Chapter 3

Lady Don’t Shoot

I WAS WRONG of course. It was just some tramp who’d had the good fortune to find a suit from the same store where Rock Railton shopped (OK, one with pockets stuffed with cash, but everyone gets lucky sometimes). An old man who was so confused and so close to death that he thought he knew me, that he would ask a stranger for help. He didn’t want to die – well, that’s hardly a surprise.

Nothing to see here, move right along, please.

I did the helpless thing again and some of the passers-by stopped jumping for ten-dollar bills long enough to realise the old guy needed some help. Or rather, that he was past it.

‘Let me through – I’m a doctor.’

My heart beat a little faster, and I lingered just long enough to be sure he’d used the indefinite article. But the man was short and bald and rather ugly – not at all like any Doctor I’d consult. I hope. If ‘consult’ is the right word.

By the time I reached Nick’s I was completely composed again and ready to perform my renowned raincoat removal routine. I assured myself that the statue still hadn’t moved, and then caught sight of Rock Railton walking into Nick’s ahead of me. Any final doubts or worries I might have had disappeared as quick as the sun in an English summer.

The doorman frowned at me when I introduced myself. ‘Miss Malone – you’re not on the list.’

‘Maybe not your list, sweetie. But I’m on nearly everyone else’s.’ It didn’t take a lot to persuade him to let me in.

Rock had already disappeared deep into the melee of guests. I did the raincoat thing and draped it over the arm of a nearby waiter, not bothering to check how many people had watched. I recognised the sound of jaws dropping.

The waiter holding my coat, and apparently attempting to make eye contact somewhere south of my own jaw, directed me through the large foyer to the ballroom where the party was being held.

Another waiter appeared beside me before I was three steps into room.

He offered up a silver tray of fluted glasses. ‘Champagne?’

‘I prefer the real thing,’ I assured him in a loud whisper. I took a glass anyway and surveyed the room as I sipped. It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t very French either.

My plan, such as it was, centred on talking to Rock Railton and getting an idea of who the likely suspects were. Chances were that whoever wanted him dead was in this room – and I don’t just mean the critics.

Everyone was here. I recognised other movie stars, like Giddy Semestre whose neckline was even more pronounced than my own. It didn’t so much plunge as plummet. I spotted some big-name producers including Maximilian Schneider dePost von Algonquin – who has to be one of the biggest names in any industry.

Then there was the press. I knew some of the owners of the big papers very well indeed. They fell into two camps – those who smiled and raised their glasses in greeting when they saw me, and those who turned away and tried to hide their faces in the hope I wouldn’t recognise or remember them. I could write a few headlines there.

I couldn’t for the moment see Rock Railton, so I made my way across the room towards Giddy Semestre. She was the co-star of Lady Don’t Shoot, and there were rumours that she and Rock were romantically linked. At the hip. Whatever the truth of that, it seemed likely that Rock would gravitate towards Giddy before too long.

Plus it’s always nice to talk to the most beautiful and intelligent woman in the room. So Giddy would be grateful for the opportunity.

I reached Giddy and her entourage in time to hear the end of a rather obvious joke and leaned forward in order to steal the punchline.

There was a moment’s silence, into which I added: ‘Sorry – were you actually telling the version with the minotaur and the ukulele?’ Several people drifted away after that and soon I was alone with Miss Semestre.

‘I’m sorry, but have we met before?’ she asked.

I shook my head. ‘I’m sure you’d remember.’

She smiled, raised a perfectly pencilled eyebrow, and looked me up and down. ‘I’m sure I would.’

‘I’m a friend of Rock Railton.’

‘That may not narrow things down very much,’ she said.

‘Do I look like I need narrowing down?’ I wondered. I congratulated her on her performance in the movie. Her smile widened alarmingly as I poured on the praise for her acting abilities.

But she wasn’t as dizzy as her name suggested. It was genuine amusement rather than immodesty. ‘You haven’t actually seen the movie, have you?’ she said.

I had to confess that I’d skipped the movie bit and come straight to the party. ‘But I’m sure you were very good in it.’

‘You can sure lie,’ she said, smile still in place. ‘But I can’t act to save my life. Oh, I have no illusions about that,’ she went on before I could pretend to disagree. ‘I’m there to look good. And maybe my looks are the best act of the lot.’

I asked her what she meant. Even up this close she wasn’t as heavily made-up as most of the women in the room. I’d passed one lady who had arrived well plastered in every sense.

Before she could answer me, a short man with oiled-back thinning hair who looked like he’d needed some of the same oil to ease him into his bulging suit arrived. He smudged the back of Giddy’s hand with his greasy lips.

‘Darling!’ he announced, as if this was a complete conversation. ‘Darrr-ling!’ he said again – you could practically hear the subject-verb-object construction within those two syllables.

He straightened up from the kiss, though that didn’t buy him much height, and looked at me askance. ‘Who’s your friend?’

Giddy was giving the lie to her comments about her own acting talents by making a good job of hiding her disgust at the guy’s slobbering. ‘Oh, Max – this is…’ She stumbled.

I helped her out. ‘Melody Malone.’

‘Melody Malone, eh?’ He sounded like he reckoned I’d just made the name up. So maybe he was more perceptive than I thought. ‘What studio you with?’

‘I’m not in the movie business,’ I confessed.

He pursed his lips in an especially unpleasant manner. ‘You ever decide you should be, give me a call.’ He bowed just enough for me to get the full impact of his bald patch. My guess was he didn’t know that from this angle he looked like a monk at prayer.

‘And you are?’ I asked.

That hit him right between the eyes just as he straightened up. There was a certain amount of spluttering from the Monk-Man, and barely concealed amusement from Miss Gillespie.

‘I’m kidding,’ I said in my bestest silkiest voice.

He obviously believed I must indeed be joking, and turned to share the amusement with Giddy, allowing me time to give her an exaggerated blank look.

Luckily she realised I hadn’t a clue as to his identity and rescued me. I don’t often need rescuing, but it’s nice when it goes well and doesn’t involve great heights.

‘Oh, Miss Malone, you’re such a tease,’ Giddy said. ‘Everyone knows Max Kliener, head of Starlight Studios. He produced Lady Don’t Shoot, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Well, yes, I’d heard of Kliener. I always thought he sounded like a commercial for an industrial vacuum appliance, and made a mental note to tell him some time. But maybe not just now.

Kliener jabbed a podgy finger at me several times, while looking me up and down and appraising me in a way that seemed particularly unnecessary. ‘Had me there,’ he said.

‘You wish,’ I murmured.

‘But, like I said – you decide to get into movies, I can find a place for you at Starlight. Just come down to the set any time and ask for Max Kliener. Everyone knows Max.’

I switched on my own oiliest smile. ‘You sure about that… Max – was it?’

He exploded with laughter. Well, not literally – that might have been more amusing. But it was a pretty extreme reaction, and completely out of proportion to my admittedly witty repost.

I didn’t linger. Max Kliener was not the sort of man a woman with any choice would linger with. From the fact that Giddy Semestre did linger, I deduced that she probably didn’t have a choice. I’m a detective – I can tell.

Meanwhile, I’d caught sight of Rock Railton on the other side of the room. He was surrounded by several women of an age where their own choices were likely to be severely limited, an insincere smile painted across his face and his moustache twitching in near panic. The poor boy needed help – Melody Malone to the rescue.

He looked relieved, I’ll give him that. I was holding out for awestruck, but one step at a time.

‘I’m sorry, ladies,’ I announced in my huskiest and most urgent tone. ‘But I’m going to have to steal Mr Railton away for a few moments. Work as well as pleasure today.’

I left it to them to guess which of the two this might be. From some of the looks I got, a few of them guessed correctly.

‘I guess I owe you a thank you,’ Railton said as we moved off into the crowd.

‘I guess you do.’

He nodded and smiled as we moved through the great and the good. Or at least, the rich and the famous which, as you can imagine, is not always the same thing. In this case a two-circled Venn Diagram would have had precious little by way of intersection.

We reached a secluded corner, and he smiled. ‘Will you at least tell me your name?’ I probably didn’t hide my surprise as well as I usually do, because he quickly went on: ‘I’m sorry if we’ve met before. I meet so many people.’

Over his shoulder, I could see Max Kliener staring nervously in our direction. He excused himself from the group he was with and headed over.

‘You really don’t remember me?’ I nodded, understanding. Composure level set to iceberg. ‘Melody Malone. Well, I suppose it’s been a while.’

‘I suppose it has.’ He pointed at me, the way people do when they want you to think they’ve realised or remembered something. ‘Must be – how long?’

‘Oh, don’t be coy. I think you remember exactly when we last met, Mr Railton.’ I adjusted his necktie for him, and stepped back to admire my handiwork.

Kliener had been accosted on the way over by a large gentleman I didn’t yet know was Julius Grayle. Corpulent, ageing and corrupt – though I knew only two of those for certain back then, of course. He was gesturing emphatically, while Kliener sneaked furtive and worried glances at me and Rock.

‘Yes,’ Rock Railton was saying, ‘Melody Malone. We met at…’

I didn’t help him, just tilted my head winningly and smiled some more.

‘…at that thing. Must be six, seven…’

Still no help. I raised an eyebrow.

‘Possibly as much as…’ he went on.

I put him out of his misery. ‘We met at my office. Yesterday afternoon.’

He went white. Not out of embarrassment – he really did not know who I was, and my words had genuinely shocked him.

I collected a glass of ‘champagne’ from a passing tray attached to a waiter and took a sip. It was unpleasantly warm.

‘But I can understand that it’s slipped your memory,’ I said in my most understanding tone. ‘After all, we only flirted outrageously.’

He nodded, as if that was to be expected.

‘I’m a detective, as you perhaps recall. And you told me someone was going to kill you. Ringing any bells yet?’

I didn’t think it was possible for him to go any paler. But he did. He swallowed, and took a step backwards, clumsily knocking into a waiter – who immediately apologised.

‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he stammered. ‘I’ve… I’ve just seen someone I recognise.’

He hurried away, almost taking out another waiter, two women, and the human bowling-ball that was Max Kliener in his haste.

‘Must be someone you’ve known for less than twelve hours then,’ I murmured.