Murder of a Movie Star

by L. B. Hathaway

  ‘So good day to you, Miss Parker,’ cut in the other one in a final sort of tone, and buried her substantial nose in a penny magazine.

  There seemed nothing to be done. Perhaps Posie should have been more conciliatory, after all? Or paid them off privately?

  Just then Posie heard a rustle behind her and, surprised, she turned to see Robbie Fontaine, smile back in place, bad mood seemingly gone, his good looks lit up by the bright sun filtered flatteringly through the green shady canopies of the trees overhead. He sauntered over, cigar raised extravagantly, every inch the movie star.

  ‘My days!’ one of the nannies exclaimed. ‘Am I dreaming? Is that…’

  Posie turned, half-shocked, half-fascinated, to watch the nannies.

  They, unlike her, had obviously seen Robbie Fontaine in a film or two. Or more like four hundred. Their tongues were almost slack and their jaws were hanging open in surprise. Too late Posie saw that the penny magazine they had been sharing was actually a movie magazine, and Robbie Fontaine’s face was plastered all over the front. The caption read ‘IS MR FONTAINE THE EIGHTH WONDER OF THE WORLD?’

  She saw him make a courteous half-bow before he started to talk.

  ‘I say, ladies. I have a bit of a wee problem which only you two can help with. Would you like that magazine signed? It would be my absolute pleasure. Now, I was just wondering…’

  A charmer, Posie thought again to herself. Nothing but a charmer. But the world and its screaming babies had need of charmers such as Robbie Fontaine now and again.

  That much at least was indisputable.

  ****

  Three

  Isleworth was a small town in the countryside to the west of London, beyond Richmond. As they passed through it Posie caught glimpses of the glittering River Thames here and there, sparkling silver in the sunshine, and then some Georgian houses straggling along a small high street. Leaving the town behind again, she saw snatches of wide green fields through her half-closed eyelids.

  Early in the ride, Posie had tried to get out of Robbie Fontaine just what all the fuss was about, pressing him for details of why exactly she was needed at the Worton Hall Studios. But he wouldn’t answer a thing, just lighting another cigar and puffing on it intently.

  ‘Strict instructions not to tell,’ he said, tapping his nose in a confidential, irritating manner. And so Posie gave up.

  Nevertheless, she had started to enjoy the ride as soon as central London was behind them, as the air was cooler and lighter and less gritty out here. They drove with the window protectors down. She hunkered down next to the door on the tough leather seat of the Sunstar car and pretended to doze. This was mainly because she wanted to drown out the sounds of Robbie Fontaine’s voice which seemed to hold Dolly so enraptured. His conversation revolved only around himself.

  He was still working his way through a well-used and boring series of Robbie Fontaine anecdotes when a smart shove in the ribs from Dolly told her they had arrived at the Worton Hall Studios.

  ‘Pssst. Wake up, lovey. We’re here.’

  Posie opened her eyes. They were driving up a big gravel driveway, with neatly tended gardens on both sides. The driveway gave on to a perfectly manicured bubble of green lawn.

  The driver pulled up in front of a lovely white-painted mansion house, square-built and three storeys high, a dolls’ house sort of a place. A graceful white portico framed the red front door and on either side of the house square white extensions jutted outwards, giving it the impression of having arms.

  The overall effect was of cool greenness in among the sizzling heat. Lawns extended outwards in all directions right up to a wire fence at the front, giving on to the main road. Oak trees and hawthorn bushes stood motionless with the lack of breeze. There was an impenetrable silence. Even the birds were too hot to sing. The white house was moored at the centre of this green paradise like a stately yacht.

  ‘Welcome to Worton Hall Studios,’ said Robbie Fontaine half-heartedly, pulling out what looked like a cheap notebook, much marked up, from the car’s footwell. A film script, Posie supposed. She noted that he avoided giving her any eye contact.

  ‘Of course, this is just the front of the place. The real studios stretch way, way back behind here. It’s like a little town out there. We’ve been filming this current movie for three months, and most of Sunstar’s films are made here. Now, Sidney, you get a shuffle on and run to my dressing room, and get me what I need.’ He jerked his thumb at the stringer who jumped out of the car and sped away.

  ‘And you, driver, you lose yourself too for a while. Go and have a ciggie or something, will you? Leave these ladies alone.’ The green-uniformed man frowned in the mirror and looked uncertain, but did as he was told, and sauntered away out of sight, taking the car key with him.

  Robbie Fontaine got out, nodded towards Dolly, and indicated his script.

  ‘I’m off too, Dolly old girl. I’ve got my next take to prepare for. It’s a big scene. We’re wrapping this film up tomorrow so it’s got to be done well. Stay here in the car, will you, Miss Parker? Someone will come for you in just a minute or two.’

  Posie lost her temper, a rare occurrence.

  ‘Someone?’ yelled Posie out of the window-hole at his retreating back, but Robbie Fontaine left them without a backwards glance.

  Frustrated, Posie flung herself back on the seat, balling her fists up angrily. Even Dolly allowed a second of a scowl to flit across her elfin face before the eager, desperately-attentive look from before returned. She was busy drinking in the details of Worton Hall as if it was manna from heaven.

  Ten minutes passed.

  No-one came, and no-one was about. A smart blue and gold van labelled ‘NATHAN’S COSTUMIERS’ drew up at one point, seeming like it was lost. It backed away again after a few minutes and rumbled off around the back of the house.

  Posie kept checking her red-leather wristwatch, sticky in the heat. Something felt wrong: the quiet of the house was all wrong. Her paranoid brain kicked into action again.

  Was this a kidnapping plot after all, despite the earlier reassurances, into which they had walked like prize idiots? Albeit a plot with a well-paid and famous movie star as the bait with which to lure them to Isleworth? And here they were; sitting ducks in a car without a key.

  ‘Right, Dolly. Let’s get out of here and try and get a train back to London,’ Posie whispered softly.

  ‘I’d drive but that man took the key. Probably on purpose. This stinks. It’s fishy as hell. That man Fontaine is a prize rat. Sure as bread is bread he was paid a handsome wad of cash to come and get us out here with that half-baked story of his about a pal being in trouble! I know we’re in danger for some reason. Gut instinct. I didn’t like it from the start.’

  Dolly gasped. Posie continued softly:

  ‘But at this point I don’t know if it’s you or me who’s the target. It could be you that’s the prize, if a gang wants to extract money from Rufus. Or, it could be me, with my old pal Caspian della Rosa coming back for what he didn’t get last New Years’ Eve.’

  Dolly looked shaken.

  ‘Either way,’ continued Posie firmly, ‘we’re not going to sit here waiting for them to come to us. Now, take your heels off, we’ll have to run in our stockinged feet. On the count of three, we’ll open the door and run, down the drive and out along the main road back to Isleworth. Ready, Dolly?’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Po. We’ll be okay here anyway. Even if we just sit here. Even if kidnappers do come for us.’

  ‘How do you figure that out?’

  ‘You’ve got a loaded gun. You said so. You can just aim and shoot at them, can’t you?’

  Posie sighed in exasperation. ‘I was just blustering. Of course I haven’t got a loaded gun. What sort of idiot goes around with one of those nowadays?’

  Dolly stared blankly. ‘Len? Rufus? Caspian della Rosa? Inspector Lovelace? Sergeants Binny and Rainbird? Take your pick.’

  ‘Fine. Virtually everyone we know.’
Posie frowned in exasperation. ‘I take your point, Dolly, but unfortunately I don’t happen to have a loaded gun with me now. Or ever. Right. Are you ready? On the count of three. Okay. THREE. TWO…’

  Posie had taken off her heeled pumps and was slowly opening the heavy Ford’s passenger door, checking the empty surroundings outside, her head minnowing backwards and forwards.

  ‘ONE! NOW…’

  ‘STOP! Please don’t go anywhere, Miss Parker.’

  Posie and Dolly jerked their heads around in surprise, their senses razor sharp, every nerve in their bodies on edge. The voice was low and sultry, and female, and there was a plummy, cut-glass edge to the vowels.

  ‘I beg of you. I’ll get in frightful trouble if you leave. Apparently we need you here. I’m sorry you had to wait so long. I know this looks unprofessional.’

  A tall, strong-looking girl wearing a large straw hat pulled down low had climbed quickly up into the empty driver’s seat. She was covered all over in a rough white muslin wrap, the material even reaching up around her head, covering most of her face. The effect was of a walking, talking Egyptian mummy. Or perhaps a beekeeper.

  They both watched in surprise as the girl whisked off her hat and peeled down the muslin wraps. And then they both gasped aloud as the girl in the driver’s seat looked at them first from the indicator mirror, then swung around in the seat so they could see her for real.

  She glistened all over, just like Robbie Fontaine. Her wide, splendid face was perfect. Her heavy fake-silver bob with its thick fringe which she wore like a close helmet, and her huge china-blue eyes were immediately recognisable to anyone in the land, even to Posie.

  It was Silvia Hanro, the most famous movie star of them all. The most beautiful girl in the world.

  ‘Oh! It’s you!’ breathed Posie and Dolly in unison, despite the fact that it was only Dolly who had met the actress before.

  The girl smiled, and it was as if the sun had come out. She seemed used to such familiarity.

  ‘Hello, Lady Cardigeon, and Miss Parker. A pleasure to meet you.’ She stretched out a hand with strong, long fingers. It felt greasy, waxy to the touch.

  ‘I know I look odd. I just can’t take the hot sun right now, you see. What with this Leichner stage make-up all over my face and body, it will run right off me in great dollops, and I’ll fry to a crisp in the process, just like a little pig in cooking oil.’

  Posie immediately felt a thankful calm settle over her, mixed with a genuine curiosity at meeting such a star. She began to breathe normally again.

  But she felt a prize idiot, too. She had shown a serious lack of judgement during the entire afternoon: what with her misplaced, ridiculous kidnapping theories which she had trotted out again and again. It was odd: usually her gut instinct was so good.

  And then, as if things couldn’t get stranger, a tall, lean, tatty-looking man in his early forties darted out of the main house. He opened the door on the passenger side of the car in an impatient manner and jumped in. In one hand the man clutched a megaphone, and in the other what Posie now recognised as a script.

  Posie had no idea who he was, but Dolly obviously did, as her face had taken on the same adoring look as when she had been in Robbie Fontaine’s company. The man turned abruptly towards them both.

  ‘Miss Parker, how good of you to come. I’m Brian Langley, Producer and Director and owner of Sunstar Films.’

  He nodded curtly but didn’t extend a hand towards Dolly.

  ‘I see you’ve brought along a wee pal of yours for company, eh? Or is she just your well-dressed secretary? I hope she can keep her mouth buttoned tight shut, whoever she is, for all her fancy clothes.’

  He lit a Turkish cigarette and took a deep drag.

  Brian Langley was hatless and he wore a crinkled white linen shirt and white flannel trousers. His face was crumpled into what looked like a permanent frown, his tiny eyes just pin-holes in a fraught, harried face. He had the look of a man who needs to shave at least twice a day, and even now a creeping fly-blue beard was spreading over his face. What could have been real handsomeness was rubbed away by tiredness and worry. Hostility buzzed from him like a force-field all of its own.

  Posie opened her mouth to introduce Lady Cardigeon, but before she could do so Brian Langley had hurried on:

  ‘So you’ve already met my two brightest stars, eh? They pretty much are Sunstar Films, you know. I need to keep things that way. Especially since we’ve got a new film out which will hopefully make the country forget all about Love, Life and Laughter, and that darned Betty Balfour girl. So you need to help us out with a small problem. Got it?’

  Posie simply nodded, narrowing her eyes, waiting for more information. Brian Langley obviously wasn’t one for pleasantries. He reminded Posie of a particularly vicious crow that used to terrorise the garden of her father’s Norfolk Rectory. The reign of terror had gone on for years.

  Mr Langley turned to Silvia Hanro angrily and spoke in a still-audible whisper, as if Dolly and Posie weren’t still sitting on the back seat.

  ‘What sort of bally mess is this, Silvia? I gave specific instructions to Robbie to bring the woman detective straight to your dressing room for a briefing, not to leave her sitting out here for all and sundry to chat to. I emphasised that complete secrecy and confidentiality were key to this operation when he was sent to collect her. And here we are, sitting out here in cars! I can’t think what’s got into him. Idiot! Do you know?’

  Silvia Hanro looked blankly back. But to Posie’s mind there was something else there, too. Was it fear?

  ‘No idea, Brian. I haven’t seen him today. I only found out the lady detective was here because I happened to run into your driver, who’d been paid to leave them by Robbie! He was having a cheeky ciggie over near my dressing room. He told me these good ladies were sitting waiting up front, so I came over. And that’s when I sent a messenger to tell you to meet us out here.’

  Silvia pulled out a car key. ‘Care to start her up, Brian?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  Brian Langley turned again to the women in the back seat.

  ‘I’ll leave you in Miss Hanro’s very capable hands. She’ll explain. Just sort this mess out for us, will you, Miss Parker? Sooner the better, huh? Come and speak to me but only if you really have to, okay? I’m pushed for time as it is and every second I spend away from this film is a potential disaster.’

  ‘I’m not quite sure I understand, sir. Can you tell me why I’m here?’

  ‘No time. You’ll get the gist of things in a minute. You’re supposed to be a clever girl, aren’t you? No need for me to hold your hand, then, is there? Just buzz around and ask sensible questions. But don’t call in the police, okay? And don’t reveal exactly who you are to anyone, either. Everything’s got to be sorted by tomorrow afternoon. I think it should be pretty straightforward. There’s a creepy chap – a stalker – involved. He might be behind this trouble.’

  ‘A stalker? What sort of trouble?’

  But Brian Langley just grabbed in his back pocket and brought out an expensive-looking leather money fob. He counted out ten crisp white pound notes and thrust them at Posie. A great deal of money. She took it warily.

  ‘Silvia will explain. There’ll be the same amount for you tomorrow if you sort this out. Okay?’

  And before Posie could ask again what needed to be sorted, or explain that she usually didn’t just take large wads of cash from clients, Brian Langley was off and out of the car. It all felt very illicit. She didn’t like it one little bit.

  Silvia Hanro looked up at them from the front mirror. She looked worried.

  ‘So what do you think of our divine Mr Langley, then?’

  Posie grimaced. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Isn’t he just? He’s the best Film Director and Producer this country has, and we all have to dance to his tune, but he has no manners whatsoever, and he also hasn’t got a clue how to drive a car.’

  She shook the car key. ‘I was just
teasing him, silly old sausage. But I bet one of you lovely ladies knows how to drive. Right?’

  Posie nodded, feeling more comfortable than she had done for the last hour and a half; this was more her world. In fact, she had been toying with the idea of buying a car recently, only she had nowhere really to drive it to, and probably no-one to come with her, either. Posie jumped out of the car and swapped places with Silvia Hanro, starting up the engine. Posie was a dab hand at driving: she had been an ambulance driver in the First World War on the Western Front and had had to coax an engine into life on even the coldest and dampest of mornings.

  ‘We’re good to go, Miss Hanro,’ she called. ‘Where to now?’

  Posie yanked the handbrake off.

  ‘Let’s drive around the back way, to my dressing room,’ said Silvia Hanro, ‘and I’ll explain everything when we get there.’

  ****

  Silvia Hanro spat in the eye-black and then applied her signature feline eye-flick carefully in the large oval mirror with its rainbow rim. But Posie noticed that her hands were shaking slightly as she drew on the line of thick kohl.

  ‘I always do my own make-up,’ Silvia said, gesturing to the messy tubes of paints and bottles littering the table in her dressing room on the set of Henry the King. Silvia then patted more orange goo all over her face from a pot saying ‘LEICHNER STAGE MAKE-UP NUMBER ONE’.

  There were no windows and the room smelt lingeringly of old pressed powder and damp books. A huge bouquet of vivid pink and red blooms over in the corner by the mirror gave off a heavy, almost funereal smell. The combined scents were cloying. Posie had noted how the tiny room sat among a jumble of others in the main house; dressing rooms and waiting rooms and props rooms all vying for space on crowded white-painted corridors which echoed constantly with the sound of shouting and running feet. Unlike its exterior, the inside of the house was the very opposite of calm. Posie felt quite claustrophobic.