It’s early morning in the cocktail bar. The actual bar is closed, behind metal shutters. Nevertheless, Dorning and Ross, the editor of a Sunday newspaper, are sitting at a table together. “Eight thousand,” says Ross. Dorning asks for ten. Ross shakes his head. “Eight or nothing. It’s the best offer you’ll ever get.”
Dorning stands up. “Then I’ll have to accept it, won’t I?”
“I’ll clear it and get back to you.”
“Just say the word,” says Dorning. “Want me to keep going?
“That was the idea, wasn’t it?” replies Ross. Dorning nods and saunters out. Ross watches him go through to reception. As he does so, he also sees Marker. Recognising the inquiry agent, Ross quickly raises his newspaper, to hide his face.
* * *
Susan Pretlove is wandering around the aquarium in a desultory manner, looking at the various tanks of fish. She glances at her watch. After a moment, Dorning comes up behind her and taps her lightly on the shoulder. She spins around, expectantly. “Yes?”
“Excuse me,” says Dorning, courteously. “Could you direct me to the Winter Gardens?”
Not recognising him, Susan tells him that he can take the number four bus. “Or, if you want to walk, go straight into the town centre and turn left at the clock. It’s marked.”
“Thank you,” says Dorning. “You’re very kind… Susan.” He smiles.
Her face suddenly lights up. “Major Davis?”
Dorning waves aside such formality. “Ronnie!”
“You shouldn’t have teased me.”
“Couldn’t resist it.” Dorning looks at Susan. It seems as if he can’t keep his eyes off her.
“Aren’t I what you imagined?” she asks, anxiously.
“My dear girl, you’re not a bit what I imagined. I wouldn’t have dared hope for someone so charming.”
Susan smiles, modestly. “Flattery, Major.”
“Ronnie! And it wasn’t flattery. You’re an occasional wine drinker, aren’t you?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have described myself as a drinker at all.”
“You mentioned it in one of your letters. I read through them, tried to form a composite picture. Wasn’t much of a success. Anyway, we’re going to a little place I know and we’re going to have a glass of Champagne.”
Susan beams. “Lovely!”
“Start things off as we intend them to go on.”
* * *
Marker is making another call, this time in the hotel’s reception area. “Thank you, Inspector. That’s grand – just what I wanted to know.” He hangs up and crosses to Eve Fisher at the reception desk, asking if there’s any post for him. There isn’t. “You did send off that telegram?” he inquires.
Eve nods. “And the one before the one before that. Perhaps she doesn’t love you any more.”
“That must be it,” replies Marker, drily. He helps himself to a newspaper and puts the money on the desk.
Eve is filling in a laundry book when the intercom sounds. She answers it – it’s Mrs Willis, in Room 20. Marker stops, pretending to have noticed something interesting in his paper, but actually listening in on the conversation. Mrs Willis wants to know if her taxi’s been ordered. Eve tells her it’ll be here in half an hour. “I’ll send someone up for your luggage.” Mrs Willis thanks her. Marker closes the paper and crosses to the lift.
* * *
In Room 20, Mrs Willis turns from the intercom and carries on with her packing, which is almost finished. There’s an angry intensity to her movements. There’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” she calls. Hearing the door opening, she continues packing without looking up, expecting it to be the hotel porter. “There’s one by the door,” she says. “The other’ll be about five minutes.” When there’s no reply, she looks up.
Marker stands, arms folded, just inside the doorway. “Holiday over?”
“What do you want?” asks Mrs Willis, sourly.
Marker closes the door and wanders into the room. “I’d like to know why you changed your plans.”
“Changed?” says Mrs Willis. “I always intended leaving today.”
“Not according to the chambermaid. She says you were booked in for the weekend.”
Mrs Willis pauses for a moment. “So you were right. What do you want – money?”
“You reckon I saved you some?”
“Perhaps. I’ll give you a cheque for a hundred pounds. Okay?”
“Don’t bother,” says Marker. “You can have it on the house.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just go to the police and tell them about him.”
Mrs Willis shakes her head. “And make myself look like a bloody fool? Mr Marker, I’m a businesswoman. I’ve even got a name in the trade for being tough.”
“I believe you.”
“I’d be a laughing stock. Not a chance. I’m just grateful to you for pointing him out.”
“Perhaps I should’ve waited another couple of days,” muses Marker. “Maybe you’d have been more amenable.”
“I’ve offered to pay you.”
“I won’t give you the ‘hearts and flowers’ routine, but don’t you care about the other women he chats up and bleeds?”
“They’ll get over it,” reckons Mrs Willis, “and it’s quite painless.”
“It is when you can afford to write cheques for a hundred pounds.”
“Actually, I’m in pocket. So you needn’t worry.”
“The money he spent on you came off a young woman who’d just buried her husband,” Marker informs her. “I doubt if she’s got fifty quid in the world.”
Mrs Willis is unmoved. “Mr Marker, you can stand there all day, but I’m not changing my mind. I’m obliged to you, and I’ve thanked you – I can’t do more. Far as I’m concerned, I’ve had my pound of flesh off the major.” She indicates the bed – it’s clear that two people have slept in it. “You’re talking to one very satisfied customer.”
“I’m happy for you,” says Marker.
“And the scene when I kicked him out this morning.” Mrs Willis chuckles. “Well, I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years. He didn’t know what hit him.”
Marker turns and goes to the door, wishing her a pleasant journey. “Don’t talk to any strange men.”
“I won’t,” she promises. “And thanks again.” Marker nods and goes out. Mrs Willis laughs, remembering Dorning’s surprise, and continues packing.
* * *
Dorning stands looking around Susan’s lounge in mock amazement. Eagerly, Susan asks him if he likes it. “Like it?” replies Dorning. “I’m absolutely flabbergasted. It’s a palace.” Susan explains that the military décor was how her father liked it, and she didn’t have the heart to change it. Dorning crosses to an Army photo – a couple of dozen officers, half seated, half standing. “That’s how I remember him.”
“Recognise him?” asks Susan.
“Do I recognise him?” echoes Dorning, boxing clever. “What a question.”
“It was some years before you knew him,” says Susan. “Point him out.”
“Are you serious?”
Susan smiles, playfully. “No. It was when he had his moustache. I thought it might have fooled you.”
“Take more than a moustache to fool me,” lies Dorning.
Susan has been thinking about the “silly” personal ad she placed in the paper. “Seeks alliance with gentleman of good background,” she quotes. “I mean, really.”
“Sounded all right to me,” says Dorning. “And I carried it in my wallet for days. Just didn’t have the guts – sorry – the nerve to do anything about it.”
“I can’t picture you tongue-tied or teetering on the edge of doing something.”
“Perhaps a legacy of too many years in the Army.”
“Fancy you knowing the Colonel. Fantastic coincidence.”
“Often happens to me,” Dorning claims. “Said goodbye to a chappie once – GHQ Malaya in KL. Met him the very next Christmas in Charing Cross Station.” Susan is amazed. Dorning continues. “I remember we went to the theatre together and he met someone in the bar he hadn’t seen since before the war.”
Susan mentions that she used to do a bit of acting – small-time, not professionally. “Just regimental dos. Pantomimes, that sort of thing. I think they only put up with me ’cause I was the CO’s daughter.”
Dorning reprimands her, lightly. “There you go again. Too much self-deprecation.”
“I’ll work on it,” Susan promises.
Dorning corrects her. “We’ll work on it.”
“Ronnie, did you really mean all those things you said?”
Dorning looks hurt. “Susan. I’m not a lothario, you know. When I say a thing, I mean it. I thought – hoped that you’d realise that.”
“Darling, I do,” Susan assures him. “But I just can’t believe it. It’s too good to be true. I know I’ve been all over the world – seen fabulous things – but there’s always been someone to look after me. The Colonel or somebody from the Regiment.”
“Now you’ve got someone else,” says Dorning. “Someone of your own.” He takes her hands in his. “Sue, have you the remotest idea how many lonely people there are in the world? In this country alone, one man in ten is a bachelor. To some people, that sounds a romantic word. Bachelor! Sports cars, wardrobes filled with snappy clothes, girlfriends on both arms… It’s not really like that. I know.”
“So do I, darling.”
“But out of all those thousands of lonely people, we came together. That means something. Fate gave us a nudge. Now, I know I’m not the bargain offer of all time –”
“Darling, don’t!” says Susan. She silences him with a kiss. It’s an awkward, maidenly kiss, but it’s a start.
* * *
Marker leads Mrs Warboys to a couch in the hotel’s reception area. As soon as they sit down, he pitches into her. “Mrs Warboys, I’ve been sending you telegrams every day.”
“I know!” says the client. “I could hardly open the door for them.” She apologises for her absence, explaining that her sister had to go into hospital very suddenly. “I had to look after her family.”
“I don’t mind,” says Marker, “but I’ve been feeling like a taxi driver with the meter ticking.”
“But you’ve found him?”
“Found him! You’d think he had hormone injections. He never stops.”
“What do you suggest?” asks Mrs Warboys.
Marker glances at his watch. “They serve lunch in an hour’s time. He’s booked a table for two. I suggest you make it for three.”
* * *
One hour later, Dorning and Susan are having lunch in the dining room. Their waiter stands beside the table as Dorning tastes the wine. There’s a moment of expectancy. Susan enjoys it. Dorning finally smacks his lips. “Just right.” The waiter pours two glasses and then leaves them. “I’ve decided something,” declares Dorning.
“Something else?” asks Susan, glancing down at her engagement ring.
“Yes,” says Dorning. “I’m going to ask for some holiday. I’ll take a month and we’ll go to Greece. How would you like that? The Parthenon, the Acropolis, the Forum –”
“That’s in Rome,” Susan points out.
“I’ll have it moved. Especially for you. Can I tempt you?”
Susan likes the idea, but is concerned. “I couldn’t let you spend your money like that.”
Dorning waves this aside. “My money? Our money, darling! Once we’re married, we share everything.”
Susan agrees, but only if she can chip in with her share. Dorning says he wouldn’t dream of it. “Share everything,” Susan reminds him. “That’s what you said, Ronnie.”
“I know,” he admits, “but you keep a bit behind you, for that rainy day.
“I insist,” states Susan.
Dorning is making a show of reluctantly allowing Susan to give him money when Mrs Warboys appears. “Hello, Major,” she says. Dorning looks up. For a moment, he’s caught completely off guard. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” asks Mrs Warboys.
Dorning recovers his wits and stands up. “Of course,” he says. “Susan, this is an old friend of mine – Mrs Warboys. Mrs Warboys – Susan Pretlove.” Mrs Warboys nods to Susan. The waiter whips up a chair for Mrs Warboys, and she sits down. “Really, you couldn’t have come at a better time,” continues Dorning. “Susan’s just agreed to be my wife.” Now it’s Mrs Warboys’s turn to be surprised. Dorning looks almost coyly at Susan. She threads an arm through his and shows Mrs Warboys her engagement ring.
* * *
Marker sits reading a newspaper and drinking coffee in the reception area. Mrs Warboys emerges from the dining room, sees Marker and reluctantly sits down next to him. He asks how it went. Mrs Warboys looks awkward. “You’re going to shoot me, Mr Marker,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Well…” she begins, hesitantly. “They’re going to be married.”
“No!” cries Marker. “Not you as well.”
“I couldn’t believe it myself at first,” says Mrs Warboys. Then her tone becomes fond. “But there they are, talking honeymoons. There’s even a ring. I really think it’s going to work out.”
“Mrs Warboys, what’s a ring to him? It’s another prop. He’s probably got a fiancée in every town south of the Humber.”
“I don’t think so. This is it. I can tell.”
“You couldn’t ‘tell’ last time.”
“This is different. I was personally involved.”
“I don’t believe it,” sighs Marker. He tries to make her see sense. “He’s a villain. A liar. A cheat. A thief.”
“I know. And I still say she’ll change him.”
“You’re asking for the moon on a plate. It’s not possible.”
“Don’t crooks ever mend their ways?” asks Mrs Warboys.
“No,” replies Marker. “Not often.”
“You’re a cynic, Mr Marker.”
“No. I’m a realist.”
“Well, I’m an optimist.”
“Seven hundred pounds’ worth,” says Marker. Sarcastically, he adds, “He refunded you, of course.”
Mrs Warboys doesn’t answer that. Instead, she asks, “What do I owe you?”
“I’ll send an account,” replies Marker, wearily. He asks her to sleep on it, though. “If you still feel the same way tomorrow –”
“No. I’ve made up my mind. I won’t change.” The client gets to her feet. “Goodbye, Mr Marker.”
“There’s a warrant out for him,” Marker reveals. “I’m going to serve it.”
“That’s your privilege,” says Mrs Warboys. They shake hands, and she starts out.
Marker finishes his coffee, then moves to the reception desk. He asks Eve Fisher to make up his bill. She asks if he received his message. He didn’t. “Oh,” says Eve. “I told the waiter to tell you. There’s a gentleman, Mr Ross, in the bar. He’d like a word with you.” The name is familiar to Marker. He thanks her and crosses to the cocktail bar.
* * *
Ross is sitting at the bar, going over a contract. Another couple of copies are beside him. A photographer sits alone in a corner. Otherwise, the bar is deserted. Marker arrives and pulls up a stool, declining the newspaper editor’s offer of a drink. “How did you know I was here?” asks Marker.
“Reporter of mine told me,” says Ross. “Bright lad. Fancy you still using that ‘I’m from the Pools’ routine.”
Marker shrugs. “Still works.”
Ross shakes his head and smiles. “One born every minute. How’s my friend, Dorning?”
“Flourishing,” replies Marker, bitterly.
“Got under your skin, didn’t he?” observes Ross. Marker asks what this is all about. “There’s a warrant out for him,” replies Ross.
Marker nods. “And it’s in my pocket.” He takes it out.
“Great,” says Ross. “What is it – intent to fraud?”
“The usual. Obtaining under false pretence. Not disclosing he’s an undischarged bankrupt.”
“Why haven’t you served it yet?”
“One: I just got it. Two: I had a client to consider.”
“And she backed out?” guesses Ross. Marker nods again. “They always do,” says Ross. “It’s amazing. Whatever he’s got, doesn’t work on me.”
“Nor me,” says Marker.
“Make sure he signs for it. He ducked out of the last half dozen.”
“I will. What’s your interest?”
“Ah, well,” says Ross. “Now we come to the bit you aren’t going to like. I want a photo of you serving the warrant.” Marker asks why. “Catching him on the job,” explains Ross. “There, but for the diligence of your paper, goes another unsuspecting victim. Marvellous stuff! ’Sides, it’ll be great publicity. Put your face on a million breakfast tables.”
“Thanks,” says Marker, sardonically. “And I’d be lucky if I ever got another job. You still didn’t tell me why.”
“Dorning’s going to prison.”
Marker looks at the summons. “Maybe.”
“Oh, he is,” Ross assures him. “You can take it from me.”
“They can throw away the key, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Me, too. As long as we get his story in print first.”
“Oh, no!” cries Marker.
“Yes, sir,” says Ross. “That’s the contract.” He points to it, then describes the coverage that will appear in his newspaper. “Photo of him accepting the summons on the front page. Run the story – six… eight episodes – soon as it’s no longer sub judice.”
Clearly, Marker’s move with the warrant has been anticipated. He asks how much money Dorning will make out of this. Ross tells him. Marker sighs. “And who says crime doesn’t pay?”
“I didn’t,” says Ross. “No clichés in my paper.”
“And you’re going to make a hero out of him.”
“A paper hero.”
Marker gets angry. “A man who’s never earned a straight penny in his life. He’s useless, worthless –”
“And he’ll sell papers,” argues Ross. “Sunday morning – church bells, hymns on the radio – nothing people like better than a bit of sin. Honest to goodness, down-to-earth sin.”
“Can’t you find a better sinner?” asks Marker. “Isn’t there some little footballer who sold a match somewhere, or a bent pop idol who’s going steady with his guitarist?”
“It was either Dorning or the doctor in the Ethiopian leper colony. Guess who won? Degradation or devotion. You pays your sixpence, you takes your pick.”
Marker gets up. “You serve it!” He tosses the warrant down on the bar, then turns to go.
Ross calls him back. Marker turns around. “You don’t do it, somebody else will,” says Ross.
“So that’s their good luck. You think he’s a romantic figure? Well, you want to see him hobbling to the bathroom in the morning ’fore he puts his teeth in and gets his toupée on.”
“Listen, hothead. Maybe his eight thousand will refund a few of your widows and orphans. Who knows?”
“You do,” says Marker, “and you know that’s a lie.”
“I’ll even pay you,” says Ross. “How much? How much to have your picture taken? One little snap. Just the back of your head. You’ve got a lovely face for a ‘back of the head’ shot.”
Marker names his price: £42. Ross baulks at this. “Take it,” says Marker, “or do the other thing.” Ross accepts the deal. Marker has one further demand: “And make the cheque out to Mrs Ames.” Ross looks intrigued. Marker nods. “One of the many.”
“On one condition,” says Ross. “We can use it in the publicity blurb.”
“Really want your money’s worth, don’t you?”
Ross grins. “That’s business.”
“No names?”
“Fair enough,” agrees Ross. “You’ll do it?” By way of answer, Marker picks up the summons. “That’s my boy,” smiles Ross.
* * *
In the dining room, Dorning and Susan are on to the coffee. Dorning has the cigar and brandy close at hand. Susan’s had a bit more to drink than she’s used to. “I’ll cook you some meals that’ll surprise you,” she promises.
“In the nicest possible way,” smiles Dorning.
“Of course,” says Susan. She’s been taking classes. “I can cook potatoes twenty-two different ways.”
Dorning looks delighted. “Potatoes! My favourites!”
Susan becomes serious. “Ronnie, that woman. Mrs… what-was-her-name… Warboys? Incredible, wasn’t she?”
Dorning plays dumb. “How do you mean?”
“Well, she came up as though she was going to accost us –”
“Darling,” says Dorning, “you’ll have to watch your imagination. It’s on time and a half.” They both laugh.
* * *
In the bar, Marker is talking to the waiter. Ross and the photographer stand in the background, waiting. Marker points to a piece of paper on a saucer. “Get him to sign it, will you? Fold it so he can’t read it.”
The waiter looks uncertain. “You sure this is legal?” he asks.
Marker pops a five-pound note in the waiter’s top pocket. “I’d say so, wouldn’t you?”
“Very good, sir,” says the waiter. He picks up the saucer and starts out. Marker, Ross and the photographer get ready to follow him.
* * *
Dorning is regaling Susan with an anecdote about Field Marshal Montgomery. “Then, of course, Monty came out. Brought a completely new spirit. Defeat wasn’t even mentioned any more. Even when we had to withdraw, it was a tactical withdrawal. Was a triumph of attitude, as well as battle tactics.”
The waiter comes up, slips the saucer on to the table and offers a biro to Dorning. “For your drinks, sir.”
Dorning scribbles his name, without opening up the bill. “Thank you.” He tips a coin on to the saucer.
“Thank you, sir,” says the waiter.
As the waiter moves away, Marker replaces him, whipping the signed paper off the saucer as he does so. He shows it to Dorning. “Mr John Dawkes. You’ve just signed an Acknowledgement of Service – proof that a summons has been served on you.”
Dorning – real name Dawkes – looks up, calmly. “Really?”
Marker slips the summons on to the table in front of him. “It tells you which court to go to. I expect you know what it’s for.”
“I can guess,” says Dawkes. As he picks it up to open it, there’s a flash as the photographer captures the scene.
Susan protests. “Ronnie, what’s happening? What’s it mean?”
Dawkes stands up and shrugs, as if to say, Some people are so dumb. He turns to Marker. “You explain to her.” Then he moves to join Ross. “Got the contract?” Ross tells him it’s in the bar. “Then what are we waiting for?” says Dawkes. They go there together.
Susan looks to Marker for an explanation. He sits down next to her. “I’m sorry,” he begins. “Dorning or… what do you call him… Davis?” She nods. Marker continues. “He’s a con man. Cons women out of money. That’s his great mission in life – parting widows from their mites. Now he’s going to prison.”
Susan is astonished. “What? But… for how long?”
“Who knows?” replies Marker. “Two or three years?”
“He was going to marry me.” Susan shows Marker the ring.
“He was going to marry a lot of people. I’m sorry, miss.”
Susan shakes her head in amazement. “I was a fool to believe him. Such a fool!”
“How did you meet?” asks Marker.
“I put an ad in the paper. The personal column.”
“It’s fine for selling second-hand lawnmowers,” reckons Marker. “Not for finding husbands.”
Susan is devastated. “I should’ve known. There isn’t such a thing as love. Not for a 35-year-old spinster.” Bitterly, she adds, “Potatoes – twenty-two different ways!” Before Marker can reply, she walks out.
He takes the signed acknowledgement, folds it neatly and slips it into his wallet. Then the waiter reappears, buzzing with excitement after his part in the adventure. “All right, sir?” he asks.
Marker looks at him for a moment before replying. “Fine. Thanks.”
“Posh, wasn’t he?” remarks the waiter. “And all the chat. A real smoothie.”
“Catch more flies with honey,” explains Marker.
“Saved her some money, did you?” asks the waiter, eagerly.
“Yes,” replies Marker, wearily. “I saved her some money.” He sighs and starts out. Puzzled, the waiter watches him go.
* * *
In the bar, Dawkes signs the contract with a swirl and a flourish, while Ross looks on.
* * *
The reception area is empty apart from Marker’s battered old suitcase. Marker comes in, picks it up and walks out.
Dorning stands up. “Then I’ll have to accept it, won’t I?”
“I’ll clear it and get back to you.”
“Just say the word,” says Dorning. “Want me to keep going?
“That was the idea, wasn’t it?” replies Ross. Dorning nods and saunters out. Ross watches him go through to reception. As he does so, he also sees Marker. Recognising the inquiry agent, Ross quickly raises his newspaper, to hide his face.
* * *
Susan Pretlove is wandering around the aquarium in a desultory manner, looking at the various tanks of fish. She glances at her watch. After a moment, Dorning comes up behind her and taps her lightly on the shoulder. She spins around, expectantly. “Yes?”
“Excuse me,” says Dorning, courteously. “Could you direct me to the Winter Gardens?”
Not recognising him, Susan tells him that he can take the number four bus. “Or, if you want to walk, go straight into the town centre and turn left at the clock. It’s marked.”
“Thank you,” says Dorning. “You’re very kind… Susan.” He smiles.
Her face suddenly lights up. “Major Davis?”
Dorning waves aside such formality. “Ronnie!”
“You shouldn’t have teased me.”
“Couldn’t resist it.” Dorning looks at Susan. It seems as if he can’t keep his eyes off her.
“Aren’t I what you imagined?” she asks, anxiously.
“My dear girl, you’re not a bit what I imagined. I wouldn’t have dared hope for someone so charming.”
Susan smiles, modestly. “Flattery, Major.”
“Ronnie! And it wasn’t flattery. You’re an occasional wine drinker, aren’t you?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have described myself as a drinker at all.”
“You mentioned it in one of your letters. I read through them, tried to form a composite picture. Wasn’t much of a success. Anyway, we’re going to a little place I know and we’re going to have a glass of Champagne.”
Susan beams. “Lovely!”
“Start things off as we intend them to go on.”
* * *
Marker is making another call, this time in the hotel’s reception area. “Thank you, Inspector. That’s grand – just what I wanted to know.” He hangs up and crosses to Eve Fisher at the reception desk, asking if there’s any post for him. There isn’t. “You did send off that telegram?” he inquires.
Eve nods. “And the one before the one before that. Perhaps she doesn’t love you any more.”
“That must be it,” replies Marker, drily. He helps himself to a newspaper and puts the money on the desk.
Eve is filling in a laundry book when the intercom sounds. She answers it – it’s Mrs Willis, in Room 20. Marker stops, pretending to have noticed something interesting in his paper, but actually listening in on the conversation. Mrs Willis wants to know if her taxi’s been ordered. Eve tells her it’ll be here in half an hour. “I’ll send someone up for your luggage.” Mrs Willis thanks her. Marker closes the paper and crosses to the lift.
* * *
In Room 20, Mrs Willis turns from the intercom and carries on with her packing, which is almost finished. There’s an angry intensity to her movements. There’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” she calls. Hearing the door opening, she continues packing without looking up, expecting it to be the hotel porter. “There’s one by the door,” she says. “The other’ll be about five minutes.” When there’s no reply, she looks up.
Marker stands, arms folded, just inside the doorway. “Holiday over?”
“What do you want?” asks Mrs Willis, sourly.
Marker closes the door and wanders into the room. “I’d like to know why you changed your plans.”
“Changed?” says Mrs Willis. “I always intended leaving today.”
“Not according to the chambermaid. She says you were booked in for the weekend.”
Mrs Willis pauses for a moment. “So you were right. What do you want – money?”
“You reckon I saved you some?”
“Perhaps. I’ll give you a cheque for a hundred pounds. Okay?”
“Don’t bother,” says Marker. “You can have it on the house.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just go to the police and tell them about him.”
Mrs Willis shakes her head. “And make myself look like a bloody fool? Mr Marker, I’m a businesswoman. I’ve even got a name in the trade for being tough.”
“I believe you.”
“I’d be a laughing stock. Not a chance. I’m just grateful to you for pointing him out.”
“Perhaps I should’ve waited another couple of days,” muses Marker. “Maybe you’d have been more amenable.”
“I’ve offered to pay you.”
“I won’t give you the ‘hearts and flowers’ routine, but don’t you care about the other women he chats up and bleeds?”
“They’ll get over it,” reckons Mrs Willis, “and it’s quite painless.”
“It is when you can afford to write cheques for a hundred pounds.”
“Actually, I’m in pocket. So you needn’t worry.”
“The money he spent on you came off a young woman who’d just buried her husband,” Marker informs her. “I doubt if she’s got fifty quid in the world.”
Mrs Willis is unmoved. “Mr Marker, you can stand there all day, but I’m not changing my mind. I’m obliged to you, and I’ve thanked you – I can’t do more. Far as I’m concerned, I’ve had my pound of flesh off the major.” She indicates the bed – it’s clear that two people have slept in it. “You’re talking to one very satisfied customer.”
“I’m happy for you,” says Marker.
“And the scene when I kicked him out this morning.” Mrs Willis chuckles. “Well, I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years. He didn’t know what hit him.”
Marker turns and goes to the door, wishing her a pleasant journey. “Don’t talk to any strange men.”
“I won’t,” she promises. “And thanks again.” Marker nods and goes out. Mrs Willis laughs, remembering Dorning’s surprise, and continues packing.
* * *
Dorning stands looking around Susan’s lounge in mock amazement. Eagerly, Susan asks him if he likes it. “Like it?” replies Dorning. “I’m absolutely flabbergasted. It’s a palace.” Susan explains that the military décor was how her father liked it, and she didn’t have the heart to change it. Dorning crosses to an Army photo – a couple of dozen officers, half seated, half standing. “That’s how I remember him.”
“Recognise him?” asks Susan.
“Do I recognise him?” echoes Dorning, boxing clever. “What a question.”
“It was some years before you knew him,” says Susan. “Point him out.”
“Are you serious?”
Susan smiles, playfully. “No. It was when he had his moustache. I thought it might have fooled you.”
“Take more than a moustache to fool me,” lies Dorning.
Susan has been thinking about the “silly” personal ad she placed in the paper. “Seeks alliance with gentleman of good background,” she quotes. “I mean, really.”
“Sounded all right to me,” says Dorning. “And I carried it in my wallet for days. Just didn’t have the guts – sorry – the nerve to do anything about it.”
“I can’t picture you tongue-tied or teetering on the edge of doing something.”
“Perhaps a legacy of too many years in the Army.”
“Fancy you knowing the Colonel. Fantastic coincidence.”
“Often happens to me,” Dorning claims. “Said goodbye to a chappie once – GHQ Malaya in KL. Met him the very next Christmas in Charing Cross Station.” Susan is amazed. Dorning continues. “I remember we went to the theatre together and he met someone in the bar he hadn’t seen since before the war.”
Susan mentions that she used to do a bit of acting – small-time, not professionally. “Just regimental dos. Pantomimes, that sort of thing. I think they only put up with me ’cause I was the CO’s daughter.”
Dorning reprimands her, lightly. “There you go again. Too much self-deprecation.”
“I’ll work on it,” Susan promises.
Dorning corrects her. “We’ll work on it.”
“Ronnie, did you really mean all those things you said?”
Dorning looks hurt. “Susan. I’m not a lothario, you know. When I say a thing, I mean it. I thought – hoped that you’d realise that.”
“Darling, I do,” Susan assures him. “But I just can’t believe it. It’s too good to be true. I know I’ve been all over the world – seen fabulous things – but there’s always been someone to look after me. The Colonel or somebody from the Regiment.”
“Now you’ve got someone else,” says Dorning. “Someone of your own.” He takes her hands in his. “Sue, have you the remotest idea how many lonely people there are in the world? In this country alone, one man in ten is a bachelor. To some people, that sounds a romantic word. Bachelor! Sports cars, wardrobes filled with snappy clothes, girlfriends on both arms… It’s not really like that. I know.”
“So do I, darling.”
“But out of all those thousands of lonely people, we came together. That means something. Fate gave us a nudge. Now, I know I’m not the bargain offer of all time –”
“Darling, don’t!” says Susan. She silences him with a kiss. It’s an awkward, maidenly kiss, but it’s a start.
* * *
Marker leads Mrs Warboys to a couch in the hotel’s reception area. As soon as they sit down, he pitches into her. “Mrs Warboys, I’ve been sending you telegrams every day.”
“I know!” says the client. “I could hardly open the door for them.” She apologises for her absence, explaining that her sister had to go into hospital very suddenly. “I had to look after her family.”
“I don’t mind,” says Marker, “but I’ve been feeling like a taxi driver with the meter ticking.”
“But you’ve found him?”
“Found him! You’d think he had hormone injections. He never stops.”
“What do you suggest?” asks Mrs Warboys.
Marker glances at his watch. “They serve lunch in an hour’s time. He’s booked a table for two. I suggest you make it for three.”
* * *
One hour later, Dorning and Susan are having lunch in the dining room. Their waiter stands beside the table as Dorning tastes the wine. There’s a moment of expectancy. Susan enjoys it. Dorning finally smacks his lips. “Just right.” The waiter pours two glasses and then leaves them. “I’ve decided something,” declares Dorning.
“Something else?” asks Susan, glancing down at her engagement ring.
“Yes,” says Dorning. “I’m going to ask for some holiday. I’ll take a month and we’ll go to Greece. How would you like that? The Parthenon, the Acropolis, the Forum –”
“That’s in Rome,” Susan points out.
“I’ll have it moved. Especially for you. Can I tempt you?”
Susan likes the idea, but is concerned. “I couldn’t let you spend your money like that.”
Dorning waves this aside. “My money? Our money, darling! Once we’re married, we share everything.”
Susan agrees, but only if she can chip in with her share. Dorning says he wouldn’t dream of it. “Share everything,” Susan reminds him. “That’s what you said, Ronnie.”
“I know,” he admits, “but you keep a bit behind you, for that rainy day.
“I insist,” states Susan.
Dorning is making a show of reluctantly allowing Susan to give him money when Mrs Warboys appears. “Hello, Major,” she says. Dorning looks up. For a moment, he’s caught completely off guard. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” asks Mrs Warboys.
Dorning recovers his wits and stands up. “Of course,” he says. “Susan, this is an old friend of mine – Mrs Warboys. Mrs Warboys – Susan Pretlove.” Mrs Warboys nods to Susan. The waiter whips up a chair for Mrs Warboys, and she sits down. “Really, you couldn’t have come at a better time,” continues Dorning. “Susan’s just agreed to be my wife.” Now it’s Mrs Warboys’s turn to be surprised. Dorning looks almost coyly at Susan. She threads an arm through his and shows Mrs Warboys her engagement ring.
* * *
Marker sits reading a newspaper and drinking coffee in the reception area. Mrs Warboys emerges from the dining room, sees Marker and reluctantly sits down next to him. He asks how it went. Mrs Warboys looks awkward. “You’re going to shoot me, Mr Marker,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Well…” she begins, hesitantly. “They’re going to be married.”
“No!” cries Marker. “Not you as well.”
“I couldn’t believe it myself at first,” says Mrs Warboys. Then her tone becomes fond. “But there they are, talking honeymoons. There’s even a ring. I really think it’s going to work out.”
“Mrs Warboys, what’s a ring to him? It’s another prop. He’s probably got a fiancée in every town south of the Humber.”
“I don’t think so. This is it. I can tell.”
“You couldn’t ‘tell’ last time.”
“This is different. I was personally involved.”
“I don’t believe it,” sighs Marker. He tries to make her see sense. “He’s a villain. A liar. A cheat. A thief.”
“I know. And I still say she’ll change him.”
“You’re asking for the moon on a plate. It’s not possible.”
“Don’t crooks ever mend their ways?” asks Mrs Warboys.
“No,” replies Marker. “Not often.”
“You’re a cynic, Mr Marker.”
“No. I’m a realist.”
“Well, I’m an optimist.”
“Seven hundred pounds’ worth,” says Marker. Sarcastically, he adds, “He refunded you, of course.”
Mrs Warboys doesn’t answer that. Instead, she asks, “What do I owe you?”
“I’ll send an account,” replies Marker, wearily. He asks her to sleep on it, though. “If you still feel the same way tomorrow –”
“No. I’ve made up my mind. I won’t change.” The client gets to her feet. “Goodbye, Mr Marker.”
“There’s a warrant out for him,” Marker reveals. “I’m going to serve it.”
“That’s your privilege,” says Mrs Warboys. They shake hands, and she starts out.
Marker finishes his coffee, then moves to the reception desk. He asks Eve Fisher to make up his bill. She asks if he received his message. He didn’t. “Oh,” says Eve. “I told the waiter to tell you. There’s a gentleman, Mr Ross, in the bar. He’d like a word with you.” The name is familiar to Marker. He thanks her and crosses to the cocktail bar.
* * *
Ross is sitting at the bar, going over a contract. Another couple of copies are beside him. A photographer sits alone in a corner. Otherwise, the bar is deserted. Marker arrives and pulls up a stool, declining the newspaper editor’s offer of a drink. “How did you know I was here?” asks Marker.
“Reporter of mine told me,” says Ross. “Bright lad. Fancy you still using that ‘I’m from the Pools’ routine.”
Marker shrugs. “Still works.”
Ross shakes his head and smiles. “One born every minute. How’s my friend, Dorning?”
“Flourishing,” replies Marker, bitterly.
“Got under your skin, didn’t he?” observes Ross. Marker asks what this is all about. “There’s a warrant out for him,” replies Ross.
Marker nods. “And it’s in my pocket.” He takes it out.
“Great,” says Ross. “What is it – intent to fraud?”
“The usual. Obtaining under false pretence. Not disclosing he’s an undischarged bankrupt.”
“Why haven’t you served it yet?”
“One: I just got it. Two: I had a client to consider.”
“And she backed out?” guesses Ross. Marker nods again. “They always do,” says Ross. “It’s amazing. Whatever he’s got, doesn’t work on me.”
“Nor me,” says Marker.
“Make sure he signs for it. He ducked out of the last half dozen.”
“I will. What’s your interest?”
“Ah, well,” says Ross. “Now we come to the bit you aren’t going to like. I want a photo of you serving the warrant.” Marker asks why. “Catching him on the job,” explains Ross. “There, but for the diligence of your paper, goes another unsuspecting victim. Marvellous stuff! ’Sides, it’ll be great publicity. Put your face on a million breakfast tables.”
“Thanks,” says Marker, sardonically. “And I’d be lucky if I ever got another job. You still didn’t tell me why.”
“Dorning’s going to prison.”
Marker looks at the summons. “Maybe.”
“Oh, he is,” Ross assures him. “You can take it from me.”
“They can throw away the key, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Me, too. As long as we get his story in print first.”
“Oh, no!” cries Marker.
“Yes, sir,” says Ross. “That’s the contract.” He points to it, then describes the coverage that will appear in his newspaper. “Photo of him accepting the summons on the front page. Run the story – six… eight episodes – soon as it’s no longer sub judice.”
Clearly, Marker’s move with the warrant has been anticipated. He asks how much money Dorning will make out of this. Ross tells him. Marker sighs. “And who says crime doesn’t pay?”
“I didn’t,” says Ross. “No clichés in my paper.”
“And you’re going to make a hero out of him.”
“A paper hero.”
Marker gets angry. “A man who’s never earned a straight penny in his life. He’s useless, worthless –”
“And he’ll sell papers,” argues Ross. “Sunday morning – church bells, hymns on the radio – nothing people like better than a bit of sin. Honest to goodness, down-to-earth sin.”
“Can’t you find a better sinner?” asks Marker. “Isn’t there some little footballer who sold a match somewhere, or a bent pop idol who’s going steady with his guitarist?”
“It was either Dorning or the doctor in the Ethiopian leper colony. Guess who won? Degradation or devotion. You pays your sixpence, you takes your pick.”
Marker gets up. “You serve it!” He tosses the warrant down on the bar, then turns to go.
Ross calls him back. Marker turns around. “You don’t do it, somebody else will,” says Ross.
“So that’s their good luck. You think he’s a romantic figure? Well, you want to see him hobbling to the bathroom in the morning ’fore he puts his teeth in and gets his toupée on.”
“Listen, hothead. Maybe his eight thousand will refund a few of your widows and orphans. Who knows?”
“You do,” says Marker, “and you know that’s a lie.”
“I’ll even pay you,” says Ross. “How much? How much to have your picture taken? One little snap. Just the back of your head. You’ve got a lovely face for a ‘back of the head’ shot.”
Marker names his price: £42. Ross baulks at this. “Take it,” says Marker, “or do the other thing.” Ross accepts the deal. Marker has one further demand: “And make the cheque out to Mrs Ames.” Ross looks intrigued. Marker nods. “One of the many.”
“On one condition,” says Ross. “We can use it in the publicity blurb.”
“Really want your money’s worth, don’t you?”
Ross grins. “That’s business.”
“No names?”
“Fair enough,” agrees Ross. “You’ll do it?” By way of answer, Marker picks up the summons. “That’s my boy,” smiles Ross.
* * *
In the dining room, Dorning and Susan are on to the coffee. Dorning has the cigar and brandy close at hand. Susan’s had a bit more to drink than she’s used to. “I’ll cook you some meals that’ll surprise you,” she promises.
“In the nicest possible way,” smiles Dorning.
“Of course,” says Susan. She’s been taking classes. “I can cook potatoes twenty-two different ways.”
Dorning looks delighted. “Potatoes! My favourites!”
Susan becomes serious. “Ronnie, that woman. Mrs… what-was-her-name… Warboys? Incredible, wasn’t she?”
Dorning plays dumb. “How do you mean?”
“Well, she came up as though she was going to accost us –”
“Darling,” says Dorning, “you’ll have to watch your imagination. It’s on time and a half.” They both laugh.
* * *
In the bar, Marker is talking to the waiter. Ross and the photographer stand in the background, waiting. Marker points to a piece of paper on a saucer. “Get him to sign it, will you? Fold it so he can’t read it.”
The waiter looks uncertain. “You sure this is legal?” he asks.
Marker pops a five-pound note in the waiter’s top pocket. “I’d say so, wouldn’t you?”
“Very good, sir,” says the waiter. He picks up the saucer and starts out. Marker, Ross and the photographer get ready to follow him.
* * *
Dorning is regaling Susan with an anecdote about Field Marshal Montgomery. “Then, of course, Monty came out. Brought a completely new spirit. Defeat wasn’t even mentioned any more. Even when we had to withdraw, it was a tactical withdrawal. Was a triumph of attitude, as well as battle tactics.”
The waiter comes up, slips the saucer on to the table and offers a biro to Dorning. “For your drinks, sir.”
Dorning scribbles his name, without opening up the bill. “Thank you.” He tips a coin on to the saucer.
“Thank you, sir,” says the waiter.
As the waiter moves away, Marker replaces him, whipping the signed paper off the saucer as he does so. He shows it to Dorning. “Mr John Dawkes. You’ve just signed an Acknowledgement of Service – proof that a summons has been served on you.”
Dorning – real name Dawkes – looks up, calmly. “Really?”
Marker slips the summons on to the table in front of him. “It tells you which court to go to. I expect you know what it’s for.”
“I can guess,” says Dawkes. As he picks it up to open it, there’s a flash as the photographer captures the scene.
Susan protests. “Ronnie, what’s happening? What’s it mean?”
Dawkes stands up and shrugs, as if to say, Some people are so dumb. He turns to Marker. “You explain to her.” Then he moves to join Ross. “Got the contract?” Ross tells him it’s in the bar. “Then what are we waiting for?” says Dawkes. They go there together.
Susan looks to Marker for an explanation. He sits down next to her. “I’m sorry,” he begins. “Dorning or… what do you call him… Davis?” She nods. Marker continues. “He’s a con man. Cons women out of money. That’s his great mission in life – parting widows from their mites. Now he’s going to prison.”
Susan is astonished. “What? But… for how long?”
“Who knows?” replies Marker. “Two or three years?”
“He was going to marry me.” Susan shows Marker the ring.
“He was going to marry a lot of people. I’m sorry, miss.”
Susan shakes her head in amazement. “I was a fool to believe him. Such a fool!”
“How did you meet?” asks Marker.
“I put an ad in the paper. The personal column.”
“It’s fine for selling second-hand lawnmowers,” reckons Marker. “Not for finding husbands.”
Susan is devastated. “I should’ve known. There isn’t such a thing as love. Not for a 35-year-old spinster.” Bitterly, she adds, “Potatoes – twenty-two different ways!” Before Marker can reply, she walks out.
He takes the signed acknowledgement, folds it neatly and slips it into his wallet. Then the waiter reappears, buzzing with excitement after his part in the adventure. “All right, sir?” he asks.
Marker looks at him for a moment before replying. “Fine. Thanks.”
“Posh, wasn’t he?” remarks the waiter. “And all the chat. A real smoothie.”
“Catch more flies with honey,” explains Marker.
“Saved her some money, did you?” asks the waiter, eagerly.
“Yes,” replies Marker, wearily. “I saved her some money.” He sighs and starts out. Puzzled, the waiter watches him go.
* * *
In the bar, Dawkes signs the contract with a swirl and a flourish, while Ross looks on.
* * *
The reception area is empty apart from Marker’s battered old suitcase. Marker comes in, picks it up and walks out.