrow.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Will you be seeing him?’
‘Yes, of course. As his solicitor, I’ll be in court and see him before he’s taken off to Brixton.’
‘Well, can’t I come along with you and be passed off as one of your outfit?’
‘One of my outfit?’ Gerald italicized the last word with distaste.
‘Yes, surely you have colleagues in your office, articled clerks and what have you. Pretend I’m one of them.’
‘Charles, do you realize what you’re saying? You are asking me to indulge in serious professional misconduct. Have you been drinking?’
‘Yes., of course I have. But that’s not the point. I am completely serious.’
‘Charles, I am also serious. This is an extremely serious matter. We are talking about a case of murder.’
‘What about the death of Willy Mariello? Wasn’t that a case of murder? You were keen enough to help me on that. Indeed, whenever I meet you, you get all schoolboyish and ask me when I’m going to get involved in another case and beg that I’ll let you know and work together with you on it.”
‘Yes, but that’s different.’
‘No, it isn’t. The only difference is that this case happens to be one in which you are already involved professionally. So far as I’m concerned, this is a case of murder which might well need investigation and, according to your frequently expressed desire, I am asking you if you will help me on it.’
Gerald was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, it was with less certitude. ‘But, Charles, this is a fairly open-and-shut case. I mean, I know I shouldn’t say this about a client, but it seems to me that there’s little doubt Hugo did it. It all fits in too neatly. And anyway the police wouldn’t have arrested and charged him so quickly if it hadn’t been pretty definite.’
‘Okay, I agree. It is most likely that Hugo murdered Charlotte. But I feel that so long as there’s even the vaguest alternative possibility, we should investigate it. Well, I should, anyway. Just for my peace of mind.’
What do you mean by an alternative possibility?’
‘Say an alibi. Suppose Hugo saw someone, talked to someone during that missing twenty-four hours…
‘But if he did, surely he would have told the police.’
‘Yes, probably. Look, I haven’t worked it all out yet, but I feel guilty about it and — ’
Gerald was continuing his own train of thought. ‘Anyway, we are only talking of a fairly short period for which he’d need an alibi. The preliminary medical report came in while I was down at the Breckton Police Station. They’ll get the full post-mortem results in a couple of days. It seems that when you discovered Charlotte’s body she’d already been dead for twenty-four hours.’
‘Good God. So she was killed on the Monday night.’
‘Yes. The police theory is that Hugo arrived back from the theatre club smashed out of his mind, had an argument with his wife — possibly over sexual matters — and then… well, strangled her and hid the body. It fits. He’d had a hell of a lot to drink.’
‘I see. And I suppose the theory is that he continued drinking through the Tuesday to get over the shock.’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘Hmm. This makes it even more imperative that I see Hugo.’
‘Charles, I have a professional reputation to — ’
‘Oh, stuff that, Gerald. For God’s sake. You’re always complaining to me how bloody boring your work is, how sick you get of fiddling about with theatrical contracts all day, how you wish you could get involved in something really exciting like a murder. Well, here’s one right in your in-tray
‘Yes, and it’s just because it’s there that I have to treat it with professional propriety.’
‘Gerald, stop being so bloody pompous. I’ve got to see Hugo. Look, there’s hardly any risk involved. Okay, so you’ve got a new Mr. Paris on your staff. No one knows you down in Breckton. No one’s going to check.’
‘Well…’ wavering.
Press home advantage. ‘Come on, Gerald. Live a little. Take a risk. Being a solicitor is the business of seeing how far laws can bend — why not test this one out?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Look, you’re nearly fifty, Gerald. I don’t believe you’ve ever taken a risk in you life. Even the shows you put money into are all box office certainties. Just try this. Come on, I’ll be the one who gets clobbered if anything goes wrong. But nothing will, anyway. Go on, what do you say?’
‘Well… Look, if I do agree, and if you do find out there’s anything to be investigated, you will keep me in the picture, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
There was a long pause. The pay-tone on the phone beeped insistently. Charles crammed in his last 10p. By the time the line was clear, Gerald had reached his decision.
‘Okay, buster. We give it a whirl, huh?’
It was going to be all right. When Gerald started talking like a fifties thriller, he was getting interested in a case.
‘But one thing, Charles…’
‘Yes.’
‘People’ who work in my office tend to look extremely smart and well-groomed. So will you see to it, that you are wearing a suit, that you’ve shaved and that you’ve brushed your hair? I don’t want you rolling up in your usual guise of an out-of-work gamekeeper who’s just spent a long night with Lady Chatterley.’
‘Don’t worry, Gerald. I’ll look as smooth as you do.’