And at that moment his whole attitude to what he was doing changed. What he held was a small-waisted piece of lead. The shape was unmistakable. It was an airgun pellet. Just the sort of airgun pellet which had hit Lumpkin!’s first rehearsal pianist in the hand on the second day of rehearsal. It was evidence.
He grabbed three or four more of the slugs and put them in his pocket. His panic had changed to surging confidence. He reached forward for one more sweep into the glove pocket and his hand closed round the firm outline of a small bottle. Hardly daring to hope, he drew it out and flashed the torch on it. LIQUID PARAFFIN (Liquid Paraffin BP). The bottle was half-empty. He could not believe his good fortune.
There was a noise of a door banging. He turned. Someone was coming from the direction of the hotel. A guest going to another car. He’d wait for them to drive off and then beat a hasty retreat. He shrank down into the leather seat and slipped the balaclava helmet over his head. He pulled it round to cover his face.
The silence was unnaturally long. No slam of a car door, no choking of an engine. He began to think that the visitor must have gone out down the ramp and slowly eased himself up to look.
At that moment there was a click of the door opening and he felt light through the latticed wool of the balaclava. He was face to face with Christopher Milton’s driver, who was leaning forward to get into the car.
The man’s eyes bulged as he saw the intruder and in shock he jerked his head back sharply. There was a loud crack which shook the car and he slid gracefully from view.
Charles, his mind full of ugly pugilistic visions, edged slowly across to the driver’s seat and looked down over the edge.
The driver lay neatly on the ground with his eyes closed. He was out cold. Charles got out of the car, shut the door to put the light out and turned his torch on the body on the ground.
There was no blood. Regular breathing. Strong heart-beat. Strong pulse. Probably just concussion. He loosened the man’s tie and put a cushion from the back of the car under his head.
Then, with the precious pellets and bottle in his pocket, Charles crept down the stairs out of the garage. As he emerged into the street, he removed the balaclava.
There was a phone-box opposite. It seemed a natural conclusion to the dream-like flow of luck which had characterised the previous half-hour. Charles dialled and asked for the ambulance service in his own voice before thinking to disguise it. When he was connected, he had a moment’s agonising decision choosing a voice. Northern Irish seemed the most natural for this sort of thing, but it might be unduly alarmist in a bomb-conscious Britain. The voice that came to hand was American-Italian. Sounding like something out of The Godfather, he said, ‘Could you send an ambulance to the big car park beside the Holiday Inn.’ He was tempted to say, ‘There’s a stiff there’, but made do with, ‘There’s somebody injured’.
‘What’s happened to them?’ asked the voice and it was only by putting the phone down that Charles could prevent himself from saying, ‘Someone made him an offer he couldn’t refuse’.
He hung about until he saw the ambulance safely arrived, and then went briskly back to Julian’s place, using the walk he’d developed when playing a gangster in Guys and Dolls (‘This guy didn’t like it and nor did the doll he was with’ — Bolton Evening News).
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Charles woke in an excellent mood. The events of the previous night were very clear to him. It was as if he had found the instant cure-all he had always dreamed must exist somewhere. All his problems had been resolved at once. He now had evidence of the wrong-doing of the driver and just to make his job easier, the driver himself was temporarily removed from the scene. There was still the minor question of what he should do about it — confront the villain and threaten police proceedings, go direct to the police or send them an anonymous deposition advising investigation — but that would keep. The warm completed-Times-crossword sensation had developed into an even better feeling, as if his solution to the puzzle had won a prize.
Helen Paddon cooked him an enormous breakfast, which he consumed with that relish which only a fulfilled mind can give. She was pleased to have something to do. The last heavy weeks of pregnancy were dragging interminably.
He finished breakfast about nine and took the unusual expedient of ringing Gerald at home. After pleasantries and must-see-you-soons from Kate Venables, the solicitor came on the line. ‘What gives?’ he asked in his B-film gangster style.
‘It’s sorted out.’
‘Really?’
‘Uhuh.’ Charles found himself slipping into the same idiom.
‘You know who’s been doing it all?’
‘I know and I’ve got evidence.’
‘Who?’ The curiosity was immediate and childlike.
‘Never mind.’ Charles was deliberately circumspect and infuriating. ‘Suffice to say that I’ll see nothing else happens to threaten the show, at least from the point of view of crime or sabotage. If it fails on artistic grounds, I’m afraid I can’t be held responsible.’
‘Is that all you’re going to tell me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Damn your eyes.’ Charles chuckled. ‘But you’re sure that Christopher Milton is in no danger?’
‘I don’t think he ever has been in any danger from anyone but himself.’ On that cryptic note he put the phone down, knowing exactly the expression he had left on Gerald’s face.
There was a ten-thirty call for the entire company to hear what Desmond Porton of Amulet Productions had thought of Lumpkin! and what changes he had ordered before the show could come into London. Charles ambled through the streets of Bristol towards the theatre, his mood matched by the bright November sun. The people of the city bustled about their business and he felt a universal benevolence towards them. His route went past the Holiday Inn and he could hardly repress a smile at the memory of what had happened the night before. It was strange. He felt no guilt, no fear that the driver might have been seriously hurt. That would have spoiled the rounded perfection of the crime’s solution.
The people of Bristol looked much healthier than those of Leeds. His mind propounded some vague theory about the freedom of living near the sea as against the claustrophobia of a land-locked city, but it was let down when the sun went in. Anyway, the people didn’t look that different. In fact, there was a man on the opposite side of the street who looked exactly like the bald man with big ears whom he’d idly followed in Leeds. He kicked himself for once again trying to impose theories on everything. Why could he never just accept the continuous variety of life without trying to force events into generalisations?
There was a lot of tension at the theatre. The entire company sat in the stalls, exchanging irrelevant chatter or coughing with self-pity to show that they’d got The Cold. There were three chairs on the stage and, as Charles slumped into a stalls seat, they were filled by the company manager, David Meldrum and Christopher Milton.
David Meldrum stood up first as if he were the director and clapped his hands to draw attention. The chatter and coughing faded untidily. ‘Well, as you all know, we had a distinguished visitor in our audience last night, Desmond Porton of Amulet, who, you don’t need reminding, are putting up a lot of the money for this show. So for that reason, if no other, we should listen with interest to his comments and maybe make certain changes accordingly.’
‘Otherwise the show will never make it to London,’ added the company manager cynically.
‘Yes.’ David Meldrum paused, having lost his thread. ‘Um, well, first let me give you the good news. He liked a lot of the show a lot and he said there is no question of the London opening being delayed. So it’s all systems go for November 27th, folks!’ The slang bonhomie of the last sentence did not suit the prissy voice in which it was said.