by Simon Brett
Twinks read out:
MOLL MIMSY HOME PATCH SNATCH IN SMARTY PARTY GLITZ BLITZ
Mimsy La Pim, one-time doe-eyed doll, now more of a made-man’s moll, gave a party last night at her own hacienda. But hacienda the good news for Mimsy! She shoulda been the hostess with the mostest, but she ended the evening the hostess who was lostest. Kidded and caught napping by kidnappers at her own home! Duct-taped around the mouth and abducted! The LAPD are on the case, but we all know they’re so slow they’d be LAPPED in a tortoise race. Mimsy La Pim’s been saved from a fate worse than death many times on the silver screen, but who’s going to save her from the real thing?
‘I am,’ said Blotto devoutly. ‘It’s my quest.’
Twinks raised her beautiful eyelashes to glance at her brother before continuing her reading.
But why did the kidnapping happen? Has ‘butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth’ Mimsy been butting into places where she didn’t ought to have butt? Has she committed the offence of offending a rather important Caporoonie called Lenny? Or are some other Cosaroonies who don’t see eye to eye with Lenny giving him one in the eye by snatching Mimsy? As soon as the news cues, you know you’ll hear it here first from your alter-ego amigo Heddan Schoulders!’
‘Toad in the hole!’ said Blotto. ‘A lot of spoffing wocky wordage comes out of her tooth-box, doesn’t it, Twinks me old bathplug? You’d think a journalist would have learned to speak proper English like we do, wouldn’t you?’
‘You’re on the right side of right there, Blotto me old griddle-pan,’ his sister agreed.
‘Who’s this LAPD she was pongling on about?’
‘Los Angeles Police Department.’
‘Ah. Should we ask them how they’re getting on with the investigation?’
Twinks shook her head decisively. ‘Police out here don’t take kindly to amateur investigators.’
‘Toad in the hole!’ said Blotto. ‘Back in the old GB they couldn’t be more helpful.’ He thought fondly of Chief Inspector Trumbull and Sergeant Knatchbull of the Tawcestershire Constabulary back in England. ‘The only function of the police in Blighty is to be permanently baffled.’
‘Bit different out here,’ said Twinks. ‘If we investigate Mimsy La Pim’s kidnap we’re going to have to be as secret as a mistress at a family party.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Because, apart from the local cops not liking amateurs, Blotto me old tub of shaving soap, there could be some real stenchers in the Force who are actually responsible for Mimsy’s disappearance.’
‘Toad in the hole! Do you know something about it?’ He was used to his sister having inside information on almost everything. ‘Come on, uncage the ferrets.’
Twinks had to be careful. After what she had heard from Hank Urchief, she felt convinced there was a Mafia connection to Mimsy La Pim’s kidnapping, but she didn’t want to reveal to her brother that the actress was Lenny ‘The Skull’ Orvieto’s ‘current bit of skirt.’ So all she said was, ‘There’s a criminal underworld in Hollywood.’
‘Is there?’ said Blotto. ‘Kind of like a subway? So how do you get down into it?’
‘No, no. It’s not a real underworld. It’s a metaphor.’
‘Ah yes,’ Blotto responded airily, ‘I remember discussing those with Ponky Larreighffriebollaux.’
‘Did you really?’ The idea of the two of them discussing figures of speech sounded unlikely, but Twinks pressed on. ‘The fact is, Blotto, that wherever there are spondulicks to be made, then you’re going to get some fumacious criminals muscling in on the shooting party. And because there are Jereboamsful of spondulicks to be made in Hollywood, it means there are Jereboamsful of fumacious criminals trying to get their hands on it.’
‘Do you know which fumacious criminals might be after Mimsy?’ asked Blotto.
‘I think they may be of Italian origin.’
Blotto nodded sagely. ‘That would fit the pigeonhole, yes.’
‘Sorry, not on the same page, Blotters?’
‘Well, a lot of Italian boddoes have moustaches, don’t they?’
‘Ye-es,’ Twinks agreed cautiously.
‘So the stenchers could twirl them . . .’
‘Ye-es.’
‘. . . while they tied her to railway lines.’
For a moment Twinks was tempted to spell out to her brother the difference between the movies and real life, but then she decided it really wasn’t worth the effort. ‘What I was really talking about, Blotto me old soap rack, was . . .’ She lowered her voice. ‘Can I say the word “Mafia”?’
‘Yes, you can,’ said Blotto.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you just did.’
‘Did what?’
‘Say the word “Mafia”. Came across loud and clear into my lug-sockets. Don’t don your worry-boots about that, old thing. You can certainly say the word “Mafia”, no doubt about it. You could probably represent England in a Mafia-saying competition.’
‘But what I meant was—’
Her brother, however, had already moved on. ‘Anyway, I can’t think about stuff like that now,’ he said. ‘I have a higher calling. It is now my sacred quest to rescue Mimsy, just like Sir Gastropod.’
‘Galahad,’ said Twinks wearily.
She was about to throw the paper down when another item at the bottom of Hedda’s column caught her eye. ‘Oh, for the love of apricots . . . !’ she said.
Twinks didn’t usually employ such strong language, but then rarely had she been so provoked. The headline read, ‘HUNK HANK CASTS BRIT ARISTO SQUEEZE AS HELEN IN TROJAN HORSE FLICK’.
In a state of some trepidation she read on:
Languorous Lita Bottel did something oopsadaisical by shooting her jail-bait pool boy cuddle in love triangle. But moviemeister Gottfried von Klappen-trappen isn’t prepared to wait till she gets out of the slammer to do his own bitta shooting on his Humungous Studios Trojan Horse extravaganzaroonie. So it’s bye-bye, old Helen of Troy, and how ya doing, new Helen of Troy? Then who is to be the face who launched a thousand gossip columns? Wouldja believe that once again it’s your press princess Heddan Schoulders who got the exclusive! Maybe it’s because brawny beefcake Hank Urchief was brought up on a turkey farm in Minnesota that he’s lost his taste for the birds Hollywood Boulevard has on offer and is now touching toes with an English rose. Yup, to be frank, Hank the Yank’s on the swank, getting red-blooded with a blue-blooded Brit chit. She’s a close confidante of the English King, called Lady Honoria Lemondrop, Duchess of Tastebud, whose family history goes as far back as the Civil War (theirs, not ours, dumbos). And she’s the new Helen of Troy over whom flickslicker Gottfried von Klappentrappen will be cracking his riding crop on the Trojan Horse set tomorrow. Admit it, you’d be no-news numbskulls if you didn’t have your colossal columnist Heddan Schoulders telling it straightest and keeping up with the latest, wouldntja? Till the next time, you-all!
‘Oh, rodents!’ said Twinks, again using stronger language than was her well-bred wont. ‘Why do the press always get everything wrong?’
‘May I clap my peepers on it?’ asked Blotto.
With a despairing sigh, Twinks chucked the paper over to her brother.
There was a long silence – Blotto never had been a quick reader. Eventually, he said, ‘You’re right, Twinks me old soup ladle. They have got it wrong. Our family doesn’t go back to the Civil War. It goes back to the Norman Conquest.’
‘If that was the only thing they’d clunked up . . .’ said Twinks hopelessly.
‘But you are going to do it, aren’t you?’ asked Blotto.
‘What?’
‘Step up to the crease as Helen of Troy?’
‘Blotto me old mashie niblick, I’m as likely to play Helen of Troy as the Mater is to join a travelling circus.’
‘Oh.’
Twinks immediately identified the disappointment in his monosyllable. ‘Blotters, what’s put lumps in your custard?’
‘Well, I was just thinking . . . h
ow’re we going to crank up the engine on our quest to find Mimsy La Pim.’ Twinks was too tender-spirited to point out that it was actually his not our quest. ‘We’re not overstocked with leads . . . and most of the people we know in Hollywood . . . Gottenfried von Klappentrappen, Zelda Finch, Hank Urchief, J. Winthrop Stukes . . . well, they’re all in some way bingled up with this Trojan Horse rombooley.’
‘So you’re suggesting, Blotto, that I should take the part of Helen of Troy simply so I can help investigate the disappearance of Mimsy La Pim?’
‘You’re bong on the nose there, Twinks.’ He was relieved that his sister had so readily got the point, but her expression wasn’t encouraging.
‘There is one tiny problemette, though, Blotters . . .’ she replied.
‘And what’s that when it’s got its spats on?’
‘In spite of what Heddan Schoulders’ column murbled on about, I haven’t yet been offered the part of Helen of Troy.’
At that moment the phone in the suite rang. It was Gottfried von Klappentrappen, offering Honoria Lyminster the part of Helen of Troy. Twinks accepted.
There was a sparkle in her eye as she put down the receiver and looked back at her brother. ‘You were right, Blotto. This is going to be the best way to advance our investigation. And I think the whole clangdumble is going to be larksissimo!’
‘Good ticket,’ said Blotto.
11
On the Set of The Trojan Horse
‘Gott im Himmel!’ shrieked Gottfried von Klappentrappen once again. ‘Just stand still! If you move your head, vee don’t see zee snakes move!’
The studio in which he was working was huge and filled with a set designer’s idea of what Ancient Greece – or possibly Ancient Rome – might have looked like. The basic principle on which he or she seemed to have worked was that you can never have too many stone columns. Many more columns would be built when Gottfried von Klappentrappen moved out of the studio and started location filming, marshalling the thousands of extras who were a feature of every movie he made.
That morning in the studio he was beginning to lose his temper while setting up a complicated shot featuring Medusa. With the level of punctilious attention that Hollywood brought to everything except historical accuracy, it had been decided that Medusa’s hair of snakes should be made of real snakes. Sadly, the actress playing the part was ophidiophobic (though, for obvious reasons, Twinks wouldn’t say that to Blotto when she recounted the scene to him later in the day – he wouldn’t have a clue what she was talking about – she’d just say the actress was terrified of snakes). The result was that every time her living wig was put on her head she trembled so much it was impossible to get a decent shot of her. Which was why Gottfried von Klappentrappen was bawling her out.
What made the situation exciting for the film crew (including the one who was paid by Heddan Schoulders to inform her of any on-set dirt) was that the actress playing Medusa was Zelda Finch, which meant the director was bawling out his wife. Already one of the lighting technicians was running a book on how long von Klappentrappen’s latest marriage would last. Separation before the end of the month was odds-on.
This speculation was fuelled by further gossip from a minor starlet called Buza Cruz. (She was playing a lady at the court of King Theseus, whose only scene involved being turned to stone by Medusa’s stare – something that required very little effort since Buza’s acting talent stretched no further than permanently looking as if she’d been turned to stone.)
Buza, however, had been at Mimsy La Pim’s party a couple of nights before. And she swore she’d seen Zelda Finch go into one of the upstairs bedrooms, followed a little while later by a tall young man with blond hair. Given the way news spreads on a film set, it was only a matter of time before von Klappentrappen heard the rumours. He heard them all right but, frustratingly, he didn’t know the precise details. And he felt that asking Buza Cruz directly to expand her insinuations would dilute the man-of-the-world coolness he thought essential to his image as a Hollywood film director.
Another of the lighting technicians was already running a book on what form, once von Klappentrappen had identified the young man in question, the notoriously jealous director’s revenge would take.
Meanwhile, looking increasingly like a demented onion in his khaki shirt, jodhpurs and monocle, Gottfried von Klappentrappen strutted and stormed around.
On the Trojan Horse set at Humungous Studios, Twinks watched these goings-on from a distance. So far she had no complaints about the way she’d been treated. A limousine had picked her up at the Hollywood Hotel and delivered her to the studios. At the security barrier a gateman had waved her vehicle through after consulting a collection of photographs in his booth. Hollywood stars had a strong aversion to not being recognised, and studio security staff had always to be on their guard against asking for ID from somebody famous. Had Twinks realised – or had she cared about such things – the fact that her photograph was in the gateman’s collection was a very good sign for the future of her movie career. She was already being treated as a star.
And it has to be said that on set she looked the part. In her Helen of Troy costume and make-up, she appeared even more like a Greek goddess than usual. She was sitting with J. Winthrop Stukes, who was almost invisible behind the heavy wigging and bearding of Methuselah. (It was a Hollywood convention that age was represented by wigs and beards, the older the character the longer the wig and beard. Methuselah had been given hair to match his longevity, so much of the stuff that Stukes was in constant danger of tripping over it.)
For someone like Twinks, who had only ever seen a silent film accompanied by music in a picture house, the set was surprisingly noisy. And the dominant noise was Gottfried von Klappentrappen’s shouting.
Hank Urchief, who had been coming on to Twinks all morning, had recently left their little group, and she watched him as he crossed towards two haggard-looking men seated in folding canvas chairs way behind von Klappentrappen and his cameras. Tweed suits hung from both their perished frames, both were losing their hair and what was left was untidy, as if a lot of it had just been torn out. In the hollow eyes of both men glinted the light of paranoia.
‘Who are those two bliss-bereft boddoes?’ asked Twinks.
J. Winthrop Stukes looked across. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘the one on the right, who Hank’s talking to, is Paul Uckliss-Hack.’
‘And what does the wretched thimble do? He looks as if topping himself would be high on his list of priorities.’
‘You’re not far off the mark, young lady. He’s the writer.’
‘Oh, the poor droplet.’ Twinks had been in Hollywood long enough to know the legacy of misery that came with that role.
‘And it looks’, Stukes observed, ‘as though Hank is telling him to do another rewrite.’
‘But surely Hank has no right to do that?’
The old actor grinned wryly. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn, young lady. Everyone has the right to tell the writer to do another rewrite. The director, obviously. The stars, obviously. Perhaps less obviously, the supporting actors. The walk-ons. The technicians. The wardrobe personnel. The make-up people. The set designers. The lighting technicians. The studio cat. In fact, I think you’ll find that one of the snakes in Medusa’s wig has the right to ask the writer for a rewrite.’
‘Ah. No wonder Paul Uckliss-Hack looks like he’s swallowed the whole lemon. What about the other poor pineapple? Looks as if he’s got even more lumps in his custard.’
‘Ah. He is an extremely eminent academic. His name’s Professor Gervase Blunkett-Plunkett. He’s the Egregious Professor of History at Oxford University.’
‘And which pigeonhole does he fit into on The Trojan Horse?’
‘He’s the classical adviser. He’s here to see that no liberties are taken with the facts of history or mythology.’
Twinks nodded. She didn’t need any further explanation of the despair that overwhelmed the man’s countenance.
But
she realised that, while she had J. Winthrop Stukes on his own, it was a perfect opportunity to get her investigation under way.
‘I didn’t see you at Mimsy La Pim’s jazzjigger the other night . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know what I should call you . . . J?’
‘Winthrop. Everyone calls me Winthrop. Mention Winthrop to anyone in Hollywood and they’ll know it’s me you’re talking about.’
‘Tickey-Tockey. Winthrop it is. As I say, I didn’t see you at Mimsy’s.’
‘Million other people you probably didn’t see. Hollywood parties are like that. But I was there. Never miss a showbiz bash, me.’
‘Did you actually clap your peepers on Mimsy?’
‘No, but that’s not so odd. Same reason I didn’t see you.’
‘But you sure she was actually there?’
‘Stake my life on it. In fact, I was chatting to a couple of actors who’re working with Toni Frangipani on The Sheik of the Sahara. They’d just been having a chinwag with young Mimsy. Said her agent had tried to get her the female lead in the movie, but no dice.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m afraid Mimsy La Pim’s getting to that awkward age for an ingénue. She’s a bit gnarled now to play the innocent, and Hollywood has a very efficient garbage chute for actresses who get too gnarled.’
‘But some of them still manage to keep a poker in the flames.’ Twinks gestured towards the set, where Zelda Finch, still paralysed by a fear of snakes, was being teutonically bullied by her husband.
‘Yes, but do you think she’d still be in work if she wasn’t sleeping with the director? You heard of the casting couch, young lady?’
‘Is it some kind of amenity for people who wish to fly-fish from a sedentary position?’ Twinks asked in her mother’s tones.
‘No. It’s the means by which most of the female parts in Hollywood are cast. Women sleep with the director – or, in Zelda’s case, actually go a step further and marry the monster.’ Another exasperated ‘Gott in Himmel!’ resounded from the set in front of them. ‘Though, with her,’ Stukes went on, ‘I don’t see the marriage lasting very long. And when that goes down the pan, I think Zelda Finch’s career could go with it.’