And then the lights, mad and crazy and insufficient though they were, went out completely.
And somebody screamed in the pitch-blackness.
****
Thirty
There was a whizzing, jolting noise. A man shouted aloud:
‘What is this, now?’
The lights came on again, but just for a second or so. It was enough for Posie to see, as if in one of the movie freeze-frames which had now stopped playing, that Brian Langley was still standing exactly where he had been, arms outstretched in front of him, one of his hands clutching at a silver revolver.
Could it be this simple? The Webley?
Posie turned and saw that the Chief Inspector and his trusty Constable, McCrae, were moving right into Brian Langley’s line of fire.
The lights went off again. The darkness was terrible.
‘Everybody get down! This is a police command!’ Inspector Lovelace was shouting through the darkness.
A woman screamed again. Just then a terrible sound of gunshots started up, a staccato sound echoing around the enclosed space, and Posie heard a man shout out. She could have sworn it was Tom Moran:
‘Stop it, you fool. You’re not in the trenches now, are you?’
‘Get down!’ Posie hissed at the two movie stars ahead of her in the blackness. She pulled at Silvia Hanro’s red dress and heard a ripping noise and felt the girl wobble and fall.
Posie was on all fours in the darkness on the podium, behind Silvia, breathing shallowly, trying not to panic more than she was already, when suddenly she felt a hot whizzing breath of a thing sizzle past her left ear, burning its way through her thick chemical-smelling hair and right through her crimson headdress. She didn’t have time to scream.
The bullet went on, leaving her more or less intact.
Up ahead came an impossibly heavy thump, a dull falling sound.
‘Robbie?’
Silvia Hanro was whispering. Then screaming:
‘Robbie?’
Brilliant light suddenly flooded the room as someone with a smidgen of sense had realised that they could quite simply pull down all the black-out blinds and end the chaos without fixing the electricity. It was a summer’s day outside, after all.
A reassuringly authoritative command pierced the suddenly-illuminated chaos:
‘Everybody out! Out now! Through the French doors. A danger is still among us.’
And in that split-second of brightness Posie saw Robbie Fontaine up ahead of her on the podium, on the spangled gold sheet. Blood surrounded him.
He was dead.
His body was twisted and lifeless, his eyes were half-closed and a look of genuine surprise was etched on his handsome face.
And then she saw it: the back of Robbie Fontaine’s head was gone where the bullet had hit him. Silvia Hanro was holding onto his arms, cradling him, pulling at him, as if there was a thread of hope left for him. Dark blood was everywhere, all up her arms and neck and seeping through the front of her red frock.
Posie looked about her, trying not to shake. Down on the dance floor two hundred people were climbing over each other in an effort to escape, like rats from a sinking ship, while a meagre crowd was gathered in the centre of the room where another body was lying.
Who was it?
Posie looked about her in panic. Where was the Inspector?
Tom Moran was suddenly beside them on the podium, on his knees, trembling violently, jolts going right through his body. Silvia clung to Robbie, frozen somehow. She seemed to barely register Tom’s presence. She looked at him with unseeing eyes.
‘Are you all right, my darling?’ he was whispering at Silvia urgently, making a visible effort not to reach out and touch her; to keep in character, even now, as someone who didn’t know her and love her, who wasn’t her real-life husband.
‘I’m here, Silvia, my love. It will be all right.’
Posie almost did a double take as she realised that Tom had lost his hat and his eyepatch and his blue glasses in all the chaos and his exposed face, lacking its eye and nose and cheek, was raw in the stark sunshine, and almost as gruesome as the back of Robbie Fontaine’s head. Posie tried not to stare.
A woman was screaming shrilly from the group by the body on the dance floor, in a fit of panic, the same words, over and over again:
‘That woman! That woman! She ruined my life!’
Posie stared. It was Pamela Hanro.
She was standing rooted to the spot, crying and shaking. Posie thought that Pamela must be referring to Silvia, and then she noticed that Pamela was held tightly on either side by men in black tie, presumably policemen.
A couple of seconds later, Chief Inspector Lovelace, recognisable by his rusty-red hair, had joined the group in the centre, where he muttered something inaudible to Pamela, showed her something in his hand – something which seemed metallic – and nodded brusquely at the two policemen.
There was a glimmer of handcuffs as they were clamped into place on Pamela’s wrists. The Chief Inspector looked very sombre.
Lovelace was shouting again at the crowds: ‘Everybody out. Now. No point hanging around in here. We have contained the danger and we need you outside.’
To his men, Posie heard Lovelace utter the words ‘Langley,’ and ‘Grape Street,’ and ‘place of safety for the actress.’
And then Pamela was led away.
Silvia Hanro was staring over at her sister’s retreating back, her mouth open in complete surprise. Tom Moran had melted away in the confusion, presumably anxious not to be seen with Silvia.
‘What in heaven’s name? What on earth is she doing here? Is she the one who fired the shots? Has my sister just been arrested? Again?’
Posie was about to reply that she simply had no idea anymore, when the movie star seemed to recover herself, and, looking down at the body she was cradling in her arms, and the pooling blood, she stared across at Posie in a sort of stupefied horror.
‘What is Sheila going to do?’ Silvia hissed fearfully.
‘She lived for Robbie. She loved him beyond anything. What will I tell her? This is all my fault, isn’t it?’
Posie sat, uncomprehending: ‘Sheila?’
And just then the swirling mass of journalists, their senses sharpened to the scent of calamity, seemed to converge in a swell up the steps to the podium.
‘It’s murder!’
Silvia Hanro froze, cat-like, her huge eyes blinking, still holding on to Robbie Fontaine as if she couldn’t move. The crowd of trench coats assembled before her. Flashbulbs started to go off.
‘MURDER!’ shouted another journalist again.
‘MURDER OF A MOVIE STAR!’
Posie stood up. She walked to where the two actors were sitting in their odd tableau, picked up what she could of the gold sheet and tried to block the view of the journalists as best she could.
‘Get away!’ she snarled. ‘Get out of here.’
‘I thought it was Miss Hanro who was supposed to die!’ One small dark man tried to stare Posie down, hopeful for a reaction. He had his pen and notepad at the ready, and smiled gleefully.
‘That’s what we were all told, anyhow!’
‘This isn’t a game,’ Posie heard herself say authoritatively, although she felt like almost sobbing. ‘You’re sick. Sick in the head. Get away.’
And suddenly there was Chief Inspector Lovelace, looming up before her, his reassuring figure ushering the press away. The room below was now empty.
Posie suddenly saw that Lovelace was covered in blood.
‘What’s that?’ she whimpered, touching the bib of his shirt-front. ‘Are you hurt, sir?’
The Inspector’s eyes clouded a little but he pursed his lips in a grim line.
‘It’s not my blood,’ he said in a low, tight voice. ‘It’s McCrae. He was standing right in front of me. He got hit. He didn’t make it. He was murdered. Like Mr Fontaine here.’
Posie gasped. ‘I’m so sorry. And what about…?’
&nbs
p; ‘Langley?’ Lovelace nodded bleakly. ‘Clever trick, wasn’t it? About the lights. It was rigged up this way: I should have listened to you, Posie. A fine shot like him! He’d placed himself in an ideal spot for it, too. He’s scarpered, of course. I’ve got my lads searching the grounds now. Everyone else is being questioned or patched up or comforted out on the lawns. Good old Bertie Samuelson is calling for more back-up as we speak.’
‘Are you sure it was Langley, sir?’
‘Aren’t you? You saw him with that gun, clear as we did. Didn’t you?’
Posie nodded mournfully. ‘What was that with Pamela Hanro, just now?’
Lovelace nodded again. ‘Can’t be sure just yet. But when the light flooded the place just now she was standing there holding a Webley in her hands, Langley having made a run for it. It might be something, or it might be nothing. She might have just picked it up from the floor, but it’s likely she was in on it with Langley. Aiding and abetting, most likely. Why else was she here? Seems jolly odd. She’s got form, remember? And all that guff just now about her sister ruining her life. It doesn’t look good for her, I’ll be honest.’
Posie grimaced. Lovelace’s features softened. He was quite fond of Posie. More than a bit fond, actually.
‘You don’t look so good yourself right now, my girl. I think our Mr Langley must have aimed at you, thinking you were Miss Hanro. You do look very alike from behind. Especially in the darkness. Good thing was that he missed you both. But Mr Fontaine here obviously wasn’t quite so lucky. Nobody knows about Robbie Fontaine just yet.’ He grimaced. ‘Well. They didn’t. Those dratted journalists won’t take long to go spreading the news.’
‘What shall I do now, sir?’
‘I want you to take Miss Hanro here to Grape Street. Quick as you can. Binny will drive you and protect you. He’ll be here any minute. Keep her safe until I’m with you. You hear me? Keep her safe. We can’t know where Langley has got to, or if he plans on carrying out his mad plan to fruition. Don’t attract any attention: just go.’
‘Why don’t we head to Scotland Yard, sir? It seems the obvious place.’
‘Exactly. That’s what Langley will expect us to do. We’ll do what he’s not expecting. Besides, I’ve got most of my team out with me here.’
The Chief Inspector sniffed momentarily. ‘What’s left of my team, I mean.’
‘And Dolly, sir? She’s got to be kept safe. You can’t let anyone get at her. That would be disastrous.’
‘I know. Lady Cardigeon is safe with Sergeant Rainbird and he’ll take her home.’
‘No. No, don’t do that, sir. Deliver her direct to Rufus. I don’t want the risk of any mysterious third parties getting at Dolly. Far better Rufus meets her directly. He’ll be at the House of Lords, as usual.’
‘Fine. As you think best. Now, could you step away from the body now, Miss Hanro? I’ll have to get Dr Poots, the Pathologist out here.’
‘Of course. Give me a second.’
In the silence that followed, Posie was aware suddenly of two voices, both familiar to her in a very vague, implacable way, cutting through the silence of the huge room.
‘I told you he was mean, didn’t I?’
‘You did, Sheila. There’s no denying it. All I’ve done for him, too. Promises, promises and nothing happening. No more money. I can’t find him anywhere. He deserves whatever shocking fact it was that you told him; so he does.’
‘He does indeed.’
And Posie saw that it was the fat cook and Mrs Cleeves, both now over at the buffet, helping themselves to plates of food. They were obviously completely unaware of the presence of those up on the podium.
A strange sound seemed to emanate from Silvia Hanro. A strangled cry. She stood up and let go of Robbie Fontaine at last. She stared at the women by the buffet.
The Housekeeper in her navy clothes had turned casually and had been looking over, but now she seemed galvanised into action. There was a hissing sound and a dropping of a plate. A smashing noise and a wild and inhuman scream.
‘Robbie?’
The Housekeeper was screaming and flinging herself up the steps while the cook stared on, stupidly. Silvia Hanro stepped respectfully aside.
‘Now, now,’ said the Chief Inspector dully, tiredness and weary wretchedness breaking through his voice. ‘It’s not the time or place for wild shows of affection for your favourite star; you’ll have to mourn from afar like all the rest of them. Step back, madam. Please.’
The Housekeeper howled and dropped to her knees. Her hat had fallen off and she pulled out the pins in her dark hair instinctively, as if it could ease her hurt. Dark hair fell around her face in little coils and she instantly looked younger, prettier.
She was on all fours, clambering over to the body in its gold shroud like a woman possessed. And something clicked in Posie’s mind.
‘Idiot!’
She cursed herself for not having spotted it before. This was the reason why Robbie Fontaine knew Brian Langley’s secrets.
The Housekeeper snooped for him when Brian Langley was away, had rifled through the Producer’s personal correspondence: in fact, Posie had caught her red-handed.
The Housekeeper did other things, too. She had kept Robbie Fontaine in drugs; had fed his habit and got him money when he had run out. Had done anything, in fact, to make the movie star happy. She had done it for years. Robbie Fontaine had described her as a wee clever woman, and undeniably she was. Silvia had spoken the truth, too: this woman had obviously lived for Robbie Fontaine. She had loved him beyond anything. And he had loved her, too. Had been about to give it all up for her sake. For their future. For the children who now wouldn’t be born.
Now the woman was holding onto her dead husband and rocking him back and forth. Her sobs were pitiful to hear.
‘Sir,’ Posie said softly. ‘Sir, you’re all wrong, sir. This is Sheila. Robbie Fontaine’s wife.’
‘What?’
And just as the situation couldn’t get any worse, they both turned as a strange and piercing cry came from the doorway of the huge empty room.
A lad stood there, and Posie recognised Sidney, the stringer, small in the grand doorway. He seemed much younger than his twelve years and a look of horrified doubt was spreading on his pasty face.
‘Is it true, is Mr Fontaine dead? That’s what they’re all sayin’ out here. What’ll I do now?’
He looked for reassurance to Sheila, but she didn’t bother to raise her head and instead his eyes scanned the podium for someone else he knew in among all the confusion. They settled on Posie.
She was reminded of the song the boy had been whistling the day before, ‘In and Out of the Dusty Bluebells,’ when many things had seemed brighter.
Who will be my master?
‘Tell me it ain’t true, Miss. He were the best. Please? What’ll I do now, Miss?’
****
Binny had brought the police car right up to the doorway of the ballroom. The car was parked outside one of the big windows, on the grassy lawn, the motor throbbing. A young policeman in uniform was now with the body of Constable McCrae and another was with Sheila, and Chief Inspector Lovelace ushered Posie and Silvia Hanro down the steps.
‘Hurry,’ he said, his green eyes scanning the room anxiously. Silvia Hanro slipped through a glass door, her head bowed, looking as if she might weep at any second, and she got up into the car.
‘Wait,’ said Posie, turning back into the room.
‘What is it now?’ snarled the Inspector. He followed her gaze: Sidney was still in the doorway, unmoving. Posie fished in her handbag. She found her money clip which still had all of Brian Langley’s crisp pound notes in it. She peeled one off the top. She called the boy over. The Inspector went out to speak to Binny in the car, considerably peeved.
‘Sidney,’ she said, seriously, looking into his eyes. ‘I need you to work for me today, all right?’
The lad stared, rubbed his eyes which were still teary, and then nodded and wiped h
is nose on the back of his hand. He stood up a bit straighter.
‘You know how to use a telephone, don’t you?’
The boy nodded. ‘’Course, Miss.’
‘Go upstairs, now. Tell Mr Samuelson that you need to use his telephone. Give him this if he questions you.’ Posie grabbed one of her real business cards and wrote on it:
IN HASTE – I SENT THIS LAD TO USE YOUR TELEPHONE.
HE NEEDS YOUR DRIVER TOO.
ALL BEST,
POSIE PARKER.
Below it she scrawled:
HOLBORN – 1267
WESTMINSTER –7788
She thrust the card at Sidney:
‘I need you to call two places. My office, that’s the first number on the Holborn exchange. Speak to Len Irving, and don’t be fobbed off. Say it’s urgent. Tell him to dismiss the secretary for the day; get her to go home. Tell him Miss Hanro and I are on our way with a police escort, and to expect trouble. He needs to be on the look-out, and to be prepared. I need his help.’
‘Okay, Miss. I’ve got it.’
‘Good. Then call the second number written there. It’s the House of Lords, so mind your manners. Ask for Lord Cardigeon and mention my name. Tell him his wife is going to be dropped off there in about an hour and to wait for her personally.’
‘Fine, Miss. I can do that, no problem.’ The lad nodded, brightening a bit although he kept casting looks over to his former boss’ body.
‘Then what do you want me to do?’
Posie handed over a fistful of coins. She accidentally on purpose let the white brightness of the pound note show in her hand. Sidney’s eyes widened and he stared at Posie, drop-jawed. A pound note was a fortune to him. A year of living adequately, at least.
‘Here’s some money. Get Mr Samuelson to send you to the address on that business card, with his driver preferably. Buy some chicken on route, nice stuff, and bring it with you to my office. Len, my partner, is first-rate, but not when it comes to feeding cats.’
‘Cats, Miss?’
‘Never mind. Just bring the meat in a butchers’ wrap. Come to the office as fast as you can; it’s up on the third floor. Be prepared to muck in. You might get sent on more errands.’
Murder of a Movie Star Page 29