Death in High Heels (10 page)

“Are you suggesting that Mr. Bevan made away with Miss Doon?”

The watchman looked a little frightened. “Did I ever say so, sir? No, no, I’m suggestin’ nothink; but a man wot plays about as ’e plays about …”

“Do Mr. Bevan’s lady friends come here to his flat?” asked Charlesworth, at a venture.

“Well, not to say all of them, they don’t. She come ’ere a bit, and there was another used to be ’ere a lot but not lately. Red ’ead, she was; she was terrible.”

“Terrible in what way?”

“Made up she was, and was she fresh? I took ’er up in the lift one night and ‘I ’ope you’re not bashful, porter,’ she says, and ups ’er skirt and starts fixin’ ’er suspender. Give me quite a turn!”

“I should think so, indeed,” said Charlesworth, sympathetically.

“Miss Wheeler, that was, but she ’asn’t been for a long time now. There was another girl came from the shop, I reckernised ’er photo in the papers, a tall, dark girl; and there’s another one, a sour-faced b——young lady, but she mostly comes of a morning; I think she must be a secretary or somethink of that.”

Charlesworth went over to a heap of newspapers in the corner of the room. “Would this be the dark one?”

“That’s ’er; Mrs. Rachel Gay, but I ’aven’t seen ’er often and not for a long time. I don’t see the other gel ’ere.”

“And this would be the one that comes in the mornings?” asked Charlesworth, indicating a very bad photograph of Gregory. “The one you think’s a secretary.…”

“I can’t rightly say, sir, she’s got ’er ‘and over ’er face, ‘asn’t she?” He passed over Victoria’s photograph and Judy’s. “Never seen ’em.”

“Nor this one—Irene Best?”

“Never set eyes on ’er.”

After much thought and not without a little financial persuasion he contrived to remember certain dates on which Bevan had definitely spent the night away from home. Armed with these, Charlesworth went round to the address which Aileen had given him. A motherly landlady opened the door and her mouth at the same time.

“Are you from the Press? Come in, my dear, and sit yerself down. ’Ave a cup of tea, do. I was just going to ’ave one meself. We ’ad two young chaps ’ere this morning, already. Quite on the front page, we are.”

She led him into her private sitting-room, threading her bulk with miraculous dexterity through a multitude of rickety bamboo tables on which were knick-knacks and photographs in almost unbelievable profusion. Charlesworth’s long legs made havoc among presents from Hove and shell-covered boxes, but at last he found himself wedged securely into an ancient plush-covered chair, and Aileen’s landlady made formal introductions.

“Simpson, my name is, Mrs. Simpson. My ’usband made a rare joke of that when the Duke of Windsor got married—God bless ’im,” she added, making a small ducking movement towards a picture of George VI and his family which hung over the mantelpiece, presumably to show that no offence need be taken where none intended. “I used to be a Miss King, see? and my ’usband ’e says, ‘Not the first time a Simpson’s married a King,’ ’e says. Not bad, was it? You can put that in your paper, young man.”

Charlesworth indicated solemnly that his editor would be delirious with joy, even though it seemed probable that similar permission had been extended to the two young chaps who had already preceded him. “Now, could you give me some information for a little article about Miss Aileen? ‘Life of a Mannequin,’ that kind of thing. ‘Her Friends,’ and so on.”

“Well, as to friends, she don’t ’ave many these days not with that sloppy Arthur of ’ers ’anging around. I reckon she must be potty on ’im to let ’im boss ’er about the way ’e does: can’t see what she sees in ’im, meself. ’E ain’t got tuppence to bless ’imself with but ’e puts on the airs of a lord!”

“Doesn’t Mr. Bevan come to visit her? You’ve seen his picture in the papers, I expect?”

“Oh, yes, I seen ’im in the papers, but I don’t think ’e’s ever bin ’ere or I’d ’ve remembered ’im. She ’ad enough chaps before Arthur come along, though always well be’aved, but since she took up with ’im she don’t ’ardly seem to go out at all.”

“Not what you’d expect in a girl of her looks,” said Charlesworth. “They have a gay time, most of them.”

“Yes, but wot does it lead to?” Mrs. Simpson gulped her tea and nodded darkly. “Murder, that’s wot. I don’t say young Aileen, but these painted ’ussies—one of them done that Miss Doon in, pore girl, and she as nice and pleasant-spoken a young lady as you could wish to meet, even if she did dress a bit odd.”

“Miss Doon? Did you know her?”

“Well, not to say
know
,” admitted Mrs. Simpson reluctantly. “But I remember ’er coming ’ere once to see Aileen, and she spoke ever so pleasant when I let ’er in at the front door. Quite upset she was when I told ’er I thought Aileen was out. ‘But I must see ’er,’ she says, ‘it’s most urgent,’ she says. Then she looks at me, ever so nice, and ‘Do try and find ’er for me,’ she says. Matter of fact, she was in, after all. She was a ’andsome girl, Miss Doon—and where is she now? Lying there in the mortuary, stark and stiff, dead and murdered.”

“Beastly, isn’t it?” agreed Charlesworth, absently.

“The perlice arst young Aileen about it and, like a silly girl, she lorst ’er ’ead and said Miss Doon never come ’ere, and she never saw ’er outside of the shop. She told me not to say nothink about it, if they come ferreting round ’ere, and I shan’t. Nothink to do with them, is it? She only come the once and Aileen ’aving denied it in the ’eat of the moment like, it would look a bit funny if they found out about it now, wouldn’t it?”

“Very funny indeed,” said Charlesworth, grimly.

“So don’t put it in your paper, will you now? because I wouldn’t like to get young Aileen into trouble; she’s got enough coming to ’er with that Arthur of ’ers, the sloppy thing. By the way, what is your paper?”

“The
Evening Light
,” said Charlesworth, at a venture.

“The
Evening Light
? Lor’, you are thorough! I told all this once to the chap what come round before you.”

“Don’t say someone’s been here from the
Light
already!” cried Charlesworth, leaping to his feet. “Good heavens, I have been wasting your time. What a shame; they must have sent two of us out on the same job. Anyway, it’s been awfully interesting, Mrs. Simpson, and I for one don’t feel that I’ve wasted my time at all.
Very
pleased to have met you.”

“Same to you, I’m shore,” said Mrs. Simpson, to his huge delight.

He drove westwards, and, on an impulse, stopped at Rachel’s unpretentious door. A refined edition of Mrs. Simpson answered the bell. “Excuse me, but I’m from the Press.…”

“Well, I have nothing to say to the Press.” She shut the door in his face.

Charlesworth drove on, unruffled. Before his mind’s eye was Aileen’s lovely, expressionless face, and ringing in his ears Aileen’s unhurried voice.

“Did you know her personally apart from your work?”

“No, I did not.”

“Were you on friendly terms with her in the shop?”

“The mannequins hardly saw anything of her in the shop; I’ve never even spoken to her outside.”

Not much of the ’eat of the moment about
that
.

2

Bedd was waiting in Charlesworth’s office and received an invitation to lunch. Over their chops and beer they compared notes. The sergeant had renewed acquaintance with Miss Doon’s landlady, who, her memory refreshed by the Press photographs, was able to confirm that Bevan had been a frequent visitor. There was a gentleman in the habit of staying very late, but she could not swear that it was he. Delicate handling elicited the admission that by very late the landlady meant all night … with a hurried qualification that the young lady paid her weekly for the flat and it was no business of hers what she done in it.

“Did you get any dates?” said Charlesworth.

“No, sir, she began to regret having said so much and she shut up after that.”

“Well, damn it, couldn’t you have had a shot, Bedd? Here I’ve got all the nights that Bevan has been out lately and we could have done a beautiful bit of dove-tailing.”

“Very sorry, sir.”

“I’m a better blinking sleuth than you are, Bedd, that’s what it is. I’ve discovered that young Aileen has been lying like a trooper about not knowing the Daon girl in her private life; and what’s more, that she has an illicit intrigue going on with Bevan, presumably without the knowledge of her Arthur, of whom you are also about to hear. She was closeted with Bevan in his office at half-past nine this morning.…”

“But …”

“Hang on a minute, just let me say my piece, and then you can but away as much as you like. Now, here’s how I see it, Bedd: we have Aileen, a regular peach, one has to admit, and Bevan has an eye on her. But at the same time he has an eye on Doon—and Doon begins to get the upper hand, so that Aileen is obliged to stake her all on Arthur. But Bevan turns dog-in-the-manger, and he starts to chase Aileen again. Doon isn’t having any and she tries a little moral blackmail—‘You lay off my Bevan,’ she says, ‘or I’ll tell your Arthur.’ So Doon dies; and Aileen and Bevan are busy necking in his office at a most ungodly hour this morning, and no one to breathe a word to Aileen’s Arthur; incidentally, perhaps now that Aileen’s got Bevan all to herself again, she won’t worry so much in the future about poor Arthur.”

Bedd made no comment. Charlesworth glanced at him in surprise, and then penitently. “Come, now, Sergeant, no ill-feeling. I had to wag my tail a little about my great discoveries. What have you got to say about them?”

Bedd took a swig of beer and with much deliberation wiped the froth from his lips. He folded his handkerchief and returned it to his pocket and, leaning back in his chair, regarded the great detective with a twinkling eye.

“I’m sorry about the dates, sir,” he said, ponderously.

“That’s all right, Bedd, that’s quite all right, old man. I do realize that if anyone could possibly have got the dates you would have. Now, what do you think of all this business about Aileen?”

“’Arf past nine this morning, sir? In Mr. Bevan’s office?”

“Yes, what do you think of that?”

“Only,” said Sergeant Bedd, happily, “that at ’arf-past nine this morning, Miss Aileen was walking along Oxford Street as fast as ’er legs could carry ’er. Because I ’appened to see ’er.”

Charlesworth rushed round to Christophe et Cie. “Aileen,” he said, encountering her at the door, “you’re a very naughty girl; you were late for work this morning.”

“You police know everything,” said Aileen, laughing. “But don’t tell Mr. Bevan.”

They walked over to where the salesgirls sat. Victoria drew him like a magnet and he went and stood beside her and joined in their easy conversation. A customer came in, fussy and. self-important, and Rachel went to her. “A two-piece, madam? Yes, of course. We have a little silk one that would suit you terribly well. Aileen, put on that ‘July’ model for madam, will you, please … didn’t you have a green one, madam, just before the summer? This is rather the same in style and I’m sure you’ll like it.…”

The customer hated it. “Well, never mind, madam, there’s lots more for you to choose from. Mr. Cecil has some drawings for a new one, in a slightly heavier material … would you like to see those?…”

Cissie appeared from Bevan’s office and Irene went to speak to him. “Mr. Cecil, Lady Mary’s coming in at four o’clock; she isn’t satisfied with the hat, that blue felt you know—isn’t it a bother?…”

Charlesworth, left alone with Victoria, found himself, for once in his life, tongue-tied and self-conscious. She caught his embarrassment, though she was innocent of the cause of it, and, for something to say, commented on his silk handkerchief. He pulled it out of his pocket and she rubbed the thick silk between her fingers and said lightly, “Oh, lovely—how rich and luxurious you must be!”

“You can have it if you like,” he said, foolishly.

“Don’t be silly,” cried Toria. “I didn’t mean it that way at all.” She laughed a soft little laugh, and it rang in his heart like a knell for he thought he knew when he had heard it before.

He picked up the handkerchief and deliberately laid a trap for her. “What will you give me for it?” he said, and she answered as he had known she would, “Not a sausage!” and laughed again.

So it wasn’t Aileen who had been in Bevan’s office; but someone who used Aileen’s absurd phrase and imitated Aileen’s absurd accent and laughed at her own imitation. Victoria! He thrust the handkerchief into his pocket and marched blindly out of the shop.

3

Rachel, released from her customer, came back to the cubby-hole. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Toria. What the hell shall I do about Bevan? He’s getting terribly amorous again.”

“Smack his beastly face,” said Victoria, viciously.

“He’d give me the sack if I did. I have to keep in with him, that’s the trouble. I can’t afford to be out of a job.”

“I know, darling. But you shouldn’t be so attractive—wherever you go it’ll be the same thing.”

“I must say, it generally is,” said Rachel, mournfully. “It’s this beastly sex-appeal; I wish I didn’t have it. It was awful when I was on the stage; you know what people are like there.”

“Couldn’t be worse than Bevan. What’s he been doing now?”

“Well, he got here at dawn this morning, and made me go into his office and started worrying me again. I’m so petrified my husband will find out about that wretched evening. I tried to make Bevan promise to be a bit more discreet.…”

“That won’t do any good, my dear.”

“Not a sausage,” agreed Rachel, laughing ruefully.

Irene appeared in the doorway. “You sounded just like Aileen when you said that. You two shouldn’t copy her so much; I can’t tell you apart now, and you soon won’t be able to speak the King’s English yourselves.”

“Come and sit down, Irene darling, and tell Rachel what she’s to do about Bevan. He’s been pestering her again.”

“You should never have gone to his flat that evening, dear. We told you so at the time.”

“Well, he was very nice in those days, Rene, and I must say he behaved terribly well up to then.”

“I think he was really keen on her for a bit,” said Victoria, judicially.