The Zig Zag Girl (19 page)

Max was also thinking about lunch. Usually on a Saturday there was the last show, a party after the second house, addresses exchanged, promises to keep in touch (promises destined to be broken in Max’s case). But he was still officially on holiday; he had a day off before travelling to Hastings tomorrow. There was nothing to stop him having a really good lunch in the Grand or in one of the Italian restaurants in The Lanes. Nothing, that is, except the knowledge that a killer was on the loose and that he might be the next victim. Actually, he was surprised how little that thought scared him. As he had told Edgar, he had an unshakable belief in his own indestructibility. He had never once thought that he might die in the war though, during the early years, he had certainly been in some pretty tight spots. Even drifting out to sea in that boat with Edgar and Diablo, he had thought only about how to pass the time, not about the possibility that time might run out for him. Anyway, whatever he felt life had in store for him, it was not death at the hands of some
murderous magician. But Jean’s death had disturbed him more than he had admitted to Edgar. The thought of her – poor silly girl – being strangled and then placed within her own baby’s playpen, filled him with a murderous rage of his own. What had she done to deserve that, for God’s sake? Jean was a simple girl who had probably only aspired to marriage to a nice man and a house and baby of her own. She had achieved all this, only to be struck down by someone who thought it was funny to recreate old magic tricks with human beings as props. It just didn’t bear thinking about. Max strode on, thinking about it.

He was irritated to find that his footsteps had taken him almost to the door of the Theatre Royal. Why couldn’t he keep away from the place? The posters outside advertised the Agatha Christie play.
The Mousetrap
. Who on earth would go to see a play like that? People want escapism on a Saturday night, not sordid crime. As he stood, frowning up at the billboards, a voice hailed him.

‘Max!’ It was Roy Coulter.

‘Hallo, Roy. Just admiring your playbills.’

‘Yes,’ said Roy, puffing out his chest. ‘It was a sell-out. Smartest decision I ever made.’ Clearly Roy had forgotten his earlier misgivings about straight drama.

‘Congratulations.’ Maybe Max should reinvent himself as a character actor. He could just see himself twirling a villain’s moustache.

‘Glad I ran into you,’ Roy went on. ‘I wanted to tell you, your friend was here.’

‘My friend?’ For a crazy moment, Max thought he meant Tony. Had Tony ‘The Mind’ Mulholland come back to haunt him?

‘Stan Parks. The Great Disaster or whatever he calls himself.’

‘Diablo was here? When?’

‘This morning. He turned up in some ghastly old white suit with stains all down the front. He was asking after you.’

‘He was?’ This meant that Diablo was still in Brighton. What the hell was the old fool playing at?

‘What did he want to know?’ asked Max.

‘He wanted to know where you were appearing next. I told him Hastings. I hope that was all right. After all, I know he’s a friend of yours.’

‘Yes,’ said Max, staring up at a poster of a bug-eyed actor clutching wildly at the air. ‘He’s an old friend.’

*

The Battle of Trafalgar provided Edgar with an excellent lunch, but not much in the way of information. The barman didn’t recognise Ethel’s picture and had remarked sourly that he’d only been working in the place a month ‘and that’s a month too long’.

Edgar retired to a corner table to eat his steak and kidney pie. The surly barman aside, it was a pleasant pub with mullioned windows and red velvet seats. Even though it was summer, a fire was burning in the grate and he could see that it would be a cosy place to come on a winter’s night. Two elderly men were playing chess by
the fire. Is that why Ethel had come here, to indulge in a board games habit?

‘Excuse me.’ Edgar looked up to see a woman with a tray of glasses. ‘I’m Marnie,’ she said. ‘I’ve been working here for a while. Jack said you were asking after a lady?’

Feeling as if he had misjudged Jack, Edgar showed Marnie the photograph.

She nodded, hitching the tray higher on her hip. She was about fifty, with a tired, attractive face. It was a face that looked as if it deserved more from life than collecting dirty glasses in a pub.

‘I remember her,’ she said. ‘She came here once or twice. Nice lady. Polite.’

‘Was she on her own? Do you ever remember her meeting someone? A man?’ He got out the picture of Tony.

‘No,’ said Marnie decisively. ‘I would definitely have remembered him. I do remember her talking with another woman once or twice. They sat in the snug, it’s quieter in there.’

‘Another woman? Can you describe her?’

Marnie looked over towards the snug, as if imagining the woman there. This, in Edgar’s opinion, was the sign of a good witness.

‘Youngish but she dressed old,’ she said at last. ‘She had one of those hats with a veil. They haven’t been fashionable since the twenties.’

A hat with a veil reminded Edgar of Tony’s mother at his funeral. He hadn’t been in touch with the family since. Maybe he should send them a card or something.

‘Anything else?’ he asked.

‘She had a nice voice. Educated. Thought she might have been a teacher or something. Don’t know why.’

‘Do you know what they talked about? Not that I’d suggest you were listening,’ he added hurriedly.

Marnie laughed. ‘Don’t worry. You can’t help listening in this job. No, I didn’t hear what they were saying, but I’m betting it was something about the theatre. It was all she talked about.’ She gestured to Ethel’s picture. ‘How she’d once been the assistant to a famous magician.’ She looked at Edgar. ‘Was that true?’

‘Yes,’ said Edgar, putting away the photographs. ‘That was true.’

*

The antiques shop in the Lanes was easy to find because it had a large stuffed bear outside. ‘Brings in the custom,’ said the owner, a small man attached to a large moustache. ‘I call him Henry. I dress him in a Santa suit for Christmas.’

Briefly, Edgar thought about Christmas. He supposed he’d have to go to Esher. Lucy would be with her family, it would just be him and Rose and a chicken small enough for two.

‘I wanted to ask you some more questions about the man who bought the sword,’ he said when the owner had bustled him into a small room behind the scenes. It reminded him of being backstage at the theatre. There was even the same smell of damp.

‘I don’t know what more I can tell you,’ said the shopkeeper
rather fretfully. ‘I gave you a full description at the time.’

Edgar read from his notes. ‘“I think it was a man, a smallish man. I think he had a moustache.” Think back. Can you remember anything else?’

‘I don’t think so,’ the antiques dealer picked up a cloth and starting polishing a tray of stones. ‘We get a lot of customers.’

As the shop was empty on a Saturday afternoon, despite the attractions of Henry, Edgar rather doubted that.

‘You say he was small,’ he prompted. ‘Smaller than me?’

‘Well yes,’ said the owner, drawing himself up. ‘You’re quite a tall man.’

‘About your height?’

‘Possibly.’ Slightly offended tone.

‘Can you remember what he was wearing? Coat? Hat?’

‘He might have had a hat. Men don’t take their hats off anymore. There’s no respect.’

‘You said he might have had a moustache?’

‘I think so.’ Unconsciously, the man stroked his luxuriant whiskers. Was he so proud of his moustache that he imagined one attached to everyone he saw?

‘What about colouring? Was he fair or dark?’

‘Dark, I think. I can remember a black moustache.’

I bet you can, thought Edgar. Aloud, he said, ‘What about age? My sort of age?’

‘Younger, I think. I had an impression of someone young.’

‘Did you notice his hands?’

‘His hands? No, I don’t remember his hands. As I say, we get a lot of customers.’

‘What about the sword? Was it expensive?’

The man shrugged, his moustache moving on its own. ‘Not particularly. It was a replica of a cavalry sword. Looked fairly impressive, but not a real antique.’

But the sword was a prop, thought Edgar, all that mattered was what it looked like.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

He imagined Henry staring at him as he walked away.

*

His last call was to Tony’s digs. The landlady’s daughter had described a man visiting Tony a few days before he died. Would this visitor too be described as small and hat-wearing? Would there be a phantom moustache or ancient hands?

At first, the landlady took him for a potential lodger. Then her smile faltered as recognition dawned. It faded away altogether when Edgar explained that he wanted to ask a few more questions about the murder of Tony Mulholland. She looked quickly up and down the street, clearly terrified that people might overhear the ‘m’ word.

‘It’s about the gentleman who called on Mr Mulholland a few days before he died,’ said Edgar.

The landlady was ushering him inside. ‘I don’t know about any gentleman,’ she said, putting suspicious quotation marks around the word.

‘You daughter mentioned it to my sergeant.’

‘Oh, did she?’ The landlady seemed to swell slightly with nerves.

‘Desdemona!’ she shouted. ‘Get down here.’ Edgar hoped that he hadn’t got the girl into trouble.

The daughter appeared, half-hidden behind lank, greasy hair. Who on earth had the idea of naming her after Shakespeare’s tragic heroine? And why Desdemona? Why not Juliet or Ophelia? Did the landlady (prosaically named Lil) think that her daughter was about to be spirited away by a dashing black general?

‘Er, Desdemona,’ Edgar began. ‘I hope this isn’t too upsetting for you, but I wanted to talk to you about the man who visited Mr Mulholland the week before he died.’

‘Des still has nightmares about that,’ put in the mother. ‘She’s very sensitive.’

So do I, Edgar wanted to say, I’m sensitive too. Instead he said, ‘I’m so sorry, Desdemona. I could probably arrange for you to see a doctor if that would help.’

‘A trick cyclist?’ said Lil. ‘No thanks. We’ve never had anything like that in our family.’

‘I wanted to ask you about the man who called on Mr Mulholland a few days before he died,’ said Edgar. ‘Do you feel up to telling me a bit about him?’

‘I told the other policeman,’ said Desdemona. ‘The young one.’

‘Sergeant Willis,’ said Edgar, remembering that Desdemona had described Tony’s visitor as ‘quite old, at least thirty.’ He wondered how old he seemed to her.

‘I just wondered if you had anything to add to your
description,’ said Edgar. ‘Could you describe this man? Was he tall or short? Young or old?’

‘Tall,’ said Desdemona.

‘Really?’ Edgar leant forward in surprise. ‘As tall as me?’

‘No,’ said Desdemona. ‘Smaller. I just meant, taller than me.’

As Desdemona was approximately five foot nothing, this didn’t seem to get them very far. ‘How was he dressed?’ Edgar asked. ‘Was he wearing a coat and hat?’

‘He had a hat,’ volunteered Desdemona. ‘Like the ones sailors wear.’

‘A peaked cap?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you talk to him? What was his voice like?’

For the first time, a genuine look of fear crossed the girl’s face. ‘He had a horrible voice,’ she said. ‘Sort of whispery.’

‘Whispery?’

‘Yes. He asked me if Mr Mulholland was staying here. I said yes. He asked me where his room was. I told him. Mr Mulholland was out so I told him he could wait.’

‘Well you shouldn’t have done,’ said Lil. ‘I don’t know what you were thinking, Des. We don’t just let strangers into the guests’ rooms. What will the inspector think of us?’

She glared at Edgar as if it were his fault.

‘Did the man threaten you in some way?’ asked Edgar.

‘No,’ said the girl uncertainly, ‘it was just his voice.’

‘What about his voice?’

‘It kind of made you do what he wanted.’

That was Tony’s trick, thought Edgar. Persuade the audience to give you the answer you wanted in the first place. In this case, the visitor had wanted entry into Tony’s room and he had got it.

‘What happened when Mr Mulholland came in?’ he asked.

‘I told him that he had a visitor and he went upstairs.’

‘Did you happen to hear what he said when he saw the visitor?’

Edgar had expected to make his usual disclaimer: ‘I’m not suggesting that you were listening’, but Desdemona seemed quite happy to share the fruits of her eavesdropping.

‘Yes. I heard Mr Mulholland say, “I thought I’d be seeing you sooner or later”.’

At the door, Edgar thought to ask about the girl’s unusual name. ‘That was my husband,’ said Lil. ‘He was an actor. Nuts about Shakespeare. He had a big success in
Othello
.’

‘As Othello?’ Though, judging by Desdemona, there can’t have been much Moorish blood in her father.

‘No,’ said Lil with a laugh. ‘Iago. He always played the villains.’

Max found that he didn’t have the heart for lunch after all. He had a drink at the Pavilion Tavern and walked back to his hotel. There, he forced himself to call Bill and offer his condolences.

‘It’s a bit much,’ said Bill, with rather touching understatement, ‘to come home and find that your wife’s been murdered. It’s a bit much for a chap to take.’ He sounded tearful and slightly drunk.

‘It is,’ said Max. ‘It must have been terrible.’

‘Terrible,’ said Bill, stretching the word out. ‘Yes, it was terrible. You wouldn’t know, you’ve never been married, but you get used to someone being there and when they’re not …’

‘Is there someone with you now?’ asked Max. He didn’t think that Bill should be on his own, especially if he was in charge of the baby.

‘No,’ said Bill, sounding truculent. ‘My sister’s looking after Barney. I’m alone here.’

‘Why don’t you go and stay with your sister?’ said
Max. ‘I’m not sure you should stay in the house on your own.’

‘I’ve got to stay,’ said Bill. ‘The bastard might come back, mightn’t he?’

Would the bastard come back, thought Max, as he began to pack his case. He didn’t think so somehow. So far, the killer had relied on surprise. He was hardly likely to go back to a house where there was a large ex-sergeant waiting for him. He thought about what Bill had said to him. ‘You wouldn’t know, you’ve never been married.’ Max had often congratulated himself on reaching the age of forty and remaining unmarried. But, over the past few weeks, he had found himself wondering if a bachelor’s life was really all it was cracked up to be. Being fancy-free was all very well, but there was nothing particularly glamorous about packing for another week in a grim seaside town. The same old audiences, the same old tricks, the same girls (if you’re lucky, he supposed that the standard of girl went downhill too as you got older). He thought of Diablo attempting to perform the bottle trick in front of a hard-faced audience who were only there for the striptease. Would there come a time when he too would be unable to perform the simplest trick? He palmed a bow-tie just to reassure himself that he could still do it. Open your hand and the tie is gone. Big bloody deal. He continued to pack his shirts, pressing each one between tissue paper. He always had his linen professionally laundered. You had to keep up appearances.

But why? Max looked around the hotel room. It was luxurious enough, he supposed. Nice double bed, en-suite bathroom, view over the promenade. He was still successful, the top of the bill. But who would care if his shirts weren’t snow white? What was the point of being the great Max Mephisto – smart car, hand-made shoes, the best dinner jacket in the business? Who the hell was he trying to impress? He took out his cigarette case, irritated with himself. He couldn’t afford to crack up, not now. He had a week in Hastings to get through first. As he leant out of the window, blowing smoke towards the sea, he thought that he would even welcome the appearance of the man Edgar had (with a grimace) called The Conjuror Killer. At least that would shake things up a bit.

*

I thought I’d be seeing you sooner or later
. Those words kept echoing in Edgar’s head as he returned to Bartholomew Square, completed his paperwork and wished Bob a good Saturday night. Who was it that Tony had expected to see? He had obviously known his visitor. They had sat down and drunk tea together. What’s more, the visitor had been someone Tony had
expected
to see. Who could it have been?

It was only five o’clock, but the station was almost empty. Just the desk sergeant upstairs and a constable guarding the cells. Everyone else had departed to enjoy the rest of their weekend. Edgar imagined them in the Bath Arms, downing pints and laughing at how Inspector Stephens couldn’t catch a killer even if the killer took the
trouble to write to him personally. Maybe they thought that he was the Conjuror Killer? After all, he had been the first person to find the bodies of Tony and Jean. Maybe he should just arrest himself and have done with it.

The police station was quiet but, as usual, not silent. Water gurgled in the pipes and the floorboards creaked and sighed. Edgar thought of Henry Solomon, the upright lawman who had made the mistake of turning his back on a suspect. He thought of Solomon’s ghost watching him sorrowfully, wondering what sort of policeman had succeeded him. The feeling of being watched became so strong that Edgar went to the door and looked up and down the corridor. A single bulb swung to and fro. What was making it move? There was no air here in the cellars. Edgar walked to the stairs that led to the cells.

‘Dawson!’ he called.

‘Yes, sir?’ came the constable’s voice.

‘Is there anyone down there?’

‘Just the drunk in cell two, sir.’

Edgar walked back along the corridor. This time he thought he saw a flash of white, like a long skirt whisking up the stairs. Was it the ghost of one of the monks, on his way to the kitchen gardens? Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. You don’t believe in ghosts. ‘What are ghosts?’ Max had once said. ‘Only illusions. It’s one of the first rules of magic, people see what they want to see.’ They used to tell ghost stories in the bar at the Cally on winter nights. Charis had specialised in haunting Welsh tales of enchanted harps, voices singing in the hills and water
spirits whose evil little hands would pull you under the waves. When Charis had died, Edgar had longed to see her ghost. He couldn’t believe that she could have gone like that, without a word. But he had been outraged when one of the WAAFs claimed to have seen her ‘walking in the grounds, wailing like a banshee’. Charis would never have wailed and banshees were Irish not Welsh. And, above all, if she had appeared to anyone, it would have been to Edgar.

If he was thinking about Charis, it was time to leave. Edgar gathered up his papers, climbed the dark stairs and said a cheerful goodbye to the desk sergeant. The town was just waking up for the night. People were queuing for the cinema and drunks were already staggering out of the pubs. Saturday nights in Brighton were starting to have a real edge of violence. Young lads would come down from London intent on trouble; on Sunday mornings the cells would be full of them. When did young people start to move in packs? There were the racecourse gangs too, organised criminals who ran betting rackets and indulged in a little knife crime on the side. They needed another war, Frank Hodges said: that would give them something to think about. Well, if the rumblings from Korea got any louder, Hodges might have his wish and there would be another war hundreds of miles away where British soldiers could go and die without ever really knowing what they were fighting for.

Tonight though, apart from the drunks, the mood seemed to be mellow, almost melancholy. It felt like the
end of something, the end of summer perhaps. A hurdy-gurdy was playing outside the Pavilion and a couple started dancing, quickstepping their way along the pavement, accompanied by ironical cheers. Edgar walked through the crowds feeling like a ghost himself. He didn’t want to join the party, but equally, he realised as he began the long walk, he didn’t want to go home.

All the way up the hill, he had wondered what he would do if he opened the door to his flat to find Diablo lying on the sofa, glass in hand. But the house was silent. No wireless, no hacking cough, no whisky-soaked voice calling, ‘Dear boy, where have you been?’ Edgar stood in the hallway, strangely reluctant to go any further. Letters were scattered on the floor. He had left before the post that morning. He bent down and picked them up. A statement from the bank, a postcard from Lucy, a handyman seeking work and a flyer for the variety show due to start next week on Hastings pier. Edgar smoothed this last one out and stared at it. The headline act filled half the page, the M’s of Max and Mephisto standing on top of each other. That was all he could read, however, because the rest of the name was scored out in thick black lines.