Читать книгу Coffin on Murder Street - Gwendoline Butler - Страница 7

Late that evening, March 5, Ellice Eden was reading the newspapers as he took his nightcap. He had been too busy that day to get at them before. He had all the dailies delivered as a matter of business, plucking out of them all the reviews of his fellow critics. He cut out those he did not like and stuck them on a board with a sharp and vicious pin. Those he approved of he put in a drawer and asked the writers for a drink at the Groucho after the next show. He liked some of his rivals, he had a kindly streak inside him, although not all performers would have agreed with this judgement if they had suffered from his acid pen. But it was universally acknowledged that he was more often right than wrong. Which was, as one unhappy victim had pointed out, no comfort at all.

There was an auction at Sotheby’s of the theatre objects he collected, such as costume, bits of jewellery, even the odd wig and piece of furniture or china connected with famous players or plays. He had a notable collection. He also had a modest collection of Victoriana, pictures mostly. He ticked what he might bid for.

He poured himself a cup of chocolate, which he drank with cream and very hot. Since the days of efficient servants (Oh Bunter, oh Jeeves, where are you now?) had long since passed, he had made it himself.

Today, however, he had finished with the critics (two to fix with a pin), and was reading the news. Something there troubled him.

He poured out another cup of chocolate and, after a moment’s thought, padded across his golden Afghan carpet to fetch a bottle. He had recently acquired a taste for malt whisky and was presently experimenting with Glen Fiddich.

It was a strong measure but was allowable tonight. Morning almost. This morning. He drank it, then went back to his chocolate.

Presently he reached out for the telephone. It was late, but theatricals never sleep early and he knew this one did not. His toes did a sort of dance inside the blue and white slippers which matched the blue and white silk dressing-gown from Turnbull and Assher. In his youth he had breakfasted once with Noël Coward in the house in Gerald Road and had decided that he too would look like that one day if he could afford it. (Although not so red of face.) Now he could afford spotted silk dressing-gowns, and he even had a maisonette in Gerald Road to go with it, and very convenient it was.

He was a man who liked to dress with style and present a well-manicured appearance to the world. Hair, face and hands all received daily attention with lotions and creams.

From his window as he stood sipping his chocolate, hand on the telephone, he could see the police station. He knew some of the faces over there and a very decent set they were.

‘Gus dear, there you are. Did I wake you up?’ He didn’t name himself. If Gus Hamilton did not recognize his voice, so much the worse for him. ‘How are you? What about lunch one day? We haven’t talked for a long while. Admired your work.’ Not perhaps you yourself, my dear boy, not your character and your ways, but you are a peerless actor. In the making, anyway, not perhaps Olivier yet. ‘But it’s about Nell. Yes, our Nell. Your Nell, my Nell.’

Gus could be heard muttering something.

‘All right, as you wish, not your Nell. But the child? The picture I have just seen in the paper of Nell, clutching a largish infant. How did that come about?’

Gus muttered that it was nothing to do with him. Very likely not, thought Ellice, won’t disagree with you on that, but babies are not produced by a kind of spontaneous conception whatever your views on virgin birth. Two parties are required, even if one is represented in a test tube. Not that he thought that was how it had been with Nell Casey. No, indeed.

‘She has said nothing about it. Kept very quiet. A mistake.’ Every woman was entitled to one mistake, but Nell had made more than her share in his opinion.

The explosion of anger that Gus delivered over the telephone surprised him.

He had meant to get some information from Gus, not to call up a storm.

Ellice began to put the telephone down, not having, as he had intended, asked Gus to lunch. He would invent some other treat for that young man.

He had not, of course, been quite truthful in what he said to Gus. With his excellent intelligence system he had picked up news about the child. She had not exactly kept quiet about it, but not spread the word either. Her own business, she had implied.

But what he had not expected was to see such a large, handsome and healthy child. Somehow a frail, delicate little creature would have been more suitable for Nell.

Nor had he expected to see Nell looking down at the boy with such evident love.

Sad, he thought. Very sad. Oh Gus, oh Nell, what a pair of star-crossed lovers you have been. It’s a tragedy. Shakespeare, Euripides, Racine. On that scale.

A new voice took over on the telephone. ‘What have you done to Gus? He’s in a terrible state.’ The girl Gus currently shared his flat with, a singer. Ellice knew all the gossip.

‘You ought to watch over that young man,’ he said seriously. ‘He’s dangerous.’

The voice went on at him again.

‘I know, dear,’ said Ellice, ‘I know you say Gus is a very private person.’ Whatever that meant, not a bright girl, this one, just lovely long legs and a way of picking up clichés. ‘But we don’t want any of this Here we go and Vengeance is mine says the Lord and I am his instrument, do we?’

Like John Coffin, he too smelt trouble. He was tired now, but he was glad he had looked in at Stella Pinero’s outfit that night, always nice to see Stella. Not a great talent but a real pro.