Falling Star

by Patricia Moyes

  I said, fervently hoping it to be untrue, that I supposed the taxi driver who drove me might be traced.

  Indeed, yes, said the detective, to my dismay; he already had been. And the curious thing was that he maintained that he had driven me not to my own home, but to Mr. Potman’s house in Islington. Another driver remembered picking me up a little way from Mr. Potman’s house about ten minutes later and driving me home. Had I any comment to make?

  It seemed pointless to deny it. I said that I had quite forgotten to mention that I had passed by Sam’s house on the way home, in the hope of finding him in. I denied that I had seen or heard anything of Murray, dead or alive, although presumably he had, at that time, been lying in the dark hallway. The detective remarked that it was odd that Mrs. Meakin, coming along a little later, should have seen the body, whereas I had not. I agreed, with emphasis which seemed lost on the man, that it was indeed extremely odd.

  The detective then asked me to confirm that Margery Phipps’s letter of resignation had been addressed and delivered to me personally and was easily accessible to me at any time while it was in my files. I could not but agree.

  He then switched the conversation to the various insurance policies carried by Northburn Films, about which he was astonishingly well informed. I was forced to agree that our policy did not cover the death of Meakin if caused by suicide, deliberate negligence, or malice on the part of the company or its employees; and that it was also null and void if Meakin were not in the employ of Northburn Films at the time of his death.

  The one point on which I felt utterly secure was when the detective started asking where I had been at the time of Margery’s fall from Chelsea Mansions. I had plenty of witnesses, I said, to prove that I had been watching rushes at a private cinema in Soho. To my surprise, the detective did not seem unduly put out by this. He concentrated, rather, on questioning me about my movements earlier in the afternoon, and I hoped that I had convinced him that I had been in my office, although, of course, I could not produce witnesses for every moment of the time.

  Finally, he got around to my clandestine visit to Chelsea Mansions, and I replied rather stiffly that I had already explained all that to Chief Inspector Tibbett. The detective consulted his papers, and to my amazement, smiled. I had not thought it possible.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “The Chief Inspector explained all that.”

  And he leered at me and practically winked. I don’t think I have ever hated Henry Tibbett more than I did at that moment.

  The detective then went on to put several questions to me, the meaning and drift of which escaped me completely. He asked me, for example, whether I knew what make of electric stove Margery had used in her kitchen. I replied that I had no idea but that it was certainly an elaborate one, with a battery of clocks and dials on it. He corrected me, pedantically pointing out that there was only one clock, and he asked me if I could remember what time it was reading when I visited the flat with Henry. I closed my eyes and thought hard, and then said that it had read a quarter to four. The detective looked extremely surprised when I said this; for some reason, I seemed to have caught him off his guard. He asked me if I were sure, and I said that I remembered clearly, because I had checked the time with my own watch, unable to believe that it was so late; and, indeed, it was only half-past two. It was then, I said, that I tumbled to the fact that this was not an ordinary clock but one which could be set to fulfill some function, like switching the stove on or off at a certain time. The detective made a note, and said that no doubt I was perfectly right.

  He then asked whether I had given my manservant the evening off the previous evening. I replied that he knew very well that I had not, since Hedges had admitted Sam to the flat. He gave me a skeptical look and made another note. Then he changed his line of attack and asked whether I had heard any rumors that Robert Meakin intended to break his contract and walk out on his part as Masterman. I replied as confidently as I could that I was convinced there was no truth in any such gossip. I felt very glad that I had burned the little writing pad which I had found in Bob’s dressing room, even though it contained nothing more compromising than the faint imprint of a ballpoint pen.

  At this point the detective thanked me for my co-operation, and asked if I would like a cup of tea. I looked at my watch and saw that it was half-past four. I was, in fact, ravenously hungry, having refused the offer of a cold lunch from the police canteen when I arrived at the station. However, I replied frigidly to the offer of tea by saying that it was not worth the trouble, as I would be leaving the police station shortly and intended to have a substantial meal then. The detective looked embarrassed, shuffled a few papers, and said that unfortunately that would not be possible.

  “Not possible? What do you mean?”

  “My orders are that you’re not to leave here for the time being, sir.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I protested. “You can’t hold me here. Either you must charge me or let me go.”

  “We can hold you for questioning so long as we think fit,” he said stubbornly.

  “Well,” I retorted, “you’ve questioned me and I’ve answered. If you’ve any more to ask, fire away and get it over.”

  “It’s not a matter for me, sir,” said the detective, not very chirpily. “The Chief Inspector wants to see you himself.”

  “About time, too,” I said sharply. “I hope you have it on record that I have already requested permission to speak to him.”

  “Yes, indeed, sir. It’s all written down.”

  “And so,” I went on, “until he sees fit to turn up, I intend to leave this place and have a meal.”

  I spoke with considerably more bravado than I felt. One thing only gave me courage, the fact that I had not yet been charged with any crime. Obviously, there was a link missing somewhere in the chain of police evidence, and I imagined that Henry was at that moment ferreting for it, either in my office or in the studio or at the Underground station or heaven knew where.

  I had hardly got into my stride about the rights and privileges of a free citizen, when the young shorthand writer reappeared with a sheaf of typed papers in his hand, which turned out to be the transcript of the interview. The detective read it through quickly, handed me a copy so that I could do the same, and then asked me to sign it. I considered shouting for my solicitor again, but the thought of old “Loony” blundering around and putting his foot in things was too much to bear, and so I signed meekly. I could not deny that it was a completely accurate report of what had taken place. Having signed, I again announced my intention of leaving.

  The detective had started bleating again about his orders, and I was preparing to assert myself in a big way when the situation was eased—if that is the right word—by the appearance of Henry Tibbett in person. He looked extremely tired and harassed.

  He greeted me briefly, dismissed the detective and the shorthand writer, and settled down at the desk to read through my statement. I sat fidgeting slightly in my chair, growing steadily more irritated. I might not have been there, for all the notice he took of me. Once or twice I opened my mouth to put a well-worded protest to him, but each time he silenced me, without even looking up, simply by raising his right hand in a gesture of such authority that there was no gainsaying it. He reminded me of the headmaster of my prep school, engaged in reading an adverse report on one of his pupils in the unhappy presence of the victim.

  I fully expected him, when he had finished his reading, to look up, fix me with a hawk-like and pedantic eye, and demand, “Well, Croombe-Peters. What have you to say for yourself?”

  Instead, he closed the dossier, sighed, and then grinned at me and said, “This is a bad business, Pudge.”

  “If by ‘business’ you are referring to the fact that I have been kept here since midday with no food…”

  “No food?” Henry sounded full of concern. “That’s most irregular. Didn’t anybody offer…?”

  “Oh, yes. It was offered, all right. I was in no moo
d for eating it. I don’t know what you’re up to, Tibbett, but if you suspect me of murder, for God’s sake say so straight out. Arrest me. Charge me. You can’t just keep me here like this…”

  “We can, actually,” said Henry. “You’re helping us in our inquiries.” There was a little pause, and then he went on, “How much more shooting is there to be done on Street Scene?”

  “Three days. We should finish on Friday, if all goes well.”

  “And then, I suppose, there’s the editing and dubbing and…”

  “You’re very well informed technically,” I said coldly.

  “I’ve been learning a bit about film-making,” said Henry.

  “Well,” I said, “there certainly is editing and dubbing and post-syncing, and so on, but in our case it shouldn’t be a very complicated job. Sam is a director who constructs his picture on the floor, not in the cutting room. All the editor has to do is to follow Sam’s instructions and the script, and there it is.”

  “I see,” said Henry thoughtfully.

  “And now,” I said, “I would like to get back to my office. I still have time to do a little useful work before…”

  “I’m sorry,” said Henry, and he was not smiling. “You’re staying here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You will sleep the night here…”

  “But…”

  “Helping us with our inquiries.”

  It was at that moment that I chanced to catch sight of an evening newspaper which was sticking out of Henry’s raincoat pocket. It was a late edition and the headline was, “Film Producer at Police Headquarters.”

  As quietly as I could, I said, “May I please see that newspaper?”

  “Certainly,” said Henry, and handed it over.

  They had devoted the whole front page to the story. There was a photograph of Bob Meakin and another of Margery Phipps and a vague blur which might have been anybody but was captioned, “Murder Victim Alfred Murray.” There was also a large and glamorous picture of Fiametta, and a promise of more on Page 6. Worst of all, there was a most unflattering likeness of myself entering the police station in company with the ponderous sergeant, who was carrying the fatal can of film under his arm.

  I started to read the report. “At twelve-fifteen this afternoon,” it began, “The Hon. Mr. Anthony (‘Pudge’) Croombe-Peters, a Director of Northburn Films and Executive Producer of the Fiametta Fettini film Street Scene, went to Blunt Street Police Station, accompanied by a Detective Sergeant who carried a canister of film (see picture). Mr. Croombe-Peters, only son of Lord Northburn, is believed to be helping police in their inquiries into the death of Mr. Alfred Murray, found last night battered to death at the Islington home of Mr. Sam Potman, Director of the film. Street Scene, now nearing completion at Ash Grove Studios, has been dogged by tragedy. Only a few weeks after the accidental death of the film’s star, Robert Meakin, came another disaster when Continuity Girl Margery Phipps committed suicide by throwing herself from a seventh story window. Now, comes the death of Mr. Murray, formerly Mr. Meakin’s dresser; a death which the police, according to Chief Inspector Henry Tibbett, are treating as a case of murder. Mr. Croombe-Peters, who was wearing a gray suit and a dark red silk tie, was apparently (please turn to Page 6)”…

  I looked up, almost speechless with fury. “You did this,” I said.

  “I did what?” Henry asked innocently.

  “You drew the attention of the press to my—my—my being here. You tipped them off, so that they could get pictures. You’ve been talking to them…”

  “My dear chap,” said Henry, “you can’t stop the press from nosing out a good story.”

  “You can and you know it.” I don’t know which emotion was uppermost in my mind at that moment—anger or fear. “You did this deliberately, and if you keep me here all night, it’ll be as good as saying that I’m arrested. What do you think that’ll do to my reputation? What’ll happen to the film?”

  “I should have thought,” said Henry, quite seriously, “that it would be very good publicity indeed.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I PREFER NOT to think about the events of the next two days. I cannot deny that I was adequately fed and accommodated at the police station, that is to say, if you can call a prison cell adequate accommodation. The fact that the door was left unlocked and comfortable bedding brought in did nothing to dissipate the essentially penal atmosphere, and in my position I was acutely aware that the door might not remain unlocked for very long.

  I saw little of Henry. It was obvious that he was engaged in a lot of activity outside, presumably connected with the case. The glimpses I did have of him were confined to a few minutes’ conversation in his office, during which he munched at sandwiches and drank cups of coffee. Clearly, he was working too hard to take time off for meals.

  During these conversations, he chatted about the case and asked a few apparently meaningless questions. He seemed to have developed a great interest in Keith Pardoe, and wanted to know all about how I had originally met him in the army. He got the whole story about the formation of Northburn Films out of me, and he also seemed intrigued beyond reason by the story of Keith’s haircut. Remembering what Sam had said to me, I began to get seriously perturbed. Pleasant though it would be to be released from suspicion myself, it would be sheer disaster for Northburn Films if Keith were arrested. Could he be guilty of murder? I found myself considering the question quite seriously, and coming up with the reply that he certainly could; but I could not for the life of me think of any motive that would make Keith kill Murray and deposit him on Sam’s doorstep.

  Another time, Henry talked to me for some time about Fiametta Fettini, and her scurrilous background of the Naples slums; he also seemed interested in her wretched little husband, and even in Peppi, the monkey. I told him about my experience at Medham, and he looked thoughtful and said it was indeed most remarkable. Then he finished his last sandwich and said that he must be off.

  “Look here, Henry,” I said, “I’ve been here since midday yesterday, and it’s now six o’clock in the evening. Do you mean to say you’re going to keep me here another night?”

  “I’m sorry, old man. I’m afraid I must.”

  “Now look here,” I exploded. “You surely know me well enough to believe that I wouldn’t try to run away. Obviously, you haven’t enough evidence against me, or you’d have arrested me by now.”

  “That’s perfectly true,” said Henry, quietly and ominously.

  “Well, then, by any common standard of justice, you must let me go.”

  “Pudge,” said Henry, and he sounded almost apologetic, “please be patient. Tomorrow is Friday, the last day of shooting, isn’t it? It’ll all be over by tomorrow.”

  “The film will be in the can, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant that I shall have the evidence I need.”

  “You mean you’re going to keep me here—illegally—until tomorrow, and then arrest me for murder.”

  “Pudge,” said Henry very seriously, “I dare not let you leave here.” And with that he was gone.

  One thing that he did do, each time he visited the place, was to bring me a newspaper. The case had certainly hit the headlines, and I was forced to admit that it was magnificent advance publicity, so long as the scandal of an arrest did not besmirch the company itself. Fiametta—or her publicity agent—gave interviews right and left; so did Keith, which made me laugh with some irony. Sam and Biddy had both behaved with dignity, refusing to comment. Even Mrs. Arbuthnot had got into the act as Margery’s mother, and there was a very unconvincing, obviously posed photograph of her taking a cup of tea in her parlor at Lewisham, which was captioned, “Bereaved Mother’s Long Heartbreak.” All this, however, caused me scarcely a tremor; what really hurt was the fact that, without a doubt, the reporters’ pin-up boy of the moment was none other than the Hon. Anthony (“Pudge”) Croombe-Peters.

  I could only dimly guess at
my father’s frame of mind. It had taken the press no time at all to unearth details of my birth, my family, my education, and my career. They had also tracked down an old nurse of mine—a Nanny Bates whom I had always disliked—and from her obtained disreputable “reminiscences” of the boyhood pranks and foibles of the young Croombe-Peters, together with some nauseating snapshots. The Smudge had somehow laid hands on a copy of a flashlight photograph which had been taken some weeks ago, very late at night, when I had been dining at the Orangery with Keith, Biddy, and Fiametta. It contrived to make me look thoroughly debauched and more than half tight.

  The newspaper stories were couched in the usual cautious manner of the British press, scrupulously careful never to risk contempt of court or defamation of character or prejudging a case; nevertheless, the meaning that screamed out from between the lines was absolutely unambiguous. The Hon. Anthony (“Pudge”) Croombe-Peters had now been helping the police with their inquiries for more than twenty-four hours. His solicitor had visited the police station on three occasions. It was known that Chief Inspector Henry Tibbett of the C.I.D., in charge of the case, had had several interviews with Mr. Croombe-Peters. In fact, it was a foregone conclusion that the “imminent arrest” about which Henry had so injudiciously talked to reporters could refer to one person only—me.

  The bit about my solicitor was perfectly true. Old “Loony” was fairly haunting the place. On his second visit, he brought with him an older and more experienced character, who seemed to be of equally little use. Mind you, at that stage, before I had been charged with anything, I suppose there was not much they could do, except warn me against making statements which could be used against me.

  In the meantime I played patience and talked to the sergeant, a pleasant chap whose great hobby was the keeping of cage birds. There was very little I didn’t know about the budgerigar in sickness and in health, by the time Thursday evening came around. And with it, at about nine o’clock, came Henry Tibbett again.

  I was ushered into the now familiar office, and noted with relief that Henry and I were alone. No shorthand writer perched discreetly in the corner. This encouraged me to think that the moment of the actual arrest had not yet arrived.