And So To Murder (4 page)

‘Yes.’

‘I doubt it. Look! Three weeks ago you started making
Spies at Sea
. You lined up Frances Fleur and Dick Conyers for the leads. You had a first-rate script, and Howard Fisk to direct. A week after they had started shooting, you decided that the script was all wrong and would have to be changed.’

‘Are you going to open that door?’

‘No. What did you do then? Get somebody here to change it? No. You sent all the way to Hollywood … I repeat: to Hollywood … and, at an expense which makes my Scotch soul shrivel, you hired the highest-paid scenario-writer in the business to come over here. The expert hasn’t arrived yet. It will be days before the expert can arrive. In the meantime, what do you do? I’ll tell you. You go blithely on shooting
Spies at Sea
from the original script, every foot of which will have to be scrapped when the “expert” gets here.’

Cartwright drew a deep breath. His (leprous-red) beard was bristling.

He extended quivering hands.

‘Tom, if I didn’t know you so well, I should think you were trying to wreck your own business. But the real trouble is that you’re script-mad. Look at the present situation. Look at Miss Um-Um and me. Just put a cold compress round your head and look at it!’

Mr Hackett’s swarthy face darkened.

‘I’ve tried to be patient with you, Bill. Will you stop this foolishness and get out of my way?’

‘No.’

‘You realize, don’t you, that you’ll never get another job here?’

‘Another job here,’ breathed Cartwright. Two powerfully gloomy eyes were bent down on the producer. ‘And the man holds
that
over my head as a threat! In the future, anyone who even mentions films to me will be assaulted. I have had enough! Another job? I would rather drink a pint of castor oil neat. I would rather be compelled to re-read
Desire
. But surely there must be someone who can see reason in this thing. I appeal to you, Miss Um-Um. Don’t you agree with me?’

Strictly speaking, Miss Um-Um did. But this was not a time to stick to the niceties of logic.

‘You are appealing to me, Mr Cartwright?’

‘I am. Abjectly.’

‘You want my honest opinion?’

‘If you please.’

‘Well, in that case,’ said Monica, puckering up her forehead, ‘it all depends on how you look at it. I mean, are you a producer of ten years’ experience, or aren’t you? Of course, if you’re so swollen with conceit that you think nobody knows anything except yourself; if every time anyone makes a suggestion to you you fly into a sulk and want to go out in the garden and eat worms … well, it’s not much good arguing, is it?’

Cartwright stared at her long and hard. Then he did a little dance in front of the door.

Mr Hackett threw back his head and laughed.

‘Now, now, we’ll forget all about it!’ he soothed, clapping Cartwright on the shoulder. ‘I know you don’t mean anything by it, old man.’

‘I’m sure he doesn’t, Mr Hackett.’

‘No. Bill tears up his contract about once a week; but he always comes round.’

‘I’m sure he does.’

‘Well, I’ve got to run along now. There’s some trouble on the set. It seems there was a mix-up of some sort, and somebody nearly got killed. We can’t have that. Bill, I leave Miss Stanton in your charge. Probably she’d like to look over the place. You might show her round, and then bring her over to stage three.’

‘But Mr Hackett!’ cried Monica, suddenly filled with alarm. ‘Wait! Please! Just a minute!’

‘Delighted to have seen you, Miss Stanton,’ the producer assured her, shaking hands with her and then pushing her back into her chair. ‘I hope we’ll have a long and pleasant association. If there’s anything you want to know, ask Bill. I know you’ll both have a lot to talk about. Be seeing you, Bill. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.’

The door closed behind him.

3

For a full minute after he had gone, neither of them spoke. Then William Cartwright cleared his throat.

‘Madam, don’t say it.’

‘Don’t say what?’

‘Don’t say,’ explained Cartwright, ‘whatever it was that you were about to say. Something tells me that almost any topic of conversation introduced between us is likely to prove of a controversial nature. But there’s one thing I should rather like to know. Do you honestly want me to show you round the place?’

‘If it would not be troubling you too much, Mr Cartwright.’

‘Good! Then may I ask one further question?’

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘Well,’ said Cartwright, more confidentially, ‘do you really see black beetles crawling up my collar? Have you observed any latent signs of leprosy which a close medical examination would reveal? I do not ask out of idle curiosity. I ask because I am getting nervous. Ever since I came in here, you have been sitting and looking at me with an expression: I don’t know how to describe it: a sort of concentrated sick loathing, which (to be frank about it, madam) is getting me down.’

‘How interesting.’

‘All right; isn’t it true?’

‘You must excuse me,’ said Monica, arranging her skirt over her exceedingly shapely legs with a disdain that would have done credit to Eve D’Aubray herself. ‘I don’t care to discuss the subject any further.’

‘Yes, but I do. Hang it all!’ shouted Cartwright, vol-planing down into honest speech. ‘Why can’t you be reasonable? I’ve apologized, haven’t I? What else can I do? – Not that I take back any of my opinions, mind!’

Monica began to shiver.

‘Really?’ she said. ‘How extremely kind of you. How terribly,
terribly
generous of you.’

‘Yes. And I can quite understand how you feel. I can make every allowance for your wounded vanity –’

Monica, merely stupefied, sat back in her chair and stared at him. But she could not see him. She saw only a dim outline through a floating, luminous mist of hatred which had accumulated in her brain like smoke out of a genie-bottle. Completely unknown to herself, her skirt slipped up over her knees. She did not observe Cartwright’s expression of gloomy, cynical satisfaction, which was nevertheless mixed with angry surprise.

‘Every allowance,’ he repeated, holding up his hand pontifically, ‘for your wounded vanity. But (don’t you see?) there’s got to be such a thing as an artistic conscience.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes. I am sorry to say it, but your novel is eye-wash. It is the product of an immature mind exclusively concerned with one subject. Such people as your Eve D’Aubray and your Captain Whoozis do not exist and never could exist.’

Monica sprang up.

‘And I suppose,’ she blazed at him, ‘your silly little murders could exist?’

‘My dear young lady, let us not argue about that. Such things are based on scientific principles, and are altogether different.’

‘They are nasty, footling little tricks that would never work in a thousand years. And they’re so badly written that they make me sick.’

‘My dear young lady,’ said Cartwright, in a gentle and world-weary tone, ‘aren’t we merely being childish now?’

Monica got a grip on herself. She was Eve D’Aubray again.

‘I dare say we are. Please, before I say something I shall regret, will you be good enough to take me wherever it is you’re going to take me? That is, if you really meant it?’

‘Are you going to tell me,’ said Cartwright stubbornly, ‘why you hate my guts?’

‘Really, Mr Cartwright!’

‘Oh, come off it.’

‘You dare!’

‘But you do hate ’em, don’t you?’ he demanded, thrusting out the red beard.

‘Dear, dear,’ murmured Monica. ‘Don’t you flatter yourself, rather? I really hadn’t given it much consideration. If you ask me whether I feel a mild dislike of you and your manners and your bea – I mean, of everything about you, why, I’m afraid I must say Yes.’

‘Well, I don’t dislike you.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said, I don’t dislike you,’ roared Cartwright.

‘How interesting,’ said Monica.

It was unfortunate that she detested him so much. Before an hour had elapsed, in the evil forces that were gathering round Pineham Studios, she had to thank him for saving her life from the first attempt of a murderer.

1

E
VEN
before that hour had elapsed, Monica herself was beginning to regret that she detested him so much. If she had not known better, she might have been deceived into thinking him courteous and considerate. Also, he smoked a curved pipe of the Sherlock Homes variety; an abomination.

‘But why do we have to work down here?’ she wanted to know. ‘Why aren’t we up in that big building with the awnings?’

‘Because,’ said Cartwright, ‘Albion Films isn’t the only outfit here. There are three others: Radiant Pictures and S.A.G. – American companies – and Wonderfilms, who built the studios in the first place. They hire sound-stages and offices, just as we do. These grounds were originally a private estate, and the Old Building was the manor-house, before Dega of Wonderfilms bought it.’ An expression of dreamy and evil glee went over his face. ‘Radiant Pictures are doing a super-colossal spectacle based on the life of the Duke of Wellington. I’ve been talking to Aaronson; and if his version of the Battle of Waterloo doesn’t turn out to be a joy and delight for ever, it won’t be my fault.’

‘Oh? I suppose that’s your idea of being funny?’

Cartwright laid hold of his hair and pulled.

‘All right, all right. Sorry! Change the subject, quick!’

But Monica was bristling.

‘And just a wee bit childish, don’t you think? I suppose you’d do the same to Mr Hackett, if he didn’t pay you your salary. After all, what call have you to look down on Mr Hackett?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Yes, that’s obvious, isn’t it? But
he
doesn’t put on any side. When I came out here, I expected to have to interview at least a dozen secretaries, and maybe sit all day in an outer office without seeing him at all. But no. There he was, just as accessible and pleasant and human –’

‘Well, why shouldn’t he be? He’s no ruddy little tin god.’

‘Aren’t you being rather spiteful now?’

‘Listen to me,’ said Cartwright. ‘One thing I should like to make clear. This is not a bad place to work. In English films, you get very little of the Hollywood high hocus-pocus and mysticism. People don’t lock themselves away into secret shrines behind a battery of secretaries. And everybody knows everybody else. From producer to director to star and all the way down, they’re all over the place. They drop in on each other, and hang about, and get in your way. They are mostly a very decent crowd. Some of them, even, are quite intelligent. Only –’

‘What?’

‘You’ll see,’ answered Cartwright, with gloomy relish.

It is doubtful whether she heard him. They had emerged into hot sunlight beside the manor-house, and were walking up a broad, smooth slope of green sward at the curve of the lake.

Parts of this lake had served, on various occasions, as the Thames, the Seine, the Euphrates, the Grand Canal, the Bosphorus, the Atlantic and/or Pacific Ocean. At the moment there was evidently a submarine in it, for Monica could see the grim deck and conning-tower. An inquisitive duck cruised round this, eyeing it. Beyond, where the lake narrowed, it was spanned by a foot-bridge leading to a path into some woods; and there was a large notice-board reading: ‘
NO VISITORS PERMITTED BEYOND THIS BRIDGE
.’ Up the hill to their right – the side permitted to visitors – were the blank backs of the sound-stage, rising above trees. The middle of this parkland was ornamented by the façade of a noble Georgian manor-house, white and pillared, propped up with such skill that it required a second look before you realized it was only a shell. To Monica the sight of it brought a quicker heart-beat, the hot thrill of make-believe.

And it emboldened her to ask a question.

‘Mr Hackett mentioned,’ she began; and stopped breathless.

‘Yes?’

‘He said something about an actress named Frances Fleur. Do you know her?’

‘F.F.? Yes. What about her?’

‘Nothing; I was only asking. What’s she like? Is she nice?’

Cartwright reflected. ‘F.F.? Yes, I suppose so. Quite a good scout.’ He paused, and regarded her narrowly above the sun-gleaming beard; it was a shrewd glance, as though pinning her to the wall. He seemed about to speak, and then changed his mind. He added, casually: ‘You’ve seen her on the screen, I suppose?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘Like her?’

‘She’s very pretty,’ said Monica primly.

Though Monica would have died rather than admit it, the shadow-appearance of Frances Fleur on the screen had been the inspiration for the looks and mannerisms of Eve D’Aubray. There were times when Frances Fleur became Eve D’Aubray; and Monica Stanton, in imagination, became both.

‘What’s she like? Is she married?’

‘Several times, I believe. Her first venture was with Lord Somebody-or-Other, when she was in musical comedy.’

‘Lord Roxbury of Brene,’ said Monica automatically.

‘Something like that. Her second venture, more recent and still in operation, is with Kurt Gagern, or von Gagern.’

Monica stared at him. ‘But I never heard of
him
!’

‘You will,’ the other assured her. ‘Gagern is the rising star hereabouts. He was a director for UFA before the Nazis threw him out of Germany. He’s strict Aryan; one of the old ‘von-und-zu’ aristocrats, I believe; but he didn’t get on well there. He’s now assistant director to Howard Fisk for
Spies at Sea
. In some way he hypnotized the Admiralty into letting him get all the authentic naval stuff, for exteriors, at Portsmouth and even at Scapa Flow.’

There was a curious tone in Cartwright’s voice, which Monica did not notice. In the first place, she was rather annoyed with her idol for getting married without her knowledge. In the second place, they had now come round to the front of the main building.

Inside, where it was cool, she found the atmosphere she had been expecting: the atmosphere of hurry, ultimatums, and slammed doors. The building was a hive of long galleries, with little offices set side by side like ships’ cabins; and most of the activity seemed to consist of opening and shutting doors. People stalked; typewriters ticked; there was a heavy smell of paint. A page-boy emerged from the canteen, eating a chocolate bar. Cartwright went down a long open passage – a sort of glass-enclosed Bridge of Sighs – running through bright gardens to the sound-stages at the far end.