Her real name, it appeared, was Christina Gotobed.
And she had had no lovers.
No public ones, that is. Even in those crucial years when the little Broadway hoofer was blossoming into the song-and-dance star, she seemed to have had no patron. Nor yet when, tiring of song-and-dance pictures, her ambition had reached out to drama; her rocket had shot to the stars under its own power, it would seem. This could only mean one of two things: that she had remained virgin until her marriage at twenty-six (a state of affairs which Grant, who had a larger experience of life than of psychology textbooks, found quite possible) or that her favour was given only when her heart (or her fancy, according to whether you are sentimentalist or cynic) was touched. Four years ago Lord Edward Champneis (pronounced Chins), old Bude’s fifth son, had met her in Hollywood, and in a month they were married. She was at that time shooting her first straight film, and it was generally agreed that she had “done well for herself” in her marriage. Two years later Lord Edward was “Christine Clay’s husband.”
He took it gracefully, it was reported; and the marriage had lasted. It had become a casual affair of mutual friendliness; partly owing to the demands of time and space that her profession made on Christine, and partly to the fact that Edward Champneis’s main interest in life (after Christine) was to invade the uncomfortable interiors of ill-governed and inaccessible countries and then to write books about it. During the book-writing solstice he and Christine lived more or less under one roof, and were apparently very happy. The fact that Edward, although a fifth son, had nevertheless a large fortune of his own, inherited from his mother’s brother (Bremer, the leather king), had done much to save the marriage from its most obvious dangers. And Edward’s delighted pride in his wife did the rest.
Now, where in that life, as shown in the dossier, did a murder fit in? Grant asked himself, toiling up the padded stairs. Harmer? He had been her constant companion for the three months she had been in England. True, they had work in common (producers still liked to insert a song somewhere in the plot of Christine’s films: the public felt cheated if they did not hear her sing), but the world which amuses itself had no doubt of their relations, whatever their colleagues thought. Or Tisdall? An ill-balanced boy, picked up in a moment of waywardness or generosity, at a time when he was reckless and without direction.
Well, he himself would find out more about Tisdall. Meanwhile he would find out about the Harmers of her life.
As he came to the top of the second flight, he heard the gentle sound of the lift closing, and he turned the corner to find Jammy Hopkins just taking his thumb from the bell-push.
“Well, well,” said Jammy, “it’s a party!”
“I hope you have an invitation.”
“I hope you have a warrant. People shriek for their lawyer nowadays at the very sight of a policeman on the mat. Look, Inspector,” he said hurriedly in a different voice, “let’s not spoil each other’s game. We both thought of Marta. Let’s pool results. No need for crowding.”
From which Grant deduced that Hopkins was doubtful of his reception. He followed Grant into the little hall without giving his name, and Grant, while appreciating the ingenuity, rebelled at providing a cloak for the Press.
“This gentleman is, I believe, from the Clarion,” he said to the servant who had turned away to announce them.
“Oh!” she said, turning back and eyeing Hopkins without favour. “Miss Hallard is always very tired at night, and she has some friends with her at the moment—”
But luck saved Hopkins from any necessity for coercion. The double doors to the living-room stood open, and from the room beyond came welcome in high excited tones.
“Mr. Hopkins! How charming! Now you can tell us what all these midday editions were talking about. I didn’t know you knew Mr. Hopkins, Marta darling!”
“Who’d have thought I’d ever be glad to hear that voice!” Jammy murmured to Grant as he moved forward to greet the speaker, and Grant turned to meet Marta Hallard, who had come from the room into the hall.
“Alan Grant!” she said, smiling at him. “Is this business or pleasure?”
“Both. Do me a favour. Don’t tell these people who I am. Just talk as you were talking before I came. And if you can get rid of them fairly soon, I’d like to talk to you alone for a little.”
“I’d do a lot more than that for you. Every time I tie these round my neck,” she indicated a rope of pearls, “I remember you.”
This was not because Grant had given her the pearls but because he had once recovered them for her.
“Come and meet the others. Who is your friend?”
“Not a friend. Hopkins of the Clarion.”
“Oh. Now I understand Lydia’s welcome. And they say professional people are publicity hounds!” She led Grant in, introducing people as they came. The first was Clement Clements, the society photographer, radiant in purple “tails” and a soft shirt of a pale butter colour. He had never heard of an Alan Grant, and made it perfectly clear. The second was a Captain Somebody, a nondescript and humble follower of Marta’s, who clung to his glass of whisky and soda as being the only familiar object in an unknown terrain. The third was Judy Sellers, a sulky fair girl who played “dumb” blondes from year’s end to year’s end, and whose life was one long fight between her greed and her weight. And the fourth was that intimate of the stars, Miss Lydia Keats, who was now talking all over Jammy Hopkins and enjoying herself immensely.
“Mr. Grant?” Jammy said, nastily, as Grant was introduced.
“Isn’t it ‘Mr.’?” Lydia asked, her ears pricked, her eyes snapping with curiosity.
“No, it isn’t!”
But Hopkins met Grant’s eye and lacked the courage of his desire. It would be folly to make an enemy of a C.I.D. Inspector.
“He has one of those Greek titles, you know, but he’s ashamed to own it. Got it for rescuing a Greek royalist’s shirt from a Greek laundry.”
“Don’t pay any attention to him, Mr. Grant. He loves to hear himself talk. I know, you see. He has interviewed me so often. But he never listens to a word I say. Not his fault, of course. Aries people are often talkative. I knew the first time he crossed my threshold that he was April born. Now you, Mr. Grant, are a Leo person. Am I right? No, you don’t need to tell me. I know. Even if I couldn’t feel it—here—” she thumped her skinny chest, “you have all the stigmata.”
“I hope they’re not very deadly?” Grant asked, wondering how soon he could disengage himself from this harpy.
“Deadly! My dear Mr. Grant! Don’t you know anything of astrology? To be born in Leo is to be a king. They are the favourites of the stars. Born to success, predestined to glory. They are the great ones of the world.”
“And when does one have to be born to qualify for a Leo benefit?”
“Between the middle of July and the middle of August. I should say that you were born in the first weeks of August.”
Grant hoped he didn’t look as surprised as he felt. He had certainly been born on the 4th of August.
“Lydia’s uncanny,” Marta broke in, handing Grant a drink. “She did poor Christine Clay’s horoscope about a year ago, you know, and foretold her death.”
“And wasn’t that a break!” drawled the Judy girl, poking among the sandwiches.
Lydia’s thin face was convulsed with fury, and Marta hastened to pour oil. “You know that’s not fair, Judy! It isn’t the first time Lydia has been right. She warned Tony Pickin about an accident before he was smashed up. If he’d listened to her