The Bee's Kiss (22 page)

It couldn’t possibly be the same girl, Joe decided, as he sat next to Tilly in the taxi. A short, spangled red dress and matching shoes, a black velvet wrap clutched around her scented shoulders, huge eyes and red mouth and a general air of lively anticipation made him wonder. No, not the same girl. But, whoever she was, they made a handsome pair, he thought, not unaware that he always looked his best in evening dress. He nervously adjusted his white tie.

The Haymarket was bustling with motor cars and taxis and all seemed to be heading for the Kit-Cat. One hand lightly on his arm, Tilly watched with an assumed lack of interest but with bated breath as Joe presented his credentials at the door and was hurried through with a warm smile and a wink.

The assault on the senses was overwhelming. Joe stood for a moment, enjoying the loud laughter and bold glances, the whirl of colour against the austere black and white background of the men’s evening dress, the musky hot blend of female sweat overlaid by expensive perfume. And all were moving joyfully to the creamy sounds of a jazz band. They were whisked through the milling guests by a maître d’hôtel who led them out on to the gallery where diners were gathering, drinking cocktails at small tables overlooking the huge dance floor below. The sounds of ‘Whispering’, always the band’s opening number, spiralled up from the stage, lifting Joe’s spirits further. With a rush of pleasure he slipped an arm around Tilly’s slender waist and she raised an excited face to his.

‘Oh, Joe! We’re not too late. Isn’t this wonderful!’

She reached up and kissed his cheek, murmuring, ‘They’re right next to us.’

‘I never like to leave things to chance,’ he murmured back, slipping a folded white banknote into the maître d’hôtel’s discreet hand.

‘
Un moment, monsieur
.’ Their guide spoke to a couple seated at one of the best tables at the edge of the balcony with a good view of the nine-piece band and the dance floor. With many a gesture he was enquiring whether he might impose on them to share their table with two other guests . . . so crowded this evening, you understand . . .

Before a refusal could be risked, Tilly had rushed forward with an excited shriek. ‘Joanna! Well, good heavens! Fancy seeing
you
here! How wonderful! But I hear you’re engaged now?’

‘Oh, Tilly! Do come and sit with us and I’ll introduce you . . .’

She seemed all too delighted to have company at her table. Perhaps tête-à-têtes with Monty were beginning to lose their charm?

Joe had to fight back a laugh to hear the innocent little girl’s voice identical to the one Tilly had used on the telephone. Joanna was a knockout. She was slim and dark-haired like Tilly with a short nose and full, pouting lips. Her green, heavy-lidded eyes moved slowly and speculatively over Joe. He felt uneasy with her appraisal and fought down an urge to run a finger around his collar. With a sudden smile, she released him from scrutiny and began to perform the introductions.

‘My fiancé, Sir Montagu Mathurin . . .’

‘My friend, Commander Sandilands . . .’

Too late, Tilly heard her faux pas. Surprisingly, it was Mathurin who unwittingly rescued the situation. ‘Naval man, eh? Might have guessed! Put your head too close to the boom, hey, what?’ he laughed, looking at Joe’s scarred forehead.

‘Sorry, Joe! I shouldn’t have announced your rank just like that.’ She smiled sweetly at the other two. ‘You know what these war heroes are like! They do so hate to be reminded of it.’

Sir Montagu didn’t appear to Joe to have the slightest knowledge of war heroes or the war. His dissolute good looks were marred by a fleshiness acquired during a life of moneyed indolence. His thick black hair was swept off his forehead and plastered to his scalp with brilliantine. The dark eyes were bright and, set in a less bloated face, would have been handsome.

‘Just call me Joe.’

‘Monty. How d’ye do? Have some champagne?’

Joe caught the eye of the maître d’hôtel, who was discreetly lingering in anticipation of his request. ‘Have the waiter bring us another bottle. One of your best, Emil,’ said Joe with largesse, in the knowledge that it would in some mysterious way be charged to the house.

They settled to an easy and meaningless conversation. After the right interval, Joe politely asked Joanna to dance and Mathurin held out his arm to Tilly, executing, Joe noticed, a surprisingly skilled and energetic black bottom. Joe was amused to see that Tilly was playing her role with mischief and was quite obviously setting out to charm Mathurin.

Two foxtrots and another bottle of champagne later, Tilly caught Joanna’s eye and, giggling together, they began to make their way towards the powder room. Joe undid a button of his waistcoat and leaned confidentially towards Mathurin. His eyes flicked to the girls who were weaving unsteadily, arm-in-arm, across the floor.

‘God! They’re young!’ he said with a sigh. ‘Much too young for a pair of dissolute old hulks like us. Why do we get entangled?’

‘Are you mad?’ grinned Monty. ‘No such thing as
too
young when it comes to fillies, I’d say.’

‘Ah yes, of course. Your reputation in that quarter goes before you, old man!’ He gave what he thought was a convincing leer. Mathurin would have been very surprised to learn that Joe’s information had come that afternoon from a disgusted perusal of a file held on him at the Yard.

At that moment the girls stood aside, wondering whether to curtsy and deciding it would be inappropriate, as a tall and elegant woman passed them, returning from the dance floor. Joe’s eyes fixed on her and trailed her as she swayed past their table in a cloud of Gardenia. He surreptitiously twisted his head, the better to appreciate her lean but sensuous figure in its low-backed, clinging gown of some golden stuff.

He turned back to Mathurin, face blank, having apparently forgotten what they’d been talking about. Then, recollecting himself, he picked up the thread. ‘As I say . . . no rudeness intended, old boy. We all have our preferences . . . Man of the world, what? I must say I can’t share your enthusiasms though. I’ve sailed the seven seas, I know seventy ports inside out. Could tell you stories that’d curl even your hair. And, in the end, you know, it’s experience you look for. Experience and maturity.’ He gave a world-weary sigh. ‘No new chapter to be written for
me
in the
ars erotica
but at least I can try to avoid going back constantly to page one, chapter one. So irritating these little English girls!’ He’d heard much the same nonsense trotted out by Edgar Troop, drinking companion and brothel-keeper in Simla. ‘Just as well, I suppose
you’d
say? Wouldn’t do for everyone to go sticking his rod into the same over-fished pool!’

‘Look, is all this leading somewhere?’ asked Mathurin, his porcine features gleaming with cunning. ‘This is a nightclub, not a confessional.’

Joe grinned and leaned towards his target. ‘No fooling you! I see I’d better come clean! As a matter of fact, I
do
have a confession to make. It was not by chance that we were shown to your table . . .’

Mathurin waved a negligent hand. ‘Thought I saw a folded note join the others in the flunkey’s over-stuffed back pocket,’ he said casually.

‘I wanted to meet you. I wanted to ask a favour. It’s a rather delicate business . . .’ He hesitated.

‘You’re talking to the soul of discretion,’ said Monty, encouragingly. ‘A favour, eh? I often do people favours. You’d be surprised to hear . . . but then, as I say – clams are garrulous in comparison with me! But when I do people favours, I find they generally like to repay me.’ His gaze wandered off towards the disappearing girls and, Joe was sure, lingered lasciviously on Tilly. ‘Perhaps you would be in a position to repay me in kind?’ He smirked, happy with his subtlety.

Joe’s right fist clenched and, for a moment, he balanced the satisfaction of punching it into Mathurin’s face and hearing the snap of breaking cartilage against the distress such a scene would cause to the Kit-Cat, to say nothing of Scotland Yard. He flexed his hand and reached for the champagne bottle. ‘It would always be my intention to make an appropriate repayment,’ he said.

Mathurin’s interest was caught. ‘Then go ahead, old man. Just ask. But if it’s an introduction to the lovely Countess,’ he indicated the woman in gold, who’d joined a group on the balcony, ‘you can forget it!’ He gave a deprecating bark of laughter. ‘Some mountains even
I
can’t climb!’

Joe did not laugh with him. ‘No. I have in mind an introduction it
is
within your powers to make. I work, as you’ve probably guessed, at the Admiralty and I’ve seen there and admired from a distance a certain lady whom I am rather anxious to get alongside. A lively and popular red-headed lady who, I have it on good authority, is a cousin of yours . . .’

There was a stunned silence.

‘Good Lord! Beatrice? You’re saying you’ve been lusting after Beatrice? Oh, good God! How dreadful!’

‘Something wrong with that? I had heard . . .’

‘You can bet there’s something wrong with that, you buffoon! Is this a joke? Where the hell have you been for the last two days?’

Joe replied stiffly. ‘If it’s any of your business – three floors down under the Admiralty building is where I’ve been, in the cryptography room. Just surfaced this evening in time for a shave and a shower,’ he improvised.

Mathurin relaxed. ‘Ah. Then you wouldn’t have heard. Prepare yourself for a shock, man.’ He said quietly, ‘Bea got herself murdered. Saturday night. In the Ritz. She’s dead.’

Joe contorted his face into a series of expressions passing from disbelief through shock to dismay, making matching sounds to accompany the display. Mathurin seemed to be enjoying having such a receptive audience and he launched into a sprightly account of the whole evening spent at his old relative’s party.

‘. . . so I think
I
must be the last person she spoke to before she left the room on the stroke of midnight to go to her death,’ he said dramatically. ‘She disturbed a burglar in her room is what everybody’s saying because it wasn’t long after that we found ourselves surrounded by swarms of bluebottles. She’d just disappeared when the band started up again. I didn’t do any more dancing – after a quickstep, a foxtrot or two and a rumba, I blew a gasket and Joanna must have found someone else to dance with. Halfway through “Umcha, umcha, da, da, da” someone stopped the band and everyone was told to return to their seats. Officers of the Yard circulated amongst us taking notes. They even grilled the band! Joanna escaped all that – she’d nipped off home before it all got going. “Female problems” she calls it but she only seems to suffer when she’s bored, I notice. Can’t say I blame her. Family party . . . not the jolliest scene for a young girl. Finally someone came out with it. Then they let us go. Rum do! One minute she’s sparkling away – I’d have guessed on her way to some assignation or other – few dances later, she’s a gonner!’

Joe could only mutter incoherent condolences.

‘Sorry, old chap – you’ve missed this boat! But, hang on a minute . . . if it’s maturity and experience that stokes the old boiler, I’m sure my aunt Cécile . . . she’s French, you know . . . would . . .’

He droned on and Joe prayed for Tilly’s swift return.

Half an hour later, and just as the menus were being offered, Tilly was struck by a headache so debilitating it called for an instant return home. Sunk in the seclusion of the back seat of a taxi they looked at each other and laughed with relief.

‘Sorry, sir! I couldn’t bear to sit and watch Monty socking back the oysters.’

‘Damn it! No ear-nibbling smoochy last dance for me!’ grumbled Joe.

‘And we never did manage to hear the band play us out with “Three O’Clock In The Morning”! Do you really mind?’

‘No. Their licence runs out at two. I’d have had to arrest the management. Glad to have missed it,’ said Joe. ‘Sing it for you if you like?’

Joe recounted his talk with Mathurin, ending with, ‘. . . so if you hear on your social grapevine that a certain police commander is a degenerate who’s run off to Antibes with Mathurin’s frisky old aunt, you are to squash the rumour at once!’

‘If I can do that without compromising my own reputation, I certainly will, sir. But it looks as though Monty’s in the clear. I got Joanna to tell me all about that evening – no difficulty – she was spilling over with enthusiasm for the intrigue, and all she had to say confirms Mathurin’s story. Just one little extra detail I found quite intriguing.’

‘Go on, Westhorpe.’

‘Well, do you remember Sergeant Armitage was convinced that the Dame signalled to someone across the room before she left to go upstairs?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Joanna knows who it was!’

Their taxi was turning into Park Lane and Joe was suddenly aware that time and opportunity were slipping away from him, the case already beyond his control. He leaned forward. ‘Slow down, cabby, will you?’

It wasn’t the first time the driver had received the command. He grinned and obligingly began to hug the kerb, moving along at ten miles an hour.

‘Good idea, sir. We’re nearly home. You could come in if you like but I wouldn’t advise it. My father always waits up. He’s got a little list of men he perhaps won’t set the dogs on just yet and you’ve been added to it. In fact you’ve moved up to a jolly high position. He tells me he “likes the cut of your jib” or something. Thought I’d better warn you.’

‘I’m on quite a few lists,’ said Joe lightly. ‘I’ve got very slick at smooth take-offs down driveways. I particularly favour the laurel-lined ones.’

Tilly reached for his hand and squeezed it. ‘Goodness, you’re easy company, Joe,’ she said softly.

‘It was Joanna,’ she went on hurriedly.

‘Joanna? What was Joanna?’ Joe’s senses were still reeling from the sudden show of warmth and – could he have been mistaken? – affection.

‘The recipient of the Dame’s signal was Joanna herself.’

‘Eh? But why on earth . . .?’

‘My friend may
look
as though she’s sculpted out of the same stuff as a sugar mouse but don’t be deceived!’