Vintage Murder

‘Good morning, Mrs Meyer,’ said Hambledon and kissed her fingers with the same light gesture he had so often used on the stage.

‘Good morning, Mr Hambledon.’ They spoke with that unnatural and half-ironical gaiety that actors so often assume when greeting each other outside the theatre.

Carolyn turned back to her mirror.

‘I’m getting very set-looking, Hailey. Older and older.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Don’t you? I expect you do, really. You think to yourself sometimes: “It won’t be long before she is too old for such-and-such a part.”’

‘No. I love you. To me you do not change.’

‘Darling! So sweet! Still, we do grow older.’

‘Then why, why, why not make the most of what’s left? Carol – do you really believe you love me?’

‘You’re going to have another attack. Don’t.’

She got up and put on her hat, giving him a comically apprehensive look from under the brim. ‘Come along now,’ she said.

He shrugged his shoulders and opened the door for her. They went out, moving beautifully, with years of training behind their smallest gestures. It is this unconscious professionalism in the everyday actions of actors that so often seems unreal to outsiders. When they are very young actors, it often is unreal, when they are older it is merely habit. They are indeed ‘always acting’, but not in the sense that their critics suggest.

Carolyn and Hambledon went down in the lift and through the lounge towards the street door. Here they ran into Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, who was also staying at the Middleton.

‘Hullo!’ said Carolyn. ‘Have you been out already? You are an early one.’

‘I’ve been for a tram ride up to the top of those hills. Do you know, the town ends quite suddenly about four miles out, and you are on grassy hills with little bits of bush and the most enchanting view.’

‘It sounds delicious,’ said Carolyn vaguely.

‘No,’ said Alleyn, ‘it’s more exciting than that. How is your husband this morning?’

‘Still very cross, poor sweet. And black and blue, actually, just as he prophesied. It must have been a footballer. Are you coming to the show tonight?’

‘I want to, but, do you know, I can’t get a seat.’

‘Oh, nonsense. Alfie-Pooh will fix you up. Remind me to ask him, Hailey darling.’

‘Right,’ said Hambledon. ‘We ought to get along, Carol.’

‘Work, work, work,’ said Carolyn, suddenly looking tragic. ‘Goodbye, Mr Alleyn. Come round to my dressing-room after the show.’

‘And to mine,’ said Hambledon. ‘I want to know what you think of the piece. So long.’

‘Thank you so much. Goodbye,’ said Alleyn.

‘Nice man,’ said Carolyn when they had gone a little way.

‘Very nice indeed. Carol, you’ve got to listen to me, please. I’ve loved you with shameless constancy for – how long? Five years?’

‘Surely a little longer than that, darling. I fancy it’s six. It was during the run of Scissors to Grind at the Criterion. Don’t you remember—’

‘Very well – six. You say you’re fond of me – love me –’

‘Oughtn’t we to cross over here?’ interrupted Carolyn. ‘Pooh said the theatre was down that street, surely. Oh, do be careful!’ She gave a little scream. Hambledon, exasperated, had grasped her by the elbow and was hurrying her across a busy intersection.

‘I’m coming to your dressing-room as soon as we get there,’ he said angrily, ‘and I’m going to have it out with you.’

‘It would certainly be a better spot than the footpath,’ agreed Carolyn. ‘As my poor Pooh would say, there is a right and wrong kind of publicity.’

‘For God’s sake,’ said Hambledon, between clenched teeth, ‘stop talking to me about your husband.’

V

Before going to the theatre young Courtney Broadhead called in at the Middleton and asked for Mr Gordon Palmer. He was sent up to Mr Palmer’s rooms, where he found that young man still in bed and rather white about the gills. His cousin and mentor, Geoffrey West, sat in an arm-chair by the window, and Mr Francis Liversidge lolled across the end of the bed smoking a cigarette. He, too, had dropped in to see Gordon on his way to rehearsal it seemed.

The cub, as Hambledon had called Gordon Palmer, was seventeen years old, dreadfully sophisticated, and entirely ignorant of everything outside the sphere of his sophistication. He had none of the awkwardness of youth and very little of its vitality, being restless rather than energetic, acquisitive rather than ambitious. He was good-looking in a raffish, tarnished sort of fashion. It was entirely in keeping with his character that he should have attached himself to the Dacres Comedy Company and, more particularly, to Carolyn Dacres herself. That Carolyn paid not the smallest attention to him made little difference. With Liversidge and Valerie he was a great success.

‘Hullo, Court, my boy,’ said Gordon. ‘Treat me gently. I’m a wreck this morning. Met some ghastly people on that train last night. What a night! We played poker till – when was it, Geoffrey?’

‘Until far too late,’ said Weston calmly. ‘You were a young fool.’

‘He thinks he has to talk like that to me,’ explained Gordon. ‘He does it rather well, really. What’s your news, Court?’

‘I’ve come to pay my poker debts,’ said Courtney. He drew out his wallet and took some notes from it. ‘Yours is here too, Frankie.’ He laughed unhappily. ‘Take it while you can.’

‘That’s all fine and handy,’ said Gordon carelessly. ‘I’d forgotten all about it.’

VI

Mr Liversidge poked his head in at the open office door. He did not come on until the second act, and had grown tired of hanging round the wings while Gascoigne thrashed out a scene between Valerie Gaynes, Ackroyd, and Hambledon. Mr Meyer was alone in the office.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Liversidge.

‘’Morning, Mr Liversidge,’ said Meyer, swinging round in his chair and staring owlishly at his first juvenile. ‘Want to see me?’

‘I’ve just heard of your experience on the train last night,’ began Liversidge, ‘and looked in to ask how you were. It’s an outrageous business. I mean to say—!’

‘Quite,’ said Meyer shortly. ‘Thanks very much.’

Liversidge airily advanced a little farther into the room.

‘And poor Val, losing all her money. Quite a chapter of calamities.’

‘It was,’ said Mr Meyer.

‘Quite a decent pub, the Middleton, isn’t it, sir?’