“You think?” I asked with a little sarcastic edge. “Let’s take this step by step, shall we? Is he dead or not?”
“Probably.”
I sighed. “Let’s – for the sake of making progress – assume he is. My condolences, miss. But did you kill him?”
She wrinkled up her nose and smiled sweetly. “Well that’s the trouble. I’m not sure. That is, I can’t remember. Not exactly. We were celebrating.”
Christ, that’s all I needed. The amnesiac leading the amnesiac. I adjusted my desk lamp to throw stronger light across the desk and across her face. Maybe it would have an illuminating effect on what she’d been telling me. So far, it wasn’t clear at all.
I saw her glance at my face and her eyes widen a fraction. I knew what she was seeing. My thick red hair, combed now on the wrong side for me, hides most of the damage, but the main scar runs like a wide ribbon from the hairline to above my left eye. It looks as though someone took a steel bar and hit me with it full on, bending it round my skull, and then didn’t bother to stitch the sides back together. Which is pretty well what happened.
The other wounds around my nose and right brow would have looked dashing on a duellist from Heidelberg. They made me look like a hard man from the Billy Boys, one of Glasgow’s finest razor gangs. They help if you want elbow room at a bar, but not if you’re hoping for a dance at the Palais.
“You may have to give me a wee bit more information than that so I can see if there’s some way I can help, Miss Graveney.” I tried to keep the vinegar out of my voice but it was hard. “Excuse me asking, but just how much had you been celebrating?” I left it dangling. Pretty young things like her would have access to the best that the black market could offer: booze or cocaine.
She looked at me strangely, as though I’d overstepped the mark or said something she wasn’t prepared for.
“We might have had a glass or two of bubbly, but I most certainly wasn’t drunk.
Nor anything else for that matter,” she admonished, reading my mind. “We were visiting a friend. In Pimlico.” Her eyes shifted, then came back to mine.
“Actually, we’d borrowed his flat.” Her tightened mouth challenged me to find any fault. I didn’t change my expression.
“We had a bit of a row. Oh, if you must know, it was over a woman. I’d just found out he was married. The swine.” Quiet venom. I would not like to have been on the receiving end of her bit of a row. Beneath the perfect femininity was a wildcat. Just how much, I would learn later, but the hint of danger already hung in the air alongside her perfume.
“So I had it out with him. His wife was in the sticks somewhere. He operated from his club in Jermyn Street. He was a Major working in Whitehall; hush-hush, you know. We were introduced at a party.” I noticed the past tense. “Anyway things got a bit het up, you see. I’m afraid when I get mad I get a bit demonstrative. And he was trying to deny it, you see. So I was throwing things at him and he was ducking and I think his foot tripped on the carpet because next thing he’s down and he’s moaning and groaning. He’d hit his head on something, I suspect. And then the wall is coming in and the curtains are flying at me and I hear the bang and that’s it…”
“The bang? When was this? We haven’t been bombed for… a year now, is it?” I wasn’t around – one way or the other – so couldn’t be sure.
“That’s the crazy thing. Just crazy.” She shook her head. I wondered what it would be like to hold it steady between my hands and put my mouth on those red lips? “It was a month ago. Thirtieth of November to be exact. I remember it precisely. It was supposed to be my birthday celebration. We had a table booked at the Carlton.” Her grin was rueful.
“The bomb was a left-over. Unexploded. No one saw it land. Or had forgotten about it. They think it had a delayed fuse and during the clear-up that day a bulldozer started it up again. Anyway when I came to, I was wrapped in these huge curtains. Great black velvet jobs. All lined. I thought – it’s silly, I know – for a moment I thought I was dead or buried alive. You know, in a velvet-lined coffin. I was in a perfect state. Couldn’t move my arms or legs.
The velvet was so heavy and it had wrapped itself around me. Like a shroud.” She shuddered. I didn’t tell her that I knew exactly how she’d felt.
“But I could shout. A bit. And I heard people talking and walking about, and they heard me and unwrapped me and I was completely all right you know. Not a mark. Though my shoes had gone. Funny, that. We never found them. They were good shoes too. Anyway, they took me off and it wasn’t till we got to hospital that I remembered Phil – that’s the chap I was with. And I asked them if they’d got him too, and they said they hadn’t seen any other body but they would look under the rubble.”
“Did they find him?”
“That’s the silly thing. I don’t know. So I’m just wondering – well – if I knocked him down and then the wall fell on him and he died and was… bulldozed away.” She lit another cigarette. I let the silence settle to see what else she’d come out with.
“I was fine. I kept telling them that. A bit of a shock but otherwise absolutely fine. I stayed in hospital overnight. Called Mummy to tell her what had happened – well, some of it – and not to worry. Next day she came round and whisked me off to Surrey, and that’s it. I left messages at his club telling them what had happened – not everything, you understand. And one time I called and they said someone had been in to collect his things from his locker. So…” She shrugged.
“Anyway, I keep thinking I’m going to hear from Phil any day now. You know, that he’ll just ring up and say sorry, old girl, got hit on the head and wandered off or something. But nothing. Last week I even went back to the flat – the one we borrowed so we could meet. But it was cleared. I mean just a big hole where the house had been.”
“Did you report this?”
“Just the bare bones… sorry… to his club. And not the bit about the fight and Phil falling. It didn’t seem… relevant somehow. And I couldn’t very well call his wife and ask if she’d retrieved the body of her husband from the flat, could I? Even if I knew where she lived. That’s why I’m here. I want you to find out what’s happened to him and let me know. Do you see?” She took a deep pull on her cigarette and eased back in her chair uncrossing and re-crossing her legs.
“I mean I wasn’t in love with him. Especially when I found out about his domestic arrangements. But I do think I ought to find out. One way or the other.
Don’t you?”
I wasn’t sure. It all sounded too unlikely and messy. But I gave myself a mental kick in the pants; mess was my business now. And I might just get a decent bit of cash out of this. God knew I could do with it. I had no other clients; maybe they’d all made new year resolutions to be nice to each other. Thankfully it wouldn’t last. Human nature guaranteed my business would pick up before January was out. But that left me a short-term cash flow problem and some difficult choices between eating, smoking and drinking. Good job I wasn’t a big eater.
“My god!” she cried as the lights went out.
This never happened to Marlowe. “Sorry. Don’t move.” I scrambled to my feet, dug into my desk and found the tin. I took out a couple of bob, and walked smartly out the door to the meter on the wall. I stuffed a shilling in and then another, swearing all the time under my breath. The lights came back on and I strolled back to my desk as nonchalantly as was possible in the circumstances. I sat down and steepled my hands.
“Now, where were we?” I tried to smile even though the perspiration was beading my spine. I needed this work and here I was looking like a rank amateur down on his luck.
She looked shocked, as if I’d just asked her to take her clothes off. Then amusement filled her eyes. I preferred shock.
“Do you think you can help? I can pay you in advance,” she said in the caring way of the rich for the poor. Her accent was beginning to wear down my very recent infatuation with her grey eyes. Though we Scots consider ourselves amused onlookers to the English class system, it doesn’t mean we can’t spot when we’re being talked down to. But this was no time to stand on my dignity.
“My rates are twenty pounds a week plus expenses. And – as you suggest – I prefer in advance.”
She didn’t flinch, even at twice my normal rates. She wrinkled her fine forehead, reached into her bag and tugged out four large notes from a splendid fold of white fivers. She handed them over. I should have gone higher.
