The Blurred Man (3 page)

“Maybe he had enemies,” Tim said.

“Everybody loved Lenny,” Fiona retorted. “Even his enemies loved him. All he did his whole life was give away money and help young people. That man built so many orphanages, we had to advertise for orphans to fill them.”

“What else can you tell us about him?” I asked.

“It’s hard to describe Lenny to someone who never met him.”

“Try. Where did he live?”

“He rented a flat in Welles Road. Number seventeen. He didn’t buy anywhere because he hated spending money on himself.” She took out a tiny handkerchief and dabbed the corner of her eye. “It is true that he liked to be on his own a lot.”

“Why?”

“Because of his allergies.”

I remembered now. Carter had said he was sick.

“What was he allergic to?” I asked.

“Many, many things,” Hoover replied. “Chocolate, peanuts, yoghurt, animals, elastic bands, insects…”

“If he was stung by a wasp, he would be in hospital for a week,” Fiona agreed.

“He was also allergic to hospitals. He had to go to a private clinic.” Hoover stood up. Suddenly the interview was over. “Lenny Smile was a very unique man. He was – as you say – one in a million. And you have no right … no right to come here like this. You are wrong! Wrong with all your suspiciousness.”

“Yes.” Fiona nodded in agreement. “His death was a terrible accident. But the police investigated. They found nothing. Mr Hoover and I were there and we saw nothing.”

“You can say to your ‘anonymous’ client, Mr Carter, that he should go back to Chicago,” Hoover concluded. “And now, please, I think you should leave.”

We left. The last thing I saw was Rodney Hoover standing next to Fiona Lee. The two of them were holding hands. Were they just co-workers, friends … or something more? And there was something else. Hoover had said something. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I was certain he had told me something that in fact he didn’t want me to know. I tried to play back the conversation but it wouldn’t come.

Tim and I left the offices of Dream Time together. Rodney Hoover and Fiona Lee had given us both the creeps. Neither of us said anything. But we both looked very carefully before we crossed the road.

At least Fiona had given us Smile’s address, and as it wasn’t far away that was where we went next.

Welles Road was round the back of Battersea, not far from the famous dogs’ home. The tall, red-bricked buildings were all mansion flats … not as big as mansions, but certainly smarter than your average flat. There were a dozen people living in each block, with their names listed on the front door. It turned out that Smile had lived at 17A – on the fifth floor. We rang the bell, but there was no answer so we tried 17B. There was a pause, then a woman’s voice crackled over the intercom.

“Who is it?”

“We’re friends of Lenny Smile,” I shouted back before Tim could come up with a story of his own.

“The fifth floor!” the voice called out. There was a buzz and the door opened.

With its faded wallpaper and worn carpets, the building seemed somehow tired inside. And so were we by the time we got to the fifth floor. The lift wasn’t working. The whole place smelled of damp and yesterday’s cooking. I thought you needed to be rich to live in Battersea (unless, of course, you happened to be a dog). But anyone could have lived here if they weren’t fussy. The fifth floor was also the top floor. The door of 17B was open when we arrived.

“Mr Smile is dead!”

The woman who had broken the news to us so discreetly was about eighty, with white hair that might have been a wig and a face that had long ago given up trying to look human. Her eyes, nose and mouth all seemed to have run into each other like a melting candle. Her voice was still crackling, even without the intercom system. She was dressed in a pale orange dress decorated with flowers; the sort of material that would have looked better on a chair. There were fluffy pink slippers on her feet. Her legs – what I could see of them – were stout and hairy and made me glad that I couldn’t see more.

“Who are you?” Tim asked.

“My name’s Lovely.”

“I’m sure it is,” Tim agreed. “But what is it?”

“I just told you, dear. Lovely! Rita Lovely! I live next door to Mr Smile. Or at least … I used to.”

“Have you moved?” Tim asked.

Mrs Lovely blinked at him. “No. Don’t be daft! Mr Smile is the one who’s moved. All the way to Brompton Cemetery!”

“We know that,” Tim said. “We’ve already been there.”

“Then what do you want?”

“We want to get into his flat.”

“Why?”

I decided it was time to take over. “Mr Smile was my hero,” I lied. I’d put on the little-boy-lost look that usually worked with very old women. And also, for that matter, with Tim. “He helped me.”

“He gave you money?” She looked at me suspiciously.

“He saved my life. I had a rare disease.”

“What disease?”

“It was so rare, it didn’t have a name. Mr Smile paid for my medicine. I never got a chance to thank him. And I thought, if I could at least see where he lived…”

That softened her. “I’ve got a key,” she said, taking it out of her pocket. “I was his neighbour for seven years and I used to look after the place for him when he was away. You seem a nice boy, so I’ll let you in, just for a few minutes. This way…”

It seemed to take her for ever to reach the door, but then she was very old. At last we were in. Mrs Lovely closed the door behind us and sat down to have a rest.

Smile’s flat was small and ordinary. There was a living-room, but it was so neat and impersonal that it was hard to believe anyone had done any living there at all. There was a three-piece suite, a coffee table, a few ornaments. The pictures on the wall were even less interesting than the walls they hung on. It was the same story in the other rooms. The flat told us nothing about the person who had lived there. Even the fridge was empty.

“How often did you see Mr Smile?” I asked.

“I never saw him,” Tim replied.

“I know, Tim. I’m asking Mrs Lovely.”

“I hardly ever saw him,” Mrs Lovely said. “He kept himself to himself, if you want the truth. Although I was here the night that he got run over.”

“Did you see what happened?”

“Not really, no.” She shook her head vigorously and then readjusted her hair and teeth. “But I did see him go out. There were two people with him, talking to him. They seemed to be helping him down the stairs.”

“Helping him?”

“One on each side of him. A man and a woman…”

That would have been Rodney Hoover and Fiona Lee.

“After they’d gone, I heard the most terrible noise. It was a sort of rumble and then a scrunching. At first I thought it was my indigestion, but then I looked out of the window. And there they were! The two of them and the driver—”

“Barry Krishner…”

“I don’t know his name, young man. But yes, the driver of the steamroller was there. He was looking as sick as a parrot. Hardly surprising!”

“What happened to the parrot?” Tim asked.

“There was no parrot!”

“You mean … it got so sick it died?”

“There was the driver, the two people I had seen on the stairs and blood all over the road!” Mrs Lovely sighed. “It was the worst thing I have ever seen, and I’ve lived through two world wars! Blood everywhere! Lots and lots and lots of blood…”

“Thank you,” Tim interrupted, going pale.

“Were there no other witnesses?” I asked.

“Just one.” Mrs Lovely leant forward. “There was a balloon-seller on the other side of the road. He must have seen everything. I’ve already been asked about him once, so before you ask me again let me tell you that I don’t know his name or where he had come from. He was an old man. He had a beard and about fifty helium balloons. Floating above his head.”

“Why was his beard floating over his head?” Tim asked.

“The balloons, Tim!” I growled. I turned to Mrs Lovely. “Is there anything else you can tell us?” I asked. “Anything about Lenny Smile?”

“No. Not really.” Suddenly there were tears in the old woman’s eyes. She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. “I will miss him. It’s true I hardly ever saw him, but he was a gentleman. Look at this note he sent me. It was my ninety-first birthday last week and he slipped it under the door.”

She produced a crumpled sheet of paper, torn out of an exercise book. There were a couple of lines written in green ink:

Dear Mrs Lovely
,

I hope you have a lovely birthday
.

L.S
.

That was all. The note couldn’t have been less interesting or informative. And yet even so I thought there was something strange about it, something that didn’t quite add up. I handed it back.

“Nobody else remembered my birthday,” Mrs Lovely sighed. “I didn’t get any cards. But then, most of my friends were blown up in the war…” She wiped her eyes. “I couldn’t have asked for a more quiet neighbour,” she said. “And now that he’s gone, I’ll really miss him.”

How could she miss him when she had hardly ever met him? And why had Lenny Smile taken so much care not to be seen? I was beginning to realize that it wasn’t just Carter’s photograph that had been blurred. The same thing could be said for everything in Lenny Smile’s life.

We found Barry Krishner, the steamroller driver, easily enough. There was only one institute for the hopelessly insane in Harrow. Well, two if you count the famous public school which was just a little further down the road. The hospital was a big, Victorian building, set in its own grounds with a path leading up to the front door.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Tim asked.

“Yes,” I said. “They’ve even got crazy paving.”

I have to say, I was a bit worried about going into a mental asylum with Tim. I wondered if they’d let him out again. But it was too late to back out now. One of the doctors, a man called Eams, was waiting for us at the entrance. He was a short man, bald with a little beard that could have been bought at a joke shop. We introduced ourselves and he led us out of the winter sunlight into the gloomy heart of the building.

“Krishner has responded very well to treatment,” he said. “Otherwise I would not let you speak with him. Even so, I must ask you to be extremely careful. As I am sure you can imagine, running someone over with a steamroller would be a very upsetting experience.”

“For Lenny Smile?” Tim asked.

“For the driver! When Krishner first came here, he was in a state of shock. He ate very little. He barely spoke. Every night he woke up screaming.”

“Bad dreams, Dr Eams?” Tim asked.

“Yes. But we have given him a lot of therapy and there has been considerable improvement. However, please, Mr Diamond, try not to refer to what happened. Don’t mention any of the details – the steamroller, the accident itself. You have to be discreet!”

“Discreet is my middle name!” Tim nodded.

“And also please bear in mind, he is not a lunatic. He is here as my patient. So don’t say anything that would make him think he is mentally ill.”

Tim laughed. “I’d be mad to do that!” He nudged the doctor. “So, where’s his padded cell?”

Barry Krishner was sitting in a small, old-fashioned room that could just as easily have belonged to a seaside hotel as an asylum. A large window looked out onto the garden and there were no bars. He was a small, grey-haired man, dressed in an old sports jacket and dark trousers. I noticed his eyes blinked a lot behind his spectacles, and he kept on picking his nails. Otherwise it would have been impossible to tell that he had, until recently, been in shock.

“Good afternoon, Barry,” Dr Eams said. “These people want to ask you some very important questions about Lenny Smile.” Krishner twitched as if he had just been electrocuted. Dr Eams smiled and continued in a soothing tone of voice. “You have nothing to worry about. They’re not going to upset you.” He nodded at Tim.

“It must have been a crushing experience,” Tim began.

Krishner whimpered and twisted in his chair. Dr Eams frowned at Tim, then gently took hold of Krishner’s arm. “Are you all right, Barry?” he asked. “Would you like me to get you a drink?”

“Good idea,” Tim agreed. “Why not have a squash?”

Krishner shrieked. His glasses had slipped off his nose and one of his eyes had gone bloodshot.

“Mr Diamond!” Eams was angry now. “Please could you be careful what you say. You told me you were going to ask Barry what he saw outside Lenny Smile’s house.”

“Flat,” Tim corrected him.

Krishner went completely white. I thought he was going to pass out.

Dr Eams stared at Tim. “For heaven’s sake…!” he rasped.

“OK, doc.” Tim winked. “I think it’s time we got to the crunch…”

Krishner began to foam at the mouth.

“I really want to crack this case. Although I have to say, the clues are a bit thin on the ground…”

Barry Krishner screamed and jumped out of the window. Without opening it. Alarms went off all over the hospital and, two minutes later, Tim and I were being escorted off the premises with the gates locked securely behind us.

“They weren’t very helpful,” Tim muttered. “Do you think it was something I said?”

I didn’t answer. We had spent the whole day following in a supposedly dead man’s footsteps. They had led us nowhere.

So where did we go now?

The next day was a Saturday. Tim was in a bad mood when he came in for breakfast. He’d obviously got out of bed the wrong side: not a good idea, since he slept next to the window. At least there was food in the fridge. The money that Joe Carter had paid us would last us a month, and that morning I’d cooked up eggs, bacon, tomatoes, sausages and beans. The papers had arrived – the
Sun
for me, the
Dandy
for Tim. An hour later the two of us were so full we could barely move. There’s nothing like a great British breakfast for a great British heart attack.

But the truth is, we were both down in the dumps – and this time I don’t mean the flat. We were no nearer to finding the truth about Smile. Rodney Hoover and Fiona Lee, the pair who ran Dream Time, were obviously creepy. According to Mrs Lovely, the next-door neighbour, they had half-carried Smile downstairs just before his fatal accident. Had he been drunk? Or drugged? They could have thrown him in front of the steamroller – but if so, why? As Tim would doubtless have said, they’d have needed a pressing reason.