Falling Star

by Patricia Moyes

  “I am sure it is,” I said grimly. I was very angry indeed. For a start, Sam knew that I considered it extremely bad for discipline, this habit of his of letting people go free during working hours just because there was nothing in particular for them to do. Secondly, I had expressly forbidden him to employ the large numbers of costermongers, “Pearly kings and queens,” that he wanted for the Hampstead Heath scene; clearly, he had arranged it all behind my back. Something else occurred to me.

  “I don’t think I have received a copy of my call sheet for tomorrow,” I said.

  Harry looked far too innocent. “Haven’t you?” he said. “Oh, I am sorry, Mr. Croombe-Peters. I’ll have one sent to your office straight away.”

  It was obvious, of course. Sam had deliberately instructed Harry to forget to send my call sheet, because he did not want me to see that it featured a dozen unauthorized “pearlies.” I was so annoyed that I had turned on my heel with the intention of striding out of the station, when Harry said, “Oh, Mr. Potman said to tell you that there’ll be rushes at four at Duck Street.”

  This meant that the more senior members of the unit would be assembling at four o’clock in the small private cinema in the basement of our offices—a cinema, I may add, which was shared by the numerous small film companies occupying the building—in order to see the first prints of the previous day’s filming. Sam never seemed very keen on my presence at “rushes,” so I was slightly mollified that he had sent me this message.

  “Thank you, Harry,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

  It was then that I realized that I had been on the point of leaving the Underground station without picking up the box of bits and pieces which had already caused so much trouble. I went quickly to Fiametta’s dressing room, found the box, and tucked it under my arm. Then, having made sure that Props was arranging for the final dismantling of the dressing rooms, I emerged into the light of day and walked back to the office.

  The afternoon passed uneventfully. I saw no signs of the other executive members of the unit. Louise Cohen, whose office was next to mine, wasted an hour of my time over some fiddling details connected with the hiring of a car to take Fiametta to the location the following day; but my irritation at this was more than assuaged by a telephone call from our lawyer shortly before four o’clock, telling me that the actuaries’ figures had been accepted by the insurance company and that we could expect a check in settlement within a few days. It was in a very cheerful frame of mind that I took the lift down to the theater for “rushes.”

  To my surprise, only Sam, Fred Harborough, and the new Continuity Girl, Diana, were there. Normally, everybody comes to the rushes—the Art Director, the actors, the sound crew, the hairdressing and make-up experts, the script writer, and the editor—everybody, in fact, whose work is involved directly in what appears on the screen. As soon as I appeared, Sam said, “Ah, here you are, Pudge. Good. Let’s start.”

  “Where are the others?” I asked.

  “Keith wasn’t feeling too good,” said Sam. “I’ve packed him off with Biddy for a day in the country. Fiametta is mooning over that terrible monkey and refuses to appear. Since I’ve given everyone else the afternoon off, and the sun is shining, I excused them all from rushes. If there’s anything we don’t like, we’ll tell them tomorrow.”

  This was, of course, exactly the sort of thing of which I disapproved, but I said nothing. I sat down next to Sam, and we watched the previous day’s takes in silence. There was one interruption. We’d hardly seen a couple of rushes before Sam was called away to speak to Biddy on the telephone. He came back looking extremely cheerful, but did not volunteer any information about the conversation. He merely settled back into his chair, lit a cigar, and said, “Right, let’s get on.”

  It was exactly five minutes past six when Sylvia, my secretary, came into my office to tell me that Mrs. Meakin had arrived and was asking for me.

  “Oh, yes, that’s right,” I said. “Show her up.”

  I had already sorted out Bob’s things from Fiametta’s, and the cardboard box was on my desk all ready for Sonia Meakin to collect. I felt fairly proud of the way that I had handled what might have been an extremely tricky situation that morning.

  Sonia Meakin came in quickly, and said, “Mr. Croombe-Peters, I’m most terribly sorry. I don’t want to worry you…”

  I beamed. “You’re not worrying me at all, Mrs. Meakin,” I said. “You see? Margery was as good as her word. Here is your box, all present and correct.”

  “You mean…” she faltered, and then went on. “She actually sent it here—I don’t believe it.”

  “Don’t believe what?” I felt a slight tremor of alarm. Was my deception going to come to light after all?

  “Haven’t you seen? Don’t you know?”

  “Don’t I know what? I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Mrs. Meakin.”

  “This,” she said, and thrust a copy of the late edition of the Evening Standard under my nose. On the front page was the headline “London Girl Falls to Her Death,” and a large photograph of Margery Phipps. Feeling numb, I began to read the story.

  Soon after four o’clock this afternoon, passers-by in Dredge Street, Chelsea, were horrified to see a young woman falling to her death from the window of a seventh-story apartment. She has been identified as the tenant of the apartment, Miss Margery Phipps, aged 27. Police were called in, but have stated that foul play is not suspected. Miss Phipps, who was (Please turn to Page 3)…

  “I never dreamt—I mean, that wasn’t why.” Sonia Meakin was saying something, but I did not take it in.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Meakin,” I said, as politely as I could manage. “This is rather a shock. I think I should speak to Mr. Potman right away. Your box is on the table. Please take it. Everything is there.”

  “But, Mr. Croombe-Peters…”

  “Anything you want, ask my secretary,” I said, and hurried out and down the corridor to Sam’s office. It was only much later that I realized that there were several questions that I could profitably have asked Sonia Meakin.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SAM WAS SITTING in his office with his feet up on the desk, doing a crossword puzzle. He read through the newspaper report quite impassively, with no emotion of any sort on his face. Then he looked up at me and said, “Poor Margery, I wonder what the trouble was.”

  “That doesn’t concern me,” I said. “What concerns me is that…”

  “Joost as well she’d left the unit,” said Sam phlegmatically. He pulled out one of his little black cigars and lit it. “I thought she must be worked oop over soomthing. She’d never have flown off the handle and given notice like that, just because of a tiff with Fiametta. Enjoyed working on Street Scene, she said, and so she did. So she should have. No, there was something else. Something we don’t know about.”

  “It’s all very well for you to say it’s as well she’d left the unit,” I said crossly. “If you think that’s going to save us from publicity of the worst sort, you can think again. It’ll come out in no time that she was working for us up until last Friday, and coming on top of Bob’s death…”

  “There’s nowt we can do about it,” said Sam shortly.

  “There’s something I can at least try,” I said. “With your permission, I’m going to get on to Scotland Yard and ask them to keep our name out of it.”

  Sam gave me a lazy, incredulous grin. “Good luck, chum,” he said. “I’m sure Scotland Yard is ready to obey your faintest whim.”

  “I happen,” I said, “to have one or two fairly influential friends. Have I your permission?”

  “Go ahead,” said Sam. I could tell that he was laughing at me.

  “Thank you,” I said, “I will.”

  I went back to my own office, where I noticed with relief that there was no sign either of Sonia Meakin or the wretched cardboard box. I sat down at my desk and told Sylvia to get me Chief Inspector Tibbett of Scotland Yard on the telephone.

  Frankly, I was not
relishing the prospect of ringing Henry Tibbett, after the way in which he had snubbed me over Bob’s death. But presumably Margery’s fall had not been accidental, and I felt that Henry could hardly say that suicide was none of his business. In any case, however distasteful the task, it had to be done for the sake of the film.

  Henry sounded surprised to hear from me. “Margery Phipps?” he said. “Oh, yes. I heard about that. A routine suicide case, I believe.”

  “Routine or not,” I said, “the fact remains that we can’t afford any more publicity of the wrong sort. If it gets out that she was working for us, and left the unit after a row with Fiametta Fettini…”

  “That would hardly drive her to suicide, would it?” asked Henry mildly.

  “Of course not, but wait till you see what the press do with it.”

  “I don’t really see what I can do for you, Croombe-Peters,” said Henry. “I can hardly prevent the press from finding out where the girl used to work, and if they feel they’re on to a good story…”

  “I tell you, we shall be besieged by reporters and…”

  “I think, you know,” said Henry, “that you’re taking an unnecessarily gloomy view. I can’t believe that the newspapers will be vastly interested in the fact that the girl once worked for you in a not very glamorous capacity. It may be good for a small paragraph, but no more. And as for her having had a row with Fiametta Fettini, I don’t see how they’re going to find that out unless one of you tells them.”

  “But…”

  “In any case, I assure you that the thing is quite outside my control. The only cases in which we can ever request the press not to publish certain facts are those connected with national security and the Official Secrets Act, and I hardly think that this would apply…”

  “Now look here, Henry…”

  “So, if you’ll forgive me—I’m extremely busy just now. Good-bye, Croombe-Peters.”

  There was a sharp click, and then the telephone began to buzz like an impatient wasp. As I put it down, I had no kindly thoughts in my head for Henry Tibbett.

  As it turned out, however, he was right; and this was perhaps the most infuriating aspect of the affair. In fact, to my surprise no newspaper even mentioned the fact that Margery had worked for us. As Henry had predicted, her death was treated as a routine suicide. A note had apparently been found, addressed to her mother, and although the text of it was not published, it clearly gave some sort of explanation for her drastic action. One or two neighbors remarked that she had seemed agitated on the morning of the day she died. A girl friend, a Miss Sarah Prentiss, told the press that she had not noticed anything out of the ordinary in Margery’s behavior recently, but added, “You never could tell what she was thinking. Still waters run deep, that’s what I say. We used to go to the ballet together, and sometimes concerts, but I never felt I really knew her. I believe she’d recently lost her job, but she never told me anything about that either.”

  A date was fixed for the inquest, and the newspapers promptly lost interest. Whereas Bob Meakin’s demise had at least been a nine days’ wonder, poor Margery was wiped out of the world with as little fuss and bother as a chalk mark cleaned off a blackboard. Once again, life went on.

  Within the unit itself, of course, people talked a lot about Margery’s suicide, and speculated on the reasons for it; but it appeared that Miss Prentiss had given an accurate picture of Margery to the journalists. Everybody on the unit had liked Margery and been on amicable terms with her, but nobody could say that she had been a friend. None of her colleagues had ever been invited to her flat, or met her out of working hours. She had always seemed, as Biddy put it, “as self-contained as an egg.” So, after a bit, people stopped talking about Margery, for there was nothing to say. A few of the more excitable and superstitious members of the unit—I am thinking of Amy, the Assistant Hairdresser, in particular—amused themselves by indulging in pleasurable tremors of horror at the thought that the film might lie under a curse, like Tutankhamen’s tomb, and that the members of the unit were destined to die violently, one by one. Fortunately, however, most of our people were sensible enough to pay no attention to any such nonsense, and the whole matter was soon enough forgotten.

  As for myself, the only thing that really rankled was my double humiliation at the hands of the insufferable Tibbett. I cursed myself for the moment of stupidity and weakness which had led me to telephone him, and I decided to avoid him socially for a bit, if I could. Mind you, we did not see each other frequently; but, as I have indicated, we had a number of mutual friends in whose houses we were apt to meet. He knew the most surprising people.

  In view of all this, I was none too pleased when, about a week after Margery’s death, Sylvia informed me just after lunch one day that Chief Inspector Tibbett was on the telephone and wished to speak to me.

  For a moment I hesitated. Then I reflected that Henry would hardly ring me up during the course of a busy day merely to gloat over me. The very fact that he was calling me seemed to indicate that I was, for once, in a commanding position. This time, he must want to ask a favor of me.

  “Put him on,” I said.

  “Mr. Croombe-Peters?” Tibbett’s voice was almost diffident. “I’m extremely sorry to bother you. I know how busy you are.”

  “Not at all,” I replied cordially. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can give me an hour or so of your time, if you will,” said Henry. “I have a problem, and I think you may be able to help me.”

  “Naturally, I’ll be pleased to give you any help I can,” I said. His tone of humility was most gratifying. “I’m afraid I can’t possibly get away this afternoon, though. I trust it’s not a matter of life and death.”

  “Not in the metaphorical sense,” said Tibbett enigmatically. “I’ll tell you what. Could you possibly come round to my place for a drink this evening? Emmy would be delighted to see you again, and we could talk quietly.”

  “I’d enjoy that very much,” I said, and meant it. I think I have mentioned before how much I liked Mrs. Tibbett, and I looked forward to seeing her. “This isn’t an official matter then?”

  Tibbett hesitated. Finally, he said, “Yes and no. It’s a little hard to explain.”

  “Dear me,” I said, in mock alarm, “you’re not going to arrest me, I hope.”

  “I hope not, too,” he said, and there was surprisingly little humor in his voice. I concluded that he was piqued by my flippant tone. Like so many people who are deeply absorbed in their work, he was inclined to be a little pompous about it.

  “Well,” I said, “be that as it may, what time would you like to see me?”

  “Can you manage half-past six?”

  “I think so.”

  “You have the address?”

  “Wait a minute—yes, it’s here in my book.”

  “Good. I’ll be seeing you, then. And—Croombe-Peters…”

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps you’d be good enough not to mention to anybody else that I called you.”

  “Oho,” I said, “the plot thickens. Cloak-and-dagger stuff, is it?”

  “Not really.” Tibbett sounded embarrassed. “It’s just that, well, I’ll explain this evening. Good-bye for now.”

  The Tibbetts lived on the ground floor of a rather shabby Victorian house in that part of Fulham which is now described by house agents as Chelsea. It was an unassuming flat—just a large living room, a small bedroom, a minuscule kitchen and a bath built in to what had apparently, from its size, been a broom cupboard. However, it was cheerful and comfortable. and the living room at least had the merit of being enormous and high-ceilinged, with a big open fireplace and French windows opening onto a rather straggling garden. I arrived at twenty to seven, and rang the front doorbell.

  Emmy Tibbett answered the door, as warm and welcoming as ever. She was wearing trousers, and I noticed that she looked rather plumper than I remembered, which was comforting for me. When one is constitutionally stout, it so often seems
that the rest of the world is inhabited exclusively by walking skeletons.

  “Pudge!” cried Emmy. Unlike her husband, she always used my nickname, and had done so since our first meeting. “How lovely to see you. Do come in. Henry’s not home from work yet, but you will have a drink and stay to see him, won’t you? He’d be awfully upset if he missed you.”

  “You weren’t expecting me, then?” I asked, as I followed her in.

  Emmy shook her dark, curly head. “No. Should I have been? You know I’ve got a memory like a sieve…”

  “Henry phoned me this afternoon and asked me to come round this evening,” I said. “I think it’s something to do with his work. He said he wanted to ask me something. You’ve no idea what about?”

  “Not the faintest,” said Emmy. “Henry really is a monster. He should have rung me and told me. You must think me hideously rude.”

  “You couldn’t be rude if you tried,” I said. “And I certainly can’t imagine you trying.”

  Emmy laughed. “Bare-faced flattery,” she said. “I shan’t listen or I’ll get too big for my boots. What will you drink?”

  “A whisky and soda, if I may,” I said.

  As she poured drinks, Emmy went on, “Now, you must tell me all about Fiametta Fettini. Is she really as gorgeous as she looks on the screen? And what about your Keith Pardoe becoming such a celebrity? You do have an exciting life, Pudge.”

  “Rather too exciting sometimes,” I said.

  Emmy was instantly subdued. “You mean Robert Meakin. Yes, that was terrible. Were you actually there when it happened?”

  “I saw it.”

  Emmy shuddered. “I couldn’t believe it when I read about it,” she said. “Robert Meakin seemed like—like an institution. I suppose he wasn’t very old, really, but I can’t remember the time when he wasn’t around. When I heard he was dead, it was as though I’d lost a personal friend. I think lots of people felt like that.”