In a shower of pins, the waist of the skirt parted from the bodice and the skirt drifted away. Twinkle righted herself and retreated, momentarily aghast.
'Really!' Cecile Savoy turned gracefully, kicking aside the dangling skirt as though it were a court train; the final pins parted and it sank to the floor. Back straight, head erect as though balancing a tiara; Cecile Savoy swept through the doorway, Lady Bracknell in peach crepe-de-chine Directoire knickers.
'My costume!' Ilse gathered up the folds of material and hurried into the room after her.
Twinkle moved to follow them, but Laurenda held her back. 'Maybe you'd better give them a few minutes, honey,' she said. 'Come out in the kitchen and have a glass of milk, or something.'
'I'm not afraid of them,' Twinkle boasted, but she went with her mother just the same.
Frances glanced downwards to meet a world-weary pair of dark brown eyes. Fleur-de-lis, it appeared, was well accustomed to all the varieties of artistic temperament and had only one main concern: would it affect her promised walk?
'All right,' Frances said. 'I suppose we ought to take you downstairs.'
A small grateful yap answered her.
Farther down the hallway, Morris Moskva hovered in the sitting-room doorway, drawn there by the noise of the fracas outside the master bedroom. As Frances passed him, he raised his eyebrows and semaphored I told you so to her.
Turning back into the script conference, his voice rose in false cheerfulness. 'It's okay,' he announced.
'There's nothing to worry about. They're supposed to hate each other. The script calls for it.'
Perhaps, if he had not talked so frankly to her earlier, Frances would not have noticed the peculiar note in his voice as he added, 'There's no problem. We're off to a flying start.'
CHAPTER VII
Just as Fleur-de-lis was investigating her first lamp post, Mr Herkimer and Julian Favely came along.
They halted and Julian surveyed the scene with growing cheer.
'I see I'm just in time,' he said. 'I missed it. So Aunt Cecile roped you in for the necessary, eh ?'
Fleur-de-lis squatted and the answer became obvious. Frances looked away and wished that she had something respectable, like a pet rock, at the other end of the leash.
'How are things going?' Mr Herkimer rescued her. 'Everything all right, is it?' he asked in a gloomy tone which betrayed that he knew the answer only too well.
'I'm afraid Twinkle and Miss Savoy have crossed swords again,' Frances said. 'I was glad to get away for a while. The atmosphere was becoming rather fraught.'
'Show me somebody that kid doesn't fight with,' Mr Herkimer shrugged.
'You mustn't be too hard on her,' Julian protested. 'Cecile has a neat little armoury of temperamental fireworks when the occasion demands it.'
'Listen.' Mr Herkimer regarded him with a brooding eye. 'At your aunt's age, I figure she's earned the right to sound off a little when she feels like it. But Twinkle -' He shook his head. 'All she's got is, she photographs like a dream - right here and now. Okay, so she can act a little, too. But what's going to happen to her in the future, huh? She's got nothing behind her except a few movies. No stage plays, no
repertory, she's never even done anything on television. She came up fast - but she can go down even faster.'
'Perhaps realizing that is what makes her so difficult.' Frances remembered an abrupt movement in a shadowed doorway immediately after Morris Moskva had voiced much the same opinion. It would take a duller child than Twinkle to be unaware of how perilously the crown of stardom perched on her small head - and of how many people would like to see it slip off and tumble into the gutter.
'Anything that happens to that kid in her future -and I hope it's the worst - she's got it coming.' Mr Herkimer glanced upwards at the suite. Frances had the odd, fleeting impression that he was delaying the moment when he would have to enter the hotel.
Fleur-de-lis finished her errand and scampered over to join them, yelping a welcome to Julian. He bent and patted her absently.
'Nevertheless,' he said, 'everyone does seem to be rather hard on the child.'
'Wait until you've been working with her a while. I'll guarantee you volunteer to lead the lynch mob.
Anyway - ' Mr Herkimer looked at him suspiciously -'your own aunt can't stand her, so why are you defending her? Whose side are you on?'
'It's not a question of sides,' Julian said. 'Justice, perhaps, but not sides. In any case, Cecile isn't in a mood to stand much of anything these days. Perhaps you've heard?'
'Heard?' Mr Herkimer was instantly alert. 'Heard what? She's not sick, is she? I mean, not fatally? She isn't - ' His voice fell to an anguished croak. 'She isn't going to die before she's finished her scenes in the picture?'
'No, no, nothing like that.' Julian's quick reply did nothing to reassure Mr Herkimer, who continued to gaze at him anxiously. 'You mean, you really haven't heard?' For a moment he looked as suspicious as Mr Herkimer.
'I've heard nothing,' Mr Herkimer said firmly. 'Believe me, if I'd had any doubts, I'd never have signed the contract with Savoy. I've had trouble enough in the past - I mean, my nerves aren't what they used to be and all this kind of worry isn't good for me.'
'It's all right,' Julian assured him. 'I believe you. It's just that Cecile has such a fixation about the whole thing that she's infected me. She thinks everyone knows and is talking about it. She believes the whole London theatrical set is laughing at her.'
'Why? Why?' Mr Herkimer sounded momentarily like Fleur-de-lis in one of her more excitable
moments. 'Why should they laugh at her ?'
'Because, you see,' Julian looked embarrassed. 'The Honours List came out for the Queen's Birthday -
and she wasn't on it . . . again.'
'Honours List?' Mr Herkimer stared at him blankly.
'She expected to be made a Dame. Nearly everyone else in her generation is. Either a Dame or a Knight. Oh, I know she has an OBE, but that isn't the same thing at all. I mean it isn't a title, is it?'
'Isn't it?' It was clear that the intricacies of the English Honours system were lost on Mr Herkimer. He remained baffled.
'Actually, it isn't.' Julian rescued him. 'Aunt Cecile was very disappointed and, the thing is, everyone knew it. That's why she suspects they're laughing at her. The whole episode has put her into a very bad humour, I'm afraid. She's ready to take offence at anything.'
'With Twinkle around, there'll be plenty to take offence at,' Mr Herkimer predicted gloomily.
'But can't her mother control - ?' Frances broke off as they both stared at her.
'Laurenda - control ?' Mr Herkimer was incredulous. 'Look, Laurenda tries sometimes - when she's feeling extra strong. But that isn't often. And she's no match for that kid. Besides - ' he shook his head -
'Laurenda's got troubles of her own.'
He turned towards Julian with sudden anxiety, as though silently pleading with him to change to a less painful subject. Julian, puzzled, but receiving the message, tried to oblige.
'Well, come along, old girl.' He stooped and gathered a co-operative Fleur-de-lis into his arms. 'We ought to be getting back upstairs.'
'That's right,' Mr Herkimer seconded eagerly. 'Your aunt will be wondering where you are.'
'Oh!' Julian straightened abruptly. 'Er . . . this is rather awkward. I ... I must make an earnest request of you . . .' Avoiding all eyes, he stared steadfastly into mid-distance. Small beads of perspiration began to form along his otherwise immaculate hairline
'What's the matter?' Mr Herkimer tried, but failed, to meet his eyes, and settled for a brief agonized exchange of glances with Frances. 'What is it now?' 'About my aunt,' Julian Favely said. 'Aunt Cecile,'
he added, just in case there should be any doubt. 'Please don't tell her. You'll get me into the most frightful trouble.'
'Trouble?' Mr Herkimer still could not capture those evasive eyes. 'What trouble? Tell her what?'
'Well . . . you know . . .'
Julian Favely clutched Fleur-de-lis so tightly that she whimpered. 'I didn't mean to tell you ... it slipped out. And then I thought perhaps you wouldn't notice it, but you did. You picked it right up and . . . and she'll be furious. She'll kill me if she thinks people know the truth.'
'Know what?' Mr Herkimer was close to shouting. 'What truth? What? What?'
'That she is my aunt,' Julian Favely confessed desperately. 'That I'm really her nephew. That we aren't .
. . aren't "just good friends" . . .'
'Good friends!' Mr Herkimer fell back a step or two. 'You mean that nice, distinguished, old lady wants everybody to think - ?'
'Actually, she'd prefer it if they did,' Julian defended stubbornly. 'You can understand it, can't you?'
'Yes,' Frances said.
'No,' Mr Herkimer said.
'You see . . .' Still adamantly refusing to look at them, Julian struggled to explain. 'If she can't be a Dame . . .'
'She'll settle for everybody thinking she's a Dirty Old Lady?' Mr Herkimer asked incredulously.
'It's a matter of saving face,' Julian murmured.
'Face!' Mr Herkimer muttered weakly.
'After all,' Frances intervened, 'it would provide a sort of an explanation, wouldn't it?'
'Exactly - ' Julian turned towards her earnestly, almost meeting her eyes in his eagerness. 'If she can convince the Public that the only thing keeping her from a DBE is her private life - '
'I think I've got a headache,' Mr Herkimer announced. 'I always think I've got a little bit of a headache somewhere waiting to close in on me - but now it's pounced.'
'In that case - ' Julian turned away. 'I won't detain you any longer. I'll bring Fleur up to Aun - I mean, up to Cecile . . . And you will keep our little secret, won't you?'
'Of course, we will,' Frances assured him.
'Sure. Sure,' Mr Herkimer said. 'Why not? What's one more private problem along with the ones we've already got?'
'It will keep Cecile Savoy happy,' Julian tossed back over his shoulder as he moved towards the hotel.
'Oh, great!' Mr Herkimer moaned. 'That's all we need. We want to keep Cecile Savoy happy. We want to keep Twinkle happy. We want likewise to keep the director, the designer, the scriptwriter, the grips, the electricians and all the Unions happy. Maybe even, someday, I'll get the chance to be happy.' He shook his head mournfully.
Julian Favely had disappeared into the hotel, moving with a rapidity which betrayed his anxiety to get away from the scene of his indiscretion. Frances smiled weakly, beginning to wish that she had accompanied him.
'I don't understand women,' Mr Herkimer confessed. 'Especially, I don't understand actresses! Of course,' he brightened, 'women don't understand me, either.'
'Perhaps we ought to join the others,' Frances murmured.
'I've had eight wives - ' Mr Herkimer impaled her with his mournful gaze. 'Not counting the ones I married twice. Just like Henry the Eighth. And not one of them ever really understood me.'
'Henry the Eighth only had six wives.' Frances chose the only portion of the confidence she felt she could answer.
'You mean I beat him?' Mr Herkimer seemed cheered by the thought.
'I really think I ought to get back to Twinkle,' Frances said, more firmly.
'You don't have to worry about that kid,' Mr Herkimer said. 'I'd back her against a den of lions. Which reminds me of what I was saying about my ex-wives - '
'Really, Mr Herkimer,' Frances said. 'I ought to - '
'Herkie, please.' Mr Herkimer was pained. 'I thought we agreed you were going to call me Herkie.
Everybody always calls me Herkie. Except for a couple of my wives, who called me - ' He broke off, his memories seemed to have become even more painful. 'But I guess we don't have to go into that.'
'I'm sure we don't.' Frances began edging towards the sanctuary of the hotel lobby. 'But we really must go back -'
'Back to the actresses!' Mr Herkimer sighed heavily, accepting the decision. He allowed her to precede him into the revolving door, then crowded into the same section with her, pushing the door around with what seemed to be a barely-controlled fury.
Perhaps, Frances thought, it reminded him of his marital life.
'If you dislike actresses so,' Frances asked reasonably, 'why did you go into the cinema?'
'I didn't know any better.' Brooding, Mr Herkimer shot them out into the lobby and, taking Frances by the arm, aimed her at the bank of lifts.
'That was what my mother said to me. "Herkie," she said, "don't do this terrible thing. Go into the rag trade like your Uncle Hymie, your Uncle Myron, your Cousin Sid." I shoulda listened to her. But did I listen? Naw!'
He jabbed at the top button and doors slid closed silently behind them and the lift zoomed upwards.
'Naw, I was too wisenheimer. I knew what I wanted. The movies - that was where it was all happening.
So I went into them and I found out. Glamour - hah!'
'It hasn't been that unfortunate, has it?' Frances tried to soothe him before they arrived - there was already enough temperament seething through Twinkle's suite. 'I mean, you've been very successful.
Everyone knows your name. Your productions always make a profit at the box office - '
'They do now, but there was a time in the Sixties - I don't want to think about the Sixties. Let's forget them - but they've left their mark.' Mr Herkimer turned a haggard countenance to her. 'Look at the price I pay. My private life is shot to hell. An ulcer I've got, maybe two. And always, always, I'm surrounded by madmen. And actresses!' He relapsed into brooding.
'Here we are.' Frances moved forward with relief as the lift halted and the doors slid open.
'Here we are . . .' Mr Herkimer echoed on a dying note. His footsteps lagged as he followed her down the corridor.
'Wait a minute - ' He caught her hand as she started to press the doorbell and looked into her eyes earnestly.
'It isn't always going to be like this, you know,' he assured her.
'Like what?' He had only succeeded in making her more nervous.
'All this hysteria - ' He gestured widely with his other hand. 'It will be better - more disciplined - once we get on the floor. You take the weekend off- you've earned it. And Monday, we start shooting. It will be better then.'
'It will?' Frances wondered whether she ought to remind him that he was still holding her hand. 'With all those other children around? Won't that make Twinkle more . . . er . . . temperamental than ever?'
'What other kids?' For an instant he was puzzled, then his face cleared. 'Oh, you're going by the original book? Don't worry. There won't be any other kids around. Twinkle sees to that. It's even in her
contract. She's the only kid on the set.'
'But -'
'Anyhow, we've already shot the scenes with the other kids. While they were on school holidays. By the time we've intercut the close-ups we'll be shooting of Twinkle, and do some re-dubbing, you'll never guess she wasn't surrounded by the other brats in all those scenes. She wants it that way - and it's not only easier, it works out cheaper.'
'Then there aren't going to be dozens of new people to encounter next week?' Frances felt partly relieved, partly cheated at this realization.
'Nope. The Unit's as big as it's going to get - except for the technicians, of course. But you won't have them underfoot. They know their jobs and they'll get on with them. Like I told you, your job is to chaperone Twinkle - not that she needs it, but the English law says she's
got to have a chaperone.'
'Well,' Frances said dubiously, 'I'll do my best.' In the ensuing silent struggle to regain the use of her hand - she was beginning to think she might need a chaperone herself - she managed to stab the doorbell home.
'If you have any problems' - Mr Herkimer squeezed her hand - 'any problems at all, you come straight to Herkie with them, okay? You promise?'
'Okay,' Frances said, distraught. 'I mean, yes. I . . . I promise.'
The door swung open and Twink
le stood there, surveying them both. 'Oh!' Her jaundiced gaze locked on Frances's imprisoned hand. 'He's at it again, is he?'
'I'll kill that kid!' Mr Herkimer muttered, dropping Frances's hand abruptly as they moved forward into the suite. 'So help me, someday I'm going to do the world a favour and murder that brat!'
CHAPTER VIII
'Drink your milk, Twinkle,' Laurenda whined. 'Please drink your nice milk, baby.'
'If it's so nice,' Twinkle said, ' you drink it.'
'Now, don't be like that, honey. You know it's good for you. You've got to drink it.'
'I won't!'
The battle had been raging intermittently throughout the first week of filming and seemed more virulent than usual this morning. The unwilling spectators were, if possible, even more bored than Twinkle with the subject.
Fortunately, the skirmishes only occurred in the breaks between actual filming and, thanks to Mr Herkimer's careful planning, filming had been proceeding steadily. While the cameras were on her, Twinkle was good as gold. It was when the cameras ceased to turn that the dross showed through.
Cecile Savoy had long ago raised eyes heavenwards and retreated behind the Telegraph between shots.
They were ready for shooting again now and the Continuity Girl, who had already developed a harassed look, came forward to compare her check list against Twinkle's actual appearance.
'You had your hat tilted to the left, with a curl escaping from it.' She reached out and made the necessary adjustments.
'I don't like it that way! It looks stupid.' Twinkle tore the hat off, swept her hair off her forehead and rammed the hat back on foursquare.
'Please, Twinkle,' Dick Brouder said patiently. 'If you change everything, we won't be able to match the shots with the shots we've already taken. You know that.'
'They're silly shots, anyway.' Twinkle fidgeted as her mother and the Continuity Girl readjusted her costume. 'And I wasn't wearing my hat that way. It was the way I just had it. If you change it, you'll be wrong.'
'You don't remember, baby,' Laurenda soothed. 'Nobody can ever remember all those tiny details.
Murder, Murder, Little Star Page 4
