green and platinum stripes. ‘What is it, Mr Ross?’
‘Girrlie, girrlie, oh girrlie…’ he whispered as if he had struck the mother lode, ‘ye canna believe… look at this week’s Umbrella!’
This was not an invitation to step out into the rain but to scrutinise the cage-droppings of a chum of the editor, a man who once made a half-funny speech at Rotary and was immediately snapped up to do a weekly column.
This half-wit called his column ‘Between Ourselves’ and signed himself ‘Umbrella Man’. Nobody knew why.
‘What’s it about?’ said Betty listlessly.
‘Dog bowls in pubs,’ replied Ross, his voice hoarser than an undertaker’s.
‘Well, look,’ said Betty, trying to break the mood. ‘Just think, next week I’m off to meet Moomie. We’ll get something wonderful out of that!’
The chief sub looked at her suspiciously. ‘Mommie?’
‘No, Moomie – Moomie Etta-Shaw, the jazz singer. She’s doing the summer season at the Marine.’
‘Ay,’ said Ross. ‘I know who you mean now. She and Alma Cogan used to work together at the Blue Lagoon in Soho.’
‘Didn’t she start out as a cloakroom attendant?’ asked Betty, who’d been doing her homework.
‘Nah,’ said Ross caustically, walking away. ‘She only took people’s coats.’
If this was supposed to be a joke it went over Betty’s head and she returned to the fuss over the building of a bus shelter in Exbridge – nobody wanted it outside their house yet everyone agreed it was vital in winter to stop villagers being splashed by passing traffic. Betty’s fingers were flying, the copy-paper was emerging from the top of her machine, but you couldn’t call it writing.
‘Time for a quick one,’ said Terry, who’d emerged from the darkroom and was looking for a drinking partner. Betty touched her hair – she wouldn’t be seen dead in the Fort or the Jawbones in her present state.
Unless, of course, she put the dead cat on her head again.
‘Won’t be a moment,’ she said, nippily pushing her typewriter away.
Frank Topham sat solidly in his chair at the head of the table while his detectives hunched over their notes, waiting uneasily for the inquisition ahead.
‘So,’ said the Inspector without the slightest hint of hope in his voice, ‘what have we got?’
One of the grey-faced assistants cleared his throat. ‘I checked on Bunton’s movements at the time of the shooting and it couldn’t have been him – he was at the Buntorama in Clacton, just like he said.’
‘Well, you had to ask. But he’s hardly likely to go round shooting his own customers, is he? Not good for business.’
‘You never know, sir.’
‘His piece of Fluff?’
The man managed a weary smile. ‘She was with him when the woman was shot, she’s always with him – she won’t let him out of her sight. She’s going to have that man for breakfast, lunch and dinner.’
‘Bunton’s under the impression she’s just his latest piece of stuff,’ said the other copper. ‘He has no idea that she’s his next wife who’ll take him for every last farthing before she spits him out.’
‘Splits him out,’ said the first, referring to the regrettable incident in the Primrose Bar. They both laughed, in a tired sort of way.
Topham was not so amused. ‘The victim? What new information do we have?’
‘Address in Chelsea she gave to the reception people at Buntorama turned out to be false. It’s a chemist’s shop.’
‘How did she pay?’
‘Cash, they prefer it that way in holiday camps.’
‘I daresay the Inland Revenue might have something to say about that,’ said Topham, a decent man who believed in people paying their taxes. It would be a useful bargaining chip when trying to get more information out of the clamlike Bunton.
‘And you didn’t get any more from any of the punters over at the holiday camp?’
‘One or two of them said they saw her. Posh, is what most of them say, in spite of her cheap clothes – the way she smiled but said nothing. Polite but condescending in that us-and-them sort of way.’
‘But are you saying she spoke to nobody at Buntorama? Didn’t go to the dances, sit in the bar? Wasn’t she missed at mealtimes?’
‘She was single so she was put on the long table where all the odds and sods end up. Everybody moves around – it’s not like being given a table for four in a hotel or on a liner where you know everybody’s business by the end of the fish course. She was on what you might call a moveable feast.’
If that was a joke it fell flat.
‘So,’ said Topham, ‘she was noticeable enough to be noticed, as it were, but nobody’s missed her.’
‘One woman said she didn’t smell right.’
‘And you checked back on her possessions?’
‘You saw yourself, sir, there was almost nothing in her suitcase. Cheap clothes, newly bought. Old suitcase. Two pairs of shoes in the wardrobe, make-up bag but no handbag. Clothes she was wearing when she was killed were the same make as the ones in the suitcase, no clues whatsoever. She was wearing expensive earrings, very yellow gold, no hallmark. Gold bracelet, also no hallmark. Very odd, that. Wedding ring on her third finger, right hand – old.’
‘How old?’
‘Older than her. Could have been her mother’s. Could’ve been a hand-me-down from a marriage which failed.’
‘She could be French,’ hazarded the other detective, but this fell on stony ground. He didn’t have a clue really.
‘No question, then,’ said Topham with conviction. ‘A mystery woman with expensive jewellery and cheap clothes. If that isn’t a disguise I’m a Chinaman’s uncle.’
Not having heard of any oriental relations in the Topham tribe, his men nodded in affirmation.
‘What next, sir?’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ said the Detective Inspector with finality, gathering his papers and standing up. ‘You just carry on.’
Dear Hermione,
I am known among my friends for having a generous nature but now I feel the milk of human kindness has drained away and may never return. Please help.
Every year I am fortunate enough to have a bumper crop of strawberries. Last year I gave some to my best friend to make jam. She has now won First Prize for her strawberry jam at the Mothers’ Union and has been boasting to everyone how clever she is, without once mentioning that it was my strawberries that done it.
She has been my friend for years but now I feel I hate her. What can I do?
Miss Dimont looked again at the letter, took off her glasses, polished them, and replaced them on her deliciously curved nose. After a pause she got up to make a cup of tea. The letter was waiting when she got back, looking up pleadingly and urgently demanding Hermione’s adjudication. Miss Dimont stared at her Remington Quiet-Riter for quite some time then decided its ribbon needed changing.
A sub-editor wandered by and for a good ten minutes they discussed the latest film starring Dirk Bogarde at the Picturedrome. It turned out neither had seen it, but both had heard good reports.
The