Cover-Up Story (11 page)

IT WASN'T EVIDENCE. Perhaps it wasn't anything stronger than the antipathy I felt for this whole assignment. I looked round at the others.

Uncle No'ccount's eyes were downcast. Whatever he thought, he was going to keep it to himself. Crystal's attention was centred on Lou-Ann – probably she had paid no attention to Maw Cooney's last words, only to the fact that they were the last, and the effect this would have on Lou-Ann.

Lou-Ann was sobbing loudly. The constable was frowning with impersonal, rueful concern – it meant nothing to him. Obviously, he assumed that any lady who had been pushed under a moving vehicle was entitled to a little leeway in referring to her pusher. He didn't realize she travelled around with a home-grown matched set of bastards. He thought it was just any old bastard she was referring to.

Then Sam found us. Approaching hesitantly, he took in the situation at a glance, and wasted no time. ‘Baby! Sweetheart!' He swept Lou-Ann into his arms. ‘Baby!'

And that was something else I should have known. Or noticed. His wild enthusiasm for her abilities, his unconcern for the problems of Perkins & Tate, his cold loathing for the Client. Yes, there's nothing like a little hindsight after the penny has dropped.

‘There, there, baby,' he crooned, his arms around her, his cheek against hers, rocking her gently.

It stirred the Client to action. He grabbed for Lou-Ann's wrist and tugged her away from Sam. She came unresisting, not even noticing what was happening. Her gawkiness, the awkward impression she gave of being all knees and elbows, was gone now, dissolved in grief.

The Client lifted her, and she lay back, fluid, in his arms, like some Art Nouveau poster updated in modern dress. He looked down at her, his eyes cold behind the mask of concern on his face.

‘Ain't nothing more we can do here,' he said. ‘We're going back to the hotel.'

‘Maw –' she struggled feebly.

‘Nothing to do with us, now,' he said. ‘We'll leave Sam and Doug to take care of things here – that's what we pay them for.'

He had to get that in. Sam's face tightened. It didn't matter to me. I felt strongly that I'd much rather be the Client's employee than his friend – or his wife. It was the nastiest afterthought I'd had in a long time, and it didn't bear close examination.

The Client swung towards the exit, carrying Lou-Ann. ‘Come on,' he snapped over his shoulder. Crystal hesitated a moment, then followed them out.

Uncle No'ccount looked after them thoughtfully, then closed ranks with Sam and me. This is a terrible thing,' he said. ‘What do we do now?'

It was a very good question. Too bad I didn't have a very good answer – or any answer at all. Fortunately, the ball wasn't in my court this time.

‘There'll be an inquest,' the young constable said. ‘We'll let you know. Just routine in a traffic accident. The chap stopped, after all. Not as though it were really his fault. He had the green light. There was a crowd of people waiting at the kerb. She just shot out in front of him before he could brake. People pushing, jostling, impatient –' He shrugged.

That summed it up nicely. Crowds at the kerb – probably most of them foreigners – an American woman who wasn't used to the traffic being on the left, a moment's carelessness, uncertain footing, perhaps jostling from behind – and another tourist bit the dust. The police were used to it.

Especially in the West End. In the height of the tourist season. Tourists were increasingly essential to the economy. They were also, as reflected in the young constable's face, a bloody nuisance. They trailed around asking stupid questions, they complained about perfectly good service, they fell over their own feet and broke vital bones, they stepped in front of buses, they turned on gas fires and forgot to light them, they had heart attacks, they had premature babies. And, sometimes, they murdered each other.

But there was no evidence.

I looked at Sam, at Uncle No'ccount, at the constable. Their faces were grave and shuttered, each preoccupied with what this death would involve for him personally. For the constable, the police routine which would end in a verdict of misadventure. For Sam, the red tape, the temperament, the transatlantic telephone calls, the explanations – perhaps, even, some of the heartbreak – standing by, watching Lou-Ann suffer, without the right to comfort her.

For Uncle No'ccount – I glanced at him again, realizing how very little I knew about him. Not even whether my earlier suspicions, born of the Cousins' sly remarks, about his feelings for Maw Cooney were true. His hair was disturbed, as though at some moment he had swept his hand through it to remove a hat he hadn't been wearing. Slowly, in his own world, he brought the harmonica to his Ups and began to play. It was a dirge, a soft mourning wail for everything that had been and that could never be. As a tribute, it was as good as sending a bouquet – and a lot more personal.

‘Please! I can't have you disturbing the other patients!' A nurse came whirling around the edge of the screens, facing us fiercely, prepared to do battle for the living – as she must. Maw Cooney was beyond her help.

‘I'm sorry, ma'am.' Uncle No'ccount lowered the harmonica, seemingly still in the daze of his own private world. ‘I didn't mean to disturb nobody. I just didn't rightly think.'

‘Come on,' Sam said abruptly. ‘Let's get out of here.'

Back at the hotel, Sam led us directly to Lou-Ann's room. The door was ajar and I would have hesitated about entering, largely because I hate to face a woman in tears, but Sam barged ahead. More slowly, Uncle No'ccount and I followed.

Sam had halted, just inside the door. An open suitcase was on one of the twin beds, partly packed. The room already had a bare and impersonal feeling. I noticed a vaguely familiar look to some of the clothing spread on the bed beside the suitcase – the garments had belonged to Maw Cooney. There was nothing in the room to mark Lou-Ann's passage.

The bathroom door opened, and Crystal came out, carrying a toothbrush, sponge bag, and oddments of cosmetics. She halted upon seeing us, curiously defensive. ‘Well, it's got to be done,' she said. ‘Better sooner than later – and there's nobody else to do it. I mean, you can't expect poor Lou-Ann to.'

Sam seemed ready to argue the point. ‘Where
is
Lou-Ann?' he demanded.

‘She's gone.' More defensive than ever, Crystal refused to meet his eyes. ‘Bart's moved her in with him. They're up in his suite now.'

Sam turned white. Over his head, Crystal and Uncle No'ccount exchanged glances. So, Sam's feelings were common knowledge to the Troupe. I was the only mug who hadn't known – but then, I had walked in in the middle of the film.

‘I reckon you can go up, if'n you want,' Crystal said. ‘I don't expect they'll mind.'

Sam turned on his heel and raced out. Crystal and Uncle No'ccount communed silently for another moment. Uncertain of where my post ought to be, I lingered.

‘Is there anything I can do?' I asked. Why do you always feel like the third head on a two-headed calf at moments like these?

‘I reckon not.' Crystal smiled faintly. ‘Thank you, though. I take your offer mighty kindly. I know Lou-Ann will, too.'

That seemed to be my dismissal. As well as my marching orders. If I read it correctly, I was expected to go upstairs and make the same useless offer of assistance to Lou-Ann. There never was anything one could do – unless, perhaps, just
being
there was doing enough.

I was aware, as I went out, that Uncle No'ccount had moved forward to start folding some of the garments on the bed and lay them gently in the suitcase . . .

Sam opened the door. He hadn't regained any colour, and he didn't seem very pleased to see me. ‘I thought you were the doctor,' he said, stepping back to let me in.

The Client was lounging against the window, looking down, but his heart wasn't in it. Lou-Ann was nowhere in sight.

‘Where is she?' I asked.

‘I put her to bed.' The Client moved away from his vantage point. ‘She was pretty cut-up – and she's got a show to do tonight. Sam, here, phoned down for a doctor for her. I suppose it can't do her any harm. You want to see her? Reckon
that
can't do no harm, neither.'

‘No, I won't disturb her,' I said. ‘I just came along to see if there was anything I could do.'

‘Not much nobody can do – time like this.' The Client moved restlessly towards the window again, but abandoned the idea after a brief glance out.

‘You'll be able to help
me,
' Sam said. There'll be all kinds of red tape over this. You'll know what to do.'

I refrained from pointing out that Perkins & Tate clients weren't in the habit of dying on them. ‘You'll probably have to do something about the American Embassy, for a start,' I suggested helpfully. ‘I think they're supposed to be notified in cases like this.'

‘Cases like
what?
' The Client whirled on me, looking ready to fight.

‘Sudden death,' I said. ‘One of their Nationals dying in a foreign country. I think it comes under their jurisdiction. They might be able to help with the red tape, too.'

‘Oh, yuh.' Losing interest, he turned away. His restless pacing carried him past the window again and again, the view failed to hold him.

There was a knock at the door. Casually, while Sam was leading the doctor through to see Lou-Ann, I strolled over to the window myself and checked. It was a lot more interesting for me than it was for Bart. So far as he was concerned, there were just a couple of middle-aged ladies waiting at the bus stop – they must have been getting on for twenty-two.

‘She hasn't been able to sleep, she can't even stop crying.' Sam came back into the room with the bulletin, as though it might be of interest to someone. It left Bart even more indifferent than the scene beneath the window. Then he seemed to notice that Sam was expecting some reaction.

‘That's sure too bad.' Almost visibly, he pulled himself together. ‘Poor kid.'

‘I can see it's just breaking your heart.' Sam eyed him with distaste.

A nasty light flared in Bart's eyes, then dimmed as the doctor came out of Lou-Ann's room. The doctor was heading towards Sam, but Bart intercepted him.

‘How is she, Doc?' He did it well. He was humble, anxious, unmistakably the worried husband.

I wondered if the act would have impressed me if I hadn't disliked him so thoroughly. His shoulders were slumped forward, his mouth drooped, pulling his face into the proper lines of unhappiness, but his eyes were watchful and calculating. Even so, it would have registered with the right impact in a photo.

The doctor responded to it immediately. Bart took his arm and drew him over to a corner as he started to answer. We were left outside the consultation. But we weren't going to let him get away with that. Sam and I exchanged glances, then bore down on them. Sam wanted to hear about Lou-Ann – and I had my own reasons for wanting to know what was being said in that corner.

‘...great shock, naturally,' the doctor was saying.

Bart nodded, the impatience only visible to those who knew him. ‘But you've given her something?' he insisted.

‘Yes, you needn't worry. She'll sleep –'

‘Sleep!' Bart interrupted. ‘She can't go to sleep now! Didn't nobody tell you who we are? We've got a show to give tonight. If'n you want her to sleep, then you give her some pills to take later on. But she's got to be awake for the performance. We got a Public to think of. Don't you know “The Show Must Go On”?'

The doctor backed away from the vehemence of Bart's protest. A certain reserve shuttered his face as he began to get the picture. ‘I think –'

‘It's all right, Bart,' Lou-Ann stood in the doorway. ‘I remembered about the show. I didn't take the pills he gave me. I can go on tonight.'

‘Good girl!' Bart crossed to put his arms around her, a split second before Sam could reach her. She clung to him shakily. ‘I knowed you was a Trouper. But –' he glared at Sam – ‘that doc shoulda been briefed not to give you nothing that might slow you down.'

‘She shouldn't go on,' Sam said stubbornly. ‘She should take those pills and go to bed. The show can go on without her for a couple of nights.'

‘Is that so?' Bart grinned wolfishly. ‘I thought you was the one who figured she was so good the show could go on without anybody
but
her. You're sure changing your tune fast.'

‘These are special circumstances, and she shouldn't –'

‘I'll go on, Bart.' Lou-Ann seemed in a daze, but she was still fighting. ‘I'll make them laugh tonight, Bart. Honest, I will.'

‘Sure, you will, kid.' He hugged her, enjoying Sam's face as he did so. ‘You'll be great.'

She was terrible, of course. She flung herself around like a demented rag doll – except that she was flesh-and-blood, and her timing was off. She seemed likely to do herself a permanent injury, rather than make the audience laugh.

The audience felt it, too. They heard the heavy thud as she hit the floor without breaking her fall properly. It upset them, without their knowing why, and they resented it. There had been no publicity yet – so they didn't know they were seeing a Gallant Little Trouper. They just thought it was a bad performance. And the feeling was getting through to Lou-Ann on stage, driving her to more drastic mugging, more frantic gymnastics.

Sam was suffering with – and for – her. ‘She ought to take it easier.' He clutched my arm during a particularly dicey pratfall. ‘She'll never make it through the week, if she goes on at this rate. I don't give a damn what Bart says – after tonight, she's out of the show until she pulls herself together.'