Death In Ecstasy

CHAPTER XX Fools Step In

“It annoys Angela beyond endurance if I hold modern conversations with her on the telephone,” said Nigel hanging up the receiver on a final oath from Alleyn.

“If that was a sample, I’m not surprised,” said Janey Jenkins. “I absolutely forbid Maurice to call me his sweet. Don’t I, Blot?”

“Yes,” said Maurice unresponsively. He got up and moved restlessly about the room, fetching up at the window where he stood and stared out into the street, biting his finger.

“What is your Angela’s other name?” asked Janey.

“North. She’s darkish with a big mouth and thin.”

“When are you going to be married?”

“In April. When are you?”

Janey looked at Maurice’s back. “It’s not settled yet.”

“I’d better do something about getting seats for a show,” said Nigel. “Where shall we go? It’s such fun your coming here like this. We must make it a proper party. Have you seen ‘Fools Step In’ at the Palace?”

“No. We’d love to, but look here, we’re not dressed for a party.”

“Oh. No, you’re not, are you? Wait a moment. Let’s make it a real gala. I’ll change now and then we’ll take a taxi and go to your flat and then to Pringle’s. We’ll have a drink here first. Pringle, would you make drinks while I change? The things are all in that cupboard there. It’s only half-past five. I’ll have a quick bath — won’t be ten minutes. Do you mind? Will it amuse you? Not my bath, but everything else?”

“Of course it will,” said Janey.

Maurice swung around from the window and faced Nigel.

“Look here,” he said, “aren’t you rather rash to rush into parties with people that are suspected of murder?”

“Don’t, Maurice!” whispered Janey.

“My good ass,” said Nigel, “you embarrass me. You may of course be a homicidal maniac, but personally I imagine Alleyn had definitely ruled you out.”

“I suppose he’s told you to say that. You seem to be very thick with him.”

“Maurice, please!”

“My dear Jane, it’s not impossible.”

“No,” said Nigel calmly, “of course it’s not. Alleyn is by way of being my friend. I think your suspicions are perfectly reasonable, Pringle.”

“Oh, God, you are a little gentleman. I suppose you think I’m bloody unpleasant.”

“As a matter of fact I do, at the moment, but you’ll be better when you’ve had a cocktail. Get to work, there’s a good chap. And you might ring up the Palace for seats.”

“Look here, I’m damned sorry. I’m not myself. My nerves are all to hell. Janey, tell him I’m not entirely bogus. I can’t be if you say so.”

Janey went to him and held him firmly by one ear.

“Not entirely bogus,” she told Nigel.

“That’s all right then,” said Nigel hurriedly. “Look after yourselves.”

As he bathed he thought carefully about his instructions. In effect Alleyn had told him to cultivate these two with a view to spying on them. Nigel winced. Stated baldly it sounded unpleasant. He had had this sort of thing out with Alleyn on former occasions. The Chief Inspector had told him roundly that his scruples had merely pointed to a wish to have the ha’pence without the kicks, to follow round with the police, write special articles from first-hand experience, and turn squeamish when it came to taking a hand. Alleyn was right of course. If Maurice and Janey were innocent he would help to prove it. If they were guilty — But Nigel was quite sure neither Janey nor Maurice, for all his peculiar behaviour, was guilty of Cara Quayne’s death. He dressed hurriedly and went out into the little hall to get his overcoat. He dived into the cupboard. It was built in to the drawing room wall and the partition was thin. He heard Janey Jenkins’ voice, muffled and flat but distinct:

“But why can’t you tell me? I know quite well there’s something. Maurice, this can’t go on.”

“What do you mean? Are you going to turn me down? I don’t blame you.”

“You know I won’t turn you down. But why can’t you trust me?”

“I do trust you. I trust you to stick to what we’ve said.”

“About yesterday afternoon—?”

“Sst!”

“Maurice, is it anything to do with — with your cigarettes? You’re smoking one of them now, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake don’t start nagging.”

“But—”

“When this is over I’ll give it up.”

“ ‘When.’ ‘When.’ It’s always ‘when.’ ”

“Will you shut up, Jane! I tell you I can’t stand it.”

“Ssh! He’ll hear you.”

Silence. Nigel stole out and back to his bedroom. In three minutes he rejoined them in the drawing room. Maurice had mixed their drinks, and Janey had turned on the radio. With an effort Nigel managed to sustain his role of cheerful host. Maurice suddenly became more friendly, mixed a second cocktail and began to talk loudly of modern novelists. It appeared that he was himself engaged on a first novel. Nigel was not surprised to learn that it was to be a satire on the upper middle classes. At six o’clock they took a taxi to Janey’s studio flat in Yeoman’s Row, and while she changed Maurice made more cocktails. Janey, it seemed, was at the Slade. Nigel found the studio very cold though they had put a match to the gas-heater. Shouting at them from the curtained-off recess that served as bedroom Janey explained that she meant to seek warmer quarters. Even the kitchenette-bathroom was cold, she said. She did her cooking over a gas-ring, and you couldn’t warm yourself at a bath-geyser. Some of her drawings were pinned up on the walls. She used an austere and wiry line, defined everything with uncompromising boundaries, and went in extensively for simplified form. The drawings had quality. Nigel wandered round the studio and into the kitchenette. Everything was very tidy, and rather like Janey herself.

“What are you doing?” called Janey. “You’re both very silent.”

“I’m looking at your bathkitchery,” said Nigel. “You haven’t got nearly enough saucepans.”

“I only have breakfast here. There’s a restaurant down below. One of ye olde brasse potte kind — all orange curtain and nut salads. Yes,” said Janey emerging in evening dress, “I must leave this place. The problem is, where to go.”

“Come to Chester Terrace and be neighbours. Angela and I are going to take a bigger flat in my building. It’s rather nice. You could have mine.”

“Your Angela might hate me at first sight.”

“Not she. Are we ready?”

“Yes. Come on, Blot.”

“I’m finishing my drink,” said Maurice. ”You’re right, Jane, this is an appalling place. I should go mad here. Come on.”

“We should have gone to you first,” said Janey. “He is in Lower Sloane Street, Mr. Bathgate. How silly! Maurice, why didn’t we go to you first?”

“You can drop me there now. I don’t think I’ll join the party.”

“Maurice! Why ever not?”

“I’m hopelessly inadequate,” he muttered. He looked childishly obstinate, staring straight in front of him and smiling sardonically. Nigel could have kicked him.

“Your boy friend has a talent for quick changes,” he said to Janey and hailed a taxi. Janey spoke to Maurice in an urgent undertone. Out of the corner of his eye Nigel saw him shrug his shoulders and give a gloomy assent. When they were in the taxi Janey said:

“Maurice is afraid he’s too much upset by last night to be much use to anybody, but I’ve decided to pay no attention to him. He’s coming.”

“Splendid!” cried Nigel.

“Marvellous, isn’t it?” said Maurice with a short laugh.

He was very restless in the taxi, complained that the man should have gone down Pont Street instead of through Cadogan Square, thought they were going to be run over in Sloane Street, insisted on paying the fare, and had a row with the driver over the charge. He lived in a small service flat at the top of Harrow Mansions in Lower Sloane Street — sitting room, bedroom, bathroom. It was comfortable enough, but characterless.

“At least it’s warm,” said Maurice, and switched on the heater. He opened a cupboard.

“We don’t want more drinks, do we?” ventured Janey.

“Isn’t this a party?” asked Maurice loudly, and dragged out half a dozen bottles.

He left them as soon as he had made the cocktails, carrying his own with him. The bathroom door slammed and a tap was turned on. Janey leant forward.

“There’s something I must tell you,” she said urgently.

Nigel found nothing to say and she went on, speaking nervously and quickly:

“It’s about Maurice. I know you must think him too impossible. He’s been poisonous”—She caught herself up with a gasp—“perfectly odious ever since you asked us up to your flat. It was nice of you to do that, and to take us out. But I want to tell you. Maurice can’t help himself. I suppose you know why?”

“Yes, I think so. It’s bad luck.”

“It’s frightful. Not only the cigarettes, but — worse than that. He’s taking it now, I know he is. You’ll see. When he comes back he’ll be excited and — and dreadfully friendly. He’s turning into a horrible stranger. You don’t know what the real Maurice is like.”

“How did he start?”

“It’s Father Garnette. He’s responsible. I think he must be the wickedest foulest beast that ever lived. You can tell your friend Alleyn that if you like. But he knows. Maurice told him last night. Mr. Alleyn could help Maurice if — He doesn’t think Maurice did it, does he? He can’t.”

“I honestly don’t believe he does. Honestly.”

“I know Maurice is — is innocent. But there’s something else. Something he knows and he won’t tell Mr. Alleyn. He won’t tell. He’s made me promise. Oh, what am I to do?”

“Break your promise.”

“I can’t, I can’t. He’d never trust me again and, you see, I can’t help him as long as he trusts me.” Her voice trembled. “It’s a shame to bother you with it.”

“Good Heavens, what nonsense. I’d like to help you both but — but look here, don’t tell me anything unless you want Alleyn to know. I ought to say that. I’m on his side, you see. But if you are hiding anything for Pringle’s sake — don’t, don’t, don’t. And if he’s hiding something for anybody else’s sake you must make him tell Alleyn. Do you remember the Unicorn Theatre case?”

“Yes, vaguely. It’s queer how one reads every word of murder trials and then forgets them. I’ll never forget this one, will I? We must speak softly. He’ll be back in a minute.”

“In the Unicorn case a man who knew and didn’t tell was — killed.”

“I remember now.”

“Is it something to do with this drug he’s taking?”

“How did you guess?”

“Then it is Garnette!” said Nigel.

“Ssh! No, for pity’s sake! Oh, what have I done!”

“What are you two burbling about?” called Maurice.

He sounded very much more cheerful. Janey looked up sharply and then made a despairing little gesture.

“About you, good-looking,” she called out.

Maurice laughed. “I must come out and stop that,” he said.

“Oh, God,” whispered Janey. She suddenly gripped Nigel’s arm. “It’s not Garnette, it’s not, it’s not,” she said fiercely. “I must see you again.”

“After the show,” murmured Nigel hurriedly. “I’ll come to the flat.”

“But — no — it’s impossible.”

“Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow morning. About eleven.”

“The inquest is at eleven.”

“Earlier, then.”

“What can you do, after all?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”

Janey got up and went to the gramophone. The theme song from “Fools Step In” blared out.

“The tune’s all right,” said Maurice, emerging from the bedroom, “but the words are fatuous, as usual.”

Nigel gazed at him in. astonishment. His eyes were very bright. He had an air of spurious gaiety. He was like a mechanical figure that had been overwound and might break. He talked loudly and incessantly, and laughed at everything he said. He kept repeating that they had plenty of time.

“Loads of time. Fifty gallons of time. Time, the unknown quantity in the celestial cocktail. Time, Like an ever-rolling drunk. Jane, you’re looking very seductive, my angel. ‘You’re no angel and I’m no saint’.”

He sat on the arm of her chair and began to stroke her neck. Suddenly he stooped and kissed her shoulder.

“ ‘And I sometimes lose my head.’ Don’t move.”

She sat quite still, staring miserably at Nigel.

“I think we’d better dine,” said Nigel. “It’s after seven.”

Maurice had slid down behind Janey and now pulled her to him. He slipped his arms round her and pressed his face against her bare shoulder.

“Shall we go with him, Janey? Or shall we stay here and step in where angels fear to tread?”

“Don’t do that, Blot. And don’t be rude about Mr. Bathgate’s party. No, get up, do.”

He laughed uproariously and pushed her away from him.

“Come on, then,” he said, “come on. I’m all for a party.”

They dined at the Hungaria. Maurice was very gay and rather noisy. He drank a good deal of champagne and ate next to nothing. Nigel was thankful when they got away. At the theatre Maurice seemed to quieten down. Toward the end of the second act he suddenly whispered that he had a splitting headache and leant forward in his stall with his head between his hands. The people round them obviously thought he was drunk. Nigel felt acutely uncomfortable. When the lights went up for the final curtain Maurice was leaning back again, his eyes half-closed and his face lividly white.

“Are you all right?” asked Nigel.

“Perfectly, thank you,” he said very clearly. “Is it all over?”

“Yes,” said Janey quickly, “stand up Maurice. They’re playing The King.”

He got up as though he was exhausted, but he was quiet enough as he followed them out into the street. In the taxi he sat absolutely still, his hands lying palm upwards on the seat. In the reflected light from the streets Nigel saw that his eyes were open. The pupils were the size of pin-points. Nigel looked questioningly at Janey. She nodded slightly. “I’ll see you in, Pringle,” said Nigel.

“No, thank you,” he said loudly.

“But, Maurice—”

“No, thank you; no, thank you; no, thank you. Damn you, for —’s sake leave me alone, will you.”

He had got out and now slammed the door shut, and without another look at them went quickly up the steps to the flats.

“Let him go,” said Janey.

Nigel said “99, Yeoman’s Row” to the man, and they drove away.

Janey began to laugh.

“Charming guest you’ve had for your party. Has anyone ever been quite so rude to you before? You must have enjoyed it.”

“Don’t!” said Nigel. “I didn’t mind. I’m only so sorry for you both.”

“You are nice about it. I won’t have hysterics; don’t look so nervous. Your Angela’s a lucky wench. Tell her I said so. No, don’t. Don’t talk to me, please.”

They finished the short journey in silence. As he saw her into her door Nigel said:

“I’m coming in the morning. Not early, so don’t get up too soon. And please remember you’d much better tell Alleyn.”

“Ah, but you don’t know,” said Janey.