‘No, just for fun. Practice.’
‘Well, I think it’s about time you did some work. You seem to have taken the three-day week to heart too quickly.’
‘Three-day week?’
‘Don’t you read the papers?’
‘I haven’t yet this morning.’
‘Heath’s going to put the whole country on a three-day week. Save power. And stop television at half-past ten in the evening.’
‘Really.’
‘Yes. Think of all the ten per cents of all those series I won’t be getting. Johnny Wilson had a repeat scheduled for late evening. That’ll be off.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not very in touch.’
‘I’ll say. Look, you know that Softly Softly I said might be coming up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it hasn’t.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘But there is something. Had a call from the casting director of a new horror film yesterday. They’re looking for someone to play this sort of deformed hunchback, part werewolf, part vampire. I told them you were made for the part.’
‘Thank you very much.’
Silence punctuated with gasps from the other end of the line showed that Maurice was roaring with laughter at his own witticism. He always laughed noiselessly, his jaw snapping up and down as he took in great gulps of air. Charles waited until he’d recovered sufficiently to continue.
‘Sorry, just a little joke. But really, it is that sort of part. They seemed quite keen when I mentioned you. Said “Yes, we like using the old fifties stars everyone’s forgotten.”’
‘Thank you again. What would it involve?’
‘Two weeks’ filming early January-if this three-day week nonsense doesn’t interfere. At some stately home. Forget where exactly, but within reach of London.’
‘Hmm. What’s the film called?’
‘The Zombie Walks!’
‘Oh God. Who’s directing?’
‘Never heard of him. Some name like Rissole. It’s being set up by Steenway Productions.’
‘Oh really. I’ll take it. Check the dates.’
‘Your diary’s not exactly crowded, is it?’
‘Money good?’
‘Goodish. I’ll ask for double.’
‘Good lad. Thanks for that.’
‘My pleasure. If I don’t do things for you, you’re clearly not going to do anything for yourself.’
‘Cheerio, Maurice. Keep smiling.’
‘What, with my worries? Cheerio.’
Work, too. And dressing-up. Charles was beginning to feel unaccountably cheerful. He rather relished the idea of secret investigations. With a jaunty step he went upstairs to his room to continue making-up.
Disguise is a matter of presenting oneself to the person deceived in an unexpected context. Then come tricks of stance and movement. Actual changing of colouring and features are less important. And Charles was quite pleased with his disguise. Certainly Joanne Menzies appeared not to recognise him, although he’d rather regretted choosing the character of Detective-Sergeant McWhirter of Scotland Yard when she revealed that she’d been brought up near the Kyles of Bute. But she seemed to accept the Glaswegian accent and his story of having left Scotland for London in his teens.
He had phoned her at Milton Buildings, saying that he had a routine enquiry to make about the Datsun, would have asked for Mr Marius Steen but, owing to the recent regrettable happening, wondered if she could help. She was efficiently affable, and invited him to come round straight away. So there he was, on the Friday morning, sitting opposite her, in the same chair that, only a week before, Charles Paris had occupied.
Detective-Sergeant McWhirter wore a nondescript brown and green suit, a Marks and Spencer pale yellow shirt and brown knitted tie. His shoes were stout brown brogues, suitable for the tramping from place to place which takes up most of a detective’s time. When he entered the room he had hung up a pale mackintosh and a trilby hat. His hair was dark brown and slicked back with Brylcreem. He had thick horn-rimmed glasses, a heavy shadow and rather bad teeth. On his wedding finger was a worn gold band. He was the sort of man nobody would look at twice. No doubt a conscientious worker; no doubt a good husband and father; but totally unremarkable.
Miss Menzies couldn’t be very helpful about the Datsun, though she answered all his questions very readily. Detective-Sergeant McWhirter explained that he was investigating a robbery in Pangbourne on Saturday night. An eye-witness claimed to have seen a yellow Datsun in the area at the relevant time, and McWhirter was painstakingly investigating all of the local Datsun-owners. The local police had told him that Mr Steen possessed such a vehicle, and he was just making a routine check on the whereabouts of the car at that time.
Miss Menzies felt certain it was in the garage at Mr Steen’s Orme Gardens house all over the weekend. When Mr Steen rang on Friday afternoon to say he wasn’t certain whether or not he was returning to London at the weekend, she had checked the petrol in the car in case he might want it.
‘This was Mr Marius Steen who rang?’
‘No. This was his son Nigel. He rang to say that he was coming up to town that evening…’
‘The Friday?’
‘Yes. But that his father was still deep in his scripts, and wasn’t sure of his movements. So I thought I’d better get some petrol in case Mr Marius Steen did come up to town over the weekend. You know what it’s like getting petrol at the moment.’
Detective-Sergeant McWhirter nodded sagely, imagining his eleven-year-old Morris Traveller and the increasing difficulties of driving the wife and kids around. The foam rubber pads in Charles Paris’ cheeks were beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable.
‘I was lucky,’ Miss Menzies continued. ‘I managed to get a full tank. It’s the garage I always go to.’
‘And the tank still registered full on the Monday?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it wouldn’t have done that if it had been driven down to Streatley and back?’
‘Good heavens, no.’ Miss Menzies looked at him as if he was mad.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Detective-Sergeant McWhirter stolidly. ‘I do have to check all the details. Some cars have a petrol gauge that stays on full for a long time. If it’s not properly adjusted.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. The Datsun’s does actually. It stays on “full” for quite a while and then drops rather fast.’
‘But it wouldn’t stay on full all the way to Streatley and back?’
‘No. It’s pretty good on petrol, but not that good. Might just about make it one way without registering, but certainly not both. Anyway, nobody could have got into the garage at Orme Gardens. It’s always locked.’
‘Of course. Sorry about all this. We have to check. I’m afraid a detective’s life is mostly spent chasing up blind alleys and wasting people’s time.’
‘That’s quite all right.’
‘Good.’ Detective-Sergeant McWhirter rose to leave and then paused. ‘That was very good of you, to look after the petrol. Part of your normal secretarial duties?’
‘I am more of a personal assistant to Mr Steen than a secretary. I mean, I was.’
There was just a slight chink in her armour and he pressed a little further. ‘Yes. A sad loss.’
‘Yes.’ He noticed how strained she was looking, much older than a week before. Though she was still immaculately groomed, there seemed somehow less poise about her, as if appearances remained, but the will had gone.
‘So I suppose it’s all up to the son now.’
‘I suppose so.’ She couldn’t disguise the contempt she felt.
‘Always sad for the family, this sort of thing. Is his wife still
… er…’
‘She died years ago.’
‘Ah. And he never thought of remarrying?’
‘No, he didn’t.’ She pronounced the words with sudden emphasis, and Charles saw clearly the situation which Jacqui’s words-’ She liked Marius’-had hinted at. Joanne Menzies had loved Marius Steen. Whether the love had ever been reciprocated or consummated he didn’t know-though Steen’s reputation made it likely-but the new fact opened interesting avenues of thought. She loved Steen, and she was passionately against his remarriage. The controlled force of her emotion when speaking of it had been frightening. A woman with feelings of that intensity might be capable of any action if she thought the man she loved was seriously in love with someone else. It added a new dimension to the picture.