‘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!’
Chapter Ten
The following afternoon, at two o’clock, Calvert was sitting behind Rex Hanway’s massive mahogany desk, its in-box piled high with dog-eared typewritten scripts, its out-box empty. Directly opposite him sat the first of the suspects to be invited to submit to his questioning, Hanway himself. Stiffly flanking the director, to right and left of his own desk, seated on a matching pair of upright chairs of an uncompromisingly metallic and modernistic design, were Evadne Mount and Chief-Inspector Trubshawe. Sergeant Whistler stood discreet guard near the door.
That morning Calvert had given his two unofficial colleagues confirmation that, according to the medical report which he had just received from the lab, Cora Rutherford had indeed been poisoned. The police surgeon had discovered traces, both in the actress’s empty champagne glass and inside her own body, of a widely and legally available type of cyanide, one with numerous industrial applications, notably in printing, photography and electroplating. As he had already intimated, when on the set itself, death would have been extremely painful, but also, thankfully, all but instantaneous. The inquest was to be held three days hence, but neither Evadne nor Trubshawe were required to attend. A purely formal stage in the process, it would very speedily be adjourned by the Coroner.