A Shilling for Candles (7 page)

“Mr. Hopkins! How charming! Now
you
can tell us what all these
midday editions were talking about. I didn’t know you knew Mr. Hopkins, Marta
darling!”

“Who’d have thought I’d ever be glad to hear that voice!” Jammy murmured
to Grant as he moved forward to greet the speaker, and Grant turned to meet
Marta Hallard, who had come from the room into the hall.

“Alan Grant!” she said, smiling at him. “Is this business or
pleasure?”

“Both. Do me a favor. Don’t tell these people who I am. Just talk as you
were talking before I came. And if you can get rid of them fairly soon, I’d
like to talk to you alone for a little.”

“I’d do a lot more than that for you. Every time I tie these around my
neck,” she indicated a rope of pearls, “I remember you.”

This was not because Grant had given her the pearls but because he had
once recovered them for her.

“Come and meet the others. Who is your friend?”

“Not a friend. Hopkins of the
Clarion
.”

“Oh. Now I understand Lydia’s welcome. And they say professional people
are publicity hounds!” She led Grant in, introduced people as they came. The
first was Clement Clements, the society photographer, radiant in purple
“tails” and a soft shirt of a pale butter color. He had never heard of an
Alan Grant, and made it perfectly clear. The second was a Captain Somebody, a
nondescript and humble follower of Marta’s, who clung to his glass of whisky
and soda as being the only familiar object in an unknown terrain. The third
was Judy Sellers, a sulky fair girl who played “dumb” blondes from year’s end
to year’s end, and whose life was one long fight between her greed and her
weight. And the fourth was that intimate of the stars, Miss Lydia Keats, who
was now talking all over Jammy Hopkins and enjoying herself immensely.

“
Mr.
Grant?” Jammy said, nastily, as Grant was introduced.

“
Isn’t
it ‘Mr.’?” Lydia asked, her ears pricked, her eyes snapping
with curiosity. “No, it isn’t!”

But Hopkins met Grant’s eye and lacked the courage of his desire. It would
be folly to make an enemy of a C.I.D. Inspector.

“He has one of those Greek titles, you know, but he’s ashamed to own it.
Got it for rescuing a Greek royalist’s shirt from a Greek laundry.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Mr. Grant. He loves to hear himself talk.
I know, you see. He has interviewed me so often. But he never listens to a
word I say. Not his fault, of course. Aries people are often talkative. I
knew the first time he crossed my threshold that he was April born. Now you,
Mr. Grant, are a Leo person. Am I right? No, you don’t need to tell me. I
know. Even if I couldn’t feel it—here—” she thumped her skinny
chest, “you have all the stigmata.”

“I hope they’re not very deadly?” Grant asked, wondering how soon he could
disengage himself from this harpy.

“Deadly! My dear Mr. Grant! Don’t you know anything of astrology? To be
born in Leo is to be a king. They are the favorites of the stars. Born to
success, predestined to glory. They are the great ones of the world.”

“And when does one have to be born to qualify for a Leo benefit?”

“Between the middle of July and the middle of August. I should say that
you were born in the first weeks of August.” Grant hoped he didn’t look as
surprised as he felt. He had certainly been born on the 4th of August.

“Lydia’s uncanny,” Marta broke in, handing Grant a drink. “She did poor
Christine Clay’s horoscope about a year ago, you know, and foretold her
death.”

“And wasn’t that a break!” drawled the Judy girl, poking among the
sandwiches.

Lydia’s thin face was convulsed with fury, and Marta hastened to pour oil.
“You know that’s not fair, Judy! It isn’t the first time Lydia has been
right. She warned Tony Pickin about an accident before he was smashed up. If
he’d listened to her and taken a little more care, he’d have two legs today.
And she told me about not accepting the Clynes’ offer, and she—”

“Don’t bother to defend me, Marta darling. The credit is not mine, in any
case. I only read what is there. The stars don’t lie. But one does not expect
a Pisces person to have either the vision or the faith!”

“Seconds out of the ring,” murmured Jammy, and hit the rim of his glass
with his fingernail so that it made a light “ping.”

But there was to be no fight. Clements provided a distraction.

“What I want to know,” he drawled, “is not what Lydia found in the stars
but what the police found at Westover.”

“What I want to know is who did her in?” Judy said, taking a large bite of
sandwich.

“Judy!” Marta protested.

“Oh, bunk!” said Judy. “You know we’re all thinking the same thing. Going
around the possibilities. Personally I plump for Jason. Has anyone any
advance on Jason?”

“Why Jason?” Clements asked.

“He’s one of these smoldering types, all passion and hot baths.”

“Smolder! Jason!” Marta protested. “What nonsense! He simmers. Like a
merry kettle.” Grant glanced at her. So she was sticking up for Jason? How
much did she like him? “Jason’s much too volatile to smolder.”

“Anyhow,” Clements said, “men who take hot baths don’t commit murder. It’s
the cold-plungers who see red. They are possessed by a desire to get back on
life for the suffering they have endured.”

“I thought masochists were rarely sadists,” Grant said.

“Whether or not, you can put Jason out of it,” insisted Marta. “He
wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Oh, wouldn’t he,” Judy said, and they all paused to look at her.

“What exactly does that mean?” Clements asked.

“Never mind. My bet’s on Jason.”

“And what was the motive?”

“She was running out, I suspect.”

Marta interrupted sharply. “You know that’s nonsense, Judy. You know quite
well that there was nothing between them.”

“I know nothing of the sort. He was never out of her sight.”

“A bitch thinks all the world a bitch,” murmured Jammy into Grant’s
ear.

“I suspect”—it was Lydia’s turn to break into a growing
squabble—“that Mr. Hopkins knows much more about it than we do. He’s
been down at Westover today for his paper.”

Jammy was instantly the center of attraction. What did he think? What had
the police got? Who did they think had done it? Were all these hints in the
evening papers about her living with someone true?

Jammy enjoyed himself. He was suggestive about murderers, illuminating on
murder, discursive about human nature, and libelously rude about the police
and their methods, all with a pleased eye on the helpless Grant.

“They’ll arrest the boy she was living with,” he finished. “Take it from
me. Tisdall’s his name. Good-looking boy. He’ll create a sensation in the
dock.”

“Tisdall?” they said, puzzled. “Never heard of him.”

All but Judy Sellers.

Her mouth opened in dismay, stayed that way helplessly for a moment, and
then shut tightly; and a blind came down over her face. Grant watched the
display in surprised interest.

“I think it’s utterly ridiculous,” Marta was saying, scornfully. “Can you
imagine Christine Clay in a furtive business like that! It’s not in the part
at all. I’d as soon—as soon—I’d as soon believe that Edward could
commit a murder!”

There was a little laugh at that.

“And why not?” asked Judy Sellers. “He comes back to England to find his
adored wife being unfaithful, and is overcome with passion.”

“At six of a morning on a cold beach. Can’t you see Edward!”

“Champneis didn’t arrive in England till Thursday,” offered Hopkins, “so
that lets him out.”

“I do think this is the most heartless and reprehensible conversation,”
Marta said. “Let’s talk of something else.”

“Yes, do,” said Judy. “It’s a profitless subject. Especially since
you
, of course, murdered her yourself.”

“I!” Marta stood motionless in an aura of bewildered silence. Then the
moment broke.

“Of course!” Clement said. “You wanted the part she was due to play in the
new film! We’d forgotten that!”

“Well, if we’re looking for motives, Clement, my sweet, you were raving
mad with fury because she refused to be photographed by you. If I remember
rightly, she said your works were like spilt gravy.”

“Clement wouldn’t drown her. He’d poison her,” Judy said. “With a box of
chocolates, Borgia-wise. No, come to think of it, Lejeune did it, in case
he’d have to act with her. He’s the virile type. His father was a butcher,
and he probably inherited a callous mentality! Or how about Coyne? He would
have killed her on the Bars of Iron set, if no one had been looking.” She
apparently had forgotten about Jason.

“Will you all kindly stop this silly chatter!” Marta said, with angry
emphasis. “I know that after three days a shock wears off. But Christine was
a friend of ours, and it’s disgusting to make a game of the death of a person
we all liked.”

“Hooey!” said Judy, rudely. She had consumed her fifth drink. “Not one of
us cared a brass farthing for her. Most of us are tickled to death she’s out
of the way.”

IN the bright cool of Monday morning Grant drove himself
down Wigmore Street. It was still early and the street was quiet; Wigmore
Street’s clients do not stay in town for weekends. The flower shops were
making up Saturday’s roses into Victorian posies where their errant petals
could be gently corseted. The antique shops were moving that doubtful rug to
the other side of the window out of the too questioning gaze of the morning
sun. The little cafes were eating their own stale buns for their morning
coffee and being pained and haughty with inconsiderates who asked for fresh
scones. And the dress shops took Saturday’s bargains out of the cupboard and
restored the original prices.

Grant, who was en route to see Tisdall’s tailor, was a little disgruntled
at the perversity of things. If Tisdall’s coat had been made by a London
tailor it would have been a simple matter to have the button identified by
them as one used by them for coats, and for Tisdall’s coat in particular.
That wouldn’t clinch the matter but it would bring the clinching appreciably
nearer. But Tisdall’s coat had been made, of all places, in Los Angeles. “The
coat I had,” he explained, “was too heavy for that climate, so I got a new
one.”

Reasonable, but trying. If the coat had been made by a London firm of
standing, one could walk into their shop at any time in the next fifty years
and be told without fuss and with benevolent politeness (provided they knew
who you were) what kind of buttons had been used. But who was to say whether
a Los Angeles firm would know what buttons they put on a coat six months ago!
Besides, the button in question was wanted here. It could not very well be
sent to Los Angeles. The best one could do was to ask them to supply a sample
of the buttons used.
If
they remembered!

Grant’s main hope was that the coat itself would turn up. An abandoned
coat which could be identified as Tisdall’s, with one button missing, would
be the perfect solution. Tisdall was wearing the coat when he drove away the
car. That was Sergeant Williams’s contribution to the cause of justice and
due promotion. He had found a farmer who had seen the car at the Wedmarsh
crossroads a little after six on Thursday morning. About twenty past, he
reckoned, but he hadn’t a watch. Didn’t need one. Tell the time any time of
day, sun or no sun. He was driving sheep, and the car slowed down because of
them. He was positive that the man driving was young and wore a dark coat. He
didn’t think he’d be able to identify the man, not on his oath, he
wouldn’t—but he had identified the car. It was the only car he had seen
that morning.

Williams’s other contribution had not been so happy. He reported that
Jason Harmer had not stayed at the hotel he had given as his sleeping place
at Sandwich. Had not stayed at Sandwich at all, in fact.

Grant had left his Sunday kidney and bacon untouched and had gone out
without ado to interview Mr. Harmer. He found him in his pinkish flat at
Devonshire House, covered in a purple silk dressing gown, black stubble, and
sheet music.

“It’s not often I’m up at this hour,” he offered, pushing sheets of
scrawled paper off a chair to make room for Grant. “But I’ve been sort of
upset about Chris. Very good friends, we were, Inspector. Some people found
her difficult, but me, no. ‘Cause why? D’you know why? ‘Cause we both felt no
account and were afraid people’d find it out. Humans are awful bullies, you
know. If you look and act like a million dollars they’ll lick your boots. But
you let them suspect that you don’t think much of yourself and they’re on you
like ants on a dying wasp. I knew Chris was bluffing first time I set eyes on
her. You can’t tell me anything about bluffing. I bluffed my way into the
States and I bluffed the publishers into printing my first song. They didn’t
find out about it till the song was a wow, and then they sort of thought it
might be a good idea to forget about having one put over on them. Have a
drink? Yes, it’s a bit early. I don’t usually myself till lunchtime, but it’s
the next best thing to sleep. And I’ve got two songs to finish on contract.
For—for—” his voice died away “for Coyne’s new film,” he went on
with a rush. “Ever tried writing a song without an idea in your head? No. No,
I suppose you haven’t. Well, it’s just plain torture. And who’s going to sing
them anyhow? That Hallard dame can’t sing. Did you hear Chris sing ‘Sing to
Me Sometimes’?”

Grant had.

“Now that’s what I call putting over a song. I’ve written better songs, I
admit. But she made it sound like the best song that was ever written. What’s
the good of writing songs anyway, for that up-stage Hallard bird to make a
mess of?”

He was moving about the room, picking up a pile of papers here only to set
it down in an equally inappropriate place there. Grant watched him with
interest. This was Marta’s “merry kettle” and Judy’s “smoldering type.” To
Grant he seemed neither. Just one of those rather ordinary specimens of
humanity from some poor corner of Europe who believes he’s being continually
exploited and persecuted by his fellow men, self-pitying, ill-educated,
emotional, and ruthless. Not good-looking, but attractive to women, no doubt.
Grant remembered that two such widely differing types as Marta Hallard and
Judy Sellers had found him remarkable; each reading her own meaning into his
personality. He apparently had the ability to be all things to all men. He
had been friendly to the disliked Marta, that was certain: Marta did not
hotly defend indifferent worshippers at her shrine. He spent his life, that
is to say, “putting on an act.” He had admitted so much himself a moment ago.
Was he putting on an act now? For Grant?