—OOO—
Contact: Phineas_Redux@yahoo.com
—O—
Summary:— Fiona ‘Fay' Cartwright & Alice ‘Al' Drever are private detectives in an East Coast American city, in the 1930's. They become involved in the making of a film in studios outside the city.
Disclaimer:— All characters are copyright ©2016 to the author. All characters in this story are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Caution:— There is a certain amount of light swearing in this story.
—O—
Story 14 of
the 'Drever & Cartwright' series
1. The Packer Building Incident.
2. The Fowler St. Incident.
3. The Pier 7 Incident.
4. The Elevated Rail Incident.
5. The Charioteer Insurance Co. Incident
6. The Grand Banks Hotel Incident
7. The Vanishing Girl Incident
8. The R-103 Incident.
9. The Stolen Sappho Incident
10. The Compton Trial Incident
11. The Fashion House Incident
12. The Lost Christmas Present Incident
13. The Meiklewood Legatees Incident
14. The Film Set Incident
—O—
“How about Clarice Ulverston?”
“Let's see.” Fiona shuffled through the bunch of files on the wide desk. “Young, ex-police-officer, had to leave the force after a set-up went south, dear, dear. Fine shot, positive attitude, highly intelligent. OK, she's in. Next.”
“Elric Hoeghstein.” Alice frowned over the open file before her, brushing a stray strand of hair aside as she did so. “Done a bit of everything, going by what's written here. Even spent five years in the Air Corps, flying Boeing P-12's latterly. Truck driver, long haul. Lifeguard, soft-drink salesman, insurance operative—”
“ Ha , bet that means undercover work; private dick fer the insurance company.” Fiona produced her slightly disconcerting I-know-what's-what smile. “By the way,— Elric? ”
“Yeah, so what?” Alice had other fish to fry, being deeply involved now with picking the team of assistants they needed for their latest case. “How many's that, so far?”
“ Umm , five.” Fiona nodded, agreeing with her own mathematics. “We need two more.”
“There's Lee Maxfield?”
“Y'can bin his file, ducks; he ain't joinin' the picnic, no-ways.”
Alice glanced over the top of the file she was currently studying, considering her long-time partner.
“That contretemps with the Portsmouth State Bank still rilin' you? That was what, five years ago now.”
“All he had t'do, as y'well remember, was t'shoot that thug Kyle Richardson as he came out'ta the Bank with his loot.” Fiona was still, indeed, het up about the long gone debacle. “An' what did he do instead? Shot two bystanders and the Bank guard instead—idiot.”
“Kyle was wearing a bullet-proof vest we didn't know about; y'got'ta allow Maxfield that. And how were we t'know Maxfield was usin' copper-nosed ammunition that ricocheted off Richardson an' took out every dam' person nearby. Bad luck, that's all.”
“He's out, an' he stays out; as long as my name's—”
“Fay?”
“—Fiona Cartwright. So there.”
“ Oh , alright.” Alice confined her opposition to a ladylike sniff of discontent; then went on to the next in line for the occupation of security guard-cum-detective. “Here's Petronella ‘Pete' Cawsley. Y'can't possibly have anythin' against her, surely?”
“OK, OK, put her down.” Fiona sat back; shaking her head with a deep sigh, getting the cricks out. “ God , this's takin' ages. The bloody film'll have been on public show an' garnered one o'those new film awards by the time we get this dam' team t'gether.”
“Only one t'go, buck up dear.” Alice smiled tenderly, then returned to business. “Alright, last. Graham Roberts, handyman, carpenter, taxi-driver, operating as we speak as a single one-man detective agency—one of our rivals, Fay; should we encourage that sort'a thing, d'you think?”
“Guy's got'ta earn a crust some way, ain't he.” Fiona pretended to be of a more liberal outlook than her brunette better half. “Give the poor sap a break. Don't think he's had a case of his own for six weeks. He's in. God, please tell me that's it.”
“Yep, all present an' correct.” Alice closed the last file, and laughed out loud. “We got us a team, gal.”
—O—
Half an hour later Fiona sat at the large desk and ripped off the top leaf of the date-pad, revealing the new day's details, Thursday, January 11, 1934. As she finished Alice came in with a tray bearing life-giving refreshment; tea and biscuits.
“Sure y'don't want cream?”
“Yeah, got'ta keep the waistline trim.” Fiona took the opportunity to slide a gently caressing hand over Alice's own wool-skirted waist. “I feel like a hippo sometimes, beside some I could name.”
“ Har . Willpower is what it takes, that's all.” Alice placed a cup before Fiona and sat in the chair by her side. “Chocolate or gingernut? Oh sorry, gingernut, o'course.”
“Very funny.” Fiona, however, took two of the delicious biscuits; just to show she wasn't entirely a slave to necessity. “Let's go over the details again. What's it all about then, gal?”
“As if y'didn't know by now.” Alice sniffed at this wholly un-necessary request, but heaved a sigh and buckled under pressure. “Oh, very well. First, we've been retained—”
“At a stonkingly huge retainer fee, don't forget that.”
“As if I could.” Alice snorted viciously. “Y'keep referin' to it about twenty times a day. Where was I—an' kindly don't interrupt again.”
“Retained, fer what, darlin' of my heart.”
“Will you for God's sake stop pawin' my beautiful delightfully slim waist, dear; I'm tryin' t'work here—thanks.” Another sniff, imbued with barely contained happiness, followed; then the brunette detective got back on track. “The Slatefield Film Company, from you-know-where, have decided to shoot most of their latest piece o'cra— er , B film, here in Delacote. With me so far, lover?”
“Always, keep goin'; y're doin' great.”
“ Harph! ” Alice shook her head sadly, but went bravely on. “They've taken an option on an old hangar at the airfield out by Meidener Field. As a studio—”
“More of just a Stage—too small fer a whole Studio.”
“What was that I said about interruptions?” Alice's tone was imbued with a glacial chill. “Thank you,—again. They've bunged the whole nine yards in there. Sets, cameras, sound equipment, huge lights, an' all sorts of other stuff.”
“Other stuff?”
“Yeah, other stuff.” Alice openly sneered, with intent, this time. “What's it t'you, gal? Then come the workers—bloody hundreds o'them. I never knew it took a small army t'make a film—amazin'. And of course, last but by no manner o'means least—by anybody's reckonin',—the stars themselves.”
“ Ohh , gorgeous James Forster! God , ain't he just a hunk?”
“Have you lost your mind?” Alice's view did not parallel her lover's. “That ape? He's built like a rockface, an' acts appropriately, too.”
“ Ooh , nasty. I like it when y're nasty, Al.”
“ God Almighty , give me strength.” Alice glared at her companion, but Fiona merely grinned back like a particularly happy Cheshire cat. Alice pretended to ignore her. “So the film's producer, obviously in a moment of mental aberration, decided to engage us as security and general dogsbodys around the set, till further notice, or the film's completion—whichever comes first. There, satisfied?”
“Yeah, definitely. Say, is there another gingernut goin', they're scrumptious.”
“ God! ”
—O—
The set, Stage, or reconditioned Hangar, whichever was most appropriate, was a hive of activity two days later when Alice and Fiona arrived early in the morning to take up their posts.—film companies being no respecters of weekends. A temporary gate, with barrier across the road, had been set up at the entrance to this section of the sadly dilapidated but still—by a hairsbreadth—functioning airfield; though only two hundred yards away a biplane was already staggering into the air from the single in-use runway. Apart from a number of other hangars and groups of one-storey offices scattered wholesale around the airfield the main point of interest was the huge tall steel skeleton of the airship mooring-mast sitting to one side; last used some months previously when the British R-103 called in while on an international tour.
“No, we ain't got passes.” Alice, seated behind the wheel of her Plymouth Roadster, was hotly resisting the gate guard's questions. “We work here, buster. In fact, I ain't so sure we ain't your bosses. We got an appointment with Mr Dixon, so let us on through, quick as you like.”
“What were the names, again?”
“ Gods , Drever an' Cartwright—for Mr Dixon, OK?”
Another two minutes passed by while the elderly, but determined, man went into his small hut to telephone. Finally he came back and raised the barrier to let them pass into the golden concourse that was the Slatefield Film Company's abode.
“Look at all the dirt on the tarmac, er , concrete.” Fiona was critical as they drove along the mix of small lanes and simple wide taxi-ways. “An' look at these offices an' whatnot; most of ‘em are fallin' down. Gods , Delacote airfield's on its last legs, if y'ask me, doll.”
Having previously confirmed their imminent arrival by telephone they had received directions from a remarkably well-spoken secretary; so now drove not to the high wide Hangar, but a small white-painted building a hundred yards or so to its left—the office of the Producer. It was Fiona who rapped on the door then flung it open, entering a light but not large reception room.
“This the Producer's place?” Fiona liked to jump in where angels would have better sense.
“It's the Front Office, if that's what y'mean.” The young, but obviously capable and self-assured, lady behind the desk raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Drever and Cartwright? Two minutes thirty seconds late; Mr Dixon's waiting, that door on the left, thank you.”
As she then returned to typing a letter, completely ignoring their further movements, Fiona gave Alice an amused look and led the way to the indicated portal of an earthly paradise. She gave this barrier an even less cursory knock than the outer door had received, then pushed it wide with a sweeping gesture.
“Howdy, Mr Dixon; how're the cowboy films doin' these days? Signed Johnny Mack Brown yet?”
“No, I didn't say that.” Charlie Dixon, in shirt sleeves with a short unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, held the phone tightly to his left ear; a look of anger and distrust flickering across his rugged features. “What was ordered was enough lumber t'build seven sets; what's arrived so far is barely adequate t'knock t'gether a kennel fer Lys's terrier. Where's the dam' rest o'it? Si'down, si'down, take the weight off; with ya in a minute; jest after I've dealt with this lummux. Yeah, lummox; why, y'got any objections? Where's my dam' lumber?”
Addressed in this half-hearted manner the ladies glanced at each other with smiles of understanding, and took the seats offered on the near-side of the large desk which the Producer commanded like a Captain on his Bridge.
“So yer gon'na see sense at last, great.” A smile of satisfaction crossed the business-man's face, as he glanced over at his visitors. “Yeah, yeah, save me the tears an' agony; I had enough o'that last year, when Charles Boyer an' Matilda Mathias were makin' a flick with me— God! , what a couple; talk about fightin', they dam' near started a world-wide war just on their own; dam' film ran two weeks over-time an', goddam it, over-budget, too. So, y'll send the lumber by the next train; good, so long, buster.”
He replaced the phone receiver, unexpectedly, with a gentle grace that seemed wholly out of keeping with his professed feelings of the moment. He noticed his guests eyeing this action, and grinned in answer.
“All baloney an' hoo-hah.” He nodded happily, and sat back to regard his latest clients. “Like everything else in the film industry, it's all front an' bluster. Where'd a guy get, otherwise, in this here game? So, who're you two?”
“The security an' detectives, as requested.” Alice grinned back at what she obviously took to be a brother-in-arms. “Here t'make sure no-one runs off with the cameras, lights, or sets—not t'mention the stars themselves.”
“Hell, there's been plenty o'stars I've worked with I'd a'been glad t'see hijacked.” Dixon nodded grumpily, reflecting on past tragedies. “An' if the kidnappers had ever thought they'd get a big fat ransom, they'd a'had a dam' quick eye-opener if'n they'd tried such. So, security, eh? Well, after my years o'experience—I was a camera-man for D W Griffith on ‘ Intolerance ', y'know—I've decided y'ain't responsible t'anyone on the set. Nobody can order y'around; even the directors, or other Front Office people—y'got the run o'the ship, ladies. So go to it, in yer own time; I leave it all in your hands. Got a good team?”
“Pretty much, yeah.” Fiona took up the discussion, with a slight smile in the corner of her mouth. “Enough t'cover all eventualities. A professional bunch; y'can rely on them, Mr Dixon. So, we start as of now?”
“Yeah, go off an' have a look aroun'.” Dixon nodded, as he threw his cigar in a trash-can by his feet. “Only don't step on the toes of the director, over on the set. Karl Umstel's a recent import from Germany, an' he has a,-a,-well, a sort'a autocratic personality when it comes t'his actors, or other underlings. If he starts belly-achin', or shoutin' out'ta turn, or tryin' t'bully ya, jest spit in his eye—this here's still America, after all. I'll soothe his complaints afterwards—God knows I've had enough practice over the last two months. Ladies, lem'me tell ya straight, Karl Umstel is a great Director, an' he likes everyone t'know sech; an' thereby this is definitely the only single one-off never-t'be-repeated picture he'll ever make with the Slatefield Film Company; y'can bet a pile o'dollars on that. G'bye, see ya around. Send Miss Crayston in when y'leave, would ya; these dam' letters don't type themselves, y'know.”
—O—
Over on the stage, contained in the re-conditioned Hangar, Fiona and Alice found themselves in another world. The interior space available was immense; so there were already four completed sets awaiting the arrival of the stars, and their place in the shooting schedule. Meanwhile everyone—and as both Fiona and Alice instantly saw, there was a lot of everyone—was engaged on the scene of the moment. The stars weren't visible, but a group of stage-hands of both sexes were standing around in what was designed to mirror a living-room in a richly appointed villa. The first thing that caught the detectives notice was the colour.
“Say, Fay, ain't this supposed t'be an ordinary black an' white flick; not one o'those new-fangled colour-process ones?”
“As far as I'm aware, yeah.” Fiona looked all round, after the women had entered the side door; the main Hangar front doors being locked shut. “Suppose it doesn't matter about colour, as a result; but I got'ta say those walls look awful, painted light green. Who on earth is the designer; an' why don't someone fire him or her?”
“Because they're better designers than y'give ‘em credit for, that's why.” The speaker stood to their left side, contemplating the women with a beady eye. “John Jenkins, set designer—yeah, me; are those blushes I see on you both?; no?, oh, well. It is bein' shot in monochrome, but y'still need'ta take the colours of almost everything inta consideration. Some colours come up too dark on black and white film; others come up too washed out, or just look damn strange as a tone in conjunction with a figure or someone's clothes. So we paint the set, an' give the actors dresses an' suits, all with pre-arranged colours, so as to get the ultimate from the varyin' shades an' tones of grey when it's all seen on the screen in glorious black an' white. Y'see?”
“Oh, yeah, I kind'a get the idea.” Alice frowned, as she looked over the set with opened eyes.
“That's why the walls of this room are light green.” Jenkins warmed to his explanatory task; obviously being at a loose end. “Y'can see the sofa, over there, is a ghastly light pink; that'll come up a nice soft grey on film. Likewise, when the actors deign t'appear, y'll see Forster'll be wearin' a horrible orange woolen suit; that'll come out as a medium grey. An' the Lyson'll be wearing a long silk dress in this scene that's actually medium blue, but'll show on screen as a dark grey, almost black. All this needs careful thought; we don't throw these things t'gether randomly, y'know; but most uninitiated spectators just think the sets an' costumes look god-awful, an' fall t'idle criticism.”
This last remark was accompanied by a lowering of the corners of his mouth which gave him the look of a particularly saddened bloodhound. Even Fiona, usually a hardcase, felt sorry for the poor sap.
“ Sheesh! If I said anythin' out'ta place, I'll take it all back, OK?”
“Yeah, yeah, don't worry; it's all part of the job description.” Jenkins brightened up remarkably. “Who are ya, anyway? God, y're not newspaper reporters are ya? If y'are ol' Umstel'll go off the deep end, y'know. An' he can swear in English, Yiddish, an' German. It's almost an education, when he really gets the bit between his teeth.”
“We're the security brigade.” Alice shot a wide smile at the technician. “Supposed t'look after the health an' general well-being of all an' sundry.”
“Oh, y're safe then.” Jenkins smiled in his turn. “Or, at least, as safe as any mortal being can be from a raging War-God; which is what Umstel thinks is a great way of instilling discipline in his workers. Hasn't quite figured out he ain't still in Berlin, at Babelsberg. If he starts t'shout at ya, shout right back. He hates it, an' you'll drive him up the wall—but Dixon's had him in his office on four separate occasions; after he tried three times to dismiss workers, an' once when he tried to whack Forster over the head with a cane. Forster downed him with one punch—which didn't make him any happier as a Director, I can tell ya. Talk about Byron's ‘ broken hearts, and heads '! Some days this shoot's been more like a war film than a mystery-drama.”
As he finished speaking a man's voice suddenly shouted over the tumult of other people arguing with each other, or simply idly gossiping. There was a general move off the set itself, into the surrounding shadows; a relative calm descended; then someone started fiddling with the overhead lights, which began brightening or dimming in no perceptibly logical manner.
“Better come over here, behind the cameras, ladies; Joseph's messing about with the dam' lights again, for the umpteenth time this morning.”
Following their guide's directions Fiona and Alice found themselves in a quiet corner; with a large unused light on a high stand to their right, and crates and unidentified pieces of equipment to their right.
“Looks pretty shadowy on the set.” Alice was always one for noticing the greater aspects of any scene. “Is that meant? Can the cameras operate in that low light?”
“It's a new style.” Jenkins raised a derisory eyebrow. “Supposed t'make things look more dramatic; but, like you said, I think it just makes it harder t'see what the dam's goin' on. But the Director knows best; seems t'be under the delusion it goes over great, back in the ol' homeland. Expressionism, I think he calls it. Don't watch foreign films, myself.”
The lights levelled-off into a subdued chiaroscuro; there was a clatter of approaching footsteps; and the stars and Director appeared. Neither Fiona nor Alice were much taken with James Forster; having eyes only for his leading lady, the delectable Lys Lyson. Long shoulder-length wavy blonde hair; nearly as tall as Fiona; self-assured to the point of imperiousness; clad in a glorious ankle-length silk evening gown, which showed-off her physique to perfection; and moving with a lithe grace, like a panther through the jungle.
James, on the other hand, was tall; strongly-built; with a chin square enough to do duty as a boxing-ring; black hair that might, or might not, be dyed; and exhibiting all the grace of a drunken buffalo. As he came on the newly ordered set the first thing he did was accidentally brush against a knick-knack on a low table with his jacket sleeve as he passed by, knocking it to the floor. Lys laughed delightedly; while he glowered unhappily. The Director merely taking the opportunity to go into dictator-mode.
“ Hey , someone pick that up. Come on, we got'ta get goin' while the light lasts—don' wan'na lose the dam' light.” This while ignoring the fact they were on an enclosed artificially lit set. He also had some kind of short cane or thin stick in his left hand, which he seemed in the habit of using to emphasise his instructions. “OK, Lys, mein Fräulein; stand by the sofa, an' look sultry, or somethin'. Jimmy, come in from the door direction, an' make like you're angry with the broad.”
“Karl, I am not a broad.” Lys's tone had taken on all the chill of the iceberg that did for the Titanic . “I'm an actor; if y'know what such is, comin' over from foreign climes, like y'have. I got my lines; I can act. Just start the bloody cameras rollin'. An' ferget Jimmy here, he'll never be able t'act; not fer anythin'.”
She had a mid-west accent which was low smooth and imbued with a sexiness that rocked Fiona and Alice on their feet.
“For God's sake, can't ya give over with the heartless quips?” Jimmy snarled this through set teeth, making his New York accent thicker than ever. “I'm gettin' pretty pissed-off with your dam' airs an' graces. Wouldn't be so bad, if they came from a gal who actually had such—”
“You bast—”
“ Hör auf damit! Stop! Dam' Stop! ” Karl's roar echoed through the height and length of the proto-stage. Dressed as he was in baggy tweed trousers and a brightly striped woolen jersey over a white open-necked shirt, he looked more like an avuncular uncle than the dreaded Expressionist director he was. “Are we makin' a picture here; or are we windin' up to the next heavyweight World Champion boxing match? Great Siegfried! I ain't seen or heard such in-fighting since my pal Fritz Lang made ‘ Metropolis '; an' his star—what was her name again?,—initially refused flat to get into that robot costume.”
“Brigitte Helm.”
Alice muttered this to her companion in a low tone, but received in answer only a dig in the ribs to keep quiet.
There was a further movement away from the outskirts of the set, with the Director retreating to some invisible position behind the bulk of the main camera. Jenkins took this chance to indicate to his two visitors a way of escape; and a minute later they found themselves close by the side-door leading to the outside world again.
“I got'ta stay for the long haul, but I figure this's as good a time as any for you to make a break fer freedom. This whole production'll carry on like this fer the next four hours or so, for sure. Don't slam the door, please.”
—O—
“Well, that was some kind of an education.” Alice pursed her lips as they both sat on wooden chairs in their office.
They had found their way to their headquarters after Miss Crayston, somewhat reluctantly, handed over a site-map of the whole lay-out of the neo-studio complex. They had discovered, on studying the document, their HQ was another bungalow of dubious age, but certain ramshackle construction, some way over to the left side about two hundred yards from the big Hangar. It was a broad spacious building, nonetheless; with several rooms and what appeared to be a watertight roof, along with a couple of good heaters.
“Fancy I could get quite comfy here, doll.” Fiona had thrown her handbag on the long sofa ranged along the wall, before sitting on one of the straight-backed chairs. “So, what d'ya think?”
“Lys is gorgeous, is what I think.” Alice nodded happily at her own perspicacity. “Forster, o'course, can't act for toffee; it'll take more'n an ex-German Expressionist director t'squeeze any resemblance o'life out'ta him , that's for sure.”
“Oh well, looks as if this's gon'na be a nice paid vacation for us, for a change.” Fiona stretched luxuriously. “At least there ain't any crime under investigation, which helps.”
“Not yet anyway, sis, don't speak too soon.” Alice took the pragmatic outlook. “Who's t'say what'll happen in the next thirty days. That's how long this film'll take t' er , film, ain't it, lover?”
“Where is it?” Fiona bent over to hunt around in her capacious handbag. “ Ah , here; the shootin' schedule. Yep, y're nearly right; three weeks actually; that's twenty-one days t'you, lover; with a $350,000 budget. But they've already spent ten days shootin' on their own Stages, back at Base; y'know, the land o'the orange groves, an' Harold Lloyd.”
“ God , helluva lot'ta greenbacks.”
“Only when y'say it out loud, fast.” Fiona curled a dismissive lip. “Par fer the course, so I believe, for a film o'this kind.”
“An' a nice little percentage is headin' our way.” Alice purred contentedly. “What's next, then? Suppose we better take a shufti around the whole set-up; see what the lie o'the land's like. D'you think I could get Lys's autograph?”
“Come on, you star-struck girl, we got work t'do.” Fiona sighed as she rose. “I knew it'd be like this; I just knew. What about poor ol' Forster's autograph?”
“Oh, he's just a lummox from the sticks.” Alice scorned the matinee idol, as she too rose to follow Fiona out. “What d'you bet Dixon starts by making us do the personal security for Forster; switches t'ordering us t'keep him away from any loose gold-diggers; then ends by insinuating we might like t'earn an extra dollar by givin' him acting lessons on the side?”
“Al, y'have a scornful an' cold attitude that Machiavelli'd be proud of.”
“Just bein' realistic, dear, just realistic.” The brunette critic sniffed austerely. “Anyway, what's the betting Dixon gives him the heave-ho after the first week's shooting here, an' replaces him with Rod La Rocque, or someone?”
“Come on, gal, let's hit the road; this much icy disdain I cannot take.”
—O—
The corner of the airfield which now bore the honour of being part of the Slatefield Film Company was actually smaller than one might have supposed, after seeing all the activity centred round the big Hangar. The whole was contained in a square of not more than five hundred yards each side; mostly taken up with the newly re-opened offices scattered about, and the taxi-ways now covered in parked trucks and cars belonging to the Film Company. It took Fiona and Alice the best part of an hour to examine the whole area, before they were satisfied they had a good working idea of the entire ground-plan. Then they returned to their office.
“Fay, there ain't no security in this here joint.” Alice sat, rather wearily, on one of the straight-backed chairs in their spartan office. “Did you see the western perimeter? Just a low waist-high series of wooden poles on joists stretched across an un-used runway. That ain't security; that's just a joke.”
“Yeah, an' the main entrance is laughable, too.” Fiona nodded her own agreement. “Y'saw fer yourself the gate there. The employee's in his seventies, at least. I don't say he ain't a good worker, but stoppin' a gang o'thieves he can't.”
“An' his barrier only holds for that entrance.” Alice was firing on all cylinders now, as she leaned her chin on her hands, elbows on the table. “It stops ten feet on either side; an' the rest o'the runway an' surroundin' area's as wide open as the prairie. Security? My eye, an' wha's-her-name.”
“Betty—”
“I know, I know— Gods! ” The brunette half of ‘ Drever and Cartwright ' swung her short shingled locks in frustration, ignoring the gleam this caused in her partner's eye. “What I'm gettin' at is—we're employing seven extra hands on this job, four of them women—”
“So?”
“—so are you sure the film company's actually gon'na cough up the greenbacks t'cover what are gon'na be our extraordinarily huge expenses? I ask as the titular accountant in charge of supposed incomings an' outgoings.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don't worry on that score; didn't that grey guy from the film Front Office sign our contract as easy as pie yesterday? We're safe for the whole three week duration of their film shooting-schedule, so take it easy. We can employ as many as we like; as long as we don't go over the limit—an' the limit, at the moment baby, is high.”
“ Huh! Suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.” The efficient semi-accountant rolled her head in an unconvinced manner, but let that particular subject drop. “However, what are we aiming to do with all these extra employees? I mean, what?”
Fiona had taken up residence behind the small cheap desk, on a hard straight-backed chair. She now gazed at her brunette other half as she lounged gracefully on the settee placed along the far wall opposite the two windows. The office was painted in a variety of light blues and greys, with some white here and there; the whole thing being so monochromatic it gave the impression of simply being black and white. Even the desk and chairs exhibited tones of grey instead of bright brown-red. The whole room emanated an aura of grim sad decay, which quickly got on the nerves of anyone domiciled there for any length of time.
“ God , wish we were here for long enough t'allow of a repaint.” Alice let her feelings be known, after a quiet pause. “Place is like a dam' prison cell.”
“Respectin' your earlier query, ducks, we need ‘em all for the night work.” Fiona commenced to clarify the necessity for the squad of newly employed detectives. “Remember, we've been engaged to provide security night an' day for this crap-heap so-called film-stage. An' we can't do that alone; nor even all day by ourselves. We need people to take over during the day, as well as the nights; an' therefore our small army of enthusiastic private eyes. Talkin' of which, when are we gon'na be relieved ourselves?”
This was something well within the province of the brunette member of the team, and she spent no longer than a second and a half considering her reply.
“Elric Hoeghstein and Graham Roberts; they're due to arrive at one pm, which is just about now.” Alice nodded contentedly to herself, as was her wont, when totally on top of the situation. “Then Clarice Ulverston an' Petronella ‘Pete' Cawsley take over from ten pm till seven am. After which—”
“OK, OK, that's enough—I believe ya.”
“Only givin' you what you wanted—ducks.”
“ Ha, Ha .”
—O—
The ladies' apartment, on the third floor in a seven-story old brownstone, lay in Alchester Street, The Heights; on the southern perimeter of the city. It was large and roomy, having living-room, dining-room, bedroom, and a large kitchen; as well as several walk-in cupboards and storage spaces. They had resided there for the last four years, and had made of it a home from home entirely suited to their personal tastes and needs. Fiona, from the first having made known a strong antipathy to what was generally referred to as Moderne style, Alice had happily gone along with the fall-back choice of a slightly modernised Arts and Crafts look; all homely unpainted wood; relatively solid furniture; and loose rugs on the floors. Neither liked paintings for decoration as such, so had put various mirrors and objet d'art on the walls in lieu. Altogether the place exuded just that atmosphere of a loved warm comfortable home which the two happy residents most enjoyed. As a gesture to modernity, however, there was an expensive radiogram, a wealth of wholly modern kitchen equipment, and no less than three telephones—one in the living-room; one in the kitchen; and the last in the bedroom.
The main entrance door to the flat, leading from the corridor on the third floor which supplied the needs of four other flats, was heavily built to their design, and had no fewer than four locking systems. Once closed nothing and nobody could gain admittance without authority from those within.
They had just finished a busy day at the office, dealing with the tail-ends of the two other cases they were engaged on when the film company called. Now, they were ready and willing for one of those quiet easy soft evenings where all that mattered was the gentle music playing through the radiogram and the opportunity, never missed when offered, of a long cuddle on the settee. And so the evening rolled on.
“Wha' time's it?”
Alice, comfortably settled in the crook of her lover's arm mumbled something probably not polite and twisted round to peer at the small timepiece on the distant low table by the fireplace.
“It's, it's— uurf, oh , eleven-thirty something.” She giggled at the next thought this brought to mind. “Beddy-bye's darlin'. Am I walkin' there, or can I hitch a lift in the arms of some passin' Lothario?”
“ God , a woman's work is never done. OK, doll, hope ya ain't put on any weight since I last picked ya up.”
“ Hoi! ”
However, their destiny was never to hit the hay on that particular night. As Fiona bent to fulfil her courtly duties by raising her paramour in her arms the telephones—all three throughout the apartment—went off at once with a jangling chorus of bells.
“ Shit! And shit once again.” Fiona gently laid her precious burden back on the settee where she had found it, and darted over to the living-room phone, grabbing it with malice aforethought. “What a bloody time to—yeah, wha'-d'ya-want?”
She listened intently to the message coming over the line, then turned to Alice, pulling herself together on the settee on the far side of the room.
“It's Pete, from the airfield. She's reporting some funny business goin' on in the north-west corner of the perimeter. Thinks we ought'ta know.”
“Any details?” Alice was professional in an instant.
“Yeah, yeah? Right, we'll be out to back ya up pronto. Stick with it.” Fiona replaced the phone and turned to her partner with a grim expression. “Pete says she an' Clarice have seen at least two interlopers, one o'them possibly armed, tryin' t'break inta the Hangar. Wants t'know what t'do. I told her not t'open fire, with any luck, till we got there.”
“Works for me.” Alice made a bee-line for the wardrobe where their street clothes hung. “Take me about five minutes t'get dressed—”
“Me too.”
“—then I can have the ol' jalopy in harness in two more.” Alice pondered the variables as she flung clothes around with gay abandon. “Is this yours, Fay? Right, it'll take us around twenty minutes t'reach the airfield. You armed an' ready, lady?”
“As I'll ever be. Don't forget the extra ammunition. Ready? OK, let's hit the trail.”
—O—
In the darkness surrounding the extended area of the airfield complex only silhouettes of buildings and the stars in the clear sky could be seen with any clarity. Alice had stopped her Plymouth Roadster some way away, on an abandoned approach runway, and the women had walked the rest of the way to the corner of the layout comprising the film company's premises. At the moment they were cautiously nearing the low bungalow which contained their office, and where they hoped to find at least one of their employees.
Fiona on reaching it tapped gently on the door, and sighed in relief when it instantly opened to allow them access to the still dark interior.
“I put the lights out when I returned from our tour of the perimeter.” Pete, a medium tall dark brunette with intelligence written all over her clear features, gave her report in a whisper. “Clarice's still out there, tryin' t'keep an eye on the bozos' concerned. Last I saw they were both crouched at the side door o'the Hangar; probably tryin' t'pick the lock.”
“Are they armed?” Alice made this needful enquiry through gritted teeth.
“Yep, one at least. We both saw the barrel as he held it at his side.” Pete nodded glumly. “Long-barreled revolver. I think they mean business.”
“Any clues as t'just what they're after?”
“Naw, not as yet. But one, the unarmed one, seemed t'be totin' a carpet-bag sort'a thing. Seemed heavy an' well-filled.”
“ Uh-oh , that don't sound good.” Alice frowned uneasily. “Better head out an' relieve Clarice. Fire-bomb, d'you suppose?”
“ Hmm , maybe.” Fiona removed her bulky .45 automatic from her large handbag which she placed on the desk, and glanced at the two women by her side. “Come on, let's make tracks, an' see what's in play.”
On reaching the vicinity of the huge Hangar Pete led the way, everyone walking as softly as possible, till she found her partner crouching behind a barrier made up of a line of wooden boxes.
“Anythin' doin', Clarice?”
“Nah, those bozos seem t'be in a pickle.” Clarice nodded at Fiona and Alice, then gave her report in a whisper. “Like y'can see, they're up against the side of the Hangar, around fifty yards off. The single side-door's there. But they seem t'be havin' the devil of a job with the lock. They've been at it for nearly the last half-hour.”
Alice peered round the side of the crate which hid her from sight.
“ Huh , not much in the way o'crooks. Can't even open a door.” She glanced at Fiona by her side. “Bet you'd a'had it wide in around what—twenty seconds?”
“Lay off the smarm, will ya.” Fiona grunted disdainfully. “Anyways, the question is, what're they gon'na do when they eventually lose patience with the dam' door? Go somewhere else?”
“There's only the main Hangar doors.” Pete shrugged her shoulders, unseen in the dark. “An' if they try'n open those the whole o'the west side o'Delacote'll hear ‘em. I saw them closed earlier this evening; not been oiled fer ten year, I bet. Made a sound like an army of Roman soldiers bein' defeated by the Visigoths—Hellish racket.”
“What about windows?” This from Clarice, crouching down on the right of her partner.
“No windows at all at ground level.” Alice provided this factual information. “Y'can't see at the moment, but there's a long line o'single windows in a row, right along the full length of each side of the Hangar—but thirty feet up. The roof-eaves are forty-five feet; an' roof-crest fifty-five feet.”
“ Jeez , what'd they build the monster for?” Clarice was impressed. “A bloody Zeppelin, or what?”
“Dunno, maybe.” Fiona gave her two cents to the discussion. “Something gigantic, anyway, that no-one's ever heard of since—an' that must'a been nigh on a decade ago. That's why the film company's usin' it—so bloody big, y'see.”
“Anyway, t'get back t'the matter in hand,” Alice thought it high time to take command of the conversation once more. “How long can they possibly footer around before they call it a day on the lock, an' go off t'pastures new?”
Before anyone could answer this there was some sign of just such activity in the shadows over against the Hangar's side. Clarice put a warning hand on her partner's shoulder and whispered as gently as thistledown in the wind.
“They've given up on the lock. Headin' along t'the front o'the Hangar. Wait a mo', no they ain't. They've stopped. Lookin' up at the roofline; no, the line o'windows. How big are each o'those things?”
“About three feet long an' maybe four foot high; with a multitude o'single panes separated by white wood bars.” Alice knew all the available statistics concerning the Hangar. “Single windows, each separated by maybe two feet o'Hangar wall; all running in a line along most o'the Hangar side. Provides a modicum of internal light, y'see.”
“Well, if my eyes don't deceive me, those clowns have plans for at least one of ‘em. Look.” Clarice raised a hand to point at the silhouettes of the two distant figures.
“What's goin' on, I ain't got a clear view.” Pete shuffled around in a half-crouch.
“They're gon'na try'n throw their bag—that heavy carpet-bag lookin' thing—through one o'the windows.” Fiona gave her opinion in a low voice. “I fancy it is a firebomb. They mean'ta burn the Hangar down. Someone must'a hired ‘em t'stop the film company workin' here.”
“Are you sure, Fay? I mean—”
Before Alice could complete her question all possibility of what the thugs were up to became clear, as a sharp flickering light threw the men's bodies into sharp relief on the lighting of a match in the pitch darkness.
“ Shit , we may only have seconds.” Fiona rose to her feet and took command. “Clarice, stay here, cover our backs. Pete, off to the right, fire when I give the word—an' don't be particular about yer target, just blast away like the Army out on exercise. Al, stay with me. OK, let's go.”
She advanced a few yards across the open concrete apron, Alice by her side, before making herself known to the unsuspecting bombers.
“ Hoi , give up, ya clowns.” Fiona used all the power in her lungs to send her message loud and far-reaching across the intervening space. “Drop that bag, an' yer weap—”
She was interrupted by a blast of fire, not from one revolver but at least three weapons operated by the duo of criminals in the distance.
“ Christ , an artillery barrage.” Fiona glanced round to see that Alice was still OK, then shouted over to Pete, invisible in the darkness. “Fire, fire at anythin'. Lay down some coverin' fire, Pete.”
Right on this command a steady blast of return fire emanated from some twenty yards to the two womens' right-hand. By this time Alice too had begun adding her tuppence-worth to the ensuing fusillade with her own revolver. Four feet to her right the mighty explosion of Fiona's .45 Colt automatic joined in.
For what seemed to those concerned, in retrospect later, nearly a full minute; but was probably in reality nearer twenty seconds, nothing could be heard in the black night but the thunder and ripple of heavy sustained fire as both sides made it plain they weren't in a surrendering mood. Neither could anything at all helpful be seen; especially as the pitch dark was now being ripped apart by a series of eye-blistering flashes from all the guns in use.
Finally there came something of a natural pause in proceedings. Fiona took the chance to raise her voice once more; giving the thugs one last chance; but things didn't go as she expected.
“Enough with the bloody shootin'; give up, ya bastards. Y're beginnin' t'get on my wick. Drop yo—”
At this point she, along with all three of her companions, had to duck to the ground and make like they wanted to dig their way to China—as there came the raucous splintering roar of a Thompson machine-gun, followed by the nasty whine of bullets ripping past inches from their ears, or ricocheting off the concrete ground with terrifying shrill squeals.
“ Jeesus, Joseph, an' ,——a f---in' goddam bloody machine-gun! What the goddam Hell?” Alice was pissed, and showed it in this snarling retort.
“They left their car over a'ways t'the left, yonder.” Pete came up with this shattering piece of new information, in a somewhat embarrassed tone. “Thought they'd left the dam' thing empty; just the two bozo's, y'know. Wrong, obviously.”
“ Christ! ” Fiona, crouching up from her spread-eagled position, re-adjusted to the new situation like an eagle. “Come on; can't stay here—it's No-Man's Land. Back t'cover.”
There followed a hasty movement; which might not have been an actual wholesale retreat, but was certainly well within the acknowledged parameters of a less than orderly withdrawal. Finally they found themselves back behind the cover of the large wooden crates, safe for the moment.
“Wha'-d'we-do, Fay?” Pete was gasping for breath, trying to re-load her revolver and think about their situation at the same time.
“”We got'ta focus on that dam' Tommy-gun.” Fiona knew what was the important aspect of their present less than comfortable position. “We—”
Before she could expound her crafty plan to drag success from the jaws of defeat, there came yet another unexpected action from the thugs, still invisible in the stygian darkness. The swift patter of running feet on the concrete paving could be distinctly heard; and the women all realised as one the men were heading back to their car and their machine-gun totin' friend.
“ Christ , they're gettin' away.” Fiona rose from behind her crate, fury in every word she uttered. “Blast the buggers. Shoot over there, that way; that's where the bloody car is. There—there.”
Neither of the four women had fired their first shot in the renewed battle when once again they had to fall flat behind their barrier of crates as the machine-gun opened up on them again. The man responsible seemed to have a pretty good idea of their position, for the crates' fronts splintered in noisy ear-splitting screams as the wood tore apart under the onslaught of bullets; sending a veritable spray of sharp vicious fragments of shrapnel zipping through the air all round. The women, necessarily, kept their heads as well as their whole bodies down while Armageddon seemed to be taking place all round them. At last the growling roar of an engine came floating across from the far side of the wide concrete apron—the Tommy-gun keeping up its steady barrage the while. Then there was only the receding sound of a car engine disappearing in the distance. The show was over.
—O—
“ F—k me . Anyone hurt?” Fiona stood upright amidst the shambles of the torn-apart crates, looking at each of her companions in turn. “That was sumthin' else, an' no mistake. Who'd a'thought they'd come armed with a bloody Tommy-gun?”
“Should'a guessed they had a fall-back guy in the motor.” Pete tried to offer an apology, but was firmly over-ruled.
“Nah, not yer fault.” Fiona shook her head, and clapped the worried woman on her shoulder. “Could'a happened t'anyone. Why, it could'a happened to Al, here.”
“ Oh , thank you.” Alice was less than impressed.
“What I'm sayin' is, y'couldn't cover every possibility.” Fiona smiled somewhat tightly, after the last few anxious minutes. “Y'had all your time taken up in keepin' the bozos at the Hangar under observation; y'couldn't be everywhere at once. Anyways, they didn't bomb the Hangar—that's the main point.”
“Talkin' of which; maybe we'd better go back an' see exactly what the dam' that carpet-bag contains.” Alice nodded wisely, as one covering the important facets. “ God , hope that match they lit didn't, y'know, light the bloody thing.”
It was a rather chary Fiona, Alice by her side after refusing flatly to stay at home, who approached the bag lying forlornly on the oily concrete by the side of the immense Hangar. For a whole minute they both simply stood looking down at the container; before Fiona finally took courage to crouch and gingerly open the top. The contents being everything the two detectives hadn't expected.
“ Jeesus , they weren't gon'na fire-bomb the place after all.” Alice grunted in awe as she too crouched to gaze inside the long bag. “There's enough dynamite there t'blow half of Delacote t'blazes. Step back nice an' easy an' gentle, Fay.”
“Idiot.”
—O—
“Wonderful. Just wonderful, ladies.” Charles Dixon was a happy Producer; presently overflowing with all that milk-of-Human-Kindness for which Film Producers are so rightly not generally renowned. The present case being the exception, of course. “Who'd a'thought some slimy film company—I ain't namin' names, y'understand, but I goddam know who I mean, dammit—would go the length o'tryin' t'send my beautiful Stage t'Kingdom-bloody-Come? I ask ya, who?”
There being no reply forthcoming from the four women standing in his office later that same morning—the sun having made a tardy appearance in the now blue unclouded sky—he felt the way clear to carrying on his encomium; in who's particular honour wasn't quite clear—but the ladies had the subtle impression it was somehow rather in his own regard, than anyone else accidentally present; but that's Film Producers for you.
“Don't worry about diggin' out just who was responsible.” Dixon now had the bit of Justice firmly between his teeth. “That's for those bozos at the 5 th Precinct t'bother about. You're still my security firm; needed at all times t'keep the perimeters of this Stage safe an' strong. I have every faith in you, Miss Cartwright; an' you, Miss Drever. A very nasty situation, very well brought to a fine conclusion. If you work as well for the remainder of our stay here at Meidener Field I won't have any worries at all. Well done, well done, everybody. O'course the Film Company's expenses won't run t'a bonus of any sort, I'm afraid; but you have our whole-hearted felicitations, ladies, on a job very well carried through; and, I fancy, there's at least some small way we might be able t'reward ya both, after all. Lem'me see what I can do with that dam' Kraut director. Is Miss Crayston out there in the Front Office? Send her in, will ya, when y'leave. I got some mighty fine letters I need'ta get off t'HQ, back in the big H, as soon as possible. G'bye, g'bye; an' thanks again. Miss Crayston?; right, first—”
—O—
It was early afternoon a day later, and in the wide high Hangar-cum-film stage the Klieg lights were pouring their hot blistering, eye-watering intensity down on the set of a hotel dining-room liberally endowed with white-covered tables and potted plants. An army of extras peopled the various tables, making like they were enjoying a night on the tiles, while over to one side the two cameras glared through their single lens's like demons from the depths of Tartarus. In the shadows behind the main camera, on its small railway-like tracks, and under the long over-arching poles which carried the microphones high above the action, sat the German director in solitary splendour.
“ Achtung, Aufnahme! —er, I mean, Action!”
In his part as Mike Conway, adventurer extraordinary, James Forster ambled along the side of the tables; dressed in a white tuxedo that made him look either like a second-rate gangster or a high-ranking politician. His black hair was slicked back, shining in the powerful light; while his pencil-line mustache tried valiantly to bring memories of Douglas Fairbanks to those spectators overwhelmed by its near presence. As he moved forward, the camera three feet to his right tracking his every step in threatening silence, there was a flutter of movement off-left and the lady of the piece, Gladys Morgan, played by Lys Lyson with all her assembled sexy charm, glided up to the strong man's side; clutching his sleeve like a drowning woman in a shipwreck.
“Oh Mike, found you at last.” Lys exerted all her throaty sensuality on these words, as if they had hypnotic power. “Let's get to a table quickly. I have so much to tell you.'
As they strolled on past the diners the camera paused slightly, letting the two stars move a few paces ahead of it. As the camera held back it slowly swept across the assembled tables, hovering for an almost imperceptible moment on the nearest. Here two ladies, one with short shingled brunette locks and the other with long trailing black tresses, dressed in wonderful shimmering silk evening gowns of an exotic richness sat with their elbows on the table quietly chatting to each other. Only a glimpse was allowed by the tracking camera, then they were gone. But for that brief instant they themselves were the focus and stars of the film; then their fleeting taste of fame was over, and the camera had moved on along its tracks to catch up with the real stars.
“Cut! Gut ; not bad, meine Damen und Herren . OK, next set-up; an' make it schnell, the light's dam' well goin' again.”
—O—
“Fay?”
“Wha'-d'ya-wan'?”
“Fay?”
“Y'got m'name dead t'rights, at least.”
“Fay?”
“ Jeesus , what? Spit-it-out.”
“Fay—”
“ Grr-Hrrghrr —”
“—I'm just thinkin', that Shoshone rug we clocked a day or so ago at Armstrong's in the Arkwright Promenade would look good hangin' on the wall just at the entrance t'the living-room; don't you think?”
“What? But it costs what? A hundred an' fifty bucks.”
“We can afford it. Look at the stonking big bonus the Film Company finally parted with, in thanks for the excellent security we provided for them.”
“Gettin' a bonus is all very well.” Fiona thought about sitting up from her prone position on the long settee, then decided she was too comfortable to bother. “Spendin' it on fol-de-rols is another matter altogether.”
“A Shoshone rug ain't a,—a,—what you called it; it's a work of American art, that'll be worth a fortune in years t'come. An' is simply beautiful in the meantime.”
“ Sheesh , I never thought I'd get t'wallow in that bonus, anyway.” Fiona submitted to Fate, with a growling grace. “Knew ya'd come up with some cockamamy way o'throwin' it around like confetti at a double wedding. Well, if I'm gon'na part with the ready, there'll have t'be some discussion about what my price is gon'na work out as, my little golden bee.”
Alice, who was standing over her supine better half, looked down at the coy almost leering expression on the dark-haired one's grinning face. Raising an eyebrow she asked the question to which, of course, she already knew the answer.
“ Ah-ha ; an' just what would, let's say a tall dark female detective's idea of a fair price run to, darlin'?”
“We-e-ll, let's see.” Fiona considered all the infinite possibilities, and came up trumps. “For starters, I thought maybe we might—”
The End.
—O—
To be continued in the next instalment of the ‘ Drever & Cartwright ' series.
—OOO—