1 Reported in Coffin Scarcely Used
Hatch explained briskly. “Doctor Hillyard, she’s talking about. Dead now—died in prison, actually. Bit of a local scandal.” He frowned and gave a private little shake of the head to warn Baxter that Mrs Shooter might find further reminiscence painful.
“What’s loopy loo?” Baxter asked.
Mrs Shooter emerged from sad reflection with another of her high-humoured hoots. “Hey, didn’t you tell him?” she asked Hatch.
“I didn’t want him to tangle with Tony.”
She nodded. “Very wise.” Then she hitched herself forward in her chair and smoothed her capacious lap, in the manner of someone about to tell a bedtime story. Baxter noticed for the first time how white and shapely were her arms, how sensuous her style of moving them.
“Loopy loo,” began Mrs Shooter, “is a very nasty, mean trick, son, and it just shows how careful you’ve got to be these days. Now, then, we’ll suppose for the sake of argument that I’m Sally Hoylake and that gentleman”—she indicated Hatch—“is Tony Grapelli, which you’ll understand is the name of Sal’s business manager. And suppose—just for the sake of argument, of course—that you fancy a nice little gallop, if you follow my meaning, and that you give me the wink that I’m under starter’s orders...”
She paused, as if to satisfy herself that Baxter grasped the hypothesis, however fantastic.
“Right. So what I do is to go along on the quiet to Mr Hatch here, so that he can make arrangements in good time. He’s on the hotel staff, you see, so he has the run of the place and can get into rooms. You follow my meaning?
“When you’ve had a few more drinks, I slip away with you and off we go to the bedroom where I’ve led you on to believe that intimacy will take place, but what actually happens is this—and I hope you’ll not be embarrassed, because I can’t explain properly without being a little bit personal.” She turned. “Can I, Mr Hatch?”
“Mr Baxter’s a man of the world, I think, Mabs.”
“Oh, I am glad.” She patted Baxter’s thigh in the manner of an affectionate dog fancier. “I wouldn’t like you to be offended, son. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we get into bed in an unclothed state and with the light out and I permit certain liberties that I don’t have to describe but you know what I mean, and anyway they’re just to encourage you while I reach under the pillow for what Tony—or Mr Hatch, rather—has put there ready.
“The next thing you know, son, is that I’ve got hold of your little old member of parliament and you think, well, it’s only nature and very nice, too, and when you hear me whistle you take it as a compliment.
“But it isn’t, son. It’s my signal to Mr Hatch down there under the window, which he’s left a little bit open. And before you know what’s happened, that noose’s run tight on your little old m.p. and you’re out of bed and being reeled in like a bloody salmon.”
There was silence. Then Baxter muttered “Christ!” and took a swig of whisky.
“A very nasty trick,” said Mrs Shooter, solemnly. Tucking in her chin, she squinted down at her bosom and brushed away a crumb.
“What would she...I mean, what would you do after that?” Baxter inquired.
“Oh, just take my time, son. Put my clothes back on. Go through your pockets and your luggage. Then goodnight and thank you very much and out. There’s nothing you’d be able to do. Mr Hatch here would have hauled you tight up against the window, you see, and given his end of the cord a couple of turns round something handy to keep you anchored.”
Baxter paled a little.
Mrs Shooter gave his leg a reassuring slap. “Mind you, he’d cast off once he knew I was clear. Mr Hatch would, I mean, because he’s a gentleman. I can’t speak for Tony, though. Very spiteful, is Tony. He reckons to be a stable lad by trade, but they’ll not let him among the horses.”
Another ten minutes passed in pleasant small talk over fresh drinks, Mrs Shooter having switched from tea to gin in order to be sociable. Baxter judged her relationship with Hatch to be professionally correct, yet amiable. He felt sad that Sucro-wip Products had failed to attract managerial material of comparable attractiveness.
“The real reason for our calling,” Hatch said at last, “is that we’re both feeling a bit in need of a sniff at the flowers.”
Mrs Shooter smiled indulgently. Baxter supposed that one of their private jokes was in the air.
“Your Lily’s at liberty,” said Mrs Shooter to Hatch. “And what about Daisy for Mr Baxter?”
Hatch stroked his nose a moment. “Aye,” he said. “I think they might do.”
“They’re hostessing at the moment, but I can easily take them off. Where would you like to be put? There’s seven and eight. Your friend would like number eight; it’s lovely and quiet up at that end.”
Mrs Shooter had been consulting a sheet of paper. She now glanced up, as if to remind herself of what Baxter looked like, and added softly to Hatch: “Unless he’s a Special Requirements? Rose is still off with her back, you know.”
“No, that’s all right. Daisy will do fine.” Hatch gave a friendly nod to Baxter, who was trying not to appear uncomfortable. “Chef’s recommendation,” he said waggishly; then to Mrs Shooter, “We’re not staying, love. We’ll run the girls round to my place.”
Mrs Shooter’s helpful smile faded. “Oh, now wait a minute, Mr Hatch. I’m not sure that that’s quite on. I mean, this isn’t a Chinese restaurant, or something, doing take-away meals.”
Baxter laughed nervously.
“Rubbish, old duck,” said Hatch. He took a pinch of her cheek and wobbled it fondly. She tolerated this intimacy for a moment, then affected impatience and brushed his hand away.
“That’s all very well, and I know you’re the boss, but I’m responsible for those girls. I like to be sure they’re not getting into any trouble.”
“Hell, woman, what do you want—a deposit?”
“It’s not wise, Mr Hatch, this off-the-premises stuff. It really isn’t wise, I’m warning you.”
Hatch stepped to the door and beckoned Baxter. “We’ll wait in the car,” he said to Mrs Shooter. “Send them out straight away, there’s a good lass.” He departed in an almost off-hand manner, like a customer pocketing a small and unimportant purchase from a shop. Baxter faltered a few seconds in the doorway, gave Mrs Shooter a little bow and a perplexed smile, and followed.
“You’re asking for trouble, son,” said Margaret Shooter to her empty boudoir.
Chapter Six
Mrs Shooters’s dire prognostication was fulfilled within the hour in the shape of the most remarkable public exhibition that ever, so far as anyone remembered, had affronted the inhabitants of Partney Avenue and Arnhem Crescent.