Miss Kedge said dully: “He always addressed the manuscript to himself. But that isn’t his work, Mr. Dalgliesh. He didn’t write it and he didn’t type it.”
“How can you be sure?” It was hardly a necessary question. There are few things more difficult to disguise than typing and the girl had surely copied enough Maurice Seton manuscripts to recognise his style.
But before she had a chance to reply, Miss Calthrop said: “I think it would be best if I just read part of it.” They waited while she took from her handbag a pair of immense jewelled spectacles, settled them on her nose and arranged herself more comfortably in the chair. Maurice Seton, thought Dalgliesh, was about to have his first public reading. He would have been gratified by the listeners’ rapt attention and possibly, too, by Miss Calthrop’s histrionics.
Celia, faced with the work of a fellow craftsman and sure of the audience, was prepared to give of her best. She read: “Carruthers pushed aside the bead curtain and entered the nightclub. For a moment he stood motionless in the doorway, his tall figure elegant as always in the well-cut dinner jacket, his cool, ironic eyes surveying with a kind of disdain the close-packed tables, the squalid pseudo-Spanish decor, the shabby clientèle. So this was the headquarters of perhaps the most dangerous gang in Europe! Behind this sordid but commonplace nightclub, outwardly no different from a hundred others in Soho, was a mastermind who could control some of the most powerful criminal gangs in the West. It seemed unlikely. But then, this whole fantastic adventure was unlikely. He sat down at the table nearest the door to watch and wait. When the waiter came he ordered fried scampi, green salad and a bottle of Chianti. The man, a grubby little Cypriot, took his order without a word. Did they know he was here? Carruthers wondered. And, if they did, how long would it be before they showed themselves?
“There was a small stage at the end of the club furnished only with a cane screen and a single red chair. Suddenly the lights were dimmed and the pianist began to play a slow, sensuous tune. From behind the screen came a girl. She was blond and beautiful, not young but mature and full bosomed, with a grace and arrogance which Carruthers thought might indicate White Russian blood. She moved forward sensuously to the single chair and with great deliberation began to unzip her evening dress. It fell about her knees to the ground. Underneath she wore nothing but a black brassière and G-string. Sitting now with her back to the audience she twisted her hands to unhook the brassière. Immediately from the crowded tables there came a hoarse murmuring. ‘Rosie! Rosie! Come on, Rosie! Give! Give!’”
Miss Calthrop stopped reading. There was complete silence. Most of her listeners seemed stunned. Then Bryce called out: “Well, go on, Celia! Don’t stop now that it’s getting really exciting. Does Rosie fall on the Hon. Martin Carruthers and rape him? He’s had it coming to him for years. Or is that too much to hope?”
Miss Calthrop said: “There’s no need to go on. The proof we need is there.”
Sylvia Kedge turned again to Dalgliesh. “Mr. Seton would never call a character Rosie, Mr. Dalgliesh. That was his mother’s name. He told me once that he would never use it in any of his books. And he never did.”
“Particularly not for a Soho prostitute,” broke in Miss Calthrop. “He talked to me about his mother quite often. He adored her. Absolutely adored her. It nearly broke his heart when she died and his father married again.” Miss Calthrop’s voice throbbed with all the yearning of frustrated motherhood.
Suddenly Oliver Latham said: “Let me see that.”
Celia handed the manuscript to him and they all watched with anxious expectancy while he scanned it. Then he handed it back without a word.
“Well?” asked Miss Calthrop. “Nothing. I just wanted to have a look at it. I know Seton’s handwriting but not his typing. But you say that he didn’t type this.”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” said Miss Kedge. “Although I can’t exactly say why. It just doesn’t look like his work. But it was typed on his machine.”
“What about the style?” asked Dalgliesh.
The little group considered. At last Bryce said: “One couldn’t really call that typical Seton. After all, the man could write when he chose. It’s almost artificial, isn’t it? One gets the impression he was trying to write badly.”
Elizabeth Marley had been silent until now, sitting alone in the corner like a discontented child who has been dragged unwillingly into the company of boring adults. Suddenly she said impatiently: “If this is a fake it’s obvious we were meant to discover it. Justin’s right. The style’s completely bogus. And it’s too much of a coincidence that the person responsible should have hit on the one name which would arouse suspicion. Why choose Rosie? If you ask me, this is just Maurice Seton trying to be clever and you’ve all fallen for it. You’ll read all about it when his new book comes out. You know how he loves experimenting.”
“It’s certainly the sort of childish scheme that Seton might think up,” said Latham. “I’m not sure I want to be an involuntary participant in any of his damn silly experiments. I suggest we forget the whole thing. He’ll turn up in his own time.”
“Maurice was always very odd and secretive, of course,” agreed Miss Calthrop. “Especially about his work. And there’s another thing. I’ve been able to give him one or two useful little hints in the past. He’s definitely used them. But never a word to me subsequently. Naturally I didn’t expect a formal acknowledgement. If I can help a fellow writer I’m only too happy. But it’s a little disconcerting when a book is published to find one or two of one’s own ideas in the plot and never a thank you from Maurice.”
“He’s probably forgotten by then that he didn’t think them out for himself,” suggested Latham with a kind of tolerant contempt.
“He never forgot anything, Oliver. Maurice had a very clear mind. He worked methodically too. If I dropped a suggestion he’d pretend to be only half interested and mutter something about trying to work it in sometime or other. But I could see from the look in his eyes that he’d seized on it and was only waiting to get home to file it away on one of those little index cards. Not that I resented it really. It’s just that I think he might have acknowledged the help occasionally. I gave him an idea a month or so ago and I bet you anything it will appear in the next book.”
No one accepted the offer. Bryce said: “You’re absolutely right about him, Celia. One contributed one’s own mite from time to time. God knows why except that one does get the occasional idea for a new method of murder and it seemed a shame to waste it when poor Seton was so obviously near the end of his resources. But, apart from that predatory gleam in his eye-not a sign of appreciation, my dears! Of course, for reasons you all appreciate, he gets no help from me now. Not after what he did to Arabella.”
Miss Calthrop said: “Oh, my idea wasn’t for a new method of murder exactly. It was just a situation. I thought it might make rather an effective opening chapter. I kept telling Maurice that you must capture your readers from the very start. I pictured a body drifting out to sea in a dinghy with its hands chopped off at the wrists.”
There was a silence, so complete, so sudden that the striking of the carriage clock drew all their eyes towards it as if it were chiming the hour of execution. Dalgliesh was looking at Latham. He had stiffened in his chair and was grasping the stem of his glass with such force that Dalgliesh half-expected it to snap. It was impossible to guess what lay behind that pale, rigid mask. Suddenly Bryce gave his high, nervous laugh and the tension broke. One could almost hear the little gasps of relief.
“What an extraordinarily morbid imagination you have, Celia! One would never suspect. You must control these impulses, my dear, or the League of Romantic Novelists will hurl you out of the club.”