Coda: The Third Albert Mystery (The Albert Mysteries Book 3) Page 5

  “Then He can do what three years in prison couldn’t,” said Angela.

  Albert had been thinking. “What about your sister?” He knew her only living relative, an older sister, had raised her when their parents had died.

  “She and her husband emigrated to New Zealand. He’s got some kind of job with the government there. I’m not sure what. She’s a stranger to me.”

  Albert knew that, much like the east and west to which Jeremy Ash had recently referred, New Zealand was about as far from wherever you were as it was possible to get. Angela’s sister might as well be in—well, New Zealand.

  “Christchurch,” she added.

  Just a littlebeyond as far away as it was possible to get. Sister, then, was out of the picture. Albert would have to think of something else. Meantime, his mouth decided to talk. “Where are you living now?”

  “Oh, I’ve got a bedsit in Croydon. I share it with another girl, Gloria. She was released the same day as I and we decided to go halves with what little we had. Bit of a party girl, is Gloria, so I don’t see her much.”

  “Do you have a job?” Jeremy Ash wanted to know. The girl’s answer was accompanied by an expression Albert couldn’t interpret.

  “I busk.” She smiled. “I’m a busker.”

  Albert’s eyebrows twisted into question marks.

  “She’s a hustler,” Jeremy interpreted.

  “Not a hustler,” Angie corrected. “A street performer.”

  Jeremy made a noise that embodied his opinions on the merits of street performers. “Doing what?”

  “I play violin. Sing a bit.”

  For Albert, this simple exchange presented novelty at several levels, the first of which was that he didn’t know Angela was a singer. Second, he didn’t know she played violin; nothing of his previous experience of her hinted at a musical side. The third novelty was the notion that those people caterwauling at passersby on street corners were making a living somehow. He began to voice these observations in sequence.

  “I trained for it once,” she said. “A long time ago. Now, I just like to play and sing a bit. It’s something to do until I can get a proper position. I quite enjoy it, really. There’s a kind of anonymity to it, which is nice—after prison. Most people go out of their way to ignore you.” She laughed a hollow laugh. “Once in a while someone will stop and listen and drop 50p in my cup.”

  “I’m so sorry, Maestro,” said Mr. Quiggly. The hand he placed on Angela’s shoulder seemed gentle, but it made her start up from her chair. “I didn’t see her come in. Come along, miss. We don’t want to bother Mr. . . . ”

  “I’m not bothering him,” said Angela, wilting beneath the stares from those around her. “Am I, Professor?”

  The unexpected insertion of a fourth voice—that of the concierge—into the trio, had a jarring effect on Albert who cast an appeal at Jeremy Ash.

  “You want her to stay?” said the boy.

  Albert looked from Quiggly, who seemed about to cast Angela into the outer darkness, to Angela, who had ceased her brief struggle against the firm restraint and was staring at the floor as if she’d been beaten, back to Quiggly. “This is Angela,” he said. “I think she’d like some tea.”

  Quiggly let his captive go immediately. “Of course. Of course. I’m so sorry, miss,” he said. He brushed the back of her chair and held it for her. She subsided slowly. “The Maestro’s privacy is very important to us here at the Cadogan. I was unaware that you were of his acquaintance. Please accept our apologies.”

  “Thank you,” said Angela. “Please don’t trouble yourself on my account.”

  “No trouble at all,” said Quiggly, smiling warmly. “May I atone by persuading you to accept a late luncheon as our guest, miss? Perhaps some of chef’s excellentchampignon au gratin and sandwiches?”

  Quiggly, as much a part of the Cadogan as the wallpaper in reception and the little crack in the lentil over the front door, was the voice of the place. In the ten or so years he had known him, Albert had always loved to listen to him talk, which he likened to music without notes. “May I atone by persuading you to accept luncheon as my guest, miss?” he repeated aloud. The words stuck to his tongue like salt water taffy. They tasted good.

  For a moment, all eyes turned to him for some reason. “That would be nice,” he said. Quiggly bowed deeply and sincerely, and melted silently away. Albert had heard about someone who worked in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. The reference must have been to Quiggly.

  “How do you do that?” said Albert.

  “Do what?”

  “Busk. Busking.” Albert’s words scraped across his eardrums like sandpaper, and he winced their inadequacy. He envied Quiggly, whose every utterance seemed somehow premeditated; weighted with meaning and dipped in some kind of verbal oil so it slid easily into the auditory canal, twiddling the cilium in a pleasant way.

  “You just find an unoccupied spot at a well-traveled intersection, or in a park and,” she shrugged, “start playing. The Tube, too. Wonderful acoustics down there, but the Bobbies are forever hassling you to move along.”

  ‘Just start playing.’ The words were like magical spell, summoning a curious yearning in Albert; no limousines, no hotels, no posing for photographers, or interminable, squirm-inducing interviews with people whose eyes and whole attention were always fixed on the second hand of the studio clock and the little list of questions they seemed to pass among themselves around the world and across the years. “Just play,” he echoed.

  “Not too practical in your case, of course,” said Angela with her little laugh. “A piano’s not the kind of instrument that lends itself to busking.”

  And so Albert’s newly-forming career ambitions were throttled in the crib. He sighed a little requiem at their passing. “I’d like to hear you sometime.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly play with you around. Much less sing.”

  Why? Was there some little portable weather system that followed him around, sucking the oxygen from the atmosphere? Perhaps that’s why people behaved the way they did when he walked into a room.

  “I’d be so self-conscious,” Angela continued. “However,” she added, “if you’re determined to subject yourself to the abuse, I’m booked for an exclusive engagement at the District Line turning of Sloane Square station in,” she held up her arm and looked at a watch that wasn’t there, “an hour?”

  Albert looked from her to Jeremy Ash. “She wants us to go listen to her sing?”

  “Seems so.”

  “In a tunnel in the ground,” said Albert, whose most recent experience of a tunnel—the one connecting the cellar of Judge Antrim’s home to that of Mrs. Grandy’s boarding house—had nearly ended in his immolation.

  “That’s where they keep ‘em,” said Jeremy Ash. Apart from whatever obligation Albert felt as the result of his previous relationship with the girl, he had never shown the slightest interest in any music other than his own, or in any other musician—from Bach to the B-52s—and Jeremy, who made a pastime of studying Albert’s enigmatic, tortured thought processes, was curious to see what he would decide.

  “Do you know how to get there?”

  “We’ll figure it out, if that’s what you want to do.”

  “It’s not far,” said Angela, immediately realizing she sounded too enthusiastic. “It’d be a lark for you. Something different.”

  Everything was something different for Albert. He turned to Jeremy Ash. “When am I supposed to do the sound check?”

  “That’s not ‘til Friday.”

  “Then we have time?”

  Jeremy smiled. “Just over seventy-two hours. If we get lost, we’ll have plenty of time to get found.”

  Albert nodded. “I don’t have anything else to do today?”

  “You’re supposed to have a press conference here at 4:00.”

  Albert shuddered visibly.

  “But the concert’s been sold out for months, so there’s not really any point in it.” Jer
emy pictured Huffy waiting and pacing and trying to suppress an uprising among an increasingly restive roomful of photographers and reporters. “Huffy will explain it to them.”

  Angela caught the devil in Jeremy’s eyes when he winked at her.

  “Only if you’re sure,” she said, unsurely.

  Albert was sure. At least he was sure he’d be happy for any excuse to miss the press conference. Huffy always did all the talking at them anyway, so as long as he was there . . . “I’m sure.”

  Quiggly oversaw the distribution of comestibles and Albert, Jeremy, and Angela ate and thought, and if their thoughts magically took on flesh and dressed in lime-green leisure suits, none would recognize the other. Fifteen minutes later, with a final assurance that they would attend the subterranean performance, Angela left the Cadogan and Albert and Jeremy went to their respective rooms.

  Chapter Four

  Albert looked in both the wardrobes, but couldn’t find any shoes other than the ones that went with the tuxedo he wore to perform in. As he slipped them on he wondered, not for the first time, why they made him wear the tuxedo for his concerts. Although he’d been assured the costume had been made especially to his measurements, it was uncomfortable and tight and smelled like chemicals and made him feel like his legs were developing creases. And these shoes . . . to the best of his knowledge, had never been outside. The Davy Crockett shirt had been much more comfortable.

  The wonderful thing about the Cadogan, it occurred to Albert when he arrived in the lobby half an hour later, was that there were people there who did things. One of the things they did was Jeremy Ash. There he was in his wheelchair, waiting by Quiggly’s little podium with its ‘Concierge’ sign. Apart from his hair, which always looked to Albert as if it had been caught in the act of trying to escape his head, he looked like he’d been polished. Albert felt a momentary flush of something or other when he recalled that he had told the boy he’d come to his room and collect him, but here he was, so that was okay. At the Cadogan, if you forgot to do something like collect Jeremy Ash, there was always someone else who would do it. As he strode across the reception area, he wondered why whoever ran the Cadogan didn’t run the rest of the world.

  The notion evaporated at Jeremy’s greeting. “Hey, A. Ready for the freak show?” He spun his wheelchair toward the door.

  “We’re going to hear Angela sing,” Albert corrected as his hands found the familiar grips of the chair’s handles.

  “Different words, same meaning,” said Jeremy. “Let’s see if we can get where we’re going without gettin’ me assassinated this time, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Albert, reminding himself that, henceforth, caution was to be his watchword.

  Quiggly cleared his throat which meant that he was about to say something, usually something he didn’t want anyone else to hear except the person he was clearing his throat at. This time it was Jeremy Ash, so Albert was eavesdropping.

  “Oh, yeah,” said the boy. “He wants me to tell you there have been people looking for you.”

  People often looked for Albert, and he wondered why. It must be some kind of hobby, like going to the freak shows Jeremy mentioned, or those races where people ran into each other’s cars. Of course, some people listened to music. “Who?” said Albert, not really interested, whoever it was, he didn’t want to see them.

  “Two policemen,” said Jeremy, “not the same ones that chased us here before. A couple of reporters, somebody from the hospital, and those two you went to the museum with.”

  “Lord and Lady Crawley,” said Quiggly. “They were most solicitous of your health. I informed them that you were well, but indisposed. I trust I didn’t overstep my bounds.”

  “They went away?” said Albert.

  “Yes, sir, with my assurances as to your well-being ringing in their ears.”

  “Then that’s good.”

  Albert turned Jeremy’s wheelchair toward the door, but was unable to make his escape before Quiggly cleared his throat again, this time at Albert, who stopped.

  “There is one other gentleman who wishes a word with you.”

  “Did he go away?”

  “Well, no, sir. He . . . he’s someone of my acquaintance and, being that he’s in your line of work, more-or-less, I thought you might not mind a minute or two with him.”

  “Where is he?”

  Quiggly had been ready to answer ‘who is it?’, so was required to clear his throat again while modifying his reply. “You’ll find him in the smoking room, sir. He’s alone.”

  The smoking room, that was another thing Albert loved about the Cadogan, it had a whole room dedicated to his favorite pastime. He knew where it was and, without further small talk, guided his footsteps and, therefore, Jeremy’s wheelchair, to it.

  There was a man seated by the fire reading a paper. He was about Albert’s age and height, with dark hair and brows, like Albert and, Albert noticed, clothes of some kind. But, unlike Albert, his parts all seemed comfortable together. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but Albert couldn’t place it. The man rose, tossed his cigarette casually into the fire, smiled, and held out his hand.

  As they shook, Albert’s eyes were on the cigarette butt, smoldering on the hot coals. That was an amazing thing to him, the way this man had just flung it from him with a little flick of the fingers, and it had landed right there in the fireplace, where it wouldn’t burn the carpet, which is what would have happened if Albert had tried that. And he’d done it so casually, without even looking, as if he didn’t have to think about it, or aim, and all the while he was shaking his hand and smiling and looking somehow familiar. The cigarette butt burst into flame.

  “Whoosh!” said Albert.

  “I know you,” said Jeremy Ash. “You’re what’s-his-name. Ringo!”

  “Close,” said the man. “I’m the bloke on his right. Paul.”

  Albert’s brow bent. How were Ringo and Paul close? They didn’t rhyme. They didn’t have the same number of letters. In fact, the names didn’t share any letters. Yet this man and Jeremy Ash shared some secret knowledge. No matter how long he lived, Albert found life full of secrets no one had told him about.

  “That’s right!” said Jeremy. “I prefer the Stones, myself.”

  “Everybody does,” said Paul.

  Had it not been already bent to its nadir, Albert’s brow would have bent some more.

  “I’m Paul McCartney,” said the man, who seemed oddly bemused, as if he didn’t often have to introduce himself.

  “I’m Albert . . .”

  “Oh, I know who you are, mate. I know,” said the man. “I’m a big fan.”

  Albert was expecting the man to produce a piece of paper and ask for an autograph, so he began looking around for something to write with. With a quick scan of the room, his eyes lighted on the clock. “I’ve got to go to a concert.”

  “A concert? This time of day?” said the man. “Who’s playing?”

  “Heather,” said Albert.

  “Angela,” Jeremy Ash corrected.

  “Angela,” said Albert. “Yes. Angela. This is Jeremy Ash.” He shook the wheel chair in the man’s direction.

  “Pleased to meet you young Jeremy,” said the man. “Even if you prefer the Stones.”

  “Not really,” said Jeremy. “I was just wanting to get a rise out of you.”

  “Well, you did that, me lad. I’m seethin’ inside.” He turned to Albert. “Mind if I tag along? I’d love to see whoever it is. I’d heard you weren’t the concert-going type. She must be amazing.”

  “She must be,” said Albert. “She plays violin in a tunnel.”

  “A tunnel?”

  “The Tube,” said Jeremy Ash.

  “She’s a busker?” said the Beatle falling in beside Albert as they wheeled and walked across the reception area. Quiggly, perceiving the trio approaching, was discreet as always, arranging an impromptu announcement to direct elsewhere the attention of those mulling about the lobby and, at the s
ame time, summoning the Girl with the Spanish Eyebrows to usher Jeremy and company to the door. There, unnoticed by anyone but the doorman, they slipped out of the hotel into a side street.

  “I’ve got a driver,” said Paul as, after looking carefully in both directions, Albert struck off across the zebra crossing.

  Strange the announcements people made. His mother lived half the year in Florida and, in their monthly phone calls, she sometimes referred to a driver she played golf with. What the connection was Albert had never expended the energy to imagine. Usually his mother talked and he pretended to listen until she said, “Albert, my dear, are you listening? I want you to concentrate on what I’m saying. This is important.” Then she would talk some more and he would try, he really would, but her’s was the voice that had sung him to sleep as a child. It still had that effect.

  “So does my mother,” Albert said, attempting to be conversational.

  It was the Paul’s turn to crinkle his eyebrows, which he did at Jeremy, who was enjoying the entertainment. McCartney produced a well-worn cloth cap and a pair of sunglasses from his pockets and, for the remainder of their stroll to Sloane Square station, it was Jeremy Ash who commanded most of the attention as people went out of their way to avoid seeming to look at him.

  “I’ve got to get me one of these,” said the Beatle to the maestro. He jerked his head toward Jeremy Ash. “I don’t remember the last time I walked this far without someone stopping me for me autograph. Wouldn’t loan him to me for a bit, I don’t suppose?”

  Albert was brought up short. “People ask you for autographs?”

  “Now and again.”

  Albert would have to think about this. He had always assumed the reason people asked him for his autograph had something to do with his piano playing. He tilted the wheelchair back so the front wheels were on the sidewalk then, with a practiced lift and thrust, was among the foot traffic. “Do you play piano?”