imagine that if Anna Capshaw had started out loving this man, it wouldn’t have taken too long for her feelings to curdle into hatred. Miss Nigella Fowler stood in peril of ruining her life, but this was none of my business. I was, at any rate, relieved to know that I wasn’t being paid to procure a blackmail victim for Paul Clutterbuck.
‘You can meet Nigella here tomorrow,’ he said. ‘She’ll be over in the afternoon. We’re having tea and cake. Very civilised. Her father will be here too, and her brother, who is a pill. So, will you join us?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And I’ll see what I can find out about Cunningham in the morning.’
He exposed his perfect teeth in a grin and made a little snapping noise with them which sounded unnervingly like the tumblers of a lock falling into place.
Clutterbuck had told me that we would be going with Gretel Beech to hear her singing at a place in Carlton called Ma Maguire’s — a speakeasy that had been lubricating customers since the 1920s. Ma Maguire was long dead, and the place was now run by shady businessmen with, Clutterbuck insisted, the full cooperation of the police. Gretel performed irregularly, usually when someone was indisposed — a term I took to mean off having an abortion. Tonight she would perform two shows, one early in the evening and the other much later, after midnight.
‘We’ll come back here between sets,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to pour money into the pockets of those crooks, and besides, only the beer is worth drinking.’
I went upstairs and changed into my freshly pressed clothes. I heard Gretel arrive and came downstairs. She was wearing her stage outfit. At least I presumed the assemblage was her costume: she was draped in filmy scarves and wrapped in cloth that evoked a bizarre meld of Classical Greece and Hollywood vamp. With her bee-stung lips and heavily kohled eyes, she looked like a throwback to Theda Bara. She seemed melancholy to me, but I think this had less to do with how she was feeling than with my own response to the recollection of Theda Bara.
When I was the vulnerable age of ten, it was Theda Bara who shattered my faith in movies. I had believed in the man-eating vamp, born in the shadow of the Sphinx, her name a mysterious anagram of ‘Arab Death’. So I was devastated to discover that Theda Bara was really plain old Theodosia Goodman, born in Cincinnati and not weaned on serpent’s blood after all. From that point on, the realisation grew that life was little more than the slow dismantling of illusions, one by agonising one. It was these progressive revelations that sharpened my observational skills and made me less gullible than I might otherwise have been.
‘Are we ready?’ Gretel said, and twirled so that her scarves drifted around her like smoke.
We walked to Ma Maguire’s. It was a double-storey terrace just a stone’s throw from the police station in Carlton. Gretel left us as soon as we arrived. Clutterbuck knew his way around and he took me to a room where a dozen American soldiers were laughing, smoking and drinking. There were a few women there, but they didn’t look at ease; it was as if the twilight reined in their carnal desires, which would assert themselves more freely later under cover of darkness and dim bulbs. Clutterbuck disappeared and came back with two beers.
‘She’ll be on in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll tell you why I want you to find out about Cunningham.’
He had to lean into my ear to be heard over the babble of American voices.
‘When I divorced Anna she said she would find a way to get even, to get back what she reckons she’s entitled to. It was ugly. To do that she’ll need a lawyer, and I happen to know that she has no way of paying one. But I also happen to know that she’s not above fucking her way to success. This Cunningham has to be a lawyer, and if he’s going to start poking around in my affairs, I want to have the jump on him.’
‘So
‘You can meet Nigella here tomorrow,’ he said. ‘She’ll be over in the afternoon. We’re having tea and cake. Very civilised. Her father will be here too, and her brother, who is a pill. So, will you join us?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And I’ll see what I can find out about Cunningham in the morning.’
He exposed his perfect teeth in a grin and made a little snapping noise with them which sounded unnervingly like the tumblers of a lock falling into place.
Clutterbuck had told me that we would be going with Gretel Beech to hear her singing at a place in Carlton called Ma Maguire’s — a speakeasy that had been lubricating customers since the 1920s. Ma Maguire was long dead, and the place was now run by shady businessmen with, Clutterbuck insisted, the full cooperation of the police. Gretel performed irregularly, usually when someone was indisposed — a term I took to mean off having an abortion. Tonight she would perform two shows, one early in the evening and the other much later, after midnight.
‘We’ll come back here between sets,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to pour money into the pockets of those crooks, and besides, only the beer is worth drinking.’
I went upstairs and changed into my freshly pressed clothes. I heard Gretel arrive and came downstairs. She was wearing her stage outfit. At least I presumed the assemblage was her costume: she was draped in filmy scarves and wrapped in cloth that evoked a bizarre meld of Classical Greece and Hollywood vamp. With her bee-stung lips and heavily kohled eyes, she looked like a throwback to Theda Bara. She seemed melancholy to me, but I think this had less to do with how she was feeling than with my own response to the recollection of Theda Bara.
When I was the vulnerable age of ten, it was Theda Bara who shattered my faith in movies. I had believed in the man-eating vamp, born in the shadow of the Sphinx, her name a mysterious anagram of ‘Arab Death’. So I was devastated to discover that Theda Bara was really plain old Theodosia Goodman, born in Cincinnati and not weaned on serpent’s blood after all. From that point on, the realisation grew that life was little more than the slow dismantling of illusions, one by agonising one. It was these progressive revelations that sharpened my observational skills and made me less gullible than I might otherwise have been.
‘Are we ready?’ Gretel said, and twirled so that her scarves drifted around her like smoke.
We walked to Ma Maguire’s. It was a double-storey terrace just a stone’s throw from the police station in Carlton. Gretel left us as soon as we arrived. Clutterbuck knew his way around and he took me to a room where a dozen American soldiers were laughing, smoking and drinking. There were a few women there, but they didn’t look at ease; it was as if the twilight reined in their carnal desires, which would assert themselves more freely later under cover of darkness and dim bulbs. Clutterbuck disappeared and came back with two beers.
‘She’ll be on in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll tell you why I want you to find out about Cunningham.’
He had to lean into my ear to be heard over the babble of American voices.
‘When I divorced Anna she said she would find a way to get even, to get back what she reckons she’s entitled to. It was ugly. To do that she’ll need a lawyer, and I happen to know that she has no way of paying one. But I also happen to know that she’s not above fucking her way to success. This Cunningham has to be a lawyer, and if he’s going to start poking around in my affairs, I want to have the jump on him.’
‘So
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