Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

The Butler Couldn’t Quite Do It by William Bankier

A light-hearted tale this time from veteran short-story writer William Bankier. Shifting locales mid story, as he often — effectively — does, the Canadian-turned-Californian treats readers to a bizarre night at the Academy Awards. The range of subjects Mr. Bankier’s short fiction covers is wide, but he often weaves in material relating to two of his special interests, jazz music and movies.

“Come and work for me, Kincaid,” Margo Fletcher said. Margo found it irksome that this slim, handsome man was in the employ of her best friend, Lucy Jellicoe.

He bent towards her now, offering a tray of anchovies on quartered toast, and said, furtively, “You tempt me, Mrs. Fletcher. And not for the first time.”

Margo and Charles Kincaid remembered each other from their years together as members of the Hartfield Players, the leading amateur dramatic society in southwest London. Charles had played so many butlers in various productions on stage that his transition to the real-life occupation of servant seemed natural. Margo Fletcher, meanwhile, had opened a shop on Wimbledon High Street where intimate items of ladies’ lingerie were offered for sale. Her partner in this enterprise was none other than Lucy Jellicoe, her school chum at Roedean in the green years long ago.

And now, here she was attempting to hijack Lucy’s butler while enjoying a sunny afternoon on the Jellicoe patio. The cocktail party was in honor of Margo’s recently announced trip to Los Angeles, California. She and her late husband’s friend Desmond Wicklow would be traveling there to attend the Academy Awards ceremonies at which Wicklow’s novel, So Much for the Few, had been nominated for an Oscar. More accurately, the motion picture based on the novel had been so nominated.

Wicklow had written the book after retired squadron leader Calvin “Corky” Fletcher flew his privately owned Spitfire aircraft into one of the white cliffs of Dover. This happened during the filming of a BBC documentary about The Battle of Britain, and it left a nasty black smudge on one of the white cliffs.

Wicklow’s thesis in the book had to do with the sad plight of Britain’s war heroes who found themselves required to fly for wages to make a decent living. The premise was flawed in that Corky Fletcher would have flown his racy, camouflaged fighter plane anywhere at anytime for any reason at all. But Wicklow’s book was a good read and it made a fine movie.

“If I speak to Lucy,” Margo suggested, “and am able to persuade her to let you go, will you come with me?”

“Have I ever been able to refuse you?”

“I can recall late one evening following the cast party for Present Laughter.”

“We were great in Present Laughter.” The recollection of six curtain calls brought a wistful smile to the butler’s handsome face.

“We could have been just as great in my car on the drive home.”

“Feelings as powerful as ours,” Kincaid intoned, “should not be confined to the backseat of a motor vehicle.”

“You always know the right thing to say, darling. Now here comes Lucy. Buzz off while I tell her what I have in mind.”

Like any writer, Desmond Wicklow had nothing much to recommend him other than his next idea. He put mousse on his black hair and parted it in the middle. His green eyes appeared sleepy behind gold-framed glasses which turned a rosy hue in outdoor light. He wore a grey Harris Tweed sports jacket with pale blue jeans and white tennis shoes.

“Want me to scarper so you can talk to Lucy?” he asked. After the butler departed with his tray of anchovy toast, Wicklow had taken his place. He downed his gin and tonic.

“Stay. You can help me persuade her.”

“To do what?”

“We’re ad-libbing, Desmond. The way actors do when they have to perform one of your scripts.”

Lucy Jellicoe arrived, like the fog, on little cat feet. She carried a glass in both hands and raised it frequently as she spoke, punctuating her words with imperceptible sips of what might have been vodka but was, in fact, tonic water. Lucy had always supplied the timid counterpoint to Margo’s flamboyance.

“There you are, Luce! Come and talk to me. Where have you been hiding?”

“It’s my party, I can hide if I want to.” Instead of sitting where her friend patted the settee cushion between herself and Desmond Wicklow, Lucy perched on a concrete mushoom. Her late parents, who died together in the crash of a skiers’ gondola in the Italian Alps, had been into garden gnomes, some as large as female Olympic gymnasts.

“I want you to do something for me, Luce. You know all about my trip to California next week.”

“Everybody does. We all hate you for it.”

“I want you to give me Kincaid.”

“He’s not my slave.”

“But you pay him. I don’t want to pay him. I just want to take him with me. To look after things. My clothes and travel arrangements and the occasional meal in the hotel room. Things.”

“You’d have to ask him.”

“I took the liberty. He wants me to clear it with you.” In the ensuing silence, Margo Fletcher reached out and squeezed the author’s cheek. “Say something, Desmond.”

“Yes. Very important Kincaid comes along. I’ll be occupied full-time with press interviews and screenings. Poor Margo, she can’t find her other shoe.”

“Very good, Des. What say you, your Luceness?”

“I’ll be all alone tending the shop.”

“Only for a week or so. We’ll be back before you know it.”

“No you won’t. You and Kincaid will jump on another airplane and fly off to Hawaii.”

“Now there’s an idea,” Margo said.

The Los Angeles flight was like many a play Margo and Kincaid had starred in — interesting at first but too long by half. “Alone at last,” Charles was able to say when the bellboy closed the hotel room door. He gave a nervous laugh. Kincaid had been a bank executive for many years before the bank merged and downsized. Thus wounded in spirit, he allowed himself to become a servant to a wealthy woman. Now he was finding it hard to become a man.

“Take me in your arms,” Margo said.

The butler did as he was told. Some time later he said apologetically, “Jet lag, I’m afraid.”

“You read me wrong, dear,” Margo said, leaving him on the chaise longue with an encouraging kiss on the cheek. At the drinks table by the window high above Sunset Boulevard she said, “All I want is for you to be a handsome, happy man taking me places where other women will see us and envy me.” She poured tiny bottles of whiskey into two glasses and carried them to where he sat looking at his hands placed on his knees. “If anything more should happen, all well and good. Cheers.”

“Happy times, darling.”

Margo tossed back her drink in one and set down the empty glass. When she could breathe again, she said, “Precisely my point. There may not be any happy times, for me, that is, unless I can do something about Desmond.”

“About Desmond Wicklow?”

“Do something to him, I should have said. Kill him, probably.”

“Kill Desmond? How?”

“How should I know?”

“But why?”

“To keep him from killing me.”

It was Kincaid’s turn to go to the window and open two more of the tiny bottles.

The Awards ceremony would take place at a venue called the Kodak Theatre. There would be acres of red carpet, semi-dressed actresses smiling all over their bodies, endless TV reporters saying the same thing to everybody. Margo had seen it on television and now she was here. It was all thanks to Desmond’s book. His writing of it had driven her wild because of the excessive time he spent with pen and notebook instead of paying attention to her. Her on-and-off affair with the writer had begun before the untimely death of ace pilot Corky Fletcher. Lately, it seemed to be more trouble than it was worth. Margo Fletcher’s needs were simple; she wanted everybody to anticipate her every wish and attend to it immediately.

“I don’t ask much,” she said to Kincaid in the limo on the way to the auditorium. Desmond Wicklow had gone to the affair in another car with studio executives who believed So Much for the Few was going to win an Oscar.

The butler was staring through the window at L.A. traffic. It frightened and depressed him. So did Margo’s assignment. “I’m not sure I can do this thing.”

“I only ask people to do what I know they can. That way, I avoid being refused. Which I hate.”

“You’re quite sure he wants to kill you.”

“I told you, darling. I got it straight from Lucy Jellicoe. Desmond Wicklow has had this thing for me since before he wrote his book. He used to take me to a place on the Brighton Road called The Green Man. Corky found out about it.” Margo put on a mournful face. “You thought the Spitfire hitting that cliff was an accident?”

“I and everyone else.”

“It was suicide. My husband’s way of telling me and Desmond, ‘Take that!’ ”

“Horrible.”

“Ghoulish. Look at the way Wicklow profited from the tragedy.”

“I see your point.”

“All the time he was writing his book, he was having his way with me. Said I was his muse.”

“The swine.”

“He’s been after me to marry him. But I don’t love him, Charles. I love you.”

“Oh Lord.”

“I told Desmond. You should have seen his face. He said the famous words.”

“If I can’t have you, nobody will.”

“The male mantra.” Margo Fletcher took Kincaid’s hand. “And he hinted he’ll take care of you while he’s at it.”

There were great goings on before, during, and after the Academy Awards ceremonies. Charles Kincaid, with Margo Fletcher on his arm, found a microphone stuck in his face.

The reporter: “It’s a great night for Hollywood, sir.”

“Everyone seems quite jolly.”

“You sound like one of the British contingent.”

“Oh no, I’m just the butler.”

“The butler? Then you did it!”

“Not yet. I’m not sure I can. How did you find out?”

When the nominations were called for best screenplay based on a published work, Desmond Wicklow, who had adapted his own book, got to his feet as soon as his name was read and began approaching the stage. Desmond had made a discovery in America. It was Tennessee sour-mash whiskey and he was determined to drink as much of it as he could. He was off to a good start.

“God bless him,” Margo whispered in the shocked silence. “He’s reached a new level in irrational behavior.”

Desmond made his way up the carpeted steps and onto the stage while the presenters watched, fascinated. The inebriated author bore down on them, his crimson, sweaty face a mask of acquisitiveness as he said, “Don’t just stand there. Give me my Oscar.”

Now the audience, including the remaining four nominees, began to understand the moment. The applause and shouting was worthy of a sports event, which was appropriate because one of the presenters was “Slam” Duncan, star of the National Basketball Association. The other was Chucky-Joe Partridge. Chucky-Joe had become a Tinseltown icon two years ago by writing, directing, and acting in a film called Down and Out in Pismo Beach. Not only did he bring in his movie at a cost of a hundred thousand dollars, he won the Oscar for best screenplay.

These two stars, who were far from sober themselves, recognized an erratic brother-under-the-skin when they saw one. They embraced Wicklow from either side, turned him to the camera, and kissed him on both cheeks. It made a sensational photograph dominating the front page of the tabloids in the morning. “Limey Scribe Loses It,” said one headline.

This was true. Seated by security men, not sure where he was or what was happening, Wicklow and the world heard the award announced for, and saw it handed to, somebody else.

After the ceremony, at the largest and most lavish of the annual blowouts, Slam Duncan told reporters, “Ye dinna have to ridicule the wee mon. He only did what I do on the basketball floor, made a bloody fool of himself. It’s no fair, is it. I get millions and he got nowt.”

Duncan was telling the truth. The lone Scotsman in the NBA, he often appeared in a kilt and a bearskin hat. The direct descendant of Celtic monsters, he was permitted his eccentricities because he was eight feet tall. From this height, he was able to cruise close to the backboard and throw the ball down into the hoop. “Did ye see that?” he would yell. “Nowt but net!”

Chucky-Joe Partridge wore his tuxedo with white tennis shoes and no shirt. This allowed his chest tattoos to show clearly. “The South Shall Rise Again,” read one of them. Another said, “Will Drink Beer for Food.”

These two, aware, as are all those who toil in Hollywood, that publicity is everything, saw in Desmond Wicklow a free ticket to front-page photos. They filled his dance card, so to speak, at this party and at the smaller one they went to in the wee small hours. “Our duty,” Chucky-Joe intoned more than once, “is to make sure this sweet old guy doesn’t crawl away someplace and get sober.”

This situation made it difficult, but not impossible, for Charles Kincaid to carry out Margo’s lethal instructions. “Stand by,” she said. “Once you get Des away from here, he’ll never know what hit him. It will be like stunning and gutting a fish.”

“I wish I was back in London.”

“You will be. It’s almost over. Come with me.” She made for the table where Desmond was trying to tell Chucky-Joe how fast a Spitfire could fly.

“Gentlemen, excuse me,” Margo said in her most condescending tone. “I must take your friend away, because we have an early plane to catch. Help me, Kincaid. Take Mr. Wicklow’s other arm. Perhaps you’d better grab the seat of his pants while you’re at it.”

The basketball player and the movie star watched as their playmate was transported from the room like a department-store mannequin. “Poor old Des,” Chucky-Joe said. “He never had a chance.”

“Nowt but net!” Slam Duncan murmured as his knees buckled and he laid his eight-foot length upon the carpet.

The restaurant where the party was taking place was located far south on La Cienega, adjoining gang territory. The aggressive presence of these tribal people was attested to by graffiti on storefronts, billboards, light standards... every place where the nozzle of a spray-paint can could be introduced.

“This is the ideal location,” Margo hissed. “He wandered outside and was mugged. Be sure you rob him after you kill him.”

“How do I do that?”

“Strangle him. Or hit him with a piece of paving stone.” The lady was exasperated. “Butlers don’t ask questions. Just get it done. I’ll be waiting in the limo.”

As Kincaid lugged his victim down a dark alley, the weight became more manageable. Desmond Wicklow was now capable of locomotion. The butler glanced at the face next to his and saw eyes wide open. One of them performed a majestic wink.

“I’m not as peep as drunkle think I am,” Desmond said. “You may unload me.”

The two men sat on a low concrete wall. “You must have heard everything.”

“Margo’s murder plot? She’s had several goes at me. I don’t think she really wants me dead. It just seems a good idea at the time.”

“What are we to do?”

“Give the lady what she wants. Let’s make up a story.”

Kincaid let himself into the limo and sat beside Margo. “Is he dead?” she asked.

“Not even close.”

“What happened?”

“As soon as I got my hands around his throat, he sobered up. I had to explain what I was doing. And why. Desmond admitted he had wanted to kill you, but not anymore. Not since he’s fallen in love with Lucy Jellicoe.”

“He hasn’t!”

“He has. I said I’d better go ahead and kill him anyway. Because you were so keen on it. He said all right, but he wanted time to write a final message to Lucy. Well, I had to agree to that. So he took out a notebook and pen and began scribbling away in the light from the restaurant kitchen window. While he was doing that, I had time to think. You were bothered by his pursuit of you. The stalking. You spurned him and then he threatened to kill you.”

“If he couldn’t have me, nobody could.” Margo sounded wistful. “It’s a sweet sentiment, really.”

“But now that will never happen because he’s in love with Lucy. So there’s no more motive to murder Desmond. Q.E.D.”

“I suppose you’re right.” The limousine was racing towards the hotel. “Did you read what he wrote in his notebook?”

“He was still working on it when I left him. He’ll show us if it’s important.”

After a while, Margo said, “Tell me something, Charles. Would you have been able to kill him?”

“I’d started to,” the butler said. “But I couldn’t quite do it.”

The great airplane was somewhere over northern waters heading for England. Margo Fletcher was staring blearily out the window. Her tranquilizer pill had kicked in. Beside her, Charles Kincaid was pretending to be asleep. She elbowed him in the ribs.

“Yes?”

“It’s not over.”

He glanced at his watch. “Four hours to go.”

“I mean I still need you to do something for me.”

“I’ll do what I can, Margo.”

“We shared all those years in school. I’ve been there for her whenever she needed me. The shop on the High Street was my idea. And this is how she pays me back. Sneaking around and alienating the affections of Desmond Wicklow. I knew him long before she did.”

“What in the world are you on about?”

Margo turned her face away from the window and stared at Kincaid. “I’m going to need you to kill Lucy Jellicoe,” she said. Then she added with operatic passion, “How can I live with such betrayal? Desmond is my oldest and dearest friend.”

Desmond Wicklow showed up at the High Street shop carrying his spiral-bound notebook. Margo was alone. She greeted him with the words, “Your lover is not here. She went to the bank.”

“I came to see you.” The author opened the notebook and showed Margo a page of neat handwriting. “Read that.”

The script began: “On the evening of the Academy Awards in Los Angeles, I, Desmond Wicklow, was attacked by Charles Kincaid. He tried to strangle me but was unable to carry out the murder. He told me subsequently that he had been delegated to kill me by Margo Fletcher. Now he has informed me that she has commissioned another such crime. She has asked him to despatch her partner, Lucy Jellicoe. If anything happens to Miss Jellicoe, talk to Mr. Kincaid. He will confirm this information.”

Margo did not hesitate. She ripped the page from the notebook and tore it into small pieces. “That’s no good,” Wicklow said. “A duplicate copy is among my papers at home. In a sealed envelope addressed to the Chief Constable, Scotland Yard.”

“I don’t ask much,” Margo said. “All I want is not to feel so frustrated all the time.”

“Easily taken care of. Come with me to dinner tonight. You’re a maniac, Margo. But a most attractive one.”

They embraced as she said, “If I were serious about having you or Lucy killed, I’d assign somebody better than poor old Charles.”

“That’s obvious,” Wicklow said. “He’s a butler. They only do it in books.”