Murder of a Movie Star

by L. B. Hathaway

  Posie didn’t feel guilty. Not at all. The Inspector had given her clear instructions to keep Silvia safe. Not entertained, or happy.

  Just safe. Posie thought about the sheer drop from the window and how Silvia couldn’t go anywhere right now. That was safety.

  Sort of.

  ****

  Thirty-Two

  Posie stomped through into the cooler interior of her own office, dragging the fan she had seen Len hauling up the stairs earlier. Where on earth was he?

  What kind of idiots did she have to put up with on a daily basis?

  At her desk she threw down her carpet bag huffily, and tipped out its contents. She got the fan to start. She hurled herself into her chair. However, there was no comfort to be had from studying the crisp unruffled interior of her office today, or the jaunty little watercolours which her father had painted on his holidays in France.

  Instead, there were increasingly cross-sounding noises coming from the kitchen, as Silvia had obviously lost her temper and had decided to hurl furniture or herself about the place in a spiral of anguish.

  Posie didn’t feel sorry for her. Not one bit. The woman had suffered a shock with Robbie Fontaine dying practically in her lap, it was true, but then so had they all.

  So Posie sat, head in hands, staring at her notebook, mainly focused on the words ‘HATE’, ‘LOVE’ and ‘MONEY’.

  Before she knew it, she had written a fourth word:

  ‘GUILT.’

  Posie was running over and over her diatribe at the movie star in her locked kitchen. Had she gone too far?

  She pushed away her singed hair and bits of burnt headdress – where the bullet had whizzed by – in a preoccupied fashion. A spot of dried blood fell off her cheek and flaked onto the open notepad before her. The smell of the burned cloth and hair and the dried blood on her hands was rancid and unpleasant.

  It lingered horribly.

  Suddenly something struck Posie as familiar. Like a bell was ringing somewhere in her mind, but from very far away. A warning sound.

  Her brain scrambled, twisting up quickly through the gears, trying to find an equilibrium, a solution.

  And while her thoughts didn’t follow any obvious direction, several ideas crept, unbidden, into her mind: five unrelated details which she hadn’t focused on before now blazed before her.

  She breathed slowly, counting the five details off on her fingers, in no particular order:

  The first was the memory of a scent.

  The second was a sudden and clear understanding of the skills of an expert blackmailer.

  The third was a fact: a person’s age.

  The fourth detail which came to Posie was Silvia Hanro telling her in the car on the way back to Grape Street that the cook, Mrs Thynne, would do most things in exchange for money.

  And the fifth detail was the memory of a phrase which she had heard very recently, not more than a couple of hours back. A man shouting: ‘What is this, now?’

  Posie stood, her heart hammering in her chest. She pulled at her horrible blonde hair in exasperation.

  ‘Can it be?’

  The telephone rang suddenly from the waiting room. Posie raced through, just in time to see the shadow of a boy standing silhouetted outside the glass-stencilled front door.

  Posie hurriedly let Sidney in, and gave him the key to lock the door behind him, while she was answering the telephone. The Operator announced a call from Worton Hall Studios, which she said would take a couple of minutes to put through. Posie nodded over at Sidney, who was staring around with interest.

  ‘Old policeman plod let me in downstairs. Nice place you got here, Miss.’

  He put the butchers’ wrap of meat down on the edge of Prudence’s desk with a couple of unspent coins. ‘Need me to cook that for you, Miss? I’m a handy turn with a fryin’ pan and a knob o’ lard.’

  Posie shook her head and started to write quickly on a jotter. She wrote down two separate points.

  She gave Sidney the note and another of her business cards, holding on to the receiver all the while.

  ‘Take this, will you? I need you to get to Number 11, Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Five minutes’ walk from here. You know where that is, Sidney?’

  ‘’Course I do, Miss. I ain’t stupid. Next to that big bit of park where the tramps get their soup at night, innit?’

  ‘That’s right. Fast as you can, there and back. Ask for Mr Nicholas of Carver & Nicholas Solicitors. Tell him it’s urgent and I regret that I can’t come myself. He’s nice. He told me to put something in writing, and here it is. Ask him to just write “yes” or “no” to the two questions written there. Got it? Tell him I can’t leave here. I’m under strict police instructions to stay put.’

  The lad nodded. ‘’Course, Miss.’

  He edged towards the door but turned, perturbed. ‘I say, Miss. There’s some mighty funny noises coming from out here. Banging. What sounds like a mighty kickin’ goin’ on.’

  He motioned towards the landing.

  Posie clicked her tongue irritably. ‘Oh, don’t mind that. It’s only Miss Hanro and a cat locked together in the kitchen. They’re just getting to know each other better.’

  Sidney looked doubtful for a second, but then thought better of it, shrugged, and disappeared. Posie heard a voice ask for her in the receiver amid a cacophony of hissings.

  ‘That you, Posie?’

  ‘It is, sir. Who else?’

  ‘You can’t be too careful at the moment,’ continued Inspector Lovelace. ‘And this is a bad line. What a lot of background noise! I’m just checking all is in order.’

  ‘All fine, sir. You-know-who is safe and sound.’

  ‘Thank goodness. We’ve managed to clear most of the lot who were here, including your pal, Lady Cardigeon, who has gone off with Sergeant Rainbird, safely back to Westminster, but the journalists are another matter entirely: we can’t stop the story about Robbie Fontaine from leaking out. Dratted fellows! It will be all over the early evening papers in just a couple of hours.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less, sir. Are you coming here now?’

  There were some clicks down the line and some more hissings. Then all was quiet again.

  ‘I am, Posie. I’m just about to leave. I’ve been held up. Would you believe that Poots was still here monkeying around with Elaine Dickinson’s body, together with that blonde fella from Kew? So I got him to come and look at Fontaine’s body, too, quick as he could, to speed up the process and so he could take the two corpses away together. But there was a problem with Fontaine.’

  ‘Oh? What? I would have thought it was straightforward, surely?’

  ‘Not in the way Fontaine died: Poots confirmed that Mr Fontaine died of a gunshot wound to the head. It was the gun itself which was the problem.’

  Posie swallowed uncertainly. ‘The Webley you took off Pamela Hanro, you mean?’

  ‘That’s right. Brian Langley’s gun: a Webley Mark VI. It’s definitely his. I’ve checked it out at the Yard: the serial number matches one issued to Langley in 1918. But it turns out that the gun which killed Robbie Fontaine wasn’t the same sort of Webley at all. It was something much earlier, a large .455 model. Apparently the bullet, which nearly got you, and which Poots recovered from Fontaine, didn’t match Langley’s model. The two Webley’s use different bullets, but only an expert would know that.’

  ‘So what was Langley’s gun doing there?’ Although the words were simply mechanical.

  For Posie knew the answer already.

  ‘Search me. And I’ve still no idea as to where Brian Langley has fled to, either. We’ve had to let Pamela Hanro go, of course. She’s not connected to the crime at all now. No direct evidence.’

  Posie groaned in disbelief. ‘Did you have to let her go?’

  The Chief Inspector sounded startled. ‘She’s not a suspect any more for anything. Or is she, in your opinion?’

  ‘She’ll come here,’ moaned Posie. ‘She’ll get here somehow, sure
as bread is bread. She’s resourceful. I think she heard you tell your men that Silvia was coming here to my offices.’

  ‘Surely not! Don’t let her in. Stay calm. I’ll be with you shortly.’

  Posie sat motionless after the line went dead and the double click-click of the Operator’s line went down. She replaced the shiny black receiver in its cradle and collapsed into Prudence’s chair. The silence of the little office engulfed her. Even Silvia had now given up protesting and the kitchen was quiet.

  Minutes ticked by.

  Ten minutes. Twenty minutes.

  Posie sat, digesting the recent news from the Inspector. She needed to wait for Sidney to come back with the response from the solicitor, but she was fairly certain of things now: who the killer was.

  She ticked through her five unconnected details again. She tried to stay calm, as the Inspector had directed, but she felt like howling in anguish.

  The truth had revealed itself as if the layers were being stripped back like a poisonous onion. But she had understood it all too late.

  And she had made a huge, unforgivable error. A blunder of the worst sort. And lives had been lost in the process.

  What will I do now?

  The little clock on Prudence’s desk struck two-thirty, bringing Posie back down to earth with a jolt. And then she jumped: the bell from the street entrance was being rung for her attention.

  She marched to the front window, pulled up the sash and stuck her head out. The London plane trees, so lush and verdantly green despite the city smog and dust, formed an inconvenient barrier between herself and the caller at the door.

  ‘Sergeant Binny?’ she shouted down, as calmly as possible. ‘Where are you? Is that you?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Sergeant Binny?’

  A nasal voice, unknown but cheerful enough called up. It was the voice of a Londoner, born and bred:

  ‘Miss Parker? Is that a Miss Rosemary Parker of the Grape Street Bureau?’

  Posie frowned and then called out snappishly. ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘My name is Davey Price. I’m a telephone engineer, from the telephone company, come to look at your line. Your colleague, Len, he asked me to call at two-thirty today. I had a free time-slot. Arranged it all yesterday, we did. He said you’d been having problems: maybe worried your line was being compromised? I can check it out for you. But I can come back another time if now isn’t convenient? Next week for example?’

  Posie thought for a second. It wasn’t at all convenient. But it was necessary.

  It was true: just the day before she had complained massively to Len about the telephone, and surprisingly he had actually done something about it. Besides, the Chief Inspector wasn’t due at the office for at least another three-quarters of an hour, and Silvia Hanro was safely hidden in the kitchen.

  And Len would be along anytime soon now. Hopefully.

  She leant out of the window again. ‘How long will you need up here?’

  ‘Oh, only about ten minutes, Miss, give or take. I’ll just prepare my tools if that’s okay with you? I’ve got rather a heavy bag to bring up. I need to sort it out down here. It’s in a bit of a mess from my last job. So if you could buzz me in and I’ll come up when I’m ready. Probably in about five minutes’ time?’

  Posie thought. It all sounded plausible enough.

  ‘I say,’ she shouted down again, ‘is my pal down there? His name’s Binny and he has a black Ford motor car.’

  ‘Do you mean the fella in tails?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He’s at the end of the street, where it joins onto Shaftesbury Avenue, by the pub. He’s lookin’ this way and that, like he might be expectin’ company. That the fella? Shall I pop over and ask him to come on up?’

  Posie thought of poor nervous Binny.

  ‘No,’ she shouted down, reluctantly. ‘Don’t bother him. I’ll let you in and you just come up as soon as you can.’

  Posie stepped away from the window and pressed the entry bell. She stood, nervously, and all of a sudden heard quick, unknown footsteps on the stairs.

  It was just Sidney.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Posie opened the front door.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Sidney. What a relief.’ She drew the boy into the room. ‘Thank you for being so quick. And?’

  Sidney passed across the piece of notepaper, tightly folded and tied with a bit of lawyers’ pink ribbon. Sidney nodded, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a job well done.

  ‘I would have been quicker, but I ’ad to wait for him to finish with some clients. Mr Nicholas sends his regards.’

  ‘Good lad.’

  Posie was about to open the notepaper when there was yet more running on the stairs. Both Posie and Sidney stopped, turned and listened. It was unmistakeably a woman running up the first set of stairs. Heeled shoes were tapping on the lino down below.

  Posie groaned.

  The office door was pushed open and there was Pamela Hanro herself, dishevelled and desperate-looking, her bright kimono slipping off her thin shoulders. Her heavy make-up was smeared all over her face and her hair was wild about her face. She stared at Posie like a woman possessed, her red lipstick eerily vivid in her pale face.

  ‘You’ve left your door downstairs to the street wide open, you silly girl.’ Pamela Hanro gasped for breath. ‘You’ve made a big mistake, Miss Parker. Or haven’t you realised that, yet?’

  Posie had grabbed Sidney, and the piece of chicken, and the key to the kitchen, all in one easy movement.

  ‘I need you to disappear,’ she hissed at him under her breath. ‘Feed the cat and don’t panic. Lock the door behind you with this key and guard it with your life. Guard Silvia Hanro with your life, too. If you hear gunshots out here don’t come out. Wait for the police to arrive. You’ll be fine. Just fine. Now, through you go.’

  ‘You gonna be all right, Miss?’ the boy whispered. ‘This woman looks like a right crazy one to me.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Posie nodded, without any certainty. Unlocking the door and shoving the boy through into the kitchen was the work of a second.

  Turning back to Pamela, Posie did her best to hold on to her calm.

  ‘Now, what was it that you were saying?’

  ****

  Thirty-Three

  ‘You’ve got my sister up here, haven’t you?’

  Posie stared at Pamela hard, paralysed with fear, and she could feel the blood booming in her temples. No words came.

  ‘It’s okay.’ Pamela laughed. ‘I heard that dishy Inspector chappie tell you to bring her here, when he arrested me. He got that wrong. And you got it all wrong, didn’t you, Miss Parker? I thought I’d better come along and tell you that.’

  Just then a loud bumping sound could be heard from way down below, like a hearthrug or a big heavy mat being tugged along strenuously into the entrance hall of the Grape Street Offices. Then there were some bangs.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ whispered Pamela in a sudden panic. She was at the window in a trice, looking down, licking the last of her red lipstick off nervily. ‘Is it the police?’

  Posie shook her head, not entirely truthfully. The cockney voice called up the stairs:

  ‘Sorry I’m taking so long, Miss Parker. We’ll be with you in a minute.’

  ‘Fine,’ Posie shouted back. ‘No hurry.’

  Posie turned to Pamela. ‘It’s just the telephone repair man,’ she explained, hugely glad for the interruption, ‘bringing his tools up from his van.’

  ‘I see.’ Pamela was back again at the window, pacing, restless.

  In those few seconds Posie quickly unwrapped the note Sidney had brought her from the solicitor. She unfolded it and read the answers to her questions:

  1. DOES THE MAIN CAPITAL OF SILVIA HANRO’S TRUST FUND GO TO PAMELA UNLESS SILVIA MARRIES BY THE AGE OF 30?

  –YES.

  2. WAS SILVIA INFORMED OF THIS SITUATION BY YOU?

  –YES, SHE KNEW ABOUT
IT. SHE WROTE ASKING FOR DETAILS AND WE SUPPLIED THEM.

  Posie scrunched the note into her pocket. It all made sense now and this was the confirmation.

  The banging and bumping downstairs had stopped. There was now a slow dragging sound from the stairwell.

  Pamela had turned and was staring hard at Posie, almost accusingly.

  ‘Hang on a minute. What telephone repair man are you talking about? There was no such van down there when I came up. There was a Nathan’s van. You know, the costumiers? There was a black car, too. A Ford. But no-one was in it and all the doors had been left hanging open…’

  Posie frowned. ‘Nathan’s? A Nathan’s van?’

  There had been a Nathan’s van following them, on and off, all the way into London. Had she got this badly wrong, too?

  And then she remembered her telephone conversation with Len, at the public booth at Worton Hall. A man had been waiting patiently behind the baize curtain. A man who, sure as bread was bread, had probably heard her whole conversation. Including her request for a telephone engineer to come to Grape Street. A man who had been wearing bright white.

  But then, all the men at Worton Hall wore white. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach. Just who or what had she let in to Grape Street?

  ‘Hello?’

  But just then the strange dragging noise stopped. Whatever it was, was out on the landing. Both Pamela and Posie turned together to look over at the glass door. But they couldn’t make out the figure there. It was just a big dark mass with no distinctive shape.

  ‘Hello?’ called out Posie again, making an attempt to sound normal. She was shaking and couldn’t get it under control.

  There was an odd clinking noise in reply. Something metallic was clicking into place.

  ‘Hello?’ Posie was horribly aware of Pamela Hanro beside her, breathing dangerously close, and of Sidney the stringer and of Silvia Hanro, not six feet away behind the kitchen door. Frightened, most probably.

  As well they might be.

  The glass door pushed open. And two men, both in black tie, could be seen. It was a bizarre and confusing spectacle, bruising on the senses.

  ‘What the…?’

  Pamela darted forwards, but Posie, heart racing, grabbed at Pamela before she could do anything else she might regret later.