The Twilight Hour (16 page)

Afterwards we sat in the freezing drawing room, huddled round a tiny wood fire, and listened to my father's view of the government, developed at great length. The government's failure to resolve the question of Germany, the government's failure to deal with Jewish terrorists in Palestine, with the chaos in Greece and the riots in the Punjab – ‘What the hell is going on?' my father railed. ‘We're going to hell in a handcart!' he cried, while my mother bewailed the fact that prisoners of war were still lurking – or, according to her,
larking
– about in the countryside, being ferried around in lorries using the petrol she and my father needed so badly.

The poor old government got it in the neck until Alan could no longer contain himself: ‘What are they supposed to do? The Americans are slowly strangling us to death.'

‘Are you mad! We'd be bankrupt if it wasn't for the Americans! Europe would be finished!'

‘Then why did they end Lend Lease so abruptly? Whatever happens, it's Europe on American terms for the foreseeable future. The film industry, for example – all right, so there was the Anglo–US loan, but Senator Fulbright actually demanded restrictions in order to stop Britain building up a film industry that might seriously compete with Hollywood –' And Alan was off on his (and Colin's) hobby horse, indeed as he denounced Hollywood and its films for promoting the flashy materialistic ‘American way of life', his argument was Colin's, in other words it was the CP argument, an attack on the evils of capitalism.

Of course I agreed with him – of
course
I did. And yet – if I had to choose between a Hollywood musical and, say,
It Always Rains on Sunday
, I jolly well knew which I'd choose.

The only effect of Alan's harangue on the film industry was to convince my father more firmly than ever that my husband was a Red, while my mother now knew for certain that there was no prospect whatsoever that he was going to be able to support me in the manner to which I'd been accustomed, or of her ever having a grandchild. She took me aside at one point and asked me if anything was ‘the matter'. ‘I thought you'd have started a family by now,' and she looked puzzled, as if she'd never heard of birth control.

To mollify my father Alan said he'd had a script accepted, and told them about Radu and the success of
House of Shadows
.

‘Has this chap got any money? Are you actually going to get paid?' These days my father treated everything with a kind of enraged scepticism. Since he'd returned from Germany he'd seemed so much older, crustier, angrier. The sickening evidence he'd had to deal with at Nuremberg seemed to have eaten into him. He just was a different person.

We finally plucked up courage to broach the real reason for our visit. It was a disaster. The
Daily Telegraph
had reported the case, naturally, but my parents weren't that interested and had had no idea we were intimate with the leading characters in a sordid murder scandal.

My father raged impotently. This was the result of associating with artists and bohemians! How dare Alan lead
his
daughter into such depraved social circles!

‘Colin's innocent,' I cried, fighting back tears of rage and frustration. My father took no notice. He grudgingly admitted that Julius Abrahams was the best in the business, even if he was a Red. He'd get Colin a decent barrister, another Red most likely. That was all he had to say on the matter.

After all this, we had to stay the night – impossible to get back to London the same day.

‘For God's sake, stay out of it,' was my father's parting shot, when we left the next morning. ‘I don't want my daughter's name in the papers, and certainly not in connection with this.'

But my name
would
be in the papers. Unless we could get Colin released and the charges dropped.

sixteen

WHEN THE THAW FINALLY CAME
it was like being let out of prison, but that was London. Beyond our little Soho world was a countryside flooded with melted snowdrifts, sheep and cattle drowned in their hundreds of thousands and the nation plunged literally from one disaster to the next, like a sort of collective Jonah in his whale. What had the country done to deserve this, when Britain after all had won the war!

Alan took time off work to visit Colin almost every day. I was afraid he'd get the sack, but he didn't care. Apart from the film, all his energy was focused on Colin.

‘I can't help feeling rotten about the film,' he said, one evening when we got home from the pub. ‘If it hadn't been for the film, that row in the Café Royal wouldn't have happened. So much seems to hang on that; but it's so stupid. They've just got this fixed idea of a motive.' He sat beside me at the kitchen table and put his arm round me. ‘You don't really know Colin very well, do you, but he is a really good person. I know he's difficult – a rough diamond in a way – but he's an idealist. He's been upset ever since he got back here, that things are going badly – the Iron Curtain, the Labour Party's problems, and he's disillusioned with the Party, although he can't quite admit it.'

He sat up late reading the hated scripts and novels he'd neglected during the day. At regular intervals he sank his head in his hands and groaned: ‘But who did murder Titus, Dinah? If only we knew that. How can we find out?'

‘Even if we knew, how could we prove it?'

‘We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.' Everyone took refuge in that phrase; but it was just a way of saying ‘I haven't the faintest idea'.

One wet evening we sat huddled rather miserably in the French, waiting for Hugh, when the little art dealer, Noel Valentine, walked in. Pint in hand, he pushed his way over to where we were sitting.

‘Mind if I join you?'

Alan merely shrugged ungraciously, but I made room for Valentine with a smile because when Alan was in one of his moods almost anything was better than sitting beside him in doomy silence. I was just as worried about Colin as Alan was, so why did he have to take it out on me?

‘Any news on the Mavor case?'

We hadn't seen Noel since Colin's arrest. ‘What sort of news?' glowered Alan.

‘Well, I know about the arrest.'

‘Yes. My oldest friend's been arrested.'

‘I know … I'm sorry.' Noel looked sheepish. Perhaps he hadn't known how close we were to Colin – yet everyone knew everything about everyone else in our little world. ‘The thing is, I wondered if you knew what's happened to the paintings.'

‘Mavor's stuff? How the hell should I know? Probably where they always were.'

‘I could go round to the house … I suppose it belongs to his family now – did he leave a will?'

‘For God's sake! How should I know? What are you on about?'

‘It's not so much his own stuff,' said Noel, who seemed oblivious to Alan's barely suppressed rage, ‘though I suppose that's worth something. But the thing is he owned some very valuable paintings, Dalí, Max Ernst – well, rumour has it, anyway.'

‘And you're hoping to cash in!'

‘Of course I'd love them for my gallery.' Noel was quite shameless about it. He added: ‘But don't you think the paintings could be a motive?'

‘Are you putting yourself forward as a suspect?'

Noel smiled, unruffled. ‘
No
! But it's very frustrating. I'd have persuaded him to part with them in the end – he was totally on his uppers. But perhaps there was someone who preferred a quicker route.'

‘The problem with that,' I said, ‘is, they wouldn't be able to sell the paintings, would they?'

‘Oh, they would. Difficult over here because of the murder. But they could be smuggled abroad. The continent's awash with stolen paintings, stuff taken from the Jews, stuff looted after the war. Once you got them out of the country there'd be no problem at all.'

‘Who knew about the paintings?'

Noel shrugged. ‘The Barcelona lot, I suppose, Marius Smith and his Surrealist friends, the ones Titus quarrelled with. He really didn't want to let the paintings go. Not because of filthy lucre; it was the sentimental value. He was Dalí's disciple, you know, worked with him in the thirties.' He looked at us, smiled rather smugly.

.........

Radu had gone to Paris again and taken Stanley with him. When Stan returned, his former partner, Arnold Franks, paid him a visit. They shut themselves up in Stanley's office and talked for a long time. I strained my ears, but although I could hear the tantalising murmur of their voices, I couldn't distinguish the words.

After Franks left Stanley looked a bit shaken, but he managed a grin and said: ‘Come on, Mrs Wentworth, we're going to tea at the Ritz.'

Stan was good at treats. I loved the Ritz. Everyone looked sleek, well fed and smart. And I could have taken up residence in the ladies' lavatory, it was so luxurious; almost as big as our flat, with a wonderful sofa and yards of marble and mirrors.

‘How was Paris? Did you have a good time?' I poured the strong tea.

‘That's what I wanted to talk to you about.' He hunched forward over the delicate cups and miniature sandwiches. ‘Dinah,' he said, in a quiet, solemn tone, ‘I'm worried about what's going on. I've been a fool. Dazzled by the glamour of the film industry, Arnie said. He tore me off a strip. I wasn't going to say anything, to you, I mean, keep my worries to myself, but Arnie said it wouldn't be right.'

‘So what happened in Paris?'

‘The reason Radu wanted me along was to meet a few of his Romanian friends. You couldn't call them refugees – political exiles, more like, frightened of the Communists, had to get away for political reasons – or thought they'd be better off out of it anyway. No one wants to be the wrong side of the Iron Curtain, after all. The idea was he'd introduce me, it was a question of more investment in the film, or that's what he said.'

Stan paused as I poured him more tea. ‘Aren't you having a cake?' I said. ‘They're lovely.' I hadn't seen cakes like that for months.

He shook his head. ‘I haven't got a sweet tooth like you, Di. Anyway – I didn't take to these geezers, didn't like them at all. Had a feeling they were anti-Jew, though naturally they didn't say so. There were three of them he was friendly with, plus a Frenchman, Jean-Paul Mercier, and a couple of women hanging around. They took us out a few places, there's a lot less austerity there, I can tell you. Mind you, they lived in an absolute slum, never seen anything like it, off the Faubourg St Antoine, a terrible hole, up a rickety staircase, more like a ladder, thought I'd break my neck – awful place.' Stanley shook his head. ‘Chronic. Anyway, first thing was I had to keep paying them cheques so they could give me French money. That's not legal, but what was I to do? Had to pay my share. They said it would all be charged as professional services, but Arnie had a fit when I told him. The Romanians only really talked French – apart from Radu, of course. I made out I didn't understand, but I went to night school, I know a bit, it gives you a bit of class, knowing a foreign language. They jabbered away, half the time they lost me, but I did get the gist of some of it. It seemed to be about various dodgy business deals, at least it sounded dodgy to me. I think they'd been smuggling artworks out of Romania.'

‘Are you saying Radu was involved?'

‘Well – I'm not
sure
, not a hundred per cent – but why are you looking like that?'

I shook my head. ‘Nothing. But what was the point of your being there?'

‘I got a feeling Radu was hoping – I'm not sure, but maybe the idea was to get me involved in some way. But nothing was said directly and it all passed off, more or less. Just my suspicion, that's all. Then, one evening they started to talk about Titus Mavor. I couldn't follow it all. But it was obvious the French bloke, Mercier, had known Mavor in Paris before the war. Seems he'd got in touch with him again quite recently. But when I asked Radu what it was about he went all cagey on me.'

‘Titus was supposed to have had some valuable paintings.'

‘Was he?' Stan drew his mouth down dubiously. ‘Bit fishy … it was all a bit fishy, but nothing you could put your finger on. Not really. And I honestly don't know how much Radu was involved.' He stared glumly at his plate. ‘Makes me feel the film thing could be a bit dodgy too … too late now. And the figures for his other film were hunky-dory all right.' Then he cheered up slightly. ‘Mightn't it be worth looking into though, from the Colin angle? You're seeing the lawyer bloke again tomorrow, aren't you, Di? Couldn't you tell him about all this? Don't they employ inquiry agents, can't his clerk do a bit of nosing about? Isn't it important to find an alternative suspect, even if it's only to muddy the waters?' He looked worried. ‘Just so long as Enescu doesn't turn out to be involved.'

.........

I was indeed due to see Julius Abrahams again the next day, to discuss my interview with Inspector Bannister. The lawyer was the same as before: calm and dry as dust. He gave a brief resumé of the case. ‘One of the strong points from our point of view is the delay at the police end. The whole post mortem business. The trouble is getting them to admit any of this. I can't get hold of the records that would prove the dates. They're dragging their feet. I'm determined to get it out of them eventually, but … it's all very frustrating.'

‘And all that would make the time of death less exact?'

‘It's not exact in any case, but yes – that would cast further doubt on the time. But they'll stick to their story if they possibly can, unless we can get proof. They won't want egg on their faces.'

‘Surely they don't want a miscarriage of justice!'

‘They want a conviction, Dinah. There's a lot of alarmist talk about the crime wave being out of control, they haven't nailed anyone for the women who were murdered around Notting Hill – near where you live in fact, isn't it. They tried to say it was Neville Heath, but it obviously wasn't because he's been hanged and the murders haven't stopped. Now there's a woman missing in South Kensington, Mrs Durand Deacon. It's beginning to look like another case of murder. Not to mention the black market, so-called cosh boys, spivs, prostitution rackets – the gutter press blows all this up into a major crisis. And we're trying to spoil their fun, by casting doubt on what they seem to think is an open-and-shut case.'

‘But
why
do they think that? It isn't. Not really.'

Abrahams looked off inscrutably into a corner of the room as if it were some vista that led into the far distance. ‘I suppose they want to think it. It's convenient; opportunism … or perhaps there's something underlying it all. I don't know.'

‘What sort of thing?'

Abrahams shrugged. ‘I'm probably reading too much into it all. But I'm leaving no stone unturned in that direction too. And now you see they claim they've got a witness who saw Harris in Mecklenburgh Square that night. And that really is rather worrying.' He looked at me intently. ‘That's why your second statement is so vital.'

I told him what Bannister had said to me. Abrahams didn't like it. ‘It'll be worse than that in court. You'll just have to stand up to the cross-examination. You'll have to prepare yourself when the time comes. It would be better by far if we could get a really good alibi. What happened about the young man?' He looked at me.

I shook my head. ‘We did get hold of him, but he was dead scared. And I've left messages for him at a pub – he said that would reach him, but we haven't heard a thing.'

‘Well – carry on trying.'

‘There's something else you should know.' And I repeated Stan's account of the Paris visit.

When I'd finished Abrahams was silent. He played with a pencil, rolling it back and forwards between his fingertips. ‘It's not my job,' he said finally, ‘to find an alternative suspect. That's the job of the police. You've no evidence for any of this, but that's not the point. All these alleged – possible – illegalities …' He shrugged. ‘It's irrelevant, I'm afraid. I'm not sure exactly what you're implying. Is your friend – your employer – suggesting that a group of Romanians may actually be criminals who
might
know about some valuable paintings someone else says it's
rumoured
Mavor owned? Is he suggesting this film director is involved? Look, Dinah, it's all too … nebulous. If we produced this information, all that would happen is your employer might be done for currency fraud. Even if there were any paintings – even if there
are
any – why would anyone murder him to get their hands on them? That would be a certain way of
not
getting them, wouldn't it? It's just unfounded speculation, I'm afraid.'