Johnny Under Ground Page 6

  “Yes, I did.”

  “What was it like? Who was there?”

  “Almost everybody. Lofty and Jimmy Baggot and Annie…”

  “Good old Annie! What’s she up to these days?”

  “She’s terrific,” said Emmy enthusiastically. “She’s a farmer’s wife, and she has four grown-up children, and she looks prettier than she did twenty years ago.”

  Sammy pretended to wince. “Ouch! That hurts! Can it be twenty years? Yes, by Jove, I suppose it is. Don’t let any of my customers hear you. They say that life begins at forty—well—take it from me, Blandish, as far as I’m concerned, life stops there. I’ve been forty for more years than I can remember, and I have every intention of remaining forty until I drop dead. Well, what d’you think of the showroom? Had time for a look around?”

  “It’s most impressive,” said Emmy.

  “All my own work,” said Sammy proudly. “It’s a tough game, this, y’know, and I don’t mind admitting that the going was rough for a bit. But now I’ve worked up a sweet little business here, and I’m my own boss. Yes, I think I can say that Sammy Smith has fallen on his tootsies.”

  “The cars are beautiful,” said Emmy, putting out a tentative hand to touch a scarlet hood.

  Sammy beamed. “My girls, I call them,” he said. “Every one a beauty. Not a dud among them. Of course, these are specialist jobs. Not everybody’s cup of tea. Can’t expect a very brisk turnover. But the customers we do get are the right sort. Enthusiasts. Salt of the earth. Even so, it sometimes nearly breaks my heart to part with…”

  The stout young man suddenly popped his head out from the office. “Mr. Trimble of Overtread Tires on the phone, Sammy,” he said, unhappily. “It’s about—that little matter. He says they can’t wait any longer, and…”

  “Tell him I’m out,” said Sammy quickly. “You don’t know when I’ll be back. Probably next week. I’ve gone to Paris to see a client.”

  “But…”

  “In fact, I am out,” added Sammy. He took Emmy’s arm. “This beautiful creature is an old flame of mine, and I intend to buy her a cup of coffee.”

  Ignoring the young man’s whimper about the possibility of Mr. Trimble turning nasty, Sammy hustled Emmy out into the street. Safely outside, he looked at her, winked, and roared with laughter. “All right, all right, all right—I admit it. Things are still rough. Not out of the woods yet, but we survive, you know. We survive.” He was as irrepressible as one of the weighted rubber dolls which always fall, if not on their feet, at least on an ample posterior and pop back in an upright position. Emmy had always enjoyed Sammy’s company.

  As they installed themselves at a corner table in a nearby coffee shop, Emmy said, “I must congratulate you.”

  Sammy looked startled. “Whatever for?”

  “I rang your home and spoke to a charming girl who said she was Mrs. Smith. You were a bachelor last time I saw you.”

  “I was, wasn’t I?” Sammy’s voice had lost a little of its ebullience. “You married, Blandish?”

  “Yes, Sammy.”

  “Happy?”

  “Extremely, thank you.”

  “Got a brood of children, I dare say.”

  “No. None. We both wanted them, but they just didn’t arrive. It’s a pity, but there are compensations.”

  Sammy seemed to be brooding a little. “Bad luck, that,” he said. “Still, I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather that than—well, take us. We’ve been married five years. I’ve always wanted kids. But Marlene—well—she’s twenty years younger than I am and a bit of a gay girl, you know. I suppose kids would be too much of a tie for her. Anyhow, that’s the way she feels.”

  Emmy felt sorry for Sammy, and also embarrassed. It had been on the tip of her tongue to say, consolingly, “Well, there’s plenty of time yet, Sammy,” when she remembered that for all his bland charm he must be sixty. She hesitated and was lost. The only solution was to plunge into a new topic. “You haven’t yet asked me why I came to see you, Sammy.”

  He seemed relieved to change the subject. “My dear girl, I haven’t been allowed to get a word in edgeways.”

  “Liar. You’ve never stopped talking. Well, go on—ask me.”

  “Blandish,” said Sammy solemnly, “why have you come to see me? Is it to make mock of an old comrade who’s down on his luck or have you been searching for me all these years, driven on relentlessly by a passion which you dared not admit, even to yourself?”

  “Idiot!” Emmy laughed. “If you’ll stop talking for half a minute I’ll tell you. I’m writing a book.”

  “You’re—what? A book? Good lord, I didn’t know you could read and write. Why didn’t you tell us? We might have been able to get you transferred from the Sanitary Squad.”

  Emmy threw a lump of sugar, which hit him on the nose. She was enchanted to find how easy it was to pick up the threads of a free-and-easy friendship after two decades. “Shut up,” she said, “and let me explain.”

  Briefly she told him about the reunion, about Vere and Barbara and Lofty and the projected biography. “And so you see, Sammy,” she ended, “I’ve come to interview you—really to get your recollections of Beau and put them down in my little notebook for Lofty.”

  Sammy had grown thoughtful. He stirred his coffee several times and then said, “A bit ironic, isn’t it, you being involved in this job?”

  “I don’t see why.”

  Sammy looked at her sideways and winked. “We weren’t all quite blind you know, Blandish.”

  Defiantly, Emmy said, “Don’t make nasty insinuations, Sammy. I was very fond of Beau. I admit it. But he was married, and—that was that. And now I’m married, and very happy, and…”

  “…and, of course, you couldn’t refuse this assignment because it would have looked like an admission, to say the least of it.” He grinned at her. “What a bitch that woman is.”

  “Who? Barbara?”

  “Of course. Who else? Never mind. We’ll all rally around and do our best, but—seriously, Blandish—do you think this is a good idea?”

  “No,” said Emmy, “I don’t. But I’ve said I’ll do it, and I will. So please, kind sir, tell me your recollections of the late Squadron Leader Guest, missing believed killed on a training flight in October, 1943.”

  Sammy considered. “How far back do you want me to go?”

  “As far as possible.”

  “Very well. R.A.F. Falconfield, Somerset. Day fighter station. Reserve squadron, piloted by old deadbeats in their thirties, like me. Beau was posted to us for a rest. He was the golden boy, fresh from the Battle of Britain. I didn’t like him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He—he seemed so arrogant. He had Barbara along with him, of course, and the pair of them burst into our quiet little station like a couple of golden eagles into a dovecote.”

  “You mean, he threw his weight around?”

  “I’m trying to be fair,” said Sammy. “No, he didn’t throw his weight around, because he didn’t need to. He was just naturally surrounded by a haze of glory—hell, Blandish, you know what I mean. Even if he just sat in a corner saying nothing, one was aware of him. This was Beau Guest. He’d done something glorious with his young life—and we’d done nothing. He could hardly expect to be liked.”

  “I don’t think he did,” said Emmy slowly. It was a point of view which had not occurred to her at the time.

  “Well,” said Sammy, “he might have succeeded in being liked in spite of everything, if it hadn’t been for Barbara. Rude—God, I’d never met such a bloody rude woman in my life…”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Smith, Mrs. Guest. Sammy Smith.”

  “What do you do around here?”

  “I’m Messing Officer. I also fly an aircraft.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “Mostly routine patrols, I’m afraid. I’m considered too old for the rough stuff. Fair, fat, and forty—that’s me.”

  “Oh, don’t apologize. Don
’t you go out of your minds in this dump, with nothing to do, no action…”

  “We were dive-bombed once last summer.”

  “How terrible for you. I suppose you all put on your tin hats and dived into the underground shelter and then claimed danger money.”

  “Something like that.”

  “God, Beau will die of boredom. After 11 Group…”

  “We all admire your husband very much, Mrs. Guest.”

  “So you bloody well ought to. Well, don’t just stand there. Get me a drink, can’t you? God, when I think of the parties at Tangmere and Biggin—those were parties. Oh, there you are, Beau…”

  “Enjoying yourself, darling?”

  “I’ll give you three guesses. I’ve just been having a scintillating conversation with a Flying Officer called Smith.”

  “Oh, yes. Sammy.”

  “He’s getting me a drink, which I suppose is in his favor, but what an old bore. Honestly. Can’t we go home?”

  “Not really. Not just yet. It would look so rude. Stick it out a few minutes more, there’s an angel.”

  “But Beau, all these ghastly people…”

  “Ssh. Smith’s coming back. He’ll hear you.”

  “I don’t care if they all hear me. As for Smith, he’s a disaster. Tries to be funny, which makes it worse. Don’t you agree, darling?”

  “Yes, of course I do, but don’t talk so loud. You’ll get me lynched. Ah, Sammy, that’s very kind of you, old man. I hear you’ve been entertaining my better half—well, cheers. Down the hatch.”

  “Beau, once and for all…”

  “Yes—well, I’m afraid we really must go now. On duty first thing in the morning, you know—and Barbara’s a bit tired. She’s so enjoyed meeting you… Good night, old man…”

  “…bloody rude. And he was patronizing, which was almost worse. Of course, I was sorry when he crashed. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. All the same, I can’t deny that I was glad to see them go, the pair of them. You can imagine that I was none too pleased when Beau turned up as my Chief Controller at Dymfield. Of course, he’d been taken down a few pegs by then. If I’m to be honest—and you know I’m honest, don’t you, Blandish—well, I must admit that it did cross my mind that there was a sort of poetic justice about Beau Guest ending up as a penguin. My only regret was that I’d been grounded myself by that time. Couldn’t take my revenge.” Sammy stirred his coffee again, and then began to laugh. “So Barbara’s set on a rehabilitation job, is she? She’s pretty optimistic if she thinks anyone’s going to be interested in her ridiculous goings-on.”

  “Aren’t you being a bit hard on her, Sammy?”

  “Hard on her? My dear little Blandish, if you took a hammer and chisel to that woman, you’d only break the chisel.” He paused. “So she married Vere. Poor fellow.”

  “He seems to be bearing up all right,” said Emmy. “The only thing he seems upset about is this book idea. It’s funny, because he was quite keen on it at first.”

  Sammy looked up sharply, but said nothing. Emmy went on. “Lofty especially wanted me to ask you about Beau’s crash at Falconfield.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well—what caused it? Was it a fault in the aircraft, or…”

  “I’ve no idea. Can’t help you. Didn’t Beau tell you himself?”

  “No. I don’t think he liked talking about it.”

  “I’m not surprised. Anyhow, tell Lofty that I’m sorry, but I can’t help.”

  “Lofty has some odd ideas,” Emmy went on. “He seems to think there was something strange about Beau’s death.”

  “Well, of course there was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The man was unbalanced, more than halfway around the bend, if you ask me. Most suicides are. One minute he’s as happy as a lark, planning a leave in Scotland, and the next he’s crashing deliberately. Mad as a hatter.”

  “He must have had some good reason, Sammy…”

  “I don’t know what makes you think that. Some imbecile reason, more like. I dare say Barbara refused to go on leave with him or something of that sort. It’s all that’s needed to push these nut cases over the top. The only mystery about the whole thing is why the trick cyclists didn’t clamp old Beau in a straitjacket before he went really barmy and did himself in.”

  “He didn’t appear to be unbalanced that evening,” said Emmy.

  “You saw him, did you?”

  Emmy, to her annoyance, blushed. “I—I met him. Just as I was going into Dymfield Operations Room for the two o’clock watch. He seemed a bit nervous, but otherwise all right.” She paused. “Oh, well, I’m sure you’re right and there’s no mystery. But Lofty seems to fancy himself as a latter-day Sherlock Holmes.”

  “I see.” Sammy took a box of small, cheap cigars from his pocket. “Do you object to these? Good. So Vere has taken violent exception to Lofty’s detective fervor. Is that right?”

  “Well—yes, I suppose you could put it like that.”

  “Interesting. Very interesting.” Sammy lit his cigar and puffed at it. “I should follow up that lead if I were you. Where do your investigations take you next?”

  “To Annie,” said Emmy. “She’s visiting London. I’m really looking forward to that. Then I’m to see Jimmy Baggot…”

  “Ah, yes. Old Jimmy. I see quite a bit of him—from time to time.”

  “Then we’re to visit Dymfield, Lofty and I.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s much left of it by now.”

  “Not a lot,” Emmy admitted. “I’ve been talking to Air Ministry about it. A lot of Dymfield has been ploughed up, but apparently some of the runways and buildings are still there, including the Operations Block; it’s on Care and Maintenance and used for training sometimes. The Mess has gone altogether. To tell you the truth, I’m rather dreading going back, but Lofty’s absolutely adamant.”

  “You’re still as sentimental as ever, aren’t you, Blandish?” said Sammy with some affection. “Don’t worry. It won’t be moving or touching. It’ll just be extremely cold and desolate, and I bet you a fiver that you’ll be in and out within five minutes, after which you’ll spend hours in the Duke’s Head in Dymfield village, reminiscing and weeping happily into your beer.”

  Emmy laughed. “You are a comfort, Sammy,” she said. “Anyway, one good thing about this job is that we’ve met again. I do hope you’ll come and dine with Henry and me one day, you and your wife.”

  “Very civil of you, Blandish,” said Sammy, but without much enthusiasm. “I’ll be interested to hear how the book comes along. Keep in touch. And give my regards to Lofty, and tell him I think he’s a sentimental ass.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Never you mind. Just tell him.”

  “All right. And if I meet anyone who’s looking for a really special vintage sports car in mint condition…”

  “My dear Blandish,” said Sammy, lowering his voice, “if this hypothetical character is your worst enemy, send him to us. If he’s not, steer him clear. These old heaps of junk in my showroom aren’t worth five bob.”

  “But…”

  “Ah, you’re going to say, ‘Then why make them your stock in trade?’ I’ll tell you why, little Blandish. It’s because, glory be to God, there are still some mugs in the world who want to buy them. And who am I to tell the customer he’s wrong?”

  Emmy laughed. “You haven’t changed one little bit, Sammy,” she said. “I am glad I found you again.”

  “So am I,” said Sammy, “but I don’t seem to have been very helpful about the book.”

  “Oh, gosh, I almost forgot.” Emmy rummaged in her bag and produced a typewritten form. “I have to give you this. It’s a questionnaire that Lofty’s drawn up for everyone to fill in. Will you be an angel and do it? It’s mostly questions about dates and so on.”

  Sammy took the form and glanced at it. “Lofty’s got consumer research on the brain,” he said. Then he put on a pair of spectacles and
studied the questions more closely. At last he said, “Lofty’s certainly more interested in Beau’s death than in his life.”

  Emmy shrugged. “I told you. The great mystery.”

  “Well.” Sammy folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “I’ll make this my homework for the next few days. What do I do with it after I’ve filled it in?”

  “Send it to Lofty, please,” said Emmy. “His address is on it. We’re using his place as working headquarters. I’ll be going along on Monday to correlate all the replies we get.”

  “Coo,” said Sammy, “not giving us much time, are you?”

  “Oh, don’t worry if it’s late. I go around there several evenings in the week. Lofty’s out all day, you see, and I don’t like to leave my husband on weekends.”

  “Sounds like a dog’s life to me.”

  “It’s rather fun, actually.”

  “You’re welcome to it.” Sammy stood up. “Well, back to the grindstone for young Sammy. Give Annie my regards. And if you should happen to run across a Mr. Trimble from Overtread Tires, tell him I’m dead. Really, the man has no sense of decency. Well, so long, Blandish. Keep your tail up.”

  Through the window of the coffee shop, Emmy watched the sprightly, bulky figure as it set off down the street, Homburg hat set at a jaunty angle, cigar in hand—and wondered whether to laugh or cry. “It’s better than ending up like Vere, anyway,” she told herself.

  Then she became aware that the waitress was standing beside her with an inquiring look, and she realized that Sammy had left her to pay for the coffee.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ANNIE WAS STAYING at the Suffolk Hotel, where the Dymfield reunion had been held, and this time Emmy approached its swinging doors with no apprehension whatever.

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Tibbett,” said the receptionist. “Mrs. Meadowes is expecting you. If you care to take a seat, madam, I’ll just ring through. Mrs. Meadowes will be down in a moment.”

  Annie emerged from the elevator like Demeter come to greet Persephone at Eleusis. She towered over Emmy, throwing back her dark golden hair as she laughed with sheer pleasure—the essence of femininity, yet stronger than many men both in mind and body. In the old days Annie had always been a dominant character; even at twenty-two she had seemed almost like a mother to the slender, shy Emmy Blandish. Now, fulfilled in marriage and motherhood, she seemed like Mother Earth—universal, mellow, and mature. She embraced Emmy, and then said, “You don’t want to stay indoors on a lovely afternoon like this, do you? I thought we’d walk in the park.”