Authors: Edmund Crispin
“Yes. Well, I don’t want to put wrong ideas into your head, but it sounds to me as if it might conceivably be a stage name.”
Humbleby considered this. “‘Gloria’,” he murmured. “Yes, I see what you mean. And in that case, it would probably be her real identity that the murderer was trying to conceal.”
“Quite so… But all this is hypothetical at present. Let me get one or two other things clear. For instance, is there any indication as to
when
this girl’s room was searched?”
Humbleby had stopped fidgeting with the door-handle and was now manipulating the gear lever. “Yes,” he said, “there’s a pretty clear indication, as a matter of fact. It was almost certainly done during yesterday morning.”
“After
she killed herself?”
“After she killed herself, yes. I needn’t go into all the details, but from the time when she arrived—Thursday, the day before yesterday, in the afternoon—until about nine o’clock yesterday morning, there really wasn’t a chance for anyone to get in and out unobserved and at the same time remain there long enough to do what was done; anyone, that is, except the landlady, whom there’s no possible reason to suspect. For one reason and another, the Super and I weren’t able to get down to making a search ourselves till yesterday afternoon, and by that time the mischief was done.” And Humbleby paused expectantly. “Well,” he said presently, “what do you make of it?”
“Very little.” Fen sniffed deprecatorily and moved his long legs about in an attempt to mitigate the cramp which was stealing over them. “Very little indeed. This business of obliterating identity may not be connected with the suicide—in which case it’s quite unfathomable at present. But if it
is
connected, there arises the question of how the person concerned knew the suicide had happened. Was it reported in yesterday’s morning papers?”
“Only a brief paragraph. The picture wasn’t published, and no names were given—since at that stage there weren’t any names to give.”
“Our X might, I suppose, have actually been present when this girl threw herself into the river. Or anyway when they were pulling her out. Were there many lookers-on, do you know?”
“A few… Yes, that’s a possibility.” Humbleby had engaged the lever in first gear and was struggling to disengage it again. “Undeniably,” he said, breathing heavily, “it’s obscure.”
“Do leave the car alone, Humbleby; you’ll break something in a minute… Yes, well, the only thing is to find out a bit more about the girl. And that, I take it, is why you’re here.”
Humbleby relinquished his efforts and gazed at the lever with distaste. He took a scrap of paper from his pocket, wrote on it the words
“Be careful—you have left this car in gear”,
and propped it up against the windscreen.
“Yes,” he agreed, “that’s why I’m here. The call from this Flecker girl, who’d seen the picture in the papers, came through about half-past eight this morning, and I offered to drive here and interview her… To tell you the truth,” said Humbleby confidingly, “I’ve always wanted to see the inside of a film studio, and this is the first chance I’ve had.”
In that confined space Fen’s cramp was growing intolerable. He brought the colloquy to an abrupt conclusion by opening the door and getting out.
“Well, you’ll be disappointed,” he said unkindly. “And if I don’t go now, I shall be late. Can we arrange to meet at lunch-time?”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Humbleby, emerging hastily on the other side. “I’ll come in with you, and you can help me locate this person I’m here to see.”
“I very much doubt if I can. But I’ll do my best.”
They crossed the gravel to the nearest of the three entrances, mounted a short flight of steps and went inside. A circular vestibule received them. The monogram
A.L.F.
appeared in faded mosaic on its floor, and to the right of it, blocking the lower third of a Roman arch, was a species of reception desk with, however, no one behind it. The prospect beyond was of a corridor, bifurcating in the middle distance, with a number of doors marked
PRIVATE
on either side. Film studios go in terror of fire, and a great many buckets, coiled hoses and extinguishers were visible. But of other furnishing, and for that matter of human occupation, the place gave no sign. Abashed by its chilly quietude, Fen and Humbleby halted.
“In my simple-minded way,” said Humbleby, “I had anticipated something like a cross between a lupanar and an automobile factory. No doubt we’re as yet only on the outer fringes. But still—”
He broke off as footsteps, accompanied by a noisy, convulsive fit of coughing, burst upon them from a hitherto unnoticed passage to the left. This humanising influence materialised into a small, slim man of between thirty and forty, who strode into the vestibule with a handkerchief pressed to his mouth. He had a brown and humorously ugly face decorated with large and beautiful eyes, and Humbleby, who was a tolerably regular theatre-goer, recognised him at once.
So also, apparently, did Fen; he said unsympathetically: “You’re ill.”
“Like hell I am,” the new-comer croaked back. “You haven’t any whisky on you, by any chance?”
“None.”
“You’d imagine that even in a God-awful hole like this whisky would be procurable somewhere or other, but it isn’t. I’m going into the village to see if I can wangle some… By the way, this morning’s script conference has been postponed till eleven. And it’s not in thirteen, it’s in CC, wherever that may be. Oh, and Leiper
isn’t
going to be there—which means that I’m not, either, if I can get out of it.” The new-comer moved towards the door. “Of all the damned silly films ever contemplated…”
“Just a moment,” said Fen. “Do you know where we can find a Miss Flecker?”
The man paused. His face grew red and he sneezed twice before replying. “Flecker? Flecker? That’s a girl who works in the Music Department, isn’t it?”
“Well, where is the Music Department?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” He pointed. “You go along
there
and take the right fork, and then—oh no, blast it, I’m thinking of one of the sound stages. Well, let’s see now… I think if you take the left fork—”
“You haven’t,” said Fen coldly, “the slightest notion where it is.”
“Oh, yes, I assure you. Curse it, I’ve
been
there. The trouble really is that though this place seems to reduplicate itself as you go about it, you never get an
exact
repetition: there’s always a room or a corridor that’s different. I tell you what”—a novel and satisfying idea occurred to him at this point—“you
ask
someone; that’s your best plan.” He moved towards the door again. “Yes, that’s your best plan, I think. I may see you later.” He departed in a fresh fit of coughing.
“Stuart North, wasn’t it?” asked Humbleby; and he spoke the name with a good deal of respect. “I didn’t know he’d taken to the films.”
“He’s made only one so far,” said Fen.
“Visa for Heaven,
or some such trashy name. He’s due to play Pope in this fantasy I’ve been telling you about, and after that he’s going back to the stage.”
“He’d be rather good as Pope, I should imagine. Given a little artificial deformity, he has the right physique. And facially he’s not unlike, either.”
“I don’t think,” said Fen vaguely, “that Pope’s deformity is going to be stressed very much… Well, we’d better find the Music Department, I suppose. As my conference has been postponed, I can come with you. Let’s ask this girl.”
“This girl”, now approaching with the glazed, intent expression of an amateur juggler about to embark on the most precarious part of his act, was a blonde stenographer, so superlatively groomed that she looked as if she would crack open at a touch.
(“Lupanar,”
said Humbleby with satisfaction. “We progress, then.”) She proved willing enough to lead them to the Music Department, and in her charge they traversed a warren of bare corridors and staircases, eventually fetching up at an unmarked door which she earnestly assured them was what they wanted. They thanked her and went in, finding themselves in a small room with two desks and a large filing-cabinet, where some half-dozen young people were giggling together and consuming tea. An amiable-looking youth detached himself from this group and asked Fen and Humbleby what he could do for them.
“Miss Flecker,” said Humbleby. “We’re in search of a Miss Flecker.”
“I’ll see if she’s busy.” The youth put down his cup and opened a door which led to an adjoining room. “Judy,” he said, “there’s two men want to see you.”
A girl’s voice from within, pleasantly drawling and with a suspicion of a lisp, demanded to be told who they were.
“Who are you?” the youth enquired agreeably from the doorway.
“Detective-Inspector Humbleby,” said Humbleby, “of Scotland Yard.”
“Cripes… I say, Judy, it’s—”
“Yes, all right, I heard,” said the voice. “Ask them to come in, please. Come in, Inspector,” she called. “And, Johnny, bring them some tea.”
From behind a littered but business-like desk, as they went in, she got up to welcome them—a girl in her middle twenties with sleek black hair, cool grey eyes and a clear complexion. She possessed two of the rarest physical attributes of her sex, broad shoulders and long legs; and she wore a tailored navy-blue coat and skirt with an oyster-coloured blouse and a brooch of diamonds encircling a sapphire so dark as to be almost black. But for her intelligence, and the mildly sardonic look in her eye, she would have been what the
Sunday Pictorial
is apt to describe as “a lovely”. Inside the room Humbleby halted, at gaze; and after no more than a second’s calculation she addressed herself to him.
“Hello, Inspector,” she said. “Do sit down, won’t you?”
The windows looked out on to a crossing of asphalt paths, and you could glimpse a corner of the immense carpenters’ shop, with a prospect of trees beyond. Near them was an armchair, and into this Humbleby cautiously lowered himself.
“This,” he observed, “is Professor Gervase Fen. He is”—and Humbleby paused, momentarily perplexed—“he is assisting me, I suppose you might say.”
“How do you do,” said Miss Flecker civilly. “I have heard of you, of course. And I was hoping that while you were working here we might be able to meet. How is the Pope film progressing?”
In default of a second chair, Fen had settled on the edge of the desk, and was regarding Miss Flecker with undisguised approval. “Very little, I should say; but as I’m not familiar with film-making I’m scarcely in a position to judge… There’s a lot,” said Fen pensively, “of
quarrelling.”
“There would be.” Miss Flecker grinned mischievously. “The Cranes
enfamille
are not a very sedative influence, in my experience.”
“Cranes?” echoed Humbleby in polite incomprehension.
“You must be aware of Madge Crane,” said Miss Flecker, “even if you haven’t heard of her brothers.” She turned to Fen. “Madge is playing Lady Mary, isn’t she?”
“Suitably bowdlerised,” Fen agreed gravely, “and chiefly occupied, when not offering Pope wise and kindly advice about personal matters which are no possible concern of hers, in introducing inoculation against smallpox from Turkey.”
And Humbleby nodded, enlightened. “Madge Crane is a Star, then?” he ventured.
“You really hadn’t heard of her?” Miss Flecker chuckled maliciously. “She
would
be pleased. Madge is one of the First Ladies of British Films.”
“First La—” Humbleby shook his head in bafflement. “Whatever can that mean?”
“Well, I think it means that she’s no longer obliged to make films in which she has to show her legs.” Miss Flecker delivered this judgment with notable dispassion. “And that saves everyone a lot of trouble, because they always did have to be filmed very carefully if they were going to come out looking like anything at all.”
The door opened and the youth called Johnny appeared with two cups of tea, which he handed to Fen and Humbleby. “We’ve finished off the biscuits,” he announced without visible remorse, “so I’m afraid you’ll have to do without… Judy, the L.S.O. is hanging about on Stage Two complaining because Griswold hasn’t turned up. Where is he?”
“He had to go to Denham to see Muir about something or other, and he said he might be late. Calm them, Johnny, calm them. Tell them to sit down and practise a symphony. Has Ireland arrived yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, mind you behave respectfully to him when he does.”
“You don’t think,” said Johnny wistfully, “that it would be a good idea for me to run them through a few of the music sections while they’re waiting?”
“No, I don’t. Go away and get on with your work.”
Johnny retired in dejection, and Miss Flecker was saying “Well now…” when the telephone rang. “Damn,” she said. “Excuse me… Yes, put him through… Good morning, Dr. Bush—Geoffrey, I should say… Triple woodwind? Well, I imagine it might be managed; I’ll ask Mr. Griswold… It’ll be the Philharmonia, yes.” Dr. Bush crackled prolongedly, “No measurements for reels four and five yet? All right, I’ll nag them… Yes, I know you can’t be expected to write a score if you haven’t got any measurements… No, there’s not the least chance of postponing the recording; you’ll just have to work all night as well as all day… Have you sent any of the score to the copyists yet? … Well, you’d better get on with it, hadn’t you?… See you at the recording… No… Certainly not. Good-bye.”
She put down the instrument. “A composer,” she explained soberly, like one who refers to some necessary but unromantic bodily function. “I’m sorry things have to get hectic the moment you arrive. Perhaps now we shall have a few minutes’ peace.” She retrieved her cup and drank the tepid tea in it with a grimace. “Oh, Lord, measurements… Johnny!” she called; and when that individual put his head hopefully in at the door: “Johnny, get on to Loring, will you, and tell him Dr. Bush is waiting for the measurements for reels four and five of
Escape to Purgatory.”
“He’ll only go all pathetic on me,” said Johnny, his optimism abating at this request, “and say they’re doing their best.”
“Tell him they must do better if they want any incidental music for those reels… And, Johnny, see to it that I’m not disturbed for ten minutes, please.”