The False Inspector Dew

9

The cold facts may have suggested that Poppy wanted to make a monkey out of Paul Westerfield, but that was not so. She had a job to do, and she did it in the best way she could. She had not been paid to give him sexual favours. She was prepared to allow enough familiarity to smooth the way for the job, and that was all. So when he had taken her back to Chicksand Street in the taxi the previous night, she had presented him with a cup of tea and a kiss on the horsehair settee in the parlour. She had spent what remained of the night upstairs with her sister Rose. At six in the morning when Rose had gone down as usual to look at the milkmen bringing out their horses she had found a strange man asleep in the parlour. She had reported it to Poppy, who had truthfully said that the man was a millionaire who was sleeping in the parlour instead of the Savoy. Poppy had gone back to sleep for an hour. Soon after seven she had put on her crepe de chine dress, tied an apron round her waist and cooked sausages and bacon for two. By eight they had arrived at the Savoy to collect Paul's luggage and by nine they had found themselves seats on the boat train.

If Paul had entertained ideas of seamier scenes in his stateroom, he was denied them. Poppy proposed to remove one thing: the wallet from Paul's blazer pocket. She was under instructions to take it and pass it to Jack. One chance had gone. She could not miss another.

She allowed him enough kisses and embraces to allay suspicion. He was no Casanova, but it was not unendurable. Perhaps twenty minutes had passed when his hand disconnected the first hook and eye at the back of her dress.

She said in a tortured voice, 'Oh my God, I think it's moving.'

'What?' His hand jerked away from the dress.

'The blooming ship — I can feel it. Oh, no, I'm trapped. I never really meant to stow away.'

'Don't worry.'

She sat up on the bed. 'Don't worry, he says!'

'What I mean is that I can pay.'

'Pay what?' demanded Poppy, i don't want to go to America. You live there. I don't.'

'You can get off at Cherbourg. We stop there to pick up more passengers.'

'Cherbourg? Where's that, for God's sake?' Jack had told her, of course, in case of emergency, but she was enjoying herself now.

'France. You can stay overnight and be home by tomorrow. I'll pay. I'll give you two hundred dollars.'

'I'll need French money.'

'You go to a bureau cie change.'

'What's that? I can't speak French.'

'No. Better still, I'll see the purser and get some francs.'

'Paul, I'm frightened.'

'Don't be. I'll fix everything.'

'Can I go to the bathroom?'

'Why, sure. Go right ahead.'

It was like a dream in that bathroom, all spotless white and shining chrome. Much better than a tin bath in the parlour. Poppy pushed the bolt across the door and turned on the taps. She took off her things and tried on the bathrobe that was hanging on the door. She made faces in the mirror. She tried the water with her toes. She dropped the bathrobe on the floor and stepped into the bath. She found that she could lie in there with water up to her chin and her legs stretched out as if in bed.

After a while Paul's voice enquired, 'Are you okay in there, Poppy?'

'I'm all right, darling. How about you?'

'It's just that you've been a long time. I didn't know you were figuring on a bath.'

'I asked you, didn't I? I like a bath whenever I can get one.'

She enjoyed it a few minutes more.

When she unbolted the bathroom door she was fully dressed again. She said to Paul, 'I left the water for you, darling. It's still nice and warm.'

'For me?'

'You want to stop smelling like the Southern Railway, don't you? Them carriages might be comfy, but they always leave a pong. No offence, sweetheart.'

'I had no idea.'

She had him flustered. This was the moment to go to work. She stood against him and put her right hand round his waist inside his blazer. She scratched his back with the tip of a fingernail and said, 'You'd be surprised what you can pick up in them first class carriages.' At the same time, her left hand smoothly lifted the wallet from his inside pocket and dropped it on the bed. She pulled him towards the bathroom. He hadn't noticed a thing. She said, 'Don't be long.' She stepped aside and closed the door after him.

She put the wallet out of sight under the bedspread and waited. She heard him empty the bath and fill it again. She heard him get in. She picked up the wallet and went to the stateroom door and looked out. Jack was at the end of the passageway smoking a cigarette. He waited for a steward to walk by and then he came casually towards her and took the wallet as he passed. Nothing was spoken. Poppy closed the door quietly. But she jumped like a scalded cat a moment later when the bugle sounded for lunch.

'Yes, madam. What name?' asked the chief steward.

'Baranov. Mrs Lydia Baranov.'

The chief steward ran his finger down the list of first class passengers. 'Ah, yes. A table for one, Mrs Baranov?'

'If you please,' answered Alma.

The chief steward snapped his fingers and one of his team stepped forward. 'Number forty-one for Mrs Baranov. Enjoy your meal, madam.'

Alma nodded demurely and followed the man down the steps and along the broad strip of carpet towards the far end of the enormous restaurant, said to be one of the most striking and resplendent public rooms afloat or ashore. It was double-tiered. It was richly panelled with exquisite carvings in the style of the Francois Premier period. Its ornately decorated ceiling was unimaginably high.

She kept Walter's advice firmly in mind: 'Don't be intimidated. Lydia wouldn't. It doesn't matter what gaffes you make so long as you walk in there with your head high and expect to be treated like a lady.' Walter was a tower of strength. He had betrayed no sign of nervousness. He expected her to succeed in this. She could not fail him.

Another steward handed her the menu. It was in several languages. Each dish was more than she could face. She kept calm. She said, 'All I require is a simple salad without meat of any sort. Can you arrange it?'

'Certainly, madam.'

The wine waiter approached her. She waved him away. She needed a clear head this afternoon.

The salad was put in front of her. She began to eat. She poured herself some water. Her hand shook. Some was spilt. She watched the white tablecloth darken as the liquid saturated the fibres. She had a vivid image of a pad of chloroform. Please God, she thought, let it be over quickly. She covered the wet patch with the jug of water. She forced herself to eat some lettuce. She tried to imagine New York.

A feeling of immense relief came over her. The dreadful tension lifted like a curtain. She glanced at the clock above the chief steward's table. 1.15pm. She was positive that Lydia was dead.