Cast in Order of Disappearance (18 page)

Charles Paris felt a searing pain as a bullet ripped into his flesh. He crumpled up in agony.

XV

Poor Old Baron!

CHARLES REALLY THOUGHT he was dying when he woke up the next morning. Cold tremors of fear kept shaking his whole body. It wasn't the wound that worried him, though his arm still ached as though a steam-hammer had landed on it. Head and body felt disconnected and the foul taste in his mouth seemed to his waking mind a symptom of some terrible decay creeping over him from within.

For once it wasn't alcohol, or at least not just alcohol. The Battle Hospital in Reading had given him a sedative to take if necessary when he was discharged. The wound was clean and dressed; there was no point in keeping him inside with such a shortage of hospital beds. So the film company organised a car to take him from Reading to Pangbourne. Jean-Luc Roussel himself had come to the hospital and fretted and fluttered about like a true Cockney sparrow. Steenway Productions were very anxious about the injury; it is the sort of thing all film companies dread, because it inevitably leads to enormous claims for compensation.

They had tried to find out how the accident had happened. The gun was a genuine late-Victorian revolver (another anachronism in a film so full of them that its period could be any time between 1700 and 1900). How live bullets had got into it no one could imagine. The props people said they hadn't touched it; it had come like that from the place of hiring. The hiring firm were very affronted when rung up, and assured the film company that they only ever supplied blanks. No doubt a further investigation would follow.

The thought of substantial compensation didn't comfort Charles much. It was the taste of death in his mouth that preoccupied him. He staggered out of bed and cleaned his teeth, but the taste was still there. He put his hands on the marine blue wash-basin and his body sagged forward. The face in the mirror of the marine blue bathroom cabinet looked terrified and ill. Partly he knew it was last night's sedative, coupled with a large slug of Miles' Chivas Regal. Coming after the sleepless night spent with Felicity, it was bound to affect him pretty badly. But more than that it was the shock, a feeling that left his body as cold as ice, and sent these involuntary convulsions through him.

He started to dress, but almost passed out with the pain from his arm. To steady himself he sank down on the side of the bed. At that moment, Juliet came into the bedroom. ‘Daddy, are you all right? I heard you moving and—'

Charles nodded weakly.

‘You look ghastly,' she said.

‘I feel it. Here, would you help me get dressed? This bloody arm . . . I can't do anything.'

Very gently his daughter started to help him into his clothes. As she bent to pick up his trousers, she looked just like Frances. ‘Daughter and wife whom I'll leave when I die'—the phrase came into his maudlin thoughts and he started crying convulsively.

‘Daddy, Daddy.'

‘It's just the shock,' he managed to get out between sobs.

‘Daddy, calm down.' But his body had taken control and he couldn't calm down.

‘Daddy, get back to bed. I'll call the doctor.'

‘NO . . . I can't go back to bed, because I've got to get to London. I've got to get . . . to London. I've got to get to London.' Suddenly the repetition seemed very funny and his sobs changed to ripples of high-pitched giggles. The situation became funnier and funnier and he lay back on the bed shaken by deep gasps of laughter.

Juliet talked calmingly to no avail. Suddenly her hand lashed out and slapped his face. Hard. It had the desired effect. The convulsions stopped and Charles lay back exhausted. He still felt ill, but the hysterics seemed to have relaxed him a bit. Juliet helped him back under the bedclothes. ‘I'm going to get the doctor,' she said, and left the room.

Charles dropped immediately into a deep sleep where lumbering Thurber cartoon figures with guns in their hands chased him through a landscape of pastel green, dotted with red flowers. There was no menace in their attack. He was running hand in hand with a girl who was Juliet or Felicity, but wearing Frances' old white duffel coat. They stopped at a launderette. The girl, whose face was now Jacqui's, clasped his arm and said ‘It's a pity the
Battleship Potemkin
is booked for Easter.' She kept hold of his arm and shook it till it became elastic and extended out of its socket like a conjuror's string of handkerchiefs.

‘Mr Paris.' Charles opened his eyes warily, disgruntled at being dragged out of his dream. ‘Mr Paris. I am Doctor Lefeuvre.'

‘Hello,' said Charles sleepily.

‘It's rather difficult you not being one of my regular patients, but since your daughter is, I'm stretching a point. She's told me about your accident yesterday, but I gather that's not what's troubling you?' The voice had a slight Australian twang. Charles looked at Doctor Lefeuvre. A man in his mid-thirties with dull auburn hair and a freckled face behind rectangular metal-rimmed glasses. He had very long hands, which were also covered in freckles and sported three gold rings.

‘I don't know, Doctor. I just feel very weak and ill.'

‘The arm's all right?'

‘It feels bruised, but that's all.'

‘Only to be expected. Let's just have a look at the dressing.' He cast his eye expertly over the bandage on Charles' arm. ‘It's been very well done. When are you due to go back to the hospital?'

‘They'll change the dressing next Monday.'

‘That seems fine. I won't meddle with it then. But otherwise you're feeling run down and ill. It's probably just shock.'

‘Yes.'

‘I'd better have a look at you.' And the doctor began the time-honoured ritual of taking temperature and pulses. In fact, Charles felt better now. His body had regained some warmth and the sleep had relaxed him. He just felt as if he'd run full tilt into a brick wall.

Doctor Lefeuvre looked at the temperature. ‘Hmm. That's strange.'

‘What?'

‘You seem to have a slight temperature. Just over a hundred. That's not really consistent with shock. Let's take your shirt off. There. Not hurting the arm?'

‘No.'

‘Hmm.' The doctor started probing and tapping. ‘Let's have a look at your throat. Open. There. Tongue down. No, down. Yes. Is your throat at all sore?'

‘A bit. Sort of foul taste in my mouth.'

‘Yes. Hm. That's strange. You haven't been in contact with German measles recently?'

‘Not to my knowledge, no.'

‘No. Hmmm. Because, on a cursory examination, I would say that is what you've got. There's a slight rash on your chest, hardly visible. The temperature and the sore throat are consistent.

‘Oh. Well, what should I do about it?'

‘Nothing much. It's not very serious. If you're feeling bad, stay in bed. It'll clear up in a couple of days. You don't have to rush back to work, do you?'

‘No, they've reorganised the shooting schedule.'

‘Oh.' Doctor Lefeuvre obviously didn't understand what that meant, but equally obviously it didn't interest him much either. ‘Look, I'll prescribe some penicillin.' He scribbled on his pad. ‘You'd better check with Battle Hospital, tell them you're going to take it. Just in case they want to put you on something else.'

‘Fine.'

‘Good. Oh. I'd better just have your address and National Health Number for the records.' Charles gave them, digging the number out of a 1972 diary which was so full of useful information he'd never managed to get rid of it.

‘Right.' Doctor Lefeuvre gathered his things together and prepared to leave.

‘So there's nothing special I should do? Just rest?'

‘Yes. You'll feel better in a couple of days. The rest won't do the arm any harm either.'

‘OK.'

‘Oh, there is one thing of course with German measles.'

‘Yes.'

‘You mustn't be in contact with anyone who's expecting a baby. If a woman gets German measles while she's pregnant, it can have very bad effects on the unborn child.'

Charles dressed with Juliet's help (he didn't like staying in bed alone) and rang Jacqui as soon as the doctor had left. He didn't mention the ‘accident' at Bloomwater because it would only upset her. In fact, she sounded particularly cheerful; it was the first morning she had woken up with no trace of sickness, and was cheered at the thought of entering the ‘blooming' phase of pregnancy. No, nothing disturbing had happened. Nobody had rung. She was quite happy in her little prison.

Charles felt fairly confident of her safety for the time being. Though the shooting on the film set, if it wasn't accidental implied that Nigel Steen knew of his involvement, he still might not have realised the direct connection with Jacqui, and certainly was no nearer getting the Hereford Road address. But she would have to be moved soon. Charles determined to ring Frances and ask her to take the girl in. It would be a strange coupling, but Frances wouldn't refuse. He explained to Jacqui about the German measles.

‘Oh no, for God's sake keep away from me,' she said. ‘The child is born blind or something terrible.'

‘Don't worry. I'll stay away.'

‘How long are you infectious?'

‘I should be better in two or three days. But I don't know how long the quarantine period is. It's probably just as well I haven't been near you for the last week. Don't worry though. I won't come back till I'm quite clear of it. I'll ring Doctor Lefeuvre and check.'

‘Who?'

‘Doctor Lefeuvre.'

‘Australian?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good God.'

‘Why. Do you know him?'

‘Yes. He was the one who did my abortion in the summer.'

‘What? But it wasn't a legal one, was it?'

‘No. Marius got Nigel to fix it up.'

‘Was Lefeuvre the family doctor?'

‘I suppose so. Marius didn't talk about doctors. He kept saying he was never ill.'

‘So it was probably Lefeuvre who was called in when Marius died.'

‘Yes, it was. He was at the inquest.'

‘He was? Jacqui, for Christ's sake. Why didn't you tell me this before?'

‘I didn't think it was important. Is it?'

‘Jesus! But there was no time to explain. And no point in worrying her. ‘Jacqui, just sit tight. Don't worry about anything.' He slammed the phone down. ‘Juliet, can I have your car keys? I've got to go up to London immediately.'

Juliet emerged dazed from the kitchen area. ‘But you can't take the Cortina. Miles'll be furious.'

‘I haven't got time to worry about Miles. Give me the keys.'

‘Juliet was amazed by the sudden force of his personality and held out the keys, as if hypnotised. ‘But, Daddy, you can't drive with that arm.'

‘I bloody can.'

XVI

Back at the Fireside

BEING BACK IN London was a disappointment. The mad drive up the M4 with pain like barbed hooks turning in his arm had all been for nothing. He had screeched to a halt in the residents' parking bay in an unimpressed Hereford Road, let himself in, banged on his own door and, keeping his distance, ordered Jacqui to go off to the pictures for the afternoon. Then he'd driven round to the surgery of Drs Singh and Gupta, with whom he was registered, only to find that both were out on their rounds. He rushed to St Mary's Hospital, Paddington, and, after the hours of waiting that are statutory in hospitals, finally persuaded a callow houseman to examine him and pronounce him clear of German measles. It was evident from the young man's circumspect excitement that he thought he'd got his first genuine schizophrenic hypochondriac. Charles ended up with a clean bill of health and a parking ticket.

As he sat in his drab room in Hereford Road, it all seemed a bit futile. The dark fears of the morning had subsided into childish fantasies. He felt he should be watching the road from behind the curtains, waiting for the badmen to arrive at High Noon, while in the background a voice intoned ‘Do not forsake me, o my darling'. But since his windows faced the back of the house, it was impossible. And in the familiar banality of his room thoughts of approaching badmen seemed ridiculous. He just felt tired and ill again. The excitements of the day had put him back considerably. Pain throbbed in his arm with agonising regularity. He felt himself drifting asleep.

Suddenly the phone rang. Swedish feet in wooden sandals clumped down the stairs past his door, then up again, paused, knocked, said ‘Telephone' and continued back to their room.

He went down and picked up the dangling receiver. ‘Hello.'

‘Hello. It's Joanne Menzies.'

‘Oh. Hi.'

‘Charles, can we meet and talk? About Marius' death.'

‘Yes, sure. Have you got anything new?'

‘Not really. But I'm just convinced there was something fishy going on.'

‘Yes. There are a lot of things that don't fit. When do you want to meet? After work?'

‘I'm not at work.'

‘Oh.'

‘I came back after Christmas to the news that my services were no longer required by Mr Nigel Steen. A year's salary in lieu of notice.'

‘That's a substantial pay-off.'

‘Yes. Hush-money, no doubt. Where shall we meet?'

‘Do you mind coming round here? I'm not very well.'

‘Fine. What's the address?' Charles gave it. ‘I'll be round straight away.' He put the phone down and had a moment's doubt. Was he wise to give Joanne Menzies his address? She seemed straight enough, but her motives weren't absolutely clear. Oh well, if she told Nigel Steen, fair enough. Charles' suspicions of Dr Lefeuvre made him think his address was already common knowledge. At least he was here now, and could supervise moving Jacqui to another hide-away. He rang Frances' number to make his strange request, but there was no reply. It was only five o'clock. No doubt she was supervising the school debating society or another of her public-spirited activities.