Falling Star

by Patricia Moyes

  I left the two of them with him, Fiametta explaining earnestly that she knew it was exactly twenty-five past when Keith and Biddy arrived, because she had been on the point of going to bed—normally she always went to bed at nine when she had an early call the following morning.

  I slipped away and went over to Sam and Fred Harborough. They were deep in a technical discussion about the next shot and neither of them looked at all pleased to see me.

  “Sam,” I said, “can I have a word with you?”

  “If you must,” he said snappily. And when I said nothing, he added, “Come on, man. Out with it. What’s up?”

  “A word in private,” I amended, looking hard at Fred.

  “Sorry, I’m sure,” said Fred, obviously offended. “I’ll make myself scarce.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Sam. And to me, “I don’t like secrets on film sets. Anything you have to say, you can say it in front of Fred.”

  “Very well,” I said. “Henry Tibbett is over there, talking to Keith and Fiametta.”

  “Oh, is he? Well, what of it?”

  “He was asking me about our conversation last night, when you came to my house. I was explaining to him that it was about the extra bit players for the big café scene tomorrow.”

  “For the—but we’re due to finish the café today,” protested Fred. “What’s all this about a big café scene? Has the script been changed?”

  Sam looked at me and shook his head almost imperceptibly, but as if in despair at my stupidity. A most ungracious attitude to take, I considered. I was rather proud of my improvisation. Then, in a voice full of anger, he said, “Really, Pudge. Do you mean you haven’t yet informed the unit about the new scene and the change of schedule?”

  Furiously I said, “Well, no. Not yet.”

  “Then I suggest you do so at once,” said Sam offensively. “After all, we fixed the whole thing up last night, didn’t we? I dare say you haven’t even booked the extras yet. God, does one have to do everything oneself to be sure of getting it done?”

  I must say I was speechless. It seemed to me to be the meanest attack I had ever had made against me. It was only afterward, in the production office, that I simmered down enough to realize that Sam had saved the situation brilliantly. Sure enough, I was the scapegoat, as usual, but it certainly never crossed Fred Harborough’s mind for an instant that Sam and I had not, in fact, rearranged the shooting schedule the night before. And Fred would purvey this impression to the rest of the unit.

  My only trouble was that I had no lead from Sam as to where the famous rewritten and interpolated scene was supposed to occur in the script. All I could do was to write in another long shot more or less at random during the café scene, and then I got Louise Cohen onto the job of hiring the extras and doing all the paper work involved in a change of schedule. For the first time, I blessed the fact that the director’s word, however unexpected, is law, and that Sam was in the habit of making these last-minute snap decisions. Louise and Fred and Props and the head carpenter all grumbled about the extra work and last-moment change, but it did not strike any of them as bizarre or unusual. I breathed again, and went back to Stage 2.

  By the time I got there, work had started again, and Take Twelve was about to start. I saw that Henry was sitting beside Sam in the chair marked Fiametta Fettini, apparently absorbed in all that was going on. Sam was explaining something to him, and I could sense a warm feeling of mutual respect between the two men. Each, in his own sphere, was a perfectionist, and each admired the other.

  Then came the whistle, the cry, “Red light on! We’re rolling!” And for the twelfth time Fiametta looked at her watch and said, “I must go, Tony.”

  It went beautifully. Sam beamed and said, “Print Eight and Twelve”; the red light went out; and the stage began to buzz with chatter as the army of electricians and scene shifters and property men moved in to organize the next set-up. I walked over to Sam and Henry. They were still sitting side by side in their canvas chairs, talking earnestly. As I came up, I heard Sam say, “That’s right. I tried to phone him, but there was no reply. About a quarter past nine, it must have been.”

  “So you decided to go over to his flat and wait for him?”

  “I did.”

  “Wasn’t it…?” Henry hesitated. He sounded diffident. “Forgive me—I’m no expert in this business—but wasn’t it rather unusual to have left something as important as the hiring of extras until the last moment?”

  I must confess that I saw my opportunity, not only of confounding Mr. Nosey-Parker Tibbett but of getting my own back somewhat at Sam. “Not at all,” I said. Both men wheeled around in their chairs to look at me. “Not,” I went on, “when you’re dealing with a director like Sam, who never makes up his mind until the last moment, and then wants to change everything. You can ask anybody on this set, Tibbett, and they’ll all tell you the same thing.”

  I could see that Sam was furious, but there really was nothing he could do, except give in gracefully. “I’m afraid Pudge is right,” he said. “Until one day’s work is in the can and you’ve seen rushes, it’s difficult to get a complete mental picture of what one wants for the next day. I know that it’s this sort of thing that produces expensive films, but it also produces masterpieces.” And he glared at me.

  Henry laughed. “Oh, well,” he said, “heaven forbid that I should get into an argument on something I know nothing about. I’ll take your word for it.” He stood up. “Well, Mr. Potman, you’ve been very helpful and patient, and I don’t think I need worry any of you any longer.” He glanced at a small notebook. “I’ve got details here on the movements of all the important members of your unit last night. Have you any idea where I can find Miss Fettini’s husband, by the way?”

  “Yes,” said Sam, “in a bar.”

  “Any idea which?”

  “I should start at the Belgrave Towers and work outward from there.”

  “I see. Thank you.” Henry turned as if to go, hesitated, and then said, “Oh, there was just one more thing, Mr. Potman. I understand you always have a run-through of the previous day’s filming in the evenings.”

  “That’s right. Rushes, we call it. Six o’clock in the cinema here.”

  “I was wondering if you could arrange for an extra piece of film to be shown for my benefit.”

  Sam looked surprised. “What extra film?” he demanded.

  “Well,” said Henry, “it occurred to me that the camera was already—what’s the word you use—rolling, that’s it, isn’t it—was already rolling when Robert Meakin had his unfortunate accident. I dare say it has nothing to do with Murray’s death, but it’s unusual, to say the least, that an accident of that sort should have been recorded on film. I suppose it must exist somewhere, and I’d like to see it.”

  Sam wheeled on me. He seemed really rattled. “Does it exist, Pudge?” he asked. “What happened to it?”

  “I expect it was destroyed,” I said, hoping that I didn’t sound as nervous as Sam did. “I’ll make inquiries, of course, but there would have been no reason to keep it. If it does exist, I suppose it’s in the cutting room. I’ll have a look.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Pudge,” said Henry. “Well, I’ll get back to London now and see you at six.”

  When Henry had gone, Sam and I looked at each other in silence for a moment.

  Then Sam said, “That film doesn’t exist, does it, Pudge?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll put it like this,” said Sam. “I hope it doesn’t.”

  “Sam,” I said, “if you’re asking me to go and find it and destroy it…”

  “I never said…”

  “Never mind what you said.” I was speaking in an urgent sort of whisper, even though there was nobody else within earshot. “What with last night—and now this—for God’s sake, Sam, what are you playing at? I’m not a murderer, and I’m damned sure you’re not, but you’ve got us into such a false position with the poli
ce by now that there’s no knowing what they might think if…”

  “Oh, Pudge.” Sam looked at me with that quizzical grin that he gives to actors who still can’t get it right after ten takes. “Dear, misguided Pudge, don’t you see? Don’t you understand?”

  “I understand nothing, except that I am being expected to conceal evidence and to lie…”

  “If we’re going to get this film safely in the can,” said Sam, “we’ve got to protect him. Until the last day’s shooting. When that’s over, I don’t care. He can fend for himself. This is my film, and I’m seeing it through.”

  “Protect whom?” I was completely bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

  “You poor idiot,” said Sam. “I’m talking about Keith Pardoe. Now, go to the cutting room and get that can of film and burn it.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE CUTTING ROOM is a world quite apart from the rough and tumble of the rest of the film studio. Here, only the finished product is considered. The agonies of the “floor” have been resolved into neat lengths of film and this is the raw material from which the editor works. It is nothing to him that the star was having hysterics, or that the performing dog failed to turn up and the set collapsed during Take Three. He sees only the successful takes, and, in collaboration with the director, he constructs the film from them.

  I approached this austere and orderly world without too much trepidation. I had always enjoyed hanging around the cutting room, and I was greeted amiably by the editor and his assistants; and when I said that I wanted to take a look at a certain can of film, nobody expressed surprise—or any other emotion, come to that. I was merely motioned to go into the storeroom and look for what I wanted. The editor did offer me the services of one of his minions to help me, but I declined them. For this job, I preferred to be alone.

  It took some time, but I found the can in the end. It was buried deep at the back of a lot of rejected material, which is never thrown away in case the director might decide at the last moment to make use of it. I extracted the film and came back into the cutting room, looking as unconcerned as I could.

  “I’d like to run this through the viewer,” I said.

  “Help yourself,” said the assistant editor, and went back to his work.

  The viewers are like miniature film screens, designed to be watched by one person at a time. On them, you can watch a minuscule but moving film show, your eyes jammed into a rubber eyepiece reminiscent of “What the Butler Saw” on Brighton Pier in the old days. I inserted my strip of film into the viewer and pressed the button.

  Of course, there was no sound, but I saw Steve step forward and display his clapper board with its chalked legend “Street Scene, Retake One-Nine-Four, Take One.” Then he dodged out of range, and there was Bob Meakin running pellmell down onto the platform, jamming his spectacles onto his nose, and then suddenly swerving, and coming straight at the camera, with an expression of horror on his face which I dimly remembered from the actual event but had not expected to see so agonizingly re-enacted. He rushed, out of control, at the camera, then seemed to swerve again, and went out of picture at the same moment as the film cut to blackness. It was a horrifying experience to see it all again, but perhaps the most unpleasant thing about it was that it was abundantly clear, as Bob came close to the camera, that his spectacles were made of perfectly plain glass. There was no question of any distortion. I remembered, sickeningly, what I had said to Henry Tibbett about noticing the strong distortion in the glasses Bob had been wearing. Sam was right. This piece of film would have to be destroyed.

  I straightened up from the viewer. “Well, thanks very much,” I said.

  “Anything more you need, Mr. Croombe-Peters?” asked the assistant editor politely.

  “No, thanks. I’ve seen all I want to.”

  “Shall I take the can back for you?”

  “No, no. I’ll do it.”

  It was only then that I realized my dilemma. I could easily enough cram the film into my pocket and dispose of it; but the large canister was clearly marked as containing that particular take, and if it should be found empty, it would be—well—odd, to say the least. I knew Henry Tibbett well enough to feel sure that he would insist—in the nicest possible way—on searching the cutting room himself, if I reported that the film was not there.

  I glanced again at the canister. There was a broad strip of white adhesive tape stuck across the center of the lid, and on this was written in ink the name of the film and the number of the shot. I breathed again. Things were not going to be so difficult after all.

  In the comparative dimness of the film store, I ripped the damning piece of tape off the can and crammed it, together with the film itself, into my jacket pocket. The can, now anonymous, I buried carefully underneath a mountain of old rejected material. Then, with a jaunty “So long” to the editor and his staff, I stepped out into the sunshine of the studio grounds.

  “Grounds” is perhaps too grandiose a word for the straggling lawns and flower beds which interlace the various buildings at Ash Grove. We have none of the spaciousness of Pinewood; being so close to London, every square foot represents valuable and expensive territory, and the best that Ash Grove can do is to try to brighten up its paths with a few nasturtiums. I knew that the large conglomeration of nasturtiums, trained carefully up a trellis-work screen near the river, was designed to conceal the least attractive of the Ash Grove buildings, the rubbish incinerator. And it was there that I made my way.

  The incinerator was housed in a small, ugly red-brick structure. I took a look to see if there were anybody about, but the place seemed deserted. Quickly, I dodged behind the trellis-work fence and into the dark building, where the furnace snored sonorously. I pulled the length of film and the piece of adhesive tape out of my pocket, opened the burner door, and was about to throw them in, when I suddenly heard a voice behind me saying, “Just a moment, if you please, sir.”

  Partly from the heat, and partly from sheer fright, the sweat was streaming down into my eyes. I had to brush it away before I realized that a very large, solid, and unemotional police sergeant was standing in the doorway.

  “May I see wot it is you are about to dispose of, sir?” he asked ponderously.

  Curiously enough, the emotion that I remember taking precedence over all others at that moment was that Sam would never forgive me for being so inefficient.

  I was not formally charged with murder. I was taken to the police station “to assist the police in their inquiries,” which meant that I was ushered into a bleak, white-washed room and questioned mercilessly for hours on end by a seemingly tireless detective. I was horribly and persistently aware of the young, fresh-faced policeman who sat unobtrusively in the corner, taking down every word in shorthand.

  My first impulse was to refuse to say a word until I had consulted my solicitor. And this I did. A fat lot of use it was, too, as I might have known. My solicitor was an old school friend of mine, and when I tell you that he was generally known at school as “Loony” Lawrence, you can form your own opinion of his mental ability. I had employed him in the past simply because I felt sure that old “Loony” needed the work, and the few simple things I had asked him to do, such as drawing up a will and transferring small sums of money here and there, should, I felt, be within the grasp of the feeblest intellect.

  When “Loony” finally turned up at the police station, he was gray with fright, and could do nothing except babble about reserving my defense, which hardly applied since I had not been charged with any crime. He also urged me to say nothing which might incriminate me, adding paradoxically that I should tell the whole truth. He ended by exhorting me to remember that British justice was the finest in the world and that innocence was the best defense. He then withdrew in some disorder to consult with abler colleagues. I was left alone.

  My next move was to demand to see Henry Tibbett. Humiliating though the interview might be, I would at least be dealing with somebody I knew, a reasonable m
an, prepared to understand the quirks of fate which might land a chap in this sort of a jam. I was told, icily, that Chief Inspector Tibbett was busy and would see me at his convenience. The unpleasant detective then resumed his summing up of the damning evidence.

  I had been apprehended, he said—I use his own words—in the act of depositing in an incinerator a length of film and a piece of adhesive tape, marked in ink, of the type used to identify cans of film at Ash Grove Studios. This film showed the last living moments of the late Mr. Robert Meakin, and also showed conclusively that the late Mr. Meakin was wearing clear glass spectacles at the time of his death. I had told Inspector Tibbett that I distinctly remembered the deceased wearing strong magnifying lenses. Could I account for this discrepancy?

  I said feebly that I must have made a mistake.

  The detective did not comment. He merely made a note, and went on to recall that I had mentioned to Inspector Tibbett that I was well aware of Meakin’s bad eyesight. Did I stand by this statement?

  Miserably, I said I did—what else could I say? The detective then pointed out that I was, it seemed, the only person in the unit who had possessed this interesting knowledge. He then switched to the subject of the telephonic communication which, according to Mrs. Meakin, I had had with Miss Phipps at approximately eleven-twenty on the day of Miss Phipps’s death. I had denied this. Had I anything to say about it?

  I repeated my story, well aware of the detective’s disbelief.

  To proceed, he continued, I had given no good account of my whereabouts at half-past nine the previous evening, the time when Murray was presumed to have been murdered. He read to me my statement that, having tried unsuccessfully to contact Sam on the telephone from Sloane Square, I had returned to my own apartment. Could I provide corroboration for this statement?