Richard Jury Mysteries 10: The Old Silent (50 page)

"
Wanstead
? What's she doing in
Wanstead
?"

He sat down again. "Because she insisted on coming with us. After
you called the hotel, we tried to shake her off and couldn't. Trueblood
told her this was a dreadful dive where cocaine and crack dealers met.
Nothing would do but Agatha
had
to come along. So Trueblood
and I fixed it up that when the doorman got her into a cab, Trueblood
would get in while I bumbled about on the pavement, hand the cabbie an
address, and then suddenly remember he'd left his money in his room,
get out, slam the door and say, 'Go on without us; we'll be along in a
minute.'"

"You mean you abandoned poor Agatha to wander in Wanstead?"

"We did not abandon poor Agatha. We're gentlemen, aren't we? There
was a note to the cab driver that if he had trouble with the address to
drive his fare straight back to the Ritz. Well, of course, he had
trouble. There was no such address." Melrose smirked. "We're not
heartless, just fast on our feet."

"Christ," breathed Jury. "Speaking of being fast on your feet, I
think I'll cut in." Perhaps it was the soothing sound coming from the
old sax player, but his headache had all but disappeared.

"You mean you
dance
?"

"I can certainly do
that
." He flung his arm toward the
floor where the cyanosed couples were hanging onto one another as if
rigor were passing off.

Melrose started to get up. "/ dance. I'm quite expert."

Jury shoved him down. "What's this to you? You've got your American
lady." Jury sat back down again. "Whom, I might add, you actually
suspected of these killings. 'I'm glad Ellen's in Yorkshire, I'm glad
Ellen's in Yorkshire.' "

"Shut up. Naturally, I suspected she stayed behind—the only one who
did—just to throw us off. That she jumped on that damnable bike ten
minutes after we left and careened down the M-one."

"I'm surprised you didn't call Weavers Hall to check up on her."

"I did," said Melrose morosely. "She left. Gone. Vanished."

"Suspecting your lady?" Jury clicked his tongue. "And what would be
her connection with the Citrines and Charlie Raine?"

"The New York—Yawk—connection. Obviously, I couldn't sort out a
motive. And who says she's
my
'lady'?"

Jury took out several color brochures stamped
Shane Street
Travel
and dumped them on the table. "The Chrysler Building fell
out of your coat."

Melrose snatched them up. "The place was near the Armani shop. I
just popped in for a moment."

"Um-hmm." Jury stood up. "If you pop off the QE Two or the Concorde
in New Yawk, you'll have to walk a hell of a long way. She's from
Maryland."

Melrose stopped in the act of stuffing the travel agent's agenda
back in his pocket. "What? Don't be ridiculous. What makes you think—"

Like a sleight-of-hand artist, Jury now dropped a book on the table.
Sauvage Savant
, paperback edition. He flipped open the back
cover. The picture of Ellen was taken on a windy day and she looked
exactly as she had the first . . .

and last time he saw her. Jury tapped the caption. "Baltimore." He
smiled.

Casually, Melrose drew his cigarette case out, tapped a cigarette
before lighting it and said, "I knew the accent was a put-on. No one
really talks like that."

Against the splendid backdrop of the brown and cream Pullman cars
of the Orient Express, Vivian stood self-consciously smiling as Jury
and Melrose took turns with the camera. Vivian alone; Vivian with Jury;
Vivian with Melrose; Vivian with Trueblood's hands positioned
bat-wing-like behind her head (of which, Vivian, smiling
self-consciously, was unaware). Vivian with Agatha; Agatha alone;
Agatha alone; Agatha alone—snap, snap, snap, snap.

Compared with Vivian's flawlessly cut and fluid creamy-wool dress
and brimmed hat, her fellow travelers, walking by with chins high,
pretending they weren't attracting attention, looked as if they'd been
turned out by some of the Princess's favorite designers—Worth, Mme.
Vionnet, Chanel, even Lady Duff Gordon, with their long draped skirts,
printed velvets and silks, crepe-de-chines and low-slung waistlines,
fluttering printed scarves, ropes of pearls, cloche hats and headbands.
They might have been headed for a 'twenties bistro.

The gentlemen were no less dressed to the nines in peacock blue and
salmon striped jackets, doeskin trousers, bottle-green waistcoats and
double-breasted dark blue reefers aplenty. In the midst of them,
Marshall Trueblood, who had turned up with Karla on his arm (or he on
hers, given the difference in their heights) was absolutely the
quintessence of taste amongst all of the (what he called) "reefer
madness." He was wearing his new Armani jacket with its low-sloping
shoulders and loose-cut sleeves. Armani's clothes always had that
comfortable, broken-in look from the very moment one put them on.
Melrose almost wished he'd bought more. Would he cut a swathe in the
Jack and Hammer, looking comfortable and creased?

He heard his name barked. Agatha, again, positioned by the gold
crest on the Pullman car, looked fairly broken-in herself after her
sojourn in Wanstead, for which she said she'd never speak to them
again. Unfortunately, she never kept her word and here she was yelling,
"Trueblood! Leave
that person
and come here for another
picture."

That person, Karla. who evinced no interest in the handsome people
or the handsomely appointed train compartments—the little tables set
for luncheon, the upholstery, the passengers in motley—wandered off to
stand against the wall of the cafe and smoke the Eternal Cigarette.
Given her marvelous shingled haircut and that same sheared-up dress
that fell at odd angles, she was a natural for the present company.
Karla stood, staring off across the tracks of Victoria Station as if
she'd only been looking for a wall to hold up.

Melrose instructed Agatha (who'd put herself firmly in the middle of
the camera's lens) to move away from Jury over to the end because given
Jury's height (and her girth, he didn't add) she'd look like a toad.
That moved her. Melrose carefully adjusted the camera's prospect to
cut her out, although the ostrich feather in her hat managed to land in
front of Trueblood's chin.

It was exactly ten-forty and the passengers were lining up in the
reception area, and people bound for their second-class seats on other,
less-colorful platforms flowed round this elite group, some smiling at
the peacock clothes, some shaking their heads as if to dismiss this
homage to rampant conspicuous consumption.

The Orient Express personnel, most in brown livery, wore smiles that
betokened the most personal service this side of

Charing Cross Hospital's intensive-care unit. They were presently
seeing to the tickets and luggage.

Melrose spotted the tag on Vivian's single trunk. "Good Lord,
Vivian, is this
all
? The one trunk? What it holds wouldn't
last Agatha a day in Harrogate." Agatha was going, she said, straight
back to Harrogate, was going to hail a cab ('Wo,
Mr. Trueblood, I
do
not
need your help!")
and zip straight to Waterloo as
soon as the Orient Express chugged out, spot on eleven. She had told
Melrose that she had no intention of accompanying him back to Long
Piddleton, not after last night. He must suffer the consequences of his
tricks.

Trueblood folded his arms and pursed his lips, looking at the trunk.
"Oh, I don't know, Melrose. I think it'll do. It looks quite long
enough. Heavy, of course, but that's just English soil. Vivian was out
shoveling half the—"

Vivian, made even more beautiful by the bright flush rising to her
cheeks, thrust her face so close to Trueblood's, he leaned back. He
quickly pulled and wound his striped scarf about his neck, shrieking,
in a mockery of fear, "No closer! No closer!"

"Oh, shut up! I don't know if I
dare
have you to the
wedding. God
knows
what you'll get up to." Her fiery gaze
included Melrose.

"Don't look at
me
! Have I said a word? No."

"Keep it that way." Then she turned to Jury. "You're being very
silent," she said softly.

"I can't stand train stations." He thought of Carole-anne. "Or
airports. Or partings."

Agatha was too busy pulling at Melrose to bother with her nemesis,
Marshall Trueblood. "
Who"
she demanded, pointing toward the
station cafe, "is
that
woman?"

"Karla. She's—it's—Trueblood's friend."

"Not
her
. That person
inside
the cafe. She's
been staring at us for the last half hour. At you, for some reason. I
was watching her when you were taking my picture."

Melrose looked, squinted, moved closer to the plate glass behind
which a young woman in dark green was standing on the other side of the
glass, as still as Karla on this side.

Melrose put on his spectacles, squinted through them . . .
Ellen
!

He loosened Agatha's viselike grip and pushed through the surge of
passengers rushing for their trains.

Ellen immediately turned and sat down in one of the plastic-form
chairs and sipped her cup of tea.

Melrose tapped and tapped on the pane. Finally, she turned round,
giving him a speculative look. Where on earth had they met?

He motioned her outside with several furious waves.

When finally she emerged, both of them ignored by Karla, Melrose
decided that the Princess was right. "You look indescribable."
Actually, it was true. The dress was totally shapeless, except where
Ellen lent it shape (and that considerable); it was a swampy green
that did nothing whatever to light up her face. Ah, but the face was
clean, the nails actually manicured, the hair combed and possibly
Sassooned. And the legs and high heels visible.
There
was a
view the Lido would have a hard time matching. Melrose reconsidered
dying in a deck chair.

Holding her hand, he dragged her over to the train, where he smiled
brilliantly at Jury, haltingly at Agatha (whose own mouth was agape),
and uncertainly at Vivian, who was now in her compartment—barely two
minutes to go—and who reached down her slim hand to take Ellen's.

She released it and grabbed at Melrose's and with the other hand for
Jury. Trueblood was quick-walking beside the liveried porter who was
pulling the luggage. Marshall held up a decal of the British flag,
smiled and thwacked it on her trunk, taking his time pressing it in
place. He waved the porter on and came running back. "Viv-viv, darling!
Watch those canals, be careful of the Giopinnos' cellar . . . ah, but,
of course, he doesn't drink wine, does . . . owwww!" (Vivian had thrown
her paperback book at him.) "My dearest, darling, Viv. I shall
never
say another word. . . . Oh, God, it's moving, it's moving."

Say another word, no. Melrose looked at the departing rack of
luggage. There was the British flag! And right next to it was stuck the
cut-out of Dracula swinging in his gondola. Melrose shut his eyes.

"Don't do anything foolish, Vivian!" was Agatha's last word. "Mind
those gondoliers! Have you any Italian
at all
?"

"Arrivederci, that's about it." She was wiping away tears that
trailed slowly down her face.

Still holding her hands, Melrose and Jury were half-running beside
the train which finally gained so much speed, they had to release her.

Good-byes were shouted, cried, flung all down the line until the
train heaved itself out into the sooty light of a London January day.

Jury stood there, unconscious of a pram that barked his shin and a
couple of punks with mohawks who shoved him aside.

He dragged his eyes from the track when he heard Trueblood beside
him. Karla had reengaged his arm. "Come on, old trout.We're off to see
a rerun of
The Untouchables
."

"What? Why in God's name would anyone who'd just seen Vivian off
want to see Al Capone?"

"Don't be dense. We'll only stay for the credits."

"That makes sense." Jury looked down the track. The end of the train
was a cinder now.

Trueblood drew a banner in air between thumb and forefinger. " '
Wardrobe
by Armani
.' Everyone applauds. Then we leave, go somewhere and get
drunk."

Jury smiled, looked at Karla, whose mouth hitched up on one end.
"You two go along. I'll see you later."

Trueblood looked at him with concern. "We'll all get together at
Nine-One-Nine. How's that?"

"Hmm? Fine."

Jury was looking at Melrose and Ellen, who in some sort of twosome
metamorphosis had walked over to take the place of Trueblood and Karla.
"Luncheon at the Ritz. What do you say? Agatha's taken herself off to
Waterloo. Sorry about that." Melrose grinned.

Boyishly. It was the first time Jury ever remembered seeing his
friend actually grin. "No, you two go on."

"Not without you. And I've something for you." Melrose reached into
the deep pocket of his overcoat and brought out the Sony Walkman. He
smiled. "Here." Then he reached in the other and brought out some
tapes. Six of them.

Transformer
. Lou Reed;
Rock n Roll Animal
. Lou
Reed;
Berlin
. Lou Reed;
Live in Italy
. Lou Reed;
Mistrial
.
Lou Reed;
New York
. Lou Reed.

"I'm sorry," said Melrose, "I couldn't find
Metal Machine Music
."

Ellen sighed. "You've got to be a real Lou Reed fanatic to dig that
one. Feedback screams."

"I dig feedback screams. I'm with you, aren't I?"

"I can't thank you enough," Jury said, looking at Melrose Plant's
enthusiastic face. "I've got some work to clear up; these'll help." He
held up the tapes.