Falling Star

by Patricia Moyes

  Finally, Henry said, “The porter telephoned me at once. He had his orders. You see, I was half-expecting you. You, or somebody else.”

  There seemed nothing I could usefully say. One thought, and one only, was uppermost in my mind. I was still clutching that piece of paper in my right hand. So far, I had managed to keep it behind my back, but the problem now was to transfer it unobtrusively into my trouser pocket. I waited until Henry’s attention seemed to wander for a moment, and then tried to slip the paper into my pocket; but he was too quick for me.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “Oh—nothing…”

  “May I see it?”

  There was nothing I could do except hand the thing over. I had already seen that it was an envelope, unaddressed. Reluctantly I gave it to Henry. He opened it, looked inside, then gave me the ghost of a grin.

  “You’re perfectly right,” he said. “It is nothing. A perfectly plain empty envelope. Shall we go?”

  Unhappily, I followed him out of the door and into the lift.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WHEN WE WERE out in the street, Henry said, “By rights I ought to take you to the police station.”

  “But I…”

  “However,” he went on, ignoring my agonized interruption, “I think I’ll probably get more sense out of you if I take you home with me. If you have any engagements for this evening, you’d better cancel them.”

  “Fortunately, I happen to be free,” I said with an attempt at dignity.

  Tibbett gave me a long appraising look. “Let’s hope you stay that way,” he said, and suddenly laughed.

  “I don’t see anything funny in that,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. I was just thinking of Mrs. Arbuthnot catching you in that apartment. I wish I’d been there.”

  “I see nothing funny in that either.”

  “Come on, Pudge,” said Tibbett. He had suddenly become suspiciously friendly. “A number nineteen will take us home.”

  “Please allow me to call a taxi,” I said. “I’m quite prepared to pay for it.”

  “Just as you like,” said Tibbett. He seemed quite oblivious to the fact that I was trying to insult him. We found a cab and drove in silence to the ugly Victorian house near the World’s End.

  Emmy Tibbett came out into the hall as we were shutting the front door behind us, and she threw up her hands in mock dismay.

  “Henry!” she said, accusingly, “This is the second time you’ve done this to me!”

  “Done what?”

  “Brought Pudge home without letting me know. Everything is in the most awful mess, and I haven’t even combed my hair…” Then she turned to me with that marvelously open, sweet smile of hers and said, “Pudge, it’s lovely to see you. Do please stay to supper. I’ve made the most enormous dish out of lamb and eggplant and things that I got out of one of the papers, and…”

  “Emmy,” said Henry severely, “you’ve done it again.”

  Emmy looked abashed. “Well,” she said, “it’s the only way I can…”

  Henry turned to me. “Emmy,” he said, “has no culinary instinct whatsoever. She’s a splendid cook, so long as she can have a book to follow. So what happens? She finds these things and follows the recipe slavishly, and of course the last thing that she reads is how many people the dish is supposed to serve.” He looked accusingly at Emmy. “How many?” he demanded.

  “Eight,” said Emmy in a small voice.

  “In that case,” said Henry to me, “I trust you will stay to supper.”

  By this time I was feeling most uncomfortable. I dare say that Tibbett intended that I should.

  “I think,” I said, “that you should explain to Emmy why I am here.”

  “Oh,” said Emmy, “business?”

  Henry grinned at me. “Certainly not pleasure,” he said, “from Pudge’s point of view, that is. Actually, Emmy love, I happened to meet old Pudge—quite by chance—and I asked him back here because there are one or two business things that I’d like to talk over with him.”

  Suddenly I saw that Emmy’s eyes were twinkling with suppressed laughter. “I can imagine,” she said.

  “What on earth do you mean?” Henry asked. He sounded genuinely taken aback.

  “I meant to spring it on you later,” said Emmy, “but I can’t resist telling you now. I’ve just had a visitor.”

  “A visitor? Who?” Henry spoke with unusual sharpness.

  “An absolutely splendid lady called Mrs. Arbuthnot,” said Emmy. “She said she was just looking in on her way back to Lewisham to register a protest. She said I was to tell you that Croombe-Peters or no Croombe-Peters, she wasn’t having policemen climbing all over her kitchen window. I managed to keep a straight face and said I’d deliver the message, but it did make me think that there’d been some sort of a contretemps and…”

  “There was a certain amount of confusion,” said Henry. I could see that he was suppressing his laughter. “If you don’t mind, darling, Pudge and I really do want to talk.”

  “Of course. I’ll be in the kitchen,” said Emmy, and disappeared.

  Henry ushered me through the door into the big, untidy living room.

  “What will you have to drink?” he asked.

  “Really, Tibbett, this is all most embarrassing. I don’t…”

  “Whisky? Gin? Beer?”

  “Whisky and soda, please.”

  There was silence while Henry poured two drinks and handed me one of them. Then he sat down in an arm chair and motioned me to do the same. He took a swig of his drink, and then said, “Well, whatever it was that you were looking for, I imagine you didn’t find it.”

  “I would like,” I said, “to tell you the whole story.”

  Henry nodded approvingly. “I’d like to hear it,” he said.

  I had been doing some hard thinking in the taxi, and I had decided that the best way out led between the Scylla of complete truth and the Charybdis of utter falsehood. I had, in fact, worked out a story which was very nearly true and which seemed to me to be not only plausible, but capable of being checked independently at several points. It involved, however, making myself out to be something of an impressionable fool—and this I now proceeded to do.

  “It all comes back,” I said, “to the old saying cherchez la femme.”

  “Does it?” Henry did not sound very interested.

  “Call me an idiot if you like,” I went on, “but I’ve never been able to resist a pretty face. You’d think I’d have learnt, after all these years, but I fall for it every time, just as hard as I did when I was an undergraduate.”

  I paused. Henry said nothing. It was a little unnerving, not being able to tell whether or not my story was getting across; however, there was nothing for it but to take a deep breath and press on.

  “This afternoon,” I said, “Mrs. Meakin telephoned me at my office. About five, it must have been, an hour or so after you left. Sylvia can confirm that. She took the call and put it through to me.”

  Still Henry said nothing. He was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. I went on.

  “She begged me to see her at once on a matter of great urgency. I could hardly refuse. I met her outside my office, and at her request we took a taxi to the Casablanca in the King’s Road, Chelsea, where we had coffee. The waitress there can bear me out. We were almost the only people in the place. I still had no idea why Sonia Meakin wanted to see me so much, but over coffee she explained. By the merest coincidence, she had happened to see me going into Chelsea Mansions with you earlier on, and this gave her the idea that the porter might be willing to entrust me with the key to Margery’s apartment, since he knew me to be connected with you. She said that there was something in the apartment which she was desperately anxious to recover—a paper of some kind.”

  “Of what kind?” Henry asked. He did not open his eyes.

  “I’ve no idea. She didn’t tell me, and I hardly liked to ask. It seems pretty obvious to me that Margery had been
blackmailing her in some way.”

  “Didn’t it occur to her that by this time we—the police, I mean—would have removed any sort of incriminating document?”

  “That’s just what I said. But she said that the police wouldn’t realize the significance of this paper even if they found it, which was unlikely as it was kept hidden on the valance above the kitchen window. Well, I know I’m a fool, but she’s a damned attractive woman, and she wept a good deal and told me her life would be ruined if she didn’t have that paper, and in the end—I feel a fool having to admit it—but I agreed. I know it was wrong of me, but I hope you’ll understand that I was behaving like a sentimental idiot rather than a criminal.” I paused hopefully.

  All Henry said was, “And you didn’t find it?”

  “I found an envelope,” I said. “The one you saw in my hand. I had just picked it up and hadn’t even had time to look at it when Mrs. Arbuthnot arrived. I’d be interested to know what she was doing there. How did she get in?”

  “She’s Margery’s legal heir,” said Henry. His eyes were still closed. “We’ve searched the place thoroughly and taken our fingerprints and our photographs. There was no longer any valid reason for keeping her out, and her key was handed to her this afternoon. I must say, though, that I didn’t realize she would use it so promptly.”

  “Well, she did,” I said, “and she must have thought or hoped that the police search was not as efficient as it might have been, because she was quite definitely looking for something. I heard her.” Henry made no comment. I went on. “Anyhow, as you saw, the envelope I found was empty. So I can only assume that the police did find the precious paper, whatever it was, after all.”

  I hoped that I did not sound too eager, but, as you can imagine, I was most vitally interested. I prayed that Henry would either confirm or deny my statement. Instead, he remarked drily, “I had no idea you were so chivalrous. Now I suppose you’ll have to report your failure to the lady.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m meeting her tomorrow. I’m afraid she’ll be very disappointed.” I lit a cigarette, and then said, as casually as I could, “It would be something if I could tell her whether or not the police had found her precious bit of paper.”

  Henry grinned at me. “It would, wouldn’t it?” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you. We found quite a number of interesting pieces of paper, but since you have no idea what this one referred to, it’s a little difficult to identify it.”

  He had me neatly trapped there, but I did my best. “There would surely have been only one document connected directly with Sonia Meakin,” I said.

  “How do you know,” Henry asked, “that it was directly connected with her?”

  I opened my mouth and then closed it again. I had put myself in such a position that I could not possibly tell Tibbett that I knew the contents of the missing document; and, apart from sensing that he was laughing at me, I could get no real idea of what was going on in his head, that is, of whether or not he had believed my story and whether or not he had Bob’s draft letter in his possession. I realized that I would get no further with Tibbett, and it seemed to me that my next and most urgent move should be to consult Sam. It was vitally important to know whether or not Bob’s note had been delivered; and, if it had, to find what had become of it and to ascertain our legal position. In fact, I was inclined to believe that Bob had repented of his decision and had never written the actual letter of resignation, for I could not imagine that either he or Sam would have continued so calmly with shooting the film after a bombshell like that; but one had to be sure, and I knew that a good lawyer could make a case out of the mere existence of the draft letter.

  I looked at my watch. “Well,” I said, “that’s my story and I hope you’re satisfied. I know I behaved very foolishly, but fortunately there’s no harm done. And now, if you don’t mind, I won’t accept Emmy’s kind invitation to dinner. There are one or two things that I have to…”

  “Oh, please don’t go,” said Henry, and I had a nasty feeling that behind the politeness was a definite order which I was in no position to disobey. “There are several other things I’d like to discuss with you and, besides, I’m expecting another visitor. Someone you’ll be interested to meet.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  Before Henry could reply, the front door bell jangled. He got up and looked out of the window. “Here she is now,” he said. And a moment later the door opened, and Emmy ushered in Sonia Meakin.

  To say that I was staggered is to put it mildly. I was rather relieved to notice that Mrs. Meakin seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see her, but it soon became obvious that her surprise had given way to anger. The look she gave me would have cut through steel plating, and her voice was like dry ice as she said, “Mr. Croombe-Peters. What a surprise.”

  “Yes,” I said, “isn’t it?”

  “I gather,” said Henry, and I could hear the amusement in his voice, “that you two are old friends. No need for introductions.”

  “None whatsoever,” said Sonia grimly.

  There was a silence.

  “Well, Mrs. Meakin,” said Tibbett, “what did you want to see me about?”

  It was only then that I tumbled to the fact that this meeting was of Sonia Meakin’s seeking. Stupidly, I had assumed that she had been summoned for some sort of questioning; now, the affair took on a more sinister aspect. It seemed as though the wretched woman was about to make good her threat of exposing information to the police. And yet, I asked myself, what information? What could she possibly know that would interest Scotland Yard? The question of whether or not Bob was legally in our employment when he died was not a police matter, and it seemed hardly feasible that Sonia Meakin would risk ruining herself as well as Northburn Films out of pure spite. After all, as she had remarked, we were in the thing together.

  I am glad to say that she had the grace to look very uncomfortable.

  “My business is private, Inspector,” she said, looking at me in a pointed way.

  “I understood,” said Tibbett delicately, “that Mr. Croombe-Peters enjoyed your confidence.”

  Sonia Meakin gave me a look that was very different from the melting, peaches-and-cream technique she had used earlier in the day. “What has he been saying?” she demanded.

  “Oh, nothing in particular. We were just chatting about you, funnily enough, and the previous occasions on which you two had met.”

  There was a moment of palpable indecision, quite unlike the artificial pauses and hesitations to which I had been subjected before. Mrs. Meakin was evidently undecided as to her next move. Then, suddenly, she made a decision. She spun around to face Tibbett, turning her back on me, and she said, “Very well, Inspector. Since what I have to say concerns Mr. Croombe-Peters, perhaps it’s best to say it to his face. There is something which I think you ought to know.”

  “And what is that?” Henry asked. He sounded, if anything, faintly amused.

  “Mr. Croombe-Peters,” said Sonia, still with her back to me, “was in Margery Phipps’s flat this evening. He tricked the porter into giving him the key, and I can only imagine he went there to steal something. Ask him, and see if he denies it!”

  I opened my mouth, and then shut it again. I decided to leave the handling of the situation entirely to Tibbett.

  “I should be most surprised if he denied it,” said Henry. “He could hardly do so, since I was there with him. We were also accompanied by a lady called Mrs. Arbuthnot from Lewisham. It was quite a little gathering.”

  “In that case,” said Sonia Meakin, with a certain satisfaction, “you must have caught him red-handed…”

  “Mrs. Meakin,” said Henry reasonably, “if I had caught Mr. Croombe-Peters doing anything nefarious, is it likely that I would have invited him back to my house for dinner?” Turning to me, he added, “You are staying, aren’t you, Pudge?”

  Well, it seemed sailing fairly close to the wind of truth for a Chief Inspector, but it did the trick,
and I was profoundly grateful to Tibbett. “Yes, thank you very much, Henry old man,” I said as easily as I could.

  Sonia Meakin swung around as if to attack me, and I feel sure that she would have equaled one of La Fettini’s onslaughts if she had been able to get going, but Henry interrupted her.

  “As I said before,” he remarked, “we were just talking about you, Mrs. Meakin. And Mr. Croombe-Peters was explaining to me that you had asked him to break into that apartment in order to abstract a document you wanted.”

  Sonia Meakin said nothing.

  “He further explained,” Henry went on, “that he had agreed to do so, and was on an errand of selfless chivalry when…”

  “That’s not true!”

  “In any case,” I said, unable to hold my tongue any longer, “how do you know what I did this evening, or where I went?”

  “I followed,” she began, and then stopped abruptly, realizing her mistake.

  “You see?” I said triumphantly to Henry.

  Sonia Meakin did the only thing possible to retrieve the situation from her point of view. She began to cry, sniffing into a small lace handkerchief. “He broke into that apartment. I saw him myself. I only came to tell you because it’s the duty of every citizen to help the police, and now you won’t believe me.”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Meakin,” said Henry, “nobody’s disbelieving you.” He then went on, in the nicest possible way, to make it quite clear that in his opinion Sonia Meakin was talking through the back of her beautiful neck. He suggested that, if she wished to make a complaint, she should do so the following day, through the proper channels; but he was not quite clear, he added, what she was complaining about. Politely, he pressed her to take a drink before she left.

  By all the rules, this was the point at which Sonia Meakin ought to have crept away, probably tearful and certainly defeated. It was a development to which, frankly, I was looking forward with pleasurable anticipation.

  I was somewhat taken aback, therefore, when she blew her nose loudly, straightened up, and said, “All right, Inspector. I don’t know why you’re taking this attitude, but I think it’s my duty to tell you that Mr. Croombe-Peters has been concealing important information from you.”