Scandal at High Chimneys (20 page)

“What do you wish to add?”

“There’s like to be trouble tonight, ma’am,” Whicher told her gently. “Mr. Strickland can’t be with you at all this evening. At least, not after eight o’clock he can’t. D’ye take my meaning?”

K
ATE, WITH A BEADED
reticule pressed against her side and the front of the crinoline pressed out over silk petticoats, regarded him in dismay.

“No, I do not take your meaning. If you must know, Mr. Strickland and I eloped from High Chimneys just to—just to—”

“To be together? Ah! So you did. But you’d like to know who killed your father, ma’am.
I
think you would.”

“Where are you going?”

“That’s part of the secret, Miss Damon.”

“Tea-time,” said Kate. “Tea-time!” She bit her lip. “Clive, have you a key to your rooms? Give it me, will you? Please, my dear! And don’t return to the hotel; come to your rooms, and tea will be waiting for you.”

In silence, torn by several emotions but not knowing what to say, Clive handed her the key and gave money to the cabman.

“Mivart’s Hotel,” he said.

“Yes, I trust you,” Kate said to Whicher, before drawing back inside the four-wheeler. “But I’m afraid of you. Dear God, I’m afraid of you!”

Clive closed the door. In a day that had begun to turn dull and chilly under the smoke, the four-wheeler rattled round the square and turned westwards by way of Panton Street. There was no reason for Clive to feel he was losing Kate forever; that the slam of the cab-door made a final parting; but he did feel this with a sense of doubt and dread.

“What’s the game?” he demanded. “Where
are
we going?”

“Sir, why do you think I asked you to meet me at that oyster-shop? Come along. I’ll show you.”

And, jamming his bowler hat down on his head, Whicher led the way across the square to the Alhambra Theatre.

Its main entrance, a Moorish arch like a gigantic keyhole with long lines of smaller arches on either side, towered above them in a bleakness that would not soften until the gas was lighted. The management of Mr. Strange, announced bills inside the arches, would celebrate their first anniversary with a revival of that “Oriental musical spectacle”
L’Enfant Prodigue,
based on the comic opera
Azael
by the French composer Auber.

“Yes, here!” said Whicher, striking his hand against the side of the arch. “You’re familiar with the fashion o’ doing things at the Alhambra?”

“Who isn’t?”

“That’s to say, you’ve been here any number of times?”

“More times,” Clive retorted, “than most of us would care to admit. The place is very nearly as disruptable,” and he nodded towards another building on the east side, “as that ‘Plastic Poses’ exhibition in the cellar there.”

“Well, sir, you be grateful! It was your telling me about going into the Princess’s Theatre, slap-bang at the wrong time, that gave me idea for this dodge.”

“What dodge? What do you expect to find at three o’clock in the afternoon?”

“A magsman,” replied Whicher. “Or to say you fair, though there’s no such word, a magswoman. She’ll be waiting for us.” Clive glanced round him.

No drunken gallants capered here now. No willing dames were fumbled under archways, or in alleys, or amid the ruins round King George the First’s statue. A gritty wind blew across the furtiveness of the square.

“Yes, three o’clock,” agreed Whicher, consulting his watch. “It’s just time. Follow me.”

So different did the inside of the theatre appear, in pitch darkness, that Clive would hardly have known where he was. Mostly you thought how vast it was; before the present management remodelled it into a music-hall, Clive had seen Howe’s and Cushing’s American Circus go through its paces in the amphitheatre. A different kind of wild-beast atmosphere haunted the Alhambra today.

Whicher, striking a Lucifer, led the way upstairs to the promenade between the pit below and the Grand Circle above.

“I’ve got all sorts of friends, you see,” he explained from the corner of his mouth. “And they’re a rum lot, as the devil said of the Ten Commandments. But I need ’em. Sir, is it worth ten pounds to you to find proof of who killed Mr. and Mrs. Damon?”

“Yes. A good deal more than that.”

“No! Not more!” Suddenly Whicher turned round, with his pock-marked face ugly in the match-light. “Never let a fancy-woman gammon you; and I’d advise you that in more ways than one.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

They were in the painted promenade, whose long and narrow length ran south to north, supported by a low line of Moorish pillars. The front, on the east side, faced out towards the great stage. When the deliberately dim gas-jets were kindled, you bought a promenade ticket to stroll here in gloom, amid others who strolled and made assignations. Its thick close air was flavoured with a scent of dead cigars, spirituous liquors, and stale perfume.

“Is it worth ten pounds, say, as a special fee to the magsman who helps?”

“Yes. But I still want to know what you’re talking about!”

Whicher’s match went out. Somebody laughed. And, as though extinguishing the match had been a signal, faint light bloomed from one dim gas-globe.

At the north end of the promenade, behind what looked like a semi-circular bar-counter, stood a handsome young woman of seventeen or so, with bright eyes and an assured air. She wore an outdoor costume, semi-fashionable, including a flat oval hat on fair hair.

Whicher hurried towards the counter.

“Ah! Hope I’m not late. A very good afternoon to you, Cherry.”

“And a very good afternoon to
you,
Mr. Whicher.—Not half it ain’t!”

The young woman laughed again.

It was a loud laugh, though not unpleasant. It rolled and rang and echoed back in this hollow shell, making nerves jump, while the young woman did a little dance-step. Whicher stopped short, his manner altering from that of an indulgent uncle.

“Cherry, my girl …”

“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye!”

“Have you been at the gin again?”

Cherry’s manner altered too.

“Bale up, grandpa! What’s a yard o’ white satin among friends?”

“Four bars in this promenade,” said Whicher, tapping the counter, “and they put you at selling oranges and sweets so they could keep you off the drink, that’s why.”

“And what do they pay me, I should like to know?”

“They don’t have to pay you. It brings you clients, my girl. More’n you’d ever get for yourself. And it brings you the kind of work
I
give.” Whicher raised his voice a little. “The coppers will be here tonight, Cherry. This is murder.”

The word “murder,” though not loudly spoken, emerged with clear ugliness among other echoes.

“This is murder, my girl. And if you fail me …”

The bright-eyed seventeen-year-old, going into a rage behind a counter displaying heavy glass jars and bottles of coloured sweets, reached towards one as a weapon before altering her mind.

“Have I ever failed yer? Answer me! Have I ever failed yer?”

“Then be a good girl and see you don’t. Did you arrange it?”

“’Course I did!”

“What time?”

“Nine sharp. There’s a near-naked do on the stage and they’ll all be watching it. Most of ’em, anyways.”

“Well! That’ll do. Now then: Cherry, this is Mr. Strickland. Take a good look at him and make sure you’ll recognize him again.”

“Oo-er!” said Cherry with interest, running her gaze up and down Clive and then striking a languishing pose which was far from being ineffective. “Most pleased to make yer acquaintance and happily charmed, I’m sure. Oo-er! And if
you
ain’t doing nothing after nine o’clock, nothing that can’t be postponed for a better—”

“None o’ that, now!” snapped Whicher.

Again the echoes thundered and rang. Under the dim spark of gas, with Cherry posturing sensual allure in the background, Whicher swung round from the counter. He had lost his usual meditative air; he was nervous-looking and pale.

“Listen to me, sir. I don’t like drawing you into this….”

“Into what?” demanded Clive. “What am I supposed to do?”

Whicher stroked his chin.

“At nine o’clock tonight, as I’ve planned it, somebody’s going to walk into this promenade and come up to the counter here. Cherry’ll be on duty then, selling sweets. The person who comes in may be a man or it may be a woman….”

“Hold on! It can’t be somebody from High Chimneys?”

“Oh, yes, it can,” Whicher said sharply.

“In a place like this? At the Alhambra?”

“In a place like this,” agreed Whicher. “At the Alhambra.”

Cherry laughed.

Clive glanced behind him, at the thin Moorish pillars and the fretting shadows on a mosaic-tiled floor that glittered vari-coloured where the light touched it.

“But I’ve got no choice,” said Whicher, biting his forefinger. “You’ll see how it is. One day the Detective Branch may have officers that don’t look like coppers. As it is the nearest thing they’ve ever had is me; there’s not a man-jack at Scotland Yard who wouldn’t be known as a copper ten yards away. I’ve got to hide ’em; I’ve got to hide myself, even. You’re the only one I can trust, if you’ll do it.”

“I’ll do it, right enough.”

“Promise, sir?”

“You may count on me, I swear, for anything from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter. What is it you want me to do?”

“Ah! Brighten up that gas, Cherry!”

Uttering another loud laugh, Cherry waved her arm and complied. The gas-jet, in its frosted globe above a lustre of glass prisms, was still very dim. But it threw a little more colour into the heavy bottles of sweets, together with piles of oranges and prawns.

Whicher looked along the line of pillars. He stalked past Clive and selected the third pillar away from the semicircular counter.

“Here,” he announced. “At nine o’clock you’ll be standing against this pillar. Smoking a cigar or whatnot. Buy a ticket for the promenade only. Come here whenever you like, but for God’s sake don’t make it later than a quarter to nine. There’ll be other people about, but that’s all to the good as long as it’s not heavily crowded.”

“Does it matter whether I’m seen?”

“No. Not a bit. Stand where I’m standing, and … ah! That’s it.”

“But I can’t see the middle of the counter from here. The other pillars are in the way!”

“No matter for that either. At nine o’clock, maybe a little before or maybe a little later, a certain person will walk up to the counter and ask for something.”

“Ask for what?”

Whicher did not seem to hear the question. He consulted his watch, on a wire of nerves, and kept glancing past Clive towards the darkness of the stairs by which they had ascended.

“Next!” he went on. “As soon as this something is asked for, Cherry will move to one side so you’ll be able to see who’s speaking to her. You won’t be able to hear much, what with the orchestra-music and voices and all, but Cherry will give you a signal it’s the right person. Like this. Show the gentleman, my girl!”

“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! It’s a pleasure.” Drawing on all her histrionic powers, bright-eyed, tipsiness all but conquered, the handsome young woman moved to one side. She lifted her right arm in an exaggerated gesture with her elbow almost vertical, and patted her back curls.

“Stop!” said Whicher.

Cherry screamed at him.

“Stop, I tell you!” said Whicher. “Don’t overdo it.”

“Gord’s bloody truth, Mr. Acting-manager—!”

“If you’re drunk, my girl, and you dish us: so help me—!”

Cherry picked up an orange to throw at him, but his eye conquered her. Again Whicher consulted his watch, peering towards the dark staircase.

“When you see that, Mr. Strickland,
you
go to one side (it won’t matter which side), and take off your hat. Just take off your hat as though you were too warm. It’ll be hot enough, what with the gas and the boozing and the rest of it, so that’ll look natural. You’re tall; you can be seen anywhere. Got it, sir?”

“Yes. What do I do then?”

“Nothing. That’s all. Take off your hat and watch what happens.”

“But I don’t understand …!”

“I don’t want you to understand. Not everything. Not yet. See?”

Here, trying to draw round him his usual mild and thoughtful air, Whicher swung back to the counter.

“You’ve heard what I’ve got to say. You’ve done your part so far, my girl; just see you do the rest and I’ll have no complaint to make. If it’s all straight and understood, I won’t detain you. That’s all.”

“Oh, no, it ain’t!” said Cherry.

She lifted the flap of the counter and came sweeping round. In a semi-fashionable grey crinoline and black mantle, Cherry assumed another dramatic pose.

“Oh, no, it ain’t all. There’s a little matter o’ ten pounds, Mr. Detective Police; it’s been spoke for; I’ll thank you for payment in advance.”

“And have you go straight to the nearest public-house?”

“Ten quid, grandpa. Stump up! Pay it over handsome, and pay it over like what you promised, or I can get boozed a-plenty on tick and something-me but I will. And
that
ain’t all either. If yer puts me (me, mind yer!) in the position where I’ve got to stand behind that counter and be nice to a woman—”

Clive, who had taken a note-case out of his inside pocket, stopped dead.

“What woman?”

Cherry laughed with shattering effect. Whicher spoke quickly.

“Pay no attention, sir. Howsoever! You’d best give her a five on account, and I’ll have a word to say when this business is finished.”

“Here you are, then. But I want to know …!”

“Hah!” said Cherry.

Instantly her manner changed again. Genteelly lifting her crinoline and her one petticoat to tuck the five-pound note in the top of her stocking, Cherry made it clear in the most ladylike way that she wore neither pantalettes nor knickerbockers.

“Now you’re a gentleman,” she breathed, looking up sideways. “Crikey-blimey- and so-and-so me,” cried Cherry, wriggling herself at the back of seductive eyes, “but you’re a gentleman and no mistake. And I can give you a better time—”

Up swept Whicher’s hand as though for a blow.