Falling Star

by Patricia Moyes

  The clapper fell with its usual sharp click, and the camera swung up to focus on Keith, as he came running down the stairs. Suddenly, it reminded me horribly of that similar retake in the Underground station. Just as Bob Meakin had done, Keith was ramming his spectacles onto his nose as he ran downstairs. As he got them on, he gave a sort of shouting scream. His arms flailed wildly, trying to find the banisters, and failing. For a long moment, he seemed to be poised in mid-air. Then he fell.

  Everybody surged forward. Keith was lying at the foot of the staircase, looking extraordinarily peaceful. All at once, the general confusion was topped by a scream from Fiametta, a long, banshee-like wailing.

  “Keith, I didn’t mean—he’s not—he can’t be—Keith, darling, I didn’t mean—”

  I was near enough to the center of things to see that Fiametta had broken through the ring of people surrounding Keith and was preparing to go into a big act. She was about to fling herself to the ground beside Keith’s prostrate body, when Biddy stepped out of the shadows and caught her a sharp slap across the face.

  “Get the bloody hell out of here, you bitch,” said Biddy.

  Fiametta, a hand to her cheek, was too surprised to reply.

  “You didn’t mean—you didn’t mean,” Biddy went on, in a fair imitation of Fiametta’s voice. “You didn’t mean it with Bob Meakin either, I suppose. He died. Keith might have died, too, for all you cared.”

  “But Bee-dee…” Fiametta was falling back on her wide-eyed charm.

  I could have told her it was useless.

  “Get your filthy hands off my husband,” said Biddy. And when Fiametta didn’t move, she added, “Have I made myself clear? Bugger off.”

  I don’t know the exact extent of Fiametta’s knowledge of English, but she certainly understood the import, if not the meaning, of Biddy’s last words. With a final attempt to save her face, she swung her black hair out from her neck with a theatrical gesture of the head, and said, “Little man. Silly, stupid, foolish little man. You can ’ave ’im.” And she flounced off toward her dressing room.

  On the floor, Keith was stirring. He was obviously not badly hurt. He had knocked himself out momentarily, but there was no real harm done. He sat up, slowly, rubbing his head. On her knees beside him, Biddy said, “It’s all right, darling. It’s nothing. You just fell downstairs.”

  “But…” Keith looked up, slowly. There was an expression of real horror in his eyes. “The glasses, Bob’s glasses; it happened; I knew it would; it happened to me…”

  “Shut up, Keith.” Sam Potman stepped into the ring of bright light and picked up the horn-rimmed spectacles that had fallen from Keith’s nose. Even from where I stood, I could see that the lenses were made of strong magnifying glass. Sam examined them carefully for a moment, and then said. “Where did these come from?”

  “They were in Keith’s dressing room with all his other things.” Gervase’s voice sounded high-pitched from nervousness. “I went in and got his spectacles and his pipe. They were on his dressing table…”

  “These aren’t Keith’s spectacles,” said Sam impatiently. “Where did they come from?”

  A cool voice said, “I brought them.” Everybody craned to peer into the shadows. It was not necessary. Sonia Meakin stepped out into the circle of light.

  “But…” Even Sam seemed at a loss for words.

  “They belonged to my late husband,” said Sonia Meakin. “Made up to his prescription. Mr. Croombe-Peters asked me to bring them with me. Then somebody took them away from me, and I don’t know what happened to them. However, I can identify them positively.”

  Before I could protest against this appalling lie, Sam said, “I see. Right. Break for half an hour. Mr. Pardoe will need a bit of time to recover. Everybody back on the set at half-past eleven.” Then, as chatter broke out and people began to drift off the set in ones and twos, he went over to Sonia Meakin, and said, “I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Meakin. Some sort of a mix-up. Would you care to come to the canteen for a cup of coffee with us?”

  “Yes, do, Mrs. Meakin,” said Biddy. “And then you’d probably like to see around the studios, while you’re here.”

  “I’ll show you around.” Unexpectedly, it was Keith who spoke. He was on his feet and looking none the worse for wear.

  “You’d best lie down, Keith,” said Sam.

  “Nonsense. Never felt better.” Keith spoke with a sort of reckless light-heartedness. “Let’s all have a coffee first anyhow.”

  They all walked off, with Sonia Meakin in the center of the group. One by one the lights went out, the electricians climbed down from the high gallery, the carpenters and property men and make-up experts and hairdressers and plasterers and stand-ins and camera crew and sound men drifted in gossiping groups off the set. Last of all, I saw the small, slight, and insignificant figure of Henry Tibbett slipping out through the soundproof door. And still I stood there, in the dark, alone and forgotten.

  I don’t mind admitting that my thoughts were pretty bitter, as I sat and smoked a cigarette in the dark. I could have put some lights on, but the blackness seemed more in tune with my mood. I had stubbed out my second cigarette when the door from the corridor opened and a stream of light poured in, silhouetting two figures. I could not identify them, but I was not left in doubt for long.

  “Oh, isn’t it dark?” cried Sonia Meakin coyly.

  In answer her companion flicked a switch, which brought up the spotlights and arcs that stood on the floor, circling the set. A second switch clicked, and the high arc lamps on the gantry sprang to life. There was a murmured conversation which I did not catch, and then the sound of footsteps climbing the iron ladders which lead to the high gallery. Evidently, Sonia Meakin was being taken on her promised tour of the studio. An essential part of this was always to persuade visitors—so long as they had a good head for heights—to ascend to the gallery which ran around the stage at roof level, some hundred feet high. From there, the illuminated set below looked like a doll’s house on a nursery floor. Personally, I suffer from vertigo, and had never enjoyed going up there.

  Sonia Meakin, apparently, had no such qualms. I could hear her fluting voice exclaiming with delight as each fresh landing platform was reached. Suddenly, a soft voice spoke out of the darkness at my elbow.

  “Pudge?”

  I had not seen or heard Henry coming back onto the set. He must have moved as quickly and quietly as a cat.

  “Henry,” I began, but he clapped his hand over my mouth.

  In an urgent, anguished whisper, he said, “They gave me the slip. I never… How do we get up there?”

  The hand was removed. “There’s a ladder in each corner of the stage,” I whispered.

  “You go up this one, I’ll take the next one,” Henry breathed. “Your job is to grab Sonia Meakin, and for God’s sake don’t let her go.”

  “You mean—but who’s with her?”

  “Potman, of course.” Henry sounded impatient, as if I should have known. But it was Keith who had offered to show her around. “This was to be the fourth. Quick. Take your shoes off. Creep up behind her, and then grab. Leave the rest to me. Good luck.”

  I slipped off my shoes and began to climb the iron ladder. So I had been right all along. Sonia Meakin was a killer. She had cheated and killed for money; she had lied and blackmailed; and now she was planning to kill Sam. Any differences I might have had with Potman vanished in the face of my cold fury. How dared she? How dared she?

  Above my head the dulcet voice came, chilling my spine. “It’s terribly high, isn’t it? Oh, Mr. Potman, do come over here and look at this…”

  I was in a cold sweat. Should I shout, warn Sam of the danger he was in? Henry had told me to keep quiet, but if Sam’s life was in danger—I climbed faster and faster.

  “Oh, look, it’s just like being in an airplane—Mr. Potman, do come and look…”

  I was on the gallery now, and most determinedly I was not looking down, for I knew that if I did, I
would be lost. It always made me feel dizzy even to watch from below as the electricians sat so casually on the catwalk, reading their papers and swinging their legs over the abyss. Even when they stood up to work, the one safety bar at waist level had never seemed to me to be an adequate protection. Now, I was sure of it.

  A great arc lamp was burning fiercely a little further along the gallery, and between me and it I could see Sonia Meakin’s silhouette, as she leant recklessly and provocatively over the safety bar.

  “Look down there…”

  Gritting my teeth, I lurched forward and grabbed her, pinioning her arms behind her back. She let out a shriek, and I yelled, “I’ve got her! Henry, can you hear me? I’ve got her!”

  She fought like a tiger, kicking and scratching and screaming. How I kept my footing on that narrow platform, as well as my hold on her, I shall never know. I suppose it was because I was, to say the least of it, otherwise engaged, that at first I was not aware of the sound of another scuffle going on further down the gallery, in the black darkness beyond the arc lamp. The first I knew was a shattering, wrenching sound, and then a terrible dull thud. Sonia Meakin went limp in my arms. Nerving myself, I looked down. In the middle of the garishly lit set, so far below, Sam Potman’s body lay quite still, like a broken toy.

  I was so horror-struck that I was hardly aware of the fact that Sonia Meakin had stopped struggling. I only wrenched my gaze from that pathetic, smashed body on the floor below when Henry put his hand on my arm, and said. “Are you all right, Pudge?”

  “I’m all right,” I said.

  “And Mrs. Meakin? I hope she’s…”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, and my voice was harsh with anger and grief. “She’s all right. Your murderess will face her trial, and be pronounced medically fit to be hung. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? It’s nothing to you that Sam is lying down there dead because of your inefficiency? You’re like all policemen. So long as you can convict the criminal, you don’t give a damn about the victims. You deliberately allowed her to…”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Pudge,” said Henry. He sounded very tired. “I haven’t caught my criminal, and I’ll never convict him now. He’s lying down there with his neck broken. It was one of the worst moments of my life, when I realized that Potman and not Pardoe was taking her around the studio. If you hadn’t been here to help me, she’d certainly have been killed.”

  “You mean—you mean that Sam…?”

  I had somehow forgotten that Sonia had heard the whole of this conversation. She was lying so quietly in my arms that she might have fainted. Now, however, she began to cry. At least, it was so dark that I couldn’t be sure whether she was weeping or laughing, but what she was saying was, “But I thought it was Pudge—I was sure it was Pudge—I was sure…”

  “You thought it was Pudge,” said Henry, “and so did a lot of other people. Pudge thought it was you. I’ve known for some time that it was Potman, without being able to prove it. And now…”

  There was no time for any more. The technicians had started coming back onto the set, and, as though in a peepshow, we could see from the high gallery the discovery of Sam’s body—the horror, the near panic, the uproar.

  “I think,” said Henry, “that we’d better go down. There’ll be a certain amount of explaining to do.”

  As we moved along the gallery toward the ladder, I realized that my arm was still around Sonia’s waist. She didn’t seem to object, so I left it there.

  1 In Death on the Agenda

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  IT SEEMED A VERY long time later, though in fact it was only a few hours. The agonizing formalities were over, and Henry had assembled a few of us for a private talk in the production office—Keith and Biddy, Fiametta and Giulio Palladio, Gervase Mountjoy, Sonia Meakin, and myself.

  Henry came in. He didn’t sit down, but perched on the edge of the big desk, lit a cigarette, and looked around at us. Then he said, “I imagine that the coroner’s court will return an open verdict on Mr. Potman. That or accidental death. Nobody can say exactly what happened. Mrs. Meakin was with him on the gallery; he was showing her around; but it was very dark up there. Mr. Croombe-Peters and I happened to be up there as well, taking a look. It took us all by surprise when he fell. He must have lost his footing.”

  Henry looked around, blandly. Nobody spoke.

  “As for the cases of Robert Meakin, Margery Phipps, and Alfred Murray,” Henry went on, “there is little that anybody can do now. The verdicts of accident and suicide, respectively, on Meakin and Miss Phipps will stand. The case of Murray, which is being treated as murder, will remain open; but I doubt whether any more will be heard of it.”

  There was another silence. Keith looked uncomfortably at Fiametta, who turned away.

  “However,” said Henry, “for the benefit of the people in this room, I intend to give you an outline—perhaps fanciful—of my own theory about what might have happened, behind the scenes, as it were. I don’t think that I need bother to ask you to keep it to yourselves. Please remember that my story is pure conjecture. You can, if you wish, correct me if I go wrong.”

  Silence again. Henry looked at me. “The crux of the matter,” he said, “was Robert Meakin’s death. And the crux of that was money.”

  Unexpectedly, Fiametta said, “No. No, you are quite wrong.”

  “I don’t think I am, Miss Fettini,” said Henry.

  Fiametta looked at him with contempt. “You think I am poor? You think I need money? I am rich. I have jewels and…”

  “I’m not saying,” said Henry, “that you did what you did for money. I think you did it out of spite.”

  “Love,” said Fiametta. There was suddenly a curious sort of dignity about her. “For love.”

  “I doubt it,” said Henry cheerfully.

  “I wish you’d get on with it.” Keith sounded near hysterics.

  “Sorry,” said Henry. “Well, we start at the point where Northburn Films is on the point of bankruptcy, due to delays because of bad weather and”—he glanced at Fiametta—“illness…”

  “You’re putting it rather strongly,” I said. “We had enough money to carry on…”

  “But not enough to survive a disaster. And the biggest possible disaster was threatening. Your male star was on the point of breaking his contract and walking out on you. Correct?”

  “Perfectly correct,” said Sonia Meakin quietly.

  “Now,” said Henry, “somebody else besides Mrs. Meakin knew this. My guess is that it was Miss Brennan. Meakin liked and respected her, and probably confided in her, and I think she was working hard on him to persuade him to stay on. I also think that she passed the information on to Mr. Pardoe and Sam Potman.”

  Nobody said anything. So it was true.

  “Really, Biddy,” I burst out. “You might have told me…”

  “Oh, stuff it, Pudge,” said Biddy.

  Well, at least it explained the feeling of conspiracy of which I had been aware in the days before Bob died. I simmered quietly to myself as Henry went on.

  “It seemed as though Miss Brennan had succeeded. However, various—em—personal matters finally led Mr. Meakin to decide once and for all to quit the film. This happened the evening before his death.” This time Henry was looking at Fiametta, who shook her black hair defiantly at him, as though proud of the mess she had made of things.

  “Mrs. Meakin knew of this decision,” said Henry, “but of course she was nowhere near the Underground station that day. Miss Fettini also knew about it. She and Meakin lunched together, and it’s quite clear from remarks she made that she knew…”

  “He insult me,” said Fiametta smolderingly. “He say I make his life hell. He say he do not love me…”

  “Which,” said Henry, “naturally hurt your pride. You told all this to Mr. Pardoe in your dressing room on the platform, didn’t you? And you planned a mean little revenge. Apart from Murray, the dresser, you were the only person on the set who knew about Meakin’s
bad eyesight and the second pair of spectacles. While he was out of his dressing room, you slipped in and substituted the clear glass spectacles for the ones with special lenses in the pile of accessories which Murray had already laid out, ready. The interesting thing is—why didn’t Keith Pardoe stop you?”

  “You killed Bob. You killed my husband.” Sonia had gone as white as a sheet.

  “Mrs. Meakin,” it was Keith who spoke, in a tone of deep earnestness, “I swear I never meant—nor did Fiametta…”

  “That’s quite true, Mrs. Meakin,” said Henry. “Nobody meant to kill your husband. It was an accident.”

  “How could it have been? They knew he’d be blind without his glasses, and he was running down stairs and onto the platform with the train coming in…”

  “You probably don’t know, Mrs. Meakin,” said Henry, “that the shot was switched at the last moment, owing to previous takes being spoiled in processing. Everybody on the set knew this—with the exception of Miss Fettini and Mr. Pardoe, who were together in her dressing room when the switch took place. Robert Meakin was intended to have a nasty fall down stairs—and maybe even break a leg, but no more. No question of his running onto the platform with the train coming in. I think that is why, at the time, Miss Fettini cried out that she hadn’t meant it, and why Mr. Pardoe was so unduly upset at the death of a man he had never particularly liked. The question still remains—why didn’t Keith Pardoe prevent Miss Fettini from carrying out her unpleasant trick? At first I thought it might have been because of Meakin’s friendship with Mrs.—I’m sorry—with Miss Brennan. Then I decided that it was not that. The reason was far more practical. Wasn’t it, Mr. Pardoe?” he ended, looking hard at Keith.