Peter Lovesey - Abracadaver

‘That puts it in a new light, Sarge. Now you mention it, he didn’t seem particularly put out that he wouldn’t be able to do the trick again, but I didn’t see no significance in it. I think I was too occupied trying to encourage him not to stutter. I’m rather short on experience of interviewing suspects, I’m afraid.’

It was Cribb’s turn to grin. ‘We’ll remedy that, Constable. I must be off to report Miss Pinkus’s death in the right quarter, but I want you to stay here and collect statements from everyone who was on that stage tonight up to the moment of Lola’s death. You can tell ’em you’re in the Force. Say you’re carrying out routine investigations, consequent upon the sudden decease of Miss Pinkus. It’ll take you most of the night, but don’t let anyone go until you’ve questioned ’em. That’ll give you some experience all right. Oh, and get statements from the orchestra as well, will you?’

CHAPTER

12

THACKERAY EXAMINED A FAINT blue stain on the coffee-cup he was holding. The heat of the cup had done what several minutes’ assiduous scrubbing with carbolic soap had failed to do earlier: removed some of the residue of ink from his first and second fingers. The evidence of two laborious days’ copying of statements was now neatly implanted on Great Scotland Yard porcelain, for he and Sergeant Cribb were seated on upright leather-upholstered chairs, being treated with unaccustomed hospitality by Inspector Jowett.

‘From one’s position here at headquarters one has to be constantly on one’s guard against getting out of touch with—if you will forgive the phrase—the humble seekers after clues, the ferrets of the Force, in short, gentlemen, yourselves. Another digestive biscuit, Sergeant?’

The back of Cribb’s neck had become noticeably pinker during Jowett’s condescensions. He shook his head. Thackeray too felt a hotness around the collar and a curdling sensation in his stomach. Both their digestions would need something stronger after this than a biscuit. Each of them clearly remembered a time when Jowett was a detective sergeant competent only at sheering away from trouble. That ability, and certain family connexions, were said to have made his promotion inevitable. If Cribb and Thackeray were ferrets, Jowett was a pedigree rabbit, and much more acceptable in the Yard. In conversation his nose twitched distractingly.

‘We at headquarters,’ he continued, ‘often envy you denizens of the underworld, you know. Unfortunately an efficient C.I.D. requires its planners, its co-ordinators, its intel-ligencers. So we remain bound to our chairs directing the efforts of worthy bobbies like yourselves, while the detectives within us cry out to be with you. For example, gentlemen, I have been reading with interest your report on the death of the young woman last Tuesday at that music hall.’

‘The Paragon, sir.’

‘Yes. Deuced unfortunate thing to happen. But what a splendid setting for an investigation! You have been to other music halls too, I gather?’

‘Just the Grampian in Blackfriars Road, sir,’ said Cribb. Curious as to Jowett’s intentions, he added: ‘Are you interested in variety entertainment yourself?’

‘No, no. That’s not my style of recreation at all. Hardly ever set foot inside such a place. Light opera is far more to my taste.’

‘When constabulary duty’s to be done, eh sir?’ said Cribb.

‘What?’

‘Pirates of Penzance, sir.’

‘Ah, yes. Quite so.’ The allusion was plainly lost on Inspector Jowett. ‘I like point-to-point meetings too.’ He put down his cup and felt in his pocket for his tobacco. ‘Your visit to the Paragon interests me, though. Tell me what you know about the place.’

‘The Paragon? I think we’ve formed a pretty clear picture of what goes on there, sir. We’ve seen it for ourselves and we’ve documented the goings-on there in thirty or more statements.’

‘Please enlighten me.’

‘Well, sir, to most of the world it’s a run of the mill music hall, a trifle more expensive than some of the halls, but offering the same kind of entertainment three nights a week as hundreds of others. It has its promenade, of course, and there’s an element of license in that quarter, but otherwise the whole thing’s as nice as ninepence—if you like music halls, that is.’

‘I assure you that I don’t, but go on.’

‘The owner of the Paragon is the gin magnate, Sir Douglas Butterleigh. It seems he has an affection for the halls. He started a home for destitute performers in Kensington, Philbeach House. You may have heard of it. Now his idea was that artistes falling ill or suffering an accident could be rescued from the poor-house and put in the care of a certain Mrs Body at Philbeach House. When they were sufficiently restored they’d return to the stage at the Paragon. The manager there is a Mr Plunkett, and I got his account of the Paragon from him the other evening. Now Plunkett’s a hard-headed businessman, and in no time at all he saw Butterleigh’s idea wasn’t going to fill that music hall three nights a week.’

‘Philanthropists rarely visualise their charity in commercial terms,’ Jowett observed from the centre of a cloud of smoke.

‘Well, Plunkett persisted for a few months, but the bill at the Paragon wasn’t responding very well to charity. Three-quarters of the guests at Philbeach House were singers—and poor ones at that. You can’t recruit a music hall company from singers alone. So importations were made and soon the Paragon was operating like any other hall, and attracting a regular audience. Sir Douglas Butterleigh didn’t know much about it because he was an invalid and out of the way. To salve his conscience, I suppose, Plunkett decided he would have to find something to occupy the dregs and lees at Philbeach House. He conceived the idea of a special performance just to show ’em they weren’t forgotten.’

‘In addition to the regular show?’

‘Exactly. But this was a quite different class of audience. Plunkett made it clear he was offering a charitable entertainment. He priced his tickets high, put Sir Douglas’s name on them and then did the rounds of London society. He promised ’em a midnight show, strictly for a good cause, and every ticket was sold inside a week.’

‘Really. I find that difficult to account for.’

‘So did I, sir, until Plunkett told me what he told his customers: that since they were buying tickets for a private show they might expect something different in the way of entertainment. What he’d done, in fact, was to persuade a couple of lady vocalists to be transported across the stage with little more on ’em than a ray of limelight.’

‘-’Pon my soul, what an extraordinary idea!’

‘My sentiments entirely, sir, but there’s no accounting for taste. Plunkett tells me the turn was a roaring success. The audience wouldn’t let the show go on until those two had been pushed back and forth a dozen times, like the favourite frame in a magic lantern. And when the evening came to an end he was bombarded by requests for tickets for the next one. He realised he’d discovered a gold-mine. A secret music hall for the well-to-do, with certain additional attractions.’

‘That’s ingenious, by George.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Cribb, ‘but Plunket was too smart a showman to believe it could continue very long like that. Even if he persuaded all the females in residence at Philbeach House to play the part of living statues—and most of ’em were sufficiently close to penury to do it—his customers were going to tire of the entertainment before long. Like any other bill, his midnight show needed variety. But he couldn’t turn singers into sword-swallowers overnight. Nor did he want to recruit performers in the usual way, through their agents. That could only complicate his plans. No, the company for the midnight show had to come from Philbeach House. Once a performer was sufficiently unfortunate to be living on charity he wasn’t likely to argue over the kind of work you offered him. Plunkett’s problem was that Mrs Body’s guest-list didn’t provide the variety he wanted. There wasn’t a tightrope walker or a trapeze-artiste among ’em.’