Murder of a Movie Star

by L. B. Hathaway

  Posie drummed her fingers lightly on the table, her mind racing. She wanted to get the party over and go home; leave the world of movies and movie stars and carefully choreographed secrets behind her. There were secrets here aplenty, papered over with the thinnest of thin coverings. And the war, that most awful shadow of them all, seemed to loom largely over nearly everything. Even here.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Sergeant Rainbird popped his head around the door and grinned. ‘This your new headquarters, Miss Parker?’ he joked. ‘A broom cupboard? Rent got too much at Grape Street, has it?’

  ‘Ha. Ha. Very droll. The Inspector wants me?’

  ‘Nope. I do. You were right. That hunch you had.’

  Rainbird held out a large brown envelope to Posie, who gulped and swallowed down a strange feeling of excitement and dread at the same time.

  She had entertained this notion earlier that morning, but not fully believed in it until now.

  ‘Oh. Goodness me. Now I’m finally beginning to understand. And it wasn’t a hunch, Sergeant. It was rather a pathetic little stab in the dark because I had nothing else to go on.’

  ‘A good stab, anyhow,’ said Rainbird, smiling. ‘So now what do you want us to do?’

  But Posie was miles away, staring at two of the things she had shaken out of the envelope onto the tiny desk. Both were of orange-coloured hues. The first was a very damp dress, the same apricot-coloured dress she had seen a girl wear the night before, out on the Aldwych, which Sergeant Rainbird had picked up off the floor in Tom Moran’s flat at the Albany.

  And the second was a ripped but almost-intact orange form, with an inky carbon counterpart below it. The perfect match for the tiny sliver she had found in Silvia’s apartments here at Worton Hall. It was also identical to the forms Posie had collected from Camden Registry for herself and Alaric back in January.

  This particular form was from Westminster Registry Office and it was a licence for a marriage to take place on a given date. It had been granted on Monday. And the actual date for the marriage to take place on was the day before, on Wednesday 25th July at nine-thirty in the morning.

  It granted a marriage to take place between Silvia Hanro and Mark Paris.

  Silvia’s mysterious appointment which Brian Langley had raged about yesterday, and why Silvia had missed her early filming slot yesterday morning were now explained. She had gone to get married, instead.

  It all made sense.

  ****

  Twenty-Seven

  Posie snapped into action. ‘Will you help me, Sergeant?’

  ‘What do you need me to do?’ asked Rainbird, his joking manner now completely gone.

  ‘Can you go and telephone for me? But use Mr Samuelson’s office upstairs, the line is secure, not like in that foyer along there. You have the authority: I don’t. Call Westminster Registry Office and find out if the marriage really did take place, and if so, fetch me Silvia Hanro. She’s filming just now out in that dark studio at the back. Don’t tell her a word of what we know.’

  ‘Will do. By the way, the Chief has just finished with Elaine’s brother; this Joe Dickinson fella, the Funeral Director. He’s confirmed the body is his sister. It’s still here, by the way, in a mortuary van out front: Poots seems to be running a few more tests, actually. He’s called some specialist crony in. Oh, and Joe says that it was Elaine’s writing on those cards, and she did use green ink normally.’

  ‘And the finger?’

  ‘Yes: she did ask for a finger to be sent to her here at the studios.’

  The Sergeant made a loopy sign to indicate that the girl obviously wasn’t quite the ticket.

  ‘Joe Dickinson admits his role in that. Of course, action will have to be taken against him for contravening health and safety rules and breaking a whole gamut of other funeral industry rules. Apparently it was received by Elaine on Monday, a courier delivered it. So she seems to have pre-meditated the whole thing: obviously she kept the finger on ice until yesterday. Seems the whole thing was planned out. The Inspector’s more convinced than ever this is a case of a fan gone wild.’

  ‘Really? So straightforward?’

  ‘You don’t think so, Miss?’

  Posie shrugged non-committally. ‘Is anyone checking her room? The drugs I found up there?’

  ‘Yep. Just more fuel for the fire, we think.’

  ‘Fine.’

  But it wasn’t fine. Posie stood at the door and watched Rainbird’s retreating back in a sort of blind panic. Some of the puzzle pieces were coming together, but not all. And what was missing was the most dangerous part of all. She felt a terrible sense of foreboding.

  Just then Posie saw the thin, colourless man from earlier drift listlessly along the corridor on his own, a dim shadow of a man, whose thin sweaty suit hung off him like a sheet. He seemed to be in a world of his own, tottering along in a brittle, tragic manner.

  ‘Mr Dickinson?’ she called out, almost certain that the man was Elaine’s brother, the Funeral Director. She leant against the door frame of the props room.

  He turned and gave her a look full of sadness, but it was full of awe and respect, too.

  ‘Yes? Who are you, Miss? Do I know you? Are you one of the actresses here?’

  Posie shook her head. ‘No. I’m just frightfully sorry for your loss, that’s all.’

  ‘Did you know my sister?’ The man sounded eager.

  ‘Not well, no. I’m part of the investigation into Elaine’s death. I’m not going to ask you anything the police haven’t already, but I wondered something…’

  ‘What?’ Joe Dickinson came nearer, and up close Posie could see he was extraordinarily like his now-dead sister, save for the long frizzy hair. Posie cocked her head, tried to look as if she was going to keep anything he said confidential.

  ‘I’m wondering if your sister was happy, Mr Dickinson?’

  The brother nodded quickly. ‘She was, Miss. She was happy. In fact, she was a changed girl. She was stepping out with a fella from here, and she told me all her dreams had come true. They had even spoken about getting married. So, you see, she wasn’t very likely to kill herself, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’ Posie nodded reassuringly, although this was all news to her. ‘And you never met this gentleman?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘To be honest I was never much up here. It’s not my world. But Elaine loved it all. It was all she had. You could barely get her away. If we met it was for a quick sandwich at that pub down the road. She almost never came into Richmond, or went up to town: maybe once a year for Christmas shopping. But I think she bought everything from magazines, from those order companies who deliver.’

  ‘So as far as you’re aware Elaine wasn’t in Richmond last night, about eight o’clock?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Why?’

  Posie ignored him. ‘And she didn’t ask you to send some telegrams for her from Richmond Post Office last night?’

  The man looked dumbfounded and shook his head again.

  ‘And you don’t know if she had any other friends who might have done that for her?’

  The man looked sad. ‘As far as I know she didn’t have any other friends. Not any out of this place, anyhow. It’s a sad thing to say but my sister was never popular. And she was a loner. Well, I am, too. But it doesn’t matter much in my line of work, does it? Is that all, Miss?’

  Posie summoned all of her courage, not wanting to knock the man when he was already down, but she had to know the truth.

  ‘I’m sorry to ask, but did your sister indulge in drug taking at all?’

  ‘Drugs?’ The man looked crestfallen, as if his last certainty had been taken away. ‘Nobody mentioned anything of that sort!’ In fact, he began to look outraged.

  ‘It’s just a line of enquiry, sir.’

  ‘Well, take it from me, my sister would never even take a Beechams pill for a headache unless she was at death’s door. She had a fear
of anything she termed “unnatural”. So the answer is “no”. No drug taking. Absolutely not.’

  The man walked off sullenly, and Posie bit her lip, sensitive to his pain. Sergeant Rainbird almost collided with him as he hared along to Posie at breakneck speed. He gave an elaborate thumbs-up sign.

  ‘Yes. It did take place. All signed and sealed and married. Yesterday morning. They just dragged two witnesses in off the street, apparently. No-one else was present. Helpful?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Miss Hanro will be with you in a few minutes. She said by ten-thirty, for certain.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll stay in here for a bit. Can you make sure that Lady Cardigeon stays put, too? And if she shows any signs of wandering, come and get me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Posie turned and noticed that some wag had pinned a scrap of paper to the props room door saying:

  POSIE PARKER – ON LOAN FROM GRAPE STREET.

  KNOCK AND COME ON IN!

  Without bothering to take it down, Posie disappeared inside and paced backwards and forwards. She was irritated and angry, but above all, scared. Several events and reactions she had not comprehended before could now be explained. But it was all simply background information which she should have been supplied with in the first place, to make her job easier.

  Why were the very people at the centre of this strange case going to such elaborate lengths to conceal things? She was sure Silvia Hanro wasn’t sending herself death threats, in some mad attempt at publicity, but Posie had to face the fact that she couldn’t really trust the girl. And didn’t like her much, now, either. Not even a bit.

  There was a loud rapping at the door. She puffed aloud, desperate for some thinking space, minding the intrusion.

  ‘Come in.’ If you must.

  She nearly fell off the rickety white chair in surprise as a citrus musk crowded the room. It was the last person she had been expecting.

  It was Robbie Fontaine.

  ****

  The film star was still wearing full make-up and his Henry the Eighth beard, but had obviously changed and was now dressed in his own immaculate white tennis clothes. He was looking much calmer than earlier that morning.

  He kicked the door shut behind him and stood, his arms folded.

  At first Posie found the gesture quite threatening, but then she realised the man probably stood like this normally, when not bothering to act for people. She remembered the comments Silvia Hanro had made about the young riveter who had wrestled on the Glasgow dockside and she could imagine him as he had been twenty years before, before drugs and money took over.

  ‘Can I help you, Mr Fontaine?’ Posie had got her notebook out in a desperate attempt to look professional under the man’s scrutiny.

  ‘No,’ said the movie star at last. His big golden wristwatch glinted in the gloom of the cupboard as he ran his hands through his thick black hair and fake beard. He began to pull the beard off in great chunks, wincing at the pain. Eventually he shrugged and seemed to make up his mind. ‘Och, no. It’s me who can help you, actually.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve come to apologise for my behaviour towards you. Yesterday, I mean. I meant to come first thing but we’ve been filming this last take until it was perfect. You know how Langley is…’

  This unexpected gesture demanded a seat, and Posie looked around quickly, fearing the man might bolt otherwise. A bashed-up stool which had once been painted gold with seashells stuck all over it was the only choice. She pulled it out and offered it. Fontaine took the seat wordlessly.

  ‘I’d light a cigar but it’s so darned airless in here,’ he said, looking about curiously. His gaze rested on Posie’s face and he lifted a famous eyebrow.

  ‘Nice hair, by the way. You look like a wee American doll.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She flushed. ‘Is that a good thing?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Feeling wrong-footed, Posie got up, turned and fiddled with a long hooked pole designed for opening the one tiny window, high up in the room. She didn’t feel like a doll at all, American or otherwise. She felt hot, and bothered, and like she was in over her head. She struggled with the pole and at last she got the window open.

  ‘Guess you can smoke now, Mr Fontaine.’

  He nodded and took out a cigar tin. ‘You know, from behind, you’re an exact double for Silvia? With that new hair, I mean.’

  ‘Mnnn. You were saying, before?’

  ‘I was rude to you yesterday, Miss Parker. It was inexcusable. I know you’re a smart wee cookie, and I guess I was afraid.’

  Posie frowned, remembering the way the movie star hadn’t wanted to speak to her at all; how he had even seemed to avoid eye contact with her, as if he was guilty of something or other.

  Yes. That was it. Guilt.

  ‘Afraid of what, exactly, Mr Fontaine? Smart women?’

  ‘I’d be in trouble then, Miss Parker. I’m surrounded by wee smart women. I love them, too. Wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  The man laughed a great bear-like belly laugh, and Posie realised it was the most genuine, attractive thing about him.

  Posie had given up any thoughts of taking notes, and simply flicked the pages of her notebook nervily. It fell open on the page where she had scribbled ‘HATE’ and ‘LOVE’ and ‘MONEY’ on the previous day. She snapped it shut quickly, before Robbie Fontaine saw anything.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you had something to do with the death threats to Silvia Hanro, your, er…your co-star? Is that why you were afraid? You thought I’d find you out?’

  ‘No,’ Robbie said, carefully. ‘But I think you know that, otherwise you’d have questioned me by now. Although I’m pretty certain you know a whole lot more about me and Miss Silvia Hanro than you’re supposed to. Isn’t that the case, Miss Parker?’

  ‘About your relationship, you mean?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Posie nodded, non-committal. ‘I might know about it. Yes.’

  The man splayed his hands. ‘Well, even if you know nothing about movies, as you don’t seem to, you’ll have realised by now that she is much the bigger star. I ride on her coat tails. If she died, my career would die, too. I don’t like the lass one wee bit but I don’t want to kill her. I need her too much. So why would I send her death threats?’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But why don’t you like her?’

  Robbie Fontaine snorted and shrugged. ‘Well, apart from the fact that she’s a terrible wee snob, and never lets me forget where I’m from, she shows me up. She’s the lassie who’s always perfect: always on time, always knows her lines, always gets things right first time. She’s too perfect. It’s all show.’

  Posie could see the man was a good deal stirred up.

  ‘A show?’

  ‘Aye. In addition to our pretend relationship, which is bad enough, everything that girl does is a lie. She’s a hypocrite.’

  Posie thought for a second that Fontaine knew about the child, Hilda, but he resumed bitterly:

  ‘Take that fella of hers, Tom. Mark, as was – for I’m sure you know that, too – well, he’s had it tough, poor devil. And he’s a first-rate chap, but nothing can be as tough as being in a relationship with someone who doesn’t love you.’

  ‘I’ll just call him Tom to make it simpler. So you’re saying Silvia doesn’t love Tom? How come?’

  ‘Maybe she did once. But we were all different back then, weren’t we, before the war? No: she doesn’t love Tom. Not that she can leave him, mind. She’s got staying power, I’ll give her that. Obviously she feels she’s got to stick by him.’

  ‘How do you know all of this?’

  Fontaine made a choking sound. ‘I have the suite next to hers, don’t I? Upstairs? The walls are paper thin in this place, everywhere: you can hear everything. In three months all I’ve heard from that room is them acting like polite, perfect strangers towards each other.’

  ‘Maybe they knew you were listening in? Maybe they went to his r
oom?’

  ‘Maybe. But Silvia and I, we dance this crazy tune together: you don’t spent hours every day with someone and not know what’s preying on their mind.’

  ‘And what’s on hers?’

  Fontaine looked at Posie as if she might be stupid. ‘Why, I thought someone with your skills would have realised – our esteemed Producer is on her mind. She’s been madly in love with old Brian Langley for years. God knows why. You should see the way her eyes follow him about, like she’s haunted by him or something. I think they must have had something between them once, and she’s not forgotten it. I’d guess that she was going to leave Tom for Brian Langley, but then Tom got cut up the way he did in the war. She couldn’t exactly leave him then, could she?’

  Posie stared. ‘And does Mr Langley reciprocate her feelings?’

  ‘No,’ said Fontaine, putting out his cigar. ‘Professionally she brings in wads of money for him, but on a personal level he hates her. I don’t know why but he can’t stand to be in the same room as her. It’s like she’s committed some awful crime. Like she stinks or something.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Complicated, eh?’

  ‘A bit messy. But I still don’t see why you were apologising to me.’

  Robbie Fontaine looked at Posie full on. He took a deep breath. ‘I think you know a good deal of what’s going on here, Miss Parker, and that includes knowing about my addiction. Yes?’

  ‘I had heard rumours. Yes.’

  ‘You can’t repeat this to your policeman friend who fancies you next door, promise me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Chief Inspector.’

  Posie paused, then swallowed. She flushed. ‘I promise.’

  ‘You know that every addict needs a good dealer? Especially an addict who is as famous as me. What I need, and what I pay handsomely for, is discretion.’

  ‘I’m not really following you…’

  ‘I have a dealer. His name is Johnnie Roslington and he lives in a flat in the Burlington Arcade. He’s top-drawer, a man of international business, but his real line is in cocaine. I see him personally about once a month, and in between times I get Sidney, my runner, to go to the Burlington Arcade and collect parcels of the stuff for me.’