‘Oh, Betty, please,’ she gasped. ‘A dry martini, please. Everyone calls me Betty.’
‘Three dry martinis, please, Bilson.’
‘Yes, sir.’
They sat in comfortable leather armchairs. Paul hoped he wouldn’t become too comfortable and fall asleep. It had been a full day, and the mood of the Coach House was calculatedly euphoric.
‘Talk to me, Betty,’ he said. ‘Tell me all your worries.’
As Betty took her drink from the bartender the slightly red light turned her eyes into a dramatic violet colour. ‘I read all those articles you wrote about the recent bank robberies and the way crime has changed. Like you were saying tonight. You said that the people who actually committed the robberies were not the people –’
Paul nodded his encouragement. ‘Not necessarily the people who organised them. That was what I said in the paper, and after this Harkdale affair I’m more than ever convinced that I’m right. Because most of the people who committed that robbery are dead, and the money is still missing.’
‘I know.’ She put her glass down in a sudden, unladylike gesture. ‘I know something about what happened at Harkdale. Not much. It isn’t enough to go to the police with, and I’m not the kind who goes to the police in any case. But I think I heard the robbery being planned.’
‘Go on, Betty.’ He wasn’t tired any more. ‘Start at the beginning.’
‘Well, for the last six months I’ve been working at a club called The Love-Inn. That’s where The Melody Girls were formed. I don’t suppose you would know it –’
‘It’s in Soho; owned by a woman called Rita Fletcher.’
‘That’s right. You are well informed. Although actually it’s run by Rita for the man who really owns it. He’s an American, a horrible little dipso. Rita runs it for him. But anyway, one night, about three months ago, Rita introduced me to a man called Desmond Blane –’
One night about three months ago Rita Fletcher had introduced her to a man called Desmond Blane. He was a wealthy man, or he lived like one, which amounted to the same thing. Betty had already noticed him in the club several times and she encouraged his friendship. Betty Stanway wasn’t hoping to be a dancer all her life.
Desmond Blane was in his early thirties, a powerfully built dark haired man. He lived in Knightsbridge, which seemed to Betty the height of aristocratic living. He called it a penthouse and it overlooked the park. Betty was too impressed to ask what he did for a living. She assumed it was something in the City.
The third time she spent the night at his penthouse she developed doubts about the City. They had gone to bed rather late even for her, she was exhausted and high on vodka. She scarcely remembered going to bed, and when she woke up it was daylight and Desmond was not beside her.
She lay there for a few minutes trying to piece together what had happened the night before. She was afraid she might have fallen asleep while they were making love. Betty wasn’t terribly good at the fast life. She needed a cup of coffee.
When Desmond appeared in his silk dressing gown and matching silk scarf, looking like a bachelor from a more serious 1920s musical, he was reading the morning’s mail.
‘Good morning,’ she murmured with an anxious smile.
‘Oh, you’re awake.’ He confirmed her worst imaginings; instead of reassuring her Desmond ripped open a letter with obvious displeasure.
‘I’d love some coffee.’
‘I made some,’ he said absent mindedly. ‘It’s in the kitchen.’
When Betty returned with a cup of coffee Desmond was still sitting on the foot of the bed with the letter in his hand.
‘What’s the matter, Des?’ she asked. ‘Bad news?’
‘No, it’s nothing.’ He put the letter in his dressing gown pocket. ‘Just business. Isn’t it time you put some clothes on?’
‘I’m sorry, Des.’ Something told her it was all spoiled. Last night they had talked of going away for the weekend. It was her first long weekend free in ages, and they were going to spend it together. But that had been last night. Betty picked up her clothes and went into the dressing room. Now it was morning.
She was twenty-eight, and she was beginning to dread the mornings. She was too often hung over, and every morning the crow’s feet looked more noticeable around her eyes. She touched her toes twelve times, splashed cold water on her breasts and breathed deeply by the open window. It would be nice to be young again, or middle aged and past all this. It would be nice to be a shorthand typist.
She was massaging her neck with cream when she realised that Desmond was talking in the bedroom. Her natural curiosity triumphed over discretion.
‘I’m not happy about it,’ he was saying. ‘You know damned well why. In my opinion we’re pushing fate.’
Betty crouched and peered through the keyhole but she could only see his feet tapping in agitation on the floor. His large blue slippers looked absurdly like separate beings, dancing together, nothing to do with the man.
‘Have you spoken to Renson? And what about Skibby? What does he think?’ There was a pause. ‘He would, the greedy bastard. But I still think the twenty-third is too soon after the other jobs. And why Harkdale? I don’t even know where Harkdale is!’
Betty went through into the bedroom. Desmond Blane didn’t even look up at her.
‘All right, we’ll talk about it tonight. Yes, yes, we’ll discuss it. I’ll see you about eight o’clock.’
Betty went across to him and put her arms round his neck from behind. ‘Who was that,’ she asked with a laboured attempt at humour, ‘another one of your girlfriends?’
‘Mm?’ He suddenly smiled at her. He was back. ‘Yes, an impatient Spanish bird. I call her my flaming flamingo.’ He kissed her neck. ‘But she can’t dance the way you dance, Elizabeth, and she lacks your stamina.’
Betty laughed delightedly. ‘Do you really love me, Des? You said last night – Well, you said we could go away together for the weekend.’
‘We’ll have the wildest weekend of your life,’ he said deliberately. ‘Be here on Friday morning at ten o’clock sharp, and bring your passport. It will be a weekend to remember.’
Friday mornings in Knightsbridge are pretty crowded and the taxi pulled up outside the block of service flats at four minutes past ten. Betty emerged from the taxi in her smart little powder lemon suit and carrying her weekend case. She paid off the taxi and hurried into the entrance. Desmond Blane’s flat was on the fifth floor and she waited for the lift.
‘Good morning, miss,’ said the porter. ‘Going up?’
‘Fifth floor, please. It’s a beautiful morning. It’s going to be a beautiful weekend.’
‘Yes, miss.’ The old boy slammed the gates and they shot up in a vertical take-off. He clearly enjoyed his work. ‘If you’re wanting Mr Blane I don’t think he’s in.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Betty, ‘he’s expecting me.’ She had received a note from Desmond the day before, urging her to be on time and reminding her to bring her passport.
‘Fifth floor,’ he announced defiantly. ‘But Mr Blane isn’t in.’
Betty went along the corridor to the front door of Desmond’s flat and rang the bell. She rang again almost immediately. The elderly porter had remained with the lift and he was watching with satisfaction.