Hide My Eyes (8 page)

It was a plea, and Mr. Phillipson, who was fond of her too, knew exactly what she meant.

“Oh, he’s not the ordinary irresponsible type,” he assured her. “There are brains there and considerable charm and he certainly seemed quite frank.”

“Did he tell you he lived in Reading?” She made the enquiry cautiously and as if she feared his answer. But for once Mr. Phillipson was not noticing. He was trying very hard to be charitable.

“Outside Reading,” he corrected her. “He has part share in a garage there, but I gather there has been some trouble with the partner’s wife. I was inclined to believe his story. In my experience women in business … well, there’s no point in going into that, but the possessive wife is always cropping up in these stories. Anyway, the story he told was one I could well believe and, to a certain extent, sympathise with.”

“All Gerry’s stories are.” Polly spoke absently. She was stirring her coffee round and round and her mild eyes were troubled.

“And what exactly do you mean by that?” he demanded. “Aren’t those the facts as you know them? Has he lied to me?”

“No, dear. I’m sure he hasn’t.” She was flustered. “I only meant that Gerry sometimes presents things in the way that is most likely to convince the audience he happens to be talking to. I mean he might leave out the bit about the woman when talking to me, and he might make the partner his brother and the garage a factory, to sound bigger, you see?”

“Has he done that?”

“Oh no, dear, no. I’m sure I’ve heard about the Reading garage.”

Matthew Phillipson, warm and well fed and flattered by her obvious dependence on him, sat looking at her sternly.

“Yes … it’s a very good thing the matter’s in my hands,” he observed at last. “I don’t like clever women, Polly, never did. To me, you’re worth a dozen of them, just as you are. We’ll do what can be done for this wretched chap. If he honours his word and turns up with the money tonight that’ll be the end of it, but I shouldn’t see much more of him.”

She smiled at him gratefully but her lips were still forming the words which she did not like to utter.

“The people in your office will know all about it?” she said at last.

“No, they won’t. I’ve prepared for that. He’s coming in after five. I shall wait for him until half past, and I’ve kept your two letters on the subject out of the file. You marked them personal and they were kept private. I’ve promised him the whole thing is confidential between himself and me, and
if
he does his part it will remain so. He’ll have had a good fright, which may prove salutary. And now, my dear, if you feel like it, we’ll settle that little matter of the residue of your estate.”

He put his hand in an inside pocket and she nodded absently, her mind still on the earlier subject.

“Gerry’s all right,” she repeated stoutly. “He only wants the right girl to love him and boss him. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. What he needs is someone young and affectionate and his own class and …” She became aware of Mr. Phillipson’s shrewd glance and stopped abruptly. “I’m not,” she protested guiltily, although he had not spoken. “I’m neither planning nor hoping anything. Honestly, it’s hardly gone through my mind.”

“I’m very glad it hasn’t.” He was severe with her. “If this niece of Freddy’s is under twenty-one, and the only thing we know for certain about Jeremy Hawker is the present very unfortunate incident, then really I can hardly advise you to let them even meet.”

“Not - not if I’m there?”

“Oh Polly!” He was exasperated with her. “Don’t be absurd. You must know by this time you can’t look after everybody. If you take my advice you’ll strike this young blackguard quietly off your list.”

“Don’t say that, Matt.” She looked positively frightened. “Truly don’t. I tell you I’m fond of him. I needn’t worry because you’ll always be about, won’t you? I’ll never do anything without you, dear. I do admit that when I first found out about this dreadful business I thought he needed a wife to keep him straight, and I thought of Freddy’s niece and I thought she must be twenty-four or five. But that turns out to have been the elder sister and she’s engaged anyhow. This child who has come along is far too young, but she’s sweet. I like her for her own sake. I’m not a fool, I shall look after her. You can trust me. Now give me the pen.”

Fifteen minutes later as she was letting him out of the front door Annabelle came up the path. Mr. Phillipson looked down at her from the top of the porch steps and turned a blank face to his hostess.

“Good heavens,” he said briefly.

“I know,” she murmured. “I told you,” and went on, glowing down at the newcomer, “hullo darling, how are the shops?”

“Absolutely whizz.” The schoolgirl suddenly emerging from behind the sophisticated young lovely took Mr. Phillipson unaware. He found her enchanting, and although quite conscious that Polly was laughing at him for it he still displayed a fine flourish of old-fashioned gallantry as the introductions were performed.

Just before he left them he turned to his old friend.

“This young lady’s a very great responsibility.”

Polly met his eyes. “My goodness, yes.”

Annabelle laughed at them both. “I’m fairly safe out” she murmured, reddening.

“Of course you are. He doesn’t mean that.” Polly flew to the rescue. “He’s just telling me to look after you as he looks after me, like a hen. Who gave a taxi-driver ten bob to take me home when I was waiting in the rain, eh Matt? Go along with you, you old sinner, looking so innocent.”

Mr. Phillipson had not the face for innocence but he did appear astonished.

“Not I,” he said earnestly.

“Oh, rubbish, don’t lie to me. The taxi-man told me an old friend. In fact what he really said was ‘Op in, Ma. The bloke is on the corner watching to see I don’t scarper with the lolly. If I don’t take you he’ll give me in charge.’ I looked back but I couldn’t see you so I got in very gratefully and came home.”

Mr. Phillipson continued mystified. “You’ve accused me of this before and I’ve told you I’m not guilty. It’s a charming story,” he said. “I’m sorry to have to disclaim it.”

“Oh, Matt, you haven’t forgotten the Avenue, that dreadful wet night when there were murders going on all round.”

He stared at her in amazement. “You’re rambling.”

“I’m not. There was a murder going on in the very next street. Next day the papers were full of it. You
must
remember the moneylender who was taken away in a ’bus?”

“I do,” Annabelle put in unexpectedly. “There were other
people
in the ’bus too, which made it idiotic. Didn’t you read about it?”

“No.” Mr. Phillipson wiped his hands of the whole affair. “I avoid crime except when I have to deal with it. I must go. Goodbye, Miss Tassie. Enjoy your stay in London. Goodbye, Polly my dear. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll telephone you either tonight or tomorrow morning.”

He went off down the path, waved from the gate, and strode away, a slender upright figure. Polly watched him go with deep affection.

“Such a sound old boy,” she remarked. “So kind, and he’ll never take thanks. I rely on him. He’s my common sense.”

The girl glanced at her curiously.

“I don’t think he paid the taxi-man that time, though, do you? I think he rather wished it
had
been him.”

“Oh, but he must have.” Polly put an arm round the tweed-clad shoulders as they went into the house. “Who else could it have been? I’ve lived most of my life up north, I haven’t many old friends in London.”

“Perhaps it was the murderer.” Annabelle was delighted with the mystery and her voice was full of joyous nonsense. “I know, the murderer saw you and thought you might recognise him and stop him, and so he got you out of the way. That means he’s someone you know.”

“Don’t!” Polly’s reaction was so violent it startled even herself. As the word escaped her she looked astonished. “Oh, how you frightened me,” she said, laughing as she caught sight of herself in the hall glass. “I’ve gone white. What a horrible idea, darling. No, of course it was Matt, bless him. I knew it at the time. Otherwise I wouldn’t have dared to get into the cab, would I?” She paused for a moment, her hand on the stair rail. “No,” she repeated at last. “I know some damn silly boys but no murderers, thank God. Besides,” she added with complete inconsequence, “I had a postcard from Gerry, sent from Yorkshire and dated that very evening. I noticed it particularly at the time. Come along, my poppet, it’s nearly late enough. Let’s make ourselves a cup of tea.”

Chapter 7

AFTERNOON WITH MUSIC

THE MAN WHO
had introduced himself as Jeremy Chad-Horder, and had disclaimed his wartime rank of Major as out of date, was still chattering amiably.

“As the nineteen fifty-seven car said, between you and me dearie, the trouble is I can’t tell my boot from my bonnet,” he remarked cheerfully as he and Richard paused outside the huge plate-glass window of the Piccadilly motor salesroom. “I find that’s the most important thing to remember about modern cars. If they appear to be shrinking it’s all right, they’re going away. I perceive it is closing time. Where shall we stagger next to top up the alcoholic content? What about the Midget Club in Minton Mews?”

“Good idea.” Richard noticed with relief that he had kept all trace of doggedness out of his tone. They were both very sober, he suspected, although they had so far visited the Rivoli, the Small Bar of the Café, Ley’s Oyster House, and an assortment of pubs of varying elegance. At each of these establishments his companion had been recognised and sometimes with enthusiasm, but they had stayed long nowhere. The younger man had been able to hold his own financially and socially, but it had been an effort and so far he had succeeded in discovering little more about the stranger than had been apparent at the barber’s.

Beyond the fact that he was obviously a charming and convincing liar, very little else that was concrete had emerged. The one thing certain was that he had no intention of letting Richard get away from him. Every tentative effort which the young man made to escape was parried neatly and some new inducement offered to keep him by his side.

Richard was interested because none of the usual explanations appeared to fit the bill. Moreover, since he was particularly anxious to discover what kind of people had got
hold
of Annabelle without actually spying on her, the opportunity seemed heaven-sent. The more he discovered the less he liked, and he decided to stay with the man for a bit.

The Lagonda was parked in Curzon Street and they walked through to collect it and drove to the northern side of the West End, leaving the car in a little alley which Gerry knew of just behind Minton Square. It was very full but he took an immense amount of trouble to get in, and Richard was struck by the contrast between the driving skill he was displaying and the fuddled facetiousness he was attempting to convey.

The wooden box was now safely in the boot. It had not proved practicable to carry it around with them on their quest for refreshment, and they had stowed it away on their first stop. Gerry looked in the back for it as they got out and was reassured as he remembered.

“You can’t leave anything in an open car,” he explained. “The whole blessed place seems to be on the twist these days. The Midget is just along here on the right. Some people call it Edna’s, after the woman who runs it. If you’ve not met her before you may find her amusing.”

He took the other man’s elbow and guided him out of the cobbled lane into the street which ran at right angles to it. There, beside a small and expensive antique shop, they found a flight of oak stairs leading up on to the first floor. A discreet sign written in copperplate so that it suggested a large visiting card assured them that Edna’s Midget Club was open to members only.

At the top of the flight a small vestibule had been constructed out of the landing and in it sat a commissionaire with a visitors’ book open on a table before him. He had a large friendly face and practically no top to his head, so that the peaked cap which lay by his elbow suggested the lid of a mustard pot.

He greeted Gerry with a great crow of pleasure.

“No-it-isn’t-yes-it-is-’ullo-’ullo-’ullo,” he said pleasantly. “Nice to see you again, sir. You’ve bin missed, I’ll say you’ve been missed.”

He dipped the pen in the ink, pushed the book forward and winked.

“Jeremy Blah-blah and Mr. Richard Wah-wah,” he announced, blotting the entry with pride. “Straight in, sir. Go and get your welcome home.”

The man in the trench coat hesitated, his face alight with the shamefaced laughing apology which Richard had begun to consider characteristic of him. Despite its admissions it was by no means unattractive and it suited the lean face and softened its deeply scored lines.

“Is she there?” he murmured.

The commissionaire raised his eyes and suddenly showed all his yellowing teeth in mock ferocity.

“All ready to eat yer,” he whispered and shook with silent laughter which made him scarlet in the face.

Gerry smiled at him briefly and his forehead wrinkled like a piece of corrugated paper.

“Here’s for it,” he said to Richard and pushed open a door on the right.

The Midget Club was smart of its kind and what was called by its habituées ‘exclusive, sort of’. It occupied the whole of the first floor of the small period house and was composed of a single L-shaped room divided by a large archway in which had once hung the panelled double doors of a more gracious age. Now most of the ornamentation had been achieved with paper, a design of white candelabra on grey on the darker walls and an explosion of gilt stars upon crimson on the lighter ones. In the first and smaller half of the room there was a long bar, its supports painted to simulate flat Regency pillars, while in the larger, darker portion of the place there was a mock window, a television set and a number of easy chairs with coffee tables before them. The air was heavy with perfume and alcohol and blue with cigarette smoke, but the main crowd had not yet arrived.

A knot of pretty girls, doubtless young actresses, were sitting in one corner with their heads together, their voices lowered and sibilant over the latest wrong. In an alcove two dark-coated men were squaring up some private account, little black books and banknotes on the glass-topped table
before
them, while on a high stool by the bar, his feet drawn up under him, there sat the inevitable hunched individual whose entire body down to the smallest facial muscle appeared to be in the grip of paralysis. He sat there, patient and motionless, as if he were being slowly petrified into red sandstone, and nobody took any notice of him at all.