W Howard Baker - The Girl In Asses' Milk

THE GIRL IN ASSES’ MILK

W. Howard Baker

A FIVE STAR PAPERBACK Published in 1972 by PBS Limited, Victoria Mills, Pollard Street, Manchester M4 7AU Copyright © 1967 Press Editorial Services

CHAPTER ONE

Hardly ever does the lion lie down with the lamb. The time will come, we are promised by the unilateral disarmers, when this happy state will be universal. But that time is not yet. Nor, strictly speaking, was this particular lion – which was no metaphorical beast but a real, maned, toothed, mean-eyed specimen of panthera Leo – lying down with the lamb. But it was walking behind it with a slow-stepping, amicable gait which boded no evil intent. More remarkably, at the side of the King of Beasts strode his consort, following with equal amiability a small ewe lamb. Following the lions walked a pair of large, gaily coloured Equatorial lizards, moving a little rapidly because of the relative shortness of their legs. And after them came a brace of lorises, members of a species of Indo-Chinese lemur, who were followed in turn by a pair of lynxes, containing their natural impetuosity with some diffculty. And after the lynxes… The razor-witted reader will have appreciated already that here was a case of alphabetical 4

progression, according to the Book of Genesis. He will have noted also that the animals were moving in pairs, each according to his kind. Therefore it will not surprise him to learn that a pair of aardvaarks, those improbable South African edentata, led the parade. Nor would it surprise him to learn that the head of the same parade of “A” animals – aardvaarks to agoutis – was now moving upward from a scene of dense jungle along a sloping plank towards a vast, uncouth boat, vessel… or Ark. Nor would he, frankly, be at all surprised to learn that it was raining… heavily. “The Deluge,” murmurs the razor-witted reader. “Noah’s Ark and the Flood.” And he is right. Or very nearly. For suddenly out of the jungle there erupts a small, stout, frenzied figure in a checked shirt, suede boots and corduroy slacks. “That’s enough of that damn rain,” shouts the plump figure. And unless we have all been greatly misled, this remark was not Divine. Still, obediently, the rain stops. * Sir Isidore Pugh, the famous film producer, had been born under quite another name and in a very different station in a small, superstition-ridden 5

village in mittel-Europe. His worst nightmare was still to find himself back in that village, a nightmare even worse than waking up one morning to be told he had created for the cinema an artistic success – which, as everyone knows, is box-office poison. Sir Isidore Pugh had emigrated to the United States, dived into the nascent Hollywood film industry and come up with a goodly segment of it clasped between his short, gold-filled teeth. Then he had moved to England and done much the same for the British film industry. Naturally he had gained a knighthood in the process as well as the more concrete expressions of overweening wealth – country houses, Mayfair flats, yachts, mistresses, oil-paintings, water-colours, and the second-best collection of matchbox labels in the world. Sir Isidore had gained a good many enemies also. But enemies are the status symbol of the successful man. “Way back,” he used to say, “I had fleas. Now I have enemies. So I can still scratch.” But if he had enemies, Sir Isidore also had friends – not just the sort of friends that wealth and power attract. For inside – and that was digging pretty deep – he was a likeable man, a little shy, a little diffident, and very generous. And, oddly enough, he had a great artistic integrity in his own way. Admittedly, this was noone else’s way. 6

Now Sir Isidore was roaring at the Effects Supervisor of Sunbury Studios, who had provided the teeming rain. “You want we should have a hundred sick animals on our hands? Them South African aard-whatsits, they don’t get no rain at home. And how much rain does a camel wade through? You can cut out that rain and let them walk up to the Ark nice and dry. When the walruses arrive, them you can rain on till you bust.” The Effects Supervisor was a willowy youth called Fred Fosdick. He was trying to grow a beard and he pulled at the sparse hairs in an effort to control his feelings and avert the loss of an excellent and well-paid job. “Right, I.P.,” he called. “No more rain it is…” To a passing lights man, Fosdick rolled up his eyes and murmured: “We’ve got to simulate the Flood – but without rain. Now I’ve heard everything.” Sir Isidore Pugh retreated into the shrubbery again to let the run-through continue. Next time they would be shooting, with luck. Sir Isidore was a great one for long rehearsal and shooting a scene first time; one of the secrets of his success. But the brown bears (“B” for bear) had hardly started up the Ark’s gangway before he gave another long wail. “The Queen of Sheba… Where’s the Queen of Sheba?”

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Professor Hollingsworth, Sunbury Studios’ technical adviser for the film (himself the authority on the period) turned a worried frown on his master. “Er… Sir Isidore,” he drawled. “I… er… you know the Queen of Sheba shouldn’t be in this film at all. The… er… period’s quite wrong. She – ah – came quite a long time after Noah.” “And who’s going to have the bath in asses’ milk if there’s no Queen of Sheba?” snorted Sir Isidore with unassailable logic. “Also, I said I’m called I.P. on the set. No time for Sir Isidore here. So bring on the Queen of Sheba.” “But the period…” “Listen, Professor,” said Sir Isidore kindly. “I hire you to keep me straight on the historical facts, right?” “That is… the case,” Professor Hollingsworth admitted, regretting the far-off culture of Oxford. “Speaking straight, can you tell me there was definitely no Queen of Sheba at the time of the Flood?” “Well, er… no. But she wouldn’t be quite the same one as is mentioned in the Bible. That is, if there was one,” said the Professor. “Am I saying she’s the same one?” demanded Sir Isidore. “All I’m saying is that she’s a Queen of Sheba. Listen, son, in my films there has got to be a Queen of Sheba. There always has and there always will be. And she’ll have a bath in asses’ milk. She always does. It’s my trademark.” 8

He raised his voice. “Where’s that Queen of Sheba?” His voice echoed through the barn that was the Number One Studio at Sunbury, the biggest, best-equipped film studio on the hither side of the Atlantic Ocean. It bounced amongst the girders and was reflected down among the waiting camera crews and the shivering film extras who had been called in for a re-take of the great drowning sequence when mankind – except for Noah’s family and the Queen of Sheba – perished miserably in the rising tide of the Flood. Film extras in Sir Isidore’s pictures suffered for their art. Studios like Number One were far too big to heat. And if the water had been heated it would have steamed to the detriment of the cameras. So they shivered in their wet and diaphanous wrappings. Sir Isidore had always favoured the Biblical scene for his films because costuming was so economical. A few miles of war surplus gauze and there you were. The Queen of Sheba did not appear, despite the bellow. But there came to Sir Isidore an uneasy-looking property man, Tim Merriwether by name. “Uh, I.P.,” he said. “Uh, could I have a word? For a moment.”

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“Sure, Tim, sure. You know me… But keep it short. We’ve a fillum to make.” He beamed democratically. “What’s eating you, boy?” “It’s about Noah’s Ark.” “So what about the Ark?” Tim looked even more uneasy. “She’s sinking, I.P.,” he said. “She’s sinking fast.” Which was not the sort of thing that happened to the original Noah. * The reason the Queen of Sheba had not appeared was that her Majesty was throwing a fit of temperament. The Queen of Sheba was Felicia Fraser, a publicity name for Carol Milligan, of Belfast, Sir Isidore’s own bright-eyed discovery. Carol was a singularly beautiful creature. Itemised, from the neck up she had a mass of soft flowing blonde hair of a particularly lustrous shade. She had very large, bright grey eyes (though she was now wearing blue contact lenses) a short straight nose and an upper lip that, while being perfectly formed, never quite succeeded in covering her teeth. This gave her an urgent, hungry, let’s-get-cracking, sexy look. Also she walked like an angel and when she set her mind to it, she could remember whole sentences of dialogue at a time. 10

Sir Isidore had found her serving behind a counter in a West End Corner House, where he seemed to find most of his female stars unless there was actually some acting to be done. This was Carol’s first film and her temperament came from her first sight of her scanty costume. “I couldn’t wear the likes of yon!” she cried. “And what with folks looking!” “Try to think of them as doctors, dear,” advised her dresser. “They don’t think anything of it.” “Doctors! I wouldn’t let me doctor see me in yon,” Carol shouted. “It’s an outrage to decency… And then filming me too. What would they think of me at home in Belfast? I’d be nothing but a by-word all over town.” Scantier garments have been seen on the screen – for Sir Isidore was never a one to risk losing the family trade – but the Queen of Sheba’s were exiguous enough it must be stated in fairness to Carol, who was not really a prude. The old Orange cry of “No Surrender!” had had little meaning for Carol Milligan since the age of sixteen. But people wear less on the beaches of southern England without exciting comment. The trouble is that the Irish have a curious outlook about “that sort of thing”. Curious, that is, in the context of the present time. Carol’s Presbyterian conscience was outraged. “I’m not wearing it,” she said flatly. “And that’s that.”

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The dresser was Mrs. Freda Hudd and she had had experience of this sort of temperament before. Sir Isidore did so love to make new stars. Mrs. Hudd wheedled and coaxed and flattered and at last Carol found herself trying on the costume in front of the long mirror. “Just to see how I’d look, mind, for I’m never going out there in front of a lot of men like this!” “My, but you look beautiful,” breathed the dresser as she set the diadem on the Queen of Sheba’s head. “Oh, if I had something like that to show there’s nothing would hold me back. I’d think I was being sort of mean if I did. It would be like refusing someone a lift in your car or turning away a beggar from the door.” Mrs. Hudd had struck the right note at last. An appeal to generosity and an assumption of generosity is irrestible to the Irish heart. Also, Carol had the evidence of her own eyes that she was indeed something sensational to look at. “And here!” cried Mrs. Hudd, with an air of inspiration as she gummed a paste bauble into the new star’s navel. “There. That fairly sets you off. More refined I always say…” Ungumming the jewel was going to be painful Carol had already learned. It seemed a shame to suffer for nothing. Therefore… “I’ll do it,” she said with the air of a Christian martyr. “But please God me Ma will never see the picture.” 12

* Carol Milligan’s was not the only Thespian temperament having a workout at that moment. In a luxury hotel, a little patch of her native America transplanted to Mayfair, Miss Velda Power, demure blonde star of a hundred films, was acting her favourite role. Herself. She was kicking the softer parts of the furniture and screaming: “He’s a lousy nogoodnik, a treacherous bum. He’s trying to kill me dead in Hollywood, the dirty rat fink.” Her husband of two weeks, Tor Granite, who was the imaginary bedmate of a million women every night, asked plaintively: “Do you always talk about your ex-husbands like this, Velda?” “You can shaddap too,” she yelled at him. “It’s as much your fault as anybody’s. You’re all against me, all of you. Men!” She flung herself on a couch and went into the weeping scene that had been so popular in “Son of Napoleon”. All was not well with Velda the Great, as her favourite newspaper had once called her. It was true that the film she and Tor had just completed, at Cinecitta in Rome, had had wonderful publicity, but a lot of that had come from their highly controversial marriage a fortnight before, immediately after their 13

respective spouses had divorced them in Mexico and Las Vegas. But Velda’s “ex”, the rather too handsome Roger Ripley, seemed to have been upset by her prompt re-marriage. At least, she blamed him for the collapse of negotiations which had been going on for a film to star both her and Tor. The bad news had just been telephoned from Hollywood by her long-suffering agent. The deal had fallen through. And at that moment he had no other definite parts lined up for her. He had been so sure of this one that he hadn’t bothered arranging any immediate alternatives. Velda raised her head from the cushions and said tearfully: “If you hadn’t broken Roger’s nose in the Paradise Club that time he wouldn’t be so vindictive now. He wants to ruin us both.” Tor Granite helped himself to another drink. He was a husky, temporarily-bearded, Neanderthal-type man with a placid disposition and only two failings. He could never pass by either a blonde or a bottle without making an instinctive grab for either or both. On a good day, Velda’s reaction to these amiable failings could be heard with the naked ear at a range of two statute miles. “Do you hear me?” she asked him, one octave and about five hundred decibels higher. “Don’t get your delicate intestines in an uproar, honey. Something will turn up.”

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“Something had damn well better,” she assured him in a tone that caused a rather poor reproduction of Whistler’s Mother to shudder free from its hook and thud to the pile carpet. “Where’s Adams?” she demanded. “In the bar, if he’s got any sense,” said her husband. “Well, go get him. If one word about this leaks out into the papers I’ll break both his typing fingers!” Granite rose massively to go in search of their ex-Fleet Street Public Relations man, Harley Adams. Velda fell naturally into a pose. “Just remember,” she husked after him, “that unless something turns up soon we’ll be dead ducks.”

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CHAPTER TWO

Harry Thatcher was reckoned to be the best animal man in the game. Elephants or mice, he could train them all. Tall, powerful, tanned and moustached, he looked more like a film star (male) than most film stars do. But he never went before the cameras. Animals were his only love and he had always had a strange power over them. Sir Isidore Pugh had hired him when on location in Africa four years before. Neither had regretted their bargain. Sir Isidore’s films always had the best animal scenes in the business and Harry Thatcher always had the best animals to play with. Harry was acutely sensible to the moods of his charges. When the rehearsal was held up for the repair of the Ark and the beasts were brought back to their luxurious quarters, he could tell there was going to be trouble. “They’re acting up, George,” he told his inarticulate swamper, a vast, prognathic man who was distinguishable only by his clothes from one of the larger apes. “They’re getting cross. They don’t like this hanging around. I’ve a mind to tell I.P. to scrub it for the day.” 16

He was eyeing Leo and Lenny, the lions, as he spoke. They were pacing their cage uneasily. Leo’s bowels, usually so regular, had not acted that morning. A costive lion is a bad-tempered lion. “Yes, I’ll tell him to scrub it,” Harry Thatcher decided. “He can shoot some interiors.” Sir Isidore Pugh would take his word, he knew. Sir Isidore leaned heavily on the word of his experts – unless they came from Oxford. There was no point in paying an expert if you did not believe him. “I’ll be on the blower when I’ve got the okay, George,” said Harry Thatcher. “You can swamp them out then… save a bit of time. But leave the cats to me.” The surly George grunted and Harry Thatcher left on the long, long walk across the studio floor. * The original Noah would have had a lot of trouble mending a leak in his Ark. But Sunbury Studios’ Ark was held up in the water by a system of jacks and rockers which could also simulate storms. The sinking was a mechanical fault and nothing to do with the seaworthiness of the vessel, which was in any case in less than two feet of water at the shallow end of the studio tank.

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From below decks there came some clanking, cursing and grinding. Tim Merriwether, the Property man, reported back. “Okay now, I.P.,” he said. “Just a loose nut.” Sir Isidore nodded and looked round for the Queen of Sheba. He called for her. He phoned her dressing-room. “She’s coming right over,” said Mrs. Hudd. “She was a little difficult about her costume.” “Real jewels and she’s difficult,” said Sir Isidore sadly. “But she’s coming, eh? All right.” Harry Thatcher had now arrived and was explaining about the moodiness of the lions. “This is going to be one of those days,” mourned Sir Isidore. “I can feel it coming on… Well, all right Harry, if you say it. We can go on filming without the animals. Maybe a first run of the Queen of Sheba’s bath scene. Okay, Harry…” Sir Isidore Pugh felt that deep, inner, artistic glow which always came to him at the thought of an exotic bath scene. He had directed dozens of them by now, but he never tired of them. They kept him young. He called to his niece, Elvira Pugh, who happened to be the continuity girl. “I think we could have the bath set ready. If we have time…” Professor Hollingsworth, late of Oxford, sat squirming in his chair. Only the thought of the money he was earning kept him there. It was a 18

mercy that none of his colleagues attended such a plebian recreation as the cinema, though some indeed, he had cause to believe, were secret TV addicts. The extras shivered damply at the other side of the tank, forgotten for the moment. Occasionally one or another would slip away and return with a jug of hot coffee. Generally speaking, the situation at Sunbury Studios was normal. Then normality vanished. It vanished with a bloodcurdling scream. This was a scream of pure mortal anguish. Sir Isidore heard it professionally, thinking it would be a useful scream to have on tape. Generally, though, the scream sent shivers down a hundred spines. This was no acting scream. This was the scream of a girl on the outer bounds of terror. And it was followed by a second scream which was even louder and more piercing. And the second scream was followed by the hungry, rasping roar of a lion. * Harry Thatcher was running fast and angrily. If anyone was messing about with his lions… He saw Leo as he rounded the corner of the Tower of Babel set from the last picture but two. 19

Leo was pawing at something on the bare boards of the studio floor. This something was white and chestnut and glittering… and red. Harry could see the smears of blood beyond the girl’s body. And he could see the blood on Leo’s muzzle. For the first time in a long while, Harry Thatcher felt sick. Very sick. The mangled form was that of the star of the film, Carol Milligan.

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CHAPTER THREE

“Carol will recover all right, R.Q.,” said Sir Isidore. “But of course she’ll be no more good to me. At least, not for quite a while. I’m not being hard, you understand, just realistic. The poor girl’s pretty badly clawed and though I’m paying the best plastic surgeons, it’s likely to be a long job. You can’t keep a film waiting for ever, can you? I’ll have to get a new Queen of Sheba.” Sir Isidore was sitting in the large, boardroom-lush office belonging to Richard Quintain, Insurance Investigator. It was a room which reflected the prosperity – though not the taste – of its owner. The walls were panelled in heavy oak and the carpeting was almost knee-deep; anything that could be upholstered in leather was so upholstered – including the top of his desk. What could not be upholstered was chromed. The taste of the whole place was atrocious and Quintain knew it. On the other hand it was impressive. When the agents of insurance companies sat on the other side of that magnificent desk they automatically wrote out cheques in terms of guineas instead of pounds. 21

The office was smoothly and efficiently run by Julie Wellsley, Quintain’s secretary. She was a pretty, gamin-faced, dark-haired girl who handled the accounts, reminded Quintain when he was due to visit his doctor, dentist or tailor, and tactfully turned away importunate visitors. The other partner in the menage of Richard Quintain Associates was Slim Mercer, a lively young man in his early twenties whose brawn did not – as is customarily supposed – cover up for a deficiency of brain-power. Slim had plenty of both. Quintain’s business was the detection of fraud – especially insurance fraud. In a competitive and often dangerous calling he was known as a very smart man indeed. If he had received a percentage of what he annually saved the insurance companies, instead of a flat-rate fee plus retainer and expenses, he would also have been a very wealthy man. But he did well enough. The Maserati Mistrale coupe in The Strand outside proved that. Just the same, he was always glad to get away from the office when the opportunity arose to use his physical as well as his mental attributes. Now, sitting facing Sir Isidore, he nodded soberly. The girl would be well treated; generously treated. He knew Sir Isidore well enough for that. “It’s not poor Carol I’m really worried about,” said Sir Isidore. “It’s the whole thing. How did the lion get out?” 22

“Accidents will happen,” Quintain assured him. “So many?” asked the film producer, shaking his head. “Look, since I started on The Deluge it’s been accidents all the way. Small things, little things, sometimes big things. An actor sprains an ankle. A camera breaks down. Film is opened outside the darkroom. A small fire. A strike… I tell you, R.Q., somebody has got their knife into me.” Richard Quintain sat back in his chair. Sir Isidore Pugh was an old friend of his, but it was not for this reason only that he had been called in on the case. One of the insurance companies who retained his services – and at a very substantial fee indeed – were underwriting Sir Isidore’s Biblical epic; and, like Sir Isidore himself, they were beginning to feel considerably perturbed at the number of mishaps, culminating in the attack upon Carol Milligan. They had expressed their concern to Quintain, with the request that he should find out what – if anything – was behind it all. Their approach had been followed almost immediately by Sir Isidore’s personal appeal to Quintain. But although Sir Isidore was a friend, Quintain was not the kind of man to allow friendship to obscure judgement. His first loyalty was to the insurance company who were retaining him; and he was preparing to approach the affair with an open and impartial mind.

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Nevertheless, even an impartial mind would incline to think that Sir Isidore had indeed run into the kind of rough spell that hits every business at some time or another. In films, people were more imaginative than in most trades; they had to be. A train of unhappy coincidence could easily be magnified into deliberate design. “But who would have his knife into you, Sir Isidore?” Quintain asked. “Have you any idea at all?” “None,” said Sir Isidore. “Only this I can say. There are people who wish this film not to be made.” “There are?” Quintain looked alert. “Do you know them?” “What is to know?” sniffed Sir Isidore. But he fished a card from his pocket and flicked it across the broad, gleaming desk. “A.S.S.B.F.,” Quintain read, his dark eyebrows arched. “The Association for Suppression of Sacreligious Biblical Films! You suspect them?” “I just don’t know,” sighed the film producer. “This I know. When I was making Son of Moses they picketed the studio with banners. And when I announced The Deluge they sent me again a protest letter. Always they send me a protest letter. I have a drawer full of them.” “If they’ve protested so often before, it doesn’t seem likely that they’d suddenly start taking action,” mused Quintain. “On the other hand –” He broke off, then went on, crisply: “Give me a 24

little time to think over the facts, Sir Isidore. I may be able to come up with something.” Sir Isidore hoisted himself to his feet, a tricky operation for a man of his build. He beamed and made for the door. “It is good to have the expert hand,” he said. “I think everything will be all right again. You’ll have a thousand pound retainer in the post tomorrow.” Richard Quintain did not quibble. A thousand pounds was nothing to Sir Isidore; and it would put quite a large spoonful of jam upon Quintain’s bread and butter. When he had gone Quintain turned to Julie, who had been present throughout the interview, sitting in silence in a corner of the room, notebook and pencil in hand. “Did you get all that, Julie?” he asked. “Sure did, chief,” said Julie, emulating Sir Isidore’s accent with considerable success. She smiled as she made the little joke. She would not have joked so light-heartedly if she had known what events were to follow from that meeting. Or, again, perhaps she would. * Richard Quintain thought it over in his own office. Then he rose and moved into the ante-room where Slim Mercer and Babs, the

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pretty, impish young receptionist, were engaged in what looked like an all-in wrestling bout. It was being conducted to the sound of muted music from a record player, from which Quintain deduced that Slim was teaching Babs the Shake. “No, no, no,” Slirri was saying. “Right foot forward, and left hip.” The girl obeyed in a lithe, disc-slipping movement and Quintain paled a little. Life, surely, had never been like this when he was young. Sometimes, indeed, when he watched Slim and Babs and all their generation, he wondered if he ever had been young. He was about to give a quiet, disapproving-boss cough when the gyrating Babs saw him over Slim’s shoulder. In an instant the record player was off, Babs was back in her seat, and Slim was dancing lightly by himself. “Hey, where –” he began, as he spun towards Quintain, arms outstretched. “I think I prefer to sit this one out,” said Quintain, straightfaced. “Oh – uh, sorry…” Slim Mercer stammered, glaring sidelong at Babs, who was typing madly as if she had never even heard of The Shake. “The effect would be better, Babs,” Quintain observed drily, “if you had some paper in the typewriter.” Slim shot him a grateful glance. That would teach the doublecrossing little minx! Women. 26

They thought they could get away with anything. The trouble was they very often did. In his office Quintain handed Slim the A.S.S.B.F. card. “Since you’re so fond of dancing, dance down to Chelsea and enquire into this little lot,” said Quintain. He outlined the situation. When he had finished Slim grinned. “Sounds screwy to me,” he said. “The lion business, I mean. They’ve got it the wrong way round. You throw Christians to lions, not lions at Christians.” “Dance off,” said Quintain.

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CHAPTER FOUR

Julie Wellsley was in a curious mood. When the world of entertainment impinged on that of private detection and insurance investigation, it always brought that tang of nostalgia. It was not so much that she would have liked to go back to show business. But the past was there; that tawdry, colourful, wonderful and agonising past. Who once smells greasepaint is never free. And Sir Isidore Pugh almost was the world of extertainment. Sir Isidore Pugh was Films. Sir Isidore Pugh, although she had never met him until that day, was The Past. To be in the same room with him was to walk, gorgeously attired, up the first-night aisle of a cinema, to see her name in sparkling lights above cinemas all over the world. To be acting again under the fierce white lights of a studio, to be desired by ten million men, to represent the dream-lift of ten million women, to be In. Not that she would have exchanged The Strand offices of Richard Quintain Associates for a thousand chances in the film world. But she had smelled the greasepaint. She could never be quite

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free. Inaudibly she sighed and shot a sidelong glance at her boss. What would he think of her if he saw her, ten times as large as life, posed on the silver screen in the arms of some handsome leading man? Would a twinge of jealousy touch that cool, professional heart? Would he even realise there was anything to be jealous of? “I’m thinking like the second serial in a women’s magazine,” Julie reminded herself sternly. “Why on earth should he think of me in any terms at all. He pays me, doesn’t he? Generously. He’s very fond of me. He proves that – and how! – sometimes. What more do I want? Jam with my cake?” Determinedly she withdrew into the shell of a very efficient secretary. It was a very decorative shell just the same. Julie knew it. And she knew that Quintain knew it. * Small, obscure societies with esoteric aims which have offices in Chelsea tend to be of two types. One type is financed by wealthy dupes and resides in large and comfortable premises. The other type has an office up four flights of sagging stairs with joint use of a toilet three floors down. The A.S.S.B.F. was of the second type. The office was one small room, almost entirely filled by one 29

large man. He had a burning gaze which he turned on Slim Mercer as he entered. “My dear fellow,” he beamed through his whiskers. “My dear fellow. Do sit down.” The large bearded man turned sideways and revealed a desk and a chair behind him. Slim sat down warily, wondering about the cause of the welcome. He looked around him. Furled banners were piled in a corner of the room. There were indiscriminate piles of tracts, pamphlets and cyclostyled statements stacked on the floor. On the walls were yellowing texts, only one of which Slim could read. It said: “Do unto others.” Slim had an almost overwhelming desire to call himself Mr. Others. An unwashed teacup and a teapot with a broken spout graced the desk. The large man shook the teapot hopefully. Then he shook his head sadly. “Not a drop, my friend. But not to worry. It wasn’t really very good. Now. How goes the work?” He leaned back and beamed broadly. “Are the ungodly smitten hip and thigh? Do the raging lions of the wilderness feed on the flesh of the children of the Amalekites?” S1im’s ears pricked up. It began to seem as if Quintain was not so far out. That mention of lions… “Well, actually. . .” Slim began hesitantly, unwilling to commit himself to anything at all. 30

“I understand. My dear, dear fellow, please believe me. There is no need for apology. It is a long hard furrow we plough, brother. But Truth is great and it shall prevail. Until Brother Wilkinson is able to take action in California our work is not even truly started.” “Er – yes,” Slim agreed. “You seek more ammunition, brother?” said the large bearded man. “You would sink the Ark of the unrighteous with the torpedo of morality? Here, then, take what you will.” He began to pile tracts into Slims arms. Mixed amongst the Animal Succour pamphlets were others commanding people to Ban the Bomb and to Rally against Apartheid. Yet more demanded to Free Rudolf Hess and Stand By South Africa. “I’d rather not bother,” said Slim, seeing that he was beginning to get in deep. “I just wanted to ask about The Deluge.” The change in the bearded man was frightening. He rose to his full height, close on seven feet, and beat his chest with two huge fists. It was a terrifying, awe-inspiring sight. “That name!” he roared to the ceiling. “That cursed, cursed name!” Then he glared more closely at Slim. “It seems to me, brother, that I do not know your face. It seems to me, brother, that I do not know your voice. It seems to me, brother, that you are a stranger. Strangers are spies in the encampments of the righteous…” 31

With which remark he hit Slim. He hit him very hard. Only the bundle of tracts saved Slim Mercer from almost certain death.

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CHAPTER FIVE

“The maniac knocked me clean out,” said Slim Mercer morosely, dabbing with a handkerchief soaked in witch-hazel at his swollen jaw. “When I came round I was sitting in a dustbin in the back yard. He must have lugged me down those stairs on his own. He had the strength to do it.” Back in The Strand, Quintain listened to Slims report with rapt attention. “You say he mentioned lions… then the sinking of the Ark. It sounds very much as if he knows what’s been happening at the studio, Slim. Is he really insane?” “Nutty as a fruit cake, if you ask me,” Slim declared, with feeling. “But if he did let the lion out – how did he get into the film studio at Sunbury? They’re pretty hot on security in those places, aren’t they? And he’s not the sort of character you could easily disguise – he’d be as conspicuous as Herman Munster or King Kong.” Quintain nodded. A thought had been stirring in his mind all day, ever since Sir Isidore Pugh had left. If Sir Isidore was right and someone was sabotaging his film, then Quintain must obviously

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take immediate action. And it now began to seem as if a prima facie case had been established. “Julie,” said Quintain abruptly. “Do you still keep up your F.A.A. membership?” “And Equity,” she said eagerly, a sudden excitement quickening her breath. “I haven’t had a call in a long, long time. But they’ve got me on file – photograph, measurements; voice; the lot.” “I think you’re going to need them,” said Quintain. “I think it’s time you became a rising young starlet. I’ve got to have someone working on the inside at the studios. I think a week should do it.” A week at a film studio! Julie reeled inwardly while maintaining her usual outward composure. “Sign my autograph book before you go,” said Slim. “Just in case you don’t come back.” * “You’re new, darling, aren’t you?” said a beautiful, statuesque dark-haired girl, a perennial casting office favourite for human sacrifices. “I haven’t seen you around before. Been resting?” “ Well, no,” Julie answered. “Not exactly. I’ve been out of circulation for a while.” The dark-haired girl glanced at Julie’s ringless left hand and nodded sympathetically. “Men can be swine. Divorce. Baby? Or weren’t you married?” 34

The dressing-room at Sunbury Studios had something of the appearance of a Roman slave market. Two score of beautiful, long-legged girls, blondes, brunettes, and redheads, in various stages of nudity, were strolling about, quarrelling over places at the make-up mirrors or comparing their scanty costumes. They were also gossiping at the tops of their voices. “…I’ve taken all I can from that man. Really, darling, I’m through with him. And he calls himself an agent! When I think of the things I’ve had to do, darling. And all for nothing. Not even one speaking part in the past year…” “You, I said. You in films! I told her straight. Only way you’d get in films, darling, is through a very private arrangement. Go back to your old game, dear, I said. It suits you better.” “…so he definitely promised me a line this time. It was my voice he liked… so sexy, he said. Dammit, giving me a decent part is the least he should do in the circumstances. What I’ve had to put up with from that old goat… “ “Four producers were there too. Darling, you never saw such a party. It was more than fantabulous. One producer promised me…” The door opened suddenly and a deep male voice called out: “Close your eyes, girls. I’m coming through.” A heavy whiskery man pushed a trolley of clean towels through the dressing-room to the showers

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beyond. He took his time – and who could blame him? “It’s only Charlie,” said the dark-haired girl in answer to Julie’s raised eyebrows. “Nobody minds about Charlie.” Julie, though, was glad she had not begun to change. The whiskery Charlie emptied his trolley and returned, whistling raucously. At the door he swung a deft backhander and caught a blonde girl on the most rewarding part of her anatomy for a back-hander. There was a delighted squeal. Some of these girls, Julie thought, would sooner be noticed by Charlie than by no-one. “Aren’t you changing?” asked the dark-haired girl. “It can’t be long until the call. We’ve got to do that damn drowning sequence again. If I come out of this without pneumonia, I’ll be lucky. Call me Patti, by the way – Patti Dale.” Julie murmured her own name. “I’ve got to see young Mr. Pugh,” she said. Hector Pugh was a nephew of Sir Isidore. His job was casting director. “Sexy-Hexy!” Patti exclaimed. “Watch it, darling. He’s got as many hands as an octopus. He’ll have you spreadeagled so fast you won’t know what’s happening. Has he promised you a part?” Her eyes hardened with sudden envy. Julie guessed what she must be feeling and sympathised with her. Outsiders coming in over

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the heads of the working extras were always an abrading influence. “No actual promise,” Julie said. “The casting office simply told me there was a chance of something. I’ve never even met him.” “You’ve missed nothing, darling. Hexy casts straight from the couch,” said Patti. She regarded her long legs critically in the mirror. “It’s not that I mind. I mean, a bit of good wholesome sex does no one any harm. But Hexy – ugh! So kinky with it!” She gave a little shudder of distaste. The intercome speaker above the door buzzed. “Will Miss Julie Wellsley go to Mr. Hector Pugh’s office immediately…” As Julie left the dressing-room she was conscious of the stares that followed her, stares of mingled sympathy and envy. * Ivor Evans was reckoned to be the best Grip in the business. The Grip is the man who pushes the dolly, the little trolley on which a movie camera is mounted. And if this seems a simple, artless occupation, appearances deceive. For the Grip and a cameraman must work in perfect unison if the ultimate is to be reached in picture quality.

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An inch too close and a shot is indefinably wrong. A jerky push and twenty feet of film are down the drain. A good Grip and his cameraman work partly by signals and partly by telepathy. A good Grip just knows he should track in at just such a moment. He knows when he should stop. He does not need to watch for a wiggle from his cameraman’s ear or a twitch of the shoulder. He acts instinctively. Ivor Evans was a small, quiet, conscientious man. He did not often drink and when he did drink it was only a few half pints of mild ale. Which made it all very difficult for cameraman Bert Lumley to understand the present jerky progress of the dolly as he tracked in for a close shot of the animals mounting the gangway to Noah’s Ark. Bert Lumley was a good cameraman. That is, he did not worry too much about what the director said. He got his own shots in his own way. And his own way at the moment called for a tracking-in shot which would show the long line of animals stretching away as it were to infinity. The camera was positioned on the Ark’s deck and it would have been a tremendously moving and exciting shot if it had ever been completed. The lions were just reaching the deck, the menace of their strength implicit in the silky muscles beneath the skin. And the perspective, thought Bert Lumley, was right to get all that long line of other animals, 38

stretching away and away. The whole purpose of Nature would have come out in that shot – if it had ever been filmed. But Ivor Evans, the Grip, was pushing in this strange, jerky way that was so unlike him. “Back off, Ivor. We’ll do it again,” Bert said irritably. The dolly continued to move towards the edge of the deck. Bert swung round angrily from his viewfinder, stern reproof on his tongue. But no words were said. For Ivor’s face was twisted and grey. His eyes had turned up to show only the whites. His teeth glinted in a rictus of agony. And still he pushed. It was a Grip’s job to push and while he had breath he would do his job. “Hold it up there!” shrilled the director from the jungle beneath. Ivor Evans gave a last wild push and the dolly reached the edge of the deck. It swayed there gently for an instant. Then several thousand pounds’ worth of valuable equipment teetered and fell with a great splash into the gap between the Ark and the edge of the water tank. *

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Bert Lumley had thrown himself to safety just in time. He ignored the equipment and ran back to Ivor, who lay on his face, quite still. The Grip’s arms were outstretched with the effort of that last push, his very last push, the final action of a conscientious man. Gently Bert turned him over. “He’s dead!” he told the world at large in a tone of complete disbelief. “My God, he’s dead!”

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CHAPTER SIX

Tourne Branca is a drink of almost intolerable vileness. It is, perhaps, intended to be so. The virtues of Tourne Branca are therapeutic, not sybaritic. Tourne Branca is intended, in short, to cure hangovers. Strong men blench at the evil flavour. But five minutes later as the throbbing in their heads subside, as their stomachs indicate once again an ability to retain solid nourishment, they call down blessings on the inventor of this invaluable panacea. But vileness can be an acquired taste. Think of black coffee. Think of haggis. Think of plain chocolate. Some there are, persons of infinite depravity, who gain a sort of twisted pleasure from drinking Tourne Branca. Probably it is a sort of masochism, akin even to that fatal disease, dirt-eating. Tourne Branca is, it may be stated, forty percent alcohol by volume – i.e., about the strength of Scotch whisky. It has a lift. The point of this digression is that Hector Pugh, Casting Director of Pugh Films and nephew of Sir Isidore Pugh, was engaged in that improbable indulgence – a Tourne Branca jag. He had just cured yesterday’s Tourne Branca hangover with a 41

half-bottle of today’s Tourne Branca. He was in splendid fettle when Julie Wellsley arrived. Hector looked exactly like the girls’ nickname for him, Julie thought. He was Sexy Hexy to the life. Fat, rather greasy, popeyed and with lubricious lips, he was growing through his hair vertically. “My dear, dear young lady,” he greeted Julie, bounding forward with an unexpected and disconcerting agility. “It is so good of you to come, so very, very good.” He tried to seat her on the broad, well-worn couch situated in the darkest corner of his large, executive-type office. Julie evaded the attempt neatly and seated herself primly on a small secretary-type chair beside his desk. “You sent for me, Mr. Pugh?” she asked. “Of course I did. And you came. That’s what I appreciate about you. You came. I called and you came.” Deftly he manoeuvred behind her and his hands were on her shoulders. “You’ve got a beautiful nape of neck, my dear,” he murmured into her dark curls. “It curves so graciously, like a column of fine alabaster. I think we’re going to be good friends. What do you do about sex?” “Oh, mostly I have my tea then,” Julie answered with wilful misunderstanding.

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That threw Hector Pugh. He tried to think of some delicious perversion in which tea was involved. The effort was too much. His hands dropped from her shoulders. “Have a nice drink before you show me your legs,” he invited. “Do you care for Tourne Branca?” An executive-type cocktail cabinet was built into his enormous desk and he opened it with a flourish. It seemed to contain mostly Tourne Branca. Julie shuddered delicately. Hangovers were out of her line. Besides, it was still only half-past eight in the morning. “Some lime juice, Mr. Pugh,” she smiled sweetly. “Or a bitter lemon, perhaps.” From Hector Pugh’s face she guessed he was thinking that he had caught a pretty bitter lemon himself. With a slightly shaking hand he poured himself a double Tourne Branca and forced it down with an effort. A horrid brown sediment was left in the glass. Hector seemed to forget about the girl’s drink as he staggered back behind his desk. “Don’t be like that, Miss Wellsley,” he said, plaintively. “Not if you want a nice fat part in this film. You know who I am. I’m the man who doles out the parts. So let’s be co-operative, shall we?” His phone rang then, and as he talked Julie saw him glancing at her with increasing speculation in his eyes.

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“Yes, I.P.,” he said. “Right. I’ll see to that, I.P. Of course, I.P.” He put down the receiver. “That was Sir Isidore Pugh,” he said. In Hector’s eyes there was now quite genuine respect. Sir Isidore Pugh, Julie could see him thinking, was interested in this chick. So that meant “Hands off” to Hector. There was wonder, too. What did this Miss Wellsley have that was interesting I.P.? His tone was completely altered when he spoke again. His prospective pigeon had soared. “How would you like to play the part of the Queen of Sheba?” Hector asked. “I mean… I.P. wants you to be the Queen of Sheba. You’re to go over and see him now.” He looked regretfully at the sagging couch in the far corner of the office. As she headed for the set Julie did not speculate on the presence of the Queen of Sheba in a film about Noah and The Flood. She knew enough about the film industry not to be surprised. But that she should be offered the part… For a little while she let her mind dally with the dream again. “Julie Wellsley as the Queen of Sheba.” Or just: “JULIE WELLSLEY.” At about this moment, Ivor Evans, the Grip, died. 44

* “It’s death by poison all right,” the studio doctor said as he bent over the body of the Grip. “At a guess I’d say one of the alkaloids. But that’ll be a question for the P.M.” “Prime Ministers yet!” moaned Sir Isidore. “Everyone wants to get into the act.” “Post-mortem,” corrected the doctor, a distant second cousin of Sir Isidore. “It’ll have to be reported. Maybe he’s a drug addict and took too big a dose.” “Ivor was no junkie,” said Bert Lumley angrily, defending his dead friend. “So he was poisoned then,” said the doctor indifferently. “It’ll be for the police to decide how the poison was administered.” “Oy, oy, oy,” moaned Sir Isidore. “Police yet lousing up my studio and holding up production. Oh, what a cost it’ll be.” Then, more business-like, he turned to Elvira Pugh, his continuity girl. “Evans has a family. See they are taken care of, Elvira,” he ordered. “All the best. You know. Tell the office.” Julie Wellsley was hurrying up at this moment, and so saw the slim, red-haired continuity girl move off with smouldering fire in her eyes and her full lips drawn in very tightly. Elvira was like a 45

little, lithe, walking volcano, Julie thought. And a relative of Sir Isidore, to boot. She was just the kind of person on whose toes not to tread. Sir Isidore was still absorbed in the death of the Grip. Julie stood unnoticed by his side, taking in with a trained photographic eye every detail of the scene around her. Abruptly, Sir Isidore remembered her. A spark of hope lit in his eyes. “This is more your –” he started to say. He had been about to add “work”. But Julie cut him off. Another word would have blown sky-high any chance of her staying under cover. “You wanted to see me, Sir Isidore,” she declared, in a high, clear voice. She risked a tiny wink which plainly affronted her new chief. As they walked together to his offce Sir Isidore murmured “No more winks, my’dear. On the set such things are seen. The word spreads. People have such nasty minds. Eliza is a good wife… but suspicious.” Sir Isidore’s office was the opposite of what Julie had expected. It was smaller than Hector’s, furnished in a haphazard way with a couple of cigarette-scarred, second-hand desks and some battered chairs which looked as though they had been used as trampolines. Grim grey filing cabinets shared most of the floor space with stacks of old scripts, yellow and

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dust-covered. There was no couch. Sir Isidore chuckled at Julie’s obvious surprise. “Here I am the boss, Miss Wellsley. I don’t have no one to impress. I’m at the top already. Why waste money on a flashy front?” There was not even a cocktail cabinet, but a secretary, pretty without being gaudy, brought in two cups of coffee in delicate Sevres ware that almost seemed to shudder thinly with distaste at the surroundings. It was not what they were accustomed to. But it was good coffee, and as they sipped it Sir Isidore told Julie of the new developments. “A good boy was Ivor Evans. I’ll miss him a lot,” said Sir Isidore with obvious sincerity. “Such a Grip there never was. Now… About this part.” He went on: “Lucky I sometimes am. Years ago I did a favour for a little girl. I forget even what her name was then. But now it is Velda Power. Velda the Great. You know, of course.” Julie nodded dumbly. Her dreams were going to be trodden on in a moment, she felt sure. “This Velda, she is now married to Tor Granite – what a team, heh? And Box Office!” He chuckled happily to himself at the thought of cash boxes tinkling everywhere. The finest music this side of Paradise. “She and Tor have just finished a film in Rome. They are on their way back to Hollywood for another movie. But I persuade her to stay and 47

make my picture. Both of them. Her as the Queen of Sheba and he as Noah – he’s even got a beard already.” Julie felt herself slumping in the chair. Her dreams, a few moments ago as fresh as cucumber sandwiches, were now curling at the edges, drying in the warmth of his enthusiasm. She revived slightly as Sir Isidore said: “It’s not all fixed yet. But she’s coming to look at the studios and see what we’re doing. She owes me a favour now. It will cost. But it will cost more to hold up production. Wunderbar, heh?” Julie tried to give the producer a warm reaction. But he noticed. Quickly he said: “But I know she’s difficult on the set. So I use you too. Not as an extra but as a proper stand-in. That way you get almost star privileges, not just a little extra girl, and you get to know everything that happens.” He beamed happily at this neat solution to his problems. Julie groaned inwardly but recognised the fact that he was right. The job would give her much greater freedom of action. For this particular job it was a vital necessity. And at least she could cling to some shreds of the illusion. She would be a star at times, even if it was not always recognised. Sir Isidore’s voice grew graver. “You know the dangers. Poor Carol. But I think danger is to your taste, Miss Wellsley, heh?”

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Julie, remembering the bloody fate of Carol Milligan, stifled an inward shudder. Danger could take many forms, but the claws of a savage lion…

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CHAPTER SEVEN

Great trouble is taken before Royalty visits any part of the realm. Roads which have been potholed for years are suddenly relaid. Window boxes appear; gardens are laid; fresh paint brightens the streets. The words “Ladies” and “Gentlemen” are often discreetly covered with bunting. Local councillors practise their smiles before mirrors and there are loud creaking noises as their ladies rehearse the curtsey. Everything that can be thought of is planned to make life easy for the visitors, and a good time is had by all. Including, it is assumed, Royalty. Anyway, things usually go off fairly quietly. This is not necessarily so with the Kings and Queens of Hollywood. Although everything is done to smooth the path for them, they do not always respond with a gracious smile and a wave of the hand. If displeased they are apt to shout, scream, and throw anything that is moveable at anything that moves.

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Miss Velda Power had been a reigning Queen for so long that she possessed, as the saying has it, a whim of iron. When she was pleased she was very, very pleased, and when she was not she was poison. The impending arrival of this highly-paid threat at Sunbury Studios led to unprecedented cleanings and polishings as well as swift courses in protocol. It was in the interests of everyone to keep the lady happy. Only thus would life continue to be bearable, and shooting able to continue. It was not Julie Wellsley’s fault that she was both pretty and shapely. Considerably shapelier than the bottle for which Tor Granite had such an affection. Nor could she be blamed for bearing a considerable resemblance to the famous star with the added advantage of being a considerable number of years younger. These attributes were advantages when it came to acting as a stand-in, but they could hardly be expected to appeal in the same way to both sides of the Power-Granite menage. They were of the type to appeal greatly to Tor Granite. And to appeal not at all to his wife. Some clash was inevitable here. Velda the Great had decided to inspect the Studios at once, before making any decision about appearing in the picture. 1f she made a favourable decision, batteries of lawyers would then join in 51

combat, fighting over every clause of the contract, which would run to the length of a fair-sized novel. Velda and Tor Granite arrived at the studios in a Rolls Royce which had been specially fitted for pampered people. It had all the amenities except hot and cold running water. Neither were interested in the TV set at the back, but the beefy male star was satisfied to find that one of the buttons, set in a facia panel in the back, opened a sliding panel to a small but well-stocked bar shelf. He availed himself of this and, by the time they arrived at the studio gates, was in a good high mood. Velda was in a bad low one. Sir Isidore had ordered the forecourt of the studios to be thronged with eager crowds anxious to see the stars. Minions from Hector Pugh’s Casting department had coped with this promptly, and there were several dozen men, women and children ready with small flags and a big welcome. For Velda the flags were too small and the welcome not big enough. Tor Granite cheered right back at the welcomers but she stayed silent. When the Rolls stopped before the main entrance she opened the car door herself, stepped out, ignored a small girl with a bouquet and said to Sir Isidore, who was waiting with a beaming smile: “I shall inspect the dressing-room at once.”

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The film boss knew all the signs. He could see a storm brewing in Velda’s flashing eyes, hear it in her imperious commands. But her demand pleased him. He was proud of the dressing-room they had hastily prepared for her, and felt that she, too, would be so delighted that any tantrum would be both private and short-lived. “My dear Velda, come with me,” he said, taking her unresponsive arm. On the stage next to the main one he was using, stood part of a manor house built for a film which had just been completed by an independent company which had rented the space and facilities. He had prevailed on them to postpone an order for its dismantling, and the removal of the furniture from the main set which was the drawing-room. A fourth wall had been hastily added to the three already existing, and the whole roofed in. The furniture, carpets and pictures were all of the finest quality, and on hire for a vast daily fee. But the overall impression was one of genuine and tasteful luxury. A huge gold star gleamed on the door of the new fourth wall, and when that opened the scene was as gorgeous as its designer had intended. Even Velda Power was impressed. Sir Isidore said quickly: “Made especially for you, my dear.”

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He saw no need to tell her that it was built for a mystery called Murder in the Modern Manor. Champagne cooled in a silver bucket by a chaise-longue. With a sudden switch of moods, Velda turned to the producer and smiled at him radiantly. “It is utterly charming. Only you could have done it so well. You always had the most exquisite taste. Now I think I should like to be alone.” Politely but firmly she showed him back through the door by which they had just entered. “Have me called in an hour,” she commanded, and shut the door behind him. Sir Isidore waved over a studio hand, instructed him to watch the door and, if the star came out, warn him at once. He trotted off. At least that gave him some breathing time. In that time she couldn’t get into trouble. He thought. * The Association for the Suppression of Sacreligious Biblical Films was legitimately registered as a charitable organisation, Richard Quintain learned, a little to his surprise. Its secretary was described officially as the Rev. Stanley Oldacre. No church was specified.

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“Did that huge bearded chap who walloped you seem like a clergyman?” Quintain asked Slim. They were in the Strand office. “One of the muscular sort, perhaps,” Slim Mercer answered ruefully. “He had so much whisker I couldn’t see which way he wore his collar. He spoke like a Cromwell Puritan… Masses of smiting the Amalekites hip and thigh. I suppose he could just possibly have been a Rev. More likely of the self-appointed variety.” Quintain nodded thoughtfully. Ministers of the Christian churches hardly ever involved themselves in the commission of violent crime. On the other hand, if there was an element of insanity… Julie came on the phone from Sunbury Studios then to report the death of Ivor Evans, the Grip. Quintain switched on his recorder in case any detail of the conversation should escape him. “There’s no doubt about it being ‘murder most foul’ as far as I can see,” Julie went on. “Which means that we’ll probably have Scotland Yard in. Do you think you could get in touch with them? I mean, if it’s Dukelow on the job, he’ll blow my cover sky-high – and enjoy doing it. On the other hand, if it’s Superintendent Gunner, I’m sure he’ll play along.” “I’ll check,” Quintain agreed. Then a note of concern entered his voice. “I’m thinking of pulling you out, Julie. I didn’t put you in there as a human target for a killer.” 55

“Just you try getting me out!” she said. “Me – nearly with a starring role at last!” The concern on Quintain’s face would have pleased Julie had she been able to see it. Quintain had no objection to his secretary having an almost starring role – so long as it was not in the mortuary. * Sunbury Studios had been built in the grounds of a country house which formerly belonged to a share speculator who had been unable to tell the difference between profit and plunder and currently had ten years in which to consider the matter. The canteen for most studio workers was in the former ballroom, and the executives’ dining-room in a huge, oak-panelled one-time library which looked out onto the lawns where peacocks had once wandered. Waiting to meet Velda Power and Tor Granite were the ladies and gentlemen of the Press. They had been waiting some time but few of them noticed – or cared – about that. The bar had been set up along two walls of the room and Sir Isidore’s (tax-deductable) hospitality was unstinted. They made more noise than the animals gathered for the Ark. The hyena-like brayings 56

were almost at once traceable to a few middle-aged women in impossible hats, like demented fugitives from a Conservative Party conference. The snakes’ sibilant hisses seemed to slither from the soft tongues of a group of young men who were from Fleet Street, though not of it. They slaved for gossip columns. The slurping sounds, like those that elephants make in the evening bathing pool, emanated from the larger, male part of the party who seemed to fear that Judgement Day might come upon them before the bar had been drunk dry. The affair should have been well-oiled enough to promise smooth going. But there was some grit in the machinery. Its name was Harley Adams, the Public Relations officer for Velda and Tor Granite. He had taken the job just before they left for the picture in Rome. In other words he had had three months of them – and felt as though it were three lifetimes. Before that he had worked on various national newspapers and magazines. Officially he had been called an entertainments columnist. In fact, he had been a skilled assassin. Several promising careers had been killed off with his arrows of ridicule, their points fouled with the poison of half-truth.

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The barbed smear and the subtle innuendo had been his chief weapons. And he had loved his trade. They called him the Merchant of Death; the only poisonous reptile with an expense account. But that sort of life sets its own limits. There came a time when no paper could afford to employ him any longer. He had become too dangerous for them. He had been glad to take the job as loud-speaker and amplifier for Velda Power. But that had been three months before. Now, in the party, surrounded by his old hatchet-wielding cronies from Fleet Street, he began to pine for the good old days. As he listened avidly to the new gossip he wanted to be back in harness. Instead, he felt they were either pitying him or contemptuous because he was on the other side of the fence. A traitor. Someone who had sold out to the film industry. A man of no integrity. The more he drank the more he became convinced of this. He decided too that his place was in writing without fear or favour. Not a lickspittle hired hack for a couple of Hollywood deadbeats. Harley Adams considered the matter through an increasingly thick alcoholic haze. His normally well-waved hair became a little dishevelled; his pale, fleshy face became flushed; the little pouches of skin which hung beneath his eyes grew in size, became redder. 58

He began to like himself more; and conversely to dislike Velda and Tor Granite – and the film in which they were appearing. Well, he could soon get back at them for all the slights he now imagined he had received. He hooked another brandy from the tray of a passing waiter, and attached himself to one of the gossiping groups. And then another, and another. He found himself popular again. More drinks were pressed on him. He felt the sense of power as he opted once more for the throat-cutting business. The fact that it might be his own throat did not occur to him. His pouched little eyes grew smaller inside their folds as he told various people: “Granite and Power are finished. I had the word from New York.” “They lost thirty-four days’ shooting in Rome because she wouldn’t speak to the director.” “He’s been in a different bed every night since they got married.” “The last lines she ever learned properly were ‘Mary had a little lamb’ – and she got that wrong.” “The softest thing about her face is her front teeth.” “They have to carry him on to the set in the mornings.” “They’ll wreck this film between them. It’ll never get finished.” 59

And on… and on… and on… He had forgotten his job, forgotten everything except the heady joys of slander. He no longer cared that he should have had them posing nicely for the cameras. At last Sir Isidore himself sent staff flying about the studios to try and find Tor Granite. And to the dressing-room for Velda. Tor, it was soon reported to him, had almost at once gone off in the Rolls with a dark girl who had been seen around the place. Julie something. But Miss Velda Power was not available in her dressing-room. She hadn’t left it. But she wasn’t in it either. * Velda Power’s abrupt departure from the Rolls Royce with Sir Isidore, had left Tor Granite standing a little foolishly, as was frequent, not knowing what to do. The problem was soon solved. He saw Julie Wellsley, who had been in the welcoming party. A huge grin split his bearded face, like an earthquake in a primeval jungle. He said: “Bring it here, doll, looks like you’ve got more power than Velda.”

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The half-witticism sent him lurching back in a laughing fit against the immovable body of the Rolls. But in a second he had recovered and his long, simian arm reached out for Julie. She was whisked into the back of the limousine, and a word from Tor Granite to the chauffeur sent it in a purring circle around the drive and out of the studio gates. “Where are we going?” gasped Julie, startled without being shocked. “Any place I’m with you is heaven.” He half sang the words, as though they were a familiar song to him, and reached for the magic push-button which opened the bar. Within a hundred yards, even at the Rolls’ rate of progress, Julie had a large, full glass in her hand. “Brandy,” said Tor Granite after a deep exploratory gulp at his own glass. “And I can tell you about that. I play the parts of heroes. And your Doctor Johnson said that he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.” He did. He added: “And I can quote you Rabbie Burns – ‘There’s some are full o’ love divine, There’s some are full of brandy…’ “ He put his glass in a place for it on the arm rest. He turned quickly in the back seat and his large hands gripped Julie’s arms. He said: “I’m both. I’m full o’ love for you.” There was a brief pause. “What’s your name?” he asked.

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Julie thought that in the circumstances it was the most insulting, and obviously well-practised question she had ever been asked, and in a moment or two he would have known that. But the car, which had been humming silently along a lonely, hedge-rimmed road of the sort which surrounded the studio grounds, seemed suddenly to hit an invisible brick wall. The whole heavy chassis bucked and plunged, the car slewed. It turned off the road, went through a hedge with the impetus of a tank, and turned over down a short but steep incline. Julie just had time to think: “Someone’s still trying to kill –”

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CHAPTER EIGHT

Superintendent Ashley Gunner had one worry as the police car bore him out to Sunbury Studios. And the worry was but vaguely concerned with the case. He was wondering what.his wife would say when she learned to what manner of place duty had taken him. Mrs. Alice Gunner had a keen imagination, a suspicious nature, and a tongue that was only a little sharper than a razor. “Oh yes,” Alice Gunner would agree in a voice redolent of the cruder kind of sarcasm. “It had to be you, didn’t it? They couldn’t trust anyone else with an important case like that. Out amongst all those naked actresses and…” Ashley Gunner grimaced to himself as if in pain. He could foresee it all so plainly. He had only one consolation – Julie Wellsley’s presence. Quintain had already telephoned Scotland Yard to give him what information he could. And Superintendent Gunner liked working with the Quintain organisation. There was no flannel about that lot. They did their part of the job efficiently and then they vanished unobtrusively into the background without doing a

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poor-hard-working copper out of any of the credit for the success. Even better, Gunner’s wife, Alice, had a curious trust in the Quintain organisation. Though she suspected her husband’s relations with any pretty girl in sight, this did not apply to Julie WeIlsley. In the curious freemasonry of the feminine world, Mrs. Gunner had somehow received the word that Julie was All Right. He would tell his wife about Julie being there, Gunner thought. Offhandedly he would mention about the new case he was workon; also Quintain’s connection. He would say that Julie was helping. Then, perhaps, he might say where the case was. It is a terrible thing for a Superintendent at New Scotland Yard to be hen-pecked. But that’s life all over. Ashley Gunner began to think deeply about the case at last. Poison was the devil, especially when there was no indication of the means of administration. He was brooding about this when the police car slowed. The driver turned his head to his superior. He said: “Looks as though there’s been an accident here, sir.” “Then pull up, man!” Skid marks, as obvious as black paint slogans on a brick road, were ruled on the road before

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them. The Superintendent could see that the car had run straight, then wobbled and swerved… His eyes turned to a gap torn in the hedge on their right. “Stay here,” he told the driver. “Hancock, come with me.” He and Detective Sergeant Hancock ran to the hedge. Below them the ground fell away sharply. The hedges had hidden the fact that the road was raised some feet above the surrounding fields. On its back, its wheels still turning, was a Rolls Royce. The two men plunged down the embankment, peered through the windows. There were a man and woman in the rear; a chauffeur in the front. With most cars it would have taken a wrecking-crew with oxy-acetylene burners to reach the occupants. But the only thing that had happened to the Rolls was that it had been put into an undignified position. When they tried the handles the doors opened smoothly, with apologetic sighs. They leaned in and dragged out the couple from the back seat. “Good God!” said Dective-Sergeant Hancock. “This is Tor Granite.” “And this,” said Ashley Gunner grimly, looking down at the other unconscious figure, “is Julie Wellsley.”

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He had been looking forward to meeting her again. But not like this. * Velda Power had a naturally mean and vicious temper. Her instinct was to snap and snarl – but the flash was short-lived. It was not until she had attained some eminence that she realised the importance of having, not a temper, but a temperament. She worked on it for a long time. With practice her snaps of rage became violent scenes. She learned that a protracted eye-flashing, teeth-gnashing, furniture-smashing outbreak could reduce the stoutest producer to impotence. Professionally. She also discovered that these childish tricks were widely admired by the adults amongst whom she moved. And they brought enormous publicity. In time, indeed, they had become almost natural. Her ill-mannered display on arrival at Sunbury Studios had been no effort. But it had a purpose. Her experience had taught her that the less she seemed to want a part, the more people tried to persuade her. She wanted this one desperately.

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Therefore she would refuse to take it – until the moment was ripe. So she had ushered Sir Isidore out of her dressing-room and looked about her with satisfaction. They were doing her proud. It was almost what she would have asked for herself. But in better taste. Let them wait, she thought. Let I.P. sweat. She owed him a favour, it was true, but few calls of friendship were honoured in her business. Velda lifted the champagne bottle from its nest of ice and peeled away the napkin from the label. She had been taught which were the good wine firms and vintages, although she could never tell the difference in the taste. She nodded approvingly at this one. The cork was already loosened. She opened the bottle and poured herself a glass. With it in her hand she started wandering about the room, examining the furniture. At length she stood in front of a magnificent carved fireplace. This was no ordinary film set. It had been built for a purpose, not merely as a background. Idly she reached up and put her glass on the high mantelshelf. She ran her hands over the fine carving of the woodwork. One wooden cherub appealed to her particularly. It had a wicked look about it. She put her hand on its head and pulled

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it towards her. So, when they looked for her, she was no longer in the sumptuous room. * Sir Isidore sometimes felt that, more than other men, he was born unto trouble as the sparks fly upwards. But he had learned to meet it. Now, as news of the double disappearance was whispered to him, he made his face beam with delight. To the men and women looking at him it was as though he had just heard that one of his films had been awarded an Oscar. The Press was getting restive. The first alcoholic flush of pleasure was becoming tinged with belligerence. They wanted to see the couple for whom they had journeyed to the studio. In addition, the words sown by Harley Adams were sprouting like dragons’ teeth. Several voices were raised loudly asking what had happened. Sir Isidore’s smile looked even more genuine, as he put more effort into it. He always thought that, in dealing with the Press, a good lie was better than the truth any day. “Miss Power and Mr. Granite are so excited about the prospect of appearing in the picture that they are locked in congress with the technical staff,” he said.

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“That should be something to see,” murmured one voice. But another rasped: “Rumour says you’ll never finish the picture, Sir Isidore.” “Who is this Rumour? You tell him he knows nothing,” said Sir Isidore hotly. “Always there are people trying to sabotage creative genius.” He raised his voice so that they could all hear him. “The Deluge will be the greatest thing since the Flood,” he said. Another messenger came and whispered in his ear. He turned, and left a noisy buzz of speculation behind him. Some minutes passed before he came back. His face was grim and they hushed at the sight of it. Sir Isidore chuckled internally. He had good news. He said: “I told you a lie, ladies and gentlemen, but only a little off-colour one. In fact, the man you want to meet has been assisting our police in trying to apprehend a dangerous criminal. And he has been wounded in doing so. Ladies and gentlemen – Mr. Tor Granite.” The bearded star walked into the room. There was a neat bandage around his forehead. The applause was sudden and deafening. The triumphant entrance of Tor Granite coincided with a crash of glass as Harley Adams capsized on one of the bar tables. All interest was 69

on the star, and few noticed their erstwhile favourite gossip being helped out by two of the front office men. They didn’t want to know him, he dimly realised. They had listened to him, but had been laughing at him all the time. They were as bad as Velda and Tor Granite. But his was still a name that meant something in Fleet Street, he thought in his fuddled mind. He could still show them a trick or two. He knew things that they didn’t. He had a story that would shake them all. And just as soon as he felt a little better he would write it. He knew just where he could sell it, too. A lot of people would wish that they had treated him better, when they read it.

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CHAPTER NINE

“But still we don’t know where Velda is at.” Sir Isidore was worried. “You are lucky to come back safe after some murderer tries to get you,” he said to Tor Granite and Julie. “But perhaps he got hold of her –” They were all in the panelled room which had seen, finally, a highly successful Press party. Julie and Tor Granite had been knocked out by the crash, but had quickly recovered. The chauffeur had not been so lucky, however, and was now in hospital with suspected concussion. Julie, when she had recovered her full senses, had prevailed upon Superintendent Ashley Gunner not to mention publicly the circumstances of the crash. When, back at the studio, they were told of Velda’s absence, and the near-mutiny amongst the Press, Julie had unashamedly used Gunner’s patent relief at her recovery to get him to agree to a different story for the newspapers. Expecting an ordinary interview, the journalists were delighted to get a news story – real front page stuff.

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The Superintendent did not have to perjure himself. Julie was not mentioned at all. The story that finally emerged, through cross-examination of the modest hero, Tor Granite, was that he had seen two men run from the cashier’s office near the studio gates, leap into a car driven by a third man, and take off at speed. He didn’t have to say all this himself. Once the questioners had got the idea that he had been injured in a car crash whilst helping the police, they started inventing their own details, and only asked him for confirmation. Of course, nobody had been robbed; no car had been chased. It didn’t matter. The important thing was that they thought Tor Granite had “had a go”. He played the gruff, man-of-few-words part as well as he had done in a dozen Westerns, when all he had to say was “Yup” or “Nope”. In the excitement the unfortunate chauffeur was forgotten, the actual cause of the wreck was passed over, and Miss Velda Power was equivocally said to be lying down, recovering from the shock of hearing about her husband’s exploits and near-danger. Pitchforked as he had been into the middle of some wild film adventure, rather than a sober investigation, Ashley Gunner was content to remain silent until he had some facts on which to work. Julie had described the accident to him as best she could. Everything had happened so swiftly, 72

however, that she had not had time to form any impressions as to the cause. Now Superintendent Gunner was waiting for the expert police automobile surgeons to give their verdict after a post-mortem on the car. Detective-Sergeant Hancock had taken the telephone call on their report and had returned suitably impressed. An ingenious small explosive device – too tiny to be called a bomb – had been placed in a position which would drastically upset both the steering and the brakes of the car. The experts were still trying to find out just what had happened, and how. But they were unanimous in their opinion that a deliberate attempt had been made to “prang” the vehicle. The chauffeur could tell them nothing. The police had checked on him, but his record was clean. In any case it was unlikely that he would be the instigator of, or even a party to, a plot which would result in his own injury and possible death. He had to be written off as the villain of the piece. Superintendent Gunner had said: “It looks as though whoever it was wanted to kill you, Mr. Granite. Or perhaps you, Miss Wellsley.” By this time Tor Granite had learned that Julie was rather more than just the dishy brunette he had believed. But instead of discouraging him, this news seemed to make him all the more eager to get better acquainted with her. He hovered around her solicitously. 73

And when Sir Isidore expressed his fears for Velda, the ungrieving husband said, with assurance: “Don’t worry too much, Sir Isidore. Velda can look after herself.” Every effort was being made to find her. Every studio employee was helping in the search – on overtime rates. But there was no sign of the missing star. At last the staff had to be allowed to go home. There was no opportunity for the exhaustive questioning which Ashley Gunner had earlier promised himself. Nor any chance for DetectiveSergeant Hancock to try to tell one of the lovely, long-legged girls he had noticed around the studio that he wanted to take down her particulars – a hairy jest which he had been promising himself. That night Gunner was left wondering how many potential victims he might have on his hands. Sir Isidore was left wondering about his film. Julie was left wondering what might happen next. And Tor Granite was left wondering about Julie. * Julie reported for duty at the studios early the following morning.

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On the way she read the newspapers and found that Tor Granite had been presented as a cross between Robin Hood and Batman. He had performed prodigies of valour. He had done more for Anglo-American relationships than anything since Marshall Aid. Julie was glad she did not believe everything she read in the public prints. There was still an atmosphere of uncertainty when she got to Sunbury Studios. Hector Pugh waved to her from afar, but he did not try to pursue a closer acquaintance, for which she was thankful. There was still no word of the missing Velda, and for the moment shooting for the morning had been delayed. Some of them were inclined to think that it was all a big publicity stunt, to focus public attention upon the forthcoming epic. In the circumstances Julie decided it might be a good idea to meet her fellow performers – the ones who would probably turn out to be the real stars of the film. The animals. So she took herself to the animal lines and the presence of Harry Thatcher. She liked Harry almost at once and dismissed immediately any idea that he might have been responsible for Leo’s escape and the attack on Carol Milligan – or Felicia Fraser, as the publicity boys would have it. “He’s terribly upset about the whole thing,” she told Quintain later. “Apart from the awful accident to Carol. He swears his lions are gentle 75

beasts – that Leo must have been deliberately provoked in some way, to induce him to make the attack upon the girl. And I must admit his argument is logical enough. The animals are certainly docile during the filming.” Harry Thatcher took a liking to Julie also. He liked anybody who showed an interest in his animals. “This film caper, it’s all right,” he told her as they strolled down the lines of cages and pens. “But sometimes I wonder if it’s safe – for the animals, I mean. You can’t be certain some clown isn’t going to turn the heating off overnight or bring in tainted meat.” “The animals all look healthy enough,” Julie remarked. “But they don’t get enough exercise,” he said. “Take those cheetahs, now. Cheetahs can run at seventy miles an hour – did you know that? Faster than some cars can travel. But there just isn’t any place here when I can let them out. I used to take them down to a farm, but they chased the sheep and after that it wasn’t safe. And take the aardvarks, for instance – they burrow into termitaries – what the ignorant call white ant hills – and lick up the grubs with their long tongues. Well, I ask you, how many termitaries are you going to find around Surrey? They have to make do on chopped beef and mixed vegetables. But it isn’t the same.”

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As Thatcher spoke they were passing a small, square pen which was half-filled by a kind of model cottage, a little larger than a doll’s house. Harry flushed a little as Julie gazed at it. “A fancy of my own,” he said, and then raised his voice: “Hey, Mr. Eustace.” He opened the door of the pen and motioned Julie to enter. As they did so the door of the cottage opened and a dwarf in a red coat came out. At least, that was Julie’s first impression. Then she saw that the dwarf was a chimpanzee. “Mr. Eustace,” said Harry gravely. “I’d like you to meet Miss Julie Wellsley.” The brown eyes of the ape stared up unwinkingly at Julie for a moment. Then it held out a hand, and Julie took it in her own left hand. An instant later her fingers were snatched to the ape’s mouth and placed between its huge yellowed fangs. If those jaws closed, Julie thought, Quintain was going to need another secretary – one with two hands. She felt the sharp edge of the great teeth biting slowly into her skin. She wanted to scream and snatch her hand away. But with an exhibition of super-human willpower she kept quite still. “Good,” said Harry Thatcher briskly. “He likes you.” A moment later Julie’s hand was released, quite unharmed, but she could not help wondering what the result would have been if Mr. Eustace 77

had not liked her. It seemed a tricky way of finding out. Then the ape held up his own brown, hairy paw. “Bite his finger,” said Harry. “Gently, of course. Go on – just sort of nibble it.” Feeling as though she were moving into some strange dream (or nightmare) Julie obeyed. “Great, great!” cried Harry. “My word, he has taken to you. It’s not often Mr. Eustace makes friends with strangers.” Again Julie wondered what would have happened if the ape had not been feeling in a friendly mood. Mr. Eustace was licking the traces of lipstick from his finger with apparent relish as Harry explained. “It’s their way of showing trust,” he said. “When they take your finger they could bite it right off as easily as a stick of celery. The fact that they don’t is a promise of friendship. And when they let you bite their fingers, that’s showing trust. They do this to each other. If you don’t see this nibbling ceremony when they meet, then they’re sure to fight.” He went on: “Quite a lot of animals have this same kind of ‘trust’ behaviour. Take dogs and wolves, for instance – in a dogfight the loser nearly always lies on his back, exposing all his vulnerable parts. The victor could kill him then, very easily, but he doesn’t. Submission is enough.”‘ 78

Harry seemed to be about to expand on this theme when he seemed to remember something. “The lions’ coffee. It’ll be cold.” Julie stared and he explained: “They got into the habit when they were cubs. I used to let them finish up my cup of coffee every morning; now, if they miss it, they create hell. It’s a damn good thing I never took to drink. Imagine a lion on the liquor!” He hurried off then, leaving Julie with Mr. Eustace. The ape stared up at her for a little, then yawned deliberately and turned back to its cottage. The door closed behind it. “I’m beginning to feel like the girl who isn’t ‘nice to know’, as the commercials have it.” Julie muttered to herself, as she left the pen. She took her time strolling through the menagerie. She passed giraffes, camels, gazelles, leopards, alligators – for here they were not arranged alphabetically, but according to the exigencies of the space for cages. Towards the end of the zoo Julie came to a sunken pit, concrete-sided, with a small pool in its centre. She gazed down curiously, wondering what it might contain. The pool seemed big enough for a crocodile or a sea-lion but the only sign of life was an occasional string of bubbles that rose to the surface. Julie leaned over, trying to peer down into the depths of the water. Something was stirring down there, something big…

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“If this was a proper zoo,” she thought, “there would be a sign up there, with the name in Latin as well.” Behind her she heard a faint sound, like a footstep. Harry Thatcher had returned, she thought. “What’s in this pool?” she asked, without looking round. There was no answer – or not in words. But a pair of hands gripped her firmly below the knees and she was tipped neatly over the parapet of the pit and sent tumbling downwards. If she had been the fragile star she was representing, Julie might have broken her neck as she fell. But her reactions were as hair-triggered as her body was well-trained. Even as she fell she was twisting to land in a parachutist’s roll. She was hardly jarred as she hit the concrete. “That was a damn silly thing to do!” she shouted up inanely. Then she fell silent. For there was no-one above – or no-one to be seen. But from beyond the rim of the wall something lobbed out to fall with a splash in the pool. And in the pool something stirred. Julie was conscious of a hard, fetid smell – and of a number of bones lying about the pit. Whatever lived in that pool was carnivorous. It was time she left.

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The rim of the pit was about seven feet high. Julie leapt for the rim and her hands could just touch it. But the rim was rounded and there was nothing for her hands to grasp. She tried three times – and failed. Before she could make a fourth attempt there was an intensification of that evil, fetid stench. And there was a faint liquid sound from the pool. She spun round. And Julie’s face went very pale. Her hand flew to her throat and her mouth was so dry she could not have screamed then for any stimulus. Emerging from the pool was a flat, spade-shaped head followed by a long and sinuous neck. The neck extended suddenly and it kept on extending and extending until it was no longer a neck but a body; a gleaming, scaled and infinitely sinuous body. The body of a giant water snake. 1t was an anaconda, the giant water-python of the Amazon basin, the largest and most deadly of all the great constrictors. And its glittering, emotionless eyes were fixed on Julie. Its forked tongue flickered in and out incessantly. Yard after yard of its twenty-five foot length seemed to pour up and outward from the pool, like a stream of water defying gravity. It began to pour towards Julie, its only sound the faint sinister whisper that its scales made on the concrete. 81

Julie found herself facing certain death.

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CHAPTER TEN

There was another person who, during one brief moment of her life, had felt she was facing death. That person was Velda Power. When she had tugged idly at the cherub’s head she was not really thinking about what she was doing. She was smiling to herself in the certainty of having a lovely, unsuspected plum contract dropping into her greedy hands like ripe fruit. Then all at once she had felt as though the floor had fallen from under her. In actual fact, the floor had fallen from under her. A trapdoor, invisible in the polished parquet flooring, was operated by the cherub in the fireplace. It opened, dropped her onto her derriere and a chute, and closed silently behind her. Velda slid down and landed with a not-too-painful thump on a pile of cushions. It was unfortunate that she had picked that particular cherub to pull. Or that she had not known about the film Murder in the Modern Manor.

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For this was a film about a group of people gathered together in a manor house for a weekend – and, one after the other, getting. themselves murdered. The first was stabbed through a secret panel, another was bludgeoned by a suit of armour, a third was whisked out through yet another panel, and a fourth vanished through the floor in front of the fireplace. The director had wanted realism and all these devices had been built into the set. If Velda had found the wall panels they would have let her out onto the studio floor. As it was, she finished up in part of the cellars where electric conduits and huge air ducts made a landscape as baffling as the inside of a submarine. Or would have, had she been able to see. But there was no light. And nobody thought of looking for her in such an unlikely and inaccessible place. For what seemed like years Velda blundered about, banging into pipes and metal tubes. She expanded her large and luciously upholstered lungs in a variety of calls from “Help!” to a rather more hopeful “Rape!” But everybody was making too much noise looking for her to hear these subterranean cries. At last she found again the cushions where she had landed. She made several vain attempts to climb the chute by which she had come down but in the end, completely exhausted, she lay down on the cushions and finally slept. 84

Her last thoughts were curses on Sir Isidore, the studio, her husband, her ex-husband and – strangely enough – herself. * Slim Mercer had mixed thoughts about Julie Wellsley that morning. He had been told that Julie had been involved in a slight car accident, but that she had gone back to the studio. He considered this was a waste. He mourned it. He pictured himself, stalwart yet modest, playing his part to perfection and incidentally rousing the interest of all the girls on the set. Instead of which, Julie had the classic role of carrying coals to Newcastle. “The waste of it,” he mourned. “The sheer waste. All that luscious talent at the studios going to waste while I do the legman act.” It was a sad, sad thought to carry round the grimier purlieus of Chelsea where he was making enquiries about the Rev. Stanley Oldacre, the A.S.S.B.F. and its connections; in particular since these enquiries seemed to be leading nowhere. The Association seemed genuine enough. Its secretary turned out for every parade for every good cause. He marched with the Anti-Bombers, the Anti-Colour-barrers, the League Against Cruel Sports, the Anti-Vivisectionists, the League for 85

Penal Reform, and any other organisation which felt inclined to put on a protest demonstration. Admittedly on those occasions he always carried an A.S.S.B.F. banner. But then, who cares. The great thing about a protest march is that there shall be banners in plenty, not what is written on them. As everyone knows, the words rarely show up on the television screen. A point which causes acute disappointment to all good protest marchers. “Mr. Oldacre is such a nice man,” gushed a newsagent’s wife. “So big and so gentle.” Slim fingered his jaw and said nothing. “Full of good works,” said the Reverend’s landlady, a devout chapel -goer. “He speaketh with many tongues and is unctuous in the sight of the Lord. His brother, too, is nice.” “His brother?” repeated Slim. “The Reverend’s got a brother, has he? What’s he like?” Slim, who had called in the guise of a salesman to sell a set of books on Natural History and had been sidetracked into mending the gas-fire, looked up with interest as the landlady mentioned Stanley Oldacre’s brother. “George is a true man and upright,” declared the landlady. “But not so big. Oh, two real gents they are. Quiet, God-fearing, hardly a peep out of them you’d hear. Night after night writing away at their pamphlets or painting up a banner. So refine – That’s a nasty cough you have there, young man.” 86

Slim had been producing this cough at regular intervals since he started the assault on the gas-fire. “It’s the gas,” he said. “Leaks into my throat. Dries it up something terrible…” “What you need is a nice cup of tea,” declared the landlady. And this was indeed exactly what Slim wanted. Or, to be truthful, he wanted the landlady to go and make one while he turned the flat over. Slim was a quick operator. But the nearest he could find to an incriminating document was a list of all Sir Isidore’s films, from Son of Herod to Son of Moses – with terse and bitter comments appended to each. “A travesty…” “Surely Divine wrath will be visited.”… “And they call this Biblical!” And other remarks in similar vein. Having seen most of the films himself, Slim Mercer could not really argue with the verdicts. The Rev. Stanley Oldacre was a man of sound judgement. Everything was back in place and Slim was tightening a screw when the landlady returned with the tea. The least he could do was drink it. * The giant anaconda hitched a couple of fathoms of itself a little tighter and slithered still closer to 87

Julie Wellsley, who was crouched against the wall with her mind just beginning to stir out of the paralysis which the first sight of the snake had induced. The effect of the sight of a snake of any size on the human mind is curious. There are people who like snakes. But herpetophiles are a minority. No matter how they declare that the snake is a simple, timid creature of a strictly limited intelligence, the vast majority of people regard snakes with deep loathing and fear. Nor is this an exclusively human attribute. The anthropoid apes are also terrified of snakes. Perhaps with cause in their case, since a tree-climbing python might well snatch up a young chimpanzee. And if there is anything in the evolutionary theory, a race-memory could explain the human neurosis. Shortly after leaving school Julie had had a short-term boyfriend who was a Nature fiend. Instead of boxes of chocolates he would bring her goosander’s eggs, sprigs of edelweiss and grasssnakes. These are rarely the gifts to take a man to a girl’s heart and fond though she was of Clarence, Julie had been forced to give him up. But not before she had learned quite a lot about snakes – among other aspects of Nature which it would be unseemly to discuss. She remembered the first shock of surprise when she had found that a snake was not cold and 88

slimy as she had supposed, but dry, crisp and rather warm to the touch. She remembered lectures on the habits of various species of snake. She remembered, for instance, that the really big snakes – the constrictors – did not have poison fangs, but killed their prey by crushing it in the lapped coils of their bodies. She remembered also that to exercise this crushing power to the full a constrictor had to have an anchor. It had to wind its tail around something before it could really squeeze. Anacondas were constrictors, Julie remembered, and this anaconda would have to get an anchor before it could crush her… she hoped. The snake pit was comfortingly free of available anchor points. She had reached this conclusion when the massed coils of the great snake straightened a little – and with frightening speed the anaconda was on her. The head and neck seemed to whip round her waist like an expertly-thrown lasso. The head reared up in front of her and the basilisk eyes stared coldly into her own. The fetid smell of the snake’s breath was strong in her face, overpoweringly strong, almost as if it possessed a stupefying element of its own. Instinctively, Julie threw up her hands to grip the snake’s throat just below the head. It was like gripping a length of armoured hose. She could make no impression on it with her 89

thumbs as she tried to strangle it. Imagine trying to strangle a snake, she thought, rather wildly. It was the wrong way round… Somehow another coil was now about her waist. Anchor point or not, the anaconda could squeeze. Even in those few seconds she felt her breath restricted. Frantically she swung round and tried to strike the snake’s head against the wall. But with contemptuous ease it swung away and tightened its grip still more. Its head was so close she could feel the butterfly kiss of the forked tongue on her face as it flicked over her cheeks and forehead. If that tongue touched her lips, Julie thought, she would faint. Kissed by a snake! Certain snakes had tried it before, but they had possessed legs and hands. Julie remembered that the snake’s tongue is its organ of smell and also of hearing. Snakes are deaf… The anaconda can reach a length of thirty-five feet… In extremis the mind dredges up some extraordinary facts. And Julie Wellsley was very near the end. Now the sheer weight of the coils about her was making her knees buckle. And she could breathe now only in tiny, agonising gasps. What would Quintain think when he knew what had happened to her? Or perhaps he would never know. Perhaps nobody would ever know. Didn’t constrictors swallow their prey whole? 90

With a groan Julie went down, cushioned partly by the coils about her. Death was a very short distance away now… * Then, from above, there came a shout. A figure was outlined momentarily against the lights. Harry Thatcher had arrived to the rescue. “Hold on!” he shouted. He leapt down into the pit and waded through the writhing coils. He slapped the anaconda with the back of his hand across its nose several times, then began to pull at its tail. The snake uncoiled swiftly, hissing, and in a cowed manner poured itself back into its pool. Harry stooped and lifted Julie into his arms. He was annoyed rather than alarmed. “I wish to goodness people wouldn’t play with my snakes,” he said irritably. “It’s bad for them to get excited. I’m surprised at you, Miss Wellsley. I thought you had more sense –” But Harry was talking to himself. Julie was not listening. She had quietly, unobtrusively and quite understandably fainted.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Back in his office in The Strand, Richard Quintain was puzzled. The pattern of this business was altogether too vague. From what Slim had told him, the A.S.S.B.F. must be clean. Clergymen might be cranks, but not usually murderous cranks. And the A.S.S.B.F. had never been known to use violence before. Yet they seemed to be the only lead. But could they be responsible for the lion’s attack on Carol Milligan, the death of Ivor Evans, the wrecking of the Rolls Royce, and the disappearance of Velda Power? If these four events were connected, it argued a formidable organisation – a much more professional one than the A.S.S.B.F. And if the A.S.S.B.F. were responsible, their efforts seemed to have backfired. The Deluge was getting more publicity than anyone could have hoped for, and it wasn’t all bad. So much had happened in so short a time that the newspapers themselves had become confused. The attack on Carol Milligan (Felicia Fraser) had rated Page One, and the impression left on readers was that this must be a truly exciting film, 92

very realistic indeed. They could hardly wait to see it. The sudden death of Ivor Evans, the Grip, had passed almost unnoticed. He was merely a studio worker, male and middle-aged, and there had been little or no interest in him. The news that he might have been poisoned had not leaked out. Finally, the skilful little plot dreamed up by Julie and grudgingly acquiesced in by Superintendent Gunner, had made Tor Granite such a popular hero that he would be able to demand a bigger fee for his part in the film. And there was nothing but sympathy for Velda Power, who was said to be still prostrate from shock. So, taking things all round, a series of episodes which might have ruined the production had so far helped it – at any rate where the public were concerned. But Quintain was uneasy. There was no way of foretelling what might happen next, and with what unhappy consequences. And there was the question of motives… Quintain decided he would have to delve back into Sir Isidore’s past. Undoubtedly he had enemies. But why should they be striking at him now? “I’d like to see a good cash motive in this,” Quintain mused, staring ceilingwards, to the surprise of Babs, who had just brought in his coffee. The telephone rang. It was Superintendent Ashley Gunner. 93

“I thought you might like to know,” said the Yard man, “that the poison which killed Ivor Evans was administered in coffee…” Quintain put down his own cup hastily. “Has it been analysed yet?” he asked. Gunner sounded puzzled. “Well, yes and no,” he said. “First tests seem to indicate… You’ll find this a bit of a shock, but it’s one of the drugs the wide boys use to fix horses.” “Horse dope?” “A massive dose,” Gunner confirmed. “It would make a selling plater out of a Derby winner. It’s a rum do, isn’t it? I can’t imagine why anyone should use it on a human being. Actually, Evans was unlucky; he had a sort of allergy to it. Some people would merely have gone to sleep – but Evans died.” “What’s the rest of the news?” asked Quintain. “Confused and confusing,” said Gunner. “With all that confounded fuss yesterday, those two stars arriving, we didn’t have much chance to get on with the routine work. But the lab boys now think that the explosive device on the Rolls must have worked on a distance rather than a time basis. Lots of people knew that the limousine was on more or less permanent hire to Sunbury Studios – and lots more knew that Velda and her husband were going to the studio that day. The thing could have been fixed on in the garage – and once again there are dozens of people in and out of the

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garage, and it would only have taken someone a moment to fix it.” “There’s still no sign of Miss Power?” asked Qumtain. “No. She’s vanished from the face of the earth,” said Gunner, with rather more truth than he knew. He added: “It’s queer – but Granite doesn’t seem to be all that bothered. Two weeks married, and he has no more interest in her sudden disappearance than one of her ex-husbands might have.” “Hollywood marriages aren’t always made in Heaven,” said Quintain. “Often they’re cooked up in the Publicity Department.” “Still, you’d think he’d show some concern,” said Gunner. “His opinion seems to be that she’s putting on some kind of private publicity stunt. Playing hard to get.” “Have you seen Julie this morning?” asked Quintain. “Not yet,” replied Gunner. “She’s in the studio somewhere, looking around. Probably having one hell of a time.” As soon as Quintain had replaced the receiver the phone rang again. This time it was Billy Kirby, columnist and special writer on the Daily Post. His cheerful greeting was “How’s crime?” Quintain knew that this was a feeler. He also knew that what he told Kirby would be treated in

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confidence, if he wanted it that way. So he began to outline to the columnist what had happened. Kirby kept up a barrage of “No!” “Really?” and “You don’t say?” as Quintain gave him the run-down on events at the studio – with instructions to keep everything under his hat for the time being. He was particularly interested in Julie’s undercover role. “You can have an exclusive from Julie when it’s all over,” promised Quintain. “That’s great! –” “However, there’s one little thing you can do for me,” said Quintain, in honeyed accents. Kirby groaned. “Ah, here it comes. The worm in the bud. What is it?” Quintain said: “I know you’ve got unrivalled contacts in the shadier side of the race game. Where would I get my hands on a goodly supply of horse dope?” “Gee-up or whoa?” asked Kirby promptly. “The gee-up stuff is made by quite a lot of merchants, but there’s only one man I know who makes a good reliable stopper.” “That’s the man I want,” said Quintain. And a little later a weary Slim Mercer was on the road again.

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CHAPTER TWELVE

When Velda Power awoke there was only blackness around her. She was not in bed; she seemed to be lying on some rather mouldy-smelling cushions. Then she remembered where she was. Remembered, rather, that she did not know exactly where she was, except that it was somewhere under the sound stages of the studio. Velda did not wear a watch. There seemed to be no point in telling the time herself when there were always people standing about ready to cater to her slightest whim. If she murmured “Time?” half a dozen expensive chronometers would be consulted, and arguments rage down to fifths of a second. If she put an unlit cigarette between her lips, so many lighters flared simultaneously into flame that unwary neighbours had been said to jump out of windows shouting “Fire!” So she had no idea, now, whether it was breakfast time or Thursday. All she knew was that she was very lost and very lonely. She had played a scene once in Little Nell of Old Drury, of which she was reminded. 97

At once she spread out her arms, palms extended, and cried: “Only save me from this dungeon vile and I swear to repent.” Piteous moans rose and fell. It had been a meaty role. Her voice echoed uncannily along the service corridors of the basement. “Have mercy on me,” she went on. “I know that I have lived an evil life, but all that is behind me now. Only rescue me, take me from this awful place, and I will henceforth lead a life of obedience and chastity…” Behind her a sepulchral voice boomed uncannily: “Promise?” * Julie drank her coffee gratefully, seated in Harry Thatcher’s tiny office. Harry, despite his shortness of temper in the snakepit, now seemed full of concern. “You’re sure you’re all right, Miss Wellsley? Really sure? You wouldn’t like to let me give you a quick examination? I’m not qualified, of course, but in this job you get a lot of patching-up of people to do. One time in Kenya I had a boy badly clawed by a leopard and I –” “I don’t think that will be necessary, thanks,” said Julie firmly. 98

There was no doubt that Harry Thatcher had a good deal of charm and a great deal of what might be called animal magnetism. In other circumstances she could have stood a good deal of Harry. But the fact was that he did smell rather strongly of lion. And of course, it could have been Harry who had thrown her into the snake-pit. At the moment she had to suspect everybody in general, as she could suspect no-one in particular. Covertly she glanced at his large, capable hands. Were those the hands that had seized her and up-ended her so neatly into the snake-pit? But if Harry had pitched her in, why had he bothered to pull her out? No, she thought, she felt certain she could scrub Harry from the list of suspects. But who could have done it. “What on earth took you down into Esmeralda’s pit?” Harry asked. “I mean, if you’d only waited, I’d have come with you… Perhaps you were leaning over too far and slipped? I’ve been meaning to get that parapet raised…” Julie let it go at that. Raising a stir was no part of her plan at the moment. Besides, if Quintain knew there had been an actual attempt on her life he would yank her straight out of the studio. And Julie had not yet tired of being a film star. “I feel a little silly about it all,” she told Harry. “I’d be glad if you wouldn’t mention it to anyone.”

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Harry himself showed some relief at the suggestion. “I’d rather have it that way,” he confessed. “After that business with Leo and poor Carol – well, if there are any more accidents it could get my animals a bad name…” The door of the office opened at that moment and a girl walked in. Julie recognised her as Elvira, Sir Isidore’s niece, the continuity girl. She said: “Oh, Harry, Sir Isidore is wondering if he could have a rehearsal of the lion and tiger fight tomorrow and…” As she spoke she turned and saw Julie. For an instant her face went rigid and the pupils of her eyes seemed to dilate. There was no doubt at all that she was surprised, and not pleasantly. “Oh, hello,” she said with an obvious effort. She turned to Harry with eyebrows lifted. “My, how we’ve changed.” She walked out, hips swinging aggressively. “You mustn’t mind Elvira,” said Harry uncomfortably. “She’s… Well, we used to – But that was quite a while ago and since then –” “It’s all right,” smiled Julie. “No need to cross the ‘t’s.” But behind the elegant mask of her face her mind was working with the cool detachment of an electric computer. Was this the lead she had wanted? For on Elvira Pugh’s face there had been – not jealousy at finding her with Harry Thatcher – but a flashing expression of disbelief. She had not believed that Julie could be there. And Julie 100

could think of only one reason for such an attitude – the belief that she was then reposing quietly within the belly of the giant anaconda. Had it been Elvira’s hands upon her knees? Or had Elvira known that somebody else had tipped her into the pit? There was certainly more there than simple jealousy or the memory of a long-cold affair with the animal man. Elvira could be in it – whatever “it” might be. Silence fell between them as Julie brooded on these thoughts. In the sudden quiet she became gradually aware of a moaning noise that rose and fell. It sounded like a lost soul in the pit of darkness and it seemed, appropriately, to come from somewhere under her feet. She shushed Harry, who was about to speak. “Listen!” she whispered. Again, faint and mournful, far away and eerie, came the sound. “Do you keep any animals down there?” asked Julie. “As a matter of fact, I do,” said Harry. “Just a few nocturnals – owls, lemurs and so on. But they don’t carry on like that.” “Let’s go and look,” said Julie. “Right.” Harry scuffed with his feet, pushed back a patch of threadbare carpet, and revealed a trapdoor sunk into the floor. He lifted the ring handle and easily swung the trap upwards. He took a heavy, 101

box-shaped torch from a shelf behind Julie and switched it on to show her a wide iron ladder leading below. “I’ll go first,” said Harry as he scrambled down. “That’s fine by me,” said Julie, then halted momentarily as she realised that Harry’s hurried action was prompted by more than gallantry. He was standing on the bottom rung looking up hopefully at the descent of Julie’s long, slim, nylon-clad legs. He was almost directly beneath her and the view, judged by his appreciative expression, was excellent. Julie continued her descent as quickly and gracefully as possible. At the bottom her nose at once informed her that Harry did indeed keep some animals down here in their comfortable darkness. * A quart of coffee later Miss Velda Power had regained most of her equilibrium. She had been slightly shattered – as much by Harry’s voice as anything – when they brought her up to daylight. They were still in Harry Thatcher’s cubby-hole. Velda did not feel like showing herself to the world until she had decided what part to play. She had considered a tantrum violent enough to blow the roof off the building, following it up with a million-pound law-suit for damages. She had 102

then rejected the idea. Her predicament might seem laughable to others, she decided realistically. She would sound too much like one of the three old ladies who were locked in. In any case, she felt strangely shaken after her experience and not sure enough of herself to act the part with sufficient screaming outrage. When Julie told her what the morning papers had said about Tor and Velda learned of his “heroism”, there was only one obvious role. Julie and Harry must smuggle her out of the studio and back to her hotel, from which she could appear, pale and wan through suffering, devoted wife of a wounded hero. The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. As relief at her liberation from her dark and uncomfortable prison mingled with this new and interesting possibility, she grew positively cordial. Even to Julie, in whose dark beauty she immediately saw competition, she was not too condescendingly gracious. Harry could arrange transport and departure, of course. To a man accustomed to dealing with the larger forms of fauna, the hourglass figure of Velda Power was a simple matter. He led them through to a rear door of the studio, little used since he had brought his animals through it, and showed them a small, blue painted panel truck.

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Velda breathed deeply of the morning air. At this side of the studio there were open fields, once cropped by sheep, leading to woods. The near approach was oil-stained by trucks which had brought scenery and props to the stages, and beyond that were piles of junk which had once glittered proudly on the screen. Parked on the grass beyond these was a small helicopter. Velda pointed to it at once and wanted to claim it. “That thing could fly me out of here in no time.” “But I can’t fly it,” said the animal man. “And I don’t know where the pilot is.” “What’s it for and who does it belong to?” asked Julie, always insatiable for facts. “Belongs to the studio. They use it chiefly for aerial shots – you can see the camera brackets bolted on the outside. Also for location hunting, and flying VIP’s.” He added hastily, to Velda : “Of course, you’re a VIP yourself, Miss Power, but we’ve got to get you out of here secretly. If that helicopter took off everyone would want to know why.” Velda was disappointed but eventually, in the cause of Art, allowed herself to be shepherded into the back of the truck, where still clung odoriferous souvenirs of the previous occupants, a pair of okapi. And Julie went to pass the good news privately to Sir Isidore.

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* In the small village called Fleet Street there are a number of local pubs whose proper names would rarely be recognised by even the most regular of their customers, and not at all by their owners, the brewers. There are, for example, the Mucky, Auntie’s, Poppins’, the Stab (in the Back) Barney’s, Wally’s, and others, including Winnie’s. These are the bazaars of the Street; the market places of gossip. At first sound it appears that they are full of mouths. When the mouths are not occupied in liquid intake, they are talking. Shop talking. Practically every conversation centres around a current story or personality. The wise reporter who has a good story should keep it to himself in these places. But often the urge for self-dramatisation overcomes the still, small voice of prudence, which has been half-drowned in alcohol. Bill Kirby dropped into Winnie’s for a casual drink. He knew a number of men at the bar and inevitably was drawn into a conversation. (In this context a conversation may be defined as a series of overlapping monologues.) “Just talking about your friend Quintain,” said one man from another paper after ritually buying Bill Kirby a whisky. “I hear he’s involved in some

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murder at a film studio and put his Girl Friday, Julie Wellsley, in as an undercover stooge.” The glass threatened to splinter in Kirby’s suddenly clenched hand. He had just heard his promised exclusive disappearing. There had been a leak somewhere though not, he felt sure, from Quintain. He put on a smile which sorely taxed his face muscles and spoke as casually as he could. “Oh, that old thing,” he said wearily. “I know all about that. But I’ll tell you something. You’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. There’s no story there. Who’s been trying to load you with that old codswallop?” “It’s not my story,” said the man defensively. “I only heard about it. It comes from Harley Adams. You know him.” “Of course I do,” said Kirby briskly. “Most unreliable slob I ever met, and created twelve times more libel suits than any other twelve men I know. Your people could be in real trouble, believing him.” “You’re sure about that, Bill?” Kirby said unblushingly: “You’d better tell your people to watch out.” He tried to inject a note of sepulchral menace in his voice. “And if it were true,” he said, “and you told the story, it might get Julie Wellsley killed. Had you thought about that?” He drank his whisky, scowled and left. But he stopped long enough behind the door curtains to

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see that the man he had spoken to was moving thoughtfully to the telephone. Then Kirby walked swiftly down to the Fleet Street Post Office, and was lucky enough to find a vacant telephone booth, where he dialled Quintaln’s number. But he could find neither Quintain nor Slim – both were out on enquiries and their whereabouts were at present unknown. But he talked to Babs, the rather flighty young receptionist. He concentrated his recital on the possible threat to Julie if the news of her mission was published, and he suggested that Babs should telephone the rival paper, on Quintain’s behalf, and point out the dangers of running the story. He told her not to mention his name. Babs, serious for once, promised to do her best. Kirby then telephoned the rival newspaper direct and asked for the editor. He used his own name, for they were acquaintances if not friends, and he learned where the great man was lunching. The editor was in fact staying himself with oysters and Guinness when Kirby met him, casually and by accident of course, twenty minutes later. Ten minutes after that Kirby was able to inject, into the stream of reminiscences, the news that Harley Adams had had a nervous collapse after trying to telephone every paper in Fleet Street with different stories – all wild. And all lies, added Kirby, himself lying without a qualm.

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The editor said nothing, but his eyes narrowed and he ordered a brandy on top of the stout. Kirby left the expensive oyster bar well satisfied with his ploys. He made one more call – to Sunbury Studios. He was unable to talk to Sir Isidore direct, but he left a message which, although cryptic, would have its effect, he thought. It did. All telephone enquiries to the studios for Mr. Harley Adams were later met with the reply that, as far as they knew, the gentleman was unwell and in a private nursing home, of which nobody knew the name. Kirby was unscrupulous when dealing with the unscrupulous. And he had no intention of letting Julie run any avoidable risk. Nor of letting anyone snatch the exclusive story he had been promised! * Slim Mercer was shocked. It was not a feeling with which he was really familiar, so the effect was all the worse. He was watching a small, furtive shop near Notting Hill Gate, the shop from which Joey Presto, maker of goof balls for too-fast horses, operated. Joey Presto’s goof-balls, made to a formula of his own design before he went on the bent, had the special quality of giving no trace in a saliva 108

test as applied by the Stewards of the Jockey Club. For this reason they were deservedly popular amongst those who, for one reason or another, wished to ensure that one particular horse would run slower than its wont. In other words, they were for stopping favourites from winning, and were employed by that small minority of bookmakers which prefers a dishonest gain to a straightforward, honest loss on a race. It was not the nature of Joey Presto’s trade that shocked Slim. What had horrified him was the sight of the customer now leaving the shop. “And him a clergyman!” mourned Slim as he watched the Reverend Stanley Oldacre move off down the street like a nonchalant mountain heading for its appointment with Mahomet. Somerset House had confirmed the existence of the Rev. Stanley’s brother George. But so far Slim had been unable to learn anything about him. Which was the reason Richard Quintain was now deep in thought. The news about the A.S.S.B.F.’s secretary had not distressed him so much as it had caused surprise. He had been sure that the Oldacre brothers were in the clear. Now they were bang in the centre of the line-up again. “It doesn’t make sense,” Quintain decided. “If for some inconceivable reason they decided to kill Ivor Evans, why use horse dope to do it? And how did they get in to do the job? I know Sir Isidore – it’s easier to get into the vaults of the Bank of England than into one of his studios.” 109

And yet Slim had seen the Rev. Stanley Oldacre leaving Joey Presto’s shop. For a little while longer Quintain thought. Then he acted. He rose, left the office and clambered into the waiting Maserati. He headed for Notting Hill Gate. Joey Presto’s shop was as mean within as it had promised outside. Joey himself looked like a man who would make horse dope. He had that black, patent-leather hair, sunken eyes, receding chin and general air of deceit that a horse doper should have. He looked like a hook from a long way back. He was. He recognised Quintain as soon as the investigator entered, and he headed for a door leading to the back of the shop. Quintain was there before him. “Nineteen sixty-four, wasn’t it?” he asked in a conversational way. “Trafficking in dangerous drugs if I remember aright.” It had been one of Ashley Gunner’s last cases before he was promoted to Superintendent. “I was lumbered, Mr. Quintain, you know that,” said Joey, with an unconvincing attempt at outraged virtue. “I never knew what was in them jars.” “I believe you,” said Quintain. “You thought it was heroin and it turned out to be only morphine… But you’ve changed your name, I see. I hope you’ve changed your unpleasant habits, too.” Joey tried to dredge up a display of anger. 110

“You’ve no right barging in here,” he whined. Quintain gripped him by a shoulder and lifted him from the floor. It was not a spectacular display of strength; Joey Presto weighed only eight stone. “That’s right,” Quintain agreed emotionlessly. “I’ve no right at all. You wish to make something of that?” Joey kicked the air like a beetle on a pin. “What are you after, Mr. Quintain?” he sniffled. “I’m in the clear now, you know. Bin running straight ever since I came out.” Quintain chose to ignore this outrageous lie. He said. “Horse-doping apart, of course. Oh, don’t worry; I’m not going to shop you… yet. I just want a little information.” He felt a little ashamed of himself as he set the dope-maker down. Using the strong arm against such a very little rat was rather contemptible. But the end could justify the means. Joey Presto’s face lit up. “Information? I got plenty of that! You want a winner, you’ve come to the right man.” “I just want to know a little about a customer of yours,” said Quintain. “That wouldn’t be ethical, Mr. Quintain. I’m no grass.” Quintain said nothing but continued to gaze down out of cold grey eyes at the cringing crook.

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“Well… who is it?” sighed Joey at last. “You won’t tell who talked, of course? This is the only throat I’ve got.” “I want to know about the Reverend Stanley Oldacre,” said Quintain. “Tell me about him.” And to his surprise, to his bewilderment, he saw a mask of obstinancy settle on Joey Presto’s face. The little man took on a new, stubborn dignity as he shook his head. “Never heard of him,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Quintain had seen that look on other faces. He had seen it on men who were about to face the Gestapo at its nastiest. He had seen it in death cells. When that particular mask comes on a man’s face, that man will not talk, no matter how mean, contemptible or treacherous he normally is. Only utter loyalty or utter abject fear can bring that mask to a face. And fear is rarely so strong. Joey Presto would not talk. But, thought Quintain, what manner of man must the Reverend Stanley Oldaare be to inspire such loyalty – or such fear?

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Julie Wellsley could have enlightened Quintain to some degree, for she was gazing for the first time on the vast shape of this turbulent clergyman. She was gazing from Sir Isidore’s office which overlooked the main entrance to Sunbury Studios. On the pavement outside a small procession of people was marching up and down, bearing the banners of the Association for Suppression of Sacreligious Biblical Films. This procession was led by the Rev. Stanley Oldacre. Virtually, the procession was the Rev. Stanley. Some elderly maiden ladies of both sexes followed him, but they were not really noticed. The Rev. Stanley, beard blowing in the breeze, dominated the scene. “What a Goliath going to waste,” mourned Sir Isidore. “Or a Samson. You think maybe he’d accept a part?” “He doesn’t seem to be inclined that way,” Julie pointed out. “As far as I can read it, his banner seems to be calling for a descent of fire and brimstone on the studio.” “Such a waste… Oy, oy, oy… Oh, what a waste of such a massive frame.” 113

He turned from the window, dismissing the parade, and eyeing Julie with pleasure. “I have a new gimmick for the bath scene, Miss Wellsley. How would you like to take a bath with a chimpanzee? Oh, such a thrill for the audience. This is new, eh?” Julie looked startled. It was not a thought that had ever occurred to her before. “Beauty and the Beast,” explained Sir Isidore. “It gives that little thrill of horror down the spine. It would be even better with a gorilla.” He shook his head sadly. “Our gorilla is ill – off colour.” Julie breathed again. It was time, though, that she scotched this particular idea. “I’m here to solve a mystery, Sir Isidore,” she pointed out. “Not to take baths.” “But all my new stars, they do the bath scene first,” said Sir Isidore reproachfully. “Everyone will think it very strange. You will be breaking the Pugh pattern… Besides, I think I would like to see you do a bath scene. Especially with a chimpanzee. “As I see it, the Queen of Sheba has come to visit Noah. The Queen is always distant, aloof, disdainful of men. Her only friend is her chimpanzee. It goes with her everywhere. It is devoted to her. Later maybe it drives off the lions. But now it is taking a bath with her as she waits for Noah to come back. What she doesn’t realise is that Ham – that’s one of Noah’s sons – is watching 114

her from behind a rock. But the chimp spots him, goes for him… That’s going to be the romantic interest later – the Queen of Sheba and Ham – or maybe I should make it Shem… He’s watching, a Peeping Tom of the ancient world, and –” This flood of creativity stunned and silenced Julie. And it is a dictum of law that silence implies consent. A little later Julie Wellsley was preparing for a public bath in asses’ milk. * Richard Quintain had also seen the little protest demonstration outside Sunbury Studios. With great interest he had eyed the Rev. Stanley Oldacre and his little band. “He’s certainly enormous,” he mused. “And strong, too. I can see him clocking poor old Slim all right. But where does the dope come in? And as for murder… No, I don’t get it one little bit.” Guileless was the good Rev. Stanley’s face and amiable his eye. Quintain could well imagine that eye flaming with a fanatical light. In certain circumstances he could imagine the Rev. Stanley committing a hasty mayhem. But not poison. Poison is work for a calm, cold, calculating mind. Poison is for nasty people. Could the Reverend’s brother, George, be the poisoner? The Rev. Stanley might be acting quite 115

innocently in buying the dope. But the brother… What about the brother? What about the elusive George? Where was he? * Sir Isidore knew that his first task was to convince all his employees that what he wanted was right. If he had to tell little white lies – which he persisted in calling off-colour – then it was all for the betterment of everyone. So he had not found it necessary to tell Julie that he had already broached, with Velda Power, the prospect of sharing a tub with a chimp. He had telephoned her as soon as she reached her hotel, overwhelmed her with congratulations, made the grand assumption that she was already working for him, and mentioned the asses’ milk bath. That, she was all in favour of. She had done similar scenes before, in the days when her talent was notable only on a tape measure. But she knew that ever since Cecil B. de Mille set the fashion, any kind of bath was a Box Office’s best friend. She would graciously consent to do it. But not to share it with a simian. Nor, for the matter of that, any other member of the animal 116

kingdom outside the human race. Not even, she said, if it was a female monkey. She was unwontedly calm while pointing this out to Sir Isidore. Calm, but firm. The obvious solution was to have Julie in the bath for long-shot sequences. Close-ups could be made of Velda in the bath at a different time, and the magic of the cutting-room would take care of the rest. The shapely curve of the back would belong to Julie. The fugitive glimpses of the curves at the front would undoubtedly be of Velda. Sir Isidore almost tut-tutted to himself as Julie left his office. Sometimes he felt he should be ashamed of himself; but somehow he could never get round to it. * Elephants are known to fear mice. Mice and little yapping dogs can rouse them to a frenzy of destructive panic. One theory, as far as the mice are concerned, is that they fear the little creatures will run up inside their trunks and eat out their brains. As evidence, it has been stated that elephants alarmed by mice will put the end of their trunks into their mouths, making it impossible for the mice to gain access. In all probability this is the sheerest hokum. No evidence has ever been adduced that a single mouse has ascended a single elephant trunk.

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Elephants are like women. A woman may scream at the sight of a mouse, leap onto a table and clutch her skirts. Allegedly they fear that the mouse will run up their skirt. In this there is no truth either. The fact is that women are just afraid of mice; irrationally, nonsensically, they fear them. And so do elephants. Zoos that keep elephants take particular care to have their premises well-trapped and well-poisoned. A mousy zoo is an ill-run zoo. Harry Thatcher was not a man to run a zoo badly. He had too much regard for his animals for that. Jonathan and Jeroboam the two Indian elephants, lived in a concrete stable of their own, its walls and floors inspected regularly for the possible ravages of rodents. Which made it all the worse that the heavy entrance door to the elephant lines should be opened quietly and a gloved hand appear around it, holding a small cardboard box. The box was set on the floor and the hand vanished. Jonathan and Jeroboam began to stir uneasily. Their ears flapped and their trunks twitched. There was a smell… Within the box there was movement and sound. Mice, as is known, are adequate gnawers. Cardboard presents little enough resistance and when it has been smeared in advance with cheese…

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Small noses began to appear through ragged chewed holes. Little whiskers probed delightedly into freedom. And soon half a dozen mice were roaming delightedly about the pen. Jeroboam gave his first shrill trumpet of fear.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Hector Pugh, the casting director, settled himself more comfortably into his chair and adjusted the eyepieces of his opera glasses with loving care. The bottle of Tourne Branca was at his side. The dressing-rooms in Number One Studio were under the main studio roof, as were the offices. But the offices were a storey higher than the dressing-rooms. Putting ceilings on the dressing-rooms within the main building had seemed a needless extravagance to Sir Isidore and they were as a consequence open to inspection from above – though at a considerable distance. One of the principal pleasures of Hector’s life was to sit at his window with his opera glasses and gaze at the distant dressing-rooms. He called it talent-spotting. Focusing the glasses, he caught an interesting view of the dark-haired, leggy extra, Patti Dale. A lovely girl, thought Hector. Beautiful legs. He must give her the opportunity of earning herself a better part in Sir Isidore’s next production. And boy, how she’d earn it. He

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decided that he would send for her later that evening. * Taking a public bath, asses’ milk or not, was not one of the actions that Julie Wellsley had ever expected to find herself in the midst of. Yet there she was – doing it. Sir Isidore had shown some disappointment at Julie’s refusal to disrobe entirely for the bath, and she was in fact wearing a minimal bikini, though this could not be seen at all in the white opaque liquid that did duty for asses’ milk. “After all, Sir Isidore,” Julie had pointed out sweetly. “I’m only doing the long shots, in any case.” “It’s the principle of the thing, my dear,” he had answered testily. “Truth is beauty, beauty is truth. I am a creative artist and I shall know that you are wearing that ridiculous garment.” However, Julie had been firm although she wondered how firm she would have been had she been dependent upon this performance for her future career. Now she sat in the bath and affected to go through the motions of bathing. Sir Isidore moved about her, close in and far out, ordering changes of lighting, moving in a sound boom, backing off a camera. 121

It was less than luxurious. The water, for a start, was little more than tepid. If it had been hot it would have steamed. And that might have affected the precious lenses of the cameras. At last Sir Isidore was satisfied. “I think we could take it now,” he decided. * It was then that Jeroboam trumpeted. The shrill sound echoed round the studio and was repeated a few moments later. Sir Isidore frowned. “Get Harry to keep those beasts quiet,” he ordered curtly. There was no answering murmur and he looked round. “Elvira!” he barked. “Elvira! Where’s that girl? Elvira!” A little breathless, his niece came running onto the set. “Where’ve you been?” demanded Sir Isidore angrily. “Just so you’re in the family don’t entitle you to take off half the day.” “I’m sorry,” she murmured, but her eyes were hard and she did not look sorry at all, Julie thought. The elephants had fallen silent and Sir Isidore had forgotten why he wanted his continuity girl. 122

“Let’s get with it,” he barked. “Sound… lights… camera… Action!” The clapper boy held up his board, clapped it and scuttled off. Julie began to splash herself artistically as she heard the camera whirr. And then both elephants trumpeted together. “Cut!” roared Sir Isidore. “Elvira, go and tell Harry to keep those beasts quiet…” Julie called from her bath. “Wouldn’t it be natural to have animal sounds? After all, I’m just going to go aboard the Ark – I mean the Queen of Sheba is.” Sir Isidore nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s not so bad an idea.” He turned to the Sound man. “Hey, Joe, what sort of a level can you keep that trumpeting down to? Well in the background?” “Sure, I.P. Soft as a baby’s burp.” “We’ll keep it then. All right for another run. Lights… sound… camera. Action!” Action certainly followed, but not at all the kind that Sir Isidore had anticipated. The trumpeting was repeated – but very much louder and from close at hand. A scenery flat went crashing abruptly. And in her bath Julie found herself gazing past Sir Isidore at the heads of two advancing terrified elephants. They were advancing rapidly. And she was directly in their path.

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* Velda Power and Tor Granite made a successful exit from their hotel, posing arm in arm on the steps for photographers. He looked impassive, which came naturally, and she looked up at him adoringly, which she found less natural. Even in the hired car, arranged by the hotel, they maintained a moderately cool relationship as they drove to the studio on that benighted fringe of London where suburbia meets the countryside and both recoil in horror. There were several reasons for their visit. They had preliminary business to discuss with Sir Isidore. But each felt that their presence would stake out some sort of proprietorial claim on the set. Additionally, Velda had heard that long shots of the asses’ milk bath were to be made, and she wanted to see how her understudy fared, whoever the girl was. Tor Granite knew nothing about the bath scene but he wanted to see Julie anyway. When they arrived Velda used the common touch bit. “No fuss for me, dahling. I’m just one of the working girls.” So they were left free to roam without hangers-on. They made their way slowly to the shooting stage and, unperturbed by the red light, for “No Admittance”, burning outside, Tor Granite opened the heavy sound-proof door. 124

“I’ll just slip over to the front office before I come in. Be back soon,” Velda told him. He nodded and went in alone. He picked his way over the rubber-covered snakes which were the electrical circuits and walked towards the centre of the scene where the lights blazed. Various scenery flats obscured his view of the actual shooting. But he became aware of noises which seemed alien to the setting. Elephants, it seemed, were trumpeting. There was a babel of voices which sounded more genuinely frightened than was normal in a crowd scene. Tor Granite was no more of a hero, really, than the next man. But the newspapers had called him one. Perhaps they were right. In any case, he was a man of limited imagination. He began to run. * Gadgetry had always been a failing of Superintendent Ashley Gunner of the Yard. Given a tape recorder or a food mixer or a complex cigarette lighter, he could be happy for hours. The Movieola was just what he had always wanted to play with. “Down on the studio floor,” said the thin, bitter young man with the big ears. “They all think they make a film. Cameramen, directors, actors… All 125

they do is take pictures. This is where the film is made.” Gunner’s tour of the studio had brought him to the editing section, and this young man, Gerry Bray, was the film editor. “We take what the cameras shoot,” said Bray, “And we join it up roughly – what we call a rough cut in the trade. Then we put it through the editer here.” As he spoke he was winding a length of film on the reels of the Movieola. Then he threaded it through the little machine. He pressed a switch and on a tiny screen, reminiscent of the early days of television, a picture appeared. With another press of a button, the picture moved into life. There was a long shot of animals moving up the gangway to Noah’s Ark. It cut jerkily to an earlier shot of the Ark being built and then back to the animals again. Then followed some obscure blotches and squiggles which might loosely have been interpreted as rainfall. “Arty stuff,” said Bray. “These ruddy cameramen, they’re always up to it. Significance! And the hell with the story.” A few more scenes jerked their way across the screen. “Nine minutes shooting time,” said Gerry Bray bitterly. “And if I can salvage a minute out of it I’ll be lucky. I’ll cut those animals down to about five seconds, a quick take of the Ark – and I’ve got

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some stock shots of rain I’ll cut in to make the point of the Deluge. As for the rest…” He sniffed. Superintendent Gunner was more interested for the moment in the mechanics of the machine. But he asked one or two other questions. “I always thought that the director or the producer did all this sort of thing. I mean, once a picture starts to be filmed, I imagined they’d be in complete charge.” “Directors!” Bray sniffed waspishly. “All the good directors are is to collect fat cheques, have fun and games with the film stars and have brilliantly stupid ideas. Then they go off to the south of France to look over the latest Continental starlets and leave me to sort it out and make a film for them. At a quarter of the money.” “Producers, then – ?” “That goes twice for them. Except they go to the Bahamas. That’s the difference.” The bitterness in Bray’s voice was so plain that Gunner was forced to notice it. Was this a line of enquiry? Bitter film editor seeks revenge on those battening on his work… “You’re not allowed to smoke in this section, by the way,” Gerry Bray pointed out. “This stock is pretty inflammable. Not that it’d be any great loss, but –” Gunner hastily stubbed out his filter-tip. He hated filter-tips but Mrs. Gunner was highly susceptible to newspaper publicity. For his health’s sake she had started him smoking them. 127

Bray showed him then just how the mechanics of cutting and splicing film operated. Gunner had asked diffidently if he might splice a little bit of film himself – for the whole point of gadgets is being allowed to play with them – when the elephant rumpus began on the studio floor. “What’s all that row?” he asked. Gerry Bray shrugged. “More mess for me to clear up, I expect,” he said. * A bath, asses’ milk or not, is as vulnerable a place as any to meet the charge of a pair of panic-stricken elephants. Sir Isidore Pugh had displayed an unexpected agility in removing himself from the animals’ path. So had the cameraman and his Grip. Julie was left alone. She had never in her life felt quite so isolated. She could not even ran, for before she had left the bath the elephants would be on her. Once again, death seemed very close to Julie Wellsley.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The imminence of death has different effects on different minds. On some it is like a complete paralysis that numbs all thought. This is Nature’s anaesthesia, averting pain and sometimes bringing safety to the victim when a policy of masterly inactivity is the only hope. In a state of complete fear a man’s limbs may be amputated without his feeling anything. To many wild creatures the immobility of fear is their one hope of salvation. The opossum plays dead and will not stir even when lifted by its tail. A hare will sit in its form while the dogs actually nose it. A man will sit in helpless rigidity at the wheel of his skidding car. But there is another kind of mind to which fear and dangers are stimuli. Just as the body is triggered into immediate and instinctive action, so the mind becomes a sort of cinema screen, a Movieola like a film editor’s, through which a multitude of shots are run at instantaneous speed. Into this second category fell Julie Wellsley’s mind. The sight of the elephants triggered off that storehouse of her memory in which all she had ever known about elephants was kept. 129

Elephants fear mice and little dogs… Elephants are eighteen months in gestation… The old bulls are driven from the herd when they become cranky and dangerous… Elephant milk is three times as nutritious as cow’s milk… Elephants dote on the fruit of the datura… and a multitude of other thoughts, picture-images and even sensations were immediately dredged up and presented to Julie’s conscious mind. Somewhere among the motley collection of fact and fiction was the one key factor, the one which would save her. “Little dogs…” A boy’s story from long ago flashed onto the screen of her mind. In this the hero had halted a charging herd of wild tuskers with the help of his little terrier, whose furious barking had frightened the great beasts and brought them to a halt. On the surface, this might seem of little help. But Julie’s mind, perceiving all knowledge instantly, perceived also how to use it. She was about to reverse the common adage: “No use keeping a dog and barking yourself.” Julie began to bark. From her bath of asses’ mills rose the high-pitched yapping of a small Scotch terrier. It was followed by the deeper bark of an Alsatian. And at the first bark the elephants started skidding to a halt, like grey double-decker buses at a zebra crossing.

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At the same time Tor Granite rushed onto the set, the bath between him and the elephants. He saw the danger at once. But his mind did not work as quickly as Julie’s. Nor did he know much about either dogs or elephants. Instead he bellowed: “Stop!” His memory gave him his next line. “Hold it, you critters!” he roared. His words seemed to him to have some sobering effect on the great beasts. At the same time he saw the lovely Julie, naked – or so it appeared – in the milky bath. Impelled as much by base emotions as by heroism he charged forward, tripped over a trailing cable, and dived headfirst to join Julie in the bath. The elephants were more confused than he was. Their huge flanks quivered in fear. Mice behind; dogs and some gibbering idiot ahead. What to do? Harry Thatcher solved the problem. He appeared like a genie, nodded casually to Julie, grabbed the elephants by the ears and led them quietly away. A great thankful hush fell over the studio. People started to breathe again. But Miss Velda Power had found nobody in the front office and had followed her husband sooner than she had anticipated. But that had apparently given him enough time, she thought. The slob… She only had to turn her back for a moment and there he was, wallowing in a bath of asses’ milk with some naked brunette. 131

Velda recognised the girl. The one who had helped rescue her from durance vile. Julie something… She must be Velda’s stand-in, too. But that had little or nothing to do with the shocking scene before her. She saw her newest husband arise from the foam with the naked hussy in his arms, and in front of all the studio staff, he kissed her. Actually kissed her – smooth, naked, milky, and in public! The Power lungs drew a deep breath… * Sir Isidore bore his vocal cross not merely with stoicism, but with fortitude and experienced skill. If Velda had ever mastered the trick of foaming at the mouth she would have done so as he drew her away with soft words and murmurs of money (which would never stand in a court of law). A new version of the Granite epic was already being hastily cooked-up by the publicity boys. Julie’s inspired barking, which had not been generally understood or appreciated, was quite forgotten in the much better story of No-gun Granite, elephant tamer and hero. “The Man Whose Eyes could Stop a Tiger Tank…” and much more in the same vein. While this was going on – the soothing and the story-spinning – Granite and Julie took a bath. 132

Baths. Separate ones. In different places. The male star was kitted out from the abundant wardrobe, and Julie thankfully resumed her own clothes. They met, however, when they were both dressed. As soon as he saw her in the corridor connecting the ordinary dressing-rooms, Tor Granite rushed up. “Gee, I wuz hopin’ to meet up with you again.” “I am in no mood for Western whimsey, Mr. Granite,” said Julie, with a look that should have sawn him neatly down the middle. “Sorry, ma’am. Let’s get the hell out of here for a breath of air,” said the star, whose conversation was apt to be saddle-sore. In fact, Julie was glad to join him. She was not worried about him. The sudden kiss he had given her, flavoured with the ersatz asses’ milk, meant nothing. By this time she had his measure – not just the girth of his biceps but the size of his brain. He posed no problem to a girl with Julie’s experience of repelling boarders. And, after all the turmoil, she felt that a sight of the sky and a wind from the trees would be welcome. With her cultivated gift for knowing just where she was, she led Granite to the rear door from which Velda had previously taken her departure. As soon as they got outside Granite saw the helicopter. “Hey! Let’s go look at that chopper.”

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They walked across the grass to it and the actor swung up into the pilot’s plastic bubble as easily as he usually did into a saddle. “Are you a pilot?” asked Julie. “Sure am.” He bent forward to the control panel. A second later the engine started. Above Julie’s head the drooping rotor blades started slowly to revolve. Faster. Then a gale beat down on her; the down-draft from the blades rocked her. She grabbed at the body of the little plane for support. Tor Granite’s bearded face swooped down on her like a hirsute vulture, and his hand came down to take hers. In the same easy manner which he had employed to get her into the Rolls Royce, and into trouble in the first place, he now lifted her easily into the seat beside him. “Fasten your seat-belt, honey!” he yelled. It was too late, and too unsafe, to argue. She wrapped the webbing round her, tautened it, and smacked home the securing clip. There was a sudden lurch and they jumped awkwardly off the ground, hovered for a sickening moment, and then went smoothly skywards. As they rose Julie had a fresh outlook on the studios where everything had seemed to happen. On one side she saw the suburbs thickening away in bricks and mortar towards London. On the other was countryside with buildings clustering only along the roads. 134

There was a small village at the gates of the studio – the pub was clearly visible, the bank, the small row of shops. The original house, around which the studios had grown, was dwarfed by the great rectangles of their size. She could see clearly, too, the high barbed-wire fence which ran all around the extensive grounds, enclosing fields and woods. In the distance she saw, apparently impaled on the wire, the figure of a man. At once she clutched at Granite’s arm and made violent downward gestures. He turned the chopper on its side for a look, took it on a little, stopped in mid-air and began to descend like a high-speed lift. The man whom Julie had thought to be caught on the wire had already climbed too far over to go back easily. He dropped inside and doubled for a copse of trees. Granite dropped the plane farther. He looked down at the fugitive, shook his head, stared again, turned to Julie and shouted: “D’you know who that is?” As she looked again the man stopped, turned, looked upwards and drew something from beneath his jacket. There were only some ten yards between them. They were five yards above the grass. They could see each other’s features clearly. Julie shouted: “I recognise him. Isn’t he –”

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The plastic screen before her shivered and a patch became opaque, as a bullet passed a few inches in front of her face. * Sir Isidore was vexed, and was expressing his extreme vexation at large. In his office were Richard Quintain, Superintendent Gunner and Sir Isidore’s niece, Elvira Pugh, the continuity girl. “All right,” ranted Sir Isidore. “So nobody gets hurt. Thanks to the elephants, Granite is again a hero. But I lose another day’s shooting just the same. Maybe it will take two days to get those sets replaced. Have you any idea what two days’ loss of time costs me?” At the thought he buried his head in his hands, then beat his fists against his forehead. Velda had been despatched back to her hotel. It had taken a long time to calm her and the effort had nearly exhausted Sir Isidore. She had left without breaking anything up, although she was muttering darkly about that happening to her marriage. Julie and Tor Granite had been looked for unavailingly. Someone had said they had gone off in the helicopter, but that seemed unlikely. They had all heard the chopper beating the air overhead. It hadn’t gone far in any case. They had heard it from take-off to landing almost.

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Sir Isidore was about to burst into an impassioned flow of words when the door of his office was hurled open and a sorry figure was thrust forward. The man was followed by Julie and Tor Granite. But all eyes were for their captive. He had a sallow face and a very blue chin. His hair was coarse and matted and grew in thick sideboards below his ears. But there was something about him that they all seemed to recognise. Granite put the query into words for them. “Do you recognise this guy? You should. You’ve seen him often enough.” Sir Isidore was, not unnaturally, the first to identify the newcomer. He was accustomed to seeing through much more skilled make-up to the face below. He said: “I can hardly believe it. Roger Ripley!” Velda’s ex-husband was in a sorry state. He looked as though he had been dragged through a hedge backwards. He had. Tor Granite had seen to that. When the figure on the ground had first shot at the helicopter, the actor had swung the versatile machine about like a mustang. Julie had watched the circle of grass flattening under the down-draft of the blades and noticed how the man below seemed to swing into the centre, the bullseye. In fact, it was the helicopter swinging as Granite skilfully brought it down, battering the man with the blast of air, that created the illusion. The man 137

had dropped the gun as the wheels swung near his hand. He had tried to run, and made a few yards before the port wheel nudged him in the back like a rubber-covered sledge-hammer and sent him slithering five yards on his classic profile. By that time they were nearing the studio buildings. Granite had set the machine down, switched engines off, and manhandled the over-handsome actor – his predecessor – to the rear door and through the corridors to Sir Isidore’s office. Granite said: “He put a bullet through your chopper, Sir Issi.” The producer leapt to his feet, but not as quickly as Superintendent Gunner. “Shooting? This man has been shooting?” At last there was something definite. And someone he could get his hands on. This man – apparently an American actor turned gangster – was undoubtedly responsible for all the happenings in the studio. It was just the sort of thing an American might do, he told himself darkly. Foreigners. And using a gun, too! He reached for his notebook. * “Police everywhere,” sighed Sir Isidore, when Gunner had departed with his captive and witness. 138

“Proper police, and you too, Mr. Quintain. Not forgetting yourself, Miss Wellsley.” Julie felt the look that Elvira Pugh shot at her. Her undercover role seemed to be falling from her in pieces like the clothes from a stripper. Quintain too realised this. He changed the conversation. “I’d like to have a look at your zoo, Sir Isidore,” he said, rising. “The key to the puzzle should be there if anywhere. The lion escaping, now the elephants… Either somebody is being extremely slack or –” “Not Harry Thatcher. On him I’d stake my life,” declared Sir Isidore passionately. “If this goes on, maybe you will be,” Quintain warned him. They all rose to leave the office. Elvira moved towards the door. She passed close to Julie and as she did so Julie felt her nose twitch with some faint, half-remembered odour. It was so very faint that she could not place it. Perhaps it did not matter. Yet something in the back of her mind was telling her that it did. It mattered a lot. Elvira was asking for some time off, Julie noted as she left the office. “Time off!” hooted Sir Isidore. “With all the world shattering and she asks for time off yet. Only one’s own relations could be so hard. All the years I lavish and the jobs and…”

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“I’m only asking for a few hours, uncle,” Elvira retorted with the nearest to asperity Julie had heard from anybody in the studio, when talking to Sir Isidore. “And you said yourself there would be no more shooting today.” “All right, Elvira. So take the day off. But if your poor dear father is not in his grave I think you would bring him close. Oy, oy, such ingratitude…” That was all Julie heard. But it started a new line of thought in her mind. Being a relative of the great man might bring a girl a job in films – but it had its disadvantages, too. Julie had to hurry to catch up with the others. She could see Quintain’s eyes taking in every detail of the studio in a panoramic sweep. They took in the bath and then swept towards Julie. Momentarily his eyebrows rose quizzically and expressively. Julie felt herself gushing and she would have given anything to be able to explain that she had, after all, been wearing a bikini. But there seemed no real way to introduce the subject. He must think what he liked. Harry Thatcher, the animal man, was in his office, glaring indignantly at a mouse-eaten cardboard box. “No blooming wonder the elephants went wild!” he raged as they entered. “I found this in their pen. And what was in it.” He indicated a small cage on a filing cabinet. 140

“Mice?” said Sir Isidore, puzzled. “But surely –” “Elephants tend to be afraid of mice,” Quintain explained. “If somebody put mice into their pen, it could easily stampede them. Is that what you think happened, Mr. Thatcher?” “No doubt about it at all,” snapped Harry. “And if I ever set hands on the perisher –” Quintain picked the box up delicately by its corners. “We could be getting somewhere at last,” he said. “This box should take fingerprints well. We must hand it over to Superintendent Gunner.” Harry Thatcher was muttering away to himself. He said to Quintain: “Hanging’s too good for the likes of them. Bull elephants are delicate animals, Mr. Quintain. You know something? – an elephant can break its leg just slipping. And it’s cold out there in the studio. Next thing I’ll be having pneumonia on my hands. I tell you, Mr. Quintain, you really got to nurse an elephant with pneumonia before you know what trouble is.” Quintain smiled his sympathy. Even more than before he was inclined to scratch Harry Thatcher from the suspect list. This man was genuine. He would not imperil his animals. “No idea who could have done it?” “There’s nobody else ever comes into the animal lines only me and George, my swamper. He sweeps out the pens.”

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Intent on his questions, Quintain did not notice the expression on Julie’s face. It was one of sudden understanding and recollection. Julie was remembering Clarence, her Nature-boy of long ago. Once Clarence had kept a pet owl. The digestive processes of owls require that they be fed on their natural diet – viz, small birds and rodents. How Clarence squared his conscience on this was something Julie had never quite understood. For Clarence affected to be fond of all animals. Yet in order to maintain the owl, he had to feed other animals to it. And the animals he had mainly given the owl were mice. As clearly as if it were only yesterday, Julie could remember the odour of mice that used to hang around Clarence, for he nearly always seemed to have one in his pocket – alive or dead – as a titbit for the pet owl. And that odour she had smelled again that day. It had emanated from Elvira Pugh. Now Julie was as sure as if she had seen the girl do it that Elvira had put the mice in the elephant’s pen. She would almost gamble that it had been Elvira who had pitched her into the snake-pit, too. And if Elvira had indeed been responsible for these two things, why not for the release of Leo as well? As the certainty surged within her, Julie was tempted to tell Quintain of her suspicion. But she bit back the impulse. Suspicion was not proof. 142

And the memory of a smell was such a triviality that she could not bring herself to mention it. Also, illogically, there was the memory of Quintain’s look as they passed the bath. She would make him pay for that, Julie thought. To increase Julie’s annoyance, Quintain hardly glanced at her when she said she was going. He merely waved a hand, vaguely. “This George,” Quintain was asking. “How much do you know about him?” Julie had almost broke into a run when she left the zoo. She was remembering Elvira’s request for time off. If the girl had already gone… Hot and strong within Julie was that feeling that comes in every case. She was on the right line at last. Elvira Pugh was just leaving the studio in a small, neat saloon of foreign vintage. There was no time for Julie to get her own small two-water from where it was parked. But a taxi was passing. She hailed it. “Follow that car!” she panted. She smiled as the taxi ground off. It wasn’t every day she got the chance to use a cliche to such effect.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Quintain felt a sensation akin to Julie’s when he saw Harry Thatcher’s “swamper”. George was sweeping out the camel pen as Quintain reached him. He looked bigger, hairier and more prognathic than ever. “Mr. George Oldacre?” asked Quintain. George leaned on his brush and gazed at his questioner. “Brother of the Rev. Stanley Oldacre?” pursued Quintain. “Maybe.” It was not a sparkling conversation. Quintain conducted it with regret. He had been so sure that the Oldacre brothers were in the clear. But it must be much more than a coincidence that George should be an employee in the studio zoo. Outside, the Rev. Stanley with his banners; inside, the brother with the dope. And he was the brother. The family likeness was there. It tied up much too neatly to be pure coincidence. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” said Quintain, feeling uncomfortably like an official policeman. 144

“And suppose I don’t choose to answer?” George riposted, squandering words as if they grew on trees. “I think it would be in your own interests,” Quintain told him. A moment later he had collected a large faceful of George’s brush, now in a thoroughly unsanitary condition. The attack was so swift and so unexpected that Quintain was sent reeling backwards. As he reeled, George rushed past him and down the alley between the cages. And as he ran, he was jerking open bolts and swinging gates wide. Deftly he was leaving a trail of chaos behind him. “George!” shouted Harry Thatcher. “For God’s sake –” Quintain was already in swift pursuit, furious with himself at being taken unawares, more furious with George for his odiferous assault. Frantically Harry was trying to shut the gates. In most cases he suucceeded, but the agile lynxes had been bored for a long time. So had Mr. Eustace, the chimpanzee, and a cageful of rhesus monkeys. So had a pair of springbok which were not, in any case, very well trained. Harry had left them out of the grand parade altogether. More serious was the eruption of a long-horned, black South African rhinoceros. Rhinoceri are of notoriously short temper and this one was no exception. It was called Basabahuto, which in the Na-Kalanga tongue (for it had been captured by 145

Na-Kalanga tribesmen) signifies Great Big Angriness. Of the chaotic events behind him Quintain knew nothing. He was swarming up a steel ladder in the wake of George Oldacre who could climb as agilely as a monkey, in spite of his size. The ladder led to the gantries and girders which supported lights and other equipment, and from which scenery flats could be supported. George Oldacre went racing across the first catwalk and took to a narrow girder. Reluctantly but hardly more slowly Quintain followed. The anger was burning deeply inside him. To be duped by the Oldacre brothers seemed a singularly shameful matter to him, for hardly ever had he allowed himself to be deceived before – not in this way, at any rate. And there was, of course, the matter of the yard brush. The studio floor seemed a long, long way down. The girder was very narrow. And at its end waited George, crouched like a gorilla, which he so much resembled. “You’re not doing yourself any good by all this,” said Quintain. “You can’t get away for long.” George’s teeth flashed in a quick, simian smile. Then without warning he hurled himself at Quintain, straight along the girder. This was not the kind of charge which could be conveniently side-stepped. Quintain ducked under the outstretched, groping aims and

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slammed in four of the best punches he had ever delivered in his life. Two of them took George in the body – one in the solar plexus and the other over the heart. The other two exploded crisply on his massive jaw. They were punches adequate to knock anyone out, delivered with all the rancour-fed anger of which Quintain was capable. And they did indeed bring a glazing to George’s eyes, a loss of consciousness to his mind. But they did it just fractionally too slowly. For even as he slumped, George’s massive arms clutched Quintain in a bear-like embrace. They swayed and toppled slowly from the girder. * Detective-Sergeant Hancock was enjoying himself. A young man of limited tastes, his principle pleasure in life was chatting up girls, the more nubile and pretty the better. And one thing a film studio provides in quantity is nubile, good-looking girls. “It must be so exciting to be a detective,” said the dark-haired and beautiful Patti Dale. “I mean, aren’t you always chasing murderers and jewel thieves and all that?” “Oh, we have our moments,” Sergeant Hancock agreed modestly. He looked at Patti shrewdly through half-closed lids. 147

He shot a quick glance to either side. They were pretty well alone in a sort of alcove beside the dressing-rooms. “Are you doing anything tonight?” he asked. “Sauce!” said Patti in delight. “What’s it to you?” “We could do it together,” he breathed, edging closer. “Do what?” she asked demurely. “Oh, you know. Flicks, supper somewhere… You know.” Patti did know and her dark eyes glinted not altogether without pleasure. Sergeant Hancock shot another sidelong glance to make sure he was still unobserved and reached out a hand to place on Patti’s knee. This, in his experience, was the crucial moment. He could tell pretty well from a girl’s reaction to a hand on the knee what her further reactions would be. On the brow of Sergeant Hancock a tiny furrow of perplexity grew into life. He was almost certain the girl had not been wearing a fur coat. And he was almost certain that she had a smooth, nyloned, eminently strokeable leg, certainly not a hairy, muscular one such as now throbbed within his grasp. Appearances, of course, could be deceptive. Little as he preferred to gaze at a girl during this initial try-out leg-stroking operation (for he had found it added an element of inscrutability to look away) he had turned to face her. 148

For a moment he thought she had grown a beard too. But it was actually Mr. Eustace, the chimpanzee, who faced him. Patti lay in a corner of the seat where she had quietly fainted when the ape climbed in through the window at the back of the alcove. She had done small parts in several horror films but there they had kept the horror strictly on the set. This was altogether too much like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Blankly, the sergeant was still holding the ape’s hand when Superintendent Gunner bustled up, carrying the mouse box. “So there you are! Well, stop playing about with that damn monkey, sergeant, and run me a quick finger-print test on this box. I think we’ve got a line at last.” The beautiful Patti was coming round by then. She got up and hurried away on her stilt heels as the sergeant took the box in almost nerveless fingers and made for the car and his fingerprinting equipment. A little later he was able to give his chief the result of his work. “Only one set of dabs, sir,” he said. “Or at least the same set repeated several times.” “You’re sure of that?” asked Gunner sharply. “Certainly, sir. Only one set.”

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“I suspected as much,” mused Gunner. “Come on, Hancock. I think we can make an arrest…” They were hurrying past the Ark when two figures plummeted down from the darkness above, to send a fountain of spray showering from the tank over them. Quintain waded wearily to the side, dragging George Oldacre with him. “I’d have thought you’d have more to do, Quintain, than go harking around in ponds,” said Gunner severely. “Never mind, you can come along with me while I make my arrest.” “Arrest?” Quintain echoed. “I’ve checked the prints on the box that held the mice,” Gunner answered. “There are only one lot of dabs. We all saw Harry Thatcher handling that box. The prints must be his. He must have planted that box himself. He’s our man all right.” Quintain started to protest, then fell silent. He concentrated on heaving George out of the tank. The cold water dip had begun to bring him round. * The chaos that may be brought about in a film studio by a pair of random lynxes, a chimpanzee, a cageful of rhesus monkeys, a springbok and a rhinoceros is better imagined than described. Indeed, it is doubtful if there are any words adequate for such a description. 150

Let the reader then set his own mind to work with the proviso that, miraculously, there is almost no bloodshed but considerable damage to the flimsier kind of property. He will thus save himself several pages of narrative that, while interesting in itself, adds little to the story. Harry Thatcher, of course, was at work on the task of coaxing, trapping, and driving his reluctant charges back into their various cages. Wisely, Superintendent Ashley Gunner forebore to make his arrest until this task was complete. And by this time Julie Wellsley was dismounting from her taxi and following Elvira Pugh into the Savoy Hotel in the Strand. It had been a surprise to be led to this lush retreat, for Elvira had not seemed a Savoy sort of person. Yet, from the manner in which she was received and her car spirited away to a parking place, she was well-known here. More and more strongly Julie felt that she was on the right track. Though she could have no knowledge of where that track was to lead her, at least for the moment her caravan rested. She hoped it would rest long enough for a drink and some food. Nor was she disappointed.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

There are, in fiction, certain detectives who possess an uncanny ability for instant disguise. They may walk through a doorway as Mr. A., an elegant, upright, honourable person. Once within however, almost as the door closes, they become Mr. B., a stooped, sinister, shabby individual. Julie, not being a detective, lacked this ability. Never had she felt that lack so strongly as at this moment. If Elvira Pugh had looked round and seen her, recognition would have been instant. But Julie did what she could. Furtively she smeared on more lipsticks and donned a pair of darkly-tinted sunglasses. She did her best to give her lissom body an unnatural stoop by which she reduced her height at least two inches. She pulled her dark hair down about her forehead a little. And she followed Sir Isidore’s niece into the American Bar. There was, luckily, an empty seat in a corner and Julie took it quickly, head a little bent, gazing at Elvira over the edge of her dark glasses. In some subtle way Elvira had changed. The clothes were the same; the shape was the same. The hair was still as dowdy. Yet now Sunbury 152

Studio’s continuity girl seemed to have taken on a new glow. From within had come this transmogrification and not from without. The cause was quite plain. For Elvira was meeting a man here and it was his presence that had produced from within the girl this new personality. Elvira Pugh, it was plain to Julie, was in love. The man was tall, elegant, and wore thin tortoise-shell spectacles. He could have been any age between thirty and forty-five, for his tanned face was almost unlined. He bore himself with a brusque confidence, an arrogance that eyed the room a little contemptuously. There was a foreign flavour to him, and Julie was tempted to opt for Hungary as his place of origin. Elvira hung on his every word and gesture, herself infected with a vivacious gaiety completely foreign to her studio personality. Julie sipped a dry Martini and pondered. Where did the tall, elegant man fit into the scheme of things? How was she going to find out? The brittle society laughter that cascaded about the bar drowned whatever the pair might be saying. Julie made a resolve to learn lip-reading some time. *

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Back at the studios only the rhinoceros remained to be recaptured and the sooner that happened the sooner a lot of people were going to be pleased. Harry Thatcher was going to be pleased for he could see that sooner or later Basabahuto was going to be seriously injured. The rhinoceros is a short-sighted beast at best. It charges at an impression of movement and not at a clearly-seen target. Lacking any high degree of manoeuverability, if it misses its target its charge is liable to take it headlong on. And thus it may strike something solid or fall into a hole or simply trip over an obstacle. A fall for a three-ton rhinoceros can mean a broken limb or worse. Harry Thatcher was going to be very pleased indeed when the rhino was recaptured. Quintain was going to share his pleasure, for at the moment the investigator found himself to be Basabahuto’s direct target. Head down, its long fore horn glinting in the studio light, the rhino looked as irresistible as a runaway train. Quintain had no heroic intentions of halting the brute with his bare hands. But he did know that rhinos were short-sighted. As it bore down on him, he leapt lightly aside with the agility of a learner-matador who does not quite trust the bull’s interest in the cape.

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Basabahuto thundered past. Ahead loomed the high doors of the studio. The rhino had no time – or perhaps intention – to stop. The doors lacked the ability to stop him. Partly shattered, partly smashed from their hinges, the doors splayed wide. The rhino burst through into the open air. Harry Thatcher gave a long groan of despair. “He’ll catch his death of cold!” Quintain was already racing after the animal, a raging despair in his heart. He could imagine just the kind of havoc a rampaging rhinoceros could create in the moderately quiet suburban streets of Sunbury. Head down, tail high and rigid, the rhino headed as if by instinct for the main gate to the studio. Freedom lay ahead. An Express Dairy milk-float, drawn by a short-sighted milkman, crossed its path and was tossed casually to one side amid a flood of milk and the crunching of broken glass. Then the main studio gates parted before the monstrous impact of the rhino’s head. Basabahuto was free. Quiptain was a long way behind now, for a rhino on the charge can reach thirty miles an hour. If he only had a gun, he thought, then dismissed the idea as ludicrous. A pea-shooter would not have been much less useful. The Association for the Suppression of Sacreligious Biblical Films was still parading 155

before the gates, its banners bright in the dying sun. There were horrified screams as the rhino erupted from the gate into their midst. A.S.S.B.F. banners flailed vainly and a coroner’s jury seemed about to have a very clear case put before it. The picket’s leader, the Rev. Stanley Oldacre, heard the cries and turned. Suddenly he was a figure of raging strength. He ploughed through the broken ranks of his own followers and hurled himself on the rhino, towering over it like a demigod. His outstretched right hand grabbed the rhino’s beaky little snout, his left clutched its second horn. His shoulder dipped and smacked into the rhino’s shoulder at the same moment as his right leg hooked itself round the rhino’s right foreleg. And all this was done with a perfect sense of timing. Pressure and impact were almost simultaneous and the rhino had no hope at all of keeping its feet. It hit the ground with a thud that shook the teacups in their saucers in the cafe across the road (Studio View – See the Stars in comfort). And the Rev. Stanley Oldacre snarled an order in a new, strange, alien accent. “Piggin’ strings… and make it snappy!” Amongst his devoted band, fortunately, were several aficionados of the Western, both in literature and on the screen. At once raincoat belts were swiftly proffered and with a few deft 156

movements of hands and wrists the Rev. Stanley had hog-tied the rhino fore and aft in unloosable bonds. He was not even breathing hard as he arose. “Now, brethren, let us be about our work,” he said as he picked up his banner. The TV news cameraman who had come to film the demonstration – for it was a slack, news-less day – turned to his colleague. “The things they do for publicity these days!” * In the American Bar of the Savoy, Julie felt she was being the subject of some discussion. Glancing towards the doorway, she noticed a waiter eyeing her. Unaccompanied personable females haunting bars are not, on the whole, popular with the management of the more respectable type of hotel. There is always a possibility that they may turn out to be there for, as they say in court, “a certain purpose”. And such a cocktail bar as Julie then occupied would certainly be an excellent hunting ground for a hunting sort of girl. A second waiter joined the first and Julie’s covert glance convinced her without a doubt that they were discussing her. In a moment action would follow.

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“The shame,” she thought. “The ignominy. Taken for a tart and getting the bum’s rush from the Savoy.” Even worse would be, losing contact with her suspect, Elvira Pugh. But for the moment that aspect of the matter, did not strike her. In the space of a few seconds many wild solutions to the problem occurred to Julie. She could counterfeit a faint. She could dive beneath the table and hide, perhaps crawl about from table to table. At worst, perhaps, she could go and join her quarry at the bar. That would certainly nonplus Elvira, whatever her game might be. Or would it? This new, almost soignee Elvira looked as if she could stand a good deal of non-plussing. The waiters had left the door and were advancing towards her. Of that Julie had no doubt at all. On their faces determination was writ large. It was going to be the bum’s rush after all – unless she could think and act very quickly indeed. It would have to be the faint, she thought. Anything else would be just too humiliating. Salvation came out of nowhere. “As I live and love,” murmured a deep and spurious American accent. “If it isn’t our beautiful Julie Wellsley, pride of the Quintain stables, trying to look like Mata Hari.” Julie could not remember ever having been quite so glad to see anyone as she was at that

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moment when Bill Kirby, of the Daily Post, slipped into the empty seat beside her. “Thank goodness!” she breathed. “If you hadn’t shown up…” The waiters were halting at the table, hovering around Julie. She had a horrid sick feeling in her stomach that they thought she had now achieved her purpose of baiting the hook and that the fish had bitten. “I must say I never expected to see you here, Bill,” she said loudly. “Do you come here often? Isn’t the floor nice? I mean…” A waiter bent. “Pardon me, miss…” Here it comes, she thought, the old heave-ho. “Yes?” she answered distantly. If the rush came she would accept it with duchess-like dignity. And here, at the Savoy, of course, there would be no actual violence… she hoped. It was some moments before she heard – that is really heard – the words being uttered. “And it’d be a real favour, Miss. Like the missus has always followed your films and…” Dimly, Julie realised that an autograph book was being held out before her. The relief made her almost giddy. Now she had it. She had been mistaken for a film star. In a way it was quite appropriate. Swiftly and illegibly she scrawled across the page and flashed a dazzling smile at the waiter. 159

“I told you it was her,” she heard the first man tell the second as they withdrew. Bill Kirby grinned satirically. “Who did they mistake you for? Greta Garbo?” “Watch out they don’t mistake you for Rudolph Valentino,” she parried. He stared at her. “Valentino?” he repeated. “Do I look like Valentino? But he’s been dead for years.” “Exactly,” she answered sweetly. There were times, she decided, when Kirby asked for it. Then she went on: “Anyway, what are you doing here?” “It’s part of the routine patrol,” Kirby sighed. “Where nightly I immolate myself in the interests of my three million readers. Not that there are so many stories to be picked up here these days. Everyone seems to be cutting down on expense accounts just now… And you? How goes fillums? Oh, Quintain was on the blower to me with a sort of outline of what you were up to, so you needn’t be surprised. Though I’ll bet the waiters will be if they ever decipher your signature.” It was natural enough, Julie realised as her relief subsided, that Bill Kirby should be there. If she had only looked around her more carefully she might have spotted him before and saved herself a good deal of grief. Much light-hearted badinage followed during which Julie contrived to get Kirby to point out the various notabilities present; the South American ambassador with the South African wife (though not his own wife); the Arab sheikh from an 160

oil-rich area of sand and rock who travelled with an ever-changing entourage of young blondes whom he bestowed on his lucky friends and more fortunate acquaintances as if they were no more than Cadillacs; the few editors whose expense accounts still ran to the Savoy; the younger son of a duke who had formed a close attachment to the older son of a dustman. Scandal flowed lightly from Kirby’s lips even though most of it would never sully the columns of “Around and About”, his regular page in the Daily Post. “Now tell me,” he said at last. “Who is it you really want to know about? Grafbech or Todt?” He lifted an eyebrow towards a very fat, short man, and then to Elvira Pugh’s companion. Julie maintained a studied calm. “Tell me all,” he chided. “I’ve already promised I won’t break the story until Quintain gives me permission. And the person you’re interested in must be one of those two. They’re the only film people here.” Julie tried to look remote and mysterious but failed miserably. “All right, Bill, I’ll trust you. Millions of girls wouldn’t, but I have to. Tell me about Todt.” “A bit of a dark horse,” Kirby admitted. “Comes from Hungary, I think. Came over after the war. But he seems to be in control of Pinetree Studios. They say he’s a new broom, sweeping clean. Something new is certainly happening over there. 161

American money involved. I happen to know they’ve cancelled their order for custard pies and the whole place is sewn up tight.” Pinetree Studio’s former claim to fame had been its regular production of slapstick pictures in which custard pies, and the loss of trousers and skirts were the main elements. Many a healthy, happy laugh had they provided, but that particular vein had been mined to almost the last titter. Julie mulled over this. In what she had been told there could be something… something. A nerve or a premonition or just a plain hunch twitched uneasily somewhere within her. Another film company… Elvira Pugh… Quintain should know about this, she thought. She was about to rise and phone when Elvira and the man Kirby called Todt moved away from the bar. If the two were going to eat, Julie thought, she could still telephone. But if they left… Elvira and her Hungarian boy-friend left, and the call was never made. Kirby made a half-hearted offer to go with Julie. But he was a little relieved at her refusal. He had several more calls to make before he could expect to see his column filled for the day. Julie set off alone, following Elvira’s car in another taxi.

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She was smiling rather complacently to herself as she sat back in the coldly upholstered seat. As a sleuth she decided she was doing rather well. She would have felt less pleased with herself if she had known exactly what she was walking – or rather driving – into.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Richard Quintain and Superintendent Ashley Gunner were a little at odds in the matter of their suspects. These suspects were gathered under Sergeant Hancock’s eye in one of the offces while the two men argued in another which they had commandeered for their own use. The suspects were, for Gunner: Harry Thatcher; and for Quintain: the brothers Oldacre. The extraordinary Roger Ripley did not enter into their discussions any longer. He was guilty of a crime, certainly. He had been responsible for placing the explosive device in the Rolls, which he freely admitted. In fact, they had some difficulty in stopping his flow of words. He started to tell them of his married life with Velda Power, of his divorce in Las Vegas, and of his belated discovery that she was, after all, the great love of his life. The news that Tor Granite had taken his place in the marital bed and was, incidentally, having more success in films than he himself, had preyed on his mind, goading him into an attempt to sabotage both the marriage and the careers of the newlyweds. 164

He had managed, by well-chosen swords in the right ears, to wreck the Hollywood negotiations for Velda’s next film; and then, inflamed by this success, he had decided to carry his personal vendetta further. His-casual disguise – sallow make-up and a coarse wig over his normally sleek fair hair – had been sufficient to keep him from recognition by most people, who knew him only as a two-dimensional figure. After the accident with the Rolls had misfired, he had attempted to break into the studio with the idea of shooting Granite. Once widowed it was more than likely that Velda, when she recovered from the shock, would cast around for another husband. And what better, in her distress and grief, than a husband she already knew? Superintendent Gunner was inclined to think that Ripley was somewhat deranged – a belief borne out by the man’s wild statements. He had called on the local police for help, and Ripley had been taken to the nearest police station to make a formal statement. Afterwards Gunner had spoken to the Yard, and the Commissioner was now in conversation with the American Embassy. It was more than likely, Gunner told Quintain, that the actor could be deported as an undesirable alien, rather than they should go to the trouble of bringing proceedings against him. But in any case, whether sane or mentally unbalanced, Gunner was confident he could be absolved of the events which had taken place in the studio. 165

The other suspect was Harry Thatcher. But Quintain did not agree with the Superintendent on this point. “I can’t see Thatcher doing anything that might harm one of his animals,” he said firmly. “Putting those mice in the elephants’ pen was more than a stupid prank – it could have caused the animals to injure themselves as well as the people in the studio. Thatcher might take a chance with the human element, but not with his beloved animals.” “But his prints are the only ones on the box,” Gunner insisted. “The real villain could have worn gloves,” said Quintain. “Gloves!” Gunner repeated, thinking of George Oldacre’s enormous hands. “I’d like to see that gorilla of yours trying to cram his hands into a pair of gloves!” That was one weakness in his case against George, Quintain thought. There had been no sign of gloves in the zoo; and – as Gunner had said – the kind of glove that would fit those vast hands had yet to be manufactured. “But the Rev. Stanley got the dope, I’d almost swear to that,” said Quintain. “And with brother George as his inside man…” “Arresting clergymen is one way of putting yourself on the wrong side of promotion,” Gunner commented gloomily.

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Quintain sighed. Only one course seemed open now. “Let’s have them in and question them,” he said. “Who shall we start with?” The Superintendent was cagey, as ever. “Let’s have your choice first,” he said. Quintain called in the Reverend Stanley Oldacre. “That was a remarkable feat of yours, tying up the rhino,” Quintain said, in an effort to put the other at his ease. But it seemed hardly necessary, for the giant clergyman had relaxed into a position of immediate comfort. “Anathema though unkindness to animals may be,” the Rev. Stanley responded, “I felt it necessary. The animal might well have caused damage or injury to others or even to itself.” “Nevertheless, it was a remarkable act;” Quintain insisted. “There can’t be many trained rodeo performers in England.” The Rev. Stanley nodded with a troubled brow. “It is true that in the unregenerate days of our youth, George and I did stray from the paths of convention. Indeed, to put it no finer, we were what is described in the United States as a pair of saddle bums. I prefer, however, to forget that part of my life… A rhinoceros is not, on the whole, as hard to bulldoze as a trained Brahma bull. Unsophisticated is how I can best describe a rhinoceros. Now, with a rodeo-trained bull… But I am boring you?” 167

“Not at all,” said Quintain. “But it seems strange that a man like yourself would administer dangerous drugs to animals.” “Not dangerous!” the Rev. Stanley began, then looked vexed. “Oh dear! I seem to have given myself away.” “Then you do admit poisoning Ivor Evans?” said Gunner eagerly. “Or at least being a party to his death?” “Poisoning who?” demanded the Rev. Stanley and his bewilderment was patently honest and unfeigned. “Don’t deny you know nothing about the murder of one of the camera Grips,” said Gunner. “You’ve just admitted –” “Just a moment, Superintendent,” Quintain cautioned. He turned to the Reverend Stanley and said: “Why did you obtain those dope pills from Joey Presto?” “So he told you, did he?” mused the Rev. Stanley. “Now that is a surprise. I was sure he would keep silence. I was able to save his life at one time and he did give me a quite convincing dog-like devotion – though it never extended, I fear, to his own moral regeneration. In a way it was quite useful to know a member of the criminal classes, I must admit. I’m sure I could never have got the pills elsewhere, though we did use something rather similar in the rodeos when

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we suspected a horse of being just a little too… vigorous.” “But what were you going to use the pills for?” Quintain demanded. “Why, the lions of course,” replied the Rev. Stanley. “And the other more spectacular animals. Obviously if they were asleep or comatose they would be unable to assist in this impious film. George mixed the pills with the lions’ morning coffee – though they had surprisingly little effect, it seems…” “The lions’ morning coffee?” echoed a dazed Gunner. But Quintain was remembering. “The dope that killed Evans was mixed with coffee,” said Quintain. And it gave him a certain satisfaction to see an expression of whole-hearted dismay and horror cross the face of the Reverend Stanley Oldacre. And thereafter, with a little deft questioning of the other witnesses, the pattern of Ivor Evans’ death began to emerge. “George Oldacre mixed the dope into the coffee that Harry Thatcher usually gave his lions every morning,” explained Quintain. “If the beasts had drunk it they would have gone into an extra deep sleep, but no particular harm would have been done – except to Sir Isidore’s shooting schedule, which is what the A.S.S.B.F. wanted. But somehow or other, somebody else got that particular coffee jug and Ivor Evans was given a cup – a cup that 169

killed him. The question is – how did he get the cup? Was it an accident? Or was it given to him intentionally?” “But that would be murder!” gasped the Rev. Stanley, now alive to all the aspects of the matter. “Murder is what we’re investigating,” Superintendent Gunner said grimly. * Afterwards Julie Wellsley was never quite sure if she had been spotted at the Savoy, if her taxi had been noticed following Elvira’s car, or whether their discovery of her had come at the very last moment. The facts were that Elvira sped directly to Pinetree Studios, drove to the back of the studio, parked her car and entered, with Todt at her side, through a small wicket gate. Julie paid off her taxi, approached the gate cautiously, and found to her delight that it was open a fraction of an inch. She pushed it wider and gazed into the blackness beyond. A distant red glow was bobbing against the black bulk of a studio building. One of them was smoking, she thought with relief. They’d gone on – wherever they were going. She pulled the gate to behind her and started across the empty darkness of an unused lot. She

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walked cautiously, but swiftly, not wishing to lose her quarry. She reached the corner of the studio block, passed it, and walked into trouble. The cigarette was glowing just ahead of, her, lighting up a face so that the features were visible. They were a woman’s features. The features of Elvira Pugh. Julie had just time to remember that Elvira did not smoke. Then, deftly, she was rabbit-punched from behind at the nape of the neck. She did not hear Elvira’s voice as she slumped forward, unconscious. “I hope you haven’t killed her, Stefan,” said the renegade niece of Sir Isidore Pugh. It did not sound as if she was hoping very hard.

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

That men take women for granted is, of course, a truism. But truisms are truisms mainly because they are true. And though this one is devoted mainly to the relations between husband and wife it applies equally to those between boss and secretary. That is, Richard Quintain sometimes took Julie Wellsley for granted. When he thought about it, he granted readily that she was the perfect secretary, that she was beautiful and intelligent. Above all, her great virtue was that she was always there when she was wanted. Definitely. She was wanted now… and she was not there. And when he thought about it, Quintain was forced to concede that he did not even know when she had ceased to be there. It had been an eventful hour or two. “She must have gone home before the animals were let out,” he thought. And yet it wasn’t like Julie to skip off without saying a word. The only time she had ever done that before was when he had mortally offended her by failing to notice her new hairstyle. Surely there was nothing like that this time? 172

Quintain tried to think back but could uncover nothing from his memory. Was she still in the studio? It was big enough for Julie to be around, though unseen. Nearly everyone had gone home by now save for the principals, but Quintain found a night fireman and sent him off to search for her. Meanwhile, Superintendent Ashley Gunner was questioning Sir Isidore Pugh. He was getting the facts straight about the way the refreshments were served at the studio. There was, it seemed, a large canteen in a separate building which catered for meals as well as what in the trade are called light refreshments – though lightness rarely has anything to do with the stodge served at a canteen. For those actually on set, a heated trolley was provided carrying jugs of tea and coffee and a strictly limited quantity of sugar. There were also cups and spoons – or rather, the usual solitary spoon. There was no attendant. “Pay money for someone to stand around all day? You think I’m mad?” Sir Isidore demanded. “Everyone fetches their own coffee, or has it fetched for them. Oh, it’s good coffee. I drink it myself.” Quintain broke in at this point. “You don’t fetch it yourself, though?” he asked. “I’m a dog I should do my own barking?” Sir Isidore said indignantly. “I send someone; clapper boy, continuity girl, anyone. They bring me a jug and –” 173

The picture grew sharper in Quintain’s mind. It was a picture of an unattended trolley carrying jugs and cups. To it came George Oldacre, with his lion sleeping pills. Into a jug went the pills. And then, somehow, George had picked up the wrong jug – or had it been “somehow”? “After you doped the coffee, you didn’t take it straight to the zoo,” said Quintain. “Why not?” The Swamper scratched his hairy head. “I don’t remember. Someone called me,” he muttered. “Who? Harry Thatcher?” demanded Gunner, unwilling to relinquish as suspect. George shook his head. “Harry sent me for the coffee. Oh, I don’t remember…” Someone had called him away. That was all he could remember. And that someone had given the doped jug to the Grip. But why? Why could anyone want to do that to such a seemingly inoffensive little man? What reason could they have? “Wait a bit,” said Sir Isidore unexpectedly. “I remember now. This morning I had no coffee. I was called to the office as my coffee was brought. It could be my coffee that Ivor Evans drank. His dolly was by me. I remember the jug being put down at my side….” Sir Isidore’s face had gone very pale. “That coffee was meant for me!” he gasped. “It was me who was to be poisoned!” 174

* Sir Isidore had looked pale, but not nearly as pale as Julie Wellsley at Pinetree Studios when she swam muzzily up into the seas of consciousness again. Caution kept her still and kept her eyes closed. There were voices close by her. “And I say the clothes will have to come off. The hyenas will dispose of flesh and bones pretty well – but they’re not going to eat cloth. The clothes will go into the furnace.” “What’s wrong with just dumping her into the furnace complete, then?” There was an exasperated sigh. “I’ve told you, it’s an oil-fired furnace. It’ll burn the clothes all right, but it would just cook a body…” Julie allowed her eyelashes to lift a fraction. The man called Stefan Todt and Elvira Pugh were standing over her. She had a well-founded and unpleasant conviction that it was her body they were discussing. “You shouldn’t have hit her so hard, Stefan,” complained Elvira. “I mean, this is real murder. Evans was only an accident.” “An accident that he died instead of your uncle?” the man sneered. “If it ever got to the courts I doubt if they’d accept that.” 175

“I didn’t mean to kill anyone,” Elvira complained. “When I saw George, the swamper, putting the stuff into the coffee I thought it was a laxative. Harry Thatcher was worried about the lions. I thought a laxative for lions would make I.P. pretty uncomfortable for a while… and hold up shooting. That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” There was a note akin to hysteria in her voice. Todt tried to sooth her. “Now, now, little dove, not to worry so. All will be well soon. No one will know of this girl’s coming here. And even if they do… it is not for nothing they call the hyena the scavenger of the wilderness.” Julie heard a faint sob from Elvira. Then there were further soothing sounds from Todt. “Oh, Stefan, you are so good to me. But I wish it was over. I wish it was all over. Even now I could almost go back to I.P. if only it would be over.” Stefan Todt’s voice grew harsh. “As their Shakespeare says, one must be bloody bold and resolute.” Like many an unfortunate schoolboy he had omitted the Swan of Avon’s essential comma. The point was the same, though. “Now let’s get her stripped. You burn the clothes and I’ll put the body in the hyena’s cage. It is not a thing for a nice girl to see.”

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Julie raised an inward eyebrow. “Quelle delicatesse,” she thought. She felt curiously unworried. There was a high degree of incompetence about this pair of conspirators. Usually before disposing of a body it is conventional to ensure that it is a body, that life had departed. Stefan Todt must have greatly overestimated the power of his rabbit-punch. “I don’t like the idea of you having to undress her,” complained Elvira. “It doesn’t seem right somehow.” Julie had the feeling that to Stefan Todt it was not only right but necessary. She sensed the man stooping over her, felt his fingers begin to fumble at her clothes. In a moment he was almost certain to realise that she was alive. It was time for action. There were occasions when Julie Wellsley could behave in a thoroughly unladylike way. The vicissitudes of being secretary to a man like Richard Quintain had taught her many a trick that would have been frowned on at Roedean. As she sensed Stefan Todt stoop close, she drew both legs up swiftly and lashed out with them together. The blows landed simultaneously in the man’s abdomen – which was, frankly, a little less than she had intended. But they were good kicks just the same, paralysing in their force and

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unexpectedness. There was a croaking sound in Todt’s throat. While it still rasped on the air, Julie was rolling over, tucking her feet beneath her as she rolled. In the same movement she sprang like recoiling elastic to her feet. “Shall we talk?” she asked quietly of the stupefied Elvira Pugh. Stefan Todt was reeling about the office where they stood, hands clutching his stomach, still rasping out his breath like a bronchiac. He would be no danger for some seconds. The same could not be said for Sir Isidore’s niece. Her stupefaction lasted for a moment only. Then she leapt for the desk at one side of the office and clawed in a drawer. She dragged out a Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special, one of the least pleasant of hand guns with which to be threatened, as Julie well knew. Though not having quite the muzzle velocity or stopping power of the .44 Police Special, the .38 remains a really hard-hitting gun with punch enough to cause tissue quake in the path of its projectile. Tissue quake is a sort of general disruption of the flesh in the general area of the bullet; a very different matter from the neat puncture caused by most bullets. Of the gun’s power, Julie knew well. Quintain had one which she had used in the past. She stood very still as it was pointed at her by a slightly shaking hand. 178

“So you weren’t dead after all,” said Elvim pleasantly. “That can be rectified.” She wasn’t going to make the mistake of over-talking. Julie saw the knuckle of her trigger-finger whiten. In the moment before the crash of the gun, Julie threw herself sideways. The office was plunged into darkness as the bullet sang on past Julie to smash the light-switch on the wall. For an instant Julie calculated swiftly. She could go for Elvira, or she could head for the wider world beyond. In favour of tackling the girl was the effect that first shot would have had on her wrist. The kick of a Police Special can numb the wrist of an unwary expert. It would be moments before Elvira Pugh could fire again. On the other hand, in the unfamiliar darkness, it would take time to find her. And when she did find her, there would still be the gun. When two people struggle in the darkness with a gun between them there is an extreme danger of the gun being discharged and one of the persons being injured or even killed. Julie was not keen to commit homicide or have it committed on her. Her task was virtually over. She had learned of the viper Sir Isidore Pugh had hugged to his bosom. There were still some loose ends, but the case, virtually, was solved.

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Crouched low, Julie headed for where she remembered the door to be. The gun crashed again behind her but the shot came nowhere near. “For pity’s sake, Elvira!” she heard Stefan Todt wheeze. “Don’t shoot again. You nearly got me.” Then Julie had her hand on the door. She paused there an instant, trying to see if any light showed from outside. If there was a light beyond, she would make a perfect target as the door opened. But either the door was perfectly fitting or there was no light. Julie drew a deep breath. Then she took the handle in her hand, jerked the door open, and threw herself outside into the waiting darkness. There was no shot this time. Elvira had heeded Stefan Todt’s frantic plea.. Julie bumped into a wall opposite the door and realised she must be in a corridor. She turned right and began to hurry along, hands outstretched ahead of her. It was not a long corridor and her hands soon reached another door. It opened and she passed through into another darkness. A subtle alteration in the quality of the air or perhaps the sound of her own breathing told her she was in a far larger room. This would be the studio, she thought. Behind her she heard the office door open and Todt arguing with Elvira.

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“Give the gun to me, I say. I’m not going to be shot in the back by you.or anyone else –” Julie began to run, hoping fervently that there would be no obstacle in her way. And as she ran she was wondering about those hyenas. What was a film studio doing with hyenas? It was plain enough why Sir Isidore had them, but what were they to be used for here at Pinetree? The answer came an instant later. For silently and abruptly the lights went on high in the studio roof, the dazzling lights of the film set. And for an instant Julie had the feeling of having made some great leap through space. The scene before her could have come from Sunbury Studios. There was a huge tank in the middle of the studio floor. And in the tank there was a vessel which was unmistakeably a Noah’s Ark. The last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place at last. Stefan Todt wanted Sir Isidore to fail with The Deluge – must make him fail, because he himself was making the same picture. The film market is not unduly eclectic but… one Deluge, yes. Two Deluges, no. The .38 Police Special boomed its threat, echoed by all the vastness of the roof, and a bullet hurried past Julie’s head. She began to run again. 181

CHAPTER TWENTY

That the doped coffee should have been meant for Sir Isidore Pugh made sense to everyone back at Sunbury Studios. Only a trifling matter remained. Who had switched the jugs? Who had seen to it that Sir Isidore got the doped coffee? “Try to remember,” Quintain begged. “Who did you send?” “I should remember?” The film chief was outraged. “I just say ‘coffee’ and someone brings it.” “There must be someone who brings it more often than anyone else,” said Quintain. Sir Isidore shrugged. “Maybe that Elvira. For bringing coffee she is some use. But for continuity girl… I tell you, blood is thicker than water, but even for my own kin she is so stupid…” “She’s gone now, hasn’t she?” Gunner put in. Quintain grew suddenly thoughtful. Elvira. Elvira Pugh… And she had left the studio. So, it seemed, had Julie. Was there, perhaps, a link between the two absences?

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A curiously, uncomfortable feeling began to grip Quintain. He began to wish that he had never introduced Julie to this case. Even more, he wished that he had kept a rather closer eye on it himself. Most of all, he wished he knew where she was. The telephone rang. “It will be my wife, Eliza,” said Sir Isidore as he reached for the receiver. “Always when I am late she phones. Such a good wife, but she worries…” His expression changed as he listened to the phone. “For you,” he said, and handed Blake the receiver. Bill Kirby was at the other end. “Help me out, old friend,” begged the newspaperman. “It’s getting near to my deadline and I’m still a couple of paragraphs short. Let me have a line or two about the murder case.” “It isn’t broken yet, Bill,” Quintain answered regretfully. “Oh, I don’t want the whole story on a plate. Just something I can dress up a little. Come on, Ricky. I’d do the same for you…” “I’m sorry –” Quintain began. “What’s the good of being sorry! Damn it, Julie was sorry too, but that didn’t stop her giving me a hint or two. Look, I don’t actually want any facts, just your okay to –”

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“Julie?” Quintain said. “You were speaking to Julie?” “I certainly was. And let me tell you that girl was putting in overtime like nobody’s business –” “Bill, this may be serious. Tell me how and when you met Julie.” Kirby could not fail to notice the bleak note in Quintain’s voice and his own tone changed from a bantering plea to one of instant gravity. “There’s nothing wrong, is there? Julie hasn’t run into trouble?” “Just tell me what happened,” Quintain rapped. “And tell me quickly –” Bill Kirby told him. * And Julie still ran. The studio floor at Pinetree seemed to stretch ahead like the endless desert in an early Salvador Dali painting. There were, too the dis-related objects of surrealism. There was the Noah’s Ark in its tank. There were the potted palms of a studio jungle. There were some scattered scenes of domesticity. There was a house which was only a façade. There was a vast papier mache idol of Byzantine design… And far, far away there was a door.

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It was the only door that Julie could see, and surely it must lead to the outside world and to sanity. Behind her she could hear the pursuing steps of Stefan Todt and Elvira Pugh. They were not gaining, for Julie could run fast when she had to. The gun boomed again but the bullet came nowhere near. Few people can shoot a pistol accurately, even standing still. None can fire accurately on the run. As she neared the door, Julie realised that off to her left there was another door. It had been masked by a scenery flat. But she did not hesitate. Turning now would mean losing ground. She shot one quick glance over her shoulder. Todt and Elvira were a good fifty feet behind. They were not hurrying, or did not seem to be. As she jerked the door open she knew the reason. Her pursuers had all the time in the world. A dank, fetid odour of animals swept out to greet her. This was not the way out. It was Pinetree Studio’s zoo. It was a vastly inferior one to that which Harry Thatcher ran at Sunbury. Even the smell was a promise of that; for the air was rank with the ammoniacal stench of unchanged bedding. Two small lights glinted high up in the roof. They were not enough even to show Julie where the door bolts might be. She could only slam the

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door and run down the alley-way between the cages. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…” High-pitched, maniacal laughter shrilled almost into her ear. Behind the nearest bars she saw the padding, dropped-haunch shapes of huge dogs. No, of hyenas… The wild, eerie laughter echoed again about the roof. The hyenas… She had even saved Todt the bother of carrying her to them. Julie ran on another two steps. The next cage was empty, or so it seemed. She jerked back the bolt, pulled the door open, entered and closed the door. As she did so the zoo door began to open. Frantically Julie threw herself into the pool of darkness in the corner. Perhaps they would not see her there… But the pool of darkness was not a pool of darkness. It was solid. It was hairy. And as Julie landed on it, it gave a grunt. It began to stir. A dark mass of muscled body stirred beneath Julie and started to rise. A strong yet faintly familiar smell struck her nostrils. A head was before her and a great mouth opened, showing cruel fangs. With incredulous horror, Julie recognised her cage-mate for what it was. A gorilla.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Maserati was hurtling through the night. Quintain was at the wheel and driving with his usual polished artistry, though with a complete disregard for traffic regulations. From Sunbury to Pinetree was twenty miles. He intended to cover the distance in less than twenty minutes. The warning buzzer of the two-way radio began to sound. Quintain switched it to “receive”. “This is Babs, Mr. Quintain,” came the young typist’s voice. “Slim’s been on the phone. He’s picked up some information he thinks you should have right away. He’s been doing the rounds of the actors’ clubs. He called from Gerry’s Club in Shaftesbury Avenue. Quite a lot of extras have been taken on recently at Pinetree Studios and some of them have let out they’re doing a film on The Deluge. That’s what Sir Isidore is doing, too – Slim thought there might be some connection. At any rate, he’s on his way out there now.” “So am I, Babs,” said Quintain grimly. “Thanks.”

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Superintendent Ashley Gunner was doing his best to ignore the speedometer’s needle’s presence on the ninety-five m.p.h. mark. “Useful little gadget, the radio telephone,” he mused. “But yours has a much better tone than the ones in the official cars.” Quintain said nothing. He drove and thought. And he was thinking that Slim’s invaluable behind-the-scenes research now provided the last missing link. Two Deluges… No wonder there had been trouble at Sir Isidore’s Sunbury Studios. He tried to tell himself that even if Julie was on the same scent she would be quite safe. These film people were not murderers. But somehow he found he couldn’t believe a word he said. The Maserati tore on through the night, its powerful lamps cutting swathes of darkness and throwing them contemptuously on either side. * Largest of the primates, the gorilla possesses, in its own land, the Congo, an undeserved reputation for unprovoked savagery. In the civilised world this reputation has followed it. Gorilla and horror are almost synonymous terms. If a film director really wants to titillate the more submerged side of his customers’ nature, he includes on his posters, alongside the gorilla, a

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scantily-clad girl, rousing every sort of sadosexual imagery in the mind. And yet the gorilla is a vegetarian, content to pass its life grazing on bamboo shoots or gathering handfuls of nuts to crack in its formidable teeth. When attacked it defends itself. And since it is as strong as ten men it defends itself well. But whether it ever attacks human beings without being provoked is doubtful in the extreme. Some such thoughts as these flashed instantly through Julie’s mind as she found herself gazing in the semi-darkness into the gorilla’s eyes, half-hidden under their frowning ridge of bone. Then inspiration came to her. She took the huge ape’s hand in hers. Gently but swiftly she raised it. And as Harry Thatcher had instructed her with Mr. Eustace, the chimpanzee, she bit the great finger delicately. Did this custom apply to all apes? Or was it peculiar only to chimpanzees? Julie’s hand was raised in turn and her own finger was gently nibbled. “So we’re friends!” she breathed thankfully. But a nibbling of fingers was not going to make friends of the two people who now came down the central corridor of the zoo. Stefan Todt led the way, crouched, and gun in hand. He and Elvira padded slowly towards the 189

gorilla’s cage, looking right and left at every animal. Julie pressed herself low, trying to snuggle behind the gorilla’s huge body. It clapped a paw protectively on her shoulder and its arm almost completely hid her. Apart altogether from the barrier it made against discovery, Julie felt a strange sympathy flowing between herself and the huge beast. How lonely it must be, she thought, how pitifully lonely. “Where can she have got to?” demanded Elvira Pugh. “You don’t suppose she’s in one of the cages?” “Have sense,” Stefan Todt replied roughly. “We did not hear her scream.” Yet he peered carefully into every cage he passed. They reached the end of the passage and halted, baffled. Then Stefan Todt began to curse. “She’s been too smart for us. She must have hidden behind the door and slipped out when we came in. Damn. Oh, damn, damn!” They both turned and ran for the door. Julie could hear them outside on the studio floor. “But she can’t have got out? I locked the main doors…” Stefan Todt shouted. Julie’s heart sank a little. But at least she could leave the cage now. Or could she? For as she tried to rise, the gorilla’s hand pressed down on her shoulder. The beast began to 190

croon softly. It was lonely and it had been lonely for a long, long time. Now for a little it was lonely no more. It did not intend to let Julie go. To fight against its strength would have been useless. Now Julie had to use guile once more. She calculated the distance to the door… Then, gently, she began to tickle the gorilla in the region of its ribs. Her fingers dug in through the coarse, heavy hair to find a ticklish spot. The gorilla coughed and began to quiver. Its whole twenty-stone body began to quiver like a great jelly. It raised and threw back its head in an ecstasy of delight. It gurgled deep in its cavernous chest. This was the life, it thought. Julie had reached the door and had it open before the gorilla realised her treachery. She was out and the door bolted behind her before its still tickle-bemused wits had gathered themselves for action. With a crash that bent some of the bars the gorilla hurled itself towards the girl. Julie’s last memory of it as she ran for the door was of those sunken brown eyes staring after her pleadingly; of the disappointment plain on the simian face. Julie Wellsley felt an utter heel. It was not, however, a moment for introspection. Out on the studio floor were two people looking for her. One of them had a gun. This was a time for getting out – and fast.

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She remembered what Stefan Todt had said about the outer door being locked. This did not worry her too much. Julie had a certain amount of skill as a picker of locks. If she could get an uninterrupted moment or two she would not remain inside for long. Cautiously she peered out from the zoo. Stefan Todt was exploring the Ark, half-way across the studio. “Come out, Miss Wellsley!” he was shouting. “I know you’re in there.” Come out and be shot, thought Julie. And, in the immortal words of Miss Doolittle, she added: Not bloody likely. She began to edge stealthily along the studio wall towards the second door she had seen. There was no cover at all, but as long as nobody looked her way… Julie was almost at the door when Elvira Pugh did look. “There she is!” she shouted. Julie sprang for the door with a hairpin in her hand. But the door sprang open at her touch and she almost fell through it. But it was not the door to outside and safety, as she had believed. The air was heavy, dust-laden, redolent of paint and the works of man. There was a window high on one wall and the moon shone down through it. Julie turned to see where she was.

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And found herself gazing into a hideous face. The face was pale, almost glowing with reflected light from the moon. It had a vast toothed mouth and eyes of merciless cruelty. It was almost a human face – save that it was three feet from chin to snaky hair. It was a moment for screaming but Julie could not scream. She could only stare for a terrified moment. Then, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the light, she knew what manner of place this was. She knew there was nothing here to fear. It was the Props Room, the incredible junk store that is the foundation of every film studio. The face was only a devil mask, a prop from some former film masterpiece. And all about lay the bric-a-brac of filmmaking. There were suits of armour, antique furniture, a stagecoach entire (though lacking horses); there was a multitude of variegated idols, a stuffed polar bear, rackfuls of primitive weapons from clubs to bows and arrows; there was a Model-T Ford and two-thirds of a Bleriot monoplane. There was something of almost everything here. Julie looked swiftly around as she heard the approaching hostile footsteps run across the echoing studio outside. Could she reach that window. Would it open? I can try, she thought desperately. A stand of bows and arrows clattered to the ground. 193

After all, Julie decided, she would not try for the window. Stefan Todt came bursting triumphantly through the Props Room door. “We’ve got you now!” he shouted. “Give up and let’s get it over quickly.” Phttt! said something in the air. Todt’s pistol dropped from his hand. It had to. The wrist belonging to that hand was neatly transfixed by an arrow. Elvira Pugh started to stoop for the fallen Police Special. “I wouldn’t,” Julie advised from the shadows. “I was archery champion of West Sussex once. Bending, you’d make an even better target.” Her fingers quivered as she held the bow on full draw, a fresh arrow already knocked to the touch string. “My wrist!” wailed Stefan Todt. “I will bleed to death.” He began to weep. But he did not dare to move. Nor did Elvira. Even the thunder of blows on the outer door did not disturb them, nor the crashing in of the same doors as Quintaan, Slim Mercer and Superintendent Gunner made a simultaneous entry. “Julie! Julie!” “This way –”

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Stefan Todt and Elvira Pugh were as rigid as statues when Quintain brushed past them and ran to Julie’s side. In the moonlight she looked like a reincarnation of Diana, the huntress. Her quivering fingers could hold the bowstring no longer. The arrow ploughed forward into the floor at Gunner’s feet. And Julie allowed herself the luxury of a faint… into Quintain’s arms.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“A smart cookie, that Todt,” mused Sir Isidore Pugh approvingly. “Is right to try to stop my Deluge when he’s got half a Deluge already in the can… But that Elvira, oy, oy. My own flesh and blood to turn against me! After all I done for that girl, too.” Neither Julie nor Quintain said anything, but they exchanged significant glances. They were now back in Sir Isidore’s own office, sorting out the loose ends with the aid of Superintendent Gunner. Julie wondered if it would be any use to explain to Sir Isidore that he himself was responsible for Elvira’s actions; that poor relations did not like to be reminded continually of their poverty and how they were being helped. Gratitude is a splendid emotion. But its very splendour makes it quite exceptionally rare. It has to be nurtured tenderly – and in secret. To tell a person that he – or she – must be grateful is often to relieve that person of the need for gratitude. Something of this Julie would have liked to explain to Sir Isidore Pugh. But she would have been wasting her time, she reflected. 196

“I sure hope that was no poisoned arrow you shot into him,” Sir Isidore went on. “I can use that Stefan Todt. Perhaps I’ll buy Pinetree Studios, put him back but working for me instead of against me. We could do big things together.” He sighed wearily. “It’ll take that stupid Elvira out of my sight, too,” he declared. “I think she is going to marry him… She’ll make a good wife, maybe. She was a damn bad continuity girl.” “That’ll be after they get out of prison, of course,” Gunner pointed out. “Prison, schmison,” said Sir Isidore. “What’s this talk of prison?” “Murder, attempted murder, assault.” Gunner ticked the charges off on his fingers. “Ivor Evans… Miss Wellsley… And that’s only to start with.” “They might beat that rap,” Sir Isidore shook his head. “A good lawyer… Yes, I think they’ve got a chance. That Evans – now that was an accident. It was me they meant to give the doped coffee to. And it wasn’t meant to kill me, anyway. I’m not complaining. But you say they were meaning to knock off Miss Wellsley?” “Yes,” said Julie emphatically, remembering the hyenas as well as the Police Special. “Where’s your proof?” demanded Sir Isidore. “You know what a lawyer will do with that. No witnesses… Two against one…”

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And as he spoke, Julie knew with frightening certainty that he spoke the truth. Stefan Todt and Elvira might very well get a light sentence. “It doesn’t seem right they should get off so easily!” she burst out. Sir Isidore gave her a long, shrewd look that made her think that, after all, he might understand a good deal more than she thought. “Who says they get off easily? When they get out of prison they’re marrying each other, ain’t they?” “That seems to leave only the Oldacre brothers,” said Quintain. “Don’t worry about them,” said Sir Isidore. “With them also, I have reached agreement. I will make no more Biblical pictures. I am sick of Biblical pictures.” He seemed to find a great relief in the statement. He leaned back with an expression of satisfaction on his face. “So the A.S.S.B.F. have won?” asked Julie. “I’m going to do a new Tarzan-type series,” Sir Isidore went on. “The big fellow – he’s my new Wild Man. I knew it the minute I saw him throw that rhino. Like I said, I was getting tired of Biblical pictures. I’ll leave them to my future associates at Pinetree.” Julie stared at him in sheer wonder at such deep-seated duplicity.

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“You mean… the A.S.S.B.F. will have to deal with Todt, once he’s free? They’ll be out of your hair, but –” “No rose without a thorn,” beamed Sir Isidore. “Everyone has their troubles.” It was little wonder, Julie thought, that Sir Isidore Pugh had carved his way upward through the cinematic jungle. She reminded herself firmly that she must never, ever get on his wrong side. The telephone rang. The call was for Superintendent Gunner. His face sank into its accustomed lines. “Yes, dear… No, dear. We’ve just finished now, thank goodness. Of course Mr. Quintain is still here. Would you like to speak to him?” Quintain took the phone. “Good evening, Mrs. Gunner. Yes, the case is finished, I think. Ashley’s done it again, I’m happy to tell you.” He rose and was followed to the door by the others. Slim Mercer, who had been exploring the studio looking for a spare actress came gloomily to meet them, thinking it had been a complete dead loss of a case, as far as he was concerned. A film studio and not one pretty girl to be seen… The phone rang again while they were still within earshot of the office. “Yes, Eliza,” they heard Sir Isidore saying. “I’m sorry, but – Eliza, you gotta understand. I had

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troubles here. Aw, but Momma listen a minute… Yes, Momma…” Julie smiled seraphically. “No rose without a thorn,” she murmured. * Velda Power’s bath in asses’ milk was the best-known secret of the year. The newspapers all had the story of how private it was going to be. Only the barest essentials of the film crew were to be allowed on the set when the barest essentials of Miss Power went before the glassy eye of the camera. There were tales of armed guards, ready to shoot at a gleam in a lecherous eye; of search parties which would scour the sound stage beforehand to winkle out any possible Peeping Toms. In the event, and for it, the stage had never held so many people. Every employee had a mate. There were carpenters by the dozen and electricians by the score. And, somehow, nearly forty photographers and writers had each wangled the sole, exclusive right of recording the unveiling for posterity and their newspapers. There had not been such an avid audience since the last public hanging at Tyburn Tree.

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Velda the Great was pleased at this unfeigned tribute to her sensational chassis. Unlike Julie, she had no intention of spoiling the shape for a ha’porth of bikini. An assistant director nervously attended to the details of lighting and sound before the star made her entrance. She did so wearing a scarlet negligee which left no doubt that it was her only garment. All the rest was Velda. Her hair was caught up in a rope of real pearls. She looked ravishing. There was a brief cyclone, Force Nine, as every man present sighed in unison. She tested the temperature of the milk-type liquid with a hesitant toe. Even her feet, least attractive part of the human body, were lovely. She untied the cord of her robe. There was a gleam of ivory visible against the scarlet. She slid the garment down, showing rounded shoulder. Every eye in the studio was on her. Breathing was suspended. She dropped the robe so that it lay in a splash of colour at her feet. At that moment all the lights went out. * In the House of Commons the Minister for Power later said:

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“I understand that the freak power-cut which affected parts of London and the outer suburbs created considerable feelings of annoyance and frustration…” It was, perhaps, the biggest under-statement of the year. * The final events of this unusual and somewhat off-beat case came with the arrival of Sir Isidore’s cheques. Quintain opened the letter himself and when he saw the contents his eyebrows went up. Then he sent for Julie. “For you, Julie,” he said. “From Sir Isidore.” “For me?” She stared at him. “But it should be for the office. I mean…” “The office cheque is also here. This is yours. Take it. It’s payment for work done. One week’s wages as a film star, plus bonus. One thousand pounds – less, of course, your insurance stamp.” Julie gazed dazedly at the cheque. So much money – and all hers. What would she buy? “I wonder,” she said to Quintain, “if you happen to know the current price of a gorilla, a female gorilla. There’s someone I’d like to buy a present for.” This was not a question Quintain could answer off-hand. He scratched his head as Julie left the

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office. Women could be such strange creatures, he thought. There was really no understanding them. But Julie was thinking of a pair of anguished, lonely brown eyes set in deep caverns below a great ridge of bone. She was thinking about gratitude, too, and how rare it is. She hoped her thousand pounds would be enough.

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