by Roger Keevil
Constable became aware that Omar Gould was beginning to fidget in the background. “Mr. Gould, is there something worrying you?”
“I was just thinking, inspector,” suggested Omar diffidently, “whether you might be wanting to speak to the other people who are waiting next door in the Green Room. They have been there for quite a while, and they'll surely be wondering what is happening. Only I wouldn't want you to miss out on anything they can tell you.”
“That is a very good thought, Mr. Gould. The fresher the memories, the more reliable they usually are. Miss Mundy,” Constable turned back to the actress, “I think we shall want to speak to you further, but for the moment, will you excuse us while we take some statements from your fellow guests.”
“By all means, Mr. Constable.” Gloria gestured grandly. “'Go, go, seek some otherwhere', as Queen Anne once put it.” Her brow furrowed. “No, that's wrong. It was Queen Elizabeth, I'm sure. But you must carry on with your duty. I shall be here when you need me.” The gracious inclination of her head was clearly a signal of dismissal, and her three visitors left the room as she reached for the conveniently-placed cocktail shaker at her elbow.
*
“My name is Lois Turner, and I play Georgia Mayle.” The young woman seated on the sofa to the left of the door in the Green Room seemed eager to be the first to introduce herself.
Out in the corridor, Omar had consulted his watch nervously. “Do you suppose this will take long, inspector?” he had asked.
“Not really a question I can answer at this stage, Mr. Gould,” Constable had replied. “It depends very much on how many people we have to talk to and what they can tell us.”
“Well, you have the people in here, and of course there are our other stars. I don't want to keep them waiting longer than I must, because you must know how temperamental some of them can be.”
“I can imagine, sir.” Constable had thought for a moment. “Copper, I think it's best if we divide our forces. You find out who's in the Green Room and take some initial statements – then you can go and meet the investigation team from the station. I'll go with Mr. Gould and try to prevent any ruffled feathers. I will meet you back on the set shortly.”
“Very good, sir.” Copper had pushed open the Green Room door. Having introduced himself and laid out the situation to the group of people seated around the room, he opened his notebook.
“Yes, Miss Turner – do carry on. Is that a major rôle in the film?”
Lois giggled prettily as she shook her blonde head. “Oh goodness no, sergeant – I'm just a beginner. This is my first film, and it's such an honour for me to be appearing with a big star like Miss Mundy.” She glanced adoringly at the young man seated alongside her. “And I never thought I'd have the chance to work under such a great director as Mr. Vail here. He's been so helpful and understanding. In fact, everyone on the film has been so nice to me. I can't think why movie people have such a reputation for back-biting.”
“That's good to hear, Miss Turner,” said Copper. “So you haven't had any difficulties with, say, adverse reviews in the press? From people like Myra Marks, for example?”
“Oh no, sergeant.” Lois was wide-eyed. “Just the opposite. I hadn't met her before, and I was only introduced to her this evening, but she seemed to know who I was, and she'd promised to do an article about me in her column. We had quite a long talk – I suppose you might even call it an interview. And she was so interested in my past work when we spoke – isn't it awful that she's dead?”
“Indeed, miss.” Copper moved on the man alongside Lois. “So, can I come to you next, Mr. … Vail, isn't it?”
“That's correct – Noah Vail. I'm sure the name's familiar to you, sergeant – after all, when it comes to directing movies, there aren't many names bigger than that.”
“I'm sure I'll take your word for that, Mr. Vail.” Copper did not sound wholly convinced.
“I know it may not sound very modest,” continued Noah, “but in this business you have to push yourself all the time or you're finished. I'm sure everyone here knows that.” He cast a look of appeal round the room.
“And your relationship with Myra Marks, sir? What can you tell me about that?”
“Oh, Myra's great.” Noah sounded extremely enthusiastic, before recollection dawned that the woman under discussion was lying dead nearby. His face became serious. “Was, I mean. She always had a knack of finding the angle on a story which would make the best headlines.” His enthusiasm reasserted itself. “And you know what helps to make a great movie? I'll tell you – great publicity. You know what they say, sergeant – there's no such thing as bad publicity.”
“Hmmm. I think you may find, sir, that the sort of publicity you're likely to receive after tonight's incident will do you no good at all. But of course, that's not really our concern at the moment.” Copper turned expectantly to the woman sitting in a chair next to Noah. “Madam?”
“Oh, pay no attention to Noah, sergeant,” she commented. “He's forever letting his mouth run away with him. This is restrained – you should hear him on the studio floor. Anyway, you don't really want to hear what I think of Noah, do you? You'd rather know about me.” She sat up a little straighter. Her dark hair, cut in a long finger-waved bob, swung across her face and she pushed it back with one hand. “Right. My name is Tamara Knight, I'm thirty-seven, single, and for my sins I'm the script-writer on this masterpiece.”
Copper smiled at the cynicism evident in Tamara's words. “Not the finest work you've ever produced, then, miss?”
Tamara smiled in return. “Actually, I suppose I shouldn't complain. Work is work, and the pay isn't bad, and somehow or another, Omar has even managed to get some very good people in the cast. I expect that was why Myra was making a point of going around talking to everybody tonight.”
“Yes, miss?”
“Oh, without a doubt, sergeant. The thing about Myra was, like her or loathe her, she was very good at her job. Even the slightest sniff of a story, and she was like a dog with a bone. She would never let go. And she loved scandal.”
“And how about you, miss? Did you like her or loathe her?”
“Me, sergeant? I didn't really care one way or the other,” replied Tamara airily. “But I will say one thing – I'm glad she had nothing on me. I've seen her wreck so many careers.”
“A woman with enemies, then?”
“I think we can all put two and two together,” said Tamara. “Otherwise why would someone want to murder her?”
“Quite so, miss.” Copper moved on to face the next man, a tall slim individual who looked to be in his forties, sitting subdued and unobtrusive in a corner of the room. “And you are?”
“Eustace – Eustace Potter,” the man replied briefly.
“And your connection with the film, sir?”
“None at all, sergeant.” Copper waited for more. “I'm a private detective.”
Copper raised his eyebrows in surprise. “So how come you're here tonight, sir? Is this something to do with security for the film company, or what?” he asked, slightly puzzled.
“No, I'm here as Myra's guest.”
“You were a personal friend of Miss Marks, then, were you, sir? I didn't know. In which case, can I offer my condolences.”
Eustace gave a small, almost silent laugh. “A very old friend, sergeant. In fact, I guess you could say I knew Myra better than anyone else. We first met about twenty-odd years ago. She was just starting out as a journalist, which in those days meant she had to be pretty determined in a business full of men, and I had a flair for finding out things about people which they'd rather keep hidden, so together we made a pretty good team.”
“Professional colleagues, you're saying,” Copper sought to clarify. “But I'm still not entirely clear as to what brought you here tonight.”
“Myra insisted,” replied Eustace. “I don't usually get to go to these showbiz parties, but Myra said there was something she needed help with tonight – something that w
as too good to miss – and she could be very persuasive, so I came along to give her what she wanted.”
“Thank you, Mr. Potter. I think that will do for now, but I'll probably come back to you later to get more of a detailed idea of the events of the evening.” Copper's eyes swept around the room. “That goes for the rest of you ladies and gentlemen, of course. Which just leaves you, sir.” His gaze fell on a small, somewhat rat-faced man whose age might be anywhere between forty and sixty, perched on a stool behind the door, whose clothing of plain white shirt and black trousers put him at odds with the smart cocktail dresses and suits of the others in the room. “And who might you be?”
“My name's Lyon, sergeant – I'm in charge of properties.” The reply came in the distinctive accent of London's East End.
Copper did not at first grasp what was meant. “Sorry, sir – you mean you look after the studio buildings, or what?”
“No, not property – properties. Props. Set-dressing - all the bits and pieces that the actors handle when they're working. Books, candelabra, goblets, swords, torture instruments, all that sort of thing. There's a whole table-full out there on the set – you must have seen them.”
Light dawned. “Indeed I did, sir. Thank you for the explanation, Mr. Lyon. Sorry, can I just make a note of your first name?”
“Ennio.”
Copper blinked. “Come again?”
“Ennio, sergeant – E,N,N,I,O.” Copper continued to look baffled. “It's an Italian name – my mother's grandfather was from Italy. Mother thought it was a good idea. It would make me stand out from the other kids at school.” Ennio let out a bitter snort. “Well, it did that all right.”
Making a note, Copper moved on. “And what were you doing here this evening, sir?”
“Working,” came the brief response. “The great Omar wanted someone to act as a barman for his party, and I needed some extra money, so I said I'd do it.”
“Which I assume led you into contact with Myra Marks?”
“That woman!” Ennio's sudden vehemence came as a surprise. “Yes, and not for the first time, either.” There was obviously more to come. Copper waited patiently. “She'd been at the studios before when I've been working on other films. She'd stroll in like she owned the place, getting in everyone's way, holding things up. I remember once when we were in the middle of a session, she demanded an interview with one of the stars there and then because they were due to sail to America next day on the Berengaria and she had a deadline to meet. And nobody ever said no because they were all too afraid of her. Not me! I saw her tonight, fiddling about with the things on my props table. She had hold of this really valuable dagger – it's a genuine antique, from Florence, you know - so I was straight over there and told her not to interfere. And she was so rude.”
“Yes, sir?”
“She said to me, 'Don't be ridiculous. Interfering is what I do for a living.' Called me a silly little man. I tell you, if any of those bottles of poison of mine had been genuine, I might have been tempted to doctor her drinks.” Ennio seemed to realise he was becoming carried away, and subsided. “Anyway, I didn't. Somebody beat me to it.”
“As you say, Mr. Lyon.” Copper closed his notebook with a snap. “And now, if you wouldn't mind staying put for the time being, ladies and gentlemen, I have to speak to my boss to see what he wants to do next.” As he left the room, those remaining were exchanging looks, and as he closed the door he heard the voice of Tamara Knight saying “Well ...”
*
“'Mr. Arthur Jefferson'?” Constable paused to read the name beneath the silver star painted on the door in front of him. “Who's he? I've never heard of him.”
“That's his real name,” replied Omar, suppressing a smile. “He uses it when he's not actually appearing in public – it helps to keep away any unwanted attentions from fans. But I think you'll know him. Well, we'll see.” He knocked on the door and, following a shouted 'Yes?', put his head round it.
“I've got the police here about Myra. Is it all right if we come in?”
“Sure,” came the reply, and Omar gestured Constable to precede him into the room.
The man seated at the table in front of the mirror was unmistakeable. The hair sticking up in an uncontrollable tuft, the exaggeratedly-arched eyebrows, the long, slightly pasty face, seemingly born to wear a silly half-smile. A bowler hat sat on the table before him.
“Stan,” said Omar, “this is Inspector Constable.”
“Mr. Laurel! Good evening.” Constable managed to contain his surprise, and even succeeded in advancing, hand outstretched, with a passable display of nonchalance. “I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm having to ask some questions about the death of Myra Marks.”
“Of course, inspector. Go right ahead.” The voice was familiar from dozens of comedy shorts. “Take a seat.”
Constable gathered his slightly scattered wits. “I suppose the first thing I need to know, Mr. Laurel, is how you came to be at the scene of the crime?”
“It is a crime, then? Not some sort of horrible accident?”
“I'm afraid not, sir.”
“I see. Well, it was all Ollie's fault.”
“I beg your pardon, sir? You're blaming Mr. Hardy for Miss Marks' murder?”
“No, no, I mean that it's Ollie's fault that I'm here in the first place. You see, we were asked to do this film, and he said we should because there was no future in comedy and we should broaden our outlook. But then I said, if his outlook got any broader he wouldn't be able to get through a doorway - and he hit me. He does that a lot, you know, inspector.”
“I thought that was all in fun, sir. You know, part of your comedy characters.”
“That's because you don't know Ollie. Anyway, we agreed to do the movie, and here we are.”
“I imagine a horror film would be something of a departure for you, sir. If I may ask, what sort of parts are you playing?”
“Ollie is Count Igor Blimey, who is the mysterious owner of the castle, and I play the hero, Willie Eckerslike. I'm supposed to be the main love interest, but I've only got a tiny part.”
A thought struck Constable. “You keep mentioning Mr. Hardy, sir. Is he about, because obviously if he is, I'll be needing to talk to him as well.”
“He isn't here, inspector,” interrupted Omar. “He went back to his hotel before the business with Myra happened. He came over to me and said something about having a headache and that he was leaving. Personally, I think it was because he was afraid the bar might be starting to run dry, but he certainly couldn't have had anything to do with Myra's death.”
“Thank you for that, Mr. Gould,” said Constable. He reflected for a moment. “I've just had a thought, sir. You mentioned 'other stars'. Would it be a good idea if you were to leave me alone here with Mr. Laurel and go and have a word with whoever-they-are, ask them if they wouldn't mind being patient for a little while longer, and tell them that I'll be in to see them shortly.” The suggestion, although politely couched, was clearly more of an order.
“Oh. Yes, I'll go do that, inspector,” responded the slightly disconcerted Omar. “Would you like me to wait in the Green Room once I've done that?”
“An excellent plan, sir.” Constable smiled blandly and held the door open. Closing it behind Omar, he turned his attention back to Stan Laurel. “So then, Mr. Laurel, what can you tell me about Myra Marks' movements this evening?”
“I think she talked to just about everyone at some time or another,” replied Stan readily. “I got talking to her because I thought she might be interested in doing a feature about my early career. I have some very funny stories about my act in the music halls in the north of England, especially the one about the chorus girl and the goat ...” He chuckled in recollection. “You see, what happened was, she was bending over ...”
Constable preferred not to be side-tracked by anecdotal reminiscences, however amusing. “If we can just stick to the events of this evening for the moment, sir. You were talking to Myra Marks �
�?”
“And then, just in the middle of one of my best stories, she suddenly said she had to talk to someone else, and she rushed off.”
“And who did she go and talk to?”
“That was Gloria Mundy. She was standing right behind me, and Myra grabbed a bottle of champagne from the props guy who happened to be passing – he was acting as the barman and waiter, you see – and Myra poured some into her own glass and then into Gloria's, and said something about 'needing a drink after tonight'.”
“Did you happen to hear any more of their conversation, sir?”
Stan nodded emphatically. “I did, inspector. I wanted to know what was so much more important than me. Myra said to Gloria 'I've nearly finished that article, darling, and I bet you can't wait to read it'. And then Gloria said something about all her fans, and Myra said 'I've just got to add tonight's notes, and you're done. Your public will learn so much in next week's issue'. Then she got a notebook out of her bag and waved it in Gloria's face. And I thought, well, that's obviously why Myra's not interested in me tonight, because she's doing this thing on Gloria.”
“And was that all?”
“Oh no, inspector,” said Stan. “Myra hasn't been around this business for so long without learning how to deliver an exit line. She said to Gloria, 'At last everyone will appreciate the true value of your career. You'll never be forgotten, unlike some things'. And then she smiled and went off to talk to somebody else.”
“Was that the last you saw of Miss Marks?”
Stan paused to consider. “No. I saw her talking to Noah Vail. He's our director,” he explained in response to Constable's look of enquiry. “He was telling her about some new film he's going to direct for ParaMetro Studios later this year. He said he was meeting the studio bosses tomorrow, and she said 'Who isn't?'. I thought she sounded pretty triumphant about it, but I guess she would always have been on the lookout for important people to interview.”
“Did she and this Mr. Vail seem friendly?”
Stan shrugged. “I don't know about that. Myra did say that she hoped Noah got on with ParaMetro better than he did with Omar for everyone's sake, and I heard her make some comment about 'a good deal at stake' and 'what percentage?'. I didn't really listen all that closely, because it was obviously about money, and I leave all that sort of thing to my agent. I remember Noah made some remark about 'the cost of silents', and I can't think why, because nobody's made a silent movie for years.”