He thought he must be going soft in the head. To have tried to help Jacqui in the matter of the photographs was illogical, but at least generous, getting her out of an awkward situation. But assisting her investigations into a perfectly natural death as if it were murder was little short of lunacy.
She had read so much into Steen’s letter. Channelling all the pain of her loss into arguments to support her theory, she leapt on to the promise of provision for her and the baby, and to the sentence, ‘I’m sure he’ll turn out better than the other one.’ To her mind, these proved conclusively that Marius had decided to change his will in her favour, and that Nigel had got wind of this and forestalled his father’s plans by killing him. Charles put up all the arguments scepticism could muster, but somehow ended up agreeing with Jacqui that it was at least worth further investigation.
Which was why, on Thursday 13th December, he was taking Gerald Venables out to lunch. Gerald had been a contemporary at Oxford, who had read Law and acted a little. He had been elected Treasurer of the Oxford University Dramatic Society and, as such, demonstrated the prime motive of his life-an unashamed love of money. This motive led him after university away from the Theatre and into the Law. He joined a firm of solicitors specialising in show-business contract work, became a partner within five years and thereafter just made more and more money. The subject fascinated him; he always talked about money; but did it with such an ingenuous enthusiasm that the effect was not alienating. At worst he was boring, in the same way that a golfer or a photographer or a dinghy-sailor or any other person obsessed by a hobby is boring.
When the Stilton was produced, Gerald undid another button of his exquisitely cut tweed waistcoat and patted his paunch beneficently. ‘What is it, Charles? Are you putting some work my way? I’d better warn you, my rates, which were always pretty high, are now almost beyond belief.’
‘I anticipated as much. It’s not exactly work. I don’t know how you’d define it…’
‘Ah, if it isn’t readily defined, it’s automatically at double the rate.’
‘Yes. It’s a matter of investigation-or do I mean snooping?’
‘That’s what solicitors are for.’
‘Exactly. The point is, I know solicitors individually are totally immoral’ — Gerald nodded assent as if accepting a compliment ‘-and I suppose, as with any other bunch of thieves, there is honour among you.’ Again Gerald graciously inclined his head. ‘So no doubt you scratch each other’s backs.’ The third nod was very positive. ‘What I want you to do is to find out some information from another solicitor.’
‘Officially?’
‘Unofficially.’
‘Ah. Comes more expensive.’
‘I thought it might.’
‘What do you want to know, Charles?’
‘You’ve heard of Marius Steen, bloke who’s just died?’
‘Of course. Been involved in a lot of contracts with him. He was a real shark, totally immoral.’ Gerald’s voice carried a hint of respect as he made this tribute.
‘So you know his solicitor?’
‘Harold Cohn. Of course. He’s the hardest bargainer in the business.’ A diffident smile. ‘Present company, of course, excepted.’
‘Of course.’
‘And you want to know about the old man’s will?’
‘How the hell did you know that?’
‘Because there’s nothing else anyone could possibly want to know about a man three days dead. There has been quite a lot of speculation on the matter in professional circles.’
‘Any conclusions?’
‘Rumours, but nothing definite.’
‘Do you think you could find out?’
Gerald smiled blandly. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was beyond the realms of possibility.’ A waiter was hovering at his shoulder. ‘We’ll have coffee, won’t we, Charles? And a Cognac, perhaps. Yes, two Cognacs.’ He looked thoughtfully over the table. ‘Now I wonder why you would be interested in Steen’s will, Charles. You’re hardly expecting to be a beneficiary, are you?’
‘No. Hardly.’
Gerald looked at him, puzzled. He didn’t like being in a position of ignorance on any subject, and started probing. ‘Whoever it goes to, there’s a lot.’
‘Yes.’
‘Steen did all right. Even with estate duty, it’ll be worth having.’
Charles nodded, determined not to give anything away.
Gerald tried another tack. ‘You want to find this out for yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’ll be public knowledge soon. If you can only wait a few-’
‘I want to know as soon as possible.’
‘Well, Charles, you are a dark horse.’ Gerald sat back in his chair and sipped his Cognac. It was amusing for Charles to see him in this state, his usual poise unbalanced by childlike curiosity. ‘Charles, is it a crime?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are there any suspicions about the will? Surprise heirs in Australia, forgery, skulduggery with birth certificates, secret codicils?’ Gerald threw out the ideas like baits, hoping to catch some reaction. Charles smiled in a way that he knew was infuriating.
Gerald was suitably infuriated. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Charles. You can tell me. Look, if I know the circumstances, it’ll make my enquiries much easier.’ Charles continued to smile. Gerald was reduced to infantile tactics. ‘Listen, if you don’t tell me why you want to know, then I won’t find out for you.
‘Oh dear. Then I’ll have to ask someone else.’
Gerald looked rattled, but controlled himself, smiled and said, ‘Charles, if there’s anything suspicious, I want to know. Look, I’m a sucker for that sort of thing. Always reading detective stories. I don’t know, it’s a fascination. It’s my hobby, if you like.’
‘I thought your hobby was money.’
‘That’s my main one, but I can’t resist suspicious circumstances. It’s been a life-long ambition of mine to be involved in something mysterious, a crime. I don’t mean the sort of official crime I deal with as a solicitor. I mean real cloak-and-dagger investigation stuff.’ Charles remained silent. ‘Listen, if you are involved in crime, from whatever side of the law, you need a solicitor. Oh, Charles, do tell me!’ he burst out petulantly, but still got no reaction. ‘Listen, if you are investigating a crime-’
‘And what on earth makes you think I am?’
‘I don’t know. Something about the way you’re behaving. Listen, if you are, I won’t charge you anything.’
‘You what?’
‘I will undertake any investigations free…’
‘Gerald, are you feeling all right?’
‘… so long as you let me in on all the details.’
‘Hmm.’ Charles was circumspect. It was a very good offer, an amazing offer, considering who it came from. But he himself felt so far from convinced there was any crime to investigate, that he had no desire to spread ill-founded suspicions. ‘Gerald,’ he began slowly, ‘if there were something fishy, and I were to tell you, could I trust your discretion?’
‘Of course.’ Gerald was affronted. ‘I am a solicitor.’
‘That’s what I mean. All right, I accept your offer.’
‘So there is a crime?’
‘Maybe.’
‘All right, give me the dirt.’ Gerald made no pretence of maturity now. He was an eager child. Charles remembered that Gerald had always been like that. It was the same quality that made his fascination with money so inoffensive. Not for the first time Charles reflected that growing-up is a myth; getting older is just an intenser form of childhood. ‘I’ll give you the dirt,’ he said, denying the child his treat, ‘when you tell me about the will.’
‘You bugger,’ said Gerald. But he agreed to the deal.
When the bill was brought to Charles, it was enormous. It was a long time since he’d eaten out in this style and he was shocked by the escalation of prices and VAT.
‘Think yourself lucky,’ said Gerald, as Charles counted out the notes. ‘If we hadn’t come to an agreement, you d be paying for my time as well.’
Charles didn’t tell Jacqui about their new ally in investigation when they met up that evening to report progress. He just said he’d met his solicitor friend who reckoned he could find out the details of the will.
Jacqui was in quite a state. She’d been down to Goring for Marius’ funeral, (having found out the time by ringing Morrison at Orme Gardens). At the church she’d ended up in the cliche situation of being frozen out by Marius’ relatives. It was the stereotyped picture beloved of cartoonists-the family (Nigel and a few cousins), trim in their black on one side of the grave, and the floosie (Jacqui), in an unsuitable black cocktail dress and purple fur-collared coat, weeping on the other. The burial had been a small affair. Marius was against cremation; he wanted to lie in an English grave with a marble headstone. A memorial service in St George’s, Hanover Square, was to follow, for Steen’s theatrical and business acquaintances. No one spoke to Jacqui or even acknowledged her, except for Morrison. By the end of the ceremony she was so upset that she hadn’t the nerve to go to the house with the small party of mourners, and caught a train straight back to London.
However, she had managed to have a few brief words with Morrison and questioned him about Nigel’s movements over the weekend of his father’s death. (She assured Charles she had been subtle in her questioning, but he dreaded to think what she meant by subtlety. If there were any alarms to start, he had no doubt she’d set them jangling.) From Morrison she had found out a significant fact, which would have deterred anyone less prejudiced in their conviction of Nigel Steen’s guilt. The young man’s car, a Jensen Interceptor was out of action at the relevant time. It had had brake trouble and Morrison, who was an expert mechanic, had offered to mend it over the weekend. He’d attended to the brakes on the Saturday, but then, feeling unhappy with the alignment of the wheels, had started work on them. He was a perfectionist, and the job took a long time. When he left the vehicle on the Saturday evening, all four wheels were off, and they were in that state when he returned to the job on the Sunday morning. He didn’t finish work until the evening, and it was then that Nigel drove off down to Berkshire, and found his father dead. In reply to the question as to whether Nigel could have used the Datsun, Morrison couldn’t say. Miss Menzies had filled it with petrol on the Friday afternoon and used it on the Monday morning. No doubt she would have noticed if it had been used in the interim.
‘Who’s Miss Menzies?’ asked Charles.
‘Joanne. Marius’ secretary.’
‘Oh yes. I’ve met her. Hmm. And you actually managed to get all that information without Morrison getting at all suspicious?’
‘Yes. Anyway, what if he did get suspicious? He doesn’t like Nigel any more than anyone else.’
It seemed to be a feature of the case that no one had a good word to say for Nigel Steen. Not having met the man, and basing his conclusions on other people’s prejudices, Charles decided that young Steen’s main offence was that he was not his father. From all accounts he didn’t sound as if he had the spunk to be a murderer.
‘Where does Nigel live?’
‘I think he’s got a flat near Knightsbridge, but he’s never there. Spends all his time in Orme Gardens or at Streatley.’
‘Father’s boy?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘How did they get on, Jacqui?’
‘I don’t know. I hardly ever saw them together, and Marius never talked about Nigel. But you’ve seen the letter.’
‘Yes. And did Joanne like him?’
‘Did she like who? She liked Marius.’ Was there a hint of jealousy there?
‘No. Nigel.’
‘I don’t think she liked him.’
‘Hmm. Then I think perhaps she’s due for a visitation.’
Charles was making-up next morning in Hereford Road when the phone rang.
‘Hello. Oh, Maurice, I was just making-up.’
‘What for? You working and not telling me?’
‘No, just for fun. Practice.’
‘Well, I think it’s about time you did some work. You seem to have taken the three-day week to heart too quickly.’
‘Three-day week?’
‘Don’t you read the papers?’
‘I haven’t yet this morning.’
‘Heath’s going to put the whole country on a three-day week. Save power. And stop television at half-past ten in the evening.’
‘Really.’
‘Yes. Think of all the ten per cents of all those series I won’t be getting. Johnny Wilson had a repeat scheduled for late evening. That’ll be off.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not very in touch.’
‘I’ll say. Look, you know that Softly Softly I said might be coming up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it hasn’t.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘But there is something. Had a call from the casting director of a new horror film yesterday. They’re looking for someone to play this sort of deformed hunchback, part werewolf, part vampire. I told them you were made for the part.’
‘Thank you very much.’
Silence punctuated with gasps from the other end of the line showed that Maurice was roaring with laughter at his own witticism. He always laughed noiselessly, his jaw snapping up and down as he took in great gulps of air. Charles waited until he’d recovered sufficiently to continue.
‘Sorry, just a little joke. But really, it is that sort of part. They seemed quite keen when I mentioned you. Said “Yes, we like using the old fifties stars everyone’s forgotten.”’
‘Thank you again. What would it involve?’
‘Two weeks’ filming early January-if this three-day week nonsense doesn’t interfere. At some stately home. Forget where exactly, but within reach of London.’
‘Hmm. What’s the film called?’
‘The Zombie Walks!’
‘Oh God. Who’s directing?’
‘Never heard of him. Some name like Rissole. It’s being set up by Steenway Productions.’
‘Oh really. I’ll take it. Check the dates.’
‘Your diary’s not exactly crowded, is it?’
‘Money good?’
‘Goodish. I’ll ask for double.’
‘Good lad. Thanks for that.’
‘My pleasure. If I don’t do things for you, you’re clearly not going to do anything for yourself.’
‘Cheerio, Maurice. Keep smiling.’
‘What, with my worries? Cheerio.’
Work, too. And dressing-up. Charles was beginning to feel unaccountably cheerful. He rather relished the idea of secret investigations. With a jaunty step he went upstairs to his room to continue making-up.
Disguise is a matter of presenting oneself to the person deceived in an unexpected context. Then come tricks of stance and movement. Actual changing of colouring and features are less important. And Charles was quite pleased with his disguise. Certainly Joanne Menzies appeared not to recognise him, although he’d rather regretted choosing the character of Detective-Sergeant McWhirter of Scotland Yard when she revealed that she’d been brought up near the Kyles of Bute. But she seemed to accept the Glaswegian accent and his story of having left Scotland for London in his teens.
He had phoned her at Milton Buildings, saying that he had a routine enquiry to make about the Datsun, would have asked for Mr Marius Steen but, owing to the recent regrettable happening, wondered if she could help. She was efficiently affable, and invited him to come round straight away. So there he was, on the Friday morning, sitting opposite her, in the same chair that, only a week before, Charles Paris had occupied.
Detective-Sergeant McWhirter wore a nondescript brown and green suit, a Marks and Spencer pale yellow shirt and brown knitted tie. His shoes were stout brown brogues, suitable for the tramping from place to place which takes up most of a detective’s time. When he entered the room he had hung up a pale mackintosh and a trilby hat. His hair was dark brown and slicked back with Brylcreem. He had thick horn-rimmed glasses, a heavy shadow and rather bad teeth. On his wedding finger was a worn gold band. He was the sort of man nobody would look at twice. No doubt a conscientious worker; no doubt a good husband and father; but totally unremarkable.
Miss Menzies couldn’t be very helpful about the Datsun, though she answered all his questions very readily. Detective-Sergeant McWhirter explained that he was investigating a robbery in Pangbourne on Saturday night. An eye-witness claimed to have seen a yellow Datsun in the area at the relevant time, and McWhirter was painstakingly investigating all of the local Datsun-owners. The local police had told him that Mr Steen possessed such a vehicle, and he was just making a routine check on the whereabouts of the car at that time.
Miss Menzies felt certain it was in the garage at Mr Steen’s Orme Gardens house all over the weekend. When Mr Steen rang on Friday afternoon to say he wasn’t certain whether or not he was returning to London at the weekend, she had checked the petrol in the car in case he might want it.
‘This was Mr Marius Steen who rang?’
‘No. This was his son Nigel. He rang to say that he was coming up to town that evening…’
‘The Friday?’
‘Yes. But that his father was still deep in his scripts, and wasn’t sure of his movements. So I thought I’d better get some petrol in case Mr Marius Steen did come up to town over the weekend. You know what it’s like getting petrol at the moment.’
Detective-Sergeant McWhirter nodded sagely, imagining his eleven-year-old Morris Traveller and the increasing difficulties of driving the wife and kids around. The foam rubber pads in Charles Paris’ cheeks were beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable.
‘I was lucky,’ Miss Menzies continued. ‘I managed to get a full tank. It’s the garage I always go to.’
‘And the tank still registered full on the Monday?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it wouldn’t have done that if it had been driven down to Streatley and back?’
‘Good heavens, no.’ Miss Menzies looked at him as if he was mad.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Detective-Sergeant McWhirter stolidly. ‘I do have to check all the details. Some cars have a petrol gauge that stays on full for a long time. If it’s not properly adjusted.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. The Datsun’s does actually. It stays on “full” for quite a while and then drops rather fast.’
‘But it wouldn’t stay on full all the way to Streatley and back?’
‘No. It’s pretty good on petrol, but not that good. Might just about make it one way without registering, but certainly not both. Anyway, nobody could have got into the garage at Orme Gardens. It’s always locked.’
‘Of course. Sorry about all this. We have to check. I’m afraid a detective’s life is mostly spent chasing up blind alleys and wasting people’s time.’
‘That’s quite all right.’
‘Good.’ Detective-Sergeant McWhirter rose to leave and then paused. ‘That was very good of you, to look after the petrol. Part of your normal secretarial duties?’
‘I am more of a personal assistant to Mr Steen than a secretary. I mean, I was.’
There was just a slight chink in her armour and he pressed a little further. ‘Yes. A sad loss.’
‘Yes.’ He noticed how strained she was looking, much older than a week before. Though she was still immaculately groomed, there seemed somehow less poise about her, as if appearances remained, but the will had gone.
‘So I suppose it’s all up to the son now.’
‘I suppose so.’ She couldn’t disguise the contempt she felt.
‘Always sad for the family, this sort of thing. Is his wife still
… er…’
‘She died years ago.’
‘Ah. And he never thought of remarrying?’
‘No, he didn’t.’ She pronounced the words with sudden emphasis, and Charles saw clearly the situation which Jacqui’s words-’ She liked Marius’-had hinted at. Joanne Menzies had loved Marius Steen. Whether the love had ever been reciprocated or consummated he didn’t know-though Steen’s reputation made it likely-but the new fact opened interesting avenues of thought. She loved Steen, and she was passionately against his remarriage. The controlled force of her emotion when speaking of it had been frightening. A woman with feelings of that intensity might be capable of any action if she thought the man she loved was seriously in love with someone else. It added a new dimension to the picture.