September Song (7 page)

Gratifyingly, he stopped and looked questioningly at young Mountjoy. Unfortunately, young Mountjoy was made of sterner stuff and kept on coming. He reached into his jacket pocket, and I knew what he was going to pull out and didn't hang about.

One stride took me right up to him, and I slammed my forearm into his throat. It might not have been in the spirit of the Marquess of Queensbury rules, but it would have warmed the cockles of my old commando trainer's heart, and it certainly had the desired effect on young Ricky, who collapsed in a gurgling heap, the razor still in his pocket.

I turned to face the lightweight, just in case he needed a salutary clip around the ear, but he was already on his knees, shuffling to the aid of his stricken colleague. I grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and hauled him to his feet.

‘He'll be all right,' I said. ‘In an hour or so, he'll be swallowing beer with the best of them.'

I marched the kid – he wasn't much more than that – over to the nearest wall and leaned him up against it, not too gently, holding him by the lapels, shirt front, tie and, probably, some skin.

‘Now,' I said, ‘tell me what you know about the piano player you had the rumble with last night.'

He looked like he was going to pee his pants. ‘I don't know,' he stammered out.

‘Yes, you do,' I said. ‘You followed him here, didn't you?'

He said nothing, just stared over my shoulder.

I tapped my finger against his nose to get his attention. ‘Didn't you?' I said.

He nodded.

‘And what happened?' I said.

‘Nothing,' he said. ‘Honest. He bought his stuff, he shot up and just sort of slumped. Over there.' He waved his arm at the sofa I'd been sitting on, the one where I'd found the pink tie.

‘And what did you do?'

‘Went downstairs and had a pint.'

‘With?'

‘Del, Phil and Ricky.'

‘And then?'

‘I went home.'

‘The others?'

‘Stayed in the bar. It was a shut-in. After hours.'

That would explain why Philip Graham hadn't been cavorting with the lark that morning.

I let go of the lad, and he smoothed down his lapels, straightened his shirt and tie and brushed at his chest.

‘Who sold him the stuff?' I said.

He looked uneasy, but he glanced over at Ricky Mountjoy and said nothing.

‘Where's Del now?' I said.

‘Haven't seen him tonight,' he said, shaking his head vigorously. ‘Nor Phil neither.'

Ricky Mountjoy was coughing harshly, and I turned towards him, just in case. He was sitting up but in no shape yet to try to stripe me. I'd expected the lad to try and make it to the door, but he hadn't. He was still standing against the wall. Maybe he was waiting for my permission to leave.

‘What's your name?' I said.

‘Billy,' he said. ‘Billy Watson.'

‘Well, Billy Watson,' I said, ‘I don't want to know what you do for a living that means you can afford that fancy Italian suit, but I'm willing to bet it isn't working as a hod-carrier on a building site. And I bet it isn't legal. I just hope it isn't quite as illegal and ugly as I suspect it is.'

He looked down at the floor and flushed an angry red. ‘You can't talk to me like that,' he said.

‘Listen, son,' I said in my best avuncular manner, ‘a word of advice. Forget the tough-guy stuff. You're not cut out for it.' I shook my head. ‘You're not hard just because you've got a sock full of sand in your pocket and you're happy to hit someone with it from behind. That's just sneaky. So, as long as you're just sneaky, I reckon I
can
talk to you like that.' I shrugged. ‘I hope that you don't grow up to be vicious with it. That'll get you into all kinds of trouble.'

Some more gagging and hoarse coughing and a little shuffling suggested that Ricky Mountjoy was stirring behind me. Now, he was already vicious and I was in no doubt about how cheesed off with me he'd be. Not only had I hurt him but I'd also humiliated him in front of a subordinate – Billy Watson was just a runner, and Ricky was something more than that – and he'd be after revenge. Ah well, it couldn't be helped.

I turned around and made my way over to him. ‘Ricky,' I said, ‘I'm sorry that I had to hit you, but you didn't give me any alternative.'

He looked up at me with real malice. ‘You've made a bad enemy,' he said. ‘I'll get you for that.'

I shrugged. ‘I'm sure you'll try, Ricky,' I said.

‘You bastards,' he said. ‘You're all the same. Just because you've got a few medals, you think you're heroes. Better than the rest of us.'

‘No one I know thinks that,' I said. I shook my head and stared down at him. ‘I'm trying to find someone,' I said. ‘There was an American in here last night, looking to be  . . . accommodated. He's gone missing. I assume you arrange for people to be accommodated here, so I wondered what you know.'

‘I wasn't in here last night,' he said. ‘I don't know nothing.'

Mrs Wilson, my white-haired old teacher at Church Road School, would have tutted over his grammar there, but I let it go. I was more bothered by the fact that he was lying, but I decided to let that go too.

‘Fair enough,' I said. ‘If you hear anything, let me know.' I started to walk out and then turned back. ‘You don't know where I might find Del, do you? I fancy a chat with him.'

He ignored me, and, after a few seconds of uneasy silence, I walked out of the room and down the stairs.

I hoped that Lee had stumbled back into Pete's Place during my absence, but one glance at Peter Baxter's gloomy face as I was waved back in by Bill was enough to confirm that he was still resolutely AWOL. There were a lot more people standing around now than there had been before, and the other three members of Peter's quartet were shuffling around on stage as if preparing to play.

I joined Baxter and Jerry, who was cheerily slurping a pint, by the bar and admitted that all I had to show for my efforts was a lump on the head, the lasting enmity of a member of one of the nastiest families in my neck of the woods and the knowledge that Lee had been in the Frighted Horse the night before. Actually, I left out the stuff about the bash on the bonce and the sworn enmity of Ricky Mountjoy as being of no interest to him, but I told him everything else.

Peter Baxter looked even gloomier. ‘I'd better go tell Jeannie and then explain to this lot – again – that she's going to be a no-show tonight,' he said, heaving himself away from the bar.

Jerry looked up from his pint and beamed at me. ‘Can't someone else play the joanna for her?' he said.

‘With no rehearsal?' Peter said.

‘Why not?' Jerry said. ‘Or maybe she can sing a cappella  . . .'

‘Do what?' said Peter.

‘Unaccompanied,' Jerry said.

‘Don't be daft,' Peter said.

‘Just trying to be helpful,' Jerry said.

‘Well don't,' Peter said.

Jerry shrugged and sipped a little of his beer. ‘If you like,' he said, looking up again, ‘I could have a look at some of her arrangements while you and the band play a set.'

‘You?' Peter and I said more or less together.

‘I had a lot of piano lessons when I was a kid,' he said. ‘I take it you've got a piano back there. We might be able to cobble a few songs together. You never know. I'm not saying I'm any good, but I can play a few chords, get her in the mood  . . .'

‘Nah,' Peter said. ‘She's a pro. She won't sing with a rank amateur.'

Jerry shrugged. ‘If she's a real pro, she might give it a whirl,' he said. ‘It's worth asking. Isn't it?'

‘Not really,' Peter said, ‘but I'm desperate enough to try anything. Come on.'

Peter was right, of course. And, of course, he communicated his unease brilliantly.

Jeannie Summers sat and listened politely as he stuttered and stammered his way through Jerry's suggestion, then she frowned as though considering it. After maybe thirty seconds she spoke.

‘It's very sweet of you to suggest it, love,' she said, looking at Jerry, ‘but it won't fly. Lee and me, we have a musical  . . . understanding. It's not a simple thing. It's taken years.' She looked away as her eyes filled with tears.

Peter Baxter stood up, cleared his throat, murmured something about getting on stage and shuffled off to the door.

‘He might still turn up,' Miss Summers said very quietly.

Peter stopped, cleared his throat again. ‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Yeah. Well, he's got about three quarters of an hour.' He stood awkwardly in the doorway for a few seconds and then stomped off. After a few minutes we heard the band launch into ‘The Sheik of Araby'.

‘Do you think he will?' I said. ‘Turn up, that is.'

Miss Summers looked up at me. ‘He always has,' she said, ‘in the past.'

‘Does he often go missing?' I said.

‘Not often, no.' There was an edge to her voice. ‘No more than two or three times a week.'

I was relieved that the edge wasn't directed at me. For some reason, I didn't want her mad at me.

Jerry stood up. ‘Well,' he said, ‘if you'll excuse me, I've got a warm beer waiting on the bar, and it's probably getting cold.'

Miss Summers smiled at him. ‘Thanks again for the offer,' she said, ‘but I'm just not comfortable singing with anyone else at the piano.'

‘That's copacetic,' Jerry said and strolled out, carefully shutting the door behind him.

I was still wondering what he meant when Miss Summers spoke again.

‘And thank you for looking for Lee, Mr Gérard. I really must apologize for inconveniencing you.'

‘Not at all,' I said. ‘I'm just sorry I didn't find him  . . . And it's Tony.'

She looked down at her lap where her pale hands rested. ‘Well, thank you, Tony,' she said.

The faint American accent I'd detected the night before had evaporated completely. She now sounded like a regular London girl.

‘Where did you meet him? Lee, I mean,' I said.

‘Here,' she said, ‘during the war. March 1944. I was sweet sixteen and he was on leave, playing the piano in a pub in Camden for his mates. Don't ask me how a bunch of Yankee soldiers found their way to Camden because I don't even know what I was doing there. Betty, one of the girls from the factory, probably suggested it.' She sighed. ‘It was probably Betty who persuaded me to sing as well. Which was why Lee told me how much he liked my voice. I thought it was just a line and he was just another glib, charming, handsome, feckless American, but, after the war, he came back and whisked me away. I was a GI bride.' She paused and smiled wanly. ‘He wasn't ill then, of course. That came later, when we started playing the jazz clubs in Kansas City and Chicago  . . .'

I tried to find a few words of reassurance, but I didn't have any. All I could offer her was an awkward silence.

The distant, raucous sound of Peter Baxter and the boys struggling with ‘I Got Rhythm' drifted along the corridor. She had the grace not to wince, but she raised her eyebrows and smiled sadly at me. ‘It's just as well Lee isn't here,' she said. ‘He loves Gershwin. He's been working on arrangements of “Someone To Watch Over Me” and “They Can't Take That Away From Me” for us. He thinks they'll suit my voice.'

‘He's right,' I said. ‘Not that I'm an expert or anything.' After a long pause I asked the question that had been on my mind for a while. ‘Has he ever been gone for this long before?'

She leaned forward and reached for the glass of warm gin that was still on the desk. She sipped it. ‘Only once,' she said. ‘Six months ago, in New Orleans. The stuff had been cut with something very bad. He nearly died.'

‘Perhaps,' I said, ‘it's time to contact the police  . . .'

She sipped some more gin. I found myself wondering how long she'd been drinking.

‘Or I could try some hospitals  . . .'

She looked up. ‘I'd rather the police weren't involved,' she said. ‘A junkie jazz musician? He'd be deported, and me with him. It might make it difficult to get back into the country.'

I nodded. ‘Of course,' I said. ‘You must have family here.'

‘No,' she said. ‘I don't have any family, except Lee. I just don't want to burn any boats. Or is it bridges?'

‘It depends on whether you want to stop the enemy advancing or your own lot retreating,' I said.

Peter Baxter's office had a small, grubby window which looked out on to a narrow alleyway. A few patches of dull, yellow light spilled out from the upstairs windows and glinted on half a dozen bashed and dented bins and piles of boxes overflowing with rubbish from the Acropolis. Something large moved sinuously in the shadows. I hoped it was one of Soho's cats.

The raw, gutsy sound of Peter Baxter and the boys belting out ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo' drifted along the corridor.

Jeannie Summers stared dreamily at the dirty, smeared panes. She obviously hadn't heard what I'd said. I started to suspect that she'd had more than the one gin.

I watched her for a moment or two. She was one of those women who really have no idea just how attractive they are.

And even if she was a bit older and more worn than she looked on stage, she was very attractive. Her pale, bare shoulders added a touch of vulnerability to the sadness in her eyes, and I found myself wanting to hold her. But I didn't. I'm not impulsive, I'm not God's gift to womankind and it was her husband who should take her in his arms, not me.

Anyway, there was a certain
froideur
in her gaze when it settled on me that told me she knew what I was thinking and that such intimacy would not be welcome. I suddenly realized that I was wrong. She did know how attractive she was.