Murder of a Movie Star

by L. B. Hathaway

  Tom stared at her.

  ‘It’s as your friend says,’ he sneered. ‘I’ll shoot the lot of you. Including Silvia, of course. And no-one will ever know I was here. Your little foreign friend over there in the navy suit can go to hell. The whole thing will be blamed on Langley.’

  ‘You’ll never get away with this you know, Tom.’

  Out of the corner of her eye Posie saw Silvia rising from her corner, moving towards her husband.

  ‘Can’t we work this out? Step away, my darling. Step away now. Put the gun down. No amount of money is worth all this fuss. Is it?’

  And then the shooting started.

  ****

  Thirty-Seven

  It all happened very quickly.

  Tom aimed at his wife, in a pelting stream of bullets, and she fell, and then he aimed at Brian Langley, who seemed to be lying dead already under the table.

  But Caspian della Rosa was shooting, too, and with one expert move Tom’s gun went arching smartly up into the air, and with a second shot Tom fell to the floor, writhing in pain, a bullet neatly in his leg.

  Caspian della Rosa took in the scene in front of him, the bodies and the mess, and he moved around to where Posie was standing, stock-still behind Prudence’s desk.

  ‘We need to leave.’

  She could barely register what was happening, barely heard his words, which came louder, more insistently:

  ‘It’s time to leave, my darling. And this time, I’m not taking “no” for an answer. Come with me.’

  He pulled at Posie’s white-dusted arms, manoeuvred her towards the front door, past Len, whose eyes were filled with disbelief, but whose tied limbs prevented him from doing anything. At the front door she turned, took in the carnage of her office, and resigned herself to her fate. It seemed a fate barely worth fighting for.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she heard herself say numbly.

  And then there was another spray of bullets, and the swift, sickening thud of something falling, and a wet splash of something all over her back, and, turning, she saw that Caspian della Rosa had been shot, and was lying face-down in a pool of blood.

  Tom Moran was shooting from the floor. With the second gun of Binny’s which Caspian della Rosa had completely forgotten about in his hurry to get away.

  Posie gasped, but not before Roslington had darted forwards, grabbed up the small body of his boss and heaved it like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. He ran through the door and off down the stairs.

  Posie slumped down by the door, almost regardless of her fate. She looked over at Tom, who was lying on the floor, losing blood from his leg wound, even now desperately trying to aim Sergeant Binny’s gun in her direction. Out of the corner of her eye, Posie saw Pamela Hanro, alive and unhurt, dashing to and fro, trying to attend to both Brian Langley and her sister, both of whom appeared pretty lifeless.

  Posie got up, anger coursing through her veins, and went over to where Tom was lying. She kicked the gun out of his hands, out of the way.

  She stared down.

  ‘Do you remember you told me yesterday how you’re a walking reminder of the war? How people don’t like being reminded about it? It seems to me that if you get out of here alive, you’re going to be remembered for a whole lot more than your movie career, or your fake name, or your injuries. War turned a lot of us into ghosts and shadows, but you went that stage further, didn’t you? War turned you into a monster. I have no pity for you. And I can’t help you, although I expect help will come sooner or later.’

  She spun around, aware of a small voice in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘All right, Miss? Is it always this lively in here?’

  Sidney seemed unfazed by the sights which met his eyes: the pools of blood and Tom writhing on the floor; the moans which seemed to be coming from Brian Langley.

  ‘Was that Mr Roslington’s voice I heard just now, Miss? You know, Mr Fontaine’s old contact at the Burlington Arcade? Only, I couldn’t be sure. And I thought I heard his Butler here, too? Mr Rose? The man seemed to be doing most of the talking. Why was that?’

  Posie realised quite suddenly that Roslington, Robbie Fontaine’s drug dealer, had been a puppet frontman for Caspian della Rosa and his unsavoury activities, of course.

  But typically for Caspian della Rosa, he couldn’t just keep himself in the background. He had probably relished the drama of placing himself in the role of a servant, loved being in disguise, keeping a watchful eye on things. Shockingly, it dawned on Posie that Caspian della Rosa had been here, in England, in the very heart of London, not ten minutes from her flat and her office, all along.

  Right under Scotland Yard’s noses. It was typical of the man, somehow. He had been watching and waiting for her.

  Posie shivered.

  Was he dead now? Did she care? He had probably saved her life, but only to better serve his own goals.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a terrible moaning noise over by the sash window. It was Len.

  ‘I’ll get some scissors,’ said Sidney, sensibly, frowning over at Len curiously. He dashed into the kitchen, re-emerging with the scissors.

  He trotted over to Len and began expertly cutting at the string and gag, Mr Minks at his heels.

  At last the gag was off, and Len was desperately trying to stand, and almost falling over, and tottering to and fro, trying to rub life back into his numb hands and feet. Posie looked at him none too sympathetically.

  You were supposed to help me, Posie felt like saying, but she bit her lip.

  Len was just Len, after all.

  How could he have fought off Caspian della Rosa and his lackey with their well-oiled plans and weapons?

  But even so…

  ‘Who’s this?’ Len said at last, staring at Sidney.

  An idea came to Posie then. And it surprised her that it hadn’t occurred to her before: it was so absolutely right.

  ‘This is your new employee, Len. You were just telling us yesterday how you’re going to be run off your feet again soon. Well, here’s the solution. Sidney has all the makings of a very good shadower. He’s an expert stringer already, aren’t you, Sidney?’

  Sidney beamed and nodded while Len just stared, unhelpfully, not much liking what he was hearing.

  But just then there was a hurried step on the stairs, and what sounded like teams of hob-nailed boots bashing on the landings below.

  It must be the police. At last!

  Chief Inspector Lovelace darted through the glass door, followed by reams of men in uniform who went straight over to where Tom Moran was still twitching about.

  ‘Posie!’ Lovelace yelped. ‘Thank Goodness! I didn’t know what had become of you when that door was closed on me. I’d never have forgiven myself. But poor Binny…’

  And then the Chief Inspector overcame anything like any professionalism and reached for Posie and took her into the shelter of his arms, oblivious to Len and Sidney and the stares of all of his men.

  And Posie allowed herself to be wrapped inside his embrace, both of them covered in someone else’s blood. It was warm and comforting and Lovelace was so very much not like a movie star or a monster or anything at all magical.

  Not a hero, either. But no-one had been a hero today.

  Posie closed her eyes and as she did so she was aware of men behind them tramping back and forwards, efficiently carrying stretchers.

  ‘He’ll live, guv!’ she heard one of the men shout from the staircase. She assumed he was carrying Tom.

  This was followed by another man, shouting:

  ‘Say, ain’t this that famous movie star, Silvia Hanro? Used to be quite the thing! She looks like she might live, too! Just about!’

  But Chief Inspector Lovelace didn’t reply. He didn’t move.

  Holding tight to Posie, it took her a moment to realise that he was crying.

  ****

  (Two Weeks Later)

  Epilogue

  The hot weather had broken at last, and the dramatic thundery storm
s which had followed had given way to ominous pearly grey skies, and an August which already had a promise of autumn about it.

  In fact, as Posie Parker stepped out of St Margaret’s Church, in the grounds of Westminster Abbey, on the arm of her fiancé, Alaric Boynton-Dale, her black suede heels crunched down on dry, brown fallen leaves.

  How depressing, she thought to herself. Summer gone, already. The sky overhead was the colour of pewter and it matched her mood.

  ‘Smile, love! It might never happen!’ shouted a cheery, irritating voice and a flashbulb went off. It was a newspaper journalist with his photographer in tow.

  Several others started up. As Posie squinted into the lights she saw banks of photographers stood back behind several policemen, who had formed a guard between the press and the people coming out of the church.

  ‘Alaric! Over here!’

  ‘Miss Parker! This way! Smile!’

  ‘Just grit your teeth and bear it,’ muttered Alaric in Posie’s ear. ‘It will be over soon.’

  ‘How can I smile? We’ve just come out of a funeral!’

  Behind them a woman in black furs and sunglasses and a black mesh headscarf was stepping outside of the church and the press went mad, forgetting Posie and Alaric in an instant.

  They had got what they had come for. The woman of the moment.

  Silvia Hanro.

  ****

  The church for Sergeant Binny’s funeral had been packed to the rafters, despite the fact he had had no family. It turned out that he had lost his parents young and his two brothers had been killed in the first few months of the war.

  Sergeant Rainbird had read out a surprisingly touching eulogy to his colleague, and had managed to make it through without crying. As had Chief Inspector Lovelace, although tears were obviously not far away.

  A man who had served under Binny in the trenches had not fared quite so well; he had stepped down from the lectern after only a couple of short sentences, unable to go on.

  The congregation were, for the most part, policemen, but Binny’s old regiment, or what remained of it, had come along and were sat at the front right-hand side of the church; the wounded and those in wheelchairs nearest the aisle.

  Behind the former regiment sat Silvia Hanro, in a row all by herself. She had, unbelievably, sustained virtually no injuries in the attack by her husband in the Grape Street Bureau, and had apparently passed out in pure fear when he had started firing at her.

  Behind her, frostily apart, sat Brian Langley, who had not fared so well. He was placed out in the aisle, in a wheelchair, and he shouldn’t really have been released from hospital yet. It seemed unlikely he would ever walk again, having sustained several shots to his legs. He sat next to Pamela Hanro, who was attentive at his side, immaculate in an exquisite black dress and hat.

  She had, apparently, been visiting Brian Langley daily in hospital, oftentimes bringing Hilda. At the Coroner’s Inquest into Robbie Fontaine’s death, Pamela had, like Posie, stood and given a Witness Statement. In this she had revealed that she had only attended the Wrap Party because Brian Langley had invited her months before, as a ‘treat’. It was obvious she was deeply in love with the Film Producer, but less obvious was his return of that love. It seemed uncertain. It was also unclear to Posie whether Silvia had found out about Hilda, or whether she had even spoken to her sister since the shootings. But time, and circumstances, would, no doubt, tell. Posie thought again of that haunting Singer Sargent painting of the two little Hanro girls, clasped together forever in childhood, and marvelled at how far they had come. And how far apart from each other they had travelled. Even now, even though they were so physically close to each other.

  The Grape Street contingent had sat in the pew behind, including Len and Prudence, who had wept far more than anyone expected – who knew that she had carried a candle for Sergeant Binny? – and also Dolly and Rufus.

  Posie felt awful. As she did at all funerals. But this one was so shocking, so unreal. So uncalled for.

  Poor Binny. Cut off in the prime of his life, with everything ahead of him and with everything going for him.

  Poor studious Binny, who had survived the war, only to end up dead now. Whose expertise and learning for the Inspector’s exams would now never be called for. It was just awful.

  Even now Posie’s blood boiled at the unjustness of it all, the unfairness.

  That monster.

  Binny had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, as had Constable McCrae, whose funeral had already taken place already, up in Scotland.

  Robbie Fontaine had been in the wrong place, too. His funeral was all set for the following week, and it sounded as if it would be comparable with a state funeral for a king or queen.

  Posie sighed even now at the thought of attending, but vowed she would go, although it would be alone, as Alaric would have disappeared off to India by then.

  Posie had sat quietly in the church, listening to the readings and hymns, and mulling things over, thinking about the public outcry and surprise which had greeted the news that Robbie Fontaine had been murdered.

  The twisted, mangled version of the story which the press had put out was that Robbie Fontaine had been murdered on purpose by Tom Moran; who was actually Mark Paris, in a fit of jealousy over Silvia Hanro.

  The press were suggesting there had been a duel.

  While it was far from the truth, it had caught the public’s imagination and the country were divided over who was the better man, Robbie Fontaine, or poor, injured Mark Paris, back from the dead.

  The commercial effect of all of this was that Sunstar Films, directed by Brian Langley from his hospital bed, had released Henry the King much earlier than planned, and it was already on general release. It was a smash hit. Huge queues were reported at cinemas nationwide: there had never been such a rush to see a non-American film before, and Sunstar Films, and Silvia Hanro, were making hay while the sun shone.

  Although it wasn’t shining much for Mark Paris – or Tom Moran – as Posie had known him.

  Some newspapers were running different reports; that Tom Moran was mentally unhinged, and they were relishing publishing grainy photographs which had been obtained just a couple of days after the attack at Grape Street, when Tom had been transferred from hospital to a secure cell at New Scotland Yard. His ruined face in photographs looked even worse than in real-life, and his re-emergence into public life was the talk of the town.

  Chief Inspector Lovelace had told Posie that Tom’s leg wound had been severe, but not life-threatening, and that he was being watched carefully in his police cell. He had been acting strangely in the last couple of weeks, and all items which he might harm himself with had been removed for his own safety.

  Tom was being charged with double murder, and also for the manslaughter of Robbie Fontaine and Constable McCrae, but Lovelace had muttered darkly to Posie that he might not even stand trial, as he was perhaps going to be declared criminally insane.

  As if, thought Posie, a trifle unsympathetically, perhaps. But then she looked at the small, plain wooden casket at the front of the church, with Binny’s old constable’s hat atop it, and the Blue Plume of Lovelace’s, which he had insisted on placing there, dedicating it to Binny, and she felt the anger bubble up in her again…

  The real story, with its Grape Street showdown, had been hushed up, as had the real reason why Robbie Fontaine had been murdered.

  Elaine Dickinson’s name, appropriately enough, had never even made the newspapers, despite her being listed as an official murder victim by the courts. At the end, she was as insipid and colourless in death as she had been in life. The death threats and the attempt to murder Silvia Hanro had never made the light of day either, amazingly.

  Inspector Lovelace had told Posie that Silvia Hanro had already instructed Carver & Nicholas to draft up the necessary papers which would enable her marriage to Tom to be annulled. All traces of the events of 25th and 26th July were skilfully being erased.

  But
not for poor Binny.

  ****

  An hour later, in the upstairs wooden-panelled cosiness of a private room of the Dog & Duck, the nearest pub to New Scotland Yard, and apparently Sergeant Binny’s choice of watering-hole, people thronged to remember Binny and to toast his life.

  Chief Inspector Lovelace was obviously very upset, and nodded simply at Posie from behind a glass of dark-coloured ale, not trusting himself to speak. His wife, Molly, was chatting with a bunch of other policemen’s wives. Sidney, making himself useful despite being underage, was bobbing about collecting up old used plates and cups, wearing a black suit Posie had bought him specially for the occasion.

  Posie lingered near one of the leaded windows, looking out across to the church they had just come from, and the green lawns in front of it. It had begun to rain again and the droplets pelted against the glass.

  A small touch of a sleeve and Dolly was at Posie’s side.

  ‘You all right, lovey? You seem awful pale.’

  Posie laughed. ‘I should be asking you that. You’re pregnant and probably needing a sit-down. How’s everything going?’

  ‘Oh, much the same, really. I’m pretty much under lock and key. But better than poor old Binny.’ Dolly shook her bleached blonde head under its neat black skull-cap with twirls of netting and veils. There were twinkles of brand new diamonds at her ears.

  ‘I can’t believe it. I’m sorry I egged you on into taking this case. You wouldn’t have got into that car and gone to Worton Hall if I hadn’t insisted on it, would you?’

  Posie sighed. ‘It’s not your fault at all. I have the feeling I would have been dragged into it somehow or other.’ She looked over at Silvia Hanro, who was sitting at a corner table, all alone and drinking brandy, being stared at from all sides. Posie hadn’t spoken to her since the shoot-out, and she wasn’t planning on talking now. There was something rotten about the girl. Even now, she was profiting from all this misery.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ nodded Posie. ‘I don’t envy that woman there one jot. Not one bit. She can keep her furs and her jewels and her Trust Fund money, if she still gets it. Who knows? I hope to goodness her sister gets the lot; serves her right. Silvia Hanro has nothing I want. Nothing at all. That whole make-believe-world: it makes me sick. Sergeant Binny was worth one hundred of her.’