Peter Lovesey - Abracadaver

‘So I believe.’

‘Well I made sure Beaconsfield was installed under the table before I sounded the gong. All credit to that animal; it did not make a sound. I suppose it must have fallen asleep. The Professor took his seat—naturally Lola had reserved a place for herself next to him—and all went perfectly until we got to the final course, the fruit and meringues. Then Lola must have been afflicted by some muscular spasm, for her meringue jumped from her plate and rolled under the table. “Oh,” she said. “My meringue!” Professor Virgo—a gentleman through and through—ducked beneath the tablecloth to retrieve it. It all happened before any of us had time to think. We heard a yelp from the dog and an expression of surprise from the Professor, followed by a bump as he endeavoured to stand up. Man and dog were agitated beyond belief, Mr Cribb, and Lola was laughing like a child at the pantomime.’

‘Most regrettable.’

‘But Albert’s mother was more incommoded than anybody. She plainly believed Lola had cold-bloodedly set the meringue rolling in Beaconsfield’s direction. If people couldn’t bring a decently-behaved pet into a dining-room without some vicious girl shying meringues at it, she said, she intended to take her meals in her room in future and she advised everyone else to do the same. Whereupon Lola retorted that a dining-room was not the place for—pardon me, Mr Cribb—stinking animals. In that case, said Albert’s mother, Lola herself should leave the room, for Beaconsfield at least had a fortnightly bath. It was the only time I ever saw Lola lost for a reply. Somehow one knew that whatever she said would be bettered by Albert’s mother.’

‘A formidable lady,’ agreed Cribb. ‘I don’t think they use her to the best advantage at the Paragon, swinging her about in a balloon-basket. She’s a rare sight as Britannia, when Albert’s lifting his dumbbells.’

‘I have good news for you, Mr Cribb. She will soon be accompanying her son again in a new series of tableaux, arranged specially for the Paragon. His leg has improved beyond all expectation with the help of a whisky rub and he is already lifting again. He should certainly be fit for next Tuesday.’

‘Tuesday?’ queried Cribb.

Mrs Body placed her hand on Cribb’s knee. ‘My, Scotland Yard is slow this afternoon. The next benefit at the Paragon, you dilatory detective! You know all about that, surely?’

Cribb was open-mouthed. ‘Do you mean that they’re continuing with these exhibitions, Ma’am?’

She laughed aloud. ‘Well, they’d find it difficult to cancel Tuesday’s engagement, wouldn’t they?’

Cribb stood up. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Ma’am. A young woman murdered on the stage, and they’re callously planning the next performance! That’s a cool way of going on, in my view.’

‘Perhaps it seems like that to you, Mr Cribb, but really there is no choice. The show was arranged before Lola’s untimely death. My information is that the Paragon is to receive a visit from a most distinguished patron next Tuesday night. He cannot possibly be disappointed. It is, in effect, a command performance.’

Cribb paled. ‘My Lord! Not the . . .’

‘He is quite old enough to have a mind of his own, Mr Cribb. If he chooses to take an interest in the Paragon we must not disappoint him. That is why Albert has made such efforts to be fit. The honour, you see. What on earth are you doing, Mr Cribb?’

‘Climbing over the edge of your box, Ma’am. I can’t stay, I’m afraid. Urgent matters to attend to, by Heaven!’

‘Send me another bottle of gin,’ called Mrs Body plaintively into the speaking-tube, when Cribb’s footsteps had receded altogether.

CHAPTER

14

SATURDAY MORNING FOUND CRIBB and Thackeray seated in an omnibus bound for Kensington High Street. It was a joyless journey. The first fog of winter quite obscured the interesting activity along the pavements. The passengers could see only what passed within six feet of the window: the bobbing heads of cab-horses, flickering coach-lamps and brash advertisements for cocoa and safety matches on the sides of passing buses. Thackeray sat forward, elbows resting on his knees, feet idly manoeuvring a cigarette packet through the straw provided on the floor. He was shrewd enough to know when conversation with Cribb was inadvisable, so he let the sergeant’s monologue continue, making token responses at decent intervals.

‘I don’t ask for much, Thackeray. I’m not particular about the hours I work or the cases I’m put on, or the company I have to rub shoulders with. You’ve never found me a difficult man, have you? There’s malcontents enough in the Force, but I’ve never counted myself one of ’em, though I’ve had more cause for complaint than most. But an officer’s entitled to look to his superiors for support, ain’t he? Superiors, my hat! D’you know where I ran him to earth eventually, after I’d spent an hour and a half convincing Scotland Yard it was important enough to disturb him when he was off duty? Where d’you think?’

‘I don’t know, Sarge. His club?’

‘The Westminster Aquarium, goggling at a bloody fish-tank. “Ah,” he says to me, “I didn’t know you were an icthyologist, Sergeant.” You and I run around like lunatics trying to prevent a national catastrophe while Inspector Jowett studies the habits of gold-fish! “Most awfully sorry to invade your privacy,” says I, “but it’s a matter of over-riding importance that we stop the next show at the Paragon.” Then I tell him what I learned from Mrs Body, and what do you think he says when he’s heard it all? “Oh,” says he, still pressing his nose against the glass, “I know all about that. No need to agitate yourself, Sergeant. You get back to your questioning of chorus-girls and leave affairs of State to those that understand ’em.” I don’t believe he’s any intention of stopping that show, Thackeray.’

‘You’ve done your loyal duty, anyway, Sarge. Can’t do more than that, unless you can charge Plunkett with murder before Tuesday.’

‘Maybe I’m becoming a cynic,’ said Cribb, ‘but I’ve a feeling in my bones there ain’t any future in charging Mr Plunkett with anything. He’s one of the bigger fish that Jowett keeps his eye on. You and I are minnows, Constable. Ah, you can build a pretty strong case against Plunkett. As manager he had every opportunity of poisoning Lola Pinkus. No-one would question his appearing in the wings or touching the props. He knew the order of the acts perfectly, and Virgo’s routine. The poison was available on the premises. And the staging of the murder was damned professional, wasn’t it? Didn’t interfere in the least with the performance. He was one of the first on the scene afterwards, too.’

‘But why should he want to poison the girl, Sarge?’

‘Plunkett’s got plenty of money and plenty of things he’d rather keep to himself. Could be that Lola was trying to blackmail him. A man of his sort isn’t going to let a chit of a show-girl stand in his way. So he removes her from the scene in the neatest possible way. If we hadn’t been there he’d have put the whole thing down to heart failure and had the girl buried next day.’

‘Monstrous!’

‘That’s only theorising, of course. We’d need to be sure of the motive. But while we’re under orders to keep away from Plunkett we’re not likely to find one, are we?’

‘It makes you feel completely impotent, Sarge.’

For the first time that morning the gleam returned to Cribb’s eye. ‘Hadn’t affected me quite as bad as that, Constable. However, there’s a possibility in my mind, just a possibility. If the Law can’t approach Mr Plunkett, that don’t prevent a private agent from approaching him.’