Deadline (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Read online

  ‘Did St John Derby have a scar?’ he asked the room in general.

  Molly answered. ‘It isn’t a scar,’ she said, ‘it’s a birth-mark.’

  ‘He always told me he’d got it duelling at Heidelberg,’ said Milborn.

  ‘Just shows how gullible you can be, dear,’ said Molly, ‘if you believe that. St John left school at sixteen. He never went near a university, let alone Heidelberg. Don’t you remember him going on about the university of life?’

  Silence. Bognor looked over to Milborn’s desk and was shocked to see him dabbing at his eyes with an immense red and white polka dot handkerchief. He looked away in embarrassment and no one said anything. Presently Gringe, who had been sorting letters, started to go round the room dishing out tasks.

  ‘Milborn,’ he said when he came opposite his desk, ‘Irving G. Silverberg is staying at the Hyde Park. Would you nip round and try to have a word with him?’

  Milborn looked up at him blankly. Still puffy-eyed. ‘Irving who?’

  ‘G. Silverberg, the man who made Bat Out of Hell and The Coffee Grinders.’

  Milborn blew his nose noisily. ‘It’s not quite my pigeon, old boy,’ he said huskily. ‘If it’s all the same to you I thought I’d nip down to Sandown and take in the first three races before …’

  ‘I’m awfully sorry, Milborn, but it’s not the same to me.’ Granny Gringe’s mouth was quivering at the edges and his left eyebrow was on the blink. ‘You and Bognor can share a taxi as far as the Hyde Park and then he’ll take it on to the philatelists at the Albert Hall.’

  ‘Oh all right.’ Mr Port was very obviously unhappy about this assignment, ‘but who is this chap Silverberger? American by the sound of it.’

  ‘Berg not Berger. He makes films. He’s been married five times. Once twice if you follow me.’

  ‘No.’

  Gringe’s eyebrow was performing quite alarmingly.

  ‘I mean that his first and third wife were the same person. I happen to know that Lord Wharfedale is a particular fan of his films. Cuttings will tell you. I suggest you ring the library.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Milborn, wheezing. He produced an inhaler from inside his jacket and applied it to each nostril in turn. ‘Oh well if you and Lord Wharfedale say so I suppose I’d better go. You’d get a much better story from Sandown.’

  ‘I don’t want a story from Sandown. I want you back here the minute you’ve spoken to Mr Silverberg.’

  ‘No need to get shirty.’

  Continuing on his rounds Gringe gave Bognor another job lot of stories to improve or delve into: A clandestine marriage, a regimental dinner, a suspicious shooting accident in Inverness involving a Duke and a brace of Earls, and a sale of Victorian landscapes at Bonhams.

  ‘You and Port had better go,’ he said, eyebrow now quiescent. ‘We can’t afford to dawdle.’

  The two of them nodded at each other.

  ‘See you in the front hall,’ said Milborn. ‘I’m just going for a pee.’

  A few minutes later when they met downstairs Bognor was aware of a strong aroma of alcohol on Milborn’s lips. Not last night’s either. It was raw and fresh and very distinct. In the taxi it was confirmed when he extracted a flask from his coat and offered it to Bognor who took a token sip. Brandy.

  ‘Have a mint,’ said Milborn proffering a grubby tube of sweets with holes in the middle, ‘takes away the smell.’ He took one and sucked it noisily but without satisfaction.

  ‘You ever heard of this fellow Silverberg?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What sort of?’

  ‘He makes films. He’s what they call larger than life,’ said Bognor. ‘Big broad accent. Big broad broads.’ He smirked. ‘That’s rather good,’ he said. ‘Nice pun.’

  ‘Ghastly pun,’ said Port crunching his mint noisily and beginning to smell like crème de menthe. ‘Didn’t he have a horse called Coffeegrinder which ran in the Laurel?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘I think that’s him.’ He pulled out the loud handkerchief and blew into it. ‘I’m afraid I’m rather upset,’ he said unnecessarily.

  ‘I can understand,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Two going just like that,’ he said gazing out at Simpsons in the Strand. ‘It makes you think. I’m fifty-three.’

  ‘You don’t look it,’ said Bognor, thinking he looked at least ten years older.

  ‘Kind of you to say so. How are you enjoying life on the Diary?’

  ‘It’s certainly eventful.’

  ‘Better than Winnipeg I should think.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Finding it difficult?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Tell you what then, have another drink,’ he gave Bognor the flask and he took another tiny tot. ‘You’ve got a few minutes to spare. You stop off at the Hyde Park with me and I’ll show you how it’s done. You might pick up a thing or two.’

  ‘That would be very helpful,’ said Bognor wondering how it was done and guessing that it would not be done with any great flair. ‘Cold isn’t it?’

  ‘Pretty parky.’ Mr Port slapped his hands together. He was wearing an overcoat, and it was dark, like most overcoats. He also had a paisley scarf round his neck. But no hat.

  ‘I suppose it would make sense to wear a hat in this sort of weather,’ said Bognor, lamely. Speech was still an effort and so was original thought.

  ‘Always wear a hat at the races,’ said Milborn as their vehicle emerged from the underpass into Knightsbridge, ‘but never in the office or on jobs in London. You can wear a hat on the way into the office and you can wear a hat on the way out of the office. But not in between. That’s etiquette.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘Wear a hat? On those occasions, yes.’

  ‘What sort of hat?’

  ‘What a funny fellow you are,’ said Milborn, giving the impression that he found nothing remotely amusing about his companion. ‘Trilby usually. I buy them from Lock’s.’

  The taxi drew up at the Hyde Park Hotel and a liveried commissionaire opened the door. As he emerged Milborn hastily patted all his most obvious pockets. ‘Drat,’ he said, ‘I’ve come out without any change. Do you mind obliging, old boy? I’ll do the next one.’ Bognor paid off the driver and the two went inside.

  Milborn wasted no time. ‘Now you watch this,’ he said sotto voce and advanced flamboyantly on the reception desk. ‘Irving G. Silverberg,’ he said loudly. Not as a question but as a statement of fact.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’

  ‘Irving G. Silverberg, I have an appointment.’

  ‘You have an appointment with Mr Silverberg, sir?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘What name is it, sir?’

  ‘Sir Milborn Port.’

  Bognor sucked his teeth. He had never heard the papal baronetcy invoked before.

  ‘One moment, Sir Milborn.’ The clerk consulted papers and returned. ‘I’m very sorry, your name doesn’t seem to appear on Mr Silverberg’s list and I don’t believe Mr Silverberg is in the hotel at this precise moment.’

  Milborn frowned. ‘That’s most peculiar,’ he said. ‘My secretary arranged it only this morning.’

  The clerk shrugged and waved his arms in a gesture of helplessness.

  ‘Ah well,’ said Milborn, ‘would you please tell Mr Silverberg that I shall be waiting for him in the bar.’ With which he turned on his heel and headed unerringly in the direction of the drink.

  ‘It didn’t seem to work,’ said Bognor, unimpressed.

  ‘Haven’t started yet,’ said Milborn. He summoned a waiter and ordered a bottle of Pommery. ‘If he doesn’t come soon,’ he said, ‘I shall charge it to his account.’ Bognor looked at his watch.

  ‘I’ll have to go in a second,’ he said. ‘If I’m going to get to the Albert Hall in time for the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Wait a second,’ he said. ‘I bet it works. Just watch.’

  The Pommery arrived and the seconds ticked a
way becoming minutes when after only half a glass had been consumed a young man in rimless glasses and a Madison Avenue suit approached the table.

  ‘Round one to us,’ whispered Milborn.

  ‘Sir Milborn Port?’ enquired rimless glasses.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Milborn. ‘Will you join us? This is Simon Bognor.’

  ‘Erwin Schumacher,’ said the young man, ‘Mr Silverberg’s personal assistant. I’d be happy to, gentlemen.’

  Another glass was brought and to Bognor’s surprise Milborn began to talk about racing, a subject about which Mr Schumacher seemed quite ignorant.

  After a while both Bognor and it seemed to him Mr Schumacher, became increasingly perplexed. Milborn was talking about American bloodlines when Bognor decided it was time to make an excuse and leave.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to go and see the Prime Minister,’ he said, truthfully and he hoped tactfully. Milborn looked appreciative, Mr Schumacher still more bewildered.

  The philatelists had made no real provision for the hordes of journalists who descended on their convention that morning. In view of the fact that it was their hundredth anniversary and because it was known that the Prime Minister had a notable private collection himself it had seemed apposite to extend an invitation. The stamp collectors, in their innocence, had assumed that the Prime Minister might make a speech about stamps. They had reckoned without the usual winter fuel crisis coupled with the recurring general economic crisis, the annual January confrontation between the government and the Trade Unions and the crisis of confidence in the government in general and the Prime Minister in particular which all this implied.

  The Prime Minister had let it be known that he would be using the hundredth anniversary convention of the world’s philatelists to make an important speech. For this reason by the time Bognor arrived the solitary spinster who had been delegated to look after the press and who had been expecting nothing more than the odd correspondent of one of the specialist stamp magazines was swamped, inundated, distraught and utterly at a loss. When Bognor produced his press pass she could no more than point helplessly towards the stairs which led into the depths. Bognor took them and soon found himself in a dingy ill-lit passageway from which he could hear a flat nasal voice droning seemingly a long way off. He opened a door on his left from which the noise appeared to be coming, walked up half a dozen steps, peered over a parapet and found himself within a few yards of the guest of honour.

  Bognor was not particularly impressed by the Prime Minister. He listened briefly and then let the old familiar phrases bounce off him unheeded. He was dimly aware of ‘will not be held to ransom’, ‘pernicious sectarian influences’, ‘pulling together in a United Britain’ and ‘we are beating inflation’. The stamp collectors, of whom there were several thousand, looked bored rigid, but the press who were sprawled across the rows to Bognor’s immediate left were writing assiduously. Their photographers were gathered underneath the rostrum hung about with an armoury of cameras and lenses which they occasionally raised to eye level.

  Bognor moved to an empty seat among some murmured ‘Ssssh’ sounds from his colleagues and picked up a stencilled copy of the premier’s speech. He perused it sceptically, wondering why other journalists took notes when it was all typed out for them and looked for references to stamps. He found a joke about ‘Having done my stamp duty’, and a reference to rubber stamps and bureaucracy of whose humorous intention he was unsure. There was also a reference almost a paragraph long to the greatly improved design of British stamps and the imaginative subjects depicted on them. The Royal wedding stamps were cited in evidence and he said that we had come a long way since the Penny Black. All this Bognor underlined for use in his story. Then he tried to assimilate some atmosphere. This he knew he needed to give ‘colour’ to his story. He had been told that this was an important element.

  He scanned the hall not knowing quite what he was looking for. Not much point in describing the interior of the Albert Hall since most people had seen it on television. He supposed he should include some eminent philatelists but he had no idea what an eminent philatelist looked like. Desperately he peered about him, praying for something to attract his attention, something which would keep Granny Gringe happy. Then his eyes lit on a half familiar figure scribbling frenziedly on to a foolscap pad. It looked like Spencer Nugent of Magdalen. He racked his memory. Spencer had edited Isis and gone into journalism. He had noticed his name somewhere recently. Political editor of the Daily News? He had an idea that was it but couldn’t be sure. Then his attention was diverted as the Prime Minister reached the joke about stamp duty. It was near the bottom of the final page and that meant peroration time. The joke attracted only thin applause, though the Prime Minister laughed immoderately before putting on his ‘weighty matters’ face and making a final appeal to the innate patriotism of the philately fraternity. After he’d finished he found that he’d scrawled ‘Balls’, in huge letters across the typescript.

  ‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘it was balls.’

  As he was leaving he noticed Spencer Nugent still sitting in his red velvet seat examining his notes. He decided to accost him. It was years since they’d seen each other but at university they had been close, if not friends, at least close acquaintances.

  He struggled past the outgoing philatelists and journalists and accosted him. Spencer turned and stared through him blankly without a shadow of recognition.

  ‘Bognor,’ said Bognor. ‘You remember. Bognor.’

  ‘God,’ said Spencer, rising in a flurry of paper and holding out his hand, ‘Simon Bognor. Good God alive. Long time no see. What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m covering it for the Globe.’ The phrase tripped off his tongue glibly. He was rather pleased with it.

  ‘I thought you went into the Post Office.’

  ‘Board of Trade actually.’

  ‘Oh well, Post Office, Board of Trade, what the hell. But why the defection?’ Spencer looked prosperous and smooth as ever. He had always been outrageously smooth, always giving sherry parties for dons and spending, his weekends in London.

  ‘Defection?’

  ‘To the Globe.’

  ‘Oh,’ Bognor blushed. ‘Felt like a change,’ he said. ‘I was getting bored with the Board of Trade.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Spencer grinned. He had a contrived grin. Always had. He thought it was infectious. ‘Are you lunching?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then let’s lunch. At my club?’

  It was what Bognor had been hoping for, though he feigned surprise and embarrassment. Spencer said he’d been going there anyway. It was where he got all his best stories.

  ‘By the way, old boy,’ he said as they emerged blinking into daylight, ‘forgive my asking but you don’t always look like that, do you? I mean it’s a temporary defect, isn’t it?’ The sun was shining for the first time for days. The sky was crisp pale Cambridge blue and the gaunt angles of the Albert Memorial were stark in silhouette.

  ‘I fell downstairs,’ said Bognor. ‘I hope it’s temporary. It hurts.’

  Spencer smiled. ‘I should take more care if I were you,’ he said. ‘There seems to be a sudden distressing tendency for people on your paper to start dropping down dead.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bognor.

  They lunched at Pring’s just off Piccadilly, certainly the most expensive and arguably the most exclusive club in London. Bognor commented in genuine envy.

  ‘My father-in-law saw to it,’ said Spencer, shovelling potted shrimps on to a piece of soggy toast. ‘Marvellous for Tory gossip of course. No Socialists. Well, Socialist peers if they’re hereditary and of course Marxists.’

  ‘Marxists?’

  ‘Marxists are perfectly respectable. You know that. And we have a Liberal.’

  For the first half of the meal they discussed Oxford and played ‘whatever happened to?’ Then Spencer described his career so far which had involved an ascent which was just short of spectacular and therefo
re more likely to continue.

  ‘Doesn’t pay to look flashy,’ he said, rejecting a soggy sprout, ‘as you’ll discover. They don’t like brains and they don’t like graduates. Oxford can be death. I keep very quiet about it and say I was at school in Yorkshire. It sounds suitably working class.’

  They had arrived at the Stilton when Spencer nodded an acknowledgement towards the dining-room door. Bognor half turned and saw two young middle-aged men in Savile Row suiting. One of them was Bertie Harris who favoured Bognor with a glacial smile which implied that Bognor was social climbing. At least it implied it to Bognor who was sensitive to allegations of snobbery, genuine or false.

  ‘I was forgetting,’ said Spencer. ‘Harris is filling in time on the Pepys Show, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s the other one?’

  ‘Elliston Gravelle.’

  ‘What, Lord Grampian’s son?’

  ‘Yes. He’s our Managing Director. I can’t think why Wharfedale doesn’t give Bertie Harris more responsibility like that. He’s perfectly competent. Just not interested.’

  The two under discussion sat at a table in a window where Bognor and Spencer Nugent were able to watch without appearing inquisitive. They were markedly similar in appearance though there was a suggestion of effete languor, a hint of debauchery about Bertie which was much less pronounced in Elliston.

  ‘Ambitious lad, our Elliston,’ said Spencer. ‘I think he has designs on the Globe Group.’

  ‘Oh. That’s not possible, surely?’

  ‘Not while old Wharfedale’s alive I grant you, but I have a feeling that when he’s gone to God Bertie might be as happy looking after the farms and playing a bit of polo. Winter in St Moritz, summer on the Costa Smeralda, autumn on the moors, that would just about suit Bertie.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he do that now then?’

  ‘Port?’ Bognor who was restored to hazy equilibrium by the club claret agreed. ‘Daddy holds the purse strings,’ said Spencer. ‘And Daddy will make his Bertie into a professional newspaperman or die in the attempt. My personal view is that he’ll die in the attempt.’