The Lately Deceased Read online

  She ignored Pearl, who, for once, had the sense to let his arm go and went over to join the Australian, Abe, at the bar.

  ‘What’s this, Pearl?’ Abe asked her with a grin, ‘The tactful side of your lovely nature coming to the surface?’

  ‘Tact! Hardly – it’s just that I can’t stand the old cow. She stinks of horses and mothballs. Look at her now; she can’t even stand up without help.’

  Abe looked and saw that Margaret had fastened her grasp on the lapels of Gordon’s coat and was gently swaying in front of him.

  ‘If she makes a scene and breaks up the party,’ Pearl said, bitterly, ‘I’ll scratch her filthy eyes out.’

  Watching, Pearl saw Margaret, still steadying herself on Gordon’s lapels, talking to him with drunken earnestness. She saw Gordon smile at her and pat her playfully on the bottom. Then he gently took her fingers from his coat and turned her round until her back was towards him. He gave her a light push and set her on her way towards the settee where Myers was waiting.

  ‘No kiss, no scene. Just a domestic interlude,’ murmured Abe. ‘Now off you go, back to the lover-boy. What a life he must lead between the pair of you!’

  Pearl looked at him angrily. ‘You’re a cheap Australian bastard,’ she snapped.

  ‘Yeah, so I’ve been told before.’ He laughed with every sign of amusement.

  Meanwhile, Geoff was just ending his description of the game.

  ‘Does everyone understand now what they’ve got to do?’ he demanded. ‘No questions? That’s fine. Then I want five men volunteers – you four and myself. We’ll stay here in the lounge while the rest of you pair off and go and hide. All the lights in the house will be out, except the one over the bar – that’s for emergencies, like getting a drink! After five minutes the barman will bash on a glass to tell you the hunt is on, and the five of us here will be on our way to pinch your girls from you, no holds barred except cold steel and rabbit punches!’

  ‘What’s the object of the game, feller?’ came the Transatlantic voice of Webster Leigh.

  ‘Chum, if you can’t discover that, while you’re locked in a closet with one of these popsies, you need a psychiatrist, not a master of ceremonies! Go on, then, get going, we’ll be after you in five minutes.’

  Laughing and chattering, the excited throng jostled into pairs and streamed out into the passage leading to the rest of the flat. Geoff lifted his glass to the other four men who remained behind. ‘Good hunting, chaps,’ he called.

  After five minutes, the bartender asked if he should give the warning signal.

  ‘Good God, no!’ Geoff retorted. ‘We only say five minutes not to shock the more puritan types in our midst. Give them at least fifteen minutes; we’ll get our chance soon enough.’

  He threw back his drink. ‘Let’s have another round, barman. What are you drinking, Leo?’

  Leo Prince was a swarthy, overdressed man of about thirty-five, broad and rather squat. His dark features and black shiny hair gave the lie to his assumed name. His real one was Antonio Carelli and he made a profitable living in many ways, one of which was a theatrical properties business which boasted it could provide anything from a troupe of belly dancers to a midget submarine. He was also known as an ex-beau of Pearl’s, though, since Gordon had come on the scene, he’d had to fade into the background. Geoffrey disliked him intensely, but concealed his feelings in his usual efficient way.

  A few more minutes waiting was relieved by the group guessing how the pairing-off had gone.

  ‘Old Myers dragged the boss’s wife off pretty smartly,’ said one. ‘Who was the more drunk, I wonder?’

  ‘Walker went off with that hot little blonde – Eve something-or-other,’ observed another. ‘Did you see Colin Moore get hauled away by that long-haired beatnik from the music section?’

  ‘It’s a wonder that Gordon didn’t slide off with Pearl. He doesn’t normally pass up a chance to get her in the dark!’ sniggered Leo Prince. ‘Perhaps the attraction’s wearing a bit thin; after all he’s been at her for a year or more now. Maybe he’s setting his sights on to that shiny dame, Eve.’

  Geoff felt an urge to take the speaker by his greasy hair and bang his face on the top of the bar.

  ‘Quite a guy for the dames, old Gordon,’ Leo went on, leaning back against the wall and twirling the stem of his glass in his fingers. ‘How the hell his old woman puts up with him, I don’t know. Twelve years ago he was flat broke. I remember when he was practically on the breadline. But, boy, what a break he got when he hooked his old woman’s dough!’

  ‘Good luck to him, I say,’ said an elegant young man of the world. ‘Gordon’s one of the best. Sure, he’s fond of dames and dollars, but he’s pretty free at sharing both of them.’

  Geoff did not join in the coarse laugh that accompanied this sally, but Leo picked up the thread.

  ‘Gordon’s OK,’ he said. ‘One of the best, he puts all he’s got into the Metro outfit. That’s what’s given him stomach ulcers. Funny how all these dedicated characters get ulcers! An occupational hazard, I suppose.’

  Geoff Tate, his patience stretched to breaking point by this tittle-tattle, broke in.

  ‘Come on, fellows, we can’t find any excuse to prop the bar up any longer.’ He gave a ‘thumbs up’ sign to the barman, who rang a loud jangling peal on a tumbler with a spoon, and the raiding party of well-dressed London gentlemen streamed out into the darkness of the flat with a chorus of primitive howls.

  Chapter Two

  The extensive apartment provided plenty of room for the fourteen couples to hide in the darkness that reigned beyond the door of the lounge. The flat was arranged on two floors over a showroom that sold an exclusive make of sports car. The lounge was on the first floor, together with a study, dining room, and kitchen, while on the floor above there were three bedrooms and two bathrooms. All were expensively decorated and furnished in the most modern style that reflected the way of life that Gordon followed. In fact, it was too perfect; it had the artificial elegance of one of his studio sets – orderly luxury, an anonymous tidiness with none of the traces of disorder that gives that ‘lived-in’ appearance.

  For some time the large lounge was quiet. The man in the short white coat behind the bar calmly washed glasses in his tiny sink. If he had any personal thoughts on the habits of the upper-income group and their friends, he kept them well to himself.

  From the distant rooms came the occasional sound of a female scream and masculine laughter, punctuated by thuds of furniture falling about. Once, from the nearby study, there was a giggling screech followed by a guffaw and a ‘Stop it, whoever you are!’

  After twenty minutes of this, the barman looked at the clock, waited a couple more minutes and then made another resounding clanging on the glass. There was no immediate reaction to this, but five minutes later the first cavemen began straggling back to the lounge, bearing their captures with them. The men were flushed, some were dabbing at lipstick smears on their cheeks and some of the girls, clinging to their captors’ arms, were dishevelled from hiding in wardrobes and under beds.

  Geoff resumed command as the contestants returned. He had managed to reclaim Eve, who had her arm around his waist as he spoke:

  ‘First round over, folks. We’re supposed to see who lost their girls to the Neanderthals and charge them a forfeit, but, as some apparently prefer to stay dallying in the dark, we’ll just have a drink and a dance until the next spasm.’

  There were several couples missing and, in the half-gloom and the state of inebriety that prevailed, no one knew nor cared where they were. The survivors streamed over to the bar, the music was turned on again and most people either lay about in pleasant dalliance with their recent captures, or shuffled around the dance floor or leaned against the bar.

  ‘How did you get on, chum?’ Leo asked the teetering Webster.

  ‘Huh, first one I laid my hands on was that big lug!’

  He pointed to the fat figure of Myers, who was approaching w
ith a red lampshade perched incongruously on his bald head and Pearl clutching his arm. She seemed very benign now, mollified both by alcohol and by a lot of anonymous attention in the dark. Her dress was creased, her lipstick smeared and her hair ruffled.

  ‘I thought you went off with my wife, you sly old devil,’ Gordon accused Myers, with a grin.

  ‘She was pinched from me straight away,’ Myers explained, ‘but I struck lucky with Pearl.’ He ogled her with his middle-aged eyes.

  Abe Franklin came up holding a drink in one hand and a brunette by the other.

  ‘If I find a girl with sharp teeth. I’m going to brain her!’ he drawled. ‘Someone damn near took my ear off in there!’

  ‘How goes the time?’ asked Leo Prince, trying to wrest Pearl from Myers. She, half-resisting, was in danger of being torn in half by the two men competing for her.

  Gordon, scowling at Prince, glanced at the clock.

  ‘Getting on for one. Plenty of time yet. We can have another lark around and, then take it easy until breakfast. I told Edwards to start getting bacon, eggs and coffee ready at about four.’

  For a long time, the party ticked over on a steady diet of dancing, drinking and necking. Groups broke up and new ones formed. Martin Myers went to sleep in an armchair, and Leo took full possession of Pearl. Walker frowned when he saw them and went over to where Geoff was sitting with Eve.

  ‘Come on, Geoff, let’s get this other damn game going,’ he said.

  Geoff Tate got up and stood on a chair.

  ‘Right, everybody, next event coming up. Everyone under starter’s orders!’

  His voice rose over the buzz of noise in the room.

  ‘We’re going to play “Courting” now. You all wanted it earlier, so let’s get on with it. Anyone not know the rules?’

  This was greeted by ‘What rules?’

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ Geoff went on. ‘Each girl has to take twelve cocktail sticks from the bar and go hide somewhere. After a decent interval, the men set off after them. Remember this chaps – every girl you find must give you a kiss and a cocktail stick. After fifteen minutes, the bell rings and we all come back here. The chap with the most sticks is the winner and gets a quart of beer to drink without taking breath. The girl with fewest sticks must be a brazen hussy and will have to pay a suitable forfeit.’

  With a buzz of approval, the girls collected their cocktail sticks and fled to the bedrooms and the rest of the flat. In due course, the men went in raucous pursuit and again the barman was left with his thoughts and his makeshift gong. At the appointed time, he rang it and the revellers came drifting back, more quickly this time.

  The brawny young man from Features won and unhesitatingly drank the prize. Eve had the fewest sticks but conveniently forgot the forfeit. People were getting sleepy and were content to pair off quietly and listen to the background music. Only two stalwart pairs persisted in creeping around the dance floor, their arms wrapped around each other’s necks.

  Gordon had reclaimed Pearl, as she was now contrite and loving, huddled against him on a sofa in the corner.

  From the bar, Pearl’s husband, now noticeably the worse for drink, stared at her owlishly for a minute, and then called across to her.

  ‘Do you have to behave like a tart, Pearl? Can’t you wait till we’ve all gone home?’

  ‘He’s drunk,’ said Gordon. ‘Take no notice; he only wants to start something.’

  He was fondling Pearl’s ear sleepily.

  ‘It’s nice not to have lumps of jewellery in it for a change, darling,’ he murmured.

  The remark struck a chord in her hazy mind. ‘Where is it then?’

  She put up a hand to her ear, felt for herself and then sat bolt upright.

  ‘It was a diamond one, darling. Where is it?’ The other earring, a diamond cluster shaped like a feather, was still in place.

  ‘It’ll be around somewhere,’ said Gordon, unconcerned. ‘Not to worry.’

  ‘But, darling, I do worry. Come on, we must find it.’

  Pearl got to her feet and dragged the unwilling Gordon into the corridor.

  ‘Where did you go in the last game?’ he asked, anxious to get the search over with and return to the settee.

  ‘I can’t remember exactly; upstairs in one of the bedrooms, I forget which,’ she replied, her recent good humour quickly fading.

  Upstairs, all was in deep gloom. Muffled sounds came from one of the rooms. Gordon switched on the light in the first and hastily put it out again with a muttered ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I know, it was in here,’ Pearl said suddenly, pointing to a door ahead of them. ‘I was hiding behind the wardrobe.’

  She pulled him towards the end room and switched on the light. The room was unoccupied and Pearl looked around and then pointed to the floor.

  ‘There it is, on the carpet by the wardrobe,’ she exclaimed eagerly.

  Gordon stooped to pick up the earring and, as he did so, his shoulder touched the wardrobe door. The door began to swing slowly open. Pearl, restored to good humour by the finding of her diamonds, put a hand out to close it.

  ‘Watch it, darling,’ she said. ‘Oooh, Gordon, look!’

  She was pointing into the wardrobe. Gordon pulled the door wide, so that he could see inside. There, slumped half-sitting, half-lying, against the inside wall of the cupboard, was the inert form of Margaret Walker.

  Chapter Three

  Gordon began to laugh, quietly at first, then with great roars, swaying on his feet, reaching out to Pearl for support.

  ‘Well, well, my dear wife!’ he said, when his mirth had subsided a little, ‘I never thought I’d see straight-laced Annie tight in a cupboard. Blotto in a grotto!’ He roared with laughter again.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to get her out?’ giggled Pearl.

  ‘We’d better dump her on the bed to sleep it off, I suppose.’

  He stooped and lifted the small figure out of the wardrobe and dropped it unceremoniously on to the bed.

  ‘God, she really is right out; not a twitch! That’s how it takes you when you’re not used to the stuff.’

  ‘Are you sure she’s all right, darling?’ asked Pearl rather anxiously.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with her that a few hours flat on her back won’t put right. Come on, sweet, back to the party.’ They switched off the light and went back to the lounge.

  The party was ebbing to a sleepy finish; the guests who didn’t want to stay to breakfast were beginning to leave. The dancers had now given up and all were dozing, waiting for the reviving coffee and food. At four thirty, Edwards began bringing it from the kitchen, setting it out on the bar and some small tables. People had just started to eat, when there was a muffled scream from the floor above. This was followed by a frantic clatter of heels on the stairs. The next moment Lena Wright, one of the studio girls, dashed into the lounge.

  She looked wildly around until she found her boss.

  ‘Gordon, it’s Margaret, upstairs on the bed. Go up quickly.’

  Gordon lowered his coffee cup and smiled reassuringly.

  ‘It’s all under control, Lena, I’ve seen her already. I put her on the bed myself to sleep it off.’

  Lena became agitated in her effort to convince.

  ‘You don’t understand, Gordon. Please come up with me. She’s not just drunk … she’s dead!’

  ‘No, Lena,’ Gordon said with slow and studied patience, ‘Not dead, just very, very drunk.’

  ‘She’s dead, I tell you!’ the girl screamed hysterically. ‘Gordon, you must come up. Please? Oh, anybody, listen to me – please come up and look at Margaret!’

  ‘Lena, dear, it’s all quite all right,’ said Gordon, slowly as if talking to a small child. ‘Pearl and I found her hours ago in the wardrobe. She’s passed out, that’s all that’s wrong with her.’

  ‘She’s not, I tell you, she’s dead! I know she’s dead!’ urged Lena. She tried to calm herself to give weight to her words. ‘Look, I used to be
a nurse, I know when a woman’s dead. Please, go up and have a look!’

  Geoffrey Tate came in from the kitchen carrying a large jug of coffee. His glance went at once to Lena, standing there wild-eyed and distraught.

  ‘What’s going on, Lena? You look upset,’ he asked, cheerfully.

  Gordon cut in, his mouth full of bacon and fried bread.

  ‘We found dear Margaret drunk in one of the bedrooms some time ago. Now Lena here has found her again and thinks she’s dead!’

  ‘Geoff, please come up with me, there’s something dreadfully wrong.’

  The sincerity of her voice was unmistakable. Geoff gently shook Gordon’s shoulder and said firmly, ‘Come on, we must make sure that Margaret really is all right.’

  Several others in the room, now sobering up, trooped after Lena and the two men, to the floor above. In the end bedroom, Margaret Walker lay in exactly the same position as she had been left. Lena moved hesitantly around the foot of the bed and pointed mutely.

  Looking deathly pale and still, Margaret lay with her head on the pillow, a brown stain spreading over the coverlet from her mouth. The thin face, with its high cheekbones, looked ghastly in its pallor, and the tightly clenched hands seemed to be holding desperately on to the last threads of life as they had ebbed away. It seemed beyond doubt that she was dead.

  Geoff knelt down at her side and gently felt her pulse. After a moment, he beckoned to Lena to come nearer and pointed at the neckline of Margaret’s dress.

  The former nurse placed a trembling hand on the upper part of the older woman’s breast and stared at the floor in concentration for a moment. There was a deep silence in the room, all the more impressive after the hours of clamour that had gone before.

  ‘Nothing, Geoff,’ whispered Lena. ‘No beats … and she’s so cold!’