by Roger Keevil
“And was that the end of the conversation?” asked Constable.
“Almost,” said Stan. “Myra said 'By the way, you'll never guess what I found in the pocket of your director's chair', and she patted her handbag, but then Ollie came over to say he was leaving, so I didn't hear any more.”
“Was this the last you saw or heard of Myra Marks, sir?”
“I think so, inspector. I went out with Ollie to see him off the premises, and we were chatting for a while, and it was only a few moments after I came back to the party that the lights went out ...”
“... and we know what happened at that point, sir,” finished Constable. “So we'll leave it there for the time being.”
“Will you want me any more, inspector?” enquired Stan. “I don't think there's anything else I can tell you, and Ollie and I have to leave early in the morning to catch the boat train to Southampton.”
“Back to Hollywood, is it, sir? Ah, the glamour of the film star's life!” Constable smiled. “I think I'm happy to let you go, Mr. Laurel,” he continued after a moment's thought. “We'll track you down if we need to.” On this gnomic utterance he left the room, leaving Stan with a somewhat uncertain expression on his face.
*
As Constable emerged into the corridor, he came face to face with Copper coming through the door from the studio.
“Everybody's just arrived, guv'nor,” reported the sergeant. “The fingerprints people are going to start dusting everything once the photographer's finished, and the doctor's just about to take a look at the late lamented.”
“Not lamented by everyone, evidently. I'm starting to get a few straws in the wind that the lady may not necessarily have been universally popular.”
“Same here, sir. Just a few words here and there.” Copper swiftly related the information he had gleaned from his interviews in the Green Room.
“So,” said Constable, “with all that in mind, let's see if we can find out who took exception to Myra Marks. One thing I've discovered – she had a handbag.”
“Which wasn't included in the bloody huddle on the floor, as far as I could see, sir.”
“Yes, thank you for that picturesque description, Copper,” replied Constable drily. “A little more respect for the dead, if you please. But let's see if we can track down her bag.” He led the way back into the studio.
Amidst the hubbub of flashing bulbs and shouted instructions, a bespectacled middle-aged man was kneeling alongside the body of Myra Marks. “Ah, Inspector,” he said, looking up as the two detectives approached. “In terms of picturesque corpses for me to study, you appear to have outdone yourself on this occasion. I imagine you're not going to want my professional opinion as to cause of death?”
Constable allowed himself a small grim smile. “I'd be highly astonished if you were able to give us any surprises on that score, Doctor,” he replied.
“Surprising as to the quantity of injuries, if not the nature – I've done an approximate count, and as far as I can see there are some fifty-two puncture wounds.”
“That was quick work, Doc,” said the admiring Copper.
“In my business we do not always have the luxury of leisure, sergeant,” responded the doctor severely. He softened. “Not that, in this case, swift action would have been of much use to the victim. Death would have been immediate.”
“And we know when it happened, down to the minute.”
“In which case,” sighed the doctor, rising to his feet and brushing off the knees of his trousers, “as you seem to have the how, the where and the when, I don't see that I can make much of a further contribution to your activities. If you would be good enough to have the lady sent down to my examination room, I will continue my work in the morning, and leave you to work out the who. If you will excuse me, I intend to resume my interrupted good night's sleep. Inspector – sergeant.” With a brusque nod, he turned and strode towards the exit.
“Copper, we appear to have our orders,” said Constable, watching the departing back. “If you would be good enough ...” He intoned, but then broke off with a chuckle. “Oh, dear lord! Look, organise the appropriate people to have the late Miss Marks taken away in the van, and if you can find a P.C. who can count that high, get them to verify the number of spikes on the inside of that Iron Maiden thing.”
“Righty-ho, guv'nor,” replied Copper. “Here, he's a bit of a card, that doc, isn't he?”
“And technically he outranks you, sergeant, so you'd better not let him hear you say it, true or not,” said Constable. “And while you're doing that, I shall do what we started out to do, which is to find that missing handbag.” He began to prowl around the studio.
Amidst the jumble of scenery behind the set, with its attendant miscellany of coils of rope, buckets, canvas bags of carpentry tools and discarded and broken light fittings, nothing was to be found. An inspection of the table of props revealed a wide selection of weaponry, caskets of jewellery which Constable assumed to be imitation rather than the genuine article, pewter jugs and beakers alongside bottles containing dubious-looking fluids, and an ancient-looking leather-bound tome open at a page of incomprehensible arcane symbols. Heading towards the bar, the inspector noticed that the director's chair positioned between Cameras 2 and 3 had a saddlebag-like pouch over one arm holding various papers and a clipboard, but an examination revealed no sign of a handbag. Past Camera 1, the bar itself held only ranks of glasses and bottles, glinting innocently, while beneath it, amongst the chains and pulleys of the rack, lurked nothing more sinister than two cases of champagne and some empty bottles.
Copper returned to the inspector's side. “All sorted, sir,” he reported cheerily. “Stretcher-bearers organised, spikes being counted as we speak. Any luck on the handbag front?”
“Nothing so far.”
Copper looked around. “How about that one?” He gestured to a crocodile-skin handbag lying almost concealed by a cushion on one of the large sofas flanking the entry door from the covered walkway. The dark red leather merged almost perfectly with the maroon velvet of the upholstery. The sergeant smiled innocently.
Constable took a calming breath. “How very helpful of you to notice the one place I had not yet reached, Sergeant. What would I do without your assistance?”
“Glad to be of service, guv'nor. There's this new thing I read about in one of the papers called 'the power of positive thinking'. It's probably all mumbo-jumbo, but if it helps ...”
“Stop babbling, man. Open up the bag and see what's in it.”
“Will do, sir.” Copper took a seat on the sofa, opened the handbag, and began to examine its contents. “There's a letter, sir.”
“So who's writing to Myra Marks?”
“Oh. That's interesting, sir. It isn't to her at all. It's addressed to Tamara Knight.”
“What is she doing with a letter addressed to Tamara Knight?” Constable wondered. “Who is it from?”
“A firm Rees-Kay Publishers in Soho, sir. Ever heard of them?”
“No. What do they say?”
“It says 'Dear Miss Knight, We are pleased to enclose our cheque in the sum of 100 guineas, made out to Cash as requested, being an advance payment in anticipation of sales of the recently-submitted manuscript of your latest book, 'The Lovely Lady's Chatter', to be published under your usual 'nom de plume'. A proof for your perusal and correction as required has been despatched under separate plain cover. We look forward to similar works of specialist fiction from your pen, and confidently expect substantial interest from our private clientèle of discerning gentlemen.' And it's signed 'Yuri Pelling, Managing Editor'.”
“Now that, sergeant, is a very interesting piece of information.”
“I'll say it is, sir. A hundred guineas! Do people really get paid that much for writing books?”
“I dare say some do, sergeant. It probably depends on whether the readers enjoy them. And what the critics say about them.”
“So could that be what this is about, sir? Myra Mar
ks was about to write some sort of review of Tamara's new book?” Copper took a second look at the letter. “Oh no, sir – it can't be. This letter's almost three years old. It's dated March 1932. So what's Myra doing with it?”
“We can't very well ask her, can we?” retorted Constable reasonably. “But perhaps Miss Knight will be able to throw some light on the matter. In the meantime, what else is in there?”
Copper burrowed. “Bits and pieces, sir – handkerchief, lipstick, and so on – purse with some money in it - and some keys.” He held them up. “This bunch looks like house and car keys, sir.”
“Which probably means there's a car somewhere outside. You can go and look for it in a minute. What about the other set?”
“Just one key on here, sir.” The key was the simple type used in any ordinary internal door, on a large wooden fob reminiscent of those kept at a traditional hotel reception. It bore the legend 'Spanner Film Studios', with the letters G.M. hand-written on it. “Key to a dressing-room, do you suppose, sir?”
“A reasonable deduction, sergeant. Although why Myra Marks has someone's dressing room key is something of a mystery. Anything else?”
The expression on Copper's face changed. “Only this, sir.” He produced from the recesses of the bag, half-wrapped in a chiffon scarf, a small dagger. The blade gleamed dully, the hilt glinted with jewels. Although it was no larger than a toy, the blade appeared sharp and ended in a wicked point. “This is a bit of a turn-up, isn't it?”
“As you say. So what do we make of it?”
“Perhaps it's the actual murder weapon, sir.” Copper began to sound excited as he held it out for Constable's inspection. “Maybe Myra Marks was actually stabbed with this, and the business with the Iron Maiden was some sort of ruse to put us off the scent.”
“Hold your horses, sergeant,” responded the inspector. “Let's not get carried away. For a start, as far as I can see, there's no blood on the blade or on that scarf, and as we know, there was quite a substantial amount of blood in evidence around the corpse. Secondly, don't you think somebody might have thought it a little suspicious if the murderer was seen lugging a dead body across the floor towards the Iron Maiden in the middle of a party?”
“Could have been done in the dark, sir,” Copper defended his theory.
“I somehow think that using the Iron Maiden to conceal a simple stabbing is rather over-egging the omelette. What interests me more is what this knife is doing there in the first place.”
“The props man said she was fiddling about with one, sir. Maybe Myra Marks got wind that she was in danger and wanted to protect herself. Or ...” Copper warmed to his theme. “Maybe she went to stab somebody else and got shoved into the Iron Maiden as a sort of pre-emptive strike.”
Constable shook his head. “Sometimes your flights of fancy astonish me, sergeant. Wouldn't you think that using the Iron Maiden against an attacker would be a fairly spectacular form of self-defence? I'm sure there's a simpler explanation. But we'll let our forensic colleagues have a look at it anyway.” Constable gestured to the bag. “That's the lot, is it?”
Copper looked carefully inside. “Seems to be, sir.”
“What about that?” Constable pointed to a small scrap of paper, partly tucked underneath the cushion, which had been hidden by the bag.
Copper retrieved the item. “It's a newspaper cutting, sir.” He perused it. “Looks as if it's been torn out of Myra Marks' column. But there's only part of it here.”
“Let me see.” Constable held out his hand for the cutting. “Hmmm. Torn out, but not torn up, by the look of it. So there's obviously something about the contents that means something to somebody.”
“So what does it say exactly, sir?”
“It seems to be the tail-end of the column, where Myra Marks was retailing snippets of gossip she'd picked up. There's something about 'two stage-hands and an electrician on the floor of the wardrobe department',” he read. “I shudder to think what that was all about – and then it goes on to say 'Shhh! Which busty starlet is about to marry her childhood cowboy sweetheart, after being paid a fortune at Nineteenth Century Cox for a VERY unimpressive acting career – plus some other more private performances?'.”
Copper frowned. “Doesn't say who, though, does it, sir?”
“No,” countered the inspector, “but I dare say anyone in the know would be able to pick up the hints.”
“Tends to hit on the head that remark by Noah Vail about bad publicity, doesn't it,” remarked the sergeant. “But there's more in that clipping, isn't there, sir?”
“Just a trailer – isn't that what they call them in the film business – about what was going to be in her next column. It says 'IN OUR NEXT ISSUE – New York … Hollywood … London … Skid Row??? Where next for one of the biggest names in movies? Don't miss Myra Marks' latest shock revelations in next week's issue!'. She didn't appear to hold back on the sensationalism, did she? Or the self-regard. Called herself 'Myra Marks – the star reporter the stars watch!'.”
“Strikes me she should have been watching out for herself a bit more,” commented Copper.
“And you aren't wrong there, sergeant,” agreed Constable. He thought briefly. “I'm just wondering what our next move ought to be.”
The decision was taken out of his hands by a commotion coming from the direction of the door to the dressing rooms corridor. Through it burst a man in a tailcoat and striped trousers, his crinkled hair parted in the centre, with round spectacles gleaming above a large square and obviously false-looking moustache, and a cigar clamped firmly between his teeth. He was followed by an anxiously-trotting Omar Gould.
“Where's the man in charge?” barked the newcomer. “I demand to see the man in charge!” He confronted Constable. “Is that you? Are you the police captain around here?”
“This is Detective Inspector Constable,” squirmed Omar. “Inspector, this is Mr. Groucho Marx.”
“Don't be a fool, Omar – he knows who I am,” grated Groucho. “Now, go away and produce something while I talk to the inspector so that I can get out of here.” At a nod from Constable, Omar faded towards the dressing rooms with a look of relief. “Now, Mr. Constable, I'd like to know why I'm being held here.”
“Not held, Mr. Marx,” said Constable. “But I do need to ask everyone some questions about tonight's events.”
“I don't see why,” replied Groucho. “A child of five could solve this case.” He looked about him at the surrounding ring of slightly stunned police officers. “Somebody fetch me a child of five!”
“I'm assuming, sir,” said Constable, attempting to keep hold of the conversation, “that you're here because you have a part in this film.”
“Of course. I play Serge B. Samovar, the lawyer. I suggested the name 'Serge' myself. What I was really hoping for was a new blue suit.”
“This would be a comedy character, sir?”
“Certainly he's a comedy character – what did you expect? I always say, laugh and the world laughs with you. Cry, and you're probably watching this movie.”
“Well, Mr. Marx, I'd be very grateful if you can help me out.”
“By all means, inspector. Which way did you come in?” The eyes gleamed wickedly behind the glasses.
“And I'm sure posterity will thank you.”
“Why should I do anything for posterity? What has posterity ever done for me?”
Constable gritted his teeth in the face of the increasingly surreal nature of the conversation. “So tell me, Mr. Marx, were you by any chance related to the dead woman?”
“Myra Marks? No. The only relatives I have are my brothers Harpo, Chico, and Zeppo. And of course, the funniest one of all, my distant cousin Karl.”
The inspector, conscious of the tightening circle of spectators around him and the rising volume of chuckles of mirth, glared at the attendant officers, who swiftly turned their attention back to their varying tasks in hand. He lowered his voice and drew Groucho to one side, attempting to inject a ser
ious tone. “Did you see Miss Marks at the party this evening?”
“I certainly did. I saw her talking to that producer fellow, Omar Gould. Now there's a man with his finger on the pulse. At least, I think it was her pulse he was taking.” Groucho's eyebrows rose and fell rapidly.
Constable pressed on grimly. “And did you hear anything of what was said?”
“I think they must have been talking about turning some novel into a movie, because Myra said something about 'things being taken from books', and Omar said this film will be worth a fortune. And they must have arranged for Omar to do an interview, because Myra said she was really looking forward to her piece.”
“I see.” Constable nodded thoughtfully. “Tell me, did you hear her speak to anyone else?”
“In a way, inspector, yes I did. You see, I was talking to Lois Turner.” Groucho sighed. “Now there's a lovely girl. She reminds me of you.” Constable looked startled. Beside him, Copper was unable to suppress a snort of amusement. “In fact, she reminds me more of you than you do.”
“So what happened then?” enquired the inspector in a somewhat strained voice.
Groucho launched enthusiastically into his narrative. “Lois was telling me – by the way, have you noticed those great big baby blue eyes of hers – she was saying how she got this part, and how life is never easy for an ingénue, and how she was up against several much more experienced girls, and she had to do several auditions for the director, but in the end she was cast purely on merit and acting ability. Just then, Myra came up, and she'd obviously overheard Lois's words, because she said 'Of course you were, darling. I know that'. And then she leaned over and whispered something in Lois's ear.”