Murder Comes To Call: three Inspector Constable murder mysteries (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 4)

by Roger Keevil

  “Did you manage to catch what it was, sir?”

  “All I heard were the words 'Noah' and 'sack'. And then Myra said how she must get around to scheduling that article about Lois. Something like 'After that, nobody will be able to touch you', and then she said 'We'll talk later. Don't forget, darling, I hold the key to your future' and then she held up her purse.”

  “Was there anything else said?”

  “No, not then, because Myra headed over to the bar to get another drink. I think she'd had quite a few already. Who'd have thought it – a journalist on the sauce! And I didn't see her after that.”

  Constable turned to his junior colleague. “I hope you've managed to make some useful notes from Mr. Marx' statement, sergeant,” he said, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

  “Oh yes, sir,” replied Copper. He sounded dubious. “I think I've got everything that's relevant. That's as long as Mr. Marx is absolutely sure of what he's told us.”

  “Of course I'm sure,” retorted Groucho. “Who are you going to believe – me, or your lying eyes? I've told you everything I know.” He assumed an air of mock outrage. “Enough of this – I'm leaving!”

  “Please, Mr. Marx,” intervened Constable, “there's no need to leave in a huff.”

  “Alright.” Groucho grinned and waggled his eyebrows again. “I'll leave in a minute and a huff! Now will someone please call me a cab?”

  Copper couldn't stop himself. “Alright sir – you're a cab!” The ensuing silence was deafening.

  “Sergeant Copper,” said Constable in restrained tones which promised later retribution, “would you please escort Mr. Marx to the door and telephone for a taxi for him? Thank you for your help, sir – I'm very grateful. And while you are about it, sergeant, take these keys, see if you can find Myra Marks' car outside, and check whether there's anything of interest in it.”

  “Very good, sir,” muttered Copper. He avoided meeting the inspector's eyes. “I'll be as quick as I can. If you'd like to come with me, Mr. Marx.” He escorted Groucho to the door to the exterior, which closed behind the two with a thud.

  *

  Constable took a seat on the sofa as the investigation proceeded around him. The body of Myra Marks was placed on a stretcher and borne away. The photographer, innumerable flashbulbs expended in taking shots of the Iron Maiden and the position of the body, loaded his equipment into its bulky case and left with a brief nod of acknowledgement to the seated inspector. The fingerprints team, records made to their seeming satisfaction, departed leaving traces of powder on various items and a faint haze hanging in the air. For a few moments, Constable was left alone to muse in the cavernous hush of the studio.

  The silence was broken by the sudden reappearance of Sergeant Copper, who had evidently been running. “I've found some stuff, sir,” he panted, sounding eager to please. “The car was parked just outside, and there were a couple of things in it that I'm sure are useful, plus there was something in the hall.”

  “Slow down, sergeant. Take it gently. What was in the car?”

  “There's this, sir – another letter.” He held it up.

  “Miss Marks certainly seems to have been cavalier with her correspondence. Or is it someone else's again?”

  “That's just it, sir – this one isn't to her either. Or from her, for that matter. It's from some company called MM Estates Management.”

  “And do we have another mysterious document from the past?”

  “No, sir – this one's only two days old, dated the 12th of February. And it's addressed to Eustace Potter at what looks like his business address, somewhere in the Balls Pond Road.”

  “Highly salubrious,” commented Constable. “Well, don't keep me in suspense. If you've got your breath back, tell me what it says.”

  “Looks as if he's in trouble,” remarked Copper. “Listen to this. 'Dear Mr. Potter, We are informed that the rental for the above office premises has not been paid for the past three months, in contravention of the terms of your lease. You are therefore advised that, unless the outstanding sum, plus a payment on account for the forthcoming quarter, is settled within seven days of this letter, we shall have no choice but to place the matter in the hands of our solicitors … blah blah … legal proceedings … blah blah … recovery of debt and repossession. We regret the necessity for this action, but you will understand that our principal feels that she has no choice'.”

  “Hmmm, interesting,” mused Constable. “And who's this letter from?”

  “Signed by some woman called Marie A. Mann, 'pp MM Estates Management'. Obviously the owner of the business.”

  “Not quite so obviously, sergeant. So, financial trouble in the world of private detection, by the look of it.”

  “That's not the only financial thing, sir. Miss Marks had this in her car as well.” Copper passed across a buff bound folder entitled 'SPANNER FILM STUDIOS Financial Report 1935', boldly emblazoned 'PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL – Not to be published before 6/4/1935'. “I don't know a thing about finances, but it strikes me that if this thing is supposed to be secret until the 6th of April this year, what's she doing with it? That's more than six weeks away.”

  “The lady was a journalist,” Constable reminded him. “And we know they have all manner of nefarious ways of laying hold of information that others don't want them to have. Perhaps there's something in here which would have made tasty copy for the lady's column.”

  “It's certainly not going to come out now, is it, sir?”

  “My point precisely, sergeant. So, what else?”

  “I found this business card lying next to the phone when I called for the taxi for Mr. Marx. Can't think why I didn't see it before.” He handed the card to his superior.

  “Perhaps it wasn't there to see,” suggested the inspector. “'Meyer Goldman, President, ParaMetro Film Corporation, California',” he read. “That rings a bell. His name came up in the conversations that Stan Laurel overheard. Well, at least there's one person we can rule out as a suspect, since he wasn't at the party.”

  “No, but he may know something, sir. And look, we know where he's staying.” Copper drew the inspector's attention to a hand-written jotting on the back of the card – 'Savoy, 11.00a, 2.15'. “Must be the Savoy Hotel – nothing but the best for these American movie moguls. And that must be an appointment – or two.”

  “As you say, American, so that tells us something, doesn't it?” Constable was rewarded with a blank look. “Keep thinking, sergeant – you'll get there. In the meantime, I think we should go and have another little word with our friends in the Green Room. With a bit of luck, they will be simmering nicely, and we may get some extra useful information out of them.”

  In the Green Room, a group of weary faces turned to greet the two detectives as they entered.

  “Sorry to have kept you all waiting for what must seem like a very long time, ladies and gentlemen,” said Constable breezily, not sounding in the least contrite. “As I'm sure you must realise, investigations of this nature take a time. But now that we've spoken to everyone ...”

  “Excuse me, inspector,” interrupted Omar Gould. “Not quite everyone. What about the lady in Dressing Room A?”

  “What?” exploded Constable. “Mr. Gould, it really would have been extremely helpful if you had given me a full list of people on the premises before we began. No matter!” He cut short Omar's attempts to protest. “We shall go and speak to her now. Come along, Copper – it doesn't do to keep a lady waiting, whoever she is. Along here, is it, Mr. Gould? Right. Thank you. Everyone, please wait here. I shall be back shortly.” He turned abruptly and, with Sergeant Copper trotting behind, headed briskly up the corridor.

  *

  The woman who responded to the knock posed strikingly in the doorway. Her full-length gown, fashioned in some sort of silvery-blue lace which gave tantalising hints of transparency, clung to sensuous hips and a formidable bust, on which was displayed an extravagant sparkling waterfall necklace. A white fur stole was casually draped
around her shoulders. The lips were red and inviting, the eyes dark and smouldering, and the platinum-blonde hair was dressed in an elaborate confection of waves and curls which closely followed the shape of the head and framed the face perfectly. Not tall, she would always effortlessly dominate any room she occupied.

  “Well, boys,” said Mae West, “I knew you'd eventually come up and see me some time.”

  Constable was dumbfounded at the vision before him. “We're sorry to disturb you, madam,” he spluttered.

  “Why so formal?” she replied. “The name's Mae. When people start calling me madam, I start to worry that I'm going to be charged with keeping a disorderly house.” She smiled. “You'd better come in.” She stood back and beckoned the detectives inside. “Omar told me the police would be along to see me.”

  “Yes, madam … Miss West … Mae.” Constable was still attempting to gather his wits. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Detective Inspector Constable, and as I'm sure you realise, I am investigating the sudden death of Myra Marks. This is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Copper.”

  “How do you do, sergeant,” said Mae, looking the young man up and down. She extended a hand. “I'm very pleased to meet you.”

  Copper blushed to the roots of his hair as he took the proffered hand and shook it nervously. “How do you do, Miss West. How are you?”

  Mae lowered her eyelashes seductively as she kept hold of the officer's hand. “Well, I have to say, sergeant, I feel like a million tonight. But please, one at a time. Now, is there anything I can do for you, or do you want to ask me about the murder?”

  “We do have some questions, Miss West,” said Constable, seeking to rescue his colleague. “I apologise that it's such a late hour – I know most people are usually in bed by this time.”

  “I know what you mean, inspector,” responded Mae. “Usually, if I'm not in bed by this time, I go home.” She sank into a graceful posture on a couch, beckoning the inspector to take a seat alongside her. Clearing his throat uneasily, Constable took an upright chair across the room, while Copper indicated his preference to remain standing within easy reach of the door.

  “Just for our records, Miss West,” said Constable, gesturing to his colleague to begin taking notes, “can you tell us how you came to be involved with this film?”

  “Every horror movie needs a beautiful young virgin,” answered Mae. The eyes of both detectives widened with incredulity. “Well,” she continued, laughing, “that certainly ain't me! Maybe I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.”

  “I suppose it's fairly well known that you've got something of a past.” Constable put it as delicately as he could.

  Mae chuckled knowingly. “Honey, I've got all of a past! But as I'm sure I don't need to tell you boys, a woman with a past interests men. They hope history will repeat itself. And in answer to your question, I play the glamorous countess with a mysterious secret.”

  “And how well did you know Myra Marks?”

  “Well, if it hadn't been for me, she would probably have had nothing to write about most of the time. It sure ain't no mysterious secret about me and men – well, Myra provided the column, and I told her all about the inches.”

  “But surely that made for a lot of scandal?” enquired Constable.

  Mae seemed totally at ease with the suggestion. “You know what they say, honey – when women go wrong, men go right after them.”

  “Tell me, Miss West,” said Constable, determined to eke out some actual information amongst all the highly-charged banter, “when did you see Myra Marks tonight?”

  “I was talking to that private dick, Eustace Potter,” replied Mae. “I've been involved in quite a few court cases, one way or the other – chiefly the other – and you never know when you're going to need the services of a good dick. You wouldn't believe the amount of trouble husbands can cause.”

  “Have you had many husbands, Miss West?”

  “Do you mean my own, or other people's?” asked Mae archly. “Oh, don't get me wrong, inspector – I'm a great believer in marriage as an institution. It's just that I ain't ready to live in no institution.”

  “And what happened during this conversation of yours with Mr. Potter?” said Constable, desperately attempting to stick to the point.

  At last Mae seemed prepared to co-operate. “Myra came up to us, and she heard us talking about divorce, and she said to Eustace 'Well, darling, if there's one thing you and I both know about, it's divorce, isn't it?'. And then she said something about reporting results to her, and she made some remark about people just doing as they're told if they don't want to end up on the outside. Then she turned on her heel and was gone.”

  “Just one second, Miss West,” intervened Copper, urgently scribbling as he tried to keep up with Mae's rapid speech. “Right, got that. And do you know of anyone else she spoke to?”

  “The scriptwriter, Tamara Knight. Of course, you may not know, sergeant, but I'm a writer too. I've written a book, and a play.”

  “Oh, really? What's the title?”

  “'Sex'.” Mae smiled enticingly at Copper, who gulped. “I based it on personal experience,” she continued, “and I wrote the story all myself. No ghost-writer involved. It's all about a girl who lost her reputation and never missed it.”

  “But what about the censorship laws?” ventured the sergeant.

  “Let me tell you, honey, I'm a firm believer in censorship,” said Mae. “I've made a fortune out of it.”

  Once again Inspector Constable intervened in order to rescue his junior colleague. “So, this conversation with Tamara …?”

  “Myra came up, and she said 'You two ladies have so much in common. Tamara used to do a lot of writing before she began working in films'. I was surprised – I told her I hadn't known that. And Myra said nobody did, and that Tamara's work had a lot of readers, but that she'd never gotten the recognition she deserved. And that she had the proof. Myra promised that she'd make sure she used her column to put that right. She had that notebook of hers in her hand, like always. 'It's all in here' she said.”

  “So it sounds,” said Constable slowly, “as if Myra Marks was planning on doing Tamara Knight a favour?”

  Mae shrugged. “Seems so. And that's the first time I've heard of something like that happening! But then I thought, why am I standing here talking to two women when there are men in the room? So I left them to it. I had other interests. After all, you only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough!”

  “Is there anything else we should know that you can think of?” asked the inspector.

  “Not offhand,” said Mae. And as the two detectives prepared to leave the room, she put a restraining scarlet-taloned hand on David Copper's shoulder. “But I'll be sure to get in touch if I think of anything. And you can take my number.” She slipped a small card into Copper's top pocket. “Then you can send this nice young sergeant to come up and investigate me - anytime.”

  *

  “Is there any chance I could get danger money for this job, sir?” enquired a still-rattled Sergeant Copper as he leaned against the corridor wall.

  “Didn't you tell me once that you joined the police force to get a wider experience of life?” countered Inspector Constable. “So don't complain when it happens.”

  “I think that lady's got rather more experience to offer than I can cope with at my age,” grinned Copper. “Give me a nice bank robber with an iron bar any day. Anyway, what next, sir?”

  “Back to the Green Room, I think, and carry on with what we were about to do. All this eavesdropping on overheard conversations is all very well, but we still don't have a sense of who was where at the crucial moment when the lights went out. That's what I want to find out.” Constable turned the handle of the Green Room door and entered, to find an atmosphere of mixed unease and exhaustion.

  “Inspector, can you give us some idea of what's happening?” Omar Gould rose from his place at the end of the sofa to confront the detective. “And what else yo
u want from us? All this waiting around is getting to be very inconvenient.”

  “Nowhere near as inconvenient as it is for Myra Marks, sir.” Constable gave a wintery smile. “So if everyone would like to extend their co-operation just a little further, perhaps we shall be able to conclude matters sooner rather than later. Now, Sergeant Copper here has the advantage over me, since he knows who each of you is. I don't. Perhaps you'd like to remedy that, Mr. Gould.” Somewhat grudgingly, Omar performed the introductions. “Thank you, sir. I'd like to make a start by trying to establish where everyone was when the blackout occurred. Was any one of you actually speaking to Miss Marks when the lights went out?”

  Those assembled looked at one another for a moment, uncertain, and then Noah Vail spoke up from his seat on the sofa alongside Lois.

  “I suppose I might have been nearest to Myra,” he said. “I'd just been with her a few moments before the power cut out and it all went dark, but nobody was far away. Anyone could have pushed her into that Iron Maiden thing. And believe me, inspector, I've directed a few movies in my time, but I don't reckon you could ever beat this for melodrama. As far as I'm concerned, the whole scene was just like something from a cheap novel – in fact, that's what it ought to be. You could get Tamara to write it and Lois to pose for the cover picture.”

  “An interesting suggestion, Mr. Vail,” said Constable, “but I don't think it advances us very far. But that reminds me – you mention your directing career. We've been told about a meeting you're due to have with another company about directing a new film, which Myra Marks seems to have known about. Sounds as if 'Love Me To Death' may be your last venture with Spanner Films – maybe there are some strained relations involved. Any comment?”

  “Huh!” snorted Noah. “What, maybe you're hinting at some sort of disloyalty on my part? Don't talk to me about loyalty. You should try talking to Omar about that. If ever a man needed to worry about his future, it's him, and Myra knew it all.”

  Somewhat taken aback by Noah's vehemence, Constable turned to Omar to follow up the suggestion, but he was forestalled by Lois Turner, who took Noah's hand. “Noah, you shouldn't get upset over things that aren't anything to do with you,” she said. Her eyes flashed a warning. “We all know what a fine director you are, and nothing is going to stand in the way of that.” She turned to face Constable. “Noah's right, inspector – I saw him with Myra, and I was just on my way over to him when the lights went off, so of course I couldn't find him.”