‘Why’s it so dark in here, Miss Hanro?’
‘Call me Silvia, please. I insist. It’s because the set where we film is dark, like this; so the make-up has to be applied in the same light, to get the right effect.’
Silvia picked up a big white ruff off the floor and pinned it around her neck. She was wearing a rich red velvet gown covered in fake pearls and sequins, which must have been stifling.
‘I dress myself, too, even though I have a paid dresser who comes with the place. I guard my privacy fiercely.’
‘Don’t blame you, lovey.’ Dolly blew a perfect smoke ring up into the dark fug. ‘You must get all sorts of nutters followin’ you about.’
Dolly was in her element, sitting in a wicker chair with her legs pulled up beneath her, a large glass of chilled champagne in one hand, looking as if she had never left the world of actors and actresses behind her, not even for a day. Posie was willing to take a bet that Dolly hadn’t been this happy in ages.
‘That’s why I can talk to you frankly in here. It’s my sanctuary. As soon as we leave this dressing room anyone can hear anything, so just remember that.’
Posie nodded, hastily arranging her notepad and pen. She was waiting for the case details. There was no glass of champagne or cocktail cigarette for her. Hopefully just cold, hard facts.
Up close, Posie found Silvia Hanro impressive: she seemed very professional, despite whatever problem it was that she was encountering just now, and she was courteous and polite, which was the complete opposite of Amory Laine, the only other movie star Posie had met before. Posie noted how Silvia checked her watch constantly for fear of being late for Brian Langley.
Posie felt calmer now, partly because she had managed to track down a telephone booth in among the warren of corridors of Worton Hall. She had placed a call through to Grape Street where Len had answered breezily; reassuring Posie that all was well and that he had fed Mr Minks, Posie’s Siamese cat who lived in the office.
He had reported that Trixie and Bunny Cardigeon had behaved beautifully for him, and were now safely off the premises, home-bound for Chelsea in the care of the two paid nannies.
Posie relayed the good news to Dolly, who had simply nodded, wide-eyed, as if the twins’ welfare was a whole new concept to her.
Len had also told Posie that the office was very quiet, and that the temporary secretary, Tess, had reported no calls at all since the one which came through from Worton Hall Studios at coffee time, earlier that morning.
‘What call was that, Len? I didn’t hear anything about that?’
‘Oh, I dunno, Posie.’ She had heard Len sigh half-heartedly in the background and the sound of paper rustling; she could imagine him hot and bored back at Grape Street and ferreting around on the secretary’s desk for something to eat.
‘Apparently the studio tried to call you about eleven o’clock, but it was an odd call: just a fella with a Scottish accent asking if you happened to be in today. When Tess said you were in, he hung up. She only knew it was Worton Hall Studios ’cos the Operator told her so when she connected the call.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yep. I’d get the girl here to talk to you herself but I’ve sent her out to buy postage stamps; I’m trying to keep her busy with tasks she can’t mess up. I do recall that she said the line was awful, full of hissings and beeps. Worse than usual, I mean.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that, Len. Can you arrange for a telephone engineer to come and check our office line? Today if possible. As soon as possible. Check we’re not being bugged?’
‘Seriously, Po?’ Len had laughed easily. ‘It’s the height of summer. I bet neither love nor money will get an engineer out here before next week.’
‘Try,’ she had said angrily and slammed down the receiver. She knew she was being overly cautious, but the line had been bugged in the past, with disastrous consequences. On her way out of the booth she had banged four-square into a man waiting to use the telephone. He had been queuing patiently behind the baize curtain with a clapperboard and a newspaper. Posie had an impression of height and a blur of bright white summer clothes and hat, but had been too embarrassed to stop and apologise properly.
Posie came back to the present with a sharp bump and cleared her throat in the smoky gloom of the dressing room.
‘Forgive me, but why am I needed so urgently, Silvia?’
For a split-second Silvia’s eyes were huge in the oval mirror, like a horse about to bolt. And in them Posie saw real, raw, honest fear.
‘Because my life has been threatened,’ Silvia Hanro explained simply. She was fishing in a small drawer under the table of the dresser. She found what she was looking for and passed it over.
‘I think it’s real. Here, look at this.’
****
Four
Posie took a small and shabby piece of lined paper in both her hands and unfolded it. She recognised it as paper torn from a script. In crude, coarse green ink a stark message stood out:
DEATH COMES FOR YOU TOMORROW.
THURSDAY 26TH JULY WILL BE YOUR LAST GRAND ENTRANCE.
P.S. Do you think this is a joke?
Here’s something to make you think about it.
‘This is why I need you so urgently. I got it this morning, just before I started filming. It was in a sealed envelope along with my coffee, brought to me by Elaine. She’s my so-called dresser, but she’s more of a general dogsbody.’
‘Nice,’ said Posie, trying not to appear too shocked and passing it over for Dolly to inspect. She had dealt with blackmail cases before, but never death threats. She didn’t like the look of it.
Dolly shivered dramatically. ‘Oh, lovey,’ she said with feeling, casting a sympathetic look over at Silvia. ‘This is horrible.’
Posie picked up her pen again. She made a few notes in her pad.
‘But is it serious, Silvia? Or is it someone’s idea of a joke? Is it the first note you’ve received like this one? And why do you want me to come out here, rather than the regular police? I don’t like the look of this at all. I can highly recommend a jolly good Chief Inspector at New Scotland Yard…’
‘No, no,’ Silvia said hurriedly, looking panicked. ‘No police. Not yet anyway. I don’t want them sniffing around here and all the newspaper journalists coming along hot on their heels. It’s terrible timing: Brian Langley would kill me first himself!’
For a second she looked as if she would weep, then there was that strength, that resolve again.
‘And no, it’s not the first note. There have been two others. I received the first on Monday morning, and the other yesterday morning. They all came in the same envelopes and all said much the same thing. They were to the point: they all said I would die on Thursday 26th July. They gave me no directions, either; no ransom money to pay to get these people off my back.’
‘Did you keep the envelopes?’
Silvia shook her head.
‘Do you remember the postmark? Was it central London?’
‘No. There was no postmark. I’m pretty certain that they were all hand delivered.’
‘I see. But why did you only call me in today, if there have been other notes? Why not call me in on Monday or Tuesday? What changed? What changed since yesterday?’
A strange look settled briefly in Silvia’s lovely eyes. Posie saw it and frowned. Was it worry, or something else? A cloud seemed to pass over the movie star’s face.
‘Oh, I suppose I’m scared because tomorrow seems so soon.’
‘Really? Nothing changed? You’re sure?’ Posie was unconvinced by the reasoning, but Silvia’s reflection looked back at her from the mirror, her mouth a grim line, the touch of bravado clinging about her. Posie changed tack:
‘What’s the significance of tomorrow in particular? And why did you say this is “terrible timing”?’
Silvia grimaced.
‘We’ve been filming this huge film, Henry the King, for almost the last three months. It wraps up tomorrow.
Thursday 26th July is our last day here. Truthfully, Brian Langley can only afford one more day in the studios; he’s hired the place from its owner, Bertie Samuelson, for more than a year now, using it for a whole bunch of previous films, and it’s costing him an arm and a leg. He can’t go on renting the whole place for Sunstar Films alone.’
Posie scratched a note. ‘I see. But that’s good news to be finishing the film, surely? Hasn’t filming gone well here?’
Silvia shrugged.
‘Well, yes and no. I think it’s gone well. But we’ve been filming under the shadow of knowing that this has to work out; there’s no room for error. It’s supposed to save Sunstar Films, to save our careers. We’ve all been putting in very, very long hours, through the night sometimes. Henry is a huge budget film and Brian Langley has spared no expense: he’s got hundreds of extras here every day for the crowd scenes, costing a fortune, and beautiful costumes hired from Nathan’s Costumiers which cost goodness only knows how much. It’s not a comedy, but we’re hoping it will do well. It has to do well.’
Silvia Hanro rose from her stool, placing a long blonde wig on her head and checking her reflection in the mirror, sashaying from side to side. Dolly had risen automatically, and was moving fluidly this way and that, unasked, smoothing the false hairpiece into position.
‘The pressure was always on for this film to be a huge success: Brian’s got a handful of financial backers who are expecting a big return on Henry, and he’s put every last penny he has into the film himself.’
Silvia sighed. ‘What with all the competition from Hollywood right now and with British films being so horribly unfashionable since the war, this was a chance to fly the flag and show the world just how good a British film could be. The financial backers are hoping that they can sell Henry in America, too. But if the film is a flop then rumour has it that Brian Langley will become bankrupt, and Sunstar Films will go the same way. Down the plughole.’
Posie raised her eyebrows dubiously. ‘No wonder the man was so vile earlier, then. Or is he always like that?’
Silvia laughed. ‘Oh, his bark is worse than his bite. Poor old darling Brian. He’s rather a softie underneath. Do you know, he keeps hothouse flowers as a way of relaxing? Orchids. See those there? They’re beautiful, aren’t they? They’re from him. He pays an oriental gardener just to tend the things. He lives very near here, you know. At Richmond. On the river.’
‘Is there a Mrs Langley in the picture?’
‘Oh, no.’ Silvia shook her head. ‘Brian only has time for movies, and movie stars. And sometimes for flowers.’
She grinned impishly for a second. ‘He does have a Housekeeper. Cleeves, I think she’s called. But she’s about as glamorous as a pair of muddy Wellington boots, so he’d hardly bother with her.’
Posie lowered her pen, staring again at the green scrawl of the death threat. ‘Is there anything else happening tomorrow which I should know about?’
Silvia looked bemused, as if Posie was asking something she ought to know the answer to. ‘Do you mean the Wrap Party?’
Posie shrugged, feeling even more out of her depth. Dolly chimed in, trying to help. ‘On the last day of filming there’s always a final party, a “Wrap Party”, to celebrate.’
Posie wrote it down. ‘And where will that be?’
Silvia gestured around her. ‘Oh, here of course. In the house and gardens. It will start with a lunch, around noon, and will go on all afternoon. You’ll stay, please?’
‘So it will be a big party, then?’
‘You bet. Huge. All the financial backers will be here, and Bertie Samuelson, the owner of the place, will be here too. And all of the current stars who are on Brian Langley’s pay-roll with Sunstar Films will be made to dance attendance, too, to add a bit of sparkle. In fact, I’ll bet half of fashionable London will be out here in their finest frocks. It will be quite some party. They say that even Ivor Novello will come, but who knows? It’s also the best opportunity for Brian to sell the film; so all the American and English cinema company representatives will be here, and Brian’s hoping he’ll be able to get them interested, even though they won’t be able to see the final product for a couple of weeks.’
‘Golly!’
Posie blew out her cheeks. This didn’t sound good at all: a huge lunch party in a whopping great house, with film stars and important businessmen crawling all over the place, and umpteen opportunities for somebody to kill Silvia Hanro, if they really wanted to. With only Posie around for protection, and no police allowed.
Not good. Not good at all.
Posie chewed her pen-lid. Unless, after all, this turned out to be an empty threat, designed to spook the girl.
But Posie felt it went deeper than that. Unconsciously, Posie trailed her pen lightly over the words in the note which read ‘YOUR LAST GRAND ENTRANCE’.
‘And let me guess: you and your boyfriend Robbie Fontaine will make some kind of big entrance with Brian Langley tomorrow lunchtime, to add that necessary “sparkle”?’
Silvia nodded, but Posie was already imagining the scene at the party: it would be a prime opportunity for a public shooting. Posie shivered despite herself.
‘And what about this “P.S.”?’ she asked. ‘Where the note says “Here’s something to make you think about it”? What’s that all about?’
‘I was coming to that. It’s not very nice, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh? Go on. I’m quite a tough cookie, you know.’
‘I got something with this third note. A token.’
‘What was it?’
‘It’s disgusting. Depraved. It’s why you got called in, really. Brian insisted.’
Silvia had crossed to the back of the room, and opened a small ice-box which Posie now saw was set up on a console table; a cocktail shaker and various glasses and liquors scattered around. Silvia opened the ice-box, withdrew something small and sashayed back. Whatever it was, was a couple of inches long, and wrapped in a silvery paper.
‘Not squeamish, are you? Only I’m not, but this managed to make me throw up my breakfast.’
‘Thank you for the warning.’ Her heart beating, Posie took the object, unwrapped it and then promptly dropped it.
Dolly screamed.
It was a human finger.
****
Five
After they had had a chance to calm down, and Dolly had drunk a bit more champagne, Posie forced herself to think logically. She studied the severed digit.
It was grey and sad-looking, and there was a slip of gold foil in a makeshift ring around the severed end, which made it all seem worse, somehow.
It was obviously a woman’s finger, a left-hand ring finger. Apart from the neat severance, there were no other marks or scars upon it. The nail was unpainted and short and clipped and neat.
‘Golly.’ Posie nodded, chewing her lip. ‘I see this quite changes things. No wonder you’re worried.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I think this finger looks like it’s been frozen.’
‘It has. It’s been in my ice-box all day.’
‘No. I mean it looks like it’s been frozen a long time: weeks, months, more like.’
Dolly squealed. ‘Does that make it in any way better, Posie?’
Posie shook her head. ‘No. It’s still awful. But it could mean things are different to how they seem just now: it hasn’t been chopped off anyone alive, or a recently dead corpse. It’s a prop, albeit a grisly one. Can you put this horrible thing back, please, Silvia? I guess you’d better hold on to it in there for now.’
The movie star did as she was asked and walked to the ice-box. She looked at Posie expectantly.
Posie’s mind was scrabbling over this gruesome new detail. She longed for the calm reassuring tones of Chief Inspector Lovelace, or even, at a push, Len, who was good in bad situations, even if he was a charmer. ‘Why do you want me to deal with this, anyway?’
‘As I said, it was Brian Langley who called you here, actually. Not
me. It was his idea.’ Silvia splayed her hands apologetically.
‘When I got the first of these notes I showed him and he shrugged it off. Well, when I went to see him earlier today with the third note, and the finger, he panicked: he couldn’t bear the thought of losing one half of his wonder-duo, I suppose. He’d seen your advert in The Lady earlier this week. He thought discretion was vital. He insisted on not calling in the police, even with the finger in the equation. I agreed. And he’d heard good things about you. Thought you’d be able to have a good old snoop around Worton Hall and suss things out without asking awkward official questions, and try and find out who’s behind this. You can just pretend to be an old school friend of mine, here for a jolly. Can’t you?’
Dolly looked smug despite her pallor. ‘Mr Langley chose well. Posie is the best detective in town,’ she said loyally. She lit up another violet-coloured Sobranie. ‘Posie’s made such a good name for herself; solved ever so many cases.’
Silvia gave Posie a look of careless curiosity, taking in the pink sapphire. She nodded.
‘I had heard about you, too, of course. You’re Alaric Boynton-Dale’s girl, after all, aren’t you? Bring him along to the party tomorrow, if he’s free, that is. Do bring him. Won’t you?’
‘Well…actually…’
And there it was again. That unwelcome, cold whisper of unease which seemed to come, unbidden, at the very mention of Alaric: Posie’s throat was constricted, and she thought she might choke, but before she could answer fully there was a knock at the door and a small, finely-boned, pale woman with unfashionably long frizzy hair held in place by a tortoiseshell clasp darted in, flooding the room with some welcome air.
‘Twenty minutes to your next take, Miss Hanro. I’m just off to check on Mr Fontaine now. Do you need anything here?’
‘Thank you, Elaine, but no. I’m just coming. Can you set up two extra chairs for my two friends here behind where Mr Langley is filming, please?’
The woman nodded timidly, hazel eyes anxious in an oval face, and hurried out, and then Silvia turned and looked at Posie and Dolly conspiratorially. She seemed to make up her mind about something.
Murder of a Movie Star Page 4