Babycakes (27 page)

Miss Treves slipped out of her chair and inched toward the door. “Dear God,” she murmured. “This is dreadful. Isn’t there something we can do?”

The noise in the corridor was horrendous, a mixture of animal grunts and maniacal wheezing. Someone slammed against the wall so hard that a tin engraving fell off the wall in Simon’s living room. After almost a minute of desperate battle, there was nothing left but the sound of one man’s heavy breathing. Then someone opened the front door, closed it, and ran away from the house.

The corridor was still again.

Michael made his way toward the door.

“Wait!” said Wilfred.

“We have to see,” answered Michael.

Miss Treves said nothing, hands aflutter at her throat.

Pressing his ear against the door, Michael listened for a moment. Nothing. He eased the door open, to reveal a large white man lying on his back in the corridor. He knelt by the form and watched for breathing, then laid his ear against the wet polyester above the man’s heart.

“It’s the fat bloke,” said Wilfred.

Miss Treves waddled glumly into the corridor. “He’s just … unconscious, isn’t he?”

Michael looked up and shook his head.

“He’s dead?” asked Wilfred.

Miss Treves whimpered softly and fainted, falling against the hillock of the corpse’s belly.

Michael looked at Wilfred, then down again at the macabre tableau at his feet. His mind flashed perversely on the last scene of
Romeo and Juliet.

Wilfred said the first sensible thing. “Have you any smelling salts?”

Michael shook his head. Did
anyone
have smelling salts? “Wait,” he said, suddenly remembering. “I’ve gol something that might work.” He rushed to the bathroom and returned with the little bottle of concentrated liquid deodorant he had bought at Boots.

Wilfred frowned. “I don’t know, mate. Poppers?”

“It’s not poppers.” Michael knelt next to Miss Treves and scooped her into his arms. He uncapped the bottle and waved the pungent stuff under her nose. Nothing happened. He set the bottle down. “There’s not enough ammonia, I guess. This is like spraying her with Glade.”

“I’ll get something wet,” offered Wilfred, dashing out of the room. He came back with a sea sponge from the bathroom and dabbed delicately at the midget’s features.

Miss Treves’s nose was the first thing to move. Then her left eye twitched. Then a little convulsion shook her whole body awake. “Thank God,” murmured Michael. He carried her back to the living room and laid her carefully on the sofa. It took a moment for her to realize where she was. Then the terror returned to her face. “Are you sure he’s dead?” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” nodded Michael.

“Who was that? Who did it?”

“Wilf … uh, the man upstairs.”

“Me dad,” put in Wilfred. He gave Michael a quick glance to show that he didn’t need to be protected.

“They were both drunk,” said Michael. “It was just a … freak thing.”

Miss Treves nodded wearily. “Bunny has a bad heart.” She glanced toward the corpse in the hallway. “The bally fool … the stupid, bally fool. I told him to leave well enough alone, but he was always …” Her voice trailed off in despair.

“Are you all right now?” asked Michael.

She nodded.

“I don’t know what this is all about, Miss Treves, but I’ll have to call the police.”

“No! Not vet … please, love, not yet.”

“Why?”

Her hands flopped about like injured sparrows. “It’s best that we talk first. For Simon’s sake. There’s nothing to be gained by destroying everything he’s ever …”

“Is that Simon’s father?” Michael jerked his head toward the corpse.

Miss Treves swallowed once, then looked away. “Is it?” asked Michael. She nodded.

“And he thought I was Simon?”

Another nod. “I told the bally fool you weren’t. He read that vile piece in the
Minor
and saw you leaving one day and convinced himself that Simon had come home from California.”

Michael was totally lost. “He didn’t know what his own son looked like?”

“Uh … mate.” Wilfred was tugging on his arm. “There’s a body out there. This is no time for a bleedin’ chat.”

“He’s right,” said Miss Treves. “Perhaps we should bring it in.”

“Now wait a minute …”

“Just for a bit, love. We can put it back.”

“But the police will know that something …”

“No they won’t, love. Just be careful about fingerprints. The lad will help you. Won’t you, love?” She gave Wilfred a surprisingly winning little smile.

The kid shrugged at Michael. “They can’t arrest us for movin’ him, can they?”

So Michael gave in. He and Wilfred each took a leg and dragged the man-mountain into the apartment. Miss Treves showed her gratitude with another smile and said: “Would you mind covering him, love? Just for now?” Michael hesitated, then fetched Simon’s duvet from the bedroom and draped it over the body.

“O.K.,” he said crisply, turning back to Miss Treves. “What is it you want me to do?”

She looked down at her hands. “Nothing, really. Except … you mustn’t mention what he said about … being Simon’s father.”

Michael studied her face. “Simon doesn’t know that, I take it.”

“No. And he mustn’t. Ever.”

“This guy …” He gestured toward the quilted mound. “He got Simon’s mother pregnant?”

“No,” replied the nanny. “Well … yes. Technically.” Wilfred giggled.

Michael ignored him. “And this man’s name was …?”

“Benbow. Bunny Benbow. He was the head of the revue I used to sing with. We met the Bardills at a hotel where we were playing in Malta. Nineteen fifty-six. They were on holiday, an extended trip around the world. Mrs. Bardili took a fancy to Bunny … which was only natural, since we were all in show business. Mrs. Bardill was much more famous, of course, but …” She glanced almost sorrowfully at the corpse. “Bunny was a dashing figure in those days.”

“So he came here tonight …?”

“To see his son, in part. He was hopelessly sentimental, for all his faults. He knew that the Bardills were dead … and he thought there might be a chance of … being a father to Simon again.”

“Again?” Michael frowned. “It doesn’t sound as if he ever was.”

Miss Treves fidgeted. “He also wanted money. That piece in the
Mirror
made it sound as if Simon was very rich.”

“So this guy comes waltzing back after … what? … twenty-eight years, and expects Simon to buy that? To give him money, just because he got Simon’s mother pregnant?”

The nanny looked away. Her lower lip had begun to tremble.

“Miss Treves …”

“He was in prison for most of that time. He robbed a hotel in Brighton. That’s why the revue broke up. That’s why I came back to London and found the Bardills and asked for the job as Simon’s nanny.”

Michael simply stared at her.

“He tried to reach Simon,” she continued. “He wrote letters from prison, but I intercepted them. He had no right to spoil their lives. To spoil Simon’s life. We were all so very happy, and he had no …”

“Wait a minute. How could he have known for certain?”

“Known what?”

“That he was Simon’s father.”

She looked at him balefully.

“I need the truth, Miss Treves.”

“Love … I’m telling you the truth.”

He reached out and took her child-size hand. “All of it?”

She heaved a world-weary sigh. “Mr. Bardill was sterile.”

He nodded to encourage her.

“The Bardills wanted a baby very badly.
Very
badly.” She brought her fingertips to her temple and made a circular motion, as if to expel a private demon. “I’m sorry, love. There’s some brandy on the shelf above the fridge. Would you mind awfully?”

“I’ll get it,” chirped Wilfred, bounding to his feet and dodging Bunny Benbow on his way to the kitchen.

“You must be my friend,” Miss Treves said to Michael.

“I am your friend.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “You did my nails, didn’t you?”

She mustered a wan smile for him as Wilfred returned with a tumbler of brandy. She downed it in two efficient gulps and gave the glass back to the kid. “Thank you, love.”

“My pleasure,” replied Wilfred, sinking to the floor again. He propped his chin on his fist and gazed at the two of them as if they were a television set about to flicker into action. “Don’t mind me.”

Michael turned to Miss Treves. “So …?”

“Yes. Well … Mr. Bardill was sterile, as I said … and it was a source of great anguish for both of them. When we met them at the Selmun, I knew there was …”

“The what?”

“The Selmun Palace Hotel. Where we were performing.”

“Oh.”

“It was a lovely old place, miles away from Valletta … up on a hill overlooking the sea. One of the Knights of Malta lived there long ago. The people who stayed there were all lovely people, and the Bardills were the loveliest of the lot. She was a famous actress, but she wasn’t a bit stuck-up. They bought bicycles in Valletta, which they rode all over the island, and she wore these lovely long scarves that trailed along in the breeze like …”

“Miss Treves.” The brandy had been a terrible idea. “Time is of the essence.”

She nodded. “I just want you to know that I didn’t think of them as strangers, the Bardills. I felt as if I’d known them all my life.”

“All right.”

“I knew that I could trust them.”

He nodded.

“At any rate … one night Mrs. Bardili took a long stroll with Bunny and told him about … Mr. Bardill’s condition. Bunny offered to make arrangements for them … to obtain a child.”

“To adopt one, you mean?”

“No,” she replied dimly. “To buy one.”

Wilfred drew in breath audibly. Michael shot a quick glance at him, then turned back to Miss Treves. “But you said he was … It was h
is
baby, you mean? He sold Simon to the Bardills because they wanted …?”

“Yes,” she answered, before he could finish.

“He
sold
his own baby?”

“Our own baby.”

He blinked at her.

“Simon is my son.”

A car swooshed through a puddle out in Colville Crescent. Wilfred’s eyes were porcelain saucers. Michael’s failure to respond immediately prompted Miss Treves to add defensively: “It can skip a generation, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” he gulped. “I didn’t mean to …”

“Don’t be a silly-billy. It’s not what one would expect, is it now?”

“No … I guess not.”

“Bunny and I weren’t married. We weren’t even lovers in the conventional sense. We were professional partners mostly. Simon was simply the result of … a night of foolishness. It was a stupid mistake, but we salvaged it rather well. Until now.”

Michael hesitated, then asked: “You … didn’t want a baby?”

“No, love.” She smiled at him sweetly. “I wanted a career.”

He nodded.

“I wanted to be a star, if the truth be known, but that wasn’t in the cards. Bunny robbed that hotel in Brighton, and the whole bally world fell apart. If the Bardills hadn’t taken me on as Simon’s nanny …”

“They took you in, knowing that you were Simon’s …?”

“Oh, no! Bunny told them that Simon was the son of a girl in Valletta. He was simply acting as … broker. I imagine they suspected he was the father, but they never said as much. All they really cared about was having a beautiful son to care for.”

“Does Simon think he’s their natural son, then?”

“Everyone does. The Bardills were away from England for almost three years. They told their friends he was born in a Maltese hospital while they were on holiday … which was quite true. Mr. Bardili even had a birth certificate made, I’m not sure how. He was a barrister, you know.”

“But what if Simon …?”

“… had grown up to be little? Well, he didn’t, now. did he?”

“No.”

“It was naughty of us—I admit that—but it solved everyone’s problem at the time.”

Michael looked back at the problem under the duvet. “And … this guy came here to spill the beans … and he expected Simon to give him money for that?”

“Not exactly. He wanted money, yes … but he thought Simon already knew about him.”

“You told him that?”