‘Tom Moran doesn’t exist. He did; he was born in 1905. But he died five years later, in 1910. He was just a little boy.’
‘How do you know this, Sergeant?’ Posie didn’t like the cold hand of fear which was just now clutching at her heart and pressing on her ribcage.
‘I always request birth records first, Miss,’ said Binny, rather smugly. ‘Then you know where you are. Well, I knew straight away that the date of birth I was supplied with wasn’t right for our chappie, and so I called up the Office of Births, Deaths and Marriages, to make sure they were not mistaken. There was no mistake: there were no other Tom Morans listed in the country, you see. They came back and told me that Tom Moran’s date of birth was correct, and that he was dead, to boot. And do you know where he’s buried, this little boy?’
‘No.’
‘Isleworth Churchyard!’ piped up Sergeant Binny, enjoying his moment of triumph. ‘Apparently it’s right next door to the Royal Oak pub, and there’s a shortcut through the graveyard to the beer garden. So you can see what happened!’
The Chief Inspector groaned. ‘Our Tom Moran has just borrowed a handy name! Because he needed one. Quickly. Your man with half a face is also missing a name, and a real identity.’
Posie felt like choking. Her Norse God was all a mirage. ‘Gracious. This doesn’t look good for Tom at all.’
‘I agree with you, Posie.’
Sergeant Binny explained that he had checked all manner of other records for a man named Tom Moran, including army records, and had found nothing at all.
‘Question is,’ murmured Lovelace. ‘Who is the fella? And why’s he using a fake name?’
Just then there was an almighty banging on the huge wooden door which opened out onto Fleet Street. The sound was frenzied and persistent.
‘Open up!’ came a male voice which sounded a tiny bit familiar to Posie.
‘What the blazes?’ muttered the Chief Inspector, standing up, followed quickly by Posie and Sergeant Binny, as the little Porter from before came bustling out of his hidden office to see what all the fuss was about.
The Porter opened a little window next to the door and chatted to whoever it was out there. Whoever it was must have been important for he turned tail pretty quickly and trotted back over to where they were standing and did a mock-bow.
‘Lady Cardigeon, Chief Inspector. She wants to see you, and this lady, too, if she’s a Miss Parker?’
Lovelace nodded and waved a sweaty hot hand as if directing traffic. ‘Let her in, of course. You didn’t need to ask me, you silly fella.’
‘What on earth is Dolly up to?’ queried Posie. She stared over. Why was Dolly not at home?
‘Posie, lovey!’
Seconds later Dolly was crossing the cobbles, in the same attire as earlier, but this time hatless, and her blonde shingled head seemed to shine like a little light in the darkness. Posie noticed that Dolly was followed, as across a lit stage, by the dark figure of an unknown man.
Dolly shook hands with both policemen and turned to Posie, almost completely out of breath.
‘What’s happened, Dolly?’ asked Posie quickly, dreading hearing more of the possible plot which Rufus was worrying about.
The man at Dolly’s side suddenly appeared out of the gloom and materialised as Sam Stubbs, a now-prominent journalist at the Associated Press. He and Posie knew each other quite well; they sometimes worked alongside each other, trading information and stories as needed.
‘Sam!’
‘Wotcha, Miss.’
The Chief Inspector stepped forwards in the darkness, wary of the press. ‘Now wait a minute, young fellow,’ he began. ‘I’m not sure you should be a party to our conversation here. Could you just wait over…’
But Dolly cut Lovelace off: ‘Oh, no point in sending Sam away, Inspector! He knows all about mostly everything. You’ll never guess what!’ breathed Dolly, turning to Posie, her voice sounding raspy.
The excitement and nerves were palpable on her face even in the dim light and Posie was about to suggest she sit down and calm down for the sake of her baby, but then she remembered that she wasn’t supposed to know, and she held her tongue.
Dolly rummaged in her big bag and was suddenly flapping something around in her hand.
‘It’s about Tom Moran!’
‘Oh?’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘That’s timely! We were just discussing him, weren’t we, Sergeant?’
‘That’s right, my Lady. Turns out he doesn’t exist. At least he’s not who he says he is.’
‘Oh!’
The wind had gone out of Dolly’s sails a little, and she looked slightly put off for a couple of seconds. Posie reached out and took Dolly’s hand and held it, soothingly, she hoped. ‘What is it, Dolly? Do you have some information?’
Dolly recovered a little. She nodded gleefully.
‘I’ll say I do!’
****
Nineteen
‘I’d been thinking most of today over at Worton Hall that there was something familiar about the man,’ said Dolly breathlessly, her pale face luminous in the heat.
‘Go on,’ said Posie encouragingly. Her heart was racing.
Dolly waved the paper maddeningly around in the air.
‘And then, in the car on the way back into town, I remembered who it was that Tom Moran reminded me of! But it was late, and I had to be sure. So I got the driver, Fred, nice fella actually, to swing past the Associated Press’ office on Fleet Street. I asked Sam here if I could use their archives room, and, do you know what? I was blimmin’ well right!’
Everyone except the journalist groaned.
‘And?’
‘Oh, didn’t I say? Sorry! Tom Moran is, or rather was, the famous film star, Mark Paris!’
‘Mark Paris?’ repeated Posie softly. Even she had heard of Mark Paris.
‘Here.’ Dolly had thrust her paper, which seemed to be a photograph, under the light, and both policemen looked at it quickly.
The Chief Inspector whistled softly. ‘I thought Mark Paris had died in the war.’
‘I think everyone thought that, Inspector.’ Dolly nodded, lighting up. She turned to Posie.
‘I know you ain’t really got a clue who Mark Paris is, or was, lovey, except by name. But he was a wonderful actor; a real movie star in the old days, before the war. Half the world was in love with him, or wanted to be him, before Robbie Fontaine or Silvia Hanro meant anythin’ to anyone. When Mark Paris signed up to fight on the front line there was a big story about it in all the papers.’
‘That’s right,’ said Sam Stubbs, with a tremor of barely-suppressed excitement. ‘It was before my time of course, but looking at the archives it seems clear enough that thousands of girls worried about him, and sent Mr Paris fan mail via our offices: none of which ever got sent on to him, of course.’
‘And hundreds of girls mourned him,’ Dolly nodded, blowing a smoke ring, ‘when it was reported in July 1917 that he had gone missin’ in action. Seems like he’s been missin’ ever since. Huh?’
Posie took the photograph which Binny passed to her, almost warily. She didn’t know what to expect. Binny edged over, trying to be helpful. He lit a match and stood with it near the black-and-white studio portrait so Posie could see it better.
She looked at it with a sense of trepidation. The man who looked out at her was scowling moodily, his face turned to the left very slightly, his finely-chiselled features captured beautifully by some long-gone photographer. He wore his hair waxed thickly back, its raven-black curls making him look like some sort of Byron. Posie felt when looking at the photograph that there was indeed something familiar about it, but she would never have put the blonde god with the shattered face and this dark heart-throb together; never connected them as being the same man. It would have taken an expert to see through it.
She said as much.
Dolly shrugged. ‘I went to see nearly every one of Mark Paris’s films, so I suppose I’d pick up something. Look at his eyes, the
n you’ll see. It’s just the hair really which makes him look so different; that was the fashion back then, of course, and Sunstar Films must have told him to wear it like that.’
She patted her own bleached crop mournfully. ‘He must have had the devil of a job dying it black all the time: the man’s a natural blonde of course. Lucky so-and-so!’
Posie looked up. ‘Hang on a minute,’ she said sharply. ‘Did you say he was working for Sunstar Films way back before the war?’
Dolly nodded. ‘Yes, of course. They’re the biggest film company goin’. Have been since movies started in this country. So it’s only natural he’d have been workin’ for them, isn’t it?’
Thoughts crowded Posie’s mind. She pictured Tom – she couldn’t think of him as Mark– working for Sunstar Films as a major movie star, back in the old days.
She thought too about how it must be for him now: to be unknown, when before the war he had been at the very centre of the business. What must it be like to be ordered around by Brian Langley, who had known him in his prime? And the shame of being paid a small salary for doing pretty much nothing, when before the war he must have commanded vast sums for flaunting his very presence on screen? Pamela Hanro, who had known the truth, of course, had spoken of the riches Tom had accrued before the war.
Posie felt an ache of pity for the man.
Some things fell into place; things heard but not understood at the time. Posie remembered Tom’s bitter words to her earlier about his lot in life, about his terrible wounds. No wonder the man was resentful: his face had quite literally been his fortune and now he was without it.
She remembered too Silvia Hanro’s awe and love for her boyfriend, who she had met in her early acting days, when he was the star. Her description of him being ‘movie star material…sort of’, now made much more sense.
The ‘sort of’ was important.
Of course Tom could never be a film star again. That much was obvious. Pamela Hanro had been entirely correct when she had described what had happened to Tom as a tragedy. It was a tragedy if one knew who and what the man used to be. It also explained his powerful presence and the aura of entitlement which somehow still hung around him, even in his diminished role.
But why pretend to be dead and pick up another identity? Was it just simpler? Was the pride Posie had detected in the man too great to endure pity and the inevitable outpourings of grief and sympathy which would surely come? And why return, like some poor tormented soul, to the industry, even the very company, which he had been a star of? A move which would surely rub self-inflicted salt into the wounds of his obviously-delicate ego.
Strangely Posie felt peculiarly defensive of the man. She remembered his providing her with a fake identity for Reggie Jones’ benefit, and she had admired his quick-thinking. And, it had to be said, she had fallen for his shattered good looks. She stuck her chin out, ready to be challenged:
‘I suppose it’s not a crime to change one’s identity, is it?’
Lovelace shook his head steadily. ‘Nope. Poor blighter might just be looking for a quiet life. Nothing wrong with that. It explains a lot.’
‘After all,’ continued Posie, ‘he’s never actually said he’s dead, has he? I suppose that’s what people just presumed?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Dolly uncertainly.
And then Posie remembered with a sudden jolt where she had seen that photograph of Mark Paris in his heyday before. It had been just hours earlier. At Worton Hall.
It had been framed, and on a desk, surrounded by cuttings of wedding dresses. In Mrs Thynne’s little bedroom.
Posie turned to Dolly quickly.
‘Do you think anyone else knows who Tom really is at Worton Hall? Apart from Brian Langley and Silvia, I mean?’
Dolly shook her head and ground out her cigarette underfoot. ‘Nah. You said yerself that he isn’t recognisable anymore. Besides, the crew are different now from those who worked before the war. Brian Langley is famous for having made public the fact that most of his film crew and his old hands died in the trenches.’
‘It’s just that I saw that photograph earlier today,’ said Posie in a puzzled tone. ‘In the cook’s room.’
‘Probably just a coincidence,’ said Dolly. ‘I had a photo of Mark Paris up for years, tacked up by my bed when I was nursin’ out on the Western Front. Ironic, really, innit?’
‘Mnnn,’ said Posie. But she didn’t like coincidences. Not one little bit.
She looked over at the Chief Inspector who was looking at her thoughtfully. But he suddenly turned to the journalist.
‘How come you’re here, anyhow, Stubbs? Surely not just as an escort for Lady Cardigeon?’
Sam Stubbs shook his head and proffered something from his pocket. Again everyone shunted around into the light from the oil lamp.
‘What’s all this, then?’ Lovelace demanded, taking what looked like a standard cream-coloured telegram from the journalist’s hands. Posie read over everyone’s shoulders.
GET YOURSELF OVER TO WORTON HALL TOMORROW.
MIDDAY.
THE BIGGEST SCOOP OF YOUR CAREER AWAITS YOU – SILVIA HANRO IS TO DIE FOR.
Posie took a sharp intake of breath. It was an invitation to murder.
‘This looks to be more than a simple invitation to a party,’ Lovelace said sharply. ‘I don’t like the sound of that at all.’ He turned the telegram around in his large hands.
‘Posted at Richmond, tonight,’ he confirmed. ‘Eight o’clock. Not that that helps us particularly. The world and his wife seem to be at Worton Hall, if I understand correctly, and the nearest telegram office open would be Richmond.’
‘I’ve telephoned to a few colleagues at other newspapers,’ said Sam Stubbs with a tremor of excitement in his voice, ‘and they’ve all received exactly the same thing, too. It’s a rum do.’
The Chief Inspector looked at Posie. ‘Do you think Brian Langley might have sent these out? You know, elaborate party invites to muster up some press excitement?’
‘It would be decidedly odd. He doesn’t want any press near. This party is a big deal: it’s for financial backers and people who might carry this new film in the future. He’s no time for journalists at the best of times, let alone at an important party.’
Lovelace’s mouth was pursed into a grim line. ‘Then this really is serious,’ he said quietly. ‘It means that our writer of death threats has decided that keeping things nice and quiet wasn’t enough: he, or she, wants a public stage, with a very public audience.’
After some discussion and having sworn Sam Stubbs to absolute secrecy about the things they had spoken of, especially Tom Moran’s real identity, the journalist left, buoyed up by the thought of a good scoop coming his way. He had declared firmly that he would be attending the Wrap Party, and that no-one would or could stop him from coming.
The Inspector sighed heavily. ‘I daresay I won’t be returning to the rest of this Awards Ceremony tonight. It seems we’d better get back to the Yard, Binny, and get plans in place for tomorrow to cover Miss Hanro at this glitzy party. I’d say that invited or not, this has just become an official police matter.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Posie. ‘Before you go, Sergeant, did you find anything out about Hector Mallow, this stalker? I haven’t managed anything at all. All I know is he turns up as an extra at the weekends at Worton Hall.’
Sergeant Binny rustled around with his notebook, flicking a few pages to and fro. He nodded.
‘Hector Mallow is a well-educated fellow, trained as a Science Master back in the day. Bit of a sad case, actually. He worked at one of the major public schools but got dismissed as he took a fancy to the wife of the Headmaster; pursued her all over the place. Same story a few times over, at various schools, until he seems to have become absolutely unemployable. He seems to scratch a living these days and is quite down on his uppers. Fallen pretty low, I’d say.’
‘And the stalker bit?’ asked Posie, trying to tamp down her impatience.
‘Yes. The fella is a first-class nuisance. He’s been reported by Miss Meggie Albanesi, just a couple of weeks ago. Apparently he keeps sitting in the same café as her after her current show ends. A place called Ciro’s. Our lads investigated it: he is doing that, but it’s not a crime, and there’s nothing we can do.’
‘What does he do exactly?’ asked Posie, curious.
‘It seems he just drinks tea and stares at the poor girl. He gives people the creeps. But he’s more of a pest than a danger: unrequited adoration and all that. He lives over on Nassau Street in Soho in a scruffy bedsit, and works in the week at the teaching hospital, the Middlesex, on nearby Mortimer Street. He must be odd, though. He works as a morgue assistant.’
‘A WHAT?’
Both Posie and the Chief Inspector stared at Binny in horror, thoughts of the horrible severed finger at the forefront of their minds. It dawned on Binny a jot too late:
‘By Gad!’
‘Exactly,’ nodded the Inspector. ‘This chappie could well be our man. He certainly has ample access to a cartload of corpses at that old teaching hospital. We need to look slippy about it and get him in: lock him up before he wreaks havoc tomorrow at this party.’
Inspector Lovelace was already busying himself into action, pulling off his smart medal briskly and pocketing it and tugging off his tight white collar. ‘Where did you say he lives – Soho?’
Binny frowned doubtfully. ‘But sir! We don’t have a case against the man, do we? We have no actual evidence linking him to that finger, which, by the way, we are yet to see for ourselves. At the moment it’s tenuous as anything. He’s done nothing wrong, not yet. Nothing criminal, anyhow. What charges can we possibly bring against him?’
Lovelace groaned. ‘We can’t always do everything by the book, Sergeant. I know you’re studying hard just now for your Inspector’s exams and your diligence is to be praised, but you’ll have to think a little wider on the job.’
‘How much wider, sir?’
The Chief Inspector, clearly flummoxed, groped around wildly for an answer. ‘We can say he’s hindering a police enquiry…’
Murder of a Movie Star Page 18
