There were technicians unfurling railway tracks, or what resembled railway tracks, over the cable-strewn floor. Others, so high overhead as to be almost invisible, were fixing wires to poles, and poles to wires, and screwing gigantic and, after they had been switched on, eye-dazzling arc-lights onto both. Because of the ubiquitous dust, and the equally ubiquitous cigarette-smoke caught in the criss-crossing shafts of light – for every single crew member had, in defiance of various No Smoking signs, a wet Woodbine wedged between his teeth – the air was literally tangible.
In fact, when the novelist sought to communicate her first impression of the cinema world, even she was required to raise her voice’s already elevated decibel level.
‘You know,’ she thundered, ‘what all this reminds me of?’
‘No, what?’ the Chief-Inspector shouted back at her.
‘A ship!’
‘A what?’
‘A ship! A nineteenth-century schooner. Look for yourself. Look at all those decks and sails and masts and rigging. I tell you, it’s exactly like a ship that’s just about to quit the dockside.’
‘Why, you’re right at that. Yes, I see exactly what you mean. And you and I are like a couple of well-wishers on the quay waving goodbye to the passengers.’
‘For Cora’s sake,’ said Evadne Mount, ‘let’s hope it isn’t the Mary Celeste. Speaking of Cora,’ she added, ‘I wonder how we ought to go about finding her.’
She didn’t have long to wonder. Holding a clipboard in her hand and a script rolled up into a narrow cylinder under her arm, owlish horn-rimmed spectacles propped up on her forehead like a spare pair of eyes, an oddly elfin young woman at once swept up to them.
‘Excuse me,’ she said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, ‘but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave at once. No outsiders are permitted on the set while filming is underway.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Evadne Mount, inspecting her with interest, ‘but, primo, we aren’t precisely outsiders and, secundo, as far as I can make out, no filming is underway yet.’
‘Why, of course it is,’ answered the young woman. ‘Don’t be misled by the fact that the camera isn’t turning and the actors aren’t acting. That’s merely the tip of the iceberg. This is what making a film is all about – preparation. Though why I should be wasting my time explaining the ins-and-outs of the business to you I really don’t know.’
Lowering her spectacles down onto her eyes, she gazed inquisitively at them.
‘Just who are you, anyway? How did you get into the studio?’
‘Well, you see, we’re both friends –’ Trubshawe began.
‘You aren’t extras on the Agatha Christie picture which René Clair is shooting on Stage 5, are you? What’s it called again? Ten Little Whatnots?’
The novelist almost blew a fuse.
‘Extras on the …?!’ she bridled, incapable of pronouncing the name of the rival in whose shadow it would seem she was eternally condemned to languish. ‘Certainly not!’ she cried. ‘Why, the very idea!’
‘Then will you please leave at once. I don’t want to have to call security.’
‘This,’ declared the novelist, drawing up the battle lines, ‘is Chief-Inspector Trubshawe of Scotland Yard and I, my dear, I am Evadne Mount.’
A soupçon of interest ruffled the young woman’s creepy poise.
‘Evadne Mount? The Evadne Mount?’
‘The same – currently President of the Detection Club and oldest friend of Cora Rutherford, one of the stars of your picture, who, I might add, invited both of us down here today and is, at this moment, no doubt wondering where the Hell we’ve got to.’
The young woman hastily consulted her clipboard.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she finally replied, giving her scalp a vigorous poke with the sharp end of her pencil. ‘Forgive me, we were advised to expect you. It’s just that, as you can see, everything is so frantic at the moment and I’ve had so many different things to think about. I do apologise. Let me introduce myself. Lettice Morley, Rex Hanway’s personal assistant.’
‘Rex Hanway?’ said Trubshawe. ‘He’s the producer of the picture, right?’
‘Lord, no!’ she fluttered. ‘Please never let him hear you call him that. He’s the director. He took over after Mr Farjeon – well, I’m sure you heard about Mr Farjeon’s untimely demise.’
‘And Cora?’ enquired Evadne Mount. ‘Has she started filming yet?’
At the actress’s name, what had never been more than a polite and perfunctory smile was altogether wiped off Lettice Morley’s face.
‘Miss Rutherford? Ah well, she is, I suppose, a great artist but I’m afraid, like not a few great artists, she – now how shall I express this? – she can sometimes be a touch inconsiderate of her colleagues’ needs. The picture business is, you must know, a collective activity and some of our leading stars, our leading ladies in particular, unfortunately lack what might be called the collective spirit. Films are like trains. If they run at all, they have to run on schedule.’
‘You mean,’ said Evadne Mount, ‘she’s late.’
‘If you’re talking about this morning, forty minutes late. It really is most trying for Mr Hanway. Especially as Miss Rutherford’s role is by no means crucial.’
The novelist laughed.
‘Cora, I’m afraid, is one of those people who are always unpunctual and yet who always have an excuse, a different one for every occasion.’
‘Yes, well, that’s all very charming, I dare say, but on a film set unpunctuality is the cardinal sin, one that’s forgiven – and then very grudgingly – only if it’s been committed by a major star, a Margaret Lockwood, you know, or a Linden Travers. Whereas Cora Rutherford …’
She left the remainder of her comment unaired, not just because she had perhaps realised she was at risk of overstepping the bounds of professional propriety but also because, at that very moment, wearing a trim little cocktail dress, black with mauve linings, and brandishing her inevitable cigarette-holder, the actress herself finally wafted into view.
Evadne and Trubshawe watched from a distance as Cora approached someone seated on a folding canvas chair on whose back was printed, as they now noticed, the words Mr Hanway. As with the male character in the opening scene of the film itself, however, such as it had been recounted to them by Cora, no more than his own back, along with a mere pinch of his profile, was visible to them; and it was only when he turned his head to hear what the actress’s excuse might be for holding up the proceedings that they were granted a more complete view of his facial features. His age, difficult to judge, could have been anywhere between thirty and forty. His face was somehow both intense and expressionless, with eyes of an unnervingly glassy inscrutability. He was wearing, of all improbable items of attire, a labourer’s boiler-suit, but a boiler-suit so flawlessly fashioned that his elegant silk tie seemed not at all a mismatch. And on his lap sat an exquisitely bony Siamese cat, washing its face with those nervy little paw-flicks that are irresistibly reminiscent of the hapless flailings of a punch-drunk prizefighter.
‘Rex darling!’ cried the actress. ‘I know, I know, late again. But I swear to you, it wasn’t my fault. When I’m late, it’s always for my art, and surely any artist, especially the kind of perfectionist I am, may be forgiven for that.’
After a brief silence, while starting to caress the cat with such vigour he risked wearing it out, Hanway replied, ‘My dear Cora, what I want from you isn’t perfectionism but perfection. What was the problem this time?’