Cover-Up Story

Marian Babson

CHIVERS

This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

Published by arrangement with the Author

Epub ISBN 9781471302367

Copyright © Marian Babson, 1971

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

THE PRESS CONFERENCE was going well – as Press Conferences go. The Fleet Street boys were lit up, the Client wasn't. Their initial efforts to trap him into some incautious quotations had been sidestepped and they were past caring now. His latest LP was booming out over the amplifiers with a hypnotic beat, and the Press Release was so well written – if I do say it myself – that any sub could dredge a few hundred salient words out of it when his principal staggered back to the office.

For the moment, it looked as though I could relax. I snatched a Martini as the tray went past and retreated into a corner where I could keep an eye peeled for trouble.

It was the wrong corner and trouble was waiting for me. ‘That room you got for Lou-Ann –' Maw Cooney had been lurking behind the drapes – ‘won't do at all. I never saw such a poky little hole in all my born days. Are you sure this is a high-class hotel?'

I took a deep swallow before replying. She'd done nothing but complain since she stepped off the boat-train. ‘It's generally considered to be one of the best hotels in London.'

‘I'd hate to see the worst!' She sniffed and glanced sharply at the glass in my hand. ‘Young man, are you supposed to be drinking on duty?'

‘I'm a Public Relations Officer, Mrs Cooney – not a policeman.' To underline this, I took another swallow. You have to assert your independence with some of these characters. And she wasn't paying my salary.

‘You haven't answered me. What about Lou-Ann? The Good Lord knows I don't mind for myself – I could sleep on a heap of rags in a corner – but it's a question of the fitness of things. Lou-Ann
is
the comedy star of this Troupe, after all, and it's mighty kind of her to agree to double up with her dresser – but to ask
two
of us to share that teensy little –'

‘I'll see what I can do, Mrs Cooney,' I interrupted her. ‘In fact, I'll see right now.' I got away quickly before she could block my retreat.

This corner was an improvement. There was nobody here but us chickens. It was clear now that the crowd was beginning to thin out a bit.

The LP hesitated, then began on the big one – the Top of the Charts – the number that had lifted Our Boy right out of the boondocks and into the big time.

‘Homesteader, Homesteader,

‘Ridin' alone ...'

You could call it Ballad, Country & Western, or Folk Music – whatever was ‘in' this year. The music was plaintive, the lyric melancholy – and it had touched a chord in a lot of people. It was about a homesteader who had fenced off his acres, then had to fight beef barons who reckoned they owned the grazing rights to every acre of God's whole creation; just as he was wearying of the struggle, they cut a hole in his fence and stampeded the cattle through; his wife and the child she was about to bear were killed, and now they'd never drive him away because all he had was buried here on this homestead, and he'd stay until they buried him here, too. The Client was alleged to have written it himself – and it sounded semiliterate enough to be possible.

‘Homesteader, Homesteader,

‘Ridin' alone ...'

Uncle No'ccount moved forward slowly, pulling his harmonica and a red bandana from his hip pocket. He spat his upper teeth into the bandana and stowed it back in his pocket. He wrapped his lips around the harmonica and breathed into it. A cold wail of melody whiffled a chill down every spine as he picked up the time.

He was every bum who'd ever hopped a midnight freight, one jump ahead of the railroad police, on his way from nowhere to nowhere, gone too long from home to even remember what he was running from any more.

‘Ridin' alone now,

‘For ever alone ...'

Cousin Homer chimed in softly with the guitar and Cousin Ezra took up the plaint with the fiddle. They seemed okay, although a bit too awkward and gangly, with wrists and ankles dangling too far out of their clothing for their ages. If they'd done any growing since they bought those clothes, they ought to will their bodies to the Harvard School of Pathology. Still, the fans hadn't seemed to notice – and who was I to knock a successful routine?

They were all playing along with the record now. If the Client held out much longer, it was going to be pointed. I looked over to try to catch his eye.

I needn't have bothered. He was already moving front and centre, grinning his lazy grin, forelock down over one eye, gliding with easy catlike grace. The grin didn't reach his eyes. The reluctance in his shrug was real – the self-deprecation wasn't. I'd only known this crew for six hours, but already I had enough of the picture to realize that there was going to be hell to pay for this performance – after the Press had left.

They'd reached the echo chamber bit when he took up the tempo. He looked more like Black Bart the Last of the Bushwhackers than Bart the Lonely Homesteader; but this was the act that was paying off, so this was the act he was doing – or almost.

The echo chamber did a little to disguise it, the live music did the rest, but Black Bart wasn't singing. His timing was perfect, the graceful throwaway gestures fitted perfectly. He stood there, miming to the record and, except for the musicians, I was probably the only one to notice it. It confirmed my opinion. The Client wasn't giving anything away free.

‘Homesteader, Homesteader,

‘For ever alone ...'

The spattering of applause showed how far the party had gone towards breaking up. During the number the waiters had been moving around purposefully, removing empty glasses from tables and detaching near-empty glasses from hands. Ashtrays were being emptied, and a couple of old-retainer types were doddering forward from the far end of the room, managing, like ancient collies, to herd the strays along in front of them.

The Client patted a few shoulders as they passed. ‘Nice to have met y'all,' he said. ‘Sure hope I'll be seeing a lot more of you.'

His eye had been resting on someone's little office junior as he said that, and I got a nasty feeling that it had a double meaning. At the very least. We were being paid far too much for this job – there must be some deep jagged icebergs beneath the glittering tops that broke the surface.

The last of the Press, exiting, collided with Lou-Ann, entering. She squawked and hurled herself back against the door frame. They glanced at her curiously, but Crystal Harper was right behind her, and nobody with all their hormones operational was going to waste time looking at Lou-Ann when Crystal was around.

Maw Cooney swept down on Lou-Ann, scolding, ‘Where've you been? All them reporters were here – and they were taking pictures, too. Now you've missed the whole thing. And you, the comedy star! '

‘Sorry, Maw,' Crystal Harper said, with lazy indifference, ‘I'm afraid we went shopping and didn't notice the time. Girls will be girls, you know.'

Maw Cooney flashed her a look that told her she'd never been a girl. Several unmentionable variations, perhaps, but never that kind of girl.

Over Maw's head, Crystal met the Client's eyes.
He
wasn't complaining. It occurred to me that it might have been deliberately engineered that Lou-Ann miss the Press Reception.

Lou-Ann whirled around and began babbling apologies to the Client. He nodded, not really looking at her. ‘It don't matter. You're all right, honey.'

‘But I missed
everything.
Now they won't have any pictures of me,' she wailed.

‘You go talk to the Publicity Boy,' the Client jerked a thumb at me. ‘He'll fix up something. That's what we're paying him for.' He gave her a shove that was rough but – for him – probably not unkindly, and she stumbled towards me.

She was the kid next door who had grown up, taken the braces off her teeth, thrown away her glasses, had her hair curled – and then found out that it
still
didn't make any difference. So she'd decided to play it for laughs. Sometimes they make worse decisions.

Somewhere between the shopping tour and the Press Reception, she'd climbed into her trade mark ‘comedy costume'. The high-necked long-sleeved blouse bunched itself out of a low-necked short-sleeved red jacket with half the buttons missing. The rusty black skirt dipped to several lengths and multi-coloured patches had been sewn at random on it. The straw hat had two large daisies drooping from broken stalks and was moored precariously to the top of her head by an elastic string passed under her braids.

The freckles scattered all over her face were probably real and not painted on. She smiled at me nervously. There was lipstick on her front teeth. I didn't think that was an intentional part of the costume – she was just the sort who always would have lipstick on her front teeth.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. I had to lean forward to hear her. ‘I should have kept an eye on the time, but it was so excitin' bein' here, and seeing all those famous stores –'

‘Don't you go apologizing to
him
– he should apologize to
you.
' Maw Cooney had come up behind us with the battleflag flying. ‘You're paying him – it was his job to keep those reporters here until you arrived. Stars are
expected
to be late. How dare he start before you got here?'

Lou-Ann looked up at me. She'd been chewing gum. Now she pursed her lips suddenly and broke into a broad grin, goggling her eyes at me. It was liquorice gum, and she'd blacked out her two front teeth. On the whole, I preferred the lipstick.

But I recognized it as another form of apology, this time for Maw Cooney, so I nodded and smiled at her, and she relaxed.

Over her shoulder, there was a performance going on in the second ring.

Black Bart had come up behind the musicians as they were settling down their instruments. When Uncle No-'ccount pulled the bandana containing his upper set from his pocket, Bart snatched it away.

‘You stupid no-account old fool!' He balled his massive fist around the bandana and shook it under Uncle No'ccount's nose. ‘What do you think you're playing at? Know what I ought to do? I ought to stomp on these for you!'

‘Aw, now, Bart, don't take on so.' Uncle No'ccount kept his eyes on his uppers. ‘We didn't mean no harm.'

‘You never mean no harm – but you go and do it just the same. Listen, when I decide we'll do a Benefit,
I'll
give the word!'

‘Sure, Bart, sure. I just got kinda carried away. Didn't mean to upset you none – did we, boys?'

The Cousins shuffled their feet and shook their heads, miserable at being appealed to. Only too obviously, they had been hoping to remain unnoticed and escape involvement.

‘We was just funning, Bart.'

‘No call to take on like that, Bart.' They spoke together, backing towards the door.

‘ 'Tweren't like a for-real show, anyhow, Bart,' Cousin Ezra said. ‘You know we ain't wired up right yet for this neck of the woods.'

‘That's right, Bart,' Cousin Homer chipped in. ‘That fella there said he was gonna see about it, but he ain't done nothing yet.'

That sent the ball swinging into my court.

‘You, boy!' Black Bart shouted at me. ‘Hump it over here and let's hear what you got to say for yourself. How come you ain't got my boys fixed up yet?'

Uncle No'ccount reached out and gently removed his belongings from Bart's hand while he was distracted. A quick flourish of the bandana and his teeth were firmly where they ought to be. He beamed with relief and straightened his shoulders, standing taller.

‘Reckon I'd better get along and tend to some unpacking,' he said. ‘You don't need me for this. One thing about a good old harmonica – you cain't fit wires to it.'