Blue Door Venture Read online

  ‘Really?’ said Lyn, with interest. ‘What exactly does that mean?’

  ‘Well, I’m in charge of the amateur drama in the schools and villages. I go round seeing their shows and giving advice, judging competitions sometimes, and rehearsing companies that are going into the finals of any important contests.’

  ‘What an interesting job,’ said Sandra. ‘I’d have liked to do something like that, if I hadn’t gone on the stage.’

  ‘It’s certainly very interesting,’ said their new friend. ‘But the only drawback, in my case, is that I have never been on the stage myself. I have taught elocution and have a degree in speech training, but that’s not the same thing. I sometimes wish I had a bit of professional experience to fall back on. For instance, at the moment I’ve got several shows that are going up to Edinburgh to compete in a festival, and I’m pretty sure that my companies will be the only ones not being produced by someone with some professional experience.’ They could see in the driving-mirror that she was frowning thoughtfully.

  They were longing, all of them, to be able to say, ‘Look—we’ll come and give you a hand…’ but the thought of the boys trekking round London, becoming more and more penniless, held them back.

  There was a long silence, then Lyn said, ‘Have you any special problems? Perhaps we might be able to help?’

  ‘I say,’ said the woman, ‘I’ve got an idea. How about working for me for two or three weeks—just until the festival? I couldn’t pay you much—a few pounds each—but I could put you up, so your keep wouldn’t cost you anything. I’ve got a little house near Axminster. And then each of you could take charge of a company, and I could do the fourth. They’ve got producers already. All that is needed is someone to drop in and say the last word on tricky matters. What do you say to it?’ They were too pleased to say much.

  ‘It—it’s too good to be true,’ gulped Lyn. ‘Why, we never expected to find work as quickly as this—but are you sure you can afford to pay three of us?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ She did a little calculating. ‘I get a fairly large allowance for expenses, and I’ll include you as expenses. I can pay you each four pounds a week for three weeks.’

  Vicky clapped her hands. ‘And we’ll be able to send it nearly all to the boys. Oh, good! That’ll keep them going for a few more weeks any rate.’

  ‘Well, you’ll really be doing me a kindness, because I am very much in need of help.’

  ‘How perfectly lovely!’ cried Lyn. ‘We must write to Maddy tonight—and tell her to let the boys know.’

  ‘Who is Maddy?’ They explained about Maddy, and gave more details of themselves and their careers, to all of which their new friend listened attentively. Then she said, ‘My name is Constance—Constance Felton. I do hope you’ll be comfortable in my little house. I’m afraid I’ll have to put one of you on a divan in the lounge.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be fine,’ said Lyn. ‘I had the best night I’ve had for weeks last night, and that was in the back of a taxi.’

  ‘And tomorrow I’ll take you round to two of my dramatic clubs. One a school’s and the other an adults’.’

  ‘I shall feel awful, telling grown-up people what to do and not to do,’ said Vicky.

  ‘Oh, they’ll be thrilled, and think you’re wonderful when they know you’re trained actresses,’ Miss Felton assured them.

  The little car purred on, covering mile after mile. They stopped for a late lunch at a country hotel, for which Miss Felton insisted on paying.

  ‘You’re on my pay-roll now,’ she said. ‘And you must think of those brothers of yours. All your pennies must go to them.’

  ‘What a sweet person she is,’ whispered Sandra to Lyn as they went for a wash after lunch. ‘How lucky we are.’

  ‘Yes. This is more the sort of luck we used to have, isn’t it?’ said Lyn. ‘Let’s hope it’s turned for good.’

  During the afternoon they became rather sleepy, and noticing this, Miss Felton stopped telling them about the one-act plays that were being entered for the contest and let them doze. In the late afternoon, when the scenery had changed to the beautiful hills and combes of Somerset, the car drew up outside a small seventeenth-century house, beautifully renovated, that stood in a paved garden by the side of the high road.

  ‘Come in and we’ll have something to eat,’ said Miss Felton briskly as they got out. ‘I’ll put the car away afterwards.’

  A tiny little birdlike woman in a check apron stood in the doorway.

  ‘Back, then, Miss Constance…’ she cried welcomingly.

  ‘Yes, Lenny,’ answered Miss Felton. ‘And I’ve brought you some guests. Two for the blue room, and one for the divan. This is Mrs Leonard, my housekeeper.’

  There was a high tea set out in a long low-ceilinged room, where a wood fire burned cheerily, and afterwards they were entertained by records on the radiogram from their hostess’s fine collection. As soon as she saw them yawning she sent them to bed, saying, ‘You must be in good form tomorrow, ready to meet a lot of wild amateurs.’

  As Vicky rolled into bed she said, ‘If this is what happens to hoboes, I’m glad I’m one.’

  10

  NICK’S CAFF

  It was the third day of the boys’ search for Nick’s Caff.

  For sixteen hours of every day they had tramped the streets of London, exploring every alley-way, and inquiring in every restaurant for its whereabouts. Now they were sitting on a seat in Trafalgar Square, resting their weary feet.

  ‘I don’t believe there is such a place,’ said Bulldog moodily. ‘That silly old woman probably meant “Dick’s Caff” or “Mick’s Caff”. Or perhaps it isn’t even in the West End at all—’

  ‘The infuriating part of it,’ said Nigel, frowning, ‘is that if only we could go to the police they would probably know it, if people of Lucky’s type are in the habit of patronizing it.’

  Jeremy fed some pigeons with the pieces of an old sandwich he had found in his pocket. ‘Well, we can’t go. Firstly, we’re in this on our own, and secondly, because our parents just might have asked them to look out for us.’

  ‘Where haven’t we been?’ inquired Bulldog, looking over Nigel’s shoulder at the large-scale map of the West End that they had bought.

  ‘There’s a bit round King’s Cross—if you call that West End—and a large patch around Covent Garden that is an absolute rabbit warren of little cafés.’

  ‘Otherwise we’ve been everywhere?’

  ‘I think so. We may have missed the odd street or two.’

  ‘And Nick’s Caff may be in one of those odd streets…’ observed Jeremy. ‘How are your feet?’

  ‘Ghastly,’ groaned Bulldog. ‘I wish we’d got someone to darn our socks. Mine are gradually becoming a lot of holes joined together with strands of wool.’

  ‘Perhaps Maddy would do them,’ suggested Nigel.

  ‘Worse than holes,’ rejoined Jeremy. ‘I’ve seen her darning. We’d never walk another step.’

  ‘Which reminds me…’ Nigel rose painfully to his feet. ‘We’d better ring her. It’s nearly five o’clock, and she’ll have left the Academy if we don’t look out.’ They made their way to the phone-box and rang the number of the dramatic school. While they waited for her to be brought to the phone they could imagine very clearly what was going on. The secretary, whose voice they knew so well, would call out to a passing student, ‘Find Madeline Fayne, please,’ and that student would run up the wide stone steps shouting, ‘Madeline Fayne—telephone…’ and the cry would be taken up by the other students on all the flights of stairs.

  ‘Madeline Fayne—telephone…’ until at last it reached the ears of Maddy, who, if she was in a class, would excuse herself apologetically and fly down the stairs two or three at a time. Oh, it made them feel miserable to imagine it all. ‘Hullo,’ came Maddy’s voice, rather breathlessly.

  ‘It’s us,’ said Nigel. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Yes.’ Maddy was bubbling over with excitement. ‘I had
a letter from the girls this morning. And what do you think? They’ve got work!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes! With a drama inspector or something. I’ll send you the letter. Where are you staying now?’

  ‘The Young Men’s Hostel Association, Russell Square.’

  ‘Sounds grim.’

  ‘It’s not too bad—and only a few bob a night.’

  ‘And they’ve sent you some money.’

  ‘Oh, good. Not that we’re anywhere near spent out yet, but when we are, we shall be with a vengeance.’

  Maddy said carelessly, ‘Have you had any luck yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Oh, well, it’s rather early to expect it, isn’t it? May I come round with you this evening? I haven’t any study to do.’

  ‘If you think you can stand it.’

  ‘Will you pick me up at the Academy?’

  ‘No.’ Nigel was definite about it. They could not bear to meet any of their ex-tutors or students that they knew, whose first question would be, ‘Are you working?’

  ‘Meet us outside Lyons, Tottenham Court Road, at about six o’clock. O.K.?’

  ‘Right you are. And I’ll bring the letter with me. Cheerio.’

  They felt a little more cheerful, having spoken to Maddy, and heard good news of the girls.

  ‘Well, they’ve fallen on their feet,’ remarked Nigel.

  ‘Trust them. They’re just like cats. Quite nice ones, of course. But it looks as though they’re going to be financing a fruitless search,’ said Bulldog.

  ‘Oh, come off it. We’ve only just started.’

  ‘Thank goodness the weather hasn’t been too bad. Imagine doing this in the rain.’

  ‘What shall we do till we meet Maddy?’

  ‘Nothing connected with walking,’ stated Bulldog. ‘Preferably something connected with lying down—with one’s feet—up.’ He lay back at full length on the seat to which they had returned, with his feet up on Nigel’s knee. They were promptly pushed off again.

  ‘It’s cold sitting here,’ grumbled Jeremy. ‘Let’s go into a News Cinema.’

  ‘No,’ said Nigel, ‘we can’t afford it.’ Finally they ended up in the reading room of the St Martin’s Street Library, ruefully reading the theatre magazines.

  When they met Maddy at six o’clock she seemed to them to be looking incredibly young and bouncing and happy. She wore a cosy red winter coat, with a beret to match perched above her yellow pigtails.

  ‘Can we go in here and eat?’ was her first question.

  ‘No,’ said Nigel. ‘We must eat at one of the cafés en route, to give us a chance to get into conversation about Nick’s Caff. Come on. We’ll do the King’s Cross bit first.’

  They walked and walked and walked, past the Florida Café, the Cosy Corner, ‘La France’, Café Philadelphia, every name under the sun. Maddy made a helpful and cheery companion, and although her legs were so much shorter than the others, she kept up with them manfully. They ‘did’ the King’s Cross area, and then were rash and took a bus to the Strand, in order to begin the Covent Garden area.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Nigel, ‘if it would be at all possible to trace Nick’s Caff through the Licensed Victuallers what-not—’

  ‘What what-not?’ inquired Maddy.

  ‘I don’t really know what what-not—’

  ‘Well, if you don’t know what what-not, what good is it?’

  They got off the bus and made their way along the dark streets of Covent Garden, looking into every lighted doorway. One café had no name on the door.

  Maddy stepped inside. ‘’Scuse me. What’s the name of this place?’ she asked the proprietor who stood behind the tea-urn.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ he asked grudgingly.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ retorted Maddy, ‘I haven’t mistaken it for the Savoy.’

  ‘Now look here you young—’ But Bulldog squared his shoulders and stepped into the doorway beside her.

  ‘We want to know,’ he said menacingly, ‘the name of this café.’

  The proprietor cringed, noting the dangerous angle of Bulldog’s hat. He had heard all about hold-up raids and blond accomplices.

  ‘The Continental,’ he said quickly. ‘Step inside, do.’

  ‘I wouldn’t eat here,’ said Maddy ‘if it was the last place on earth and I was starving.’ And she walked out, head in the air.

  ‘All the same,’ she said, when they were outside, ‘let’s eat soon. I’m ravenous. It’s hungry work being a detective.’

  ‘That’s what we’ve found,’ agreed Nigel, ‘and food runs away with the money so.’

  ‘Let’s go into the cheapest place we can find.’

  They went into a tiny café bearing the name ‘The Lane Restaurant’, which was in the shadow of Drury Lane Theatre. The theatre crowds were coming in and out, and the streets were full of large cars crawling through the narrow byways to pick up befurred and glittering passengers. They sat in the window of the little café watching it all, paying no attention to what was inside. The interior of the café was like the one they had first eaten in on their arrival in London on the furniture lorry, the same wooden tables and pews and steamy atmosphere. A few taxi-men came in for a quick cup of tea and hurried out again to their cabs. There was a game of cards going on amongst four rather shady-looking gentlemen in the corner.

  ‘Doesn’t it make you feel awful,’ said Maddy. ‘Seeing theatres emptying—and here we sit…’

  At that moment a newcomer entered the café. He was tall and sturdy and wore a pin-stripe suit. As he swaggered up to the counter he stared at the Blue Doors suspiciously. The proprietor, a bent wizened little man, stood up and said, ‘Good evening, stranger.’

  ‘Hi ya, Nick,’ was the laconic answer.

  ‘Yes, it does make one feel awful, doesn’t it?’ Mechanically Jeremy answered Maddy’s question. Then he jumped as if he’d been stung. The others were sitting spellbound, gazing at the little man behind the counter.

  ‘Did you hear what I heard?’ inquired Jeremy softly.

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Maddy. ‘He called him Nick—’

  ‘I wonder if—if that means—’ They were talking in whispers, with their heads together, their eyes wide with hope.

  ‘We must ask—’

  ‘Who’ll ask?’

  ‘I’ll handle this.’ Nigel rose, carrying his teacup, and sauntered up to the counter.

  ‘’Nother cup o’ char—please,’ he said, and leaned up against the counter beside the burly man. While the urn was steaming and spitting, Nigel continued, ‘Never knew this place was called “The Lane Restaurant”.’

  ‘Never is,’ said the little man shortly, stirring sugar into the tea with a teaspoon attached to the counter by a length of string. Nigel willed him to continue. He did so.

  ‘Bin called Nick’s Caff ever since I’ve bin here. Not that my name’s Nick—it’s not. It’s Bill. And the bloke wot ’ad it before me was known as Nick—but ’is name was Stanislaus. I dunno—someone ’ere must’a bin called Nick at some time or other—twopence, please.’ Nigel gave him sixpence, ignored the change, and offered him a cigarette. The large customer was still eyeing him suspiciously.

  ‘Seen Lucky lately?’ Nigel asked carelessly. At the table in the window Maddy and the two boys were not watching, but were straining their ears to catch the reply. Nick looked for a long time at Nigel. Nigel was very conscious that his overcoat was all wrong for a friend of Lucky’s, and his tie too quiet.

  ‘No,’ said Nick shortly. ‘He ain’t been round ’ere.’ And he resumed his conversation with the big man about how much he had lost on the dogs last week. Nigel returned to the table with his cup of tea.

  ‘Well,’ he said quietly, ‘we’ve found Nick’s Caff. But it doesn’t seem to have helped us. He’s not been here lately.’ They said nothing. As always in this quest, once they had found the thing that they had been hunting down for a long time, it seemed to take them no nearer their goal.

>   Then Jeremy said, ‘Well, he’s bound to come here some time. And if we hang around long enough, we’re bound to see him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bulldog. ‘We must stay here from opening time to closing time, in shifts.’

  ‘Night-shifts or short shifts?’ inquired Maddy, but no-one would laugh.

  ‘Gosh, what a place to have to spend your life in,’ said Jeremy.

  ‘And we shall spend a fortune in cups of tea—’

  ‘But we must try to get on the right side of Nick,’ said Nigel. ‘I’m sure he could help us more. What’s the time?’

  ‘Nearly ten.’

  ‘You must go, Maddy,’ ordered Nigel. ‘You ought to have been back at your digs hours ago. Mrs Bosham will be worried.’

  ‘But—but Lucky might come in any moment,’ she expostulated.

  ‘We’ll ring you if he does,’ promised Jeremy. ‘Look, I’d better take her home, hadn’t I?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Nigel. ‘And come back for us here.’ Still grumbling, Maddy was led away.

  ‘What time does this joint close?’ inquired Bulldog. Nigel pointed to a notice on the wall that read, ‘Open seven a.m. till midnight.’

  ‘Gosh, that’ll be hard work.’

  ‘There must always be two of us on—just in case,’ said Nigel.

  The door-bell clanged continuously. Taxi-men, chorus girls, market workers from Covent Garden, every kind of person imaginable—but no Lucky. They were still sitting over their third cups of tea when Jeremy returned.

  ‘Maddy insists on coming here tomorrow evening to do her shift. She says if she’s got any work to do she’ll bring it with her.’