Murder of a Movie Star

by L. B. Hathaway

  She started to rise to her feet, watching Dolly over on the stage, dabbing and primping. Posie knew she’d never catch her eye to tell her she was leaving, and knew still further that she’d never prise Dolly away from what looked to be the time of her life.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Parker, isn’t it?’

  Posie collapsed back down into her canvas seat again in a sprawling ungainly fashion as the blonde Norse God sat down right next to her on her left-hand side. He stared straight ahead at the set up front, not turning her way in the slightest. The lights reflected brightly in his blue sunglasses. But a smile was playing through his voice:

  ‘We haven’t been formally introduced yet, and it looks like you’re about to leave. It’s a bit of a maze getting out of here. Shall I be your guide?’

  She could just about make out his sharp profile in the pitch-black; she could smell his pine scent and the burnt sugar. She felt an awkward thrill of excitement tingle up her spine.

  ‘Erm, yes. Well, that would be very kind, I must say. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. I’m Tom, by the way. Tom Moran. Assistant to the Under-Director at Sunstar Films.’

  ‘Tom?’

  Tom, Silvia Hanro’s boyfriend?

  It must be.

  Posie remembered Silvia’s description of the man: the rugged good looks, the enigmatic expression. It all fitted. And there was more than a whiff of Alaric about the man, too. It was true.

  Posie felt a strange sinking feeling quickly envelop her.

  ‘Yep. That Tom.’ There was that tone of a smile in the smooth, deep voice again. ‘Now, grab your things and follow me. But I must warn you of something.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘When we hit the light, the natural light, over past the door to this studio, you’re going to see something which might make you want to scream. I beg you not to, for my sake.’

  ‘Okay.’ Posie nodded, intrigued. But before she could ask anymore she saw that Tom had sprung to his feet and was already beginning to move off. In his white clothes he was faintly luminous through the darkness. She followed, hot on his heels, away from the artificial light. At the exit, Tom walked straight through and Posie stepped outside into the July sunshine which immediately made her eyes squint. The man had disappeared.

  ‘Here I am, Miss Parker.’

  Posie turned and saw that Tom was standing beside the big blackboard, obscured by layers of smoke from a just-lit cigarette.

  ‘Takes some getting used to, that lighting inside, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does. I couldn’t make out much at first. I can quite see why you chaps all wear white.’

  Tom laughed. ‘We don’t have to, but it does make things slightly easier. But the lights themselves play havoc with the eyes, even if they are better than they were before the war. Those old lights, Klieg lights they were called, were a dreadful blue colour and they could almost burn right through a fella’s retinas if you looked at them a second too long. You’d be seeing them when you closed your eyes for bed twelve hours later. We called it “Klieg eye”.’

  The cigarette smoke suddenly cleared, and then the penny dropped. Posie saw at once what Tom had meant about seeing something which might make her scream.

  Tom Moran was missing half his face.

  ****

  Posie found herself accepting a smoke which Tom offered from a dark blue packet. Despite the fact that she hardly ever smoked.

  ‘The war, I take it, Mr Moran?’ she said, inhaling, trying not to look shocked or disgusted, and trying not to stare too much. She understood now the reason for Tom’s strange manner earlier, the way he always stared straight ahead, and the reason Silvia Hanro had called him movie star material – almost. It explained the tiny second of pain which had crossed Silvia’s face when she spoke about her boyfriend.

  Tom Moran had obviously once been ridiculously, out-of-this-world gorgeous.

  But now, on his left-hand side, where an eyebrow and an eye should be, a flesh-coloured patch had been stuck into place by way of a covering under the blue glasses. The left side of his nose and the cheek below the patch and the chin beneath were burnt quite away. The parts of skin which were left looked dry and sore and blazed a vivid red, and the rest was covered in gauze. His lips were a mass of criss-crossed pale scars.

  ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’

  ‘Shrapnel?’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘Yep. I was at Ypres at the end of July 1917, unfortunately. I was left for dead on the first day of the battle. Ended up in a flipping great bog-hole and by the time the stretcher-bearers found me three days later it was too late to save my face. But I was one of the lucky ones. I should have died out there. Everyone else in my division did.’

  Tom lit another cigarette and smiled. It was a curious smile, joyful on the one side and pulled-down and sad, like a ghoulish clown on the other side.

  ‘To your credit, Miss Parker, you don’t seem shocked.’

  ‘I couldn’t be, Mr Moran. I’ve seen far worse, unfortunately. I was an ambulance driver out on the Western Front up until Christmas 1917. I’m afraid that faces such as yours were my daily bread and butter for a while there. More’s the pity.’

  Tom raised his good eyebrow. ‘Ah? Well. That explains it, then. Plucky girl. I don’t know many men who could stomach that sort of work. I try to warn people about it in advance; the reactions I’ve had have been pretty extreme, you see. Even out and about, on the streets of London, where you’d think people would see all manner of poor souls still floating around from the war. But the stares I get, well, you’d think I’d wished it upon myself. Like I actually want to look like a freak.’

  Posie nodded. ‘People are cruel when they’re scared of the unknown, Mr Moran. Not that it excuses them in the slightest. I also have friends who have been disfigured, and they say the same as you.’

  Posie was thinking in particular of Alaric’s best friend, Major Hugo Marchpane, a flying ace from the Great War who had been shot down in flames on what would turn out to be his last ever plane journey; he had been badly burned, and although he tried to pretend he didn’t care, especially now that he had a very important job as a high-ranking Government Official, he often complained about the way people stared at him in the post-Great War world. Even in the corridors of Westminster.

  Tom shrugged. ‘It’s ironic, that’s all: it wasn’t the war to end all wars, everyone knows that now. Trouble is, people don’t like being reminded about it now we’re into the roaring, blazing 1920s. Most people just want to have fun, and even if they can’t, they want to forget. They force themselves to forget, by any means necessary. Cocaine, usually. It’s easy enough. But people like me are the walking, talking, revolting reminders of that war from a lifetime ago. We don’t just go away.’

  ‘It’s bad luck, for sure.’

  That lopsided smile again. ‘Yes. It most definitely is. But listen to me rattling on. I need to help you. Not the other way around. You looked like you weren’t enjoying yourself much in there. Brian briefed me on your visit; told me to assist you however I could. So where do you need to get to now?’

  Posie had got out her notebook again and gave it a brief glance. ‘Could you take me to see Reggie – I think that’s his name – the secretary? I heard Brian Langley mention him earlier. Is he out here?’

  ‘Yes. Reggie Jones. Somewhere about, keeping the extras all in check.’

  Tom thrust on his straw boater and they set off across the grass and the cinder path in the direction of the small white marquee on the busy lawn. The extras were still milling around, taking up space.

  ‘But why are the extras still here? It doesn’t look like they’ll be needed this late in the day, will they? Mr Langley’s just filming with his leading actors right now.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. But Brian pays the extras by the day. Whole crowds of them. He expects them to stay the course. Just in case they’re needed. In case he has to change the schedule. If they’re not here at six-thirty, they don
’t get paid. Full stop. So they stick around.’

  ‘I see.’ Privately Posie was thinking how ludicrously expensive that sort of arrangement must be, and how Brian Langley must be shelling out crazy amounts for actors he simply didn’t need. But who was she to question methods in an industry she didn’t understand?

  ‘You’re on the trail of old Hector Mallow, are you? I expect Silvia told you all about her friendly stalker, did she?’

  ‘She did.’ Posie nodded. This was the first time Tom had mentioned Silvia by name, and she decided to probe further while the going was good.

  ‘Do you think Hector Mallow is dangerous, Mr Moran? Have you seen him these last few days?’

  Tom did not reply for a moment. He seemed to be scanning the crowd. His one good eye came to rest on someone and his gaze lingered there.

  ‘Quite frankly, I don’t know the man at all, Miss Parker. I’ve only ever come across him once, when he was being carted off by some guards. And no, I haven’t seen him these last few days, not that I’ve ever lost time or energy looking for him; Brian Langley keeps me quite busy, despite the silly job title – Assistant to the Under-Director! Besides, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack: you do realise there are more than a hundred and fifty extras on the books each day? All dressed in very similar costumes. Usually thick brown sackcloth. Like hundreds of sacks of moving potatoes about the place. One man looks much like another.’

  ‘That is a difficulty. I quite see that.’

  ‘I’ll say! You should ask Reggie Jones if Hector Mallow has been signing on as an extra this week. There he is now.’

  Tom pointed over at a small, round, dark man with a clipboard and a tired look on a curiously fishlike face. Reggie was standing on the lawn, chatting to the dresser in the orange shoes. Tom signalled at the man to get his attention.

  ‘But honestly, I don’t think Mallow’s your man. You might be wasting your time, Miss Parker.’

  Posie was intrigued. ‘Oh? Tell me, do you take the notes seriously, Mr Moran? Especially given the contents of this morning’s note?’

  Tom swung around to Posie and stared down at her, full-face. After a small, weighty silence, he spoke in a very low, hoarse voice and she had to stand very close to hear him.

  ‘Of course I take the bally things seriously. I’m worried sick by these notes, frantic. And that terrible envelope today! That was completely uncalled for. What sort of sick person sends a finger?’

  Tom lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘The last few days have been a living hell. I’m a bundle of nerves. I don’t often speak about private things, but Silvia must have told you how things stand between us. She’s the love of my life, has been for years. I don’t know what I’d do without her.’

  He laughed and splayed his hands.

  ‘She’s made me what I am: I owe her all of this.’

  He whispered on, urgently now. ‘I’m concerned that something will happen at tomorrow’s party. I just wish Brian Langley would step up and get the police involved. Quite frankly, it makes me query his motives, or even his role in this. With all due respect – and no offence intended – I don’t quite see how one lady detective can keep a fellow from committing cold-blooded murder if he’s got his mind set on it and a gun at the ready.’

  Posie shook her head reassuringly: ‘Oh, please don’t worry about offending me. I quite agree with you. I think the police should be involved too. And I might just get them involved. Undercover, of course. Without mentioning it to Brian Langley.’

  ‘Oh? Well, thank goodness for that.’

  Tom Moran heaved a sigh of relief and brightened visibly. ‘That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard this week. You do that. Get them out here. At the party tomorrow. As many as possible. Please.’

  But something he had said had caught Posie by surprise. She eyed the man keenly.

  ‘Do you know who is behind these notes, Mr Moran? Who might wish Silvia dead? You referred to the writer of the notes as a “fellow” just now. If not Hector Mallow, then who?’

  Tom hesitated, then shrugged uncertainly. ‘I have no proof, Miss Parker. But I’d say that Robbie Fontaine should be high on your list of suspects.’

  ‘He is. Apparently. He was first on the list recited to me by Silvia. But why?’

  Reggie was now on his way over across the grass. Tom continued in the same undertone:

  ‘Money. It’s very unusual, but did you know that Silvia earns almost twice the amount he does, per picture? Has done since the war. She’s very wealthy as a result, of course. With her out of the way his earning capacity will go up.’

  ‘I see.’

  Tom continued, his tone urgent now:

  ‘You might also want to think about Brian Langley’s part in all this. If Silvia dies, this new film will become a classic, instantly. Nothing sells better than death. And who knows, perhaps he has some other financial means of benefitting from her death? But I wouldn’t say any of this in Silvia’s presence. She’s very loyal to Brian. Too loyal, some would say.’

  Posie nodded bleakly. Tom’s thoughts were echoing some of her own misgivings about the Producer and what he might gain.

  ‘Thank you. Now, where can I find you and Miss Hanro later tonight? If I have to, I mean. I’ll obviously try not to bother you.’

  ‘We stay here at Worton Hall, generally. It’s our base. It will be until Sunstar terminate the contract tomorrow. We both have rooms here, as have most of the film crew. When we go into London we stay at my, well, our flat in the Albany.’

  Tom smiled proudly. ‘You know it? It’s in Mayfair, by the Royal Academy. It’s useful for partying. But we haven’t been there in an age. Silvia has kept her old family home, of course. But that’s huge, and rented out, and not useful to us right now. If you have to, ask the Porter at the Albany for Mr and Mrs Delacroix. Top floor.’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’ Posie noted the address and the fake names down. ‘I’m hoping to leave here soon. I’ll see you again tomorrow for what I understand is the last day of filming.’

  ‘Right you are. Hullo, Reggie!’

  The secretary was upon them. He looked at Posie inquisitively, with frank interest. The complete unsuitability of her story as being a school friend of Silvia Hanro suddenly became apparent. Why had she been so stupid to accept it so blindly? Why on earth would a school friend of Silvia’s be picking around a film set asking quite particular questions of various members of the company?

  The thinness of the cover must have been apparent to Tom, too, because for just a second she saw what looked like a shadow of uncertainty cross his ghastly face. Frantically she scrambled for a plausible cover. But Tom got there first.

  Was that a wink of the good eye beneath the shade of the glasses?

  ‘It was a real pleasure, Miss Parker. If we can be of any further help with writing your story, you have my card, don’t you? I know that Miss Hanro enjoyed your interview, especially given the personal connection; the fact that you were at school together really enabled her to trust you. I do hope that Sunstar’s latest movie will be reviewed favourably by your magazine, especially as we’ve done you this favour of early admittance ahead of the other journalists. Goodbye.’

  Journalists! She was being handed a safety rope and she took it gratefully as Tom Moran sauntered off back towards the dark studio.

  ‘I’m Miss Parker, and I’m with The Lady, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Press? That’s unusual.’ The small man spoke with the vestiges of a soft Welsh accent and he looked at Posie warily.

  She nodded and fished in her bag for one of her very plain white business cards, which featured nothing more than her name in bold black type and a fake London address in Mayfair. She kept the cards for occasions just such as these, even though Len had laughed at her for her over-the-top ways when they had been delivered from the printers.

  ‘I write features about different entertainments and I’m doing a big piece all about Henry the King, and what it’s like to work
on a film set, from lots of different angles. I’ve spoken to the leading lady; she’s on our cover, naturally, and to some of the actual filming crew, including Mr Langley. And now I’m wondering, could I speak to you about the extras, Mr Jones? I’ll only take up five minutes of your time.’

  Reggie Jones had put the business card in his pocket without looking at it. At the mention of his Producer he had visibly relaxed and dropped his guard.

  ‘Sure. What exactly do you want to know?’

  ****

  Five minutes was all it took. Reggie Jones was more than forthcoming in talking about his important work as Brian Langley’s secretary, and Posie gently steered him back to the subject of extras again and again, standing in the corner of the hot marquee, nodding and looking interested and taking fake shorthand notes throughout. She managed to swing the subject onto Hector Mallow as quickly as possible.

  ‘Miss Hanro mentioned she had one particularly ardent fan. He works as an extra, too, whenever he can. Is he around to speak to at all? A Mr Miller? Or was it a Mr Mellow? Or was it…’

  ‘Hector Mallow?’ Reggie Jones replied, somewhat impatiently.

  ‘Oh yes!’ she said placidly. ‘That sounds about right! Is he here?’

  Reggie Jones tsk-tsked. ‘Did Miss Hanro actually mention him? Think he’d be a good thing to write about? That creepy low-life?’

  Posie nodded, delighted. ‘Yes. She mentioned him. I thought it might be interesting to speak to him, and she didn’t raise any objections.’

  ‘As you wish. Although I’ve got a book full of lovely, dedicated extras you could speak to instead. Nice, normal people. We get two types of extras here, same as other film companies: we get those who live nearby and need the money, and we get real movie fans; those who live and breathe the movies and don’t care a jot about the money. They’re happy just being on set, being part of it all, having the chance to rub shoulders with the Miss Hanros and Mr Fontaines of this world.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want to speak to one of those second type of extras? I’ve got plenty here right now would be only too happy to get their names in a nice story for once. Nothing much else to do today, either…’