by Clara Benson
‘Don’t worry about me, Eugene,’ said Cora. ‘I just want to find out what happened. Poor Dorothy! I knew it wasn’t suicide—she was far too happy for that—but I could have believed in an accident. But now it seems it wasn’t even that.’
‘Not unless she climbed onto the railing and overbalanced,’ said Entwistle. ‘And that’s not very likely. She might have stood on a chair, but there was none standing near the edge at the time.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ said Penk. ‘Someone might have moved it back afterwards.’
‘We had a close look at them all,’ said Entwistle, ‘and it was clear that none of them had been moved for several weeks, from the dirt and dead leaves that had piled up around the legs.’
‘Then you think she was pushed over?’ said Cora.
‘It looks very possible,’ said Entwistle. ‘That’s why we need to find out who was doing what in the half an hour between ten to eleven, when she was last seen alive, and twenty past, when she was found in the street.’
‘The other policeman asked me that,’ said Cora. ‘As far as I recall, I was in here most of the time. I know I was looking for Bob Kenrick, as I wanted to speak to him about something. I think I must have asked everyone at the party whether they’d seen him, but I eventually found him on the terrace at about eleven. He’ll tell you. Then Augusta and her friend came out and we spoke for a minute and then went back indoors. That must have been at ten past eleven. Then I went to find Dorothy but nobody knew where she was, so I talked to Lady Featherstone instead. We were still talking when Eugene came and told me the news. We had to go downstairs and identify her.’
This last was said in a whisper. She blinked and her face worked, but she quickly mastered herself.
‘I’m sorry to have to remind you of it,’ said Entwistle. ‘But I’m sure you understand that we have to ask the questions.’
‘I understand perfectly,’ she said. ‘Please carry on.’
‘When you went outside, it was onto the main part of the terrace, outside the living-room?’ said Entwistle.
‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t go around the corner, to the part that leads off your bedroom, at any time?’
‘No. That’s where Dorothy fell from, I guess?’
‘Most likely, yes,’ said the inspector. ‘Then you were in the living-room and on the main part of the terrace all the time?’
‘I think so. I talked to quite a few people, so they can probably confirm it.’
‘Oh, but you weren’t,’ said Penk suddenly. ‘I was on the second terrace with Neale for a while, and you came out and saw us, don’t you remember?’
‘Of course,’ said Cora, thinking. ‘That was just for a moment, though. I thought Bob might be with you.’
‘You went onto the other terrace? At what time was that?’ said Entwistle.
‘Why, it must have been at about five to eleven, I think. Yes, it was, because I remember thinking after that that I’d tried one terrace and the only place left to look was the other.’
‘Very well,’ said Entwistle. ‘Now, what about you, Mr. Penk? You say you went out onto the smaller terrace outside Miss Dacres’ bedroom. At what time was that?’
Penk considered.
‘Ten to eleven, or thereabouts,’ he said at last. ‘I can’t be exact, but it must have been around then, because I was one of the people talking to Dorothy until just before she disappeared. We made the tour of the room together, because everybody wanted to congratulate her, and I was by way of being responsible for giving her the part, so it seemed we might as well give everybody the chance to talk to us both at once. And I don’t mind admitting I was trying to avoid Kenneth Neale,’ he added humorously. ‘I knew he would be mad at me about the whole thing, so I stuck by Dorothy for protection.’
‘Why did you think he would be mad at you?’
‘Because he wanted Augusta Laing to play Helen Harper. I wanted Neale to direct the picture, so I’d given him the impression that she’d got the part—or at least, let’s say I didn’t contradict him—but I thought he’d come around to the idea once he saw what Dorothy could do.’
‘Didn’t you want Miss Laing for the part?’ said Entwistle.
Penk gave an expressive shrug.
‘As a matter of fact, I did,’ he said, ‘but it wasn’t my decision to make. I’m only a part-owner of Aston-Penk Productions—and that’s the smallest part. You’ve heard of Henry Aston. He’s the top dog in this partnership, and what he says goes.’
‘Do you mean he makes all the artistic decisions?’
‘No,’ said Penk. ‘He gives me my head for the most part, but if he wants to override me then there’s not much I can do about it. He’s the money.’
‘Even if it’s bad business?’
‘Henry’s not his father. He inherited millions, and he’s casting about, wondering what to do with them. Give him a shipyard or a railroad and he’s on firm ground, but he’s not so sure of himself with movies. He’s got the bug, though, and he was determined to invest—and I was hardly going to say no to the money. But the company’s still young, and finding its feet, and we’ve made a couple of pictures that didn’t do so well, so Henry didn’t want this one to go badly. He wanted a big star for this one—and Dorothy was certainly that, so I went along with it. It’s not the best way to run a business, I know, and as a matter of fact, part of the reason I came to London was to speak to someone else who was interested in backing the venture.’
‘Sir Aldridge Featherstone?’ said Entwistle.
‘Yes. The idea was that if we had more investors, Henry would be less nervous and more inclined to let me make the decisions. We’ll see if it succeeds.’
‘So,’ said the inspector, consulting his notes. ‘You were with Miss Dacres and a crowd of other people until about ten to eleven. Did you see where she went after that?’
‘No, because then Kenneth Neale grabbed hold of me and demanded my attention—said he wanted to speak to me. I thought I might as well get it over and done with, so we went into Dorothy’s room and out onto the little terrace.’
‘Was anybody else there?’
‘No—and a good thing too! Neale wasn’t at all happy, and bawled me out in no uncertain terms. I listened to him as long as I could—thought it was best to let him get it off his chest. Then I gave him the soft soap a little, and said that Augusta was going to be a big star, there was no doubt about that, and that we’d give her a lot of publicity and put her first in line for any other plum parts that came up. He was muttering about having his lawyer look over his contract, but I calmed him down all right, and said we’d talk about it another time and see what could be done, then he went away. I stayed outside for a few minutes—I wanted a little peace and quiet after all that, so I smoked a cigar, then came back into the living-room. Then I heard people saying there’d been an accident, and, well—’
He tailed off and was silent for a moment. Then he glanced at Cora.
‘I think I’d better tell them,’ he said.
Cora looked surprised.
‘Tell us what?’ said Entwistle.
‘It would only come out sooner or later,’ said Penk, still addressing Cora. He sighed. ‘Dorothy and I were married, inspector.’
The two policemen glanced up quickly, and Penk went on:
‘In name only, lately. We married ten years ago, when she was just starting out in Hollywood. We kept it quiet for the good of her career, as I’d just been through an unpleasant divorce from my first wife, and the public doesn’t like its stars to get caught up in that kind of thing. We didn’t want them to get the idea that she was the other woman. Then after that, we started putting Dorothy in ingénue parts, and she wanted to play up to that image—after all, it wouldn’t have looked quite right for her to have been married to a man nearly twenty years older than she. The studio sent her out on
the town to be photographed with young actors, and we kept it hidden very well. We always planned to come out with it sooner or later, but after a few years the marriage failed and then there seemed no sense in telling everybody.’
‘There was no divorce?’ said Entwistle.
‘Not yet,’ said Penk. ‘We planned to do it, but we hadn’t gotten around to it yet. She said she was going to file when she got back to the States.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Now it’s too late.’
‘And yet you remained on good terms?’
‘Yes, mostly,’ said Penk. ‘She was a difficult woman—there’s no denying it—but we got along well enough professionally. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, except that you’d have dug it up in the end anyhow. But I don’t see it changes anything about her death.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Entwistle, who was thinking. At present he could not see it made much difference, but it was a surprising new fact that must be added to the collection of other facts.
‘This substance we found in Miss Dacres’ room,’ he began.
At that, Cora shook her head.
‘I told you, I don’t know anything about it,’ she said. ‘She never did anything like that, and I don’t know what she was thinking. If you ask me, it belonged to someone else. Maybe she was keeping it for them. And it wasn’t for me, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ she added. ‘I’ve never touched the stuff.’
‘Cora’s right,’ said Penk. ‘I think she was holding it for a friend. Perhaps she didn’t even know what it was.’
‘Well, we didn’t find any traces of cocaine in her blood,’ said Entwistle, non-committally. ‘However, I should very much like to find out where she got it, since it might well prove to have been a motive for murder.’
Penk and Cora stared at one another blankly.
‘Murder,’ said Cora at last. ‘It’s such a terrible word. How could anybody have murdered Dorothy? I can’t believe it.’
‘You mean nobody had reason to kill her?’ said Entwistle. ‘Did she have no enemies at all?’
She hesitated.
‘Everyone has enemies in this business,’ she said. ‘Dorothy was difficult, right enough, but I don’t know why anybody would go so far as to kill her.’ She shivered. ‘I just wish we knew what really did happen that night.’
‘That’s what we mean to find out,’ said Entwistle.
‘This marriage puts a new aspect on things,’ said Entwistle, as they left the Abingdon. ‘Although I’m not quite sure how.’
‘No,’ agreed Bird. ‘It might have been one thing if she’d been sneaking off with other men behind his back, but if they weren’t living as man and wife any more it doesn’t make much of a motive. I mean to say, I don’t suppose he’d have been very pleased about it, but he’d hardly be jealous enough to kill her.’
‘That’s if he was telling the truth. We can easily confirm his story about the marriage, but proving they were amicably separated is another matter.’
‘You think he might have been lying about that?’ said Bird. ‘She was supposed to have had her eye on Robert Kenrick, wasn’t she? I suppose Penk might have killed her in a jealous rage, then, if she was displaying it a bit too openly at the party that night—oh, but he was on the second terrace for most or all of the time in question, so it looks as though he’s let out.’
‘He says he was on the second terrace all that time, but can he prove it? He might have sneaked across to the other one and done it while nobody was watching.’
‘Well, he’d have had to come through the living-room to do it, so if he did then somebody is bound to have seen him,’ said the sergeant. ‘And it looks as though Miss Drucker is out of the picture, too, since she was talking to one person or another—including Robert Kenrick—for the whole half-hour.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Inspector Entwistle. ‘Now, Kenrick had the most opportunity of all of them, since he was out on the main terrace for a large part of the fatal period. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.’
They found Robert Kenrick at his flat in Knightsbridge. It was large and spacious, and had the messy, unfurnished appearance of having been recently acquired. Although it was late morning, he was still in his dressing-gown, with rumpled hair, but he admitted them readily enough—and indeed, when they entered the living-room they found that they were not the first visitors to arrive, for another man was lounging comfortably on a sofa, smoking.
‘I expect you recognize Basil,’ said Kenrick. ‘Basil Kibble, you know.’
In broad daylight, without his make-up, Basil Kibble appeared far closer to his real age, for he had the pale, unhealthy look and bloodshot eyes of a man who spends little time in the open air, and goes late to bed every night. His suit was worn and shabby, with shiny patches at the elbows, and altogether his daytime appearance was a far cry from the elegant and sophisticated persona he affected during his evening performances.
‘Hallo, inspector,’ he said cheerfully, without moving. ‘I’m here to cheer up the patient. Ought I to get up? Or might we dispense with the formalities? Should you prefer me to leave altogether, in fact?’
‘No need, sir,’ said Entwistle. ‘I believe you and your wife were at the Abingdon on the night Miss Dacres died?’
‘Oh, we were, we were,’ said Basil. He lowered his voice and looked suitably sombre. ‘Terrible thing to happen, and on such a triumphant night for her. I suppose you’re here to question Bob. Shall I go out of the room, dear boy? I can be as discreet as you like.’
‘No, no, I’d rather you stayed,’ said Robert Kenrick. ‘You might remember things I don’t. As a matter of fact, I’d much prefer to forget the evening entirely, but I don’t suppose I’ll be allowed to.’
‘Oh? Was Miss Dacres a particular friend of yours?’ said Entwistle.
‘No,’ said Kenrick shortly. Basil shot him a warning glance, and he continued hastily, ‘That is to say, I didn’t know her well. We’d only met a week or two earlier.’
‘And there was no closer connection between you than that?’
‘If you mean were we having an affair, then the answer is no,’ he said. ‘I’m engaged—or I was, at any rate.’
‘That would be to Miss Sarah Rowland,’ said Entwistle. ‘She accompanied you to the party that evening.’
‘Yes,’ said Kenrick suddenly. ‘And I wish we hadn’t gone, because she hasn’t spoken to me since.’
‘Why not?’
Kenrick opened his mouth to answer, but again there was the warning look from Basil Kibble, and he closed it again.
‘We had a row,’ he said at length. ‘It was a private matter that had nothing to do with what happened that night.’
‘Are you certain of that?’ said Entwistle. ‘Your fiancée wasn’t, perhaps, upset because she suspected you of having deserted her for Miss Dacres?’
‘No,’ said Kenrick, but his tone was unconvincing. For an actor, he did not seem very good at dissembling.
The inspector went on:
‘Several people observed that evening that Miss Dacres seemed to be taking an unusually close interest in you. It was also noted that she snubbed Miss Rowland publicly, and that Miss Rowland was upset, and spent most of the evening sitting in a chair at one side of the room.’
‘It was all nonsense,’ said Kenrick. ‘I told Sarah that, but she didn’t believe me. This is all new to her—it’s new enough to me, too—and she doesn’t feel quite comfortable among this sort of people yet. This was the first time she’d met any of them, and most of them were friendly enough, but then Dorothy came and thought she’d try to lord it over me in front of everyone. I had to play along a little—for the sake of the publicity, you know. One has to keep up a certain image. But Sarah didn’t like it one bit.’
‘What do you mean by play along? Do you mean you took part in the pretence that there was a romance between you and Dorothy?’
‘And there was nothing on your side?’
‘Not at all.’
‘What about Miss Dacres? Can you be sure it was all just for show?’
‘Ye-es,’ said Kenrick.
‘You don’t seem quite certain.’
‘I didn’t mean a thing to her, I’m sure of it,’ said Kenrick unwillingly.
‘But—’ prompted Entwistle.
Kenrick cast a glance at Basil Kibble as though in entreaty.
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Basil. ‘You know what I thought of her. Inspector, what Bob is far too much of a gentleman to tell you is that Dorothy Dacres was badgering the life out of him.’
‘Is that true?’ said the inspector.
Kenrick looked embarrassed.
‘She made a suggestion,’ he said at last. ‘She said it would help our careers if people thought we were really—you know. And it would be good publicity for the picture.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I was flattered, naturally, and I told her so, but I said I already had a girl and couldn’t think of it.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘Why, she had to accept it,’ he said with finality.
‘She wasn’t upset?’ said Entwistle.
‘No.’
‘She didn’t perhaps threaten you, or tell you she’d see to it you were fired from the picture?’
‘No, of course not. Who told you that?’
‘One or two people had that impression,’ said Entwistle vaguely.
‘Well, it’s not true,’ said Kenrick.
‘Very well, then. Let’s turn to the events of the party. We are trying to discover the circumstances behind Miss Dacres’ death, and to do that we need to know what she was doing immediately before she fell from the terrace. There is a period of about half an hour in which nobody seems to have seen her, and we’d like to know where she was and what she was doing during that time. Now, we know that at half past ten she announced to everybody that she had won the part of Helen Harper, and after that she spent a little while circulating and accepting congratulations. But we don’t know exactly where she was after about ten to eleven—although obviously we can assume she went out onto the terrace at some point. Did she go out with you?’