Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

salts?”
Michael shook his head. Did anyone have smelling salts? “Wait,” he said, suddenly remembering. “I’ve gol something that might work.” He rushed to the bathroom and returned with the little bottle of concentrated liquid deodorant he had bought at Boots.
Wilfred frowned. “I don’t know, mate. Poppers?”
“It’s not poppers.” Michael knelt next to Miss Treves and scooped her into his arms. He uncapped the bottle and waved the pungent stuff under her nose. Nothing happened. He set the bottle down. “There’s not enough ammonia, I guess. This is like spraying her with Glade.”
“I’ll get something wet,” offered Wilfred, dashing out of the room. He came back with a sea sponge from the bathroom and dabbed delicately at the midget’s features.
Miss Treves’s nose was the first thing to move. Then her left eye twitched. Then a little convulsion shook her whole body awake. “Thank God,” murmured Michael. He carried her back to the living room and laid her carefully on the sofa. It took a moment for her to realize where she was. Then the terror returned to her face. “Are you sure he’s dead?” she asked.
“Uh-huh,” nodded Michael.
“Who was that? Who did it?”
“Wilf … uh, the man upstairs.”
“Me dad,” put in Wilfred. He gave Michael a quick glance to show that he didn’t need to be protected.
“They were both drunk,” said Michael. “It was just a … freak thing.”
Miss Treves nodded wearily. “Bunny has a bad heart.” She glanced toward the corpse in the hallway. “The bally fool … the stupid, bally fool. I told him to leave well enough alone, but he was always …” Her voice trailed off in despair.
“Are you all right now?” asked Michael.
She nodded.
“I don’t know what this is all about, Miss Treves, but I’ll have to call the police.”
“No! Not vet … please, love, not yet.”
“Why?”
Her hands flopped about like injured sparrows. “It’s best that we talk first. For Simon’s sake. There’s nothing to be gained by destroying everything he’s ever …”
“Is that Simon’s father?” Michael jerked his head toward the corpse.
Miss Treves swallowed once, then looked away. “Is it?” asked Michael. She nodded.
“And he thought I was Simon?”
Another nod. “I told the bally fool you weren’t. He read that vile piece in the Minor and saw you leaving one day and convinced himself that Simon had come home from California.”
Michael was totally lost. “He didn’t know what his own son looked like?”
“Uh … mate.” Wilfred was tugging on his arm. “There’s a body out there. This is no time for a bleedin’ chat.”
“He’s right,” said Miss Treves. “Perhaps we should bring it in.”
“Now wait a minute …”
“Just for a bit, love. We can put it back.”
“But the police will know that something …”
“No they won’t, love. Just be careful about fingerprints. The lad will help you. Won’t you, love?” She gave Wilfred a surprisingly winning little smile.
The kid shrugged at Michael. “They can’t arrest us for movin’ him, can they?”
So Michael gave in. He and Wilfred each took a leg and dragged the man-mountain into the apartment. Miss Treves showed her gratitude with another smile and said: “Would you mind covering him, love? Just for now?” Michael hesitated, then fetched Simon’s duvet from the bedroom and draped it over the body.
“O.K.,” he said crisply, turning back to Miss Treves. “What is it you want me to do?”
She looked down at her hands. “Nothing, really. Except … you mustn’t mention what he said about … being Simon’s father.”
Michael studied her face. “Simon doesn’t know that, I take it.”
“No. And he mustn’t. Ever.”
“This guy …” He gestured toward the quilted mound. “He got Simon’s mother pregnant?”
“No,” replied the nanny. “Well … yes. Technically.” Wilfred giggled.
Michael ignored him. “And this man’s name was …?”
“Benbow. Bunny Benbow. He was the head of the revue I used to sing with. We met the Bardills at a hotel where we were playing in Malta. Nineteen fifty-six. They were on holiday, an extended trip around the world. Mrs. Bardili took a fancy to Bunny … which was only natural, since we were all in show business. Mrs. Bardill was much more famous, of course, but …” She glanced almost sorrowfully at the corpse. “Bunny was a dashing figure in those days.”
“So he came here tonight …?”
“To see his son, in