The Secret Tunnel (19 page)

“William Andrews sent us.”

His mouth went into a tight little circle, and he paced up and down for a while, his slippers slapping against his stockinged heels. “And what did Mr. Andrews suggest you might find here?”

The true answer was “nothing”; I wasn’t even certain whether Andrews had dropped the paper on purpose. “I was hoping you might be able to answer a few questions.”

“Oh, yes. I ’ope you’re not the long arm of the law.”

“On the contrary. In fact, I hope to rescue Mr. Andrews from its clutches.”

“Hmmmm…”

“You don’t seem surprised to learn that he’s in trouble.”

“Me, dear? I’m never surprised by anything. But that Andrews… He’s been riding for a fall for some time.”

“In what way?”

“The usual way. Wanting more than he can reasonably expect. Breaking the rules. Getting greedy.”

“Greedy? You mean he was involved in some kind of racket?”

“Oh, no, dear. Very upright gentleman, indeed, from what I could make out. Always turned ’is nose up at some of our more…colorful members. No, ’e’s one of them as wants to ’ave ’is cake and eat it.”

Bertrand was finding this hard to follow.

“Please explain yourself,” I said.

“Let’s have a little drink.” He poured neat gin into three glasses, took a swig, and smacked his lips. “There. That’s better. I always find a nip of something around this time of
day stimulates the memory. Now, where were we? Your Mr. Andrews. Well, yes, a very proper gentleman, indeed. Not the sort we’re used to at the Rookery. It’s all a bit rough and ready here, you see.” He pursed his lips. “Some very troublesome sorts we get. Theatricals, a lot of them, and quite honestly they’ve got the manners of a pigsty. They treat the place like some kind of knocking shop—”

“Knocking shop?” Bertrand frowned. “A shop where you sell…
Quoi
?”

“Oh, come on, dear, you have plenty of ’em in France.”

Bertrand rolled his eyes, but was obviously tired of explaining himself. “Ah, I see. That sort of shop.”

“And is the Rookery a knocking shop, by any chance?”

“Certainly not.” The old man gathered his moth-eaten cardigan around him. “The very idea. It is a gentleman’s club. I do not like to pry on what goes on in the privacy of the upper rooms, but there is certainly nothing as common as prostitution under my roof. Really. The very thought. ’Ave another gin.”

“No, I’m—” I protested, but he filled our glasses to the brim. I took a sip and continued. “So. Tell me all about William Andrews.”

“What’s in it for me, dear? And why should I trust you? Couple of foreigners, that’s all I know about you, coming in here without any enquiry about membership…”

He wanted money. I laid five pounds on the table.

“That should cover it, I imagine.”

“For now, dear, that will do nicely.” He screwed the money up and put it into a pocket. “Well, now. Mr. Andrews. Oh, dear, oh, dear. Where shall I begin?”

“Why did you call him greedy?”

“He got the idea, dear, that he and his friend were going to start a new life together, and live happily every after.”

“And why shouldn’t they?”

“Well, for one thing, Mr. Andrews was married.”

“Pah. They are all married,” said Bertrand.

“True enough, dear, but we learn not to look too closely at ring fingers at the Rookery. What they do in their home life is no concern of mine. But what I will not have is people rocking the boat.”

“Meaning?”

“Saying things that are better left unsaid. Things that would be of interest in a court of law. Upsetting the other members.”

“Had Andrews upset anyone in particular?”

“Yes, ’e ’ad. ’E got into some right barneys, especially after a few drinks. Standing up like ’e was at Speakers’ Corner, telling anyone who would listen that ’e should have the right to live as ’e chose, that society ’ad no right to condemn, and so on and so forth. I’ve ’eard it all me life, dear, and all I can say is, fine words butter no parsnips.”

Bertrand looked puzzled again.

“Who did he argue with, in particular?”

“There was one night, just before Christmas it was, when he was in here with that friend of ’is, nice-looking piece—”

“Dark hair? Deep-set eyes? Welsh?”

“That’s the one, dear. Well, they’d been staying for a couple of nights, then off ’e goes, the friend, always disappearing, up to no good, if you ask me, very secretive in ’is ways… And there’s your Mr. Andrews in ’ere, knocking back the firewater, going on about how unfair ’is life was, ’ow ’e wished ’e’d never married, bla, bla, bla. So one of my gentlemen ups and says, ‘Well, if you’re so bloody sorry that you got married why don’t you ’ave the courage of your convictions and leave ’er?’ Oh, ’e didn’t like that, your Mr. Andrews. ‘I can’t just walk out on me kids,’ ’e says. ‘I’ve got responsibilities. It’s not that simple.’ On and on they go, and it almost came to blows. Imagine! Here! In a respectable establishment! Fighting like cats.”

“So he had enemies?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. It was just a silly bitch fight. I’m used to them. I only mean to say that Andrews was a liability, and I’m not surprised if he’s in some kind of trouble.”

“But if you could just tell me who—”

“Now, if you gentlemen have quite finished helping yourself to my gin, we have a party here tonight and I haven’t even started getting ready.”

“Any particular occasion?” His eyes followed my hand as it went once more toward my wallet.

“Well, it ain’t the king’s birthday…”

I got my wallet out.

“It’s a theatrical affair, really…”

“Yes?”

“Invitations are practically impossible to secure.”

“I’m sure you could do something, Mr.…”

“Marchmont.”

“Mr. Marchmont. My friend and I are eager to come.”

“Well, then.” He snatched two pound notes out of my hand. “I’ll see what I can do. The revels commence at midnight.”

This was proving to be an expensive case, I reflected, as Marchmont pushed us out the door and onto the street. My wallet was almost empty, and I knew it was no good applying to Bertrand for a loan.

“Perhaps,” he said, “it is time for me to launch myself at my uncle.”

 

Alone in London, my first instinct was to go looking for adventure—and here was Soho, famed haunt of vice, at my very feet.

Soho—that reminded me. I still had Dickinson’s card in my pocket, and an address for the British-American Film Company, not five minutes’ walk away. That would be my next port of call—to find out more about Daisy Athenasy and her long-suffering husband, Herbert Waits.

British-American was situated on the top two floors of a dingy Victorian building at the northern end of Wardour Street; it must once have looked splendid, with its decorative stone flourishes and leaded windows, but now it was dirty and decayed, split up into half a dozen offices, covered in soot and pigeon shit.

“Fourth floor,” said the bored receptionist, without even looking me in the eye.

The waiting room was full, both of people and of smoke. Three young women and four young men were reading magazines and sharing cigarettes; as soon as I appeared in the doorway, the stream of gossip stopped, and seven pairs of eyes were fixed on me. Four of those pairs were heavily outlined in kohl, at least three heads of hair had been bleached and one hennaed, and it was impossible to discern who was wearing which scent, as the room was heavy with the stuff. They were unmistakably actors, all of them several rungs down the ladder from the Bankheads and Taylors of the profession. Why, some of the girls even made Daisy Athenasy look high class.

“Oh, God,” sighed one of the young men, a fey little creature with beautiful green eyes, his brown, wavy locks held back off his face with bobby pins. “Now I’ll never have a chance. I might as well leave right now.”

“You’d better make yourself known, dear,” said the redhead, who had possibly modeled herself on Clara Bow. “Oi, Gladys!” she screamed, in a voice more suited to a fish market than a theater. “More meat for the mincer!”

A frosted glass hatch shot open, and yet more smoke poured into the already stuffy room. “Name,” demanded an amphibious voice from beyond.

“I’m actually here to ask a few questions—”

“Name, dear. I haven’t got all day,” came the croaked reply.

“Mitchell.”

“First name?”

“Mitch.”

“Oooh! American!” trilled the boys and girls in the waiting room. “How thrilling!”

“Sit down, Mitchell.” I could only see the top of Gladys’s head, which was crowned with a dense gray bun. “You’ll be called.” A mottled hand shot up, and the hatch was closed.

“Not seen you before,” said Bobby Pins, winding his legs around each other. “You’re new.” It sounded like an accusation.

“Well, actually I—”

“You done any pictures in America? Do you know D. W. Griffith? Lillian Gish?”

“No, I’m not a—”

“Fancy a bit of rehearsal? I could go over your…lines.”

“He don’t need your help,” said Clara Bow. “He looks like a lady-killer to me.”

“Oooh! Dream on, Betty! If anyone’s going to get killed round here, it’s not you.”

“That’s enough talk about killing,” said the only possibly straight-looking man in the room, a handsome lad with dark hair and a pronounced dimple in his chin. “Under the circumstances, and all…”

“What circumstances?” I asked.

“Ooh, don’t you know?” screeched Bobby Pins. “Daisy’s muddled up in a murder. Too shameful!” He lowered his voice. “Mind you, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Bertie framed her for it, to get her out of his way. I mean it stands to reason—”

“You’d better shut your mouth,” said Dimples. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“I know plenty,” said Bobby Pins. “And what I don’t know, I’m prepared to guess.”

The hatch shot open. “Billy Vain and Betty LaMarre!”

“Ooh, that’s us dear,” said Bobby Pins, grabbing one
of the blonde girls who had been deeply absorbed in a fan magazine. “Wish us luck!”

“Break a leg,” said Clara Bow.

“Break both,” muttered Dimples.

Amid much flapping of wrists, Billy and Betty departed. This left six of us in the waiting room: Clara Bow, Dimples, another dark-eyed blonde girl almost indistinguishable from Betty LaMarre, and a couple of other young men. One was another obvious queen, licking his fingers as he flicked through a magazine, occasionally repositioning one of his peroxide spit curls, watching the world through dead eyes. The other was of much more interest to me, a short, freckle-faced redhead who looked as if he’d stepped straight off a building site. He was nervous, smoking heavily, and looked almost as out of place as I felt.

“So what are you up for, Buddy Rogers?” asked Clara Bow, exhaling a long stream of smoke at me, in that way that looks seductive on screen but is disgusting in real life.

“Me? Same as you, I guess,” I replied.

The two magazine-reading blondes snickered.

“Funny,” said Clara, “you don’t look the type. But then you really can’t tell these days, can you?”

“What’s the…er…name of the picture?” I gathered that we were all auditioning for something. My question elicited more shrieks and snorts from the blond corner.

“Oh, darling,” husked Clara, “I’m not sure if these pictures ever have titles. Do they, Clive? You’d done enough of them to know.”

Dimples blushed and nervously pushed back his hair. “I really couldn’t say.”

“Now take Clive, here,” continued Clara. “To look at him you’d think he was, I don’t know, a bank clerk, or a schoolteacher, or a soldier, or something, wouldn’t you? Something normal, at any rate.”

“Shut up, Vicky.”

“A family man, with a wife and a baby tucked away in the suburbs. Reads the paper on the train to work every morning, does an honest day’s labor, then hurries home to a nice plate of stew every evening.”

“For Christ’s sake.” Clive stood up and went to the door.

“But not our Clive. He’s found other ways to make a living, haven’t you, darling? Much more interesting than pushing paper in a bank. Well, it takes all sorts, that’s what I say. I don’t judge.”

“Just as well,” said the blond boy, not looking up from his magazine. His girlfriend nodded in agreement.

“What about you?” I turned to the redheaded boy, who sat silent throughout, bunching up his fists until the knuckles were pale.

“Yeah, you know… Just lookin’ for a bit of extra pocket money.”

“That’s what they all say, to start with,” said Clara Bow—or Vicky.

“I suppose so…” Ginger rubbed his fists up and down his sturdy thighs. He was wearing an old, ill-fitting suit for the occasion; the pants were shiny with wear. “Beats laying bricks for a living.”

The hatch flew open again, and the oracular Gladys croaked once more. “Clive Elliott. Sean Hanrahan. Mitch Mitchell.” Shooof! The hatch closed again.

“That’s not fair!” said the blonde girl in a grating whine. “We’ve been here for hours.”

“Patience, my sweet,” said Clive. “Your talents will be recognized one day.”

“Bitch,” spat the blonde, and returned to her reading.

A door was opened, and the three of us stepped into the inner sanctum—a cluttered office, jammed with desks and chairs and typewriters, into which the bright winter sunshine filtered through dirty windows. Gladys, now visible in
full for the first time, sat, vast and squat, at the communicating window. Other desks were staffed by a strange array of creatures, all bent over typewriters or in danger of being buried under piles of paper. A phone rang, unanswered.

“What do we do now?” I whispered to Clive.

“He’ll be down in a minute.”

“Who?”

“Well, not Cecil B. DeMille, I can tell you that much.”

Sean, the redhead, was shifting nervously from foot to foot; I felt like putting an arm around him.