The Chelsea Murders (4 page)

‘C
HRIST
. Must you?’ Frank said.

He was shielding his eyes from the light.

‘Get up,’ Steve said, and waited till Frank did.

Frank groped first for his glasses and put them on. Then the long thin length of him articulated out of the bed. He just had his shirt on. He looked awful.

‘God,’ he said. He had to clutch at the bed.

Steve didn’t help him. ‘Take a cold shower,’ he said.

‘Oh, don’t be so fucking beastly.’

‘Have a wash, then. I’ll make coffee.’

He went and did this and presently Frank appeared in a robe.

‘Here we are,’ Steve said.

Frank shakily sat and sipped the hot, very black coffee. He looked about sixty. He was thirty. Steve alertly watched him.

‘How do you feel?’ he said.

‘Daisy-like. Flower-fresh.’

‘Do you want to talk?’

Frank smacked his foul mouth a little. ‘Do I?’ he said. ‘I don’t know. What’s been happening in the world?’

‘Germaine is all over the front pages, and the back pages, and other pages.’

‘Well, she made it,’ Frank said. ‘She wanted to.’

‘What did you do to her?’

‘I didn’t do anything. And stop looking like a lawyer.’

‘They say she was strangled, Frank.’

‘Oh, God, do they?’

‘Yup.’ He poured more coffee. ‘What happened?’

Frank was assimilating this.

He said dazedly, ‘I was in the King’s Road. Going to the night shooting. And there was old Germaine, outside The Gold Key. She said she was going to the river.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I don’t know why,’ Frank said pettishly.

‘But you went with her.’

‘Did I?’ Frank said. ‘I think I did. Yes. Down those pissy streets. World’s End. That’s right. That’s what we did do.’

‘Frank, had you had a fix?’ Steve said gloomily.

‘What if I had?’

‘All right, then what?’

‘Then we got there and saw the lights at the other side, the film lights, and I said didn’t she want to come and see, and she said she couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So
you
went.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

Frank looked round the room. ‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘I wish I wasn’t here.’

‘When you left Germaine, Frank,’ Steve said patiently, ‘you went somewhere. You were going to cross the bridge to those lights at the other side. Did you do that?’

‘I think,’ Frank said slowly, ‘I went home. To bed.’

‘And in the morning you got up.’

‘Well, of course I did. I had a lecture.’

‘I don’t think you gave it, Frank.’

‘No, I wish you’d stop this. Of course I didn’t give the
fucking
lecture. I told
you
that.’

Steve blinked.

‘Why didn’t you?’ he said.

‘Are you imbecilic, or what? A kid on the bus had this
transistor
. I told you. They do news items between the noise. And I suddenly heard Germaine’s name and something about the police, so I got off and bought a paper. It was the early one, full of racehorses and greyhounds. But in the stop press it said she’d been drowned. It blew me out of my mind. I suppose I looked a bit funny.’

‘That’s right, you did,’ Steve said. ‘Frank, you walked a long way past the art school to come and tell me that.’

Frank looked at him for some moments.

‘You don’t think I killed her, do you?’ he said.

‘Do you know if you did, Frank?’

Frank stared even longer.

‘Well, I’m going home, for God’s sake. Are you mad?’ he said.

‘Frank, you’ve been here a couple of days – do you know that? The police are looking for you.’

‘Are they?’ Frank said. One lank black lock was touching his glasses and his eyes were squinting behind the thick lenses. ‘Steve, you surely don’t think –’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ Steve said, ‘except you need a better story. We’ve got to go back over every bit of it, see how much you remember.’

Frank drew his robe a bit closer.

‘Have you got a drink?’ he said.

‘Don’t have a drink, Frank.’ Steve could smell him. He’d left a bottle of Scotch in the room. All gone. ‘Have a cigarette,’ he said and lit two. ‘Okay. The pissy streets and the river and we’re sitting watching the lights, right?’

‘Well, nearly,’ Frank said. ‘We’re
leaning
, actually. We leaned on the wall.’

‘At the wharf.’

‘What wharf? We were on the embankment.’

‘Those pissy streets go to the wharves,’ Steve said. ‘You have to turn off to get to the embankment.’

‘Did we?’ Frank said.

‘Can’t you remember?’

Frank thought. ‘I remember a street,’ he said. ‘Fairly hideous. Quite long. Awful.’

‘With a power station in it? Lots Road?’

‘That’s right.’ Frank was blinking. ‘Lots Road. That’s what it was. That
is
clever of you, Steve.’

‘Frank, don’t take offence,’ Steve said. ‘But Germaine had done a couple of things for you, hadn’t she? Did you sort of – fancy anything just then? Have a small gin, if you want.’

He got up and poured Frank one.

Frank sipped the gin. He said thoughtfully, ‘No, I didn’t. In point of fact, I was feeling bloody awful. It was cold in the flat. I
was
cold. I didn’t fancy anything,’ he said.

Steve let a silence settle.

‘What kind of wall did you lean on?’ he said at last.

‘The coping. Fantastic view. Nocturne by Whistler.’

‘And you just watched a while and then left her.’

‘Yes. Well, hang on. She’d already gone.’

‘Where?’

‘Back the way we came. I think. I don’t know. I mean, I was shivering. I was awful, Steve.’

Steve considered a moment. ‘Frank,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you were on the embankment. I think you walked down Lots Road to a wharf. That wall you leaned on was at a wharf. You watched the lights from there.’

‘Do you think so, Steve?’ Frank said uncertainly.

‘I do. If you think hard, you’ll remember.’

‘Wharves,’ Frank said. ‘Atmospheric, aren’t they?’

‘Very. Nocturne-ish. Lighrs across the water.’

‘Yes. Traffic was passing though, Steve,’ Frank said
unhappily
.

‘Where?’

‘In the road just behind us. I don’t think it was a wharf. I mean, we could invent one.’

‘Are you sure about the traffic?’

‘Positive. I’m sure it wasn’t a wharf, Steve.’

‘Well, thank Christ for that,’ Steve said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘She was killed on a wharf. The police think it was Cremorne Wharf, the farthest from where you were. She was tangled up in some stuff from there. I don’t think you killed her, Frank.’

‘Well, thanks very much,’ Frank said. He was looking at him with dislike.

‘We had to know. You’re still on the hook, Frank.’

‘Well, I’ll have another drink,’ Frank said.

‘No you won’t. How did you get home?’

‘I caught a cab. On the corner of Beaufort Street, opposite.’

‘Would the driver remember you?’

‘Well, how would I know that?’

‘Did anyone see you when you got in?’

‘Did they? I don’t know. Yes, they did. That yellow phantom on the ground floor was in the lavatory. She’d omitted to lock the door. I tried to get in. Some hurly-burly took place with the door. She flashed her fangs at me, from the throne.’

‘Oh, well, that’s beautiful. Well, it’s worth it, Frank.’

‘Worth what?’ Frank said.

‘It’s a risk. They haven’t got anyone yet. Still, that’s what we do. You’re volunteering in the morning, Frank. To the police.’

‘What are you talking about? Don’t be so absurd,’ Frank said, with fright.

‘Look, you can’t stay here. You haven’t been at school, or the language place, or the library. You’re not at home. Why aren’t you at home, incidentally? What do you mean it was cold in the flat?’

‘The heating is off. That old phantom is making them change the boiler. She’s frightened of fire,’ Frank said sulkily.

‘Oh, well, fantastic. Frank, you didn’t have any fix. What you had was a cold. You were really lousy. You told Germaine that when you were at the river, and she advised you to go home. So you jumped in a cab – police find cab-driver. And went home – interview with old throne person. In the morning you feel so lousy, though, you ask if I’ll let you use my fine heated pad.
Well, of course I will. Escort you back to it, put you to bed, you’re looking so terrible. You haven’t heard about old
Germaine
. When I tell you tonight, you being so improved, your first thought is to go and tell the police what you know. Fault that!’ Steve said.

Frank faulted it right away.

‘What are you talking about? I never heard such absurdity. Why should I go and give myself up? You know what the police are like!’

‘You aren’t giving yourself up. You’re eliminating yourself. In effect three of you are reporting there in the morning – you, the cab-driver and the lady in the loo.’

‘Oh, yes. Great effect. What if they don’t remember?’

‘It’s a risk,’ Steve admitted.

‘W
HAT
’s up with you? Bark!’ Georges said in French.

Ah, bark yourself, Artie silently told him. But he barked. ‘
Encore une bouteille de St Julien ’70!
’ They were supposed to yell out the wine orders. It made the place sound busy. It was busy, anyway. He’d been run off his feet since he’d gobbled the meal.

They always had the meal together: the patron Georges; the two other waiters, the chef, the under-chef, the washer-up. From the moment he’d finished his coffee he’d been jumping around.

Up and down the stairs from the store-room below, to the bar, to the kitchen, to the main diner, the two side diners. Set the dishes of crudités. Cut up the bread, prepare the biscuits, the cheeses, butter pots, sugar bowls, cruets, mustard.

Then the early guests had started drifting in; candles lit;
before
he could sort out the fruit bowls.

Non-stop since then.

It was a good small restaurant, French provincial cuisine.

He was an attraction with his Afro and his good French. He was the only one with regular English, anyway.

He didn’t mind it. The money was okay for the nights he worked. He could eat there when he wanted. It was suitable in so many ways. But tonight he was in a black rage.

‘
Bonsoir, madame, m’sieur. Etes-vous prêts à commander?
’

‘I think we’ll lay into a steak unless you recommend –’

English.

‘Well, the
Canard à la Rouennaise
is really a dream. The chef has excelled himself.’

‘Oh, perhaps in that case –’

‘
Le St Julien,
’70!
’ Serge barked, bustling up with it.

‘
Pour la table de quatre, là-bas
,’ Artie directed him. There was no sommelier, and Georges mainly did it, but when Georges casually sat down and chatted with the regulars, as he now had, Serge got it. That was the way the atmosphere was subtly
maintained
; waiters running and barking, Georges genially relaxed.

Artie heard his own tongue glibly running, and brooded.

Steve was keeping something back. Some large unsuspected part was being kept back. He tried to control himself, but it was hard.

He wrote the order and took the menus and hustled through to the kitchen. Albert, gaunt, butcher-aproned, was limping about there, working silently and systematically with his cleaver. There was no confusion in the small kitchen. The under-chef worked swiftly with the sauces and with the desserts. The washer-up kept washing up.

Artie gave in the order, and took out two
purées de marrons
Mont Blanc
that the under-chef had ready for him, and served them.

‘
Ensuite, servez-vous, s’il vous plaît, du café.
’

‘
Oui, monsieur.
’ And with a single cognac. He knew this pair. Which meant a trot down to the bar for a new bottle.

‘
Un cognac pour moi – et pour toi aussi, chérie?
’

‘
Non, seulement du café. M’m, quelle merveille cette Crème Chantilly!
’

‘Thank you, madame. I knew you’d like it,’ Artie said, in English. They liked that; the two languages coming out of the big Afro. They’d joke about it. ‘
Une fine, monsieur – ça arrive.
’

He sorted out their dinner mints, for the coffee, on his way
down to the bar. On his way up, he left the cognac on the banquette and went into the kitchen to see how the canard was doing.

The under-chef was pouring the sauce over the rich stuffed duck, and he waited, and took it, and dodged Marc on his way out.

It went on like this, and he went on brooding.

No, he’d keep things under control now. There was a pattern, and he’d put everything into it; twenty-four hours a day. He’d invested his whole life in their joint conception. He had
suppressed
too many things – his own directorial ambitions, his poetry – to blow it now. He couldn’t do more than he was doing. He had kept nothing back.

Steve was keeping something back. He felt betrayed.

By one o’clock, still on the trot, he felt his head spinning with the cigar smoke and laughter and the smell of food.

The late diners kept at it, coffee and coffee, and one more liqueur and another. He saw Albert jerking his chin at him at the head of the basement stairs, and followed him down, Albert hop-hopping in front of him.

The chef had taken off his butcher-apron and was in his shabby grey jacket. He had his bit of paper with the food order. They gave in the food orders every night on the suppliers’ Ansafones. Artie copied the list into English: poultry and meat, fish, dairy stuff, boulangerie, pâtisserie, fruit and vegetables.

‘
Relis-le-moi en français
,’ Albert said when he’d finished.

Artie read it back.

‘
C’est ça
. Okay,’ Albert said, and poured himself a cognac at the bar while Artie used the phone there. Tonight, as always, Albert seemed to think he was actually talking to somebody at the other end.

‘Tell him his broccoli was solid shit.’

‘Okay,’ Artie said.

‘If that’s his broccoli, he can send cabbage.’

Artie told the Ansafone about the broccoli, and Albert took off without a good night.

The staff taxi turned up at half-past one and waited while the restaurant emptied and they did the preliminary clearing.

Through it all, Artie burned with a sense of betrayal.

Okay, he thought, he wouldn’t destroy everything because one part was rotten. He would continue, with the help of the crazy Arab or without him; with Steve or without him. Steve had to be used in the way of everything else.

‘Okay,
merci les gars, bonne nuit
,’ Georges said.

‘
Bonne nuit,
’ they said.

‘
A demain
.’

‘
A demain.
’

Tomorrow was Friday when Artie worked again. He worked in the restaurant on Saturday, too. But Sunday was his.