A Slightly Bitter Taste

By Harry Carmichael

On the night that Quinn of the Morning Post began his holiday, he strayed into a late party. When he got drunk, a girl called Carole made herself responsible for him. Next day, she took him off for a quiet weekend with friends in Dorset. But within a few hours, death had joined the guests at Elm Lodge...

Inevitably, Quinn gets caught up in the smouldering passions that govern the house of secrets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781448204854

Harry Carmichael

Leo Ognall (1908-1979), who wrote several novels under the pseudonyms Harry Carmichael and Hartley Howard, was born in Montreal and worked as a journalist before starting his fiction career. He wrote over ninety novels before his death in 1979. Harry Carmichael's primary series, written from 1952-1978, The Piper and Quinn series included characters such as John Piper (an insurance assessor) and Quinn, a crime reporter. His other works include: The Glenn Bowman series, 1951-1979; The Philip Scott series, 1964-1967.

Book preview

1

It was a good party. At the end of an hour Quinn was enjoying himself immensely. From the very start they hadn’t treated him as a stranger. He was one of them as soon as he walked in.

During the next hour he decided that he hadn’t enjoyed anything so much in a long time. Everybody was very friendly, everybody laughed at everybody else’s jokes. There was plenty to eat and plenty to drink and plenty of ready listeners.

They laughed extravagantly at everything Quinn said. They kept saying he was the last word. As the evening wore on he told himself this was one of those nights to remember.

Afterwards he didn’t remember very much. From one a.m. onwards he had only a hazy recollection of noise and laughter and a never-empty glass.

They were all such nice people — warm, hospitable people who made him feel at home. Come to think of it, home was never like this. Anyone would’ve imagined they were all old friends. A few drinks later he wondered how he could ever have thought they were strangers.

Later still he found himself in the company of a little dark girl with a husky voice. She was fun. Not especially good-looking but attractive enough to feed his vanity.

Her sharp wit amused him, too. The longer they were together the more he liked her. They were two of a kind, except that she drank tomato juice — plain, undiluted tomato juice without even a dash of Worcester Sauce.

That made her different from all the rest. He liked her even better for not drinking like the others. They certainly knew how to knock it back.

Not that they weren’t nice people … real friendly lot … the sort of company mat was all too rare these days. Funny why he hadn’t met them before. On the other hand the world must be full of people he’d never met …

This little dark girl, for instance. She was cute.

… No wedding ring … no rings on her left hand. Don’t suppose she’d mind if I kissed her. There’s a couple over in that corner who look as if they’re making a meal of each other. No harm in a kiss between friends. If she objects she’s only got to say so. I can’t imagine her screaming the place down …

The dark girl didn’t scream. She didn’t do anything. She just stood quite still, her eyes wide and distant, her mouth unresponsive.

As the moments passed he began to feel rather foolish. It was like kissing a dummy made of sponge rubber.

She went on looking up at him as he drew back and tried desperately to think of something funny to say — anything that would get him over this awkward silence. The way he felt was absurd. He had no reason to be embarrassed just because she didn’t fancy him.

… So you’re not her type. So you made a mistake — that’s all. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. No need to apologise. You’ll only make an idiot of yourself…

With the same remote look in her eyes, the dark girl asked, Satisfied?

Quinn didn’t know what kind of answer she expected. If he hadn’t had too much to drink he’d have been more sure of himself. In a situation like this there was always a right thing and a wrong thing to say. He had to think of something to salvage his dignity.

Common sense told him to keep his mouth shut but his befuddled wits wouldn’t let him. He said, Hardly. Of all the girls I’ve ever kissed you give the least satisfaction. Are you like that with everybody — or do I smell?

She gave him a quick smile, her white even teeth just showing. In a barbed voice, she said, That’s a double question so I’ll give you a double answer: I’m not and you do. Your breath could be bottled and sold back to the distillery at a profit.

You don’t have to be rude, Quinn said. If you took a drink like everybody else —

Why should I? Alcohol doesn’t agree with me. It makes my bones ache. What’s more, I can have a perfectly good time without it. I don’t need anything to help me run away.

Meaning what?

You know quite well. Most people get drunk to escape from their inhibitions.

And you haven’t got any, Quinn said.

Well — her eyes were suddenly laughing at him — let’s say I don’t put them on display.

He wanted to be angry with her. She had no right to treat him like a small boy.

Yet if he hadn’t kissed her this would never have happened … so maybe it was his own fault. They’d been having fun until he did something he shouldn’t have done. No use denying it.

Pity … Now he’d spoiled everything. Best thing he could do was go and get lost.

Helluva start to a holiday. They might’ve spent a little time together … just the two of them … that would’ve been fun … no monkey business … she wasn’t that sort of a girl … although you never could tell … not many nowadays who didn’t do a spot of hopping in and out of bed …

He had got as far as that when she asked, Have you forgotten I’m here? Her mouth was still smiling but her eyes were serious.

Quinn said, That’s what I don’t understand. It’s obvious you don’t like me and —

Because I didn’t swoon in your arms? Once again her voice had a bite.

Not at all. Now you’re being silly.

All right. Then what made you think I’d enjoy being pawed by someone I met less than an hour ago?

Resentment prodded Quinn into hot protest. That’s damned unfair. I never did any pawing. The amount of fuss you make just because I kissed you …

The dark girl asked, Why?

And that’s another thing, Quinn said. All these questions are enough to drive a fellow round the bend. How do I know why you made a fuss? Maybe it’s got something to do with your upbringing. Maybe you should see a psychiatrist. I once read —

Never mind what you read. I’m just curious to know why you wanted to kiss me.

Quinn retired into the confused depths of his own mind and searched for an answer. After a while he discovered that he had forgotten what she’d asked him.

So he said, I need time to think that over. It’s rather difficult …

No, it isn’t. You must’ve had a reason.

For doing what?

She studied him with her sleek dark head tilted a little on one side. Then she said, You have had a few, haven’t you? Guess you’d better go somewhere and lie down.

I’m fine, Quinn said. Don’t change the subject. You were saying I must’ve had a reason for doing something or other. Now go on from there.

If you insist — although it doesn’t seem important any more. Why did you kiss me?

Ah, now you’re being ridiculous. Why does anybody kiss anybody?

But I’m not the kissable type. My best friend wouldn’t say I was beautiful … and you must admit I don’t act sexy. Yet you suddenly wanted to kiss me. What I’d like to know is why.

Quinn came to the conclusion she wasn’t nearly as intelligent as he had imagined. He said, I’m beginning to think you ask questions for the sake of asking them. I kissed you because — well, because I thought it would be nice.

For you — or for me?

There you go again, he said. For both of us. Kissing is a two-way affair … or it was until now. You’re a brand-new experience that I’d hate to repeat. Remind me never to kiss you again.

He liked that. As he walked off and left her he told himself it served her damn’ well right. These clever-clever types deserved all they got. Anybody would think she had the looks that could afford to pick and choose.

… Might not know it but she’s lucky any fellow would want to kiss her. Don’t suppose I’d have dreamed of doing it if I hadn’t had one too many. Still … she’s cute. In spite of all her nonsense she has got something. Pity she insists on analysing motives …

In the next room he was welcomed by a back-slapping, jocular group. Within a couple of minutes he had forgotten the little dark girl who asked too many questions.

Someone brought him another drink … someone told him a funny story that had no point and no end … someone filled up his glass again … and again … and again.

He lost count of time. Once when he looked at his watch he couldn’t tell whether it was half past two or ten past six.

While he was trying to get the hands into focus, a man with an exaggerated moustache tapped him on the shoulder and said, Forget the time, old boy, and have another drop of Scotch. The night is but a pup. Sad, isn’t it, to think we won’t be lapping it up like this for months and months and months?

Through the tumult of noise and light rotating inside his head Quinn groped for a thought that kept eluding him. When at last he caught hold of it, he asked, Why not? Why can’t we do it again to-morrow night … or the next night … or the next night … or any night we like?

The man with the moustache said, Silly question, old boy, damn’ silly question … if you don’t mind me saying so.

He swayed closer and peered into Quinn’s face. You don’t mind, do you … old boy?

Quinn said, Not in the least. As I always say, it’s a free country and —

Don’t you believe it, old boy. Nobody’s free any more. Presidential system, that’s what we’ve got. Parliamentary government’s dead as the bloody dodo … take it from me.

But I don’t see how —

We’re ruled by the executive … no independence of opinion … M.P.s are like sheep herded into whatever pen the Cabinet think fit … three-line Whips and all that sort of rot …

Dimly Quinn realised the conversation had gone astray. What this fellow was talking about might be interesting some other time but it was hardly relevant right then.

He said, Hate to change the subject just when you’re getting warmed up, Mister … Afraid I don’t know your name.

Reg, old boy, just plain Reg. Cut out the mister. We’re all pals here. No need for fancy titles. What’s your name?

Quinn.

Come again, old boy?

Q-U-I-N-N … Quinn.

Is that so? The man with the lavish moustache looked owlishly surprised. Funny name. Don’t think I’ve ever met anyone before who was called Quinn. No offence, mind you.

He emptied his glass and stood blinking thoughtfully. Then he said, Once heard of a Jewish bloke who called himself Quinn … You’re not a Jew, by any chance?

Neither by chance nor design, Quinn said.

That was quite good, he thought. Quite good. He must remember it. Difficult to remember anything, of course. Too much of a row going on …

Reg was saying Noisy bastards, aren’t they? Can’t hear yourself think. However, I was telling you about this Jewish character. Somebody asked him how he got the name Quinn and he said it used to be Cohen but when you said Cohen quickly and went on saying it faster and faster it eventually sounded just like Quinn. Get the point, old boy?

Quinn was searching his mind for a missing thought. When at last he managed to grasp it, he said, There’s something I’d like to know … if it’s all right with you.

Sure, old boy. All you gotta do is ask. Reg tapped his head with a wavering forefinger. Lifetime’s experience up there. Been everywhere, seen everything. If I told you —

Yes … but this isn’t anything like that.

— only half of what I’ve learned about people and places and the depravity of human nature you could write a book — two books, more likely. You might not believe me but it’s gospel truth —

I believe you, Quinn said. I’ve been around quite a lot myself. But what I want to know is what you meant when you said I’d asked you a damn’ silly question.

Reg tried to get another drink out of his empty glass. Then he gave Quinn a bleary look. I’m not with you, old boy. What question?

The elusive thought finally crystallised. Quinn said, I asked you why there won’t be another party like this for months and months and months.

Did you?

Yes. Don’t you remember?

"No recollection at all, old boy. Mind’s a complete blank. I suppose it’s anno Domini and all that. But if you say so …"

He held back his head and stuck out his tongue and turned the glass upside down to extract the last drop of gin. Then he went on, I shouldn’t have to tell you that nobody — but nobody — can put on a party like Charlie Hinchcliffe, God bless him. So if old Charlie’s going abroad and won’t be back before the end of the year — well, I ask you. Things can’t very well be the same, can they?

Quinn said, No, I suppose not.

You’re damn’ right. Aren’t many like Charlie Hinchcliffe. Heart of gold, that’s old Charlie. Hasn’t got an enemy in the world. Give you his shirt if you asked him. Everybody knows that.

Oh, sure. But the funny thing is —

’Course, he can afford to push the boat out in a big way. Charlie isn’t short of the old folding money, you know. His wife left him pretty well fixed. D’you ever meet her, old boy?

Not that I’m aware of, Quinn said.

His head was spinning and his legs seemed to be made of jelly. The room had suddenly become unbearably hot. He knew if he didn’t sit down soon he would fall down.

Reg had carried on without waiting for an answer. … very considerate woman. Went and snuffed it while old Charlie was in the prime of life. Ever since then he’s been having himself a helluva time. Makes you think, doesn’t it?

It certainly does, Quinn said.

Take my old ball-and-chain, for example … and she’s a lousy example at that. Doesn’t possess tuppence and strong as a horse. Looks like one, as well. If I’m any judge she’ll live long enough to shovel the old clay on top of me when I retire to the country. But Charlie got rid of his handicap and came into a packet of money at the same time. Some fellows have all the luck, don’t they?

Seems like it, Quinn said.

Not that I grudge Charlie anything he’s got. Don’t get me wrong. Salt of the earth — that’s what he is. Take it from me.

With his empty glass held up to the light, Reg repeated, Salt of the earth … I’ll go and get another drop of mother’s ruin and we’ll drink old Charlie’s health. Won’t be long, so stay right there. I’m enjoying our little conversation. You’re an interesting fellow, Quinn, damned interesting fellow … Where the hell’s that bar gone?

He went away and never came back. Quinn loitered around for a while and then he squeezed through the crush and wandered here and there until he came to an unoccupied room where the only light came from a small shaded lamp beside a bed.

After he had closed the door to shut out most of the din he pulled a chair up to the open window. It was a hot, still night and there was scarcely a breath of air. With his head resting against the wall he fell asleep.

The dark girl found him there. He woke up in time to hear her saying … looking for you. I had an idea you’d eventually want to crawl into a hole and die.

When Quinn recovered the use of his voice, he said, I was doing all right until you disturbed me. Why don’t you go away? I’m trying to get some sleep.

You can’t sleep here. This is Jacqueline’s bedroom.

Who’s Jacqueline?

Well, Charlie Hinchcliffe calls her his secretary. And I understand she’s listed in the firm’s books as an employee. In a way, I suppose, that’s true enough. He has kept her regularly employed since his wife died … and I mean employed.

The words spattered on Quinn’s mind like a shower of gravel. From a long way off he heard himself ask, Who’s Charlie Hinchcliffe?

The dark girl said, It’s easy to see you’ve had a skinful. Everyone knows Charlie.

Well, I don’t, Quinn said. What does he look like?

Short, tubby and bald as a hard-boiled egg without the shell. Considering that it’s his liquor you’ve been drinking all night, I’d have thought …

Sleep kept dragging Quinn down below the level of her voice. It took a considerable effort to keep his eyes open.

When he had forced himself awake, he said, Let’s get this thing straight. I was in a pub and I met a man I knew from somewhere. This man introduced me to another man and the other man said a friend of his was throwing a party and any newspaper man who cared to go along would be welcome.

What was this friend’s name?

Haven’t the foggiest idea.

But it wasn’t Charlie Hinchcliffe?

The mist was thickening in Quinn’s mind. He had to hold on to his dwindling consciousness.

He said, I don’t know anyone called Hinchcliffe, I’ve never known anyone called Hinchcliffe, and I don’t want to know anyone called Hinchcliffe. Does that make me a criminal?

The dark girl said, No, only a gatecrasher. You’re at the wrong party.

Quinn thought that was funny. He leaned his head against the wall again and began to laugh. And as he laughed his wits spun like water rushing down a waste pipe … down … and down … and down …

It didn’t last long. Through the darkness came pinpoints of light … and the pinpoints were splintered words … and the words were in many voices from above and below, from near and far.

Then the myriad voices became one. He knew that voice. It reminded him of a girl with dark hair and a cheeky smile — the girl he had met at a party in Muswell Hill.

Something funny about that party. He couldn’t remember whether he had gone or not. Yet if he hadn’t gone he wouldn’t have met her. That was logical. And you couldn’t get anywhere without logic.

But she wasn’t just anywhere. He could hear her close beside him.

She was saying … come on. It’s time you went home.

That was silly for a start. Nobody who lived in digs ever looked on the place as home. Once upon a time … but that was long ago.

Somebody shook him into reluctant awareness of the present. Somebody said, If you’ve got a car you’re not fit to drive. If you haven’t you’re not fit to walk. Looks as if I’ll have to act the Good Samaritan.

Quinn said, Don’t do me any favours. I can manage quite well by myself.

In your present condition you’d finish up sleeping in the gutter. So don’t argue. Someone’s got to look after you … and it seems I’m the lucky one.

From then on he had only fragmentary impressions of movement and half light, a background of noise receding behind him, a long flight of steps leading down to a street. In the pale light of a June dawn the street lay empty and silent.

Cool sweet air … trees growing out of pools of shadow … that familiar voice urging him to keep going. He knew he was being helped into a car, he could hear the dark girl asking him, Where do you live?

The queer thing was that she didn’t seem able to hear him. He told her twice but she went on asking him each time he woke up. Eventually he decided he wasn’t the only one who’d had a few drinks.

Through the jolting noise of a car he heard her say, O.K. I’ve asked for this so I’ve no one to blame but myself now that I’m stuck with it. Why don’t I learn to mind my own business?

2

The echo of that question roused him from a long, deep sleep. As he came up to the surface, a hand shook him and a voice he well remembered began talking to him.

… If you’re dead, just say so and I’ll drink this coffee myself. After looking at something like you I need it. You remind me of the corpse of Marat in Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors.

There was bright light shining in his face — a cruel light that seemed to be trying to prise open his eyelids with sharp little knives. He turned his face away and groaned.

The voice said, Be sure your sin will find you out … May I be the first to say it serves you right?

He took a quick peek at her and then he shut his eyes tight. When the pounding in