‘Betty Stanway? I don’t know what you think she’s been up to, Mr Temple, but I can assure you that she is an extremely respectable girl. I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
Paul smiled his most reassuring smile. ‘I know, Mrs Garnett, she’s a very nice girl, but she’s in trouble. I’m trying to help her. Perhaps I could have a word with you?’
It was many years since Paul had lived in conflict with landladies, yet somewhere in his stomach there was a twinge of apprehension. The breed didn’t change. She stood in the doorway of the Belsize Park Gardens house like a symbol of morality in the face of lust and late night parties and men.
‘Betty doesn’t live here any more.’
‘She’s in trouble,’ Paul repeated. ‘She’s young and in love and it’s up to us to help her. We are mature and responsible people.’
It worked. ‘I told her not to fall in love with that man of hers, but she wouldn’t listen. She was getting ideas in that night club where she worked. It turned her head.’ She showed Paul down the steps into the basement of the house. ‘This is where Betty lived. She was an attractive girl, and London is hard on attractive girls. I should know.’
‘Really?’ Paul asked in polite surprise.
‘She thought I was only her landlady, as if spoiling a girl’s fun comes naturally to landladies. But I know what it’s like. I arrived in London with only my looks to show for it and I was swept off my feet by a charming layabout.’
‘You say she doesn’t live here any more?’ Paul asked.
‘Mr Garnett paid for this house, but he never earned a penny more than he could spend on booze while he was alive. He dreamed of easy money and a comfortable life, but the most profitable thing he ever did was to get run over one night at closing time. I bought this house with the insurance money.’
‘Did she give in her notice?’ asked Paul.
‘Who?’
‘Betty Stanway.’ Her furnished flat was two rooms, a bedroom and a kitchen. Her possessions were still in place. The vast range of clothes and a dressing table piled with cosmetics. It was difficult to form an impression of the girl through the muddle. A Degas reproduction on the wall, a few books by Noel Streatfeild and Angela Thirkell. ‘When did she leave here?’
‘She called in this afternoon. Paid me a week’s rent in lieu of notice and said that she would send for her things.’
‘Who was with her?’
‘Nobody. She was by herself.’ The woman was nearly sixty, a bird of prey with a hooked nose and an eagle eye for trouble. ‘What is Betty doing, Mr Temple?’
‘I don’t know. Did she tell you where she was going?’
‘No. She said she was off to the club.’ The woman sat on the edge of Betty’s unmade bed and shook her head forebodingly. ‘Betty was a funny girl. I think she was probably romantic, lived in a dream world out of her children’s books. She was usually unhappy.’
‘You must have known her very well,’ said Paul.
Mrs Garnett smiled with sinister indulgence. ‘Somebody had to look after her, and I must admit that I tried. She used to come home at all hours, but of course that was part of her job. She used to drink quite a lot, but those men at the club have to pay for it. It wasn’t a life that could go on forever. I suppose she didn’t know how to change it and settle down. She didn’t have many friends.’
Paul left the house feeling slightly sad for the girl. The bedsit life was fun for a couple of years when you were twenty, but Betty had been too old for it and she had seen defeat coming. He hoped she wasn’t too desperate. Wherever she was.
‘Why,’ Paul asked his favourite barman, ‘why would a gang of bank robbers try to involve an attractive dancer in their activities?’
Eric polished a few glasses and served a sporty type with a half of bitter while he thought about it. ‘Search me, Mr T,’ he said at last. ‘What’s the answer?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps they like having attractive dancers about the place.’
Paul sipped his whisky and stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. It could be, of course, simply that Desmond Blane always took three weeks to make up his mind.
‘I’m going to the Love-Inn to find out,’ said Paul.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Eric. ‘I’m off duty in ten minutes.’
‘That would help with the parking,’ Paul said discouragingly.
He telephoned the Love-Inn and asked for Rita Fletcher. He explained that he was worried about Betty Stanway and wanted to come and see her.
‘Betty?’ the woman asked cheerfully. ‘The police have been here asking questions, but I’m not aware that anything is wrong. Betty is due here this evening, and as far as I know she’ll be turning up as usual.’ There was a pause, and she added, ‘But come and see me by all means. I have been worried recently about Betty.’
Eric Jordan was usually infallible about the London scene, but he couldn’t tell Paul much about the Love-Inn. It was owned by some American who had never yet ventured into any other business. It was run by a dynamic woman. It was run well and had never been raided by the police. It was just another club, with no known criminal connections.
‘What time shall I pick you up, Mr T?’
‘Yes,’ said Paul, ‘that’s a good question.’
‘I could always come in with you if you wanted. Just in case you find what you’re looking for.’
It was half past ten in the evening and the streets of Soho were still thronged with people in search of the permissive society. The dark narrow streets with their glitter of neon and aura of naughtiness, the furtive figures in doorways, all contributed to the feeling Eric Jordan obviously had that he was missing out on something. He had agreed instantly to chauffeur Paul into the West End, and now he was visibly reluctant to leave.
‘I’d like to see what the other half look like,’ he murmured sadly.
‘This is business,’ said Paul. ‘You’d better give me an hour. I’ll see you here at eleven thirty.’
He got out of the car and glanced up at the flashing sign which announced The Love-Inn. There were photographs of The Melody Girls in the open foyer, startlingly pink and jolly, revealing enough flesh to belie the claim, ‘As seen on TV’. There were photographs of male crooners in evening dress who had been popular fifteen years ago, and there was a series of portraits of a strip tease dancer labelled teasingly, ‘Now Showing’. Paul turned apologetically to Eric Jordan.
Eric was nodding amiably at a young man who was going into the Love-Inn. He was a fair, sharply dressed young man and Paul caught a whiff of hair lotion as he passed. Eric grinned.
The young man went through a door marked Private which clearly led back stage, so Paul followed him. The noise of the orchestra was brashly close at hand and it sounded as if something unpleasant was happening on stage. The soaring trumpet was ecstatic, and from the reaction of the saxophones and drummer you would never think the musicians had seen it all before. There were show girls wandering unconcerned along the corridor, and stage hands were pushing past in readiness to strike sets and wheel on props as if they had seen it all before and forgotten what it was.
‘Hey, you!’ An aged stage door keeper was leaning out of his cubby hole at the end of the corridor waving at Paul. ‘How did you get in here? Yes, you!’
Paul pushed through to the man. ‘I want to see Miss Fletcher. She is expecting me.’
‘Oh yes?’ he said disbelievingly. ‘What name?’
‘Paul Temple.’ The fair haired friend of Eric’s appeared from one of the dressing rooms with a tall chorus girl. Paul gave the stage door keeper a ten shilling piece. ‘I telephoned about an hour ago.’
‘You’d better wait in her office. It’s more comfortable in there.’ He grinned toothlessly and pocketed the money. ‘I’ll tell her you’ve arrived.’
The office was a converted dressing room, but the expensive furniture and the well stocked drinks cabinet indicated that Rita Fletcher was doing very nicely. A wall of photographs to My Darling Rita indicated that all the best show-biz people recognised her success.
‘By the way,’ said Paul, ‘who was that young man we just passed in the corridor? Fair haired young chap with wandering hands.’
‘Him? Name of Sampson.’ The stage door keeper scratched his behind in disapproval. ‘A proper bleedin’ twit he is. I don’t know why Mr Coley lets him hang about here all the time.’ He hitched up his trousers. ‘I’ll tell Miss Fletcher.’
Paul sat in a deep leather armchair and lit a cigarette. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the applause of the audience and there was a renewed flurry of activity in the corridor. Then the door opened and a short man in a dinner jacket came in. He had an empty glass in his hand and he moved across the office to the drinks cabinet as if he knew his way about. But he stopped abruptly as he saw Paul.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Good evening,’ said Paul. ‘My name’s Temple. I’m waiting for Miss Fletcher.’
‘Tam Coley,’ the man explained. ‘Glad to know you.’ He raised his glass in salute, then continued across to the cabinet to pour himself a large gin. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Temple,’ said Paul.
Tam Coley nodded. ‘That’s right. I know that name.’ He was an American and from his accent Paul placed him tentatively as a New Yorker, the Bronx rather than Brooklyn. ‘Heard the name before somewhere. Don’t you write books or something?’
‘Books,’ Paul said mildly. ‘What do you do, Mr Coley?’
‘I own this joint.’ He laughed at the improbability of it. ‘Say, wait a minute! You didn’t come here to write a book?’
‘No. I’ve just told you, I came to see Miss Fletcher.’
Tam Coley looked slightly relieved, but he sipped his gin in silence. ‘Is Rita a friend of yours?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘No. I’m interested in a friend of hers, and I hoped she might put me in touch with him.’
‘Oh? Who’s that?’
‘A man called Desmond Blane.’
Coley was relaxed again as he shook his head. ‘Never heard of him. Doesn’t sound like a man, sounds more like a seaside resort. Bognor Regis, Desmond Blane, Ashby de la Zouche.’ He smiled at the empty glass. ‘Did you know, Mr Temple, that Ashby de la Zouche is not by the seaside? The popular song has it all inaccurate!’
‘Blane is a friend of Betty Stanway’s,’ said Paul. ‘Now don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Miss Stanway?’
‘Sure I’ve heard of her. She works for me.’ He chuckled and filled his glass again. ‘Are you sure it isn’t Miss Stanway you’re interested in, eh, and not Mr Blane?’
‘I’m interested in both of them.’
Paul had decided that the man was not a fool. He was a wiry little American, middle aged and amiably alcoholic, but he had enough shrewdness to move in on the ruthless London club scene. He probably traded on people taking him for a fool.
‘What’s going on, Temple?’ he asked cautiously. ‘The police dropped in on the club this afternoon and they asked a whole lot of questions about Betty Stanway. How long had she been working here, they asked, when did we last see her, had she a regular boyfriend. Pretty pointless damned questions.’
‘If they asked so many questions,’ Paul intervened, ‘it’s my guess they mentioned Mr Blane.’
Tam Coley blinked. ‘Come to think of it, I believe they did.’
‘I thought you hadn’t heard of him?’
Coley suddenly grinned at him. ‘Say, you’re bright! Very bright! I must read one of those books of yours.’
The door opened and a buxom woman in her forties flounced in. A smartly fashionable woman with a frill too many and an air of determination. She glared at Tam Coley and stayed holding the door open.
‘I thought you were out front,’ she said to him. ‘There’s a football crowd out there and I’d like someone to keep an eye on the girls.’
Tam Coley padded cheerfully out with a nod to Paul, but he stopped as a thought occurred to him. ‘Oh, ah, has Betty arrived?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but she isn’t staying. She wants to give in her notice –’
‘You mean she has another job?’
Rita Fletcher spread out her hands in bewilderment. ‘I don’t know, Tam. She probably isn’t well.’
‘What’s the matter with her?’
‘Goodness knows, but leave her alone, Tam. Take it easy, will you?’
Coley stared at her for a moment. ‘Look, Rita, I don’t know what that kid’s been up to, but whatever it is I don’t want any trouble. Right now this lousy dump has a highly respectable reputation, and I wanna keep it that way.’
Rita nodded obediently. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Tam.’
‘I hope you’re right. We don’t get involved, remember that.’
‘Yes, Tam.’
With the serious interlude completed Tam Coley turned back to Paul and grinned. ‘Nice meeting you, Mr – er –?’
‘Temple.’
‘Mr Temple.’ He raised his glass in farewell and left.
Rita waited until he was safely away before slamming the door behind him.
‘He’s a boring little lush,’ she explained to Paul, ‘but he owns the place. I suppose he owns most of us who work here as well. Sit down, Mr Temple. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.’
She sat behind the desk. She gave an impression of irritable energy, but Paul assumed that was something to do with the football supporters. The energy, authority and mature good looks appealed to him. She was a successful woman.
‘So you gave Betty a lift into Oxford yesterday,’ she said.
‘That’s right. And I’d like to know what happened to her after I dropped her off near her home.’
‘So would I.’ Rita Fletcher took a cigarette from the silver box on the desk, lit it and inhaled deeply. ‘I’ve been talking to her for twenty minutes and I can’t get any sense out of her. She isn’t interested. She wasn’t even interested when I told her the police had been here asking questions.’ The woman’s eyes met Paul’s. ‘Is she in real trouble, Mr Temple?’
‘Perhaps. And her friend Desmond Blane is certainly in trouble. But I believe you know Mr Blane. Didn’t you introduce him to Betty?’
‘Yes, I introduced him to Betty. But he isn’t a friend of mine.’ She went restlessly across to the drinks cabinet and offered Paul a whisky. ‘There are hundreds of people like Desmond Blane who come to the club regularly. If they’re wealthy we try to be nice to them.’ She handed Paul a glass.
‘Thanks. Is Blane a wealthy man?’
Rita smiled cynically. ‘I thought he was, but now I’m not so sure. I was probably wrong.’
Paul raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘He’s disappeared,’ she continued, ‘and this afternoon the police hinted that he might have something to do with a series of bank robberies up in the Midlands. I don’t mind that, the banks are there to dish out money when people need it, but I’d like to strangle him for upsetting one of my girls.’
Paul laughed at the woman’s indignation. ‘Are you fond of Betty?’ he asked.
‘Of course I’m fond of her. She’s temperamental and difficult to handle, but she’s a nice kid, which is more than you can say for most of the little bitches around here.’ She stubbed out the cigarette. ‘Do you want to talk with her?’
‘Thanks.’ Paul finished his drink and stood up. ‘I only hope I’ll be able to get through to her.’
‘Take her out and buy her a drink.’ Rita Fletcher’s eyes flashed ironically at Paul. ‘She’s susceptible to environment and charm, like the rest of us.’
The dressing room had that smell of greasepaint which reminded Paul unhappily of the television chat show. But the Love-Inn didn’t provide luxury for its employees; the room was obviously shared by three other girls and they all had a wall each, with their own mirror topped with a row of electric light bulbs. Betty Stanway’s wall was no less tidy than the others. Her make-up was scattered over the table, among the cigarettes and ashtray and transistor radio and handbag. There was also an Aer Lingus timetable beside an empty glass. But Betty Stanway wasn’t there.
‘She was here a few minutes ago,’ said Rita. ‘I’ll see if she’s next door.’
While Rita was next door Paul glanced at the Aer Lingus timetable. He let it fall open at random, on the principle that it would open where it had been most read. It opened at Dublin. Paul didn’t have much faith in that as a scientific method, but it was interesting. He was even more interested in the book of matches by the girl’s ashtray. They were from The Gateway Motel, Banbury, according to the cover. Paul slipped the matches into his pocket.
‘She’s not in any of the other dressing rooms,’ said Rita as she came back. ‘But she must be in the club still because her handbag is here.’
Paul sat on the visitors’ sofa by the wardrobe of flimsy costumes and said he would wait. A fan dancer’s feathers tickled his ear. He hoped that Betty would return before the other three girls came in to change. He could imagine the four girls destroying all his illusions of feminine mystery.
There was another rumble of applause from the distance. Paul stood up and gestured towards the door. ‘Maybe we should –’
At that moment Betty Stanway came into the dressing room. She was wearing the same trim green outfit she had been wearing when Paul had picked her up outside the Television Studios. She looked unwelcoming and worried.
‘We’ve been looking for you,’ said Rita.
‘I was out front,’ she said distantly. ‘Tam wanted to see me.’
‘I told him to leave you alone.’
The girl shrugged. ‘He was worried about the police.’
‘Don’t take any notice of him, Betty. He’ll be paralytic in a couple of hours.’ She smiled encouragingly at Paul. ‘I’ll leave you two alone, shall I? I’ll be in my office if I’m needed.’
Betty picked up the handbag from her table and handed it to Rita. ‘You left this behind.’
Rita Fletcher laughed and said she was becoming more like Tam Coley every day. Then she went. In the silence she left behind her Betty Stanway waited defiantly.
‘I suppose you want to talk about last night?’
‘That’s up to you Betty –’
‘Well, it’s none of your damned business!’
‘What about discussing this somewhere else?’ Paul asked. ‘Have you eaten? Do you fancy a drink?’
She thawed slightly and asked what Steve would say.
‘She’ll be very jealous.’
That was good enough for Betty, and they went round to the club bar. ‘But I shan’t tell you anything,’ she warned. It was sufficient, usually, to have a drink with the girl. Men didn’t expect her to talk. So she had a sweet martini and listened to Paul. It was her usual role.
The club bar was at the back of the auditorium, so that the thirstier customers could get a drink without missing a nipple. It meant that the absorbed men in the rear rows shouted angrily if you asked for a double whisky too loudly, and normal communication was difficult. As Paul spoke he could hear one of the girls on stage suddenly call to a man in the front row, ‘Don’t get too carried away, buster!’
A few moments later the bouncer escorted a shamefaced man from the auditorium. Paul wondered what he had been doing. He looked like an average office clerk with a small wife and a small family car.
‘Why does all this matter so much to you?’ Betty asked sulkily.
‘I’m not accustomed to finding bodies in the garage, not in Broadway. That’s where I go to get away from it all. And of course Steve was a little put out. You know how squeamish women are.’ It occurred to Paul as he was talking that Steve had taken it in her stride. Perhaps being married to him was making her callous. ‘The interesting aspect was that the man’s name was Gavin Renson. You remember –’
‘Yes, I read about his death in the paper.’
‘Renson was one of the names you mentioned last night. Your friend Desmond Blane –’
She shook her head.
‘Gavin Renson was definitely mixed up in the Harkdale robbery!’
She didn’t seem to be paying much attention. The Melody Girls were on stage in a fast and sinuous routine that had riveted the audience. Betty Stanway’s fingers were tapping the top of the bar as if mentally she were up there going through all the movements with them.
‘You remember the robbery?’ Paul asked sarcastically.
She shook her head and smiled.
‘Perhaps you don’t remember the story you told me last night?’ Paul was becoming exasperated. ‘Do you remember that I gave you a lift out to Oxford?’
Her eyes had strayed to the stage again. ‘My mother always warned me against accepting lifts from strangers.’
‘You asked me to help you last night, Betty, and I’m trying to help. I don’t want to find your corpse next. Please, you must tell me what happened last night.’
‘I changed my mind.’ She spoke in the flat tones of somebody who couldn’t be bothered to lie convincingly. ‘I never have got on with my father. So I went to stay with a girlfriend.’
‘Which girlfriend?’
‘You wouldn’t know her.’
Paul was suddenly angry. He told her that he had given her story to the police and his voice was louder than it should have been. A couple of connoisseurs turned round to stare. ‘The police won’t believe this foolish story about a girlfriend,’ he concluded in a whisper.
‘So what?’ she sighed. ‘Why should I worry?’
The audience were applauding, and close at hand it sounded no louder than it had from the dressing rooms. One of the ancient crooners was due on next. Paul glanced at his watch and wondered whether he could bear the memories. He would rather go home.
‘Shall I tell you what I think happened?’ he said in a final effort. ‘I think Blane was waiting for you last night. He picked you up and you went off together.’
‘No,’ she murmured.
‘I think he is using you in some way, and before you realise it you’ll be involved in the whole series of bank robberies. And then God help you!’ He stood up and prepared to leave. The crooner was already receiving his nostalgic welcome.
‘I haven’t seen Desmond for nearly a month –’
‘No? Then what would have induced you to give up your job here? You’re not an adventurous girl, Betty, you wouldn’t have thought of it yourself. I know it’s grim to be dancing in a club all your life, but what will your alternative lead to?’
Betty looked disenchantedly around the club.
‘What are your plans?’ Paul asked.
‘To give up dancing.’
‘I noticed the Aer Lingus timetable on your dressing table. Are you going away with Des, or running away from him?’
‘Does it matter?’ She pouted apologetically. ‘I know what I’m doing, and it’s my life –’
Paul cut in impatiently. ‘If you change your mind, Betty, give me a ring. But don’t leave it too late.’
He left her sitting helplessly at the bar. She wouldn’t be helped. Paul walked quickly through the foyer; she looked quite different in the publicity photographs, pinker and more intelligent. Paul looked along the street for Eric Jordan. It was exactly half past eleven.
‘How’s that for timing?’ Eric called. The Mini-Cooper drew up by his feet. ‘Hop in, Mr T.’
Paul slipped in gracefully. The streets as they drove away were still crowded and the flashing coloured lights dazzled with the promise of fun. The traffic jammed and drivers urgent for nameless destinations hooted and jaywalkers scampered through to their tubes and buses. Paul watched them thoughtfully. He began to relax as they drove down Whitehall and into Pimlico where the empty streets were in darkness.
‘When you dropped me off tonight, Eric, you acknowledged a fair haired young man in a dark suit.’
‘Did I?’ Eric remembered. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Is he a friend of yours?’
Eric laughed. ‘I wish he was. I could do with some friends in the right places. He used to work in my bank, but he seems to have left now. I’ve got another one of those girls who looks at me as if I was overdrawn –’
‘His name is Sampson.’
‘Is it?’ Eric said politely. ‘I didn’t know his name. He just sat behind the counter and gave me my money or called the manager. I expect he’s moved on to better things.’
Eric prattled on about his instinctive fear of bank managers and the hard faced men of Wall Street until they reached the familiar streets of Chelsea. Civilisation, and home to an empty bed.
Paul had a nightcap before he went upstairs. He sat and watched the late night news on television. There was one sentence, among the items about politicians and distant wars and local demonstrations, which referred to the Harkdale robbery. It said that the legless man who had been identified as Ray Norton had recovered consciousness in hospital but he had been unable to help the police with their enquiries.
The lonely horror of the little crook’s life struck Paul as so bleak that he had another drink. It was a long time since he had lived alone, and he had probably forgotten how to enjoy it. He undressed, washed, cleaned his teeth, and wondered what Steve was doing. He climbed into bed and scribbled a few notes on a pad.
‘This gang,’ he noted, ‘cannot have suddenly come together fully formed. Whose gang, and what happened? Was their leader deposed by the new young whizz kid?’