'What's the matter?' Twinkle demanded. 'Haven't you ever seen sable before ?'
'Not on anyone under forty,' the photographer mumbled.
'Twinkle, darling - ' Mr Herkimer, too, had heard the exchange and swooped on her. He pressed her to his capacious abdomen, one hand covering her mouth, and patted her head again with his other hand.
'Such a long journey - ' he said to the journalists -'for such a little girl. She's tired, but she's delighted to be here in London and looking forward to making this film with the cream of the English theatre as her co-stars - Ouch!'
'Supporting players,' Twinkle said coldly. Mr Herkimer was nursing his hand, on which a semicircle of sharp indentations was clearly visible.
'I hope he's getting a rabies shot,' the photographer said with concern.
'What do you think of London, Twinkle?' a journalist asked.
'It's a place.' Twinkle shrugged.
'Jet lag!' Mr Herkimer burst in. 'She's only ten years old and she's exhausted. It's been an all-night flight, remember. Later on, we'll call a Press Conference. She'll answer all your questions then.'
The stewardess finished transferring her burdens and looked at Frances curiously. 'You're actually joining this circus?' she asked.
'I've already joined,' Frances said.
The wheelchair swished past on its return journey, a massive shape huddled in it, swathed in a rumpled blanket; the head was tilted forward, face buried in the blanket. Only a patch of curiously grey skin was visible on the back of his head.
'Here!' The sight seemed to inspire Mr Herkimer. 'Over here!' He beckoned frantically to the second wheelchair and attendant.
Silently, Frances and the stewardess watched as Laurenda Tilling sank into the wheelchair, eyes closed, looking paler than ever. Twinkle, the limelight abruptly wrenched away from her, hovered in the background, abruptly looking as unhappy and miserable as any ten-year-old whose mother was on the verge of inexplicable collapse.
Instinctively, Frances moved forward. Mr Herkimer looked up and reached out to grasp her arm. 'Yes.
Here, Fran, here,' he ordered. 'Take Laurenda to the hotel. And look after her. . . . And Twinkle, too,' he added as an afterthought.
Before she could do so, another hand gripped her other arm. She turned back to face the stewardess, who looked not only worried, but faintly guilty.
'Here - ' The stewardess pushed a small vial of capsules at her. 'You'd better take these. You're going to
need them. It's all right,' she added, as she saw the uneasy expression flit across Frances's face. 'They're only tranquillizers.'
'But - ' Frances felt her fingers close over the vial as though it were a straw and she were drowning.
'Who are they for?' She looked from one wheelchair to the other, to Twinkle, even to Mr Herkimer.
'Are you kidding?' The stewardess patted her hand and began to edge away, relief emanating from every fibre of her being. 'They're for you. Who else? Believe me, dearie, you're gonna need them!'
CHAPTER IV
The hotel suite was larger than most flats. Since the others seemed to take this luxury for granted, Frances tried to look as though she too were accustomed to it.
'It looks like a funeral.' Twinkle curled her lips. 'All those lousy flowers.'
'Don't say things like that!' Still slumped in her wheelchair, Laurenda raised her head. 'Don't talk about funerals. It's unlucky.'
'Where do you want these?' A bellboy pushed a trolley laden with luggage through the doorway and came to a halt behind the wheelchair.
'Luck-schmuck!' Twinkle shrugged and turned away. Laurenda fumbled ineffectively with the wheels of the chair, as though she would follow her, then gave up and slumped back in the chair, closing her eyes.
Without a backward glance, Twinkle marched into the sitting-room, leaving the others in the reception hall.
Mr Herkimer had stopped downstairs at the porter's desk on some errand on his own. Two unidentified people, a man and a woman, had come up to the suite -Frances vaguely remembered them from the airport -but seemed to have lost interest in the proceedings at a fairly early stage and had wandered off to explore.
Another wheelchair, bearing the still-unconscious mountain that was Morris Moskva, pulled up behind the luggage trolley. Quite a vehicular traffic jam was developing.
'Where do you want these?' the bellboy repeated.
Frances stepped aside and waved her hand vaguely. She was relieved to see him push the trolley forward and turn down a passageway. It appeared that he had his own ideas about where the luggage ought to go and had only sought token permission. Of course, he knew the layout of the hotel suite better than any of them.
Frances turned to the bellboy piloting the other wheelchair and waved her hand again. He moved off immediately. Obviously he, too, had his own idea of the proper place to deposit Mr Moskva.
That left Laurenda, eyes still closed. Frances walked behind that wheelchair and a quiet investigation revealed a small handbrake at the back. She released the handbrake and pushed the chair forward into the sitting-room. Laurenda did not stir.
Twinkle was slouched in an armchair, a snowdrift of discarded newspapers around her feet. She looked up only to complain. 'There are eight newspapers here and I'm not mentioned in any of them. What's
the matter with these people?'
'You only just got here, baby.' Laurenda opened her eyes with what seemed great effort. 'Wait for the afternoon editions. There were lots of reporters at the airport, remember?'
' And that lousy photographer,' Twinkle said. 'I'll bet he took my bad side.'
'Oh, I don't think so, honey. You were careful to keep it turned away from them - '
"There ought to be advance publicity, too.' Twinkle cut off her mother's placating whine. 'What's Herkie been doing over here all this time?' She discarded another section of tabloid.
'He's been working hard, I'm sure.' Laurenda began to show signs of animation. 'It takes time to set up all the production angles -'
'Uh-huh.' Twinkle hurled the last of the unsatisfactory newspapers to the floor. 'You always stick up for him.'
'It isn't fair to criticize poor Herkie all the time,' her mother protested. 'He's been awfully good to us, darling.'
'The money I make for him, he'd better be! I put that stupid Company of his back on its feet!'
Abruptly, Frances recalled a description she had once read of another child star: 'Thirteen going on forty.' It seemed to be endemic to the profession.
The doorbell and the telephone rang simultaneously. Neither Twinkle nor her mother took any notice.
Frances picked up the phone, said, 'Could you hold on for just a moment, please,' and dashed for the door. Twinkle and her mother seemed to accept this as a proper course of events. It was beginning to dawn on Frances that her job might not be exactly as Mr Herkimer had described it.
She swung open the door and stepped back just in time as Cecile Savoy, OBE, grande dame of stage and cinema swept in, followed by a television leading man who was familiar, but not a 'name'. In fact, Frances could not put a name to him, but recognized that he was probably destined for an appropriate part in the film.
'Where is she?' Cecile Savoy, in full cry, headed unerringly for the sitting-room. 'Where is our dear little co-star?'
The young man drifted in her wake somewhat uncertainly. He appeared less certain of their welcome.
Perhaps he had heard rumours about their dear little co-star. He was carrying a long, tissue-wrapped object and he appeared to be having some doubts about that, as well.
Cecile Savoy halted in the doorway, posing there until she was certain all eyes were upon her, then she swept forward into the room, advancing on Twinkle.
'My dear child - ' she announced. 'My dear, dear child. How sweet you look.'
'We didn't ring for anything,' Twinkle said flatly. 'What are you doing here?'
Cecile Savoy halted in mid-stride, her smile congealing.
'Twinkle, that
isn't very nice,' her mother reproved. 'What she means -' Laurenda turned to Cecile
Savoy -'is, er -'
'I mean, who are you?' Twinkle could deal with the lower orders herself. 'And what are you doing here?'
The young man, already partially hidden behind Cecile Savoy, retreated a few more steps. He appeared to have a nervous disposition.
'Julian!' Cecile Savoy rounded on him. He hadn't moved fast enough - or far enough. 'Julian, tell this ... creature who I am!'
'Oh yes, of course.' He started nervously and came forward half a step. 'Miss, er, Twinkle, this is Cecile Savoy, your co-star. She's playing Miss Minchin.'
'Yeah?' Twinkle turned disbelieving eyes upon him, but at least kept private her opinion of the status of other players in relation to her own. 'And who are you?'
'This is Julian Favely,' Cecile Savoy said. 'One of our most brilliant and talented rising young stars,' she added, perhaps magnanimously, or perhaps to show him the way she considered an introduction ought to be performed. 'He will be playing the dual role of Ram Dass and Mr Carmichael.'
'We're doing it on the cheap again, are we?' Unimpressed, Twinkle continued to regard them both with a basilisk stare. 'So what are you doing here now? Shooting doesn't start until next week.'
From the flash of Cecile Savoy's eyes, shooting would have started immediately, if only she had had the forethought to have brought along a gun. Hostilities had definitely been declared.
'Say - ' The man who had disappeared into the kitchen reappeared in the other doorway, the young woman behind him. 'We've just been investigating the kitchen and it's all equipped - with food, even.
Why don't we - ' He noticed the others and broke off.
'Dick,' Laurenda began, 'this is - '
'You needn't tell me.' He started forward, hand outstretched. 'I would recognize Cecile Savoy anywhere. I've been a fan of hers since - since -' Again he broke off, took her hand and, bowing low, kissed it. 'It will be an honour to work with you.'
Frances noted with interest that, whoever he was, he had obviously been around actresses long enough to realize the indelicacy of being too specific about years.
'How kind of you,' Cecile Savoy purred. 'And I am very pleased to meet you?' She made it both a statement and a question.
'Forgive me,' he said immediately, 'I'm Dick Brouder. I'm directing this picture.'
'At the moment,' Twinkle muttered.
'Please, baby.' Her mother turned agonized eyes towards her. 'You promised.'
'Just don't rock the boat then,' Twinkle said darkly. 'That's all.'
'And this -' Dick Brouder went on smoothly, ignoring the exchange between Twinkle and her mother.
'This is Ilse Carlsson, our costume designer.' He beckoned forward the girl who had been exploring the suite with him.
'Your sketches were enchanting, my dear,' Cecile Savoy said. 'I understand we have costume fittings in the morning. I shall look forward to trying on all those lovely creations. It's been years since I've been in a costume piece.'
'Huh! She probably wore outfits like those the first time round!'
'Please, baby, don't -'
'Er - ' Julian Favely stepped forward, holding out his parcel propitiatingly. 'Perhaps we ought to give her the present we brought - ?'
'Yes!' Cecile Savoy whirled on him and snatched the parcel from his hands. 'For you, my dear.' She bestowed it on Ilse Carlsson.
'Why, thank you.' Pleased, but faintly puzzled, obviously suspecting unknown nuances, Ilse wrestled with a shroud of tissue paper.
'Oh!' She gasped with delight as a large doll dressed as Queen Elizabeth I, complete with crown and sceptre, emerged from the wrappings. 'Oh, it's exquisite !'
'I knew you'd appreciate it,' Cecile Savoy said smugly.
'Thank you! Thank you!' Ilse was investigating the costume. 'Look!' She held it out to Dick Brouder.
'Every detail is authentic. It's fantastic.'
But Dick Brouder was gazing beyond her with an anxious look. Laurenda, too, was watching Twinkle with the uneasy air of someone expecting a major explosion; aware that it was inevitable, powerless to prevent it.
Twinkle sank lower in her chair, ostentatiously picked up one of the newspapers from the floor, and buried herself in its pages. The room was charged with the brooding atmosphere of an impending storm.
'Ah, this is where everybody is!' Mr Herkimer was abruptly in their midst. Frances hadn't been aware of the doorbell but, of course, Mr Herkimer would have his own key.
'You've all met each other? Everybody is friends.' He asked and answered his own question. 'Now, let's have a little party. I ordered the fridge stocked with goodies and-'
'I fear we have a previous engagement,' Cecile Savoy said. 'We merely stopped by to welcome . . .
everyone. Come, Julian.'
She was as brilliant at exits as at entrances. She swept out, followed by Julian Favely who was not nearly so expert at giving the impression of an entire retinue. He looked back over his shoulder, sketched a half-apologetic smile and tripped over the rug, righting himself just in time. The door closed behind them with a firm click that was somehow more disquieting than an outright slam.
'Well,' Mr Herkimer looked uneasily at the others. 'We will have a little party, eh?'
Belatedly, Frances remembered the telephone and returned to it, but the caller had obviously given up long ago. She replaced the receiver thoughtfully.
'I'm afraid I don't feel up to a party, Herkie,' Laurenda said. 'I'd just like to go to bed and catch up on
my sleep.'
'Ilse and I have tickets for a show,' Dick Brouder said quickly. 'It's the last night -' They began moving quietly towards the door.
'Then we - ' Mr Herkimer broke off as Frances avoided his pleading eye. She had been on active duty less than a complete day, but already felt that she needed time to recover.
'I want to sleep, too,' Twinkle declared abruptly, not lowering her paper. 'The rest of you can do what you like - I don't care!'
But she did care. Frances had caught the expression on her face as Cecile Savoy had given the doll -
her doll - to Ilse Carlsson. She had seen the subsequent expression as Ilse had lifted the exquisite creation from its tissue paper nest.
Twinkle had wanted that doll, wanted it desperately. The fact that she had lost it through her own rudeness and bad temper had nothing to do with the matter in her self-centred, immature mind. She felt that she had been balked of what was rightfully hers - and someone was going to pay for it.
Perhaps they were all going to pay.
CHAPTER V
At any rate, the hours were convenient, Frances decided the next morning. When she let herself into the suite at 10.00 a.m. with her duplicate key, there was no sign of anyone having stirred yet.
The complete set of morning newspapers, including the Financial Times, was on the console table in the foyer, beside a small pile of letters. Someone had stirred then, if only the hotel staff.
There was an eerieness about standing in the silent hallway, surrounded by sleeping strangers. Was this the way a burglar felt as he began his task?
Frances turned and went into the sitting-room, almost on tiptoe, although the thickness of the carpet would have absorbed any amount of normal noise. It would take a heavy body hitting the floor to raise a thud from that carpet.
And that was not the sort of thought one needed, alone in strange surroundings.
Really, Frances assured herself, the place could not be safer. It was simply the insulation from the outside world that produced this strange feeling of isolation. But the world was all around them - the sitting-room, restored to impersonality by unseen hands, proved that. Somewhere beyond the silent corridors of the sleeping suite, life went on.
A sharp click elsewhere in the suite startled her. It appeared that life was going on in here, too. She went to investigate.
A further sound, a chinking, as of crockery being displaced, guided her to the kitchen.
'Mr Moskva?' Frances asked, although there was no one else it could possibly have been.
'Yuh?' A face like a crater-shadowed full moon popped into view over the top of the door, the sound of
rattling dishes continued in the depths of the fridge.
'I'm Frances Armitage - she began.
'Oh, yuh. We probably met. Forgive me if I don't remember.' He dived back into the fridge.
'Actually, we didn't meet,' she said. 'You were asleep - '
'I was out cold,' he corrected, in the interest of accuracy. 'It's the only way to fly.'
'You may be right.' Frances watched in fascination as a mound of food began to sprout on top of the refrigerator. Obviously, last night's party had been a complete failure and poor Mr Herkimer had ordered enough supplies to feed several armies. It was a pity that such delicacies never looked quite so good the next day.
'I guess that's all.' Reluctantly, Morris Moskva stepped back from the fridge and closed the door. 'It will have to do.'
'Shall I help you carry it into the dining-room?' Frances asked.
'Naw.' Three cocktail sausages and a lump of cheese disappeared into his mouth. 'If I don't eat something fast, I won't be able to make it to the dining-room.' A handful of miniature vol-au-vents followed the sausages.
'I see.' Frances smiled weakly.
'I'm sorry, I'm forgetting my manners.' He lifted a platter of assorted canapes and thrust it towards her.
'Have something yourself. Please.'
'Well. . .' She realized that her own manners would be lacking if she failed to join him. Worse, such a failure might be misconstrued as criticism. 'Thank you, I will.'
His anxious eyes followed her hovering hand as it passed the small spicy meatballs, the devilled eggs, the rollmop herrings. His sigh of relief was almost audible as she chose a limp cracker spread with cream cheese already showing drought marks after a night in the refrigerator.
Murder, Murder, Little Star Page 2
