Falling Star

by Patricia Moyes

  “My dear Tibbett, how should I know? You’d better ask her.”

  “That’s just what I intend to do,” said Henry. “Shall we go back to your office?”

  “Why to my office?”

  “Because,” said Henry, glancing at his watch, “I have a rendezvous there with some of your colleagues when the day’s shooting is over, which I imagine should be any moment now. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I should have thought it only common politeness to ask my permission before…”

  “I’m sorry, Croombe-Peters,” said Tibbett. He sounded genuinely abashed. “I really didn’t get a chance to speak to you this morning, you were so busy. And I’m afraid it slipped my mind afterward. You do understand that all I want to do at this stage is to have a friendly chat with one or two people.”

  “Since you intend to do it in my office,” I said, “I presume you will have no objection to my being present.”

  Henry looked at me again, in that steady and disconcerting way that he has. Then he said, “By all means. I should be delighted. Shall we go?”

  I was outside in the passage, pressing the button to call the lift, when I realized that Henry was not with me. I went back into the flat in time to see him climbing down from the stool in the kitchen. He had evidently been taking another look at the fatal window.

  “The lift’s here,” I said.

  “Sorry,” he replied, “just coming. Wanted to see something…”

  He came back into the living room, brushing a speck of something white from his sleeve.

  “What’s that?” I asked. “Fingerprinting powder?”

  “There’s quite a lot of it around, I’m afraid,” said Henry. “I’ve had the flat thoroughly tested for prints. No good, of course.”

  “You mean, there aren’t any?”

  “Only Margery’s own. And not many of them.”

  “What do you mean? Do you think somebody wiped them off deliberately?”

  Henry sighed, a little impatiently. “Either that,” he said, “or else Margery Phipps was house-proud and kept everything well polished.”

  “She surely wouldn’t have bothered about housework on the day she killed herself,” I said.

  “No,” said Henry, “but she might well have on the day she was murdered.” He took one last look around the apartment, and then said, “Right. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  SAM POTMAN, FIAMETTA, Biddy, and Keith were all in my office when Henry Tibbett and I got back to Soho. I could hear them laughing and chattering as soon as I got into the reception hall. Certainly, it did not sound as though any of them was particularly worried about the thought of a police investigation. I remembered Henry’s deceptive bonhomie on Hampstead Heath earlier in the day, and decided that he must have lulled them all into believing that his inquiries were the merest routine. I felt quite certain that nobody but myself was aware of the threat of a murder case hanging over us. I opened the door of my office and went in.

  Fiametta was sitting on my desk, showing a yard or so of shapely leg and laughing in an exaggerated way at something Keith had said. Sam was sitting in the big arm chair opposite my desk, smoking his inevitable cigar and looking as though his thoughts were miles away, which they probably were. This was the time of day when he liked to retire to his own office in order to plan the next day’s shooting. Biddy, to my annoyance, was standing behind my desk reading Sylvia’s typescripts of the letters I had dictated that morning. Not that there was anything secret about them, but I felt it was an unwarranted liberty. There was a moment of silence as Henry and I came in, and then everybody began to talk at once.

  Fiametta, typically, threw herself into Henry’s arms and kissed him soundly, crying, “Ah! My favorite little policeman!”

  Sam stood up and said, “Right. Let’s get this over. I’ve work to do.”

  Keith said nervously, “What’s it all about, anyway? I thought…”

  Biddy said, “Oh, shut up, Keith.”

  Henry disentangled himself from Fiametta, beamed at everyone, and said, “I’m really very sorry to disturb you. It’s just that we’re making a few more inquiries about Margery Phipps.”

  “Margery? But it’s all over and done with. The coroner said,” Keith’s voice rose, and he ran a hand through his newly cropped hair. It flashed across my mind that if Keith had been trying to create the impression of a man with a guilty conscience, he could hardly have done it better. Knowing him as well as I did, I put it down entirely to his hysterical temperament, but I wondered what Tibbett was making of it. It certainly seemed to register, for Tibbett gave him a sharp look and said, “It won’t take long. Perhaps the rest of you would wait outside while I talk to Mr. Pardoe. Mr. Croombe-Peters is going to sit in with me, to see fair play.”

  By now, it seemed to be getting through to the others that this was a serious business rather than a social call. Sam, Biddy, and Fiametta went out in a subdued silence. Henry motioned me to sit down at the desk, while he himself perched on the edge of it with his little notebook. Then he invited Keith to take the large arm chair.

  “No, thanks. I’d rather stand,” said Keith. “What is all this about?”

  “What I’d like to know,” said Henry, “is exactly what you did after shooting finished on the day that Margery Phipps died. If you’d just run through…”

  “It’s no business of yours,” Keith said, hotly. He appealed to me. “Pudge, what right has this man to…?”

  “He has every right, I’m afraid,” I said. “He is an officer of the C.I.D. and he has reason to believe that Margery Phipps was murdered.”

  I had not been briefed by Tibbett whether or not to disclose this information, but I did not believe that he could hope to keep it a secret for long. He betrayed no emotion at my remark, but went on making notes. Keith, however, reacted violently.

  “It’s not true!” he shouted. He seemed on the point of losing all control, and put his hand out to grasp the edge of the desk in order to steady himself. “I swear it’s not true! She killed herself! They said so at the inquest! You can’t come here raking it all up now! I don’t know anything about it!”

  For the first time, Henry looked up. “I’m sure you don’t, Mr. Pardoe,” he said. “All I want from you is an account of your movements that day. Nobody is accusing you of anything.”

  I could see Keith making a great effort to get control of himself. After a moment he swallowed, and said, “I’m sorry, Inspector. It came as a bit of a shock—what Pudge said. This morning you didn’t mention…”

  “I know.” Henry grinned disarmingly. “We policemen have to be horribly discreet. As yet I’m only working on the merest of suspicions, and I wouldn’t have used the word ‘murder’ if Mr. Croombe-Peters hadn’t come out with it so impetuously. However, now that it has been said, I may as well tell you that I’m not entirely satisfied about the circumstances of Miss Phipps’s death.”

  I was furious, as may be imagined. Earlier, Henry had told me quite categorically that he was treating Margery’s death as murder and had ridiculed me when I protested. Now, he made it sound as though I was the one who had leapt to rash conclusions. Certainly, he had deliberately engineered matters so that I should be the one to mention murder, and not he. I had to admit, however, that the device served its purpose. Keith relaxed visibly, and said that he thought he would sit down after all. He lit a cigarette and then began to talk.

  “There’s really very little I can tell you,” he said. “Sam got the shot in the can at about half-past eleven and broke for the day. He suggested that Biddy and I might like to have an afternoon in the country. He thought we’d both been working too hard.”

  “And did you go to the country?”

  Keith hesitated for a moment. “Yes and no,” he said.

  Henry grinned. “Just what does that mean?” he asked.

  “Well…” Keith looked embarrassed. “I suppose Biddy will tell you if I don’t. We set out in my car and drove to Henley, where
we stopped for lunch at some pub or other. We’d intended to take a boat out on the river afterward, but it didn’t work out like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m afraid we had a row. If I’m to be absolutely frank, Inspector, I’m afraid that Biddy is jealous of me. Up to now, she’s been the celebrity of the family, you see. She doesn’t seem to realize that I’ve got a certain position to keep up these days. She can’t expect me to—but I’m boring you. All this is unimportant. The only thing that matters to you is that we had a fight which ended in my walking out of the pub and driving off on my own.”

  I saw Henry’s eyebrows go up a fraction of an inch. “How did Mrs. Pardoe get back, then?” he asked.

  “I offered her the car,” said Keith quickly, “but she wouldn’t take it. She hates driving. She said she’d take a train.”

  “I see. And what did you do?”

  “I drove back to London.”

  There was a pause. “Well,” said Henry, “go on.”

  “I had my hair cut,” said Keith.

  “Where?”

  “At the Belgrave Towers. They have quite a reasonable barber.”

  “Can you remember what time this was?”

  To my surprise Keith answered promptly. “Yes. Ten past four exactly. I was in the barber’s shop until half-past. It was Alfredo who cut my hair. He can confirm it.”

  Henry looked interested. “Have you any special reason for remembering all this so accurately?” he asked.

  Keith smiled ruefully. “I have plenty of reason to remember that haircut,” he said. “There was enough of a row about it the next day. And Sam said…”

  “You remember, Henry,” I put in, “I told you about that. Our unit hairdresser was furious with Keith, and quite rightly in my opinion. But then Sam said he’d given Keith permission, and there was nothing more that anyone could say. I still think…”

  “Oh, wrap up, Pudge,” said Keith. “Can’t you ever stop making trouble?”

  Henry intervened quietly but firmly. “And what did you do after that, Mr. Pardoe?”

  “I went and bought some shirts at Peal’s in Burlington Arcade. Then I went home. Biddy was already there. We made it up, and went out to dinner together at the Orangery.”

  “And when did you hear about Miss Phipps’s death?”

  “Not until the next day. Neither Biddy nor I bought a paper that evening.”

  “I see.” Henry frowned slightly as he read quickly through his notes. “You didn’t see anybody else during the afternoon, anybody who would remember you?”

  “Just the barber,” said Keith firmly.

  “Right,” said Henry. “I think that’s all. Thank you very much, Mr. Pardoe. Would you mind asking your wife if she could spare me a moment?”

  I felt that I must intervene. As Keith was walking toward the door I scribbled on a piece of paper “Fiametta is staying at the Belgrave Towers,” and pushed it under Henry’s nose. He glanced at it, but said nothing.

  As the door closed behind Keith, I said, “He must have gone there to see her. Now he’ll warn her to say nothing…”

  Henry put a finger to his lips. “Not so loud, please,” he said.

  “But don’t you see?”

  “Of course I see your point. But you really must let me do as I…”

  He got no further before the door opened and Biddy walked in.

  She was wearing a white dress, shaped, as far as I could see, exactly like a potato sack and made of some coarsely woven material. The fact that it looked both charming and striking I can only put down to Biddy’s vibrant personality, which I have tried, rather lamely, to convey before now. The dress had a scooped-out neckline that showed off her suntanned throat most attractively. I imagine that most girls would have embellished it with a necklace of some sort, but Biddy wore no jewelry except for a knuckle-duster ring on her right hand. Her left, as usual, was bare. I suppose she would have considered a wedding ring as some sort of a sign of bondage. Her shoes fascinated me. They were made in shiny patent leather, the color of a mole’s fur, with squat heels and little black bows. They made her feet look like two tiny animals creeping across the carpet. This was not a pleasant conceit, but once the thought had crossed my mind, I could not get rid of it. I shrank instinctively from those small, neat feet, as one does from a mouse—not because the animal is dangerous, but because of the speed and unpredictability of it.

  I became aware that the preliminaries were over, and that Biddy was speaking.

  “It was the Black Bull in Henley,” she said. “I suppose I was bloody silly, but Keith makes me mad sometimes. I blew my top.”

  “Will you tell me exactly what the quarrel was about, Mrs. Pardoe?”

  Biddy looked straight at Henry. “No,” she said, “I’d rather not. And my name is Miss Brennan.”

  “It’s not, you know,” said Henry pleasantly, “not legally.”

  Suddenly Biddy grinned widely, like a guttersnipe. “Why don’t you call me Biddy?” she said. “Everyone else does.”

  “I’ll call you whatever you like,” said Henry. “Why won’t you tell me what the fight was about?”

  “Because I bloody well won’t,” said Biddy, exactly like a spoilt child.

  Henry did not press the point any further. He went on, “So you quarreled. What happened then?”

  “Keith said he was going. He stumped out of the dining room, and then put his head around the door and said did I want the car? He knew very well I’d say ‘No.’ He only did it to make us both look conspicuous. Everyone else stopped eating and turned to look. I was livid. I said I’d be perfectly happy to take a train—which I did.”

  “Straight away?”

  “No. I went for a walk by the river. I was pretty damned upset, what with—with everything. I suppose I walked for about an hour. Then I went to the station and took the first train to London.”

  “Can you remember the time of the train?”

  “About half-past two, I suppose. I was in London by half-past three. I went to the pictures.”

  “What did you see?”

  “An old Marx Brothers film, Duck Soup.”

  Henry registered no emotion whatsoever. “Have you ever visited Miss Phipps’s apartment?”

  “Certainly not. I don’t even know where she lived.”

  “Did you enjoy the film?”

  “Enormously. I’d seen it often before, of course. I missed the first ten minutes, and the projector jammed halfway through reel two, but it didn’t matter. It was still wonderful. It finished about half-past five, and I took a cab home. I got in a few minutes before Keith did. We—we decided to kiss and make up, and he took me out to dinner. Is that all you want to know?”

  “That’ll do for the moment,” said Henry.

  While we were waiting for Fiametta to come in, I made another attempt to say something on the subject of Keith and Fiametta. I could not imagine why Keith should be hiding the fact that he went to see her, if indeed he did. There was no scandal attached to their friendship. If he was concealing the visit, I pointed out, it must be for some ulterior motive. Perhaps…

  To my annoyance, I realized that Tibbett was not listening. He had picked up an evening paper from my desk and was doodling on it with his ballpoint pen. Knowing from experience that there are none so deaf as those who don’t want to hear, I stopped talking. After a moment or so Fiametta came in.

  She sat down, hitching her short black skirt as high as she could, and exhibiting a very pretty leg to Henry. I noticed that she had left the top button of her chiffon blouse undone, and she now maneuvered her supple young body in such a way as to make this fact obvious. I was intrigued, for she did not, as a rule, take such pains to exude sex appeal to the ordinary run of mortals. This was the sort of thing that she normally reserved for the gentlemen of the press.

  “Miss Fettini,” said Henry, apparently unmoved by the exhibition, “how well did you know Miss Phipps?”

  Fiametta stopped squirming and
looked angry. “I knew ’er enoof,” she said, in her low husky voice, “to know that she was a thief.”

  “A thief? What makes you say that?”

  “A thief and a cheat. She take my gold lipstick with rubies. Then Pooge make her give it back, so she walk out on ’im. Pooge will tell you I say true. Isn’t it, Pooge?” She flashed her dark eyes at me hopefully.

  “It’s not so at all,” I said, “and you know it. You made a ridiculous and unjustified fuss…”

  “I was robbed,” said Fiametta. Her voice had sunk to a dangerous growl. “Isn’t it enoof I am robbed, without you insult me also? Any more, I go back to Rome. Sue me if you like. I do not stay for…”

  “My dear Fiametta,” I said, “nobody is insulting you. I just think you were mistaken about Margery, that’s all. You know that we all think the world of you…”

  “Then why you not let me wear chiffon with sables in the ballroom scene?”

  “I’ve explained. Sam feels…”

  “Do forgive me for butting in,” said Henry, “but isn’t this rather off the point? Can we get back to your lipstick case, Miss Fettini? Why should you accuse Miss Phipps of stealing it?”

  “Because she did,” said Fiametta sulkily. Then suddenly she added, “She was a thief. I ’ave been a thief myself. I can tell.”

  “Look here, Tibbett,” I said, “this is all nonsense.” I told him briefly about the things which Margery had found in the dressing rooms, about Fiametta’s ridiculous outburst, and how the precious lipstick had been produced. I did not tell him what Margery had said about it being made of tin and colored glass, because I did not want my office to be broken up, and I knew that when Fiametta got really angry her first instinct was to smash things. I made a mental note, however, to tell him later.

  Henry behaved very tactfully. He listened to my story, sympathized with Fiametta, and said he absolutely understood how she felt, and that he’d noticed how people failed to appreciate the great sentimental value of small objects. In a few minutes he had her purring instead of growling; whereupon he quickly led her to the events of the day of Margery’s death.

  Fiametta confirmed that she had spent most of the morning with me. She could hardly have failed to do so, but nevertheless I was relieved. She was feeling far from kindly toward me, and would have been quite capable of lying just to put me in an awkward position. When the unit broke for the day at twenty to twelve, she said, she had gone back to her hotel, where her husband was nursing her sick monkey. She added, to my disappointment, that Peppi had now quite recovered.