'You're sure that's what you want?' His other hand swept over the platter in a sleight-of-hand gesture.
All the spicy meatballs disappeared and his cheek bulged suddenly. 'Have something else.'
'No, no, thank you.' Frances stepped back as he thrust the platter forward aggressively. 'I had breakfast before I left home. That's enough.'
'You're right.' He surveyed the platter gloomily and poked amongst the remaining items with a critical thumb and forefinger. Abruptly, the rollmop herrings disappeared. 'I'll phone down to Room Service for a decent breakfast. This stuff wouldn't keep a bird alive.'
'You're sure -' Frances glanced at the suddenly bare platter - 'you can make it as far as the dining-room now?'
'Yuh.' He grinned at her, one hand already groping towards the top of the fridge for another dish of sustenance. 'Just about.' His grin widened. 'Where did they find you? You're going to fit in just great.'
'I answered an advertisement in The Times,' Frances told him absently, wondering if she ought to
cancel her subscription. 'Mr Herkimer asked me along for an interview and, before I knew it, I was hired.'
'Good old Herkie.' Morris Moskva shook his head admiringly. 'He may not look too bright, but he never puts a foot wrong.'
'Thank you,' Frances said, deducing a compliment somewhere in his words.
'That is, hardly ever,' he qualified his words cautiously. 'Twinkle, I'm not so sure about. Personally, I'd rather be working with a couple of tons of dynamite. At least, with dynamite, you've got some idea what will set it off and you can be careful. But that kid - ' He shook his head again, forebodingly, this time.
'Surely, she's just a harmless child . . .' Frances's automatic protest dwindled away. There had been something in Twinkle's attitude, even in the short time she had had to observe her, that was not particularly childlike.
'Child, maybe,' Morris Moskva summed it up briskly for her. 'Harmless, I'm not so sure. I could tell you some stories - ' He paused, frowning darkly. 'A friend of mine worked on her picture before last.
He was a nice guy.'
'Was?' Frances prompted, when he seemed inclined to leave it at that.
'No, no, nothing like that. He's coming along fine,' Morris assured her. 'The shrinks say they'll let him out in another couple of months.'
'If she's that bad - ' Frances hesitated.
'I won't say he wasn't heading for a breakdown anyhow - she just hurried it along. But what were you going to say?'
'I was going to say, I'm a bit surprised that you're here working with her. I'm rather surprised that anyone is.'
'A job's a job, and she's hot right now. Besides, I've worked with kid stars before.' He shrugged. 'I've seen them come and I've seen them go. Especially, I've seen them go. They don't last long. A few years at the top and then they're nowhere. How many can you think of who've ever made it in the adult league ?'
'Why, er -' Thus challenged, Frances found that her mind immediately went blank.
'There are the obvious examples, but you can count them on the fingers of one hand, right? Then there are a few more that we know of in the States, but you don't see them over here because their big new career is doing television commercials and trading on the name they established for themselves twenty, maybe thirty, years ago. So everybody can stare at them and say, "My, how they've grown," and "Look, wrinkles." It's just another kind of circus sideshow, and they're the freaks. Mind you, I'm not saying they weren't probably freaks to begin with. Or, if they weren't, a few years of stardom turned them into freaks.'
Brooding, he absently cleared a dish of olives and peanuts.
'They must have a difficult life,' Frances murmured sympathetically.
'Not half as difficult as they make life for everybody around them.' He raised his eyes from the denuded dishes on top of the fridge and inspected Frances, 'So, you're the new nursemaid, huh?'
'I'm not sure what I am,' Frances confessed. 'I've been hired as Twinkle's chaperone and secretary, but no one has given me any information about what exactly that entails.'
'I'm not surprised. If they'd told you, you wouldn't be here now. However, I can help you out with a few basic principles.' He began ticking them off on his fingers.
'One, keep your guard up. Two, protect yourself in the clinches. Three, forget the Marquess of Queensbury Rules - this kid never heard of them and, if she had, she'd use them as a guide on how to behave. Not that she needs much guiding. She goes for the jugular vein by instinct.'
Glaring at his extended finger, he found several grains of salt and paused to lick them off.
'If you believe that,' Frances said slowly, 'I'm even more surprised that you're willing to work with her.'
'There's not much the kid can do to me.' He shrugged. 'A literary critic she's not - and nobody's going to pay any attention to her views on the script. That's all that needs to concern me.'
'Just the same - '
'Besides, she's got plenty more to worry about man me. I rank pretty low in the Knifing Order. But, believe me, there's a couple of people around here whose shoes I wouldn't be in for anything. Why they took the job, I don't know - well, maybe I can guess. But there isn't that much money in the world -'
'Who?' Frances could not resist asking.
'Never mind.' He lumbered forward and took her arm. 'I've been talking too much.' He led her towards the dining-room. 'And, besides, it may never happen. The kid's growing up. Maybe some sense will set in.'
'But if - '
'Come on, let's go phone Room Service and get some breakfast before I die of hunger.' He propelled her along.
'Oh!' From the corner of her eye, she caught a flutter of movement as they passed one of the bedrooms.
Which one? And had the occupant been standing just inside the door - or even outside in the corridor? -
for the movement had been one of quick withdrawal. If so, how loudly had they been speaking, and how much had been overheard ?
'What's the matter?' Intent on reaching the telephone to order fresh supplies of food, Morris Moskva had noticed nothing.
'I thought I saw - ' Before she could finish, the doorbell rang.
'Here we go.' He gave her a gentle push towards the door. 'Now the circus starts again. You'd better let them in.'
'But -'
The doorbell rang again, more insistently. Morris Moskva noticed the extension telephone in the foyer and headed for it. Frances gave up the attempt at communication and opened the door. Behind her,
somewhere in the suite, she heard a sleepy voice raised in complaint at the noise.
Ilse Carlsson and Dick Brouder rushed into the suite as Frances stepped back from the door. They appeared to be in the midst of a private argument and barely nodded as they made straight for the sitting-room. Ilse snapped open her portfolio in mid-stride and pulled out a handful of sketches and swatches of materials. Frances caught the words 'Costume fittings'.
She closed the door, then had to open it again hurriedly as the bell pealed once more. This time, two nondescript girls, bearing limp dresses over their arms, and a bellboy lurched in under the weight of several bolts of material. They surged across the foyer and headed for the sitting-room, where they could hear Use's voice raised in anger.
Frances looked down the outside corridor before closing the door again, and then leaned against it thoughtfully for a moment. It appeared that the working day had now begun.
CHAPTER VI
In no time, the suite was alive with people. Strangers came and went, some making deliveries, some on unexplained missions. There was a script conference in the sitting-room, costume fittings in Twinkle's bedroom, and huddles of anonymous people occupied odd corners engrossed in mysterious problems of their own.
Like herself, Dick Brouder appeared to have become a permanent occupant of the reception area. He raced up and down it endlessly in response to frequent urgent wails for his attention, which was necessary to settle some point or other.
'You're s
ticking pins in me!' Twinkle's shrill whine rose in competition with the doorbell.
Frances hurried to answer the bell. At one point, she had tried to ignore it, but so had everyone else and the insistent ringing had worn her down. She wasn't sure whether or not it was part of her job but, as no one else appeared willing to take it on, she seemed to have won it by default.
'I'm here for the costume fitting.' Cecile Savoy swept past her, a black Pekinese tucked under one arm.
'In there.' Frances indicated the bedroom, from which there floated an indignant, 'Ouch! That hurt!'
Cecile Savoy flinched at the sound of Twinkle's voice, but was the stuff of which the grand old troupers were made. Gripping her Pekinese more firmly, she advanced on the room.
Just as Dick Brouder dashed out of it. He managed to turn the threatened collision into a swift, sidestepping embrace and dashed past her in answer to a voice raised in urgent summons from the script conference.
' . . want to talk to Frances for a minute. I'll be right back, baby.'
Hearing her name, Frances turned. Laurenda came slowly out of the bedroom and gave her a wan smile. 'It's getting awfully hot in there,' she said in explanation. ' And Twinkle fusses so. She hates fittings.'
'Children usually do,' Frances murmured, watching her.
'I suppose so.' Laurenda crossed the foyer, slowly and wearily, as though she were decades older than the years that showed on her face. Fleetingly, Frances wondered just what illness she had. No one had
ever specified. 'But she seems to fuss more than most kids. She always did.' Laurenda sighed 'I guess it's only natural, though.'
'Very natural,' Frances agreed. 'The pressures of stardom, and all that.'
'Exactly.' Laurenda brightened faintly and looked around her. 'People don't always understand that.
They forget Twinkle is carrying the whole picture. Without her, where would any of them be?'
'The pressures are enormous.' Frances was beginning to feel puzzled. It was quite clear that Laurenda had nothing special to say to her, and she was starting to suspect that Laurenda had no interest in a breath of air, either. Laurenda's eyes kept moving slowly, cautiously, almost slyly, seeking something beyond their range.
'Enormous,' Laurenda echoed. 'On all of us.' She sank down into one of the empty wheelchairs which had been placed beside the foyer table waiting for someone to come and collect them. It was, perhaps, not quite what she had been looking for, but it seemed to be an acceptable substitute at this moment.
'Are you feeling all right?' Frances asked anxiously. 'Shall I get you a glass of water?'
'I'll be all right,' Laurenda said faintly. 'It's just.. .' Her voice trailed off and her eyes closed-Frances stared down at the woman, wondering if she had fainted. Was she, in truth, seriously ill? Or had Twinkle spent the night throwing tantrums and depriving her mother of much-needed sleep?
There was a final shout from the script conference, and Dick Brouder careered into the corridor again.
He stopped short as he saw them and came forward more slowly than Frances had yet seen him move.
'How are you, Laurenda?' he asked. 'Was . . . was everything all right after we left last night?'
'Mostly, it was.' Laurenda opened her eyes. 'But you know what she's like when she gets upset. It took a long while to quieten her down, and then I had to stay with her until she fell asleep.'
'She takes too much out of you.' Dick Brouder frowned down at her. 'More than you can afford. I wish
-'
'Maybe I will have a glass of water.' Laurenda turned to Frances.
Frances moved away quickly, determined to linger in the kitchen long enough to prove that she could take a hint. So her surmise had been correct and there had been tantrums last night. Tantrums which had taken more out of Laurenda than they had taken out of Twinkle.
However, one can spend just so long getting a glass of water. Holding the glass well out before her to signal her approach on a legitimate errand, Frances went back into the foyer.
Dick Brouder was still talking earnestly to Laurenda. Frances paused to gaze abstractedly at a rather frightful hunting print on the wall. Presumably the hotel management did not wish to hang anything good enough to tempt their guests into packing it along with the ashtrays and towels.
She was still waiting hopefully for some signal from Laurenda to advance when a movement just beyond the bedroom door caught her eye. She turned and saw Twinkle standing there, in a ruffled pastel pink costume of unlikely demureness, glaring at her mother and Dick Brouder with a baleful intensity.
Frances moved forward uneasily, no longer worried about permission. It was obvious that they had no
idea that they were being observed.
But Twinkle obviously realized that she had been caught spying. Briefly, she transferred her murderous glare to Frances before stepping out of the doorway and confronting her mother.
'I thought you wanted to talk to Frances!' she accused.
'I did, baby. I did talk to her.' Laurenda twitched around to face her child. 'But then Dick just wanted to
-to ask me something. About your costumes. And Frances went to get me a drink of water - Here she is now -' Laurenda turned to Frances eagerly, reaching out for the glass of water to prove her story.
'Yeah?' Twinkle looked from one to the other suspiciously. 'Well, watch it! That's all. Just watch it!' She turned and flounced back into the bedroom.
'Thank you, Frances.' Laurenda drained the glass and handed it back. She looked worse than ever.
There was a sudden shriek, a shrill yapping and a shout of defiance from Twinkle. 'I did not kick her. I only stepped on her. I didn't see she was there. Why don't you get a dog people can see?'
'My poor, poor darling!' Cecile Savoy's voice, trained to reach the top balconies of musical comedy theatres in the days before microphones were standard equipment, swamped Twinkle's feeble bleat easily. 'Poor, sweet Fleur. Did the nasty brat trample all over her with those great big feet?'
'They are not big! And I'll kick her if I want to!'
There were further shrieks, yips and scuffles. Cecile Savoy erupted from the bedroom, holding aloft the black Pekinese. Twinkle was immediately behind her, clutching at a long Victorian skirt which was already coming adrift in a shower of pins, and snatching for the dog.
Following them, Ilse Carlsson clutched alternately at the falling skirt and at Twinkle. 'Please, Miss Savoy. Please, Twinkle,' she wailed distractedly. 'The costumes. You will ruin the lovely costumes.'
'It's a stinking, rotten costume - and I hate it, anyway!' Twinkle tore at her ruffles; they parted from the bodice with a sharp ripping sound. 'There!' Twinkle hurled them at Ilse. 'I hate those awful things.
They make me look stupid!'
'Now, Twinkle.' Unwisely, Dick Brouder decided to take a hand. 'They're period costumes, and they're beautiful. You can't play a little Victorian girl wearing jeans. They didn't wear them then.'
'You shut up!' Twinkle whirled on him, momentarily abandoning her attempt to snatch the Pekinese from Cecile Savoy. 'You don't know anything about it. You don't have to wear this junk!'
'It's very nice junk, baby,' Laurenda placated. 'I mean,' she added hastily, with a sideways glance at Ilse Carlsson, who was clutching the detached ruffle with inarticulate fury; 'I mean, it's a beautiful costume.
They're all beautiful costumes. You ought to be happy to wear them, honey.'
'Well, I'm not! I hate them!' Twinkle tore at the remainder of the costume. 'And I won't wear them, so there!' Several more tatters of costume flew towards Ilse.
Frances regretted that Laurenda had drunk all the water. A quick splash in the face might do Twinkle more good than all the reasoned arguments the others were trying to muster.
'Ill-bred and badly brought up.' Cecile Savoy pronounced verdict. 'I suppose we can only be thankful
that she's able to read her script.' She paused delicately and, with the timing that had brought a generation of theatre g
oers to their feet applauding, added, 'She can read, I presume ?'
'I can read, you old bat! I can read better than you can!'
'I doubt that.' Cecile Savoy lowered the trembling Peke and began stroking it. It was a mistake.
Twinkle snatched for the dog again. It began to yelp hysterically.
'Leave Fleur-de-lis alone!' Cecile Savoy snapped.
'Floor - what?' Twinkle drew back her hand. 'Floor mop,' she decided. 'That's what the mutt is. A floor mop!' She snatched for it once more. 'Floor mop! You're an old floor mop!'
'Please, Miss Savoy. Please, Twinkle,' Ilse pleaded. 'The fittings. There is so much to do. Please let us go back and go on with our work.'
'No - I'm bored,' Twinkle protested. 'Fittings are the boringest things in the world. I don't want to do any more today.'
'Please, baby - ' Laurenda drifted slowly out of her wheelchair, as though struggling upwards from full fathom five. 'Be a good girl. Everybody gets bored sometimes. You have to put up with these things to be a star.'
Cecile Savoy snorted. 'It takes more than costumes,' she said.
'You shut up!' Twinkle whirled on her. 'You-just-shut-up!'
' I shall finish my costume fitting, like a professional. Here - ' Unexpectedly, the black Pekinese was thrust into Frances's arms. 'Take Fleur downstairs for walkies, would you, my dear? She won't be so restless then.'
Frances clutched at the Peke as it began to slip and backed away from Twinkle, who looked as though she might be going to lunge for the animal again.
Trances is my chaperone - ' Twinkle changed her line of attack. 'You can't give her orders!'-
'Please, baby,' Laurenda said faintly. 'I've got such a headache.'
'I gave no orders.' Cecile Savoy drew herself up. 'I simply made a request.'
'But she's my chaperone.'
'You are not in need of a chaperone at the moment.' Cecile Savoy looked down on Twinkle. 'I doubt that you ever will be.'
'I hate you!' Twinkle launched herself into a full attack, clawing for Cecile Savoy's face which, fortunately, was well out of reach. 'I hate you!'
Cecile Savoy stepped back sharply and Twinkle stumbled, her clawing hands closed on the folds of Cecile's costume as she fought for balance.
Murder, Murder, Little Star Page 3