Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [72]
Pitt disliked what he had to do, but to omit it would be irresponsible, even though he half believed Orlando.
“Others have identified the man as Cathcart, Mr. Antrim. If it was not he, then I need to verify that. The name of your friend?”
Orlando hesitated again, then his face set. “I’m sorry.” He waited for a moment to gauge Pitt’s reaction. He must have seen no yielding. “Actually he is out of town anyway, and I couldn’t get in touch with him. So there would be no point in my giving you his name . . . or address.”
“If he is out of town, Mr. Antrim, there would be no harm either, would there?” Pitt resumed.
“Well, yes there would. It might do his reputation some damage, and he would not be there to protect it.”
“Mr. Antrim, all I wish to do is confirm that it was he you quarreled with the morning of the day Mr. Cathcart was killed, no more than that.”
“Well, you cannot, because he is not here. But surely if a man of Cathcart’s standing and reputation had been at the camera club, of all places, some other member would be able to confirm it?”
That was unarguably true. It was also true that they ought to be able to tell him the identity of the man Orlando Antrim had spoken with so passionately. Why should he wish to hide it?
“Then I shall have to ask there,” Pitt accepted, looking very directly at Orlando. “No doubt they saw you as well, and if he is a member they will know his name. It would be a great deal easier if you were to tell me, but if I must draw it out by questioning other members, then I will do so.”
Orlando looked acutely unhappy. “I see you are not going to let it go. It has no bearing on your case, I swear. It was a diplomat with the French Embassy . . . the situation is delicate . . .”
“Henri Bonnard,” Pitt supplied.
Orlando stiffened, his chin jerking up a little, his eyes wide, but he did not speak.
“Where is he, Mr. Antrim?”
“I am not at liberty to say.” Orlando’s face set, hard and miserable, but completely resolute. It was apparent that he was not going to say anything further, no matter how hard he was pressed. “I have given my word.”
Nothing Pitt said would change his mind.
Bellmaine was apparently through with the scene to his satisfaction, or else was no longer prepared to remain in ignorance as to what Pitt wanted with his principal actor. He came around the corner into the cluttered space where they were standing, his face sharp, his eyes going first to Orlando, then to Pitt.
“ ‘Art is long and life is short,’ Superintendent,” he said with a wry half smile. “If we really can be of help, then of course we are at your disposal. But if, on the other hand, it is not a matter of urgency or importance, perhaps we could now continue with Hamlet?” He looked very carefully at Orlando, perhaps to assess if he were in any way disturbed sufficiently to damage his concentration. He seemed moderately satisfied with what he saw. He turned back to Pitt, waiting for his answer.
Orlando seemed vaguely relieved that Bellmaine had come. Perhaps unconsciously, he moved a step closer to him.
Bellmaine put a hand on his shoulder. “Work, my prince,” he said, still facing Pitt. “If the superintendent will allow?”
There was nothing further to be gained. He was breaking their rhythm of creation for no good reason.
“Of course,” he yielded. “Thank you for your time.”
Orlando shrugged it off.
Bellmaine spread his hands in an eloquent and graceful gesture, then led the way back to the stage, where everyone was waiting for them. Pitt took one last look at the actors as they took up their own world again and lost themselves in it, then he turned and walked away.
He saw Tellman briefly and told him what little he had learned.
“That embassy’s hiding something,” Tellman replied, sitting in