Falling Star

by Patricia Moyes

  “Is he, indeed?” said Sam. After a pause, he added, “Does anybody else know this?”

  “No,” I said. “Henry mentioned it to me this evening, while I was dining with him. There was nobody else there, except Mrs. Tibbett.”

  “Then,” said Sam thoughtfully, “if Murray had some damning information to disclose, and was about to be interviewed by the police, you were the only person who might logically have taken steps to get him out of the way.”

  “I resent that. If you’re implying…”

  “I’m implying,” said Sam, “that Murray may well have had information that could put us all in the cart. I don’t know who killed him, but whoever it was, Northburn Films ought perhaps to send him a vote of thanks.” And he gave me a long, speculative look.

  “Sam,” I said, “I’m sick and tired of all this. Tell me what you mean. I’ve done nothing that wasn’t above board and legal and…”

  “Now come, Pudge,” said Sam, settling himself comfortably on the sofa, “you don’t believe that that insurance claim should have been paid without a big fight, do you?”

  “Of course I do. It was perfectly legal. Even if Bob’s letter of resignation did get to you before…”

  “Letter of resignation? I don’t know what you’re talking about. No, what I meant was a small, black box that was in Bob’s dressing room.”

  “His cuff-link box?” I said, surprised. “But it was empty…”

  “Exactly,” said Sam.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you…?”

  “Well, perhaps it’s joost as well that you haven’t. But I warn you…”

  “Just a minute, Sam,” I said. I had remembered my original mission of the evening. “Did you receive a letter of resignation from Bob, just before we started turning on that last shot?”

  Sam looked really surprised. “Certainly not,” he said. “There’d been a bit of talk, of course, but Biddy fixed all that. Meakin was really fond of her, you know. As for resigning his part, well, there was no question of it. None at all. Is that clear?”

  “It is to me,” I said. I was, in fact, greatly relieved at Sam’s positive denial. “The trouble is, can we make it clear to Tibbett?” And I outlined what had happened that evening. That is to say, I did not mention Sonia Meakin, nor did I touch on my somewhat ignominious encounter with Mrs. Arbuthnot. It seemed unnecessary. I merely told Sam that I had reason to suspect the existence of the draft note, that I had bluffed my way into Margery’s flat to try to find it, but had failed. I had subsequently seen Tibbett, I added, and had by devious means ascertained that he, too, suspected the existence of the document, and intended to follow it up the following day. By the end of the recital I was uncomfortably aware that, without meaning to, I had given an impression of myself as something like an intrepid hero of fiction, and, knowing how undeserved this was, I hoped that Sam would not embarrass me by fulsome congratulations. I need not have worried.

  “Proper little sleuth, isn’t he?” he said, in his most unpleasant manner. “Lord Peter Wimsey to the life.”

  “I was only doing my best,” I began.

  “Never mind that now,” said Sam. He stood up. “Coom on. Get the car going.”

  “Once and for all, Sam,” I said, “the answer is ‘No.’ We must ring the police…”

  At once, the rudeness vanished, and Sam was all charm. “Now look, Pudge,” he said, “I can see your point of view entirely. In fact, it’s the reaction of any honest man, and I’d say just the same if I hadn’t had this diabolical trick played on me of dumping a murdered man at my door. Just look at it this way. Murray’s certainly been moved once since he was killed—I told you, I saw the car driving away. What difference does it make if he’s moved again? He’ll certainly be found tomorrow at the bombed site…”

  “And supposing we’re seen putting him there?”

  “We won’t be. This place I’m thinking of is perfectly safe. Been deserted for years.”

  “Then he won’t be found tomorrow.”

  “If it makes you any happier,” said Sam, “you can telephone the police anonymously in the morning and tell them to look there. But I’d think twice about doing that, if I were you. I mean, if the call were traced to you…”

  My hand was on the telephone. “I’m not interested,” I said. “I’m ringing Tibbett.”

  “Oh, God, Pudge,” said Sam. He suddenly looked completely defeated, and put his head in his hands. “If I’d had any idea…”

  I put down the telephone. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you see? If I hadn’t been so sure that you’d help me, I’d have left the man where he was, and I might just have got away with it. Now I’ve moved him inside my hallway and locked the door on him. If you call Tibbett now, how am I ever going to explain that away? I swear to you that I had nothing to do with killing the man, but nobody’s ever going to believe that if he’s found where he is now.” He paused. Then, with a trace of his old grin, he said, “Well, if you’re going to telephone, do it and get it over with. Just tell me one thing first. Do you believe that I had nothing to do with it?”

  “Yes, Sam,” I said. And I meant it. I picked up the telephone again. I even dialed the first digits of Tibbett’s number. Then I put the receiver down, and said, “Oh, hell. I can’t do it. Come along to the garage, then. We’ll shift poor Murray to temporary quarters for tonight, and tomorrow I’ll phone Scotland Yard anonymously. It’s all I can do.”

  Sam stood up. “Thanks, Pudge,” he said.

  “Don’t thank me,” I said crossly. “And don’t ever do such a damned idiotic thing again.” But even as I said the words, I could hear the exasperated affection in my own voice. It was like dealing with a beloved, irresponsible child. “Come on, and God rot you,” I said, and led the way downstairs to the car.

  As we turned into the narrow street where Sam lived, it was immediately obvious that we were too late. The road was blocked with ambulances and police cars, and to reverse rapidly out again at that stage would merely have been to invite pursuit. In fact, there was not even time to slam the car into reverse gear before a policeman appeared at the window, asking us who we were and where we were bound.

  Sam answered at once. “I’m Sam Potman,” he said, “and I live here.”

  “Oh, yes sir? Which number?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  The policeman had one of those clay faces on which it is almost impossible to register emotion, but it grew more impassive than ever, which is always a bad sign.

  “Indeed, sir?” he said. “Would you drive on a little and pull in to the curb? Thank you, sir. One moment.”

  One moment later Henry Tibbett was grinning at me through the car window. “Pudge!” he said. “This is a surprise. What are you doing here?”

  “I would be driving Sam Potman home,” I replied, “if it weren’t for all your minions cluttering up the road.”

  “Hullo, Henry,” said Sam in a cheerful, friendly voice. “What’s going on?”

  “You live at number twenty-three, don’t you?” Henry asked.

  “Yes, I do. What of it?”

  “Well, I’m afraid something rather unpleasant has happened. A man has been found murdered in your hallway.”

  “Good God!” I swear that, knowing all I did, I was almost taken in by Sam’s incredulous exclamation. “But when did it happen? I’ve been out all the evening…”

  “I think we’d better go indoors and talk about it if you don’t mind,” said Henry. “You can leave the car here. Just a formality, you know, a statement about your movements this evening…”

  We climbed the steep staircase to the first-floor drawing room.

  Murray looked extraordinarily peaceful. He was lying on the sofa as though in a deep sleep. The injuries were presumably on the back of his head, which was not visible.

  The first thing that Tibbett said to Sam was, “Do you recognize him?”

  I glanced quickly at Sam, ready to take a cue from him as to w
hether we should admit Murray’s identity or not, and my look was intercepted by Tibbett, who frowned slightly. Without as much as a flicker of the eyelids in my direction, Sam said, “Yes, of course I do. It’s poor old Murray, Bob Meakin’s dresser.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Certain. You recognize him, don’t you, Pudge?”

  I swallowed. “Yes,” I said.

  Henry was looking closely at Sam. “Did you know him well?” he asked.

  “I didn’t know him at all,” Sam said. “Except for the fact that he was on the set every day. He was privately employed by Bob, and we all knew him by sight. Didn’t we, Pudge?”

  “Yes,” I chimed in miserably.

  “Have you any idea,” Henry went on, speaking to Sam, “why he should have come here this evening?”

  “Yes,” said Sam promptly. “He must have been looking for work. With Bob dead, he’d find himself out of a job, and most stars have their own dressers. I’d say he must have come along here to ask me whether I knew of a vacancy.”

  “You were out this evening?”

  “Yes, as it happens, I was. I came home and started working, as I always do; but about a quarter past nine, I came up against a technical problem that I couldn’t solve without the help of old Pudge here. I telephoned him, but there was no reply. I understand he was dining with you.”

  Henry nodded.

  “So,” Sam went on, “I tried to work on alone, but about half-past nine I realized it was hopeless. I reckoned Pudge wouldn’t be late home, and I decided to visit him in person. I had to walk quite a bit before I picked up a cab to take me to Pudge’s flat. His manservant let me in, but told me that the young master was still out on the tiles. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’ll wait.’ And I did. At last he came in; we cleared up our knotty problem; and he gallantly said he’d drive me home—and here we are.”

  I could not help admiring Sam, especially when I remember his near despair in my flat. He had pulled himself together and done some fast thinking. The result was a story which was beautifully near the truth, and could be checked at every point. The only thing he had failed to mention was that Murray’s body had already been on his doorstep when he left the house.

  Tibbett was looking thoughtful. “You’re the sole occupant of this house, aren’t you, Mr. Potman?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then how could anybody have put Murray’s body into your hallway after you’d gone out?”

  This was the very question Sam had been dreading, but he merely beamed, and said, “Because I didn’t lock the front door. I hardly ever do. When I’m working, I lock the door of the room I’m working in—this one. The rest of the house is always open, isn’t it, Pudge?”

  “Yes,” I said again.

  “The front door was locked when we arrived, Mr. Potman,” said Tibbett.

  “Well, of course it would be,” Sam sounded irritated. “It’s only a Yale lock, and whoever lugged poor Murray into my hall, he wouldn’t want to think that the door was open for anyone to walk in, now would he?”

  “And you think that Murray came to consult you about getting a job?”

  “I told you,” said Sam, “that that’s my guess why he was here, if he came voluntarily. But from what you say now, it sounds to me as if he didn’t come voluntarily at all. It sounds to me as if someone did him in and brought him here after he was dead, just so as to make trouble for me.”

  In spite of the uneasy circumstances, I could not help being fascinated, watching the two of them. Both were skilled to a high degree in creating an apparently artless effect upon an audience, and, knowing what I knew, I wondered with lively apprehension which was succeeding the better. It seemed, for the moment at least, as if Sam were winning. Henry seemed to relax in the face of that blunt, honest good humor. He asked Sam a few more questions about Murray, to all of which Sam replied with a bluff, “I don’t know, Inspector. He was Bob Meakin’s dresser, and that’s all.”

  At last, Murray was carried away, the photographers and fingerprinters withdrew, with injunctions to Sam not to touch anything in the hallway. Tibbett said good night and left, mentioning ominously that he would be seeing us again soon. Sam and I were left alone.

  As the engines of the police cars faded in the distance, Sam poured a stiff drink for each of us, and said, “That was unfortunate. But you were champion, Pudge.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” I said.

  “Yes, I’m sorry now I moved the poor old fellow, but there’s no real harm done. It was all much easier than I expected.” He paused, turning his glass thoughtfully in his hands so that the golden spirit swirled like a lazy whirlpool. Then he said, “You know, I suppose, the question that you’ll be asked before long.”

  “I’ve no idea what you mean,” I said.

  Sam looked at me with pity. “You’ll be asked,” he said, “how many pairs of spectacles we provided for Bob Meakin in his role as Professor Masterman. The correct answer is ‘one.’ ”

  I suppose my face must have betrayed my mystification, for Sam went on, “Bless me, I don’t think you’ve got it yet. Let’s hope that your Inspector Tibbett is as dumb as you are, but I doubt it. Meanwhile, just remember that the correct answer is ‘One pair, with clear glass lenses.’ ”

  “But,” I protested, “that is the correct answer. I signed the order form myself. One pair of horn-rimmed spectacles with clear glass lenses.”

  Sam came over and laid a friendly hand on my shoulder. “Pudge,” he said, “I love you. Now go home and go to bed and don’t worry. See you on the set in the morning.”

  I drove home, slowly and far from happily. Sam seemed to have taken leave of his senses, and I was really worried in case the events of the past few weeks had deranged his mind in some way. Why on earth should anybody ask me about Bob Meakin’s spectacles? What on earth could they have to do with Margery Phipps or Murray? I was much more concerned with the fact that Tibbett might discover that I had visited Sam’s house in Islington after leaving Chelsea that night. Taxi drivers can be traced, after all, and tend to have good memories. If it came to the point, I supposed I would have to tell the truth—that Sam had been out and that I had not noticed Murray’s body in the hall. But would Tibbett believe me?

  I was still preoccupied with these thoughts when I arrived home. Hedges, having been roused from his well-earned slumber by the coming and going, was up and about in his dressing gown, obviously agog for news. I merely told him that I had driven Mr. Potman home, and asked him to pour me a whisky and soda. It was while I was sipping this that the telephone rang. I picked it up.

  “Croombe-Peters?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Tibbett here. There’s just one small thing I wanted to ask you. I understand that Mr. Meakin wore a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles in the role of Professor Masterman. Can you tell me how many pairs he had?”

  I felt exactly like the victim of a card trick, who is told, triumphantly and correctly, that the card he was thinking of was the five of spades. I suppose that this accounts for the fact that I hesitated for a moment before replying, “Yes, of course I can tell you—one pair.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And they were fitted with plain glass lenses?”

  “Of course.”

  “I see. Well, that was all. Thanks, Pudge. Good night.”

  I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. Something, something I could not quite grasp, kept intruding between my conscious mind and the bliss of unconsciousness. At five o’clock I got up and had a glass of cold milk from the refrigerator. This seemed to calm and refresh me, because I dropped into a dreamless sleep almost at once. It seemed to take me hours to drag myself out of it when Hedges appeared with my early morning cup of tea at half-past seven; but, with consciousness came the realization that in sleep I had solved my problem. Somehow, I had remembered quite clearly signing a petty-cash slip for five guineas, made out in favor of Robert Meakin, the purp
ose of which was “Purchase of extra pair of property spectacles (private use).” I could not imagine what bearing this had on Continuity Girls falling from high windows or dressers being coshed at dead of night, but the fact remained—it seemed that there had, in fact, been two pairs of spectacles. And, so far as I knew, after the accident at the Underground station there had only been one—the plain glass pair that I had myself removed from Bob’s body. As for the second pair, they must have been taken from Bob’s dressing room and that meant that they were in the possession of one of two people, Murray or Margery Phipps. I was completely in the dark, but I was aware of some sort of plot thickening like a béchamel sauce all around me. I left for the office in a gloomy frame of mind.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I WAS GREETED at the office by Sylvia, who seemed in an indecently cheerful frame of mind. Of course, the girl had no idea of the trouble we were in. I had scanned the morning newspapers very carefully, and they merely reported, in small paragraphs, that the body of a man called Murray had been found in Islington and that the police suspected foul play. No more. I doubt if Sylvia had ever heard Murray’s name, and if she had, she would never have connected him with Bob Meakin or the film. So, as I say, it was with terrible nonchalance that she said, as I came in, “Good morning, Mr. Croombe-Peters. Oh, Mr. Croombe-Peters, Mrs. Meakin is waiting for you in your office.”

  “What?”

  “Mrs. Meakin. She arrived about ten minutes ago and said she’d wait.”

  I went into my office, not knowing what to expect. Sonia Meakin was sitting there, very quiet and composed. As I came in, she looked up at me and said, “Ah, Mr. Croombe-Peters. This is a very bad business, isn’t it?”

  “What is?” I tried to sound unconcerned.

  “Murray being killed. I think the time has come to put our cards on the table.”

  “You can put all the cards on the table that you like,” I said. “Personally, I’m dealing off the top of the pack. I have no idea what is going on.”