Cover-Up Story Page 8

  The Cousins were leaving as I arrived. They sidled past me with the eager escaping faces of males who had been subjected to an overdose of female hysterics.

  Lou-Ann was sitting in a chair in the centre of the room, a heap of tattered, soggy paper handkerchiefs at her feet. She wasn’t actively crying at the moment, just snuffling occasionally, her hands shredding a Kleenex restlessly. Crystal perched on the arm of her chair, an expression of concern on her face, and a full box of Kleenex on her lap. As Lou-Ann let the shredded one fall to the floor, she pulled out a fresh one and handed it to her automatically. It should have been a funny routine but, looking at Lou-Ann’s red blotchy face, it wasn’t.

  Uncle No’ccount leaned against the farther wall, watching them unhappily. His fingers caressed the harmonica, probably he itched to play it. Equally probably, he felt it wouldn’t show proper respect for Lou-Ann’s anxiety. He nodded to me and sketched a brief salute with the harmonica.

  Bart stood by the window, looking intently down into the street. He seemed to have dissociated himself from everyone present, although it was his suite. He didn’t even turn round when I spoke.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  Lou-Ann raised her head and looked at me pleadingly. ‘Find her, Douglas. She’s lost – she’s lost and gone –’ She broke off, her head cocked, as though to catch an echo of something she could not quite place. (‘You are lost and gone for ever, Oh, my darling, Clementine’.) Fortunately for her peace of mind, the fragment of lyric drifted away.

  ‘You know your way around this city, Douglas,’ she continued, after the brief pause. ‘Where could she be?’

  ‘Has anyone called the police?’ I asked.

  ‘No – and nobody’s going to.’ Bart turned away from the window, his shoulders hunched menacingly. ‘We don’t want no police nosing around here, boy.’ He glanced sideways at Lou-Ann. ‘It wouldn’t be good publicity for the Act. You know how Maw would hate that.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lou-Ann agreed reluctantly. ‘Maw wouldn’t want bad publicity. But –’

  ‘You jes’ leave things be for a little while longer,’ Bart said. ‘She’ll maybe turn up by herself when she feels like it. You never know – she might just be out on a tear.’

  ‘Maw don’t drink!’ Crystal sounded genuinely shocked. ‘Leastwise, not that much.’

  ‘How do you know what she mighta decided to do last night? Was you with her?’

  ‘No – no, Bart.’ Crystal lost colour.

  ‘She was with me, Bart,’ Lou-Ann said mechanically. ‘We was playing gin rummy.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Bart glanced at her suspiciously. ‘Going in quite a lot for card games these nights, ain’t you? Maybe I should look in for a hand or two sometimes.’

  ‘Why don’t you, Bart?’ Lou-Ann turned to him eagerly. For the moment, her mother was forgotten in the place of her bigger, more enduring problem. ‘You ain’t been by in quite a long spell. Maybe we could sit by ourselves and talk awhile.’

  Bart ignored her, returning to his vigil at the window, staring intently down into the street. Was he more worried than he seemed? Lou-Ann sniffed unappealingly, and Crystal, still wary of Bart, passed her another Kleenex.

  ‘Where’s Sam?’ I spoke over their heads to Uncle No’ccount who, at least, seemed to be keeping calm, if not neutral, in the face of this situation.

  ‘Checking the hospitals,’ Uncle No’ccount said. ‘Been gone a coupla hours now. Seems like there’s an awful lot of hospitals in London.’

  There were quite a few morgues, too, but it wasn’t a thought to voice aloud. Uncle No’ccount nodded at me glumly, as though he had caught the vibrations of that thought. ‘Don’t seem like good sense to go rushing around like a hen with its head cut off. We can’t tell which ones he’s been to until he gets back to tell us. Then maybe you can think of some others we might try. Not the police, though.’ His voice was firm. ‘Not yet.’

  It was the other half of Public Relations. There are things to be seized upon and publicized for more than they’re worth. And there are things to be hushed up – usually the things that would get you the most publicity, but the wrong kind. A few police inquiries here and there, and the story of the Client’s private predilections might be discovered. So, the police were out.

  And if some frightened, bewildered lady were roaming around an unknown city with a case of amnesia, well, that was just too bad – for her. She’d just have to continue roaming around, until she either remembered at last or until one of us caught up with her and told her. The Client must be protected.

  Meanwhile, the Client was glaring down into the street with a burning intensity. Willing Maw Cooney to come back to the bosom of her loving Troupe? Somehow, I doubted it. I moved up behind him and followed the direction of his eyes.

  The attraction was instantly obvious. They stood waiting at the bus stop, twittering together, in the shortest mini-skirts I’d seen in months. Not birds, fledgelings definitely. Out of school uniform for the afternoon, probably. Not much older than thirteen.

  The Client exhaled a deep breath. ‘Man,’ he said softly, ‘ain’t they something?’

  That was when the policeman knocked on the door.

  He was a very young constable. He moved into the room, looking very unhappy. Perhaps the Police School had warned him there’d be days like this. Someone ought to ask him for directions to put him at his ease, but I wasn’t up to it. He saw Lou-Ann’s red-rimmed eyes and the pile of soiled Kleenex at her feet, and retreated half a pace. He seemed to be wishing they’d handed him a simple assignment, like straightening out a three-mile traffic snarl-up at Hyde Park Corner.

  Lou-Ann rose to her feet and advanced upon him. ‘Maw?’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘You’ve come about Maw?’ Crystal moved with her, and Uncle No’ccount came forward swiftly.

  The constable winced, but stood firm as they approached. He’d be worth his weight in riot duty some day. Trying to by-pass the women, he spoke across them to Uncle No’ccount.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry. Perhaps I could speak to you in private, sir.’

  ‘She’s my mother,’ Lou-Ann challenged him. ‘Tell me. ‘Where is she? Is she all right? Does she have amnesia –’

  It was obviously worse than the constable had thought it was going to be. Too much showed in his face. Lou-Ann didn’t miss any of it.

  ‘She’s hurt!’ she shrieked. ‘What happened? Where is she? Let me go to her!’

  ‘Take it easy, honey.’ Crystal put an arm around her. Uncle No’ccount glanced, with some pity, at the young constable. Bart still looked out of the window, indifferent to the scene in the room. Yet he was listening.

  ‘She’s in Charing Cross Hospital.’ Perhaps they have a formula for these things. If so, the young constable had forgotten it. He blurted out the information. ‘It was a traffic accident. On the Embankment. Yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon! But –’

  ‘There was no identification,’ he defended. ‘We weren’t able to trace her immediately. We just knew, from her clothes, that she was an American.’

  ‘No identification! ’ Unable to bear anything else, Lou-Ann pounced on a detail. ‘But she had her passport, and her wallet with lots of membership cards, and there must have been plenty of letters in her purse, too.’

  ‘There was no purse – no handbag,’ he said. ‘Nothing at the scene. We think it possible that someone picked it up and took it away. People do that sometimes,’ he said sadly. ‘You may get it back later – with the money missing.’

  ‘Anyhow, you’ve found us,’ Uncle No’ccount said. ‘That must mean she’s been able to talk and tell you.’

  Bart swung away from the window and faced into the room. His eyes were narrowed against the change of light. He waited for the answer.

  ‘Er, yes,’ the constable said unconvincingly. ‘That is,’ he qualified, ‘she hadn’t regained consciousness fully. But she said a few things – wandering a bit – and we were able to int
erpret them. Actually, we took rather a chance. I came to see if you knew anything about her, and then, of course, from your reactions –’

  ‘Then she ain’t “actually” –’ Bart mimicked the accent – ‘awake and in her right mind. Maybe you better tell us just how bad she is.’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’ The constable had had enough. He wasn’t a diagnostician, and he didn’t intend to be. His own duties were bad enough. ‘Perhaps you might come along to the hospital and identify her,’ he suggested. ‘We presume the lady is one of your party, but we’d like to be sure. Although she must be, there can’t be two middle-aged American ladies missing on the same day.’

  But there could, and a sudden loss of colour in his face showed that he had just realized this. The young constable was having a rough initiation into the seamier side of his job. It was all very well to join the Force with happy visions of disarming bank robbers in unarmed combat and rescuing children from burning buildings, but he was beginning to realize that a large part of his time might be spent in trying to cope with intractable people who got themselves into unhealthy predicaments – and their relatives, who would somehow assume that it was all his fault because he hadn’t had the foresight to prevent it. He looked as though he were having second thoughts about remaining one of our Brave Boys in Blue. But he pulled himself together.

  ‘I think we should go to the hospital,’ he said firmly. ‘After you’ve made the formal identification, it will be a lot simpler. Perhaps,’ he added craftily, ‘you might like to have her moved to a private room, or engage special nurses.’

  ‘You mean she isn’t being taken care of?’ All the American bugaboos about the National Health Service, fostered by years of propaganda from the American Medical Association, rose to terrify Lou-Ann. And, more practically, to give her a jolt of adrenalin to get her moving. She bolted for the door. The rest of us followed.

  The constable was right. It could only have been Maw Cooney, and it was. But he’d glossed over how badly she’d been hurt. Screens were around the bed when we approached and, meeting Uncle No’ccount’s eyes, I could see that I wasn’t the only one who knew there wasn’t going to be time to carry out all the orders Lou-Ann was shouting. There would be no private room, no specialist from Harley Street, no round-the-clock nurses.

  We stood around the bed, more for Lou-Ann’s sake than for Maw’s. The pale face on the pillow grew paler, the breathing more stertorous. After about half an hour, she opened her eyes, but she didn’t see any of us.

  ‘That bastard pushed me!’ she said loudly, and died.

  CHAPTER IX

  IT WASN’T EVIDENCE. Perhaps it wasn’t anything stronger than the antipathy I felt for this whole assignment. I looked round at the others.

  Uncle No’ccount’s eyes were downcast. Whatever he thought, he was going to keep it to himself. Crystal’s attention was centred on Lou-Ann – probably she had paid no attention to Maw Cooney’s last words, only to the fact that they were the last, and the effect this would have on Lou-Ann.

  Lou-Ann was sobbing loudly. The constable was frowning with impersonal, rueful concern – it meant nothing to him. Obviously, he assumed that any lady who had been pushed under a moving vehicle was entitled to a little leeway in referring to her pusher. He didn’t realize she travelled around with a home-grown matched set of bastards. He thought it was just any old bastard she was referring to.

  Then Sam found us. Approaching hesitantly, he took in the situation at a glance, and wasted no time. ‘Baby! Sweetheart!’ He swept Lou-Ann into his arms. ‘Baby!’

  And that was something else I should have known. Or noticed. His wild enthusiasm for her abilities, his unconcern for the problems of Perkins & Tate, his cold loathing for the Client. Yes, there’s nothing like a little hindsight after the penny has dropped.

  ‘There, there, baby,’ he crooned, his arms around her, his cheek against hers, rocking her gently.

  It stirred the Client to action. He grabbed for Lou-Ann’s wrist and tugged her away from Sam. She came unresisting, not even noticing what was happening. Her gawkiness, the awkward impression she gave of being all knees and elbows, was gone now, dissolved in grief.

  The Client lifted her, and she lay back, fluid, in his arms, like some Art Nouveau poster updated in modern dress. He looked down at her, his eyes cold behind the mask of concern on his face.

  ‘Ain’t nothing more we can do here,’ he said. ‘We’re going back to the hotel.’

  ‘Maw –’ she struggled feebly.

  ‘Nothing to do with us, now,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave Sam and Doug to take care of things here – that’s what we pay them for.’

  He had to get that in. Sam’s face tightened. It didn’t matter to me. I felt strongly that I’d much rather be the Client’s employee than his friend – or his wife. It was the nastiest afterthought I’d had in a long time, and it didn’t bear close examination.

  The Client swung towards the exit, carrying Lou-Ann. ‘Come on,’ he snapped over his shoulder. Crystal hesitated a moment, then followed them out.

  Uncle No’ccount looked after them thoughtfully, then closed ranks with Sam and me. This is a terrible thing,’ he said. ‘What do we do now?’

  It was a very good question. Too bad I didn’t have a very good answer – or any answer at all. Fortunately, the ball wasn’t in my court this time.

  ‘There’ll be an inquest,’ the young constable said. ‘We’ll let you know. Just routine in a traffic accident. The chap stopped, after all. Not as though it were really his fault. He had the green light. There was a crowd of people waiting at the kerb. She just shot out in front of him before he could brake. People pushing, jostling, impatient –’ He shrugged.

  That summed it up nicely. Crowds at the kerb – probably most of them foreigners – an American woman who wasn’t used to the traffic being on the left, a moment’s carelessness, uncertain footing, perhaps jostling from behind – and another tourist bit the dust. The police were used to it.

  Especially in the West End. In the height of the tourist season. Tourists were increasingly essential to the economy. They were also, as reflected in the young constable’s face, a bloody nuisance. They trailed around asking stupid questions, they complained about perfectly good service, they fell over their own feet and broke vital bones, they stepped in front of buses, they turned on gas fires and forgot to light them, they had heart attacks, they had premature babies. And, sometimes, they murdered each other.

  But there was no evidence.

  I looked at Sam, at Uncle No’ccount, at the constable. Their faces were grave and shuttered, each preoccupied with what this death would involve for him personally. For the constable, the police routine which would end in a verdict of misadventure. For Sam, the red tape, the temperament, the transatlantic telephone calls, the explanations – perhaps, even, some of the heartbreak – standing by, watching Lou-Ann suffer, without the right to comfort her.

  For Uncle No’ccount – I glanced at him again, realizing how very little I knew about him. Not even whether my earlier suspicions, born of the Cousins’ sly remarks, about his feelings for Maw Cooney were true. His hair was disturbed, as though at some moment he had swept his hand through it to remove a hat he hadn’t been wearing. Slowly, in his own world, he brought the harmonica to his Ups and began to play. It was a dirge, a soft mourning wail for everything that had been and that could never be. As a tribute, it was as good as sending a bouquet – and a lot more personal.

  ‘Please! I can’t have you disturbing the other patients!’ A nurse came whirling around the edge of the screens, facing us fiercely, prepared to do battle for the living – as she must. Maw Cooney was beyond her help.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’ Uncle No’ccount lowered the harmonica, seemingly still in the daze of his own private world. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb nobody. I just didn’t rightly think.’

  ‘Come on,’ Sam said abruptly. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Back at the hotel, Sam led us
directly to Lou-Ann’s room. The door was ajar and I would have hesitated about entering, largely because I hate to face a woman in tears, but Sam barged ahead. More slowly, Uncle No’ccount and I followed.

  Sam had halted, just inside the door. An open suitcase was on one of the twin beds, partly packed. The room already had a bare and impersonal feeling. I noticed a vaguely familiar look to some of the clothing spread on the bed beside the suitcase – the garments had belonged to Maw Cooney. There was nothing in the room to mark Lou-Ann’s passage.

  The bathroom door opened, and Crystal came out, carrying a toothbrush, sponge bag, and oddments of cosmetics. She halted upon seeing us, curiously defensive. ‘Well, it’s got to be done,’ she said. ‘Better sooner than later – and there’s nobody else to do it. I mean, you can’t expect poor Lou-Ann to.’

  Sam seemed ready to argue the point. ‘Where is Lou-Ann?’ he demanded.

  ‘She’s gone.’ More defensive than ever, Crystal refused to meet his eyes. ‘Bart’s moved her in with him. They’re up in his suite now.’

  Sam turned white. Over his head, Crystal and Uncle No’ccount exchanged glances. So, Sam’s feelings were common knowledge to the Troupe. I was the only mug who hadn’t known – but then, I had walked in in the middle of the film.

  ‘I reckon you can go up, if’n you want,’ Crystal said. ‘I don’t expect they’ll mind.’

  Sam turned on his heel and raced out. Crystal and Uncle No’ccount communed silently for another moment. Uncertain of where my post ought to be, I lingered.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked. Why do you always feel like the third head on a two-headed calf at moments like these?

  ‘I reckon not.’ Crystal smiled faintly. ‘Thank you, though. I take your offer mighty kindly. I know Lou-Ann will, too.’

  That seemed to be my dismissal. As well as my marching orders. If I read it correctly, I was expected to go upstairs and make the same useless offer of assistance to Lou-Ann. There never was anything one could do – unless, perhaps, just being there was doing enough.