‘And you are, I believe, a film critic?’
Françaix made a moue of squirming deprecation.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Calvert, ‘have I got that wrong? I was certainly advised you were a film critic.’
‘Oh, it is not, as you say, the large deal. It is just that I prefer the term théoricien. How you say in English? Theorist?’
‘Ah. Well, I don’t have a problem with that. But what exactly is the distinction you’re making?’
‘The distinction …’
The Frenchman leaned back in his chair in a manner ominously suggestive to anyone who’d already heard him expatiate on the topic.
‘I would say that the distinction between a film theorist – one who writes in the obscure journal, no? – and a film critic – one who writes in the daily newspaper – it is the same as between an astronomer and an astrologer. You comprehend? The first one creates a theory in order to describe the cinematic cosmos. The second concerns himself only with the stars. Avec les vedettes, quoi. I think that you in particular will appreciate, Inspector –’
‘Actually,’ said Calvert hastily, ‘What I’d really like to –’
‘No, no, you please must let me finish. You and I, we are like a pair of peas. And why? Because we both have theories, n’est-ce pas? For what are detectives but the “critics” of crime? And what are critics – true critics, theoretical critics – but the “detectives” of cinema?’
While Trubshawe could be glimpsed mouthing ‘Potty! Absolutely potty!’, Calvert made a new attempt to stem the flow.
‘Interesting … So shall we agree that you’re a purist and be done with it?’
‘A purist, yes, yes, that is the truth, we French theorists are all of us purists. Par exemple. I have a colleague who claims that the cinema, it died – it died, you understand – when it started to talk. Pouf! As simple as that! I have another colleague who is such a purist he will watch only films that were made in the nineteenth-century. For him mil neuf cent, 1900, it is the end of everything. Moi, I specialise in the oeuvre of a single cinéaste, the great, great Alastair Farjeon.’
Relieved that Françaix had done him the favour of at long last coming to the point, Calvert pounced on the name.
‘Alastair Farjeon, yes, precisely. You’re writing a book on his work, I believe?’
‘I am, yes. I study his films for many years. He made many chef-d’oeuvres.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t quite hear that,’ said Trubshawe. ‘He made many what-did-you-say?’
‘Chef-d’oeuvres. Masterpieces. He was a very great director, the greatest of all British directors. You know, we French sometimes say that there is an incompatibilité – what is the expression in your barbaric language? – an incompatibility? – between the word “Britain” and the word “cinema”. But Farjeon, he was the exception. He made films that are the equal – qu’est-ce que je dis? – that are more than the equal, much more than the equal, of any in the world. Beside Farjeon, the others are so much vin ordinaire.’
‘Monsieur Françaix,’ said Calvert, ‘if I may now come to the business at hand.’
‘Ah yes, the death – the murder – of poor Miss Ruzzerford. It is very sad.’
‘It is indeed. You, I believe, were actually on the set when it happened.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Then you must have seen her drink from the poisoned glass?’
‘Yes, I see her.’
‘And collapse on the ground?’
‘That too. It is horrible, horrible!’
‘Now, before it happened, was there anything at all, anything you observed, that struck you as, well, queer – unusual – out-of-the-ordinary? Think hard, please.’
‘Inspector, I have not the need to think. I observe nothing of the kind you say. I am here to watch the shoot. I place myself in a corner and I take the notes.’
‘For your book on Farjeon, no?’ (The French style, Calvert ruefully realised, risked becoming contagious.)
‘Yes. The last chapter is going to be about If Ever They Find Me Dead. It will be a very curious chapter – not at all in the style of the rest of my book …’
As his answer died away rather inconclusively, Evadne seized the opportunity to put one of her own questions.
‘Monsieur Françaix,’ she began, ‘you will remember, I’m sure, that yesterday we lunched together in the commissary.’
‘Mais naturellement. I remember it very well.’
‘It was during lunch, was it not, that you told us about the interviews you’d been conducting with Farjeon for your book?’
‘Yes.’
‘And, above all, about your admiration for his work, an admiration which you’ve just reiterated?’
‘That is so.’
‘But you also told us, practically as an afterthought, that you considered him to be a despicable human being. If I may quote you, “a pig of a man”. Am I right?’
‘Yes, you – you are right,’ he replied, his eyes indecipherable behind his thick dark glasses.
‘Well, my question to you is this. Why? Why was he a pig of a man?’
‘But everybody knows why. It is dans le domaine public. It is public knowledge – his reputation – I repeat, it is a known thing about him.’
‘That’s quite true,’ Evadne continued. ‘Yet I had a feeling, a very distinct feeling, that when you spoke about him, the violence of your condemnation was based not just on public knowledge but on private experience, personal experience.’
Françaix pondered this for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.
‘Qu’est-ce que ça peut me faire enfin?’ His dark glasses looked the novelist directly in the eyes. ‘Yes, Miss Mount, it was based on personal experience. A very unpleasant experience.’
‘Will you share it with us?’
‘Why not? You see, I devote my life to Alastair Farjeon. I study his films, I watch them many, many times, and each time brings new discoveries, new and fascinating details I never notice before, the films are all so rich and strange. Then, at last, I take the courage in my two hands to write to the man himself, here at Elstree, and I propose something completely inédit – how you say? – untried? A book about him, but not a monograph, no, no, a book of interviews. To my surprise, he agrees. I at once catch the boat-train to Victoria and we sit down together, not here but at his splendid villa in Cookham, now alas no more – and he talks and I listen. He talks and he talks while I listen and I take notes. It is extraordinaire, what he says, it is tout-à-fait époustouflant! I am so very happy. I begin to think I will publish the greatest book about the cinema that there has ever been.’
His baldness was glistening with minute beads of sweat.
‘But there is something else. Inside every film critic is a film-maker who cries to get out, you comprehend? And I am no different. I am so impregné with Farjeon’s work I myself start to write a scenario – with his style in my mind. I work on it for many months till I feel it is ready for him to read. Then I send it to him with a nice, timid letter in accompaniment. And I wait. I wait and I wait and I wait. But I hear nothing, nothing at all. I cannot understand. I think maybe I must telephone to ask if he receives it. Then I read in the newspaper that he prepares a new film. Its title is If Ever They Find Me Dead. And I do understand – enfin.’
‘What do you understand?’ asked Evadne Mount quietly.
There was a brief pause. Then: