He wondered whether he should ring his wife and tell her how close he had come to death. His relationship with Frances was once more in the doldrums. They had long ago separated, but ties remained and, like two pieces of wood floating down a river, they occasionally bounced back together again for brief periods. The love between them was too strong for either to form other permanent relationships, but soon after each reconciliation, the same old difficulties of living together reasserted themselves, and once again they would drift apart.
It had been a couple of months since their last such parting and, though he knew nothing would have changed, Charles needed to make contact again. Perhaps hearing that he had nearly swallowed a fatal dose of cyanide would make Frances forget their recent disagreements. It would be a good opening gambit, anyway.
He looked at his watch. No, of course not. It was a quarter to twelve in the morning. Frances was headmistress of a girls’ school. She wouldn’t mind his ringing her there in a real emergency, but just to mention casually that he’d nearly been poisoned. . forget it.
On the other hand, at that time of day the pubs would be open. After his shock, Charles felt he deserved a little pampering. He went down to his local and had a few pints. By the third he had forgotten about the idea of ringing Frances. And, if he thought anything about Barrett Doran’s death, it was only pity for the beautiful, sad girl who had been driven to such extremities by love.
And, but for a phone-call he received the next morning, he might have never thought any more about it.
The pampering of the previous lunchtime had escalated into evening pampering in various pubs and clubs where Charles always felt confident of meeting other actors. As a result, he was moving somewhat tentatively around his bedsitter, as if his exploding head was unattached and had to be balanced between his shoulders, when the telephone on the landing rang.
‘Hello.’ He hadn’t intended it to come out as a growl, but that was the only sound of which his voice was capable under the circumstances.
‘Could I speak to Charles Paris, please?’
‘This is he. . him.’
The caller then seemed to identify itself as ‘Sidney Danson’, which did not immediately ring bells. His fuddled mind was slowly registering that it was an unusually high voice for a man, when she mentioned West End Television and he knew where he was.
‘What can I do for you, Sydnee?’
‘It’s about Barrett Doran’s death.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘You know Chippy’s been arrested and charged, don’t you?’
‘I had heard.’
‘Well, I don’t think she did it. I just can’t imagine her. . not killing him.’
‘Ah.’
‘Could we get together and talk about it?’ She spoke very directly, with the confidence of someone who spent most of her working life on the telephone.
‘We can meet if you like, but I don’t think I’m going to be a lot of help to you. I didn’t see anything. I was only in the studio for that first round.’
‘I still think you could help.’
‘Hmm. Have you any reason for thinking Chippy didn’t do it?’
‘Instinct.’
‘Not always very reliable, I’m afraid, instinct. The police aren’t fools. On the whole, they don’t make an arrest until they’ve got a pretty good case worked out.’
Sydnee did not answer this objection. ‘I’d like to talk about it,’ she persisted.
‘Okay. When do you want to meet?’
‘Could you make it for a drink this evening after work?’
Charles was again reminded of how most people’s lives were defined by the boundaries of work, while at times the only structure in his own seemed to be imposed by licensing hours, but he didn’t comment. ‘Sure.’
‘Say. . half-past six?’
‘Fine. Where, down at W.E.T.?’
‘No. Better off the premises. Too many people with their own theories down here. Do you know Harry Cockers?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Cocktail bar. Covent Garden. Just off Floral Street.’
‘I’m sure I could find it. What, there at six-thirty?’
‘Yes.’
‘One thing, Sydnee. .’
‘Yes?’
‘Why did you get in touch with me?’
‘One of the Stage Managers here mentioned you. Mort Verdon. . you remember him?’
‘Sure.’
‘He said you’d sorted a few things out when those murders happened on the Strutters series.’
Charles felt childishly pleased as he put the phone down. He was amused by the idea that, while his acting career remained undistinguished, his reputation as an amateur detective was spreading.
The venue currently called Harry Cockers had been through many identities in the previous decade, as various kinds of bars and restaurants became fashionable. Its latest manifestation was very Thirties, with bright jagged lines along every surface, and wall-panels showing geometrically-stylised silhouettes of dancing figures in evening-dress. Overhead large fans swished.
It was full at that hour, and as he gazed at the clientele crowding the long bar, Charles felt infinitely old. The variegated flying-suits, the strident colours of fabrics and hair, the lurid make-up which would have been condemned at Drama School as ‘horribly over the top’, all seemed to point up the incongruity of his crumpled figure in its loyal sports jacket.
He needn’t have worried. The bright young things at the bar were far too involved in themselves and each other to notice him as he peered from flying-suit to flying-suit, trying to identify Sydnee.
She wasn’t there. At least, she wasn’t there unless she had dyed her hair another colour (which was of course not impossible). He sat at an empty table on the outskirts of the action. If she was there, she could find him. He knew his own appearance hadn’t changed in the last few days (or probably the last few decades).
He was gratified to discover that his invisibility did not extend to the staff. He had hardly sat down before a waiter, whose tail-coat and white tie seemed at odds with the yellow-and-green-striped hair and the Christmas Tree decoration dangling from the ear-lobe, materialised to take his order. He drew Charles’s attention to the infinite list of highly-priced cocktails on the card in front of him.
‘Er, just a large whisky, please.’
‘On the rocks?’
‘Please.’
The waiter vanished, very quickly to return with a tall glass so full of ice that the whisky had paled almost to invisibility, and a large bill.
Charles sipped his drink, while mortifying thoughts about how old and out of touch he was ran through his head.
Sydnee’s hair was still the same copper-beech colour when she appeared a few minutes later. Her flying-suit this time was electric blue.
‘Hi,’ she said, offering no apology for her lateness. Television time, Charles remembered, except for the unshakable rigidity of studio schedules, is always approximate.
‘Can I, er. .?’ He looked round for the waiter.
But she had already snapped her fingers to summon one, ordered herself a Screwdriver and ‘another of the same’ for him. Charles wasn’t used to being with these thoroughly emancipated women.
Sydnee didn’t bother with small talk, but went straight to the point. ‘I’m convinced Chippy didn’t kill Barrett, but I want you to prove that she didn’t.’
‘Is she a close friend of yours?’
‘Fairly close, yes. We’ve worked on a lot of shows together. Been off on a few long locations. You get to know people pretty well stuck for a wet six weeks in a hotel in Scotland.’
Charles nodded. There were people he had got to know pretty well in similar circumstances.
‘And, from what you know of her character, you don’t see her as a murderer?’
‘No way.’
‘What is she like?’
‘Well, she’s dramatic and she’s neurotic. Started as an actress before she went into stage management, so she tends to make a big production of everything. Also, looking like she does, she always has plenty of men after her. .