Puppet for a Corpse Page 8

  “Away Day …” said Westwell thoughtfully. “I missed that, myself.”

  “So how would you go about finding out if Gemma Shade had an affair with a member of the cast?”

  “Well, in the normal way of things I’d give the security bloke a ring, but unfortunately there’s a new chap at the Haymarket. Only been there a month.”

  “What happened to the last one?”

  “He died. Nothing suspicious, a heart attack. So that’s out. I should think your next best bet would be the theatre manager, but frankly, I doubt if you’d get him to talk.”

  “And if that fails?”

  “You’d have to go for other members of the cast, I suppose.”

  “And how would I go about finding them?”

  “Sorry, I don’t know. But I could find out for you, if you like.”

  Thanet would have loved to accept this offer, but couldn’t bring himself to do so. Asking for help was one thing, making a nuisance of himself another. “Thanks, but it looks as though I’ll have to come up to London myself. Tell Inspector Jennings he might get his beer sooner than he thinks. If I can get through the red tape quickly enough, I’ll be up this afternoon.”

  There was a grin in Westwell’s voice as he said, “Right, sir.”

  “Sir,” said Lineham doubtfully as Thanet put the phone down.

  “Yes?… Well, come on man, spit it out.” Lineham still occasionally reverted to the diffidence which had once so infuriated Thanet.

  “Well, don’t you think perhaps you’re taking a lot for granted?”

  “In assuming first that Mrs Pettifer’s lover is an actor and second that he was in her last play with her, you mean?”

  Lineham nodded.

  “Certainly I am. But as there doesn’t seem to be even the slightest whisper of a scandal down here it does seem logical—especially in view of the fact that the chambermaid thought he looked familiar—to assume that he might be an actor. We’ve got to start somewhere, after all. Can you suggest another way?”

  “Tackle Mrs Pettifer.”

  “I told you, Mike, I don’t like the idea. Not yet.”

  It was now late the following morning and the only interesting snippet of information that had so far come in was that Gemma Pettifer’s prints had been found on the drinking glass, tablet container and port bottle on Pettifer’s bedside table. Even more interesting was the absence of Pettifer’s prints from the first two. Lineham had been all for rushing off to see her at once, but Thanet, more cautious, had held back.

  “But surely, now we know she had a motive …”

  “No.” Thanet’s tone was final. “It’s too early yet. We’ve got to find out more. And remember, it works both ways. Agreed, this could give her a motive for murder, but it could also give him a reason for suicide.”

  “You mean, he could have found out …”

  “He adored that woman, Mike, idolised her. And that’s always dangerous. When you discover that your idol has feet of clay … Who knows how a man like Pettifer would have reacted?”

  “But there’s absolutely no indication he did find out.”

  “True … And I must admit, thinking about it, I can’t see that it would have been in character for him to opt out like that, give up without a fight … It’s no good, Mike, it’s pointless speculating like this. We’ve got to have more facts. If only we could have had the PM results today …” The post mortem had had to be postponed until next day. Although there were two pathologists in the area, one of them was ill and the other not only hopelessly overworked but booked to spend all afternoon giving evidence at inquests.

  “Or if the handwriting experts had come up with something …”

  “But they haven’t. So, tickle them up a bit, will you Mike? Then get someone on to tracking down the history of that bottle of port. I want to know where, when and by whom it was bought. Meanwhile I’ll get on to Scotland Yard, see if we can get permission to go and poke about in West End Central.”

  Thanet was still on the phone when Mallard came in.

  “What’s up?” he asked, when Thanet had finished. “I heard downstairs that you’re working on the Pettifer Case. What case? I thought it was a straightforward suicide.”

  “It’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid, Doc.”

  Quickly, Thanet ran through the mounting list of inexplicable facts. “And then we just heard this morning that Mrs Pettifer was having an affair—that she spent Monday night with her lover.”

  Mallard grimaced. “Oh, dear. That’s another illusion down the drain. I always thought they were a most devoted couple. Anyway, that surely explains the whole thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That he killed himself because he found out. He practically worshipped the ground she walked on, you know.”

  “Not good enough, Doc,” said Thanet, shaking his head. “There’s too much to be explained away.”

  “I agree that Pettifer didn’t seem the type to throw in the sponge without a fight … Though there is another argument for its having been suicide, you know.”

  “Oh?”

  “One school of thought sees suicide as an act of aggression, an expression of anger, rather than despair.”

  “That’s interesting. I’ll have to think about that.”

  “So, what now?”

  “We’ve got to find out more. That’s why I want to go up to …”

  The phone rang. Thanet picked it up. West End Central, he mouthed at the others. “Yes, DI Thanet here …”

  Mallard raised his hand in a gesture of farewell and left.

  Once again, Thanet explained what he wanted to do in London. Finally, “It’s all fixed,” he said to Lineham, putting the phone down. “We’re to report in at two. There’s no reserved parking space in Savile Row, so it’ll be easier to go by train.” He glanced at the clock: twenty to twelve. “If we hurry we’ll just catch the twelve-ten.”

  “There’s plenty of time, surely.”

  “I want to pick up something from home, on the way.”

  The detour took a quarter of an hour and Thanet blessed Joan’s orderly mind as he went straight to the drawer where she always kept souvenirs of holidays and outings and picked out the theatre programme of Away Day. In the train he produced it.

  “You didn’t tell me you’d seen Away Day.”

  “I wanted to check something first, in case my memory was playing me tricks. Ah yes …” He offered the programme to Lineham. “See what you think.”

  Lineham flicked quickly through the photographs of the cast. There had been four main characters, two men and two women. “I’d plump for him.” Lineham’s finger stabbed at the classical features and golden curls of a young actor called Rowan Lee. “He fits the chambermaid’s description.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “So that’s why you were so set on this trip.”

  “All right, Mike. Don’t sound so aggrieved. I must admit he immediately sprang to mind. But as I said, I wanted to check before saying anything.”

  “Looks a bit young for her, doesn’t he?”

  Lee appeared to be in his mid-twenties, a good ten years younger than Gemma Pettifer.

  “Perhaps he’s older than he looks. You can never tell with these studio portraits. Or it might have been taken some years ago.”

  “So, are we going to try and see him today?”

  “No, I think not. I don’t want to risk his contacting Mrs Pettifer. If she’s innocent I don’t want her unnecessarily upset, and if she’s not then when I tackle her I want it to be a complete surprise.”

  “What exactly are we going to do this afternoon, then?”

  “At the moment what I’m really after is confirmation. It’s quite possible that we’re barking up the wrong tree. So what I want is someone prepared to gossip.”

  “Deborah Chivers, then.”

  This was the other woman in the cast.

  “If we can get hold of her, yes.”

  “She c
ould be working this afternoon. It’s Wednesday, matinée day.”

  “I know. She could be anywhere, for that matter. Let’s hope she’s not off touring the provinces. We’ll just have to see.”

  After the brief courtesy visit to West End Central headquarters in Savile Row they took the tube to Piccadilly Circus and walked down the Haymarket towards the Theatre Royal. They paused for a few moments to admire the classical façade with its six soaring white columns before crossing the road to the main entrance.

  “It’s supposed to be one of the oldest and classiest theatres in London,” Thanet said as they pushed open the swing doors.

  The foyer was elegant—milk-white walls with gold mouldings and gilt-framed mirrors, gleaming brass handrails and white leather chairs. The matinée performance must have started, for the place was deserted but for a young man in the box office.

  Thanet approached him. “Could I speak to the manager, please?”

  “You’ll have to go around to the stage door. It’s at the back of the theatre, in Suffolk Street. Go out of the main door, turn left and left again.”

  Suffolk Street was a cul-de-sac of tall white buildings with black wrought-iron balconies at first-floor level. The stage door was at the far end. Lineham edged his way behind Thanet into the tiny space in front of the Enquiries counter while Thanet repeated his request.

  “D’you want the theatre manager or the production manager?”

  “The theatre manager, I should think.”

  “I’m afraid he’s out, sir.” The porter was friendly, middle-aged and balding, with grey hair and grey moustache. He looked very snug in his tiny room, which couldn’t have been much more than seven feet square. A real home from home, thought Thanet, noting the square of carpet on the floor, the comfortable tub armchair, the electric kettle. There was even a portable television set.

  “Perhaps you could help me, then.” Thanet introduced himself. “I suppose you get to know the cast pretty well, while they’re playing here?”

  “Well, I do and I don’t. Depends how long a run it is, how friendly they are and so on.”

  “But you might have a good idea of, shall we say, what the relationships between the various members of the cast might be?”

  The wary gleam in the man’s eye told Thanet that the question had been correctly interpreted. “Oh, I don’t know about that, sir. Bit outside my province, that is. I just deal with all the practical stuff, the nuts and bolts, you might say.”

  Thanet was adept at recognising a lost cause. “Perhaps the production manager could help me, then. Is he in at the moment?”

  “That would be Mr Wemsley. Yes, he is. Would you like me to give him a call?”

  The young man who came up the stairs behind them in response to Thanet’s request looked more like a business executive than Thanet’s idea of someone in the theatre world. What did you expect? Thanet asked himself in amusement. Purple suede trousers and shaggy sweater? He introduced himself, taking care to emphasise that his enquiries had no connection with either the current production or the theatre.

  Wemsley’s anxious frown faded. “Come down to my office.” He led the way through the little black metal swing gate and down some uncarpeted stairs. In the office a loudspeaker in the corner was relaying the play on stage.

  They all sat down.

  “Now then, how exactly can I help you?”

  “Well, as I said, we’re from Kent CID. We’re trying to trace some of the members of the cast of a recent production at this theatre. Of Away Day, to be precise.”

  “Then it’s the theatre manager you want,” said Wemsley promptly. “And I’m afraid he’s out. I’m only here for the duration of this particular production, you see. He’s permanent.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “Not for another hour or more. But I’ve just thought … Are you trying to find out who the cast of A way Day were, or do you know the names of the people you want to see?”

  “Oh, we know who they are.” Thanet took the programme from his pocket.

  “Then there’s no problem. We can look them up in Spotlight … It’s a directory of actors and actresses,” Wemsley explained to their blank looks. “I’ve got one here.” He reached out for a small stack of books, opened one at random. “You see?” he said, holding it out. “It gives details of professional careers and—this is what you want—agents’ names and addresses. Mind you, trying to get a client’s address from an agent is harder than trying to get the proverbial blood out of a stone, but as it’s the police who’re asking you should be all right.”

  “May I see?”

  Ten minutes later they left the theatre with a list of the names, addresses and telephone numbers of the agents of all three other members of the cast of Away Day.

  “Easier than we thought, eh, Mike?” said Thanet, patting his pocket with satisfaction.

  “Bit of luck,” Lineham agreed. “Where now?”

  “Deborah Chivers’ agent first. And as we don’t want to waste most of the afternoon fathoming out how to get from A to B by public transport, we’ll do it in style.” He raised his hand as he spotted an empty cab and they both watched in admiration as the driver manoeuvred his way expertly through the one-way traffic to the kerb.

  The spacious foyer of Jacob Solly, Theatrical Agent, was luxuriously furnished with a thick cream carpet and green leather armchairs, most of which were occupied. There was an atmosphere of bored expectancy. Successful clients smiled condescendingly down from the glossy blown-up photographs which adorned the walls. There were a few choice specimens of potted palms and giant ferns which, like the glamorous blonde in the green silk trouser suit behind the reception desk, had clearly been chosen for their sculptural qualities.

  Assessing eyes followed Thanet and Lineham across the room.

  “Can I help you?” The blonde’s smile was as artificial as her eyelashes. She had already dismissed them as being of no interest. Thanet felt a malicious satisfaction at her response to his introduction.

  “Er …” Her eyes darted nervously from telephone to waiting clients to the door marked PRIVATE behind her. It was as if a statue had suddenly become prey to human emotion. She swallowed. “I’m afraid Mr Solly is engaged just now,” she said. “But I’ll go and see … Could you sit down for a moment?”

  Interested eyes followed Thanet and Lineham’s every movement. Thanet read speculation, resentment, hostility in them. What a life, he thought, staring composedly back. Quickly, he counted. There were fifteen people in the room, of various ages, shapes and sizes. He winked boldly at a woman with a particularly outraged stare and grinned as she hastily began to study her hands. Lineham shifted uncomfortably on the seat beside him.

  The blonde emerged briskly from the door marked PRIVATE and approached Thanet. He tried not to recoil too obviously from the overpowering waft of perfume which assailed his nostrils as she bent to murmur, “Mr Solly is free now. This way, please.”

  Thanet and Lineham looked about them with interest at the room into which they were ushered. By contrast with the foyer this was a cosy masculine cave, with shaggy brown carpet and chestnut-coloured leather armchairs. The brown hessian-covered walls were crammed with theatre posters and more glossy photographs of famous clients. Behind a status-enhancing desk of teak and leather sat a short, plump man in cream suede jacket and silky polo-necked sweater. The shimmer of gold on his fingers was echoed in his smile.

  “Come in, come in, Inspector.” He rose, extended a soft damp palm to each man in turn.

  With difficulty Thanet restrained himself from wiping his hand on the side of his trousers.

  Courtesies exchanged, Solly sat back, folded his hands on the solid mound of his belly and said, “Now then. How, exactly, can I help you?”

  “We’re trying to trace a client of yours,” Thanet said. “Deborah Chivers.”

  “Ah …” Solly pursed his moist, full lips and frowned. “Would it be proper to ask in what connection … Debbie hasn’t been
a naughty girl, I hope?” he asked archly.

  Thanet hoped his wince didn’t show. “No, not at all. We’re just hoping that she might be able to give us some information about someone who is involved in a case we’re working on.”

  “Debbie isn’t actually … uh … involved in the case herself?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  Solly sat up with a bounce. “Forgive me, Inspector. I am being remiss in my duty as a host. I won’t insult you by offering you alcohol at this hour, but a cup of coffee, perhaps? Or tea?” The gold fillings glinted.

  “Thank you, no. I’m afraid our time in London is limited.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, I see no reason why we shouldn’t oblige.” He pressed a button. “Make a note of Deborah Chivers’ address for the Inspector, will you Marilyn?”

  “Do you think there’s any likelihood that she might be at home, if we went to see her this afternoon?” Thanet asked.

  “Well, she’s resting at the moment,” Solly said. A flash of gold again. “Our euphemism for ‘out of work’, as I’m sure you’re aware, Inspector. So it’s possible. I’ll give her a ring if you like, and find out.” And swiftly, before Thanet could demur, “Get Debbie on the blower for me, will you Marilyn? Yes, now.”

  It was pointless to protest. Solly clearly had every intention of warning Deborah Chivers of their impending visit. If he didn’t do it now, he’d do it when they’d left, so he might as well be useful to Thanet in the process, perhaps save him a wasted journey.

  “Debbie? Solly here, my love. Yes … No, afraid not. Not at the moment. I might have something on ice, though. No, I can’t say a word just now, in case it doesn’t come off. No, you’ll just have to be patient, darling. No, something quite different. Now don’t be alarmed, but I’ve got two charming policemen here who want to have a word with you. Yes … No, you haven’t done anything wrong, love. Just some information they think you might have in connection with some case they’re working on. No, no idea. Honestly. The point is, they’d like to come and see you. Right away, I gather. They’re only in London for the day. No, truly darling, absolutely no idea. Anyway, I’ll tell them you’ll be in this afternoon, shall I? Right. Yes, I’ll be in touch soon, I hope. Yes. ’Bye for now. And you, sweetie.” He put the phone down. “Any time you like,” he said to Thanet.