Star Trap (15 page)

All the same, Charles had already started to remove the agent from the front rank of his suspicions. Though he might be involved, might be directing operations, Dickie Peck wasn't the one to do the heavy stuff. The more Charles thought about it, the more incongruous it became – a successful agent, with a lot of artists on his books, going round running people over and slipping them liquid paraffin? No. What was needed was a logical reappraisal of the situation.

He sat in Julian Paddon's sitting-room on a bright autumn day and once again wrote down James Mime's headings, ‘Incident', ‘Suspect' and ‘Motive'. He only filled in the middle column. Three names – Dickie Peck, Christopher Milton and Christopher Milton's driver.

Then, as if imposing logic by committing conjecture to paper, he wrote another heading, ‘Reasons for Innocence'. Against Dickie Peck's name he filled in, ‘Not on scene of last incident (i.e. in London) – position to keep up – discovery would ruin career'. Against Christopher Milton – ‘Last point above to nth degree – v. concerned with public image – could not afford the risk of personal action'. Against the driver he put a neat dash, then changed his mind and wrote, ‘The only question is who he's taking orders from – D.P. or C.M. – or is he acting off his own bat?'

Written down it looked convincing. Charles felt a satisfaction akin to completing
The Times
crossword. He couldn't imagine why he hadn't thought of the driver before. Very distinctly he remembered the first time he had seen the man, advancing threateningly towards the crowd of boys who mobbed Christopher Milton outside the Welsh Dragon Club. He remembered how the driver had been halted by a gesture and how he had hovered protectively until the star wanted to leave. Like a bodyguard. It was quite logical that Christopher Milton should have a bodyguard. People in the public eye are instant targets for freaks and lunatics. And in a way everything untoward that had happened on the show could be put down to an exaggerated interpretation of a bodyguard's rôle. Whether the man interpreted it that way for himself or at someone else's suggestion was a detail which could wait until there was some actual evidence of guilt.

In Charles' new mood of logical confidence he felt sure that proof would not be difficult to find now that he had a definite quarry. He took his sheet of paper with the winning formula on it and burnt it carefully in the grate of the fireplace, pulverising the black ash until it could yield nothing to forensic science. Even as he did so, a sneaking suspicion that he concentrated too much on the irrelevancies of detection started to bore a tiny hole in his shell of confidence.

‘Charles, what the hell's going on?'

‘What do you mean, Gerald?'

‘Well, there's a little piece in the
Evening Standard
about this M.D. being run over.'

‘Ah.'

‘It also mentions Kevin being mugged in Leeds. No comment, just a juxtaposition of the two facts. It's worse than if they actually said it's a bad luck show.'

‘Oh, come on. If someone's run over, it doesn't necessarily mean there's anything odd. Accidents do happen.'

‘But don't you think this is another in the series?'

‘As a matter of fact I do, but nobody else does. There's no talk about it in the company, beyond the sort of relish actors always have for dramatic situations.'

‘Have the Press made much of it down there?'

‘Not a lot. Small report, just the facts. M.D. of
Lumpkin!
– hit and run driver in stolen car – details of injuries, that's all.'

‘What were his injuries?'

‘Mainly bruising. I think he may also have broken his patella.'

‘His what?'

‘Kneecap to you.'

‘And he's out of the show?'

‘Certainly for a bit. Leon Schultz has taken over as M.D..'

‘Has he?' Gerald sounded gratified. ‘Ah, well, it's an ill wind. Good. I always said they should have got a big name from the start rather than that boy. It'll bump the budget up a bit.'

The welfare of the show seemed to be Gerald's only concern. So long as his investment was protected, nothing else mattered. Charles felt bitter, particularly as his friend continued, ‘But look, do keep a watchful eye on Christopher Milton. If he gets clobbered, the show really is a non-starter.'

‘And if anyone else gets clobbered, it doesn't matter?'

‘Well, yes, it does, of course, because it's very bad publicity for the show, but it's Christopher Milton who's the important one. And they must be aiming for him eventually, otherwise there's no point in all this, is there?'

‘That's not the way I see it. I don't think I should worry about Christopher Milton; I should be protecting everyone else in the show.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Nothing. I can't explain it now. Suffice to say that my view of the case has changed since we last spoke.'

‘Oh. But do you know who's doing it all?'

‘Yes. I think I do.'

‘Well, get him arrested and stop him.'

‘I haven't got any evidence yet.'

‘Then get some.'

‘I will.'

Charles felt furiously angry when he put the phone down. The whole thing was getting out of proportion. The protection of Christopher Milton must continue, whoever got hurt on the way. It was hearing such blinkered lack of consideration from Gerald that made him so cross. The world, even his friends, would forgive anything done in the name of Christopher Milton. Gerald had asked for evidence and an arrest and he'd get them, though they might not be what he expected. Charles felt a wave of anger against the whole star set-up, the charming public persona that needed the support of thuggery to survive. Whether or not Christopher Milton was directly involved in the crimes, the rottenness and meanness of what had been going on should be exposed to the public. From now on Charles wasn't working for Gerald Venables representing Arthur Balcombe. He was working for himself.

After the Thursday show, he dressed carefully for his midnight jaunt. As an actor, he knew how much the right costume could help in a difficult rôle, and the rôle in which he had cast himself was a very difficult one.

He wore a pair of his own black trousers and a black sweater borrowed from Julian (in what he hoped was a casual manner). He had bought a pair of plimsolls in Woolworth's and, since Woolworth's don't sell ready-dirtied plimsolls for house-breakers, he had shabbied them up with earth from Julian's garden. Other investments were a balaclava helmet and a pencil torch. He knew the preparations were over-elaborate, but they took his mind off what he had to do.

With the balaclava on, he looked like a very young photograph of himself as Second Sentry in
Coriolanus
(‘Leaden production' –
Richmond and Twickenham Times
). Without it, he looked a cross between himself as Lightborn in a modern dress
Edward II
(‘Flamboyantly sinister' –
Birmingham Evening Mail
) and as Jimmy Porter in
Look Back in Anger
(‘Ill-considered' –
Luton Evening Post
). He crept down the stairs to the front door and realised he was using the walk he'd perfected for
Rookery Nook
(‘Uneven' –
Jewish Telegraph
).

Unfortunately he met Julian coming in. ‘Where are you going dressed like that, Charles? You look as if you're about to commit a burglary.'

That didn't help.

Residents of the Holiday Inn in Bristol park their cars in the adjacent multi-storey car park. It was a simple matter to walk in. He found Christopher Milton's distinctive Rolls on the first level without any problem.

And his luck held. The Corniche was unlocked. He slipped in by the passenger door and closed it quickly to douse the interior light. He reached to get the torch out of his pocket, but his hand was shaking too much. He closed his eyes and practised rib-reserve breathing, trying to keep the thought of what he was doing at bay. But a schoolboy fear of being found out remained. He wished he could remember some of the relaxation exercises various experimental directors had tried to put him through. None came.

Still, the deep breathing helped. He opened his eyes and, very slowly, like a man under water, he got out the torch and switched it on.

The glove pocket opened easily. A tin of boiled sweets came first into the light. He prised it open and found nothing but the sugary debris that should have been there. Next a large stiff envelope. He felt inside. The shiny surface of photographs. He pulled one out and shone the torch on it. Christopher Milton grinned cheerily at him. Fan photographs. The sight of the familiar face brought on another pang of guilt. At the same moment he noticed that his thumb had left a perfect print on the photograph. The light caught it on the shiny surface. That was one that the police wouldn't need powder to spot. He wiped at it roughly, but seemed only to add more prints. He shoved the photograph back into the envelope and replaced it.

Sweat prickled on his hands and he thought he'd done enough. His grandiose schemes for following the raid on the car with a search of the driver's hotel bedroom were evaporating fast.

Finish the glove pocket and go. He ran his fingers along the angle at the back and felt some small bead-like objects under his finger-nails. He picked one out, held it between thumb and forefinger and turned the light on it.

And at that moment his whole attitude to what he was doing changed. What he held was a small-waisted piece of lead. The shape was unmistakable. It was an airgun pellet. Just the sort of airgun pellet which had hit
Lumpkin!
's first rehearsal pianist in the hand on the second day of rehearsal. It was evidence.

He grabbed three or four more of the slugs and put them in his pocket. His panic had changed to surging confidence. He reached forward for one more sweep into the glove pocket and his hand closed round the firm outline of a small bottle. Hardly daring to hope, he drew it out and flashed the torch on it. LIQUID PARAFFIN (Liquid Paraffin BP). The bottle was half-empty. He could not believe his good fortune.

There was a noise of a door banging. He turned. Someone was coming from the direction of the hotel. A guest going to another car. He'd wait for them to drive off and then beat a hasty retreat. He shrank down into the leather seat and slipped the balaclava helmet over his head. He pulled it round to cover his face.

The silence was unnaturally long. No slam of a car door, no choking of an engine. He began to think that the visitor must have gone out down the ramp and slowly eased himself up to look.

At that moment there was a click of the door opening and he felt light through the latticed wool of the balaclava. He was face to face with Christopher Milton's driver, who was leaning forward to get into the car.

The man's eyes bulged as he saw the intruder and in shock he jerked his head back sharply. There was a loud crack which shook the car and he slid gracefully from view.

Charles, his mind full of ugly pugilistic visions, edged slowly across to the driver's seat and looked down over the edge.

The driver lay neatly on the ground with his eyes closed. He was out cold. Charles got out of the car, shut the door to put the light out and turned his torch on the body on the ground.

There was no blood. Regular breathing. Strong heart-beat. Strong pulse. Probably just concussion. He loosened the man's tie and put a cushion from the back of the car under his head.

Then, with the precious pellets and bottle in his pocket, Charles crept down the stairs out of the garage. As he emerged into the street, he removed the balaclava.

There was a phone-box opposite. It seemed a natural conclusion to the dream-like flow of luck which had characterised the previous half-hour. Charles dialled and asked for the ambulance service in his own voice before thinking to disguise it. When he was connected, he had a moment's agonising decision choosing a voice. Northern Irish seemed the most natural for this sort of thing, but it might be unduly alarmist in a bomb-conscious Britain. The voice that came to hand was American-Italian. Sounding like something out of
The Godfather
, he said, ‘Could you send an ambulance to the big car park beside the Holiday Inn.' He was tempted to say, ‘There's a stiff there', but made do with, ‘There's somebody injured'.

‘What's happened to them?' asked the voice and it was only by putting the phone down that Charles could prevent himself from saying, ‘Someone made him an offer he couldn't refuse'.

He hung about until he saw the ambulance safely arrived, and then went briskly back to Julian's place, using the walk he'd developed when playing a gangster in
Guys and Dolls
(‘This guy didn't like it and nor did the doll he was with' –
Bolton Evening News
).

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHARLES WOKE IN an excellent mood. The events of the previous night were very clear to him. It was as if he had found the instant cure-all he had always dreamed must exist somewhere. All his problems had been resolved at once. He now had evidence of the wrong-doing of the driver and just to make his job easier, the driver himself was temporarily removed from the scene. There was still the minor question of what he should do about it – confront the villain and threaten police proceedings, go direct to the police or send them an anonymous deposition advising investigation – but that would keep. The warm completed-
Times
-crossword sensation had developed into an even better feeling, as if his solution to the puzzle had won a prize.

Helen Paddon cooked him an enormous breakfast, which he consumed with that relish which only a fulfilled mind can give. She was pleased to have something to do. The last heavy weeks of pregnancy were dragging interminably.

He finished breakfast about nine and took the unusual expedient of ringing Gerald at home. After pleasantries and must-see-you-soons from Kate Venables, the solicitor came on the line. ‘What gives?' he asked in his B-film gangster style.