A Mysterious Affair of Style

Chapter Nine

Inside the studio the atmosphere had dramatically deteriorated.

The impact of Cora Rutherford’s death had been so electrifying that it had struck them all, performers, technicians and extras, as quite legitimate that they would be ordered not to budge so much as a foot from where they had been positioned when the crime was committed. Legitimate, too, that even an excursion to the conveniences had not only to be taken in the company of a uniformed police officer but also to be preceded by a rapid and thorough body-search – presumably to make certain none of them had the bright idea of flushing away some incriminating piece of evidence. In view of the fact, though, that instead of being stabbed, shot or strangled, the actress had been poisoned, a fact that appeared screamingly obvious to everyone present even if it had yet to be forensically confirmed, it was hard to comprehend just what the police imagined they might find concealed about anyone’s person.

But time passes, and nothing happens, or nothing seems to happen, and the most innocent of bystanders start to fret and fidget as even the shock of having witnessed a cold-blooded murder eventually subsides. The victim’s body had already been removed with professional swiftness and discretion, so what was the point of preventing everyone else from going home? It wasn’t doubted for a moment that the film production would be closed down, possibly for good and all, and the minds of many of those marooned inside the studio had begun to concentrate on the question of where and, even more imperatively, when they might expect to land their next engagement.

Some were gloomily forecasting that, of the very few new pictures known to be going into production at Elstree, most of the plum jobs would already have been snapped up, while others were whispering among themselves that, after all – and, yes, they realised that Cora Rutherford was only just dead and her body still warm – but still, it wasn’t showing any disrespect to the poor woman to point out that her role hadn’t been so crucial that she couldn’t easily be replaced. One cynical crew member even ventured to suggest, albeit sotto voce, that, for a picture titled If Ever They Find Me Dead, the murder, on-set, of one of its better-known actresses would at the very least generate the kind of front-page publicity that couldn’t be bought for love nor money.

The reaction, in short, was that of a typical cross-section of fallible humanity when confronted with tragedy, genuine compassion commingling inextricably with naked self-interest.

When Calvert re-entered the studio, however, accompanied by Evadne, Trubshawe and Lettice Morley, everyone wearily stood to attention.

The first thing the young Inspector did was call over the two police officers with whom he had arrived and introduce them to his former superior.

‘Just so as you know, sir. These are a couple of colleagues of mine from Richmond, Sergeant Whistler and Constable Turner.’

As the two officers nodded deferentially, Evadne, with a hint of her natural indomitability, couldn’t resist quipping:

‘Sergeant Whistler? Constable Turner? Heavens! Sounds more like the Tate Gallery than the C.I.D.’

‘Yes, Miss,’ answered a poker-faced Calvert, ‘I believe they’ve heard that one before.’

‘Sorry. Just trying to cheer myself up.’

‘I do understand.’ He turned to the Sergeant. ‘Whistler, what have you got to report?’

‘Well, sir, the body has already been removed. And Dr Beckwith left with it. He said he’d be in touch with you when he had something definite to be in touch about.’

‘Fine, fine.’ Calvert glanced over at the waiting cast and crew. ‘Nobody getting too restless, I trust?’

‘They’re mostly all right,’ the Sergeant went on. ‘Three or four of them, maybe, growing a bit impatient. Wondering how long they’re going to be held here. And the – the producer of the picture, I think he said he was – he’s turned up. In quite an agitated state, he is. That’s him, standing next to the camera,’ he said, pointing to a plump gentleman in his fifties who was in deep consultation with Rex Hanway.

‘Very well. I’ll have a few words with him first. Ask him to join us, will you.’

Almost immediately the producer appeared before them. He had a set of floridly jowly features, patently not of native English origin, and wore a double-breasted Savile Row suit in flamboyant grey pin-stripes from whose breast-pocket he would repeatedly pull a handkerchief, perfumed and polka-dotted, to mop his brow with. If he had been wearing a hat – a Panama by choice – you felt sure he would never stop fanning himself with it.

Calvert held out his hand to him.

‘Inspector Calvert, sir. Richmond C.I.D. I’ll be the investigating officer on the case. You are, I believe, the producer of the picture that was being made here?’

‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’

He nervously shook Calvert’s hand.

‘Levey’s the name, Benjamin Levey. And what a terrible thing to happen. So soon after … Just terrible! Mein Gott, what have I ever done to deserve this?’

‘Benjamin Levey?’ said Trubshawe. ‘Why, of course, I remember now. You arrived in this country in – in ’37, wasn’t it?’

‘That is so.’

‘There was almost a minor diplomatic incident, as I recall. Even the Yard had to get involved. You left Germany in quite a hurry, didn’t you?’

‘Ja, ja,’ said Levey, suddenly wary. ‘I was late for the train.’

The Chief-Inspector suppressed a smile.

‘No, no, sir, you don’t follow. I – well, what I meant was that you had to flee the country because of the persecution you were suffering.’

Levey yanked his handkerchief out and mopped his brow.

‘Ach! The persecution, yes! Those German critics!’

‘No, sorry, I meant –’ Trubshawe began all over again, then finally decided to let it go.

Evadne Mount meanwhile asked:

‘Mr Levey, didn’t you produce The Miracle?’

‘No, I produced the disaster.’

‘The disaster? What disaster?’

‘My production of Goethe’s Faust. In Berlin. You have heard of it, no?’

‘Well, apologies, but I’m afraid I haven’t.’

‘It had a really wonderful twist. A Jewish Faust. The Devil buys Faust’s soul – what is the English word? – wholesale? But, my dears, what a disaster! The Nazis hated it. The Jews hated it. My mother hated it. Everybody hated it. When the curtain came down, it was so quiet you could hear a pin get up and walk out of the theatre.

‘And now this. First my director is burnt to a crisp. Then one of my players is murdered, poisoned right in front of the whole crew. You know, my dear Inspector, I am not a superstitious man, but I start to believe this picture of mine is verdammt. But why? Why? For what am I being punished?’

‘Well, sir,’ Calvert assured the producer, ‘I’m going to do everything I possibly can to get to the bottom of it all. And I can tell you, I already have a few interesting leads. But, first, I wonder if you could be of assistance to me.’

‘Anything, anything, my dear.’

‘I’m going to let your people go home now. Before they leave, of course, the constable will take down their names, addresses and telephone numbers – those of them who are on the ’phone. I’m well aware you’ll have all these particulars on file, but there were so many people milling about on the set we have to be certain there was no one here who shouldn’t have been – and, conversely, no one who should have been but, for whatever reason, cannot be accounted for. You understand what I’m saying, sir?’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Levey. ‘You must take all the precautions.’

‘That’s right. However, there happen to be five of them I should like to question within the next twenty-four hours, if I may. While the details of the event are fresh in their minds. I trust you have no objection?’

‘Objection?’ Levey weighed the word. ‘Have I the right to object?’

Calvert smiled a noncommittal little smile.

‘Well, no, you haven’t. I suppose I was trying to be polite. But, above all, what I wanted to let you know was that among those I intend to interview are your two stars, Gareth Knight and Leolia Drake. And who else? Oh yes, the director, Rex Hanway. I felt you ought to be forewarned.’

Levey once more mopped his brow.

‘Oy! Please go gently, Inspector. If this picture is to have a future, I would not like for my actors to be bullied.’

A hideous thought crossed his mind.

‘You are not thinking of arresting one of them, are you?’

‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Tom Calvert replied. ‘As I say, it’s merely a preliminary interro-’ – he hastily amended the word – ‘merely a prelimary chat to establish what occurred and how it occurred. Just a formality.’

Levey dolorously shook his head.

‘Just a formality, eh? How we Germans came to fear that phrase. Ah, but this is England, is it not, where such methods are unknown. Yes, Inspector, go ahead. Proceed with your interrogation,’ he concluded, without appearing to place any ironic emphasis on the last word.

‘Thank you, Mr Levey. And now I’d like to ask one very last favour of you.’

‘Please?’

‘I intend to summon – shall we say the interviewees? – for tomorrow afternoon. You understand, I’d prefer the questioning to take place before the inquest, which they’ll all be expected to attend. I’d also prefer it to take place here, at Elstree. Less intimidating for them than at the Yard and, for all kinds of procedural reasons, I myself have got to come back down here anyway. But I shall need a room, a quiet room. An unused office, perhaps? Somewhere out-of-the-way where I can sit down and chat with them without being interrupted. Could you yourself suggest something suitable?’

‘Of course,’ Levey said unhesitantly. ‘You must take Rex Hanway’s office.’

‘I was thinking of a more –’

‘Nonsense. It’s comfortable, he won’t be needing it now, alas, and I will make certain you are not disturbed.’

‘And you yourself …?’

‘Ach, I must go up to London. Wardour Street. I have a meeting, you know, an important meeting with my backers.’ He suggestively rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘To find out if we can still save this verdammte picture!’