A Death in Diamonds полностью

Beryl looked in and now her eyelashes were twice as long. Her cheeks were brighter too. ‘I s’pose. If the agency didn’t send them, that brute wouldn’t’ve thought to go. He wasn’t a real VIP, however much he liked to think he was. He got mates rates for some reason, but he was nobody special.’ She disappeared again.

‘Why didn’t you tell the police? About Gina coming to you in the first place? Why say you had a headache?’

‘Because she had a secret, didn’t she?’ Beryl said in slightly muffled tones. ‘Why else would she want to swap for a slimeball like Perez? There was something she didn’t want anyone to know, not even me. I wasn’t going to tell them that.’

‘Why not?’

Beryl snorted derisively. ‘Wouldn’t trust those bedbugs as far as I could throw ’em.’

So the Queen had been right. Women talked to women more easily than they talked to men.

‘I saw the inspector on the news,’ Joan called out, truthfully. ‘He looked all right.’

‘He means well enough, but . . . he’s one of them, isn’t he?’

Beryl popped back again, lipstick done. Her face had more definition, but it had lost a certain softness that Joan actually preferred. She wondered if ‘Elaine’ swung both ways. Goodness.

‘“One of them”?’ she repeated.

‘They make it pretty clear what side they’re on. You go to them ’cause someone’s roughed you up, or not paid up, and next thing you know, you’re the one in the clink. Why bother?’ Beryl shuddered ‘Take that weasel, Willis, he’s a right one.’

‘Willis?’

‘Copper from the Vice Squad. Looks like a Boy Scout. You must know him.’

‘Oh, him!’ Joan said, nodding as if she did.

Beryl warmed to her theme. ‘Makes out he’s like your big brother in public. He’s all, “Can I help you, miss? What seems to be the problem?” And the minute you’re in private, he’s all over you like a wet cloth. He’s got cold fingers and all. Lets you know there’s nothing he couldn’t do to you if he was minded. Evil sod.’

‘Bastards,’ Joan said, with relish.

Beryl shrugged and looked briefly wistful. She started expertly removing the curlers from her hair, untwisting them by feel and depositing them in a heap on the chest of drawers beside Joan.

‘They’re not all like that, to be fair. There’s one I met. Tall bloke. A sergeant, I think. Very kindly-looking, but strong, too. Massive shoulders. I wouldn’t’ve minded him taking care of me.’ She laughed. ‘But his guvnor hardly let him say a word. He was too busy telling me about “dangerous characters” who wanted to cut me up. I was so scared I didn’t know what to think. I wasn’t going to get involved. Besides, it was too late for Gina.’ She bit her lip and welled up, reaching for a tissue so she could carefully remove tears before they did any damage.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Why? It’s hardly your fault. Anyway, it’s not me you need if you want to know what she was up to. It’s Rita, her flatmate. Best buddies, those two. If anyone knows anything, she would.’

Joan remembered the reference to an interview with the flatmate in Darbishire’s report. It didn’t contain any useful information, other than confirming what Beryl had already told them and adding a little bit about Gina’s background. But it also mentioned that Rita had been arrested twice when the club where she worked was raided, which made Joan wonder how cooperative she would have been.

‘Where would I find her?’ she asked.

Beryl looked at her watch.

‘She’ll be onstage at The Cat’s Pyjamas in a couple of hours. In Soho. She’s a dancer. Rita Gollanz. The best legs in the West End. Say I said hello.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And . . . Bed of Roses,’ Beryl said firmly, peering at Joan again.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You’re wearing the wrong lipstick. Bed of Roses by Helena Rubinstein. It’s more subtle, less orange. It’ll suit your hair better. And get someone to show you how to do your eyebrows. If you’re ever this way again, I can.’

Joan grinned. ‘Thanks. I will.’

The Cat’s Pyjamas in Brewer Street was a doorway between a Soho pub and an ice-cream shop, leading down to a dim-lit room where bored-looking girls with beautiful bodies gyrated for tired-looking men nursing their drinks at little tables. The music, provided by a trio consisting of piano, double bass and drums, was surprisingly good. Joan knew she looked out of place as she sat alone at a corner table in her evening dress, drinking bitter lemon. She had half expected to be accosted, but she didn’t even attract a second glance. Given recent experience, she felt safer here than at the Ritz.

‘Rita the Cheetah’ came on as the third act, and did indeed have impressively shapely legs. She danced with rhythm and a sly smile that made her much more popular with the punters than the other girls. Over the course of the number she shed a scarf, a pair of animal-print shorts and a little top, ending up in fishnets and robust black satin underwear.