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

by Roger Keevil

  “So where had you been before that, Miss Turner?” asked Constable.

  “Oh … um … I'd just been speaking to Eustace Potter.” Lois displayed an odd degree of embarrassment. “But I'd made an excuse because I wanted to get away from him - he was trying to stir up trouble and talking about some old pictures. Silly really, because as I told you, this is my first film – everyone knows that.”

  “Indeed yes, Miss Turner. In fact, I think you were heard to have a conversation with Myra Marks on that very subject – casting, and so on.”

  “Exactly.” Lois nodded eagerly. “So naturally, inspector, I wouldn't have had any reason to do Myra any harm, because I needed her help for my career.” She batted her eyelids innocently, but then her eyes lit up with a sudden gleam of spite. “But if you want someone who did have a motive, you should just ask Eustace about his past instead of worrying about other people's.” She sank back alongside Noah, her hand still in his, a small smile of self-satisfaction on her lips.

  “Mr. Potter,” said Constable, facing the private eye as he sat quietly in his place in the corner, “why don't I do as Miss Turner proposes and come to you next? Because there are some very interesting items which we've found in Miss Marks' possession, including a recent letter whose contents on the subject of your finances I'm sure I don't need to remind you about, plus some other confidential information which you may have had a hand in obtaining. Anything to say about that?”

  “Yes, well, detective to detective, you seem to be pretty good at your job,” admitted Eustace grimly. “All right, so maybe times have been hard, and it's not as if I've been so busy lately. Those one or two little jobs I'd done for Myra were just bread-and-butter research, and she always had ways to persuade a man to do things that perhaps were just slightly beyond the rules. But what the hell – you can't hold a grudge forever, and we were a good team once.”

  “It's as much the present as the past that I'm concerned, Mr. Potter,” said Constable. “And these 'little jobs' that you mention don't quite account for the fact that you were here at the party as a guest. So I think you were still working.”

  “It's true,” agreed Eustace. “Myra asked me to try to get some dirt on Lois's background to keep up her sleeve for the future, and that's the main reason I was with her at the time you're speaking about. But Lois said she wouldn't talk to me without a drink, so I was just going to the bar when everything went black.”

  “So did he or didn't he reach you at the bar, Mr. Lyon?” Constable continued his progress around the group. “Were you actually in position at the time, or were you out and about amongst the others, as we've been told? Were you perhaps in contact with Myra Marks at that particular moment? Giving her more champagne, as you had before?”

  “I wouldn't have given her the time of day,” replied Ennio. “Anyway, you didn't need to give Myra Marks anything. I've seen her around on enough occasions to know that she'd never wait to be given anything – she'd just go and grab it.”

  “Ah, now that reminds me,” said Constable. “We happened to find in the lady's handbag a certain small jewelled dagger which looked to be rather valuable. Would you know anything about that?”

  “So she did take it!” cried Ennio. “I knew it! I could tell she was up to something. Typical!” He realised his attitude might lead to damaging conclusions. “But hang on, inspector, if you think there's some sort of connection between Myra snaffling one of my props and her getting murdered, you're barking up the wrong tree. She ended up with more holes in her than a colander, didn't she? So if you think my little dagger had anything to do with that, all I can say is ...”

  Constable halted the flow with some difficulty. “Rest assured, Mr. Lyon, we're not considering the dagger as a murder weapon. Not unless my scientific colleagues tell me otherwise, that is. It just so happens that it was one of a number of items of interest in Myra Marks' handbag.”

  “Well, if you want to know about her handbag, inspector, I can tell you something,” volunteered Tamara Knight.

  “Indeed, Miss Knight?” Constable's interest was awakened. “And what might that be?”

  “I wasn't particularly close to them,” explained Tamara, “but I happened to look across, and I saw Noah bump into Myra, and that was what made her drop her bag so that her things went all over the floor. And it looked to me as if he did it deliberately.”

  “What? That's not true!” protested Noah.

  Constable silenced him with a gesture. “Go on, Miss Knight.”

  “Then Noah tried to help her pick her things up, but Myra wouldn't let him. But I know Gloria got down and helped, but then she went off towards the dressing rooms. I'm surprised she could remember the way on her own, because usually she's got a flock of people fussing around her bowing and scraping, and she never has to do anything for herself, and in fact she left Myra to finish picking things up on her own. And just a couple of minutes after that, the lights went out, and I heard a scream and then the slam.”

  “Can you confirm that, Miss Mundy?” Constable looked enquiringly towards Gloria who was lounging almost buried in a gigantic deeply-upholstered armchair, a cocktail glass still in her hand. She smiled brightly at him.

  “Of course I can confirm it, sergeant,” she replied. “I remember it very distinctly. The last time I saw Myra, she was standing right in front of the Iron Maiden. Yes, I did pick some things up that had fallen from her bag, but I can't tell you what happened after that because I had to go out for a moment.” Constable thought he could interpret the faint blush which came to her cheek. “And I was just coming back from my dressing room when the whole studio was plunged into darkness.” An expressive gesture emphasised the drama of Gloria's narrative. “I, of course, could see nothing at all, but there was a great deal of shouting, and I'm sure I heard Mr. ... er … the detective gentleman ...” She waved her hand.

  “Eustace Potter?”

  “Yes. I'm sure I heard him say 'I'll do it' as he passed me. Of course, it is possible that it wasn't him at all. Everybody was milling about, and I ended up with Omar next to Camera 3 – that's the one to the right as you look out from the set, isn't it, Noah dear?” The director gave a nod in reply. “And then ...” A dramatic pause. Gloria lifted her head and shot a piercing look towards the inspector. “The lights came on! And oh, the horror!”

  Constable, slightly disconcerted by Gloria's theatricality, cleared his throat. “Thank you, Miss Mundy – you paint a very vivid picture.” Gloria inclined her head graciously at the compliment. “So now, Mr. Gould,” continued the inspector, “finally we come back to you. You were with Miss Mundy as the lighting was restored – is that so?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” Omar Gould seemed pre-occupied with something. “Now look, inspector, there's something that's bugging me. I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea from what Noah said about me. If he thinks I wasn't on to what he was up to, he's a fool. He may think I don't know he's meeting Meyer Goldman from ParaMetro over lunch tomorrow, but what he doesn't know is that I'm having dinner with Meyer tomorrow night. He and I go way back, and we don't have a lot of secrets from one another. Don't believe everything you read in the papers about studio wars – it's just friendly rivalry.”

  “So if Mr. Vail didn't know about this meeting, who did?”

  Omar thought for a moment. “Gloria did, and I think she'd told Tamara, because she'd just asked me if they could tag along. I told Gloria to forget it, which shouldn't be a problem.”

  “This is taking us away from the point a little, Mr. Gould. What I need you to tell me is where you were when the lights failed.”

  “Well, like Gloria said, I must have been somewhere near Camera 3, but I wasn't actually speaking to anyone at that moment. Then the power went out, and there was all that yelling and pushing, and the sound of the slam. And once the lighting came back on, there was Gloria next to me, and everyone looked at one another for a moment, but then someone noticed the blood and screamed.”

  “And that's
it?”

  “That's it, inspector,” returned Omar simply. “Now you know as much as we do.”

  Constable smiled. “Ah, if only that were true, Mr. Gould.” He thought for a moment. “Right, everyone, I'd like you to stay here for a little while longer if you would. Sergeant Copper, would you please remain with everyone, just in case someone remembers something of interest for you to record.” The instruction was accompanied by a look carrying an unspoken message that any conferring between the suspects was to be discouraged. Copper caught on and nodded. “In the meantime, if you'd like to come with me please, Mr. Lyon?”

  “Me?” Ennio jumped to his feet. “What do you want me for?”

  Constable declined to explain. “Just a few moments of your time, Mr. Lyon.” He led the way from the room, Ennio following with a troubled look.

  “What's this all about, inspector?” asked Ennio as the two emerged on to the film set.

  “Nothing to trouble yourself about unduly, Mr. Lyon,” Constable reassured him. “I just wanted to make sure that the dagger which Miss Marks had in her possession was the only similar object to hand. Just in case, you understand, that the stabbing theory which has been advanced is not quite so far-fetched as it appears. So if you'd be good enough to look over the items on your table, that would be much appreciated.”

  “Oh. Right.” Ennio seemed relieved. He went over to his table and began to inspect the items on it, while Constable stood by, idly surveying the surroundings.

  “It's all here, inspector,” reported Ennio after a brief check. “Just the dagger missing.”

  “Helpful to know,” said Constable absently, his attention elsewhere. “I'm just looking at these burning torches around the walls. They've been going ever since we got here. Wouldn't they be some sort of fire danger, or is this whole construction fireproof?”

  Ennio chuckled. “They're not real, inspector. They're electric. It's a new idea of mine I'm trying out. Those aren't actual flames – they're small pieces of coloured silk, and there's a light bulb inside, and a fan to blow the fabric so it looks like flames.”

  “Very ingenious,” said Constable admiringly. “Obviously another instance of the illusory nature of the film business.” A truth dawned on the inspector. “Which would explain, of course, why they weren't giving out any light during the blackout.”

  “That's right. In fact, the only real fire around is this brazier, but we need that to be real because there are some scenes where it has incense thrown on it to create a cloud of smoke. But when we're shooting, someone's normally standing by with a fire extinguisher in case it gets out of control.” Ennio's eye was suddenly caught by something unexpected. “Just a second, inspector – there's something in there. Hold on – I'll see if I can get it ...” He picked up a pair of long tongs from the stand alongside and succeeded in retrieving the item which fell to the floor. “What's that doing there?”

  The object was charred almost to destruction. As Constable knelt to examine it, he could see a thin wire spiral with what appeared to be some remnants of burnt sheets of paper adhering to it. He suddenly realised what it was. “And that,” he said, “is what remains of a reporter's notebook.” He picked up the now cooled item.

  “You're right!” declared Ennio. “That was Myra's.”

  Constable stood. “And how, I wonder, would you know that, Mr. Lyon?”

  Ennio looked sheepish. “Oh, I just recognised it from when … when she ...”

  “Yes, sir?” Constable waited.

  “Oh, all right.” Ennio capitulated. “She tore a page out and gave it to me, and I recognised it from that.”

  “And she did this because …?”

  The little man sighed. “Because she was going to give me a back-hander, if you must know, inspector. She said if I slipped some of the bottles of champagne out to her car on the sly, there would be something in it for me.”

  “I thought you didn't like the lady,” remarked Constable. “You 'wouldn't give her the time of day', I thought you said.”

  “Nor would I usually,” said Ennio. “But when you're skint, a few quid make all the difference, don't they? And Omar's not going to miss it, is he? And with what he's paying me, can you blame a chap? So she wrote down her car registration on a page from her book and gave it to me, and said I could nip the stuff out to her car later when nobody was paying attention.” He fished in his pocket and produced a crumpled sheet. “Here, look, if you don't believe me.” He handed the paper to Constable, who flattened it out and held the torn edge against the spiral spine. It matched.

  A slow smile lit the inspector's face. “Mr. Lyon, I think this could be one of the most useful pieces of evidence we have. Thank you for your help in finding it.”

  “That's all right,” replied Ennio. He preened slightly. “Glad to help. Shame you can't read whatever it is she'd written in the book.”

  “That,” said Constable, “may be the most important fact of all.”

  *

  “That chap Lyon said you wanted to see me, sir.”

  Inspector Constable had despatched Ennio back to the Green Room with instructions to send Sergeant Copper through to him. In the intervening minutes, Constable had paced back and forth, his eyes settling on nothing in particular, considering, weighing up facts, discarding some while pairing up others, until a clear pattern of events composed itself in his mind. His gaze returned to his junior colleague.

  “Yes, sergeant. I think we're about ready.”

  “What, you mean you reckon you know what happened, sir? Already?” enquired the slightly surprised sergeant.

  “Not only what, but who and why, young David,” replied Constable in unusually expansive tones.

  “So what did the trick for you, sir? I mean, I've got all sorts of notes, and I'm nowhere near sorting it all out.”

  “Oh, various things,” said Constable. “I wondered about that dressing room key we found in Myra Marks' handbag; there was of course the matter of why and how she had obtained the various documents in her possession; and then there's that business card. That tells us something. And after we've looked at whose movements can and cannot be accounted for at the time of Myra Marks' death, we come down to the most crucial consideration of all.”

  “Which is ...?”

  “What revelation was so threatening that it had to be prevented by murder?”

  “And now you know, sir.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  “I do. So if you would please ask everyone to come through here to the set, we will put an end to the matter.”

  Copper knew better by now than to ask his superior for a straight answer as to the identity of the culprit. 'Let the guv'nor have his moment of theatre' he thought. With a smart “Will do, sir”, he turned and headed for the dressing rooms corridor.

  A few moments later, the remaining individuals stood before the inspector in a somewhat uneasy group.

  “Miss West has already left, sir,” reported Copper. “She seems to have gone while we were in the Green Room talking to the others.”

  “No matter,” said Constable airily. “I'm sure she told us everything we needed to know. And of course, you can always contact her if you feel the need.” A glint of humour in his eye was rewarded by another faint blush from his colleague. The inspector reverted to a more serious demeanour. “However, since everyone else is here, perhaps you'd like to make yourselves as comfortable as you can while I share certain facts with you.” He waved towards the sofas, and the group seated themselves, Noah taking proprietorial possession of his director's chair. Several of the company, Copper noted, were having difficulty tearing their gaze away from the traces of congealed blood in the spot where the body of Myra Marks had lain.

  Constable took a deep breath and confronted the company. “From what we have heard here tonight,” he began, “Myra Marks seems to have been one of the most dangerous women in the business, particularly the movie business.” The reaction was a general murmur of puzzlement. “But being dan
gerous to others meant that she was in danger herself. As tonight's events have clearly taught us.

  “What do we know about her relationships with others? I think that her nickname, the Iron Maiden of Fleet Street, probably tells us a great deal. I'm sure she never courted popularity. It doesn't sound to me as if she would have allowed personal feelings to get in the way of her career or a good story. But evidently, ruthlessness has its perils.

  “So let's examine some of the facts we've learnt. I'll begin with Eustace Potter – a slightly unusual member of this gathering, since he is not connected with the film business as the rest of you are. He was here tonight at the personal instigation of Myra Marks – he was her guest. Now, he told us that he knew Myra better than most, and had done for over twenty years. Of course, there was one thing that he didn't exactly spell out for us, but in all honesty, Sergeant Copper and I would not be very good at our job as detectives if we were unable to work out that, when Myra said that she and Eustace knew all about divorce, it was from a personal standpoint. Am I right, Mr. Potter?”

  “It's true,” said Eustace, “but it's no secret. Myra and I had been married. I don't know how many people here were aware of it, and frankly, I don't care. It was nobody's business but ours.”

  “And yet I can't help being intrigued by the nature of the relationship,” said Constable. “You were evidently both on sufficiently good terms to be working in co-operation, and yet you could hardly be said to be described as exhibiting all the emotions of a bereaved husband, sir. Ex-husband, I should say. And as your career stayed in the back streets, your ex-wife's moved onwards and upwards, bringing her power and the wealth that went with it. Enough wealth to extend to the ownership of a string of business properties, perhaps? Rented out in some instances to small firms whose finances were not always secure? Everyone has given the impression that Myra Marks was a tough lady – was she a tough landlady as well?