Henry and I both reacted sharply. In fact it was in unison, like a well-trained chorus, that we said, “What?”
The Meakin woman looked at Henry. “Has Mr. Croombe-Peters told you,” she asked, “that he had a long telephone conversation with Margery Phipps at about half-past eleven on the morning of the day she died?”
Henry faced me. “Is this true?” he demanded.
“No,” I said.
“It is,” said Sonia Meakin.
“She thinks it is, but it isn’t,” I said clumsily. “If you really want to know, I was listening to a golden voice telling me that on the third pip it would be eleven twenty-one precisely.”
Sonia said, “You told me you were going to phone Margery Phipps. You went into the booth, and you came back and said you’d spoken to her.”
“I know I did,” I said. I was alarmed to detect a desperate note in my own voice. “But, actually, I didn’t. I’m sorry I had to deceive you, but…”
“Then how do you account for the fact,” she said, “that by six o’clock that evening you had in your office a box which was in Margery Phipps’s flat at noon?” She turned to Henry. “Inspector Tibbett,” she said, “this man is lying. I don’t pretend to know why, but he is.”
This made me really angry. “Don’t you dare put on that holier-than-thou attitude with me,” I shouted. “What about trying to persuade me to break into Margery’s flat and steal…”
The blue eyes opened more widely than ever. “What do you mean?”
“You surely aren’t going to deny that we met this afternoon, and that you…”
“We certainly met this afternoon for a cup of coffee.”
“And what did we talk about? I challenge you to tell Inspector Tibbett!”
Sonia Meakin wrinkled her nose, as if in an effort at recollection. “I don’t really remember. I think we mentioned Bob. And—oh, yes—I was telling you about my two boys at prep school, and how Harry’s got into the first eleven…”
“And what else?” I rapped out the words.
Coolly, she said, “Nothing, that I remember.”
“That’s a lie! Perhaps you’ll explain to the Inspector just why you telephoned me and insisted on seeing me and…”
“Please, Mr. Croombe-Peters, there’s no need to shout. The Inspector has made it quite clear that he is not really interested in anything I have to say. I imagine he is waiting to hear your explanations. I am sure he is anxious to hear all about your visit to Chelsea Mansions, and the telephone call and the cardboard box. Well, I must go now. You two have so much to talk about,” And with that, she left.
Henry saw her to the door, and I stood by the window and watched her walk off down the street. I was furious, both with Sonia Meakin and with myself. She had set a trap, and I had walked into it like a fool, when all the time I had imagined I was being clever. Of course, there had never been any note of resignation from Bob. Sonia Meakin had invented it, in order to lure me around to Chelsea Mansions. She had followed me and watched me go in, and then come around here to denounce me to Tibbett. But why…? Why should she do such a thing? And then, there was the writing impressed on the scribbling pad in Bob’s dressing room. “Dear Sam, Nobody enjoys breaking a contract, but…” The scribbling pad was still in my coat pocket. Somewhere, the top sheet on which Bob had written must exist. Where was it? And what would Sonia Meakin plan next?
I was roused from these uneasy speculations by the sound of the sitting-room door opening again, as Henry came back.
“Well,” I said, with as light a laugh as I could manage. “After that little exhibition, you’ll be in a position to appreciate what I’ve been going through. And now, I really must be off.”
“But Pudge,” said Henry, gently, “you’re staying to dinner. Had you forgotten?”
It amounted to an order. “Oh, very well,” I said.
“Sit down,” said Henry abruptly. He poured me another drink in silence, took one himself, and then said, “Now, one good turn deserves another. Supposing you tell me the truth.”
“I really don’t know what you…”
He raised his hand impatiently. “Please don’t waste time,” he said. “If it’s any consolation to you, I don’t think that either of you were telling the truth, but I think that your story is closer to the facts than hers. I think there was a document in that apartment that both you and Mrs. Meakin wanted. It had presumably formed the basis of an attempt at blackmail of Mrs. Meakin by Margery Phipps. If it was so important for you, I’m wondering whether you, too, had been asked for money?”
I laughed, sardonically. “There never was any document,” I said. “I can see that now. It was just a dirty trick to put me in the wrong. Making me go around there…”
“Pudge,” said Henry quietly, “I have extricated you from a very nasty hole this evening. You could still be charged with burglarious entry, you know, and I’m making myself an accessory by not turning you over to the rozzers. I’m doing this because I believe that you are not wicked but merely stupid.”
This stung me. “Thank you very much,” I said. “In that case, there seems little point in continuing this discussion. I shall go.” I stood up.
“Sit down,” said Henry. He sounded tired. “You should be gratified that I consider you stupid rather than criminal. Because if ever I should change my mind…”
“Oh, all right,” I said sitting down again. “What do you want to know?”
“She told you what this alleged document was, didn’t she?”
“Well…”
“Or was she speaking the truth when she said she never mentioned it?”
“She certainly mentioned it. She told me all about it, if you must know.”
“Yes,” said Henry, “I must.”
Reluctantly, I outlined the contents of the alleged letter. “Personally,” I went on, “I don’t believe it would stand up in any court of law. Meakin was legally in our employment when he died, any judge would support that. There’s absolutely no proof that Potman received any such letter, and after Mrs. Meakin’s display here this evening I’m more than ever convinced that the wretched bit of paper never existed at all.”
“Then why did you risk so much to go after it?”
“Well,” I hesitated, and I could feel my face reddening. “Well, I thought I might as well be sure. And, as I’ve told you, she was very persuasive. Naturally, the thing meant nothing to me, one way or the other…”
Henry gave me a skeptical look and then closed his eyes.
I went on. “It did occur to me,” I said, “that Bob Meakin might have written a draft and a copy of such a letter in a fit of temper, and then thought better of it and destroyed the original.”
“But not the duplicate?”
“My theory was that he threw it into his wastepaper basket, and that Margery Phipps found it there. I’ve told you how she cleared up the dressing rooms. Being her father’s daughter, she’d have realized the possible value of such a document. You’ll notice that the clearing of the dressing rooms didn’t take place until we’d returned to the location, by which time the insurance claims had been paid out and Margery would realize…” Henry opened his eyes.
“Claims?” he said. “More than one?”
“Claim, I should have said,” I amended quickly, “Mrs. Meakin’s insurance claim. It’s quite true that the policy we took out on her husband’s life was contingent on his being in our employment at the time of his death. It all sounded very possible, and she worked a great sob-stuff act about her sons and so forth, and—call me foolish if you like—but I was touched and sorry for her and…”
“Now,” said Henry, “tell me about your telephone call to Margery Phipps.”
“If you’re going to take that woman’s word against mine…”
“I said nothing about taking her word. I only want to hear your side of the story. Why were you listening to TIM, and what was in this mysterious box?”
Feeling considerably foolish, I outlined
to Henry the events of that unfortunate morning. Mrs. Meakin’s arrival, the necessity for getting her away from the location without a clash with La Fettini. I admitted my duplicity in pretending that Margery had the box, and my further trickery in telephoning TIM. Henry listened to what I had to say, quietly, making no comment. I had a very strong feeling that he did not believe a word of it.
When I came to the end of my story, there was a pause, and then Henry said, “What was in the box?”
“Oh, a lot of unimportant trifles.” I ran through the items I could remember. “The book Bob was reading at the time. His cold cream for removing make-up, and…well, other things like that.” It seemed mean to mention the cosmetics. “A half-bottle of whisky. Some cotton wool. Quite trivial things. Fiametta had already removed her nasty debris, fortunately.”
“Her things were in the same box, were they?”
“Yes. Originally. Everything was together in the box the day that Fiametta attacked Margery—I told you about that didn’t I?”
“Yes,” said Henry, “yes, you did. Tell me, did Meakin have a dresser or valet or whatever it is these people have?”
“Yes,” I said, surprised. “A little man called Murray. Been with him for years.”
“I suppose you’ve got his address somewhere in your office?”
“I suppose so.”
“I’ll come around in the morning and get it,” said Henry cheerfully. “There are other people I’d like to see as well. Where are you shooting tomorrow?”
“We’re in the studios now. Finished with location work. We’re out at Ash Grove, near Wimbledon.”
“I’ll probably drop in there, too,” said Henry. “I hope that’ll be all right?”
“If you must,” I said coldly. He knew very well that I could not stop him. I could not resist adding, “But I hope you won’t come and upset people. Actors and directors are temperamental creatures, you know, and if…”
Henry beamed at me. “I don’t think this part of the investigation could possibly disturb any of your people,” he said. “After all, the company is backed by your father, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just that you must be prepared for the fact that Sonia Meakin’s story may be true, in which case your insurance company may decide to fight the case.”
“I said nothing about our insurance company,” I said.
“I know you didn’t,” said Henry. “Nevertheless, I’m warning you. They may re-open it and contest the claim. Still, that won’t worry you, will it?”
I was mercifully spared from having to reply to that question by Emmy’s announcement that dinner was ready.
I dare say that the concoction of lamb and eggplant for eight was delicious, but I was in no mood to do it justice. I have seldom spent a more wretched evening, in spite of the fact that Henry put himself out to be charming, and that Emmy was her usual delightful self. The conversation ranged over a host of subjects—politics, the theater, new books and films, mutual friends—everything, in fact, except the topics uppermost in my mind and, I suspected, in Henry’s.
As soon as I decently could, after coffee had been served, I excused myself on the pretext of an early start in the morning and left. I was obsessed with one thought—the urgency of getting in touch with Sam Potman before Henry Tibbett could do so.
Out in the balmy air of the King’s Road, I made my way to a telephone box and dialed Sam’s number. I did not really expect any reply. I knew that, while working on a film, he stayed at home every evening and planned the next day’s shooting, with the telephone unplugged from its wall socket. I was encouraged, therefore, to hear the “engaged” signal. It implied that Sam was not completely incommunicado. I decided to go as far as Sloane Square and try again from there. As luck would have it, I couldn’t find a cab, so that it must have been a good quarter of an hour later that I tried Sam’s number again, but my second attempt produced nothing but an interminable, unanswered ringing tone. There was only one thing to be done, and that was to go to Islington. I hailed a taxi and gave Sam’s address. By half-past nine, I was ringing the doorbell of his beautifully restored Carolean house.
Once again, I was not unduly surprised when the doorbell was not answered; but I was surprised when I stepped back into the street and looked up at the first floor. Sam always worked in the big first-floor drawing room, which ran from front to back of the house. Now, I could see clearly that the room was unlit. The curtains had not been drawn, and moonlight streamed whitely into the shadowy corners of the empty room, throwing the furniture into grotesque silhouettes. Indeed, the whole house was in darkness, and it was quite untypical of Sam to switch the lights out simply because he had decided not to answer the doorbell. I was forced to the conclusion that for once, because of some exceptional circumstance, he was out.
Dispirited, I made my way home. It was not feasible to start combing London for the man, especially since his favorite recreation was to walk at random, usually in the East End and around the docks. My best course seemed to be to make contact with him early in the morning, and I could only hope that I would get to him before Tibbett did.
As I came into my own apartment, I was surprised to see a line of light under the drawing-room door. Hedges, my man, would be off duty and in bed by now. I concluded that he had simply forgotten to switch the light off. I pushed open the door without going in, found the light switch, and flicked it down.
Simultaneously with the darkness came an indignant exclamation. “Oi!”
In a flash the light was on again, and I was in the room. There on the sofa, with a beaker of whisky in his hand, was Sam Potman.
“Sam!” I exclaimed. “I’ve just been to Islington looking for you! Why weren’t you there?”
“I wasn’t there,” replied Sam calmly, “because I found a dead man on my doorstep.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I SUPPOSE THAT by then I was past surprise. At any rate, I know that my voice was completely matter-of-fact as I said, “Oh, really? Anybody you know?”
Sam gave a great laugh. “Pudge,” he said, “you’re much too good to be true. Yes, as a matter of fact, somebody we both know.”
“Who?”
“You remember Bob Meakin?”
“Of course. I’m not likely to forget him. But he’s been dead…”
“His dresser, that funny little man, Murray.”
I took a deep breath. “Now,” I said, “let’s get this straight. How did Murray die, and how does he come to be in your house?”
“How he died is very simple,” said Sam. “He was hit over the head with our old friend the blunt instrument. A piece of lead piping, to be precise. It was lying beside him.”
“When you say ‘was’—do you mean that you’ve moved it?”
“Oh, yes.” Sam smiled and lit a cigar. “I moved it, and I intend to move him, too. With your help.”
This was too much. “Now, look here, Sam,” I began.
“Wait a minute, Pudge. Just hear me out. I’ll tell you exactly what happened this evening. I was at home, working, as I always do. At about eight o’clock the front doorbell rang. Well, I didn’t answer it, of course, because that’s one of my rules, as you know. A couple of minutes later it rang again, loud and long. I still didn’t go down, but I thought it might be you or Keith or Biddy, so I opened the window and looked out. I just caught a glimpse of the rear light of a car vanishing around the corner, no chance to identify it. And then I saw that there was somebody sitting on my doorstep, looking as if he were either dead drunk or very ill. Nobody else in sight. I thought I’d better go and investigate. Well, when I opened the front door, there he was. I managed to get him inside into the hall. Then I saw the lead piping. I put on a pair of gloves and an overcoat and I slipped the piping inside my coat and walked around to a derelict building I know of, where I ditched the piping. Then I came on here.”
“But Sam…”
“As you know very well, I haven’t got a car.
Don’t like them. But you have, and between us we’re going to get Murray into it and drive him to a bombed site I know, down by the docks. Any objections?”
I had so many that I could not put them into words. All I said, ridiculously, was, “I’ve never been able to understand why you don’t buy a car.”
“I admit,” said Sam, “that it would have come in handy tonight. But fortunately you have one, so, what do you say?”
“I say ‘No,’ ” I replied emphatically. “I shall ring Inspector Tibbett immediately, and tell him…”
“Pudge,” said Sam quietly, “do you want to ruin us all?”
“I’d rather be ruined than jailed for life.”
“Listen to me, Pudge.” I could hear the fatally persuasive note in Sam s voice, and I tried to stop my ears to it. “Listen. We’ve had a run of the most horrible bad luck on this picture. First of all, the weather. Then, poor old Bob having that accident. Then, Margery Phipps throwing herself out of a window for no reason that anybody knows. Now this.” He paused. “It’s as though somebody—somebody indescribably evil was determined that the film should never be made. But it’s going to be made, get that straight.” Sam’s jaw was out, and his North Country accent marked. “Nobody’s going to stop me now. The locations are in the bag, and Keith’s giving the performance of his life. Just another week and the whole thing’ll be in the can. I’m not giving up.”
“But still,” I protested, “if we call Tibbett…”
Sam interrupted me. “I don’t pretend to know,” he said, “who killed Murray, or why; or why he was dumped on my doorstep, unless that was a bit of gratuitous spite. What I do know is that there’s nothing in particular to connect him with us, unless he’s found where he is now. I remember Bob mentioning that he was a bachelor and lived in lodgings, so he probably won’t be missed for quite a while.”
I gave what was intended to be a sardonic snort, but it sounded more like a sob. “That’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “Chief Inspector Tibbett is coming to the office tomorrow morning with the express purpose of getting Murray’s address so that he can interview him.”
Falling Star Page 20