R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

Pushing through a side door marked Staff Only Keep Out, they found themselves in a darkened hall. At the far end of a well-lit stage a long-haired blonde girl, wearing nothing more than a bright-red bra and matching G-string, was twisting and gyrating to the repetitive thump of Ravel’s Bolero, which a pretty, golden-haired man in a floral shirt was bashing out on the stage piano.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” asked Webster.

“Definitely,” replied Frost.

They were halfway down the aisle when the music reached a climax and the girl suddenly twisted around, whipped off the bra with a flourish and stood bare-breasted, nipples quivering, arms triumphantly outstretched, panting with exertion, and smiling into the dark of the auditorium.

“No, no, no,” yelled a man’s voice from the front row.

“Yes, yes, yes!” cried Frost, thudding down the aisle.

“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Frost,” said Baskin. The girl looked startled, then embarrassed, and immediately covered her breasts with her hands.

“Get those bloody hands off,” called Baskin. “You’ve got to get used to people seeing you stripped. Flaunt them, darling, flaunt them.”

Baskin was slouched in one of the front-row-centre seats, an enormous cigar in his mouth pointing almost vertically upward like a Titan rocket ready for launch.

“Breaking in a new girl,” he explained as Webster and Frost filled the seats on either side of him. “She’s still a bit shy.”

“I reckon it’s your cigar that’s frightening her,” said Frost.

“From the beginning,” yelled Baskin. The girl put the bra back on and the pianist started butchering Ravel all over again.

“You got my money back yet?” asked Baskin.

“Not yet,” said Webster.

The three men sat side by side, talking to each other but looking straight ahead, their eyes glued to the stage where the blonde was working herself up into a fair simulation of erotic frenzy. The building reeked with the aphrodisiac combination of cigar smoke and female sweat.

“You’ve been up to your old tricks again, Harry,” reproached Frost, eyes dead ahead. “Putting your fright-eners on people. Wrecking their rooms.”

“Now don’t take the bra off so quickly,” pleaded Baskin. “Get the audience drooling for you to unpack your goodies. Tease them, just like you teased me last night.” He turned his head to Frost. “Don’t know what you’re talking about Inspector. I don’t put the frighteners on people. I’m a respectable businessman. She’s got terrific knockers, hasn’t she?”

“Has she?” said Frost vaguely. “I was so engrossed in the music, I didn’t notice. Tell me something, Harry. Do you know Roger Miller?”

Baskin flicked about half a pound of ash from the end of his cigar. “The MP’s son? Of course I know him. He plays the gee-gees. Knocks around with one of my show girls.”

“How’s his luck with the horses?”

Baskin shrugged. “Sometimes he wins, but not often. Usually he loses. His trouble is he doesn’t know when to stop. He burned his fingers last month doubling up. Would have cost me a packet had he won, but, thank God, he didn’t.”

“Does he owe you any money?”

Baskin waggled his cigar reproachfully. “My client’s personal affairs are strictly confidential.”

“Very reassuring,” said Frost. “You should be a doctor at a VD clinic. Gawd, look at that!” The girl had reached the end of her routine and stood stark naked in the centre of the stage, the spotlight sparkling on tiny dewdrops of sweat which glistened on her body like jewels. Frost nudged Webster heavily in the ribs. “The Intimate Bikini Styler Strikes again!” he commented coarsely.

Applauding loudly, Baskin leaped from his seat then he made a circle with his forefinger and thumb and kissed it wetly. “Perfect, darling, absolutely perfect… take a breather.” She draped a red bathrobe over her shoulders, straddled a rickety chair, and began talking earnestly with the pianist, looking even more erotic half covered than she did when she was naked.

“You know Roger Miller’s Jaguar?” asked Frost, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the girl.

“Concorde on four wheels? Yes, I know it. Why?”

“It knocked down an old man last night,” said Frost, watching Baskin closely.

“Oh yes?” murmured Baskin, apparently more concerned with getting his cigar to draw properly.

“The old man died,” continued the inspector.

A streamer of smoke drifted from Baskin’s mouth and lazily twisted and turned as it hit the beam of the spotlight. “I always knew he’d end up killing someone. He drives like a bloody maniac’

“Is he a good customer?” asked Frost.

“He’s a good customer when he wins,” Baskin replied.

“Trouble is, when he loses he don’t want to pay. You have to give him a little nudge.”

“Put in the frighteners, you mean?”

Baskin laughed out a cloud of smoke. “Frighteners? You’re becoming obsessed with that word, Inspector. I sent one of my accounts executives round to his flat to remind him of his obligations. Mr. Miller apologized for his regrettable oversight and immediately gave him a cheque in full settlement.”

“When was this?” asked Webster.

“Two days ago. Why? How come it’s of interest to you?”

It’s of no bloody interest at all, thought Frost dejectedly. Another of his theories had been well and truly booted in the groin. If Miller didn’t owe Baskin any money, then Baskin had no cause to nick Miller’s Jag for a joyride. “Come on son,” he told Webster, ‘time to go.”

They were out amongst the beer crates when Frost stopped dead in his tracks. He looked back at the rehearsal hall and a smile crawled across his face. He jabbed a finger at Webster. “Do you know what we are, son, you and me? Do you know what we are?”

What now? thought Webster, shaking his head wearily and asking, “What are we?”

“A couple of stupid twits, that’s what we are, son. Under our bleeding noses, and we missed it. The bikini line, son, the sleek bloody bikini line!”

Webster leaned resignedly against a tower of crates to listen to Frost’s latest output of garbage. The old fool had been obsessed about this ever since they’d found that shaver in Karen’s bedroom. He was like an overgrown, sniggering schoolboy.

Realizing the constable still hadn’t twigged, Frost took the coloured photograph of Karen Dawson from his pocket and passed it to Webster. “Forget the blonde hair, son, it’s been bleached. Look at the face.

Look carefully at the face.”

Webster stared at the photograph. He still didn’t know what Frost was getting at. Then it hit him. He took the photograph and stared again. The blonde stripper they had been watching on the stage was fifteen-year-old Karen Dawson. The girl that Harry Baskin had mauled with his greasy hands, kissed with his fleshy lips, boasted of taking to his bed, was a kid, an underaged schoolgirl. The swine. The dirty, stinking pig. He was running back to the hall, Frost at his heels, trying to keep up with him.

Baskin was at the door of the hall, lecherousness all over his filthy face. Webster’s feet hammered the ground as he thundered toward him, his hands already balled into fists. Too late Frost realized what was going to happen. “Hold it, Webster!” he yelled, but nothing could hold him now. He seized Baskin by the lapels and slammed him hard against the wall.

“You bastard! You dirty, lecherous bastard!” Before Frost could pull-him off, his fist had smashed into Baskin’s face and there was blood everywhere.

“You stupid sod!” cried Frost, pushing between the two men and shoving Webster away. Baskin’s face was dead white in contrast to the vivid red of the blood pouring from his nose, splashing down his suit and on the ground. One of Baskin’s heavies came thudding around the corner. Frost held out his warrant card and yelled, “Police. Piss off!” The heavy faltered, then turned back.