Hell Is Always Today (3 page)

Joanna shook her head and smiled. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I could make several very pleasant suggestions. Variations on a theme, but all eminently worthwhile.”

Before she could reply, Mary Beresford approached and Faulkner louted low. “Madam, all homage.”

There was real disgust on her face. “You are really the most disgusting man I know. How dare you bring that dreadful creature here.”

“Now there’s a deathless line if you like. Presumably from one of those Victorian melodramas you used to star in.” She flinched visibly and he turned and looked towards the girl who was dancing with Morgan. “In any case what’s so dreadful about a rather luscious young bird enjoying herself. But forgive me. I was forgetting how long it was since you were in that happy state, Aunt Mary.” The old woman turned and walked away and Faulkner held up a hand defensively. “I know, I’ve done it again.”

“Couldn’t you just ignore her?” Joanna asked.

“Sorry, but she very definitely brings out the worst in me. Have a martini.”

As the barman mixed them, Joanna noticed Miller and smiled. “Now here’s someone I want you to meet, Bruno. Nick Miller. He’s a policeman.”

Faulkner turned, examined Miller coolly and sighed. “Dammit all, Joanna, there is a limit you know. I do draw the line at coppers. Where on earth did you find him?”

“Oh, I crawled out of the woodwork,” Miller said pleasantly, restraining a sudden impulse to put his right foot squarely between Faulkner’s thighs.

Joanna looked worried and something moved in the big man’s eyes, but at that moment the door chimes sounded. Miller glanced across, mainly out of curiosity. When the maid opened the door he saw Jack Brady standing in the hall, his battered, Irish face infinitely preferable to any that he had so far met with that evening.

He put down his glass and said to Joanna. “Looks as if I’m wanted.”

“Surely not,” she said in considerable relief.

Miller grinned and turned to Faulkner. “I’d like to say it’s been nice, but then you get used to meeting all sorts in my line of work.”

He moved through the crowd rapidly before the big man could reply, took his coat and cap from the maid and gave Brady a push into the hall. “Let’s get out of here.”

The door closed behind them as he pulled on his trenchcoat. Detective Constable Jack Brady shook his head sadly. “Free booze, too. I should be ashamed to take you away.”

“Not from that lot you shouldn’t. What’s up?”

“Gunner Doyle’s on the loose.”

Miller paused, a frown of astonishment on his face. “What did you say?”

“They moved him into the Infirmary from Manningham Gaol yesterday with suspected food poisoning. Missed him half an hour ago.”

“What’s he served—two and a half years?”

“Out of a five stretch.”

“The daft bastard. He could have been out in another ten months with remission.” Miller sighed and shook his head. “Come on then, Jack, let’s see if we can find him.”

Faulkner ordered his third martini and Joanna said, “Where have you been for the past two days?”

“Working,” he told her. “Damned hard. When were you last at the studio?”

“Wednesday.”

“There were three figures in the group then. Now there are four.”

There was real concern in her voice and she put a hand on his arm. “That’s really too much, Bruno, even for you. You’ll kill yourself.”

“Nonesense. When it’s there, it’s got to come out, Joanna. Nothing else matters. You’re a creative artist yourself. You know what I mean.”

“Even so, when this commission is finished you’re taking a long holiday.”

Frank Marlowe joined them and she said, “I’ve just been telling Bruno it’s time he took a holiday.”

“What an excellent idea. Why not the Bahamas? Six months…at least.”

“I love you too.” Faulkner grinned and turned to Joanna. “Coming with me?”

“I’d love to, but Frank’s lined me up for the lead in Mannheim’s new play. If there’s agreement on terms we go into rehearsal next month.”

“But you’ve only just finished a film.” Bruno turned to Marlowe and demanded angrily, “What’s wrong with you? Can’t you ever see beyond ten per cent of the gross?”

As Marlowe put down his glass, his hand was shaking slightly. “Now look, I’ve taken just about as much as I intend to take from you.”

Joanna got in between them quickly. “You’re not being fair, Bruno. Frank is the best agent there is, everyone knows that. If a thing wasn’t right for me he’d say so. This is too good a chance to miss and it’s time I went back to the stage for a while. I’ve almost forgotten how to act properly.”

The door bell chimed again and the maid admitted another couple. “It’s Sam Hagerty and his wife,” Joanna said. “I’ll have to say hello. Try to get on, you two. I’ll be back soon.”

She moved away through the crowd and Marlowe watched her go, his love showing plainly on his face.

Faulkner smiled gently. “A lovely girl, wouldn’t you say?”

Marlowe glared at him in a kind of helpless rage and Faulkner turned to the barman. “Two brandies, please. Better make it a large one for my friend. He isn’t feeling too well.”

Jack Morgan and Grace Packard were dancing to a slow cool blues. She glanced towards Faulkner who was still at the bar. “He’s a funny one, isn’t he?”

“Who, Bruno?”

She nodded. “Coming to a do like this in those old clothes. Bringing me. Have you known him long?”

“We were at school together.”

“What’s he do for a living?”

“He’s a sculptor.”

“I might have known it was something like that. Is he any good?”

“Some people would tell you he’s the best there is.”

She nodded soberly. “Maybe that explains him. I mean when you’re the best, you don’t need to bother about what other people think, do you?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Mind you, he looks a bit of a wild man to me. Look at the way he handled Harold at the pub.”

Morgan shrugged. “He’s just full of pleasant little tricks like that. Judo, aikido, karate—you name it, Bruno’s got it.”

“Can he snap a brick in half with the edge of his hand? I saw a bloke do that once on the telly.”

“His favourite party trick.”

She pulled away from him abruptly and pushed through the crowd to Faulkner.

“Enjoying yourself?” he demanded.

“It’s fabulous. I never thought it would be anything like this.”

Faulkner turned to Marlowe who stood at his side drinking morosely. “There you are, Frank. Fairy tales do come true after all.”

“Jack says you can smash a brick with the edge of your hand,” Grace said.

“Only when I’m on my second bottle.”

“I saw it on television once, but I thought they’d faked it.”

Faulkner shook his head. “It can be done right enough. Unfortunately I don’t happen to have a brick on me right now.”

Marlowe seized his chance. “Come now, Bruno,” he said, an edge of malice in his voice. “You mustn’t disappoint the little lady. We’ve heard a lot about your prowess at karate…a lot of talk, that is. As I remember a karate expert can snap a plank of wood as easily as a brick. Would this do?”

He indicated a hardwood chopping block on the bar and Faulkner grinned. “You’ve just made a bad mistake, Frank.”

He swept the board clean of fruit, balanced it across a couple of ashtrays and raised his voice theatrically. “Give me room, good people. Give me room.”

Those near at hand crowded round and Mary Beresford pushed her way to the front followed by Joanna who looked decidedly uncertain about the whole thing.

“What on earth are you doing, Bruno?”

Faulkner ignored her. “A little bit of hush, please.”

He gave a terrible cry and his right hand swung down, splintering the block, scattering several glasses. There was a sudden gasp followed by a general buzz of conversation. Grace cried out in delight and Mary Beresford pushed forward.

“When are you going to start acting your age?” she demanded, her accent slipping at least forty-five years. “Smashing the place up like a stupid teenage lout.”

“And why don’t you try minding your own business, you silly old cow?”

The rage in his voice, the violence in his eyes reduced the room to silence. Mary Beresford stared at him, her face very white, the visible expression one of unutterable shock.

“How dare you,” she whispered.

“Another of those deathless lines of yours.”

Marlowe grabbed at his arm. “You can’t talk to her like that.”

Faulkner lashed out sideways without even looking, catching him in the face. Marlowe staggered back, clutching at the bar, glasses flying in every direction.

In the general uproar which followed, Joanna moved forward angrily. “I think you’d better leave, Bruno.”

Strangely, Faulkner seemed to have complete control of himself. “Must I?” He turned to Grace. “Looks as though I’m not wanted. Are you coming or staying?” She hesitated and he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He pushed his way through the crowd to the door. As he reached it, Grace arrived breathless. “Changed your mind?” he enquired.

“Maybe I have.”

He helped her on with her plastic mac. “How would you like to earn a fiver?”

She looked at him blankly. “What did you say?”

“A fiver…just to pose for me for a couple of minutes.”

“Well, that’s a new name for it.”

“Are you on?” he said calmly.

She smiled. “Okay.”

“Let’s go then.”

He opened the door and as Grace Packard went out into the hall, Joanna emerged from the crowd and paused at the bottom of the steps. Faulkner remembered her birthday present and took the leather case from his pocket. “Here, I was forgetting.” He threw the case and as she caught it, called, “Happy birthday.”

He went out, closing the door and Joanna opened the case and took out the pearls. She stood there looking at them, real pain on her face. For a moment she was obviously on the verge of tears, but then her aunt approached and she forced a brave smile.

“Time to eat, everybody. Shall we go into the other room?” She led the way, the pearls clutched tightly in her hand.

In Faulkner’s studio the fire had died down, but it still gave some sort of illumination and the statues waited there in the half-light, dark and menacing. The key rattled in the lock, the door was flung open and Faulkner bustled in, pushing Grace in front of him.

“Better have a little light on the situation.”

He flicked the switch and took off his coat. Grace Packard looked round her approvingly. “This is nice…and your own bar, too.”

She crossed to the bar, took off her mac and gloves, then moved towards the statues. “Is this what you’re working on at the moment?”

“Do you like it?”

“I’m not sure.” She seemed a trifle bewildered. “They make me feel funny. I mean to say, they don’t even look human.”

Faulkner chuckled. “That’s the general idea.” He nodded towards an old Victorian print screen which stood to one side of the statues. “You can undress behind that.”

She stared at him blankly. “Undress?”

“But of course,” he said. “You’re not much use to me with your clothes on. Now hurry up, there’s a good girl. When you’re ready, get up on the dais beside the others.”

“The others?”

“Beside the statues. I’m thinking of adding another. You can help me decide.”

She stood looking at him, hands on hips, her face quite different, cynical and knowing. “What some people will do for kicks.”

She disappeared behind the screen and Faulkner poured himself a drink at the bar and switched on the hi-fi to a pleasant, big-band version of “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.” He walked to the fire, humming the tune, got down on one knee and started to add lumps of coal to the flames from a brass scuttle.

“Will this do?” Grace Packard said.

He turned, still on one knee. She had a fine body, firm and sensual, breasts pointed with desire, hands flat against her thighs.

“Well?” she said softly.

Faulkner stood up, still holding his drink, switched off the hi-fi, then moved to the bedroom door and turned off the light. The shapes stood out clearly in silhouette against the great window and Grace Packard merged with the whole, became like the rest of them, a dark shadow that had existence and form, but nothing more.

Faulkner’s face in the firelight was quite expressionless. He switched on the light again. “Okay…fine. You can get dressed.”

“Is that all?” she demanded in astonishment.

“I’ve seen what I wanted to see if that’s what you mean.”

“How kinky can you get.”

She shook her head in disgust, vanished behind the screen and started to dress again. Faulkner put more coal on the fire. When he had finished, he returned to the bar to freshen his drink. She joined him a moment later carrying her boots.

“That was quick,” he told her.

She sat on one of the bar stools and started to pull on her boots. “Not much to take off with this year’s fashions. I can’t get over it. You really did want me to pose.”

“If I’d wanted the other thing I’d have included it in our arrangement.” He took a ten-pound note from his wallet and stuffed it down the neck of her dress. “I promised you a fiver. There’s ten for luck.”

“You
must
be crazy.” She examined the note quickly, then lifted her skirt and slipped it into the top of her right stocking.

He was amused and showed it. “Your personal bank?”

“As good as. You know, I can’t make you out.”

“The secret of my irresistible attraction.”

“Is that a fact?”

He helped her on with her mac. “Now I’ve got some work to do.”

She grabbed for her handbag as he propelled her towards the door. “Heh, what is this? Don’t say it’s the end of a beautiful friendship.”

“Something like that. Now be a good girl and run along home. There’s a taxi rank just round the corner.”

“That’s all right. I haven’t far to go.” She turned as he opened the door and smiled impishly. “Sure you want me to leave?”

“Goodnight, Grace,” Faulkner said firmly.

He closed the door, turned and moved slowly to the centre of the room. There was a dull ache just to one side of the crown of his skull and as he touched the spot briefly, feeling the indentation of the scar, a slight nervous tic developed in the right cheek. He stood there examining the statues for a moment, then went to the cigarette box on the coffee table. It was empty. He cursed softly and quickly searched his pockets without success.

A search behind the bar proved equally fruitless and he pulled on his raincoat and hat quickly. As he passed the bar, he noticed a pair of gloves on the floor beside one of the stools and picked them up. The girl had obviously dropped them in the final hurried departure. Still, with any luck he would catch up with her before she reached the square. He stuffed them into his pocket and went out quickly.

Beyond, through the great window, the wind moaned in the night, driving the rain across the city in a dark curtain.