Read Online Frequent Hearses by Edmund Crispin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edmund Crispin
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impulses which underlay his question thus ruthlessly illuminated.
“Oh, come,” he said, “I wasn’t thinking of anything like that. I was just curious, that’s all… I suppose,” he went on casually, “that a girl like that would be very keen to break into films, wouldn’t she? I mean, a lot of them take these secretarial jobs just for the sake of a foothold in the studios, don’t they?”
“You’ve only got to talk to them to find out how keen they are,” said Fen with malice. “I believe some of them would willingly murder their own mothers for the sake of a test.”
“Ah. You really think so?”
“There’s not a doubt about it.”
Gresson drew a deep, contented breath. “Well, well,” he said. “Human nature’s a queer thing, isn’t it?”
“Very queer.”
“I think”—Gresson put a finger judicially to his lip—“I think I’ll just go and ask them about trains back to London. That’s the sort of thing they’d know, I expect.”
“Be careful,” said Fen waggishly, “that you don’t get yourself seduced.”
“Aha!” At this delightful suggestion Gresson’s idée fixe came leaping uncontrollably to the surface, like a salmon in a weir. “Seduced! Well, it mightn’t be so very unpleasant, at that. Which of them would you say had the better legs, now?” The penultimate word emerged as a libidinous gurgle. “Which would you say—”
“The one on the left,” Fen answered rather shortly; being volatile in temperament, he was by now tired both of the topic and of Gresson. “You have a good look at their legs while you ask them about the trains, and then come back and tell me if you agree.”
“Unmannerly,” said Gresson. “I’m afraid that might be unmannerly.” His nervousness was reasserting itself, and since it was clear that he would never, however complaisant the girl to whom he addressed himself, get in practice even to first base, Fen abandoned him, immured to all eternity in the priapean imaginings of his own mind, and went to intercept Humbleby, who had disengaged himself from the Cranes and was making his way towards the door.
“All settled,” said Humbleby in an undertone. “They’re meeting me in what they call the Club here, at midday or shortly after.”
“Did you tell them what it was about?”
“Yes. Will you be coming along?”
“Since I have no official standing,” said Fen, “they may not want me there. But I may as well make the attempt; and if I’m shooed off I can arrange to meet you for lunch. You don’t mind my hanging about?”
“My dear fellow!”
“I’ll see you later, then.”
In the doorway Humbleby almost collided with Madge Crane. He stood aside to let her pass, and she thanked him brightly and unaffectedly. Her lack of affectation had been much publicised in the newspapers, and when strangers were about she lived up to it very resolutely. Fen had just time to note that as a consequence of his exchange with Humbleby the brothers Crane were eyeing him warily before Jocelyn Stafford, the producer, raised his voice to suggest that the conference should begin. Abandoning coffee-cups, it settled itself obediently at the table.
Fen found himself between Gresson on the one hand and Aubrey Medesco on the other. Medesco, an elderly man of formidable height and displacement, was the scenic designer, and like everyone else there he had a particular grudge against The Unfortunate Lady and everything to do with it. On hearing that he was to be employed on a film about Pope he had not unnaturally jumped to the conclusion that the villa at Twickenham, with its grotto, would be amply represented in it, and to the successful accomplishing of this mise-en-scene he had devoted, prior to the first script conference, a great deal of careful thought. Unluckily, however, the date chosen for the film’s occurrences had been 1716, when Pope was still living at Binfield; and the discovery that Twickenham did not, therefore, come into the
“Oh, come,” he said, “I wasn’t thinking of anything like that. I was just curious, that’s all… I suppose,” he went on casually, “that a girl like that would be very keen to break into films, wouldn’t she? I mean, a lot of them take these secretarial jobs just for the sake of a foothold in the studios, don’t they?”
“You’ve only got to talk to them to find out how keen they are,” said Fen with malice. “I believe some of them would willingly murder their own mothers for the sake of a test.”
“Ah. You really think so?”
“There’s not a doubt about it.”
Gresson drew a deep, contented breath. “Well, well,” he said. “Human nature’s a queer thing, isn’t it?”
“Very queer.”
“I think”—Gresson put a finger judicially to his lip—“I think I’ll just go and ask them about trains back to London. That’s the sort of thing they’d know, I expect.”
“Be careful,” said Fen waggishly, “that you don’t get yourself seduced.”
“Aha!” At this delightful suggestion Gresson’s idée fixe came leaping uncontrollably to the surface, like a salmon in a weir. “Seduced! Well, it mightn’t be so very unpleasant, at that. Which of them would you say had the better legs, now?” The penultimate word emerged as a libidinous gurgle. “Which would you say—”
“The one on the left,” Fen answered rather shortly; being volatile in temperament, he was by now tired both of the topic and of Gresson. “You have a good look at their legs while you ask them about the trains, and then come back and tell me if you agree.”
“Unmannerly,” said Gresson. “I’m afraid that might be unmannerly.” His nervousness was reasserting itself, and since it was clear that he would never, however complaisant the girl to whom he addressed himself, get in practice even to first base, Fen abandoned him, immured to all eternity in the priapean imaginings of his own mind, and went to intercept Humbleby, who had disengaged himself from the Cranes and was making his way towards the door.
“All settled,” said Humbleby in an undertone. “They’re meeting me in what they call the Club here, at midday or shortly after.”
“Did you tell them what it was about?”
“Yes. Will you be coming along?”
“Since I have no official standing,” said Fen, “they may not want me there. But I may as well make the attempt; and if I’m shooed off I can arrange to meet you for lunch. You don’t mind my hanging about?”
“My dear fellow!”
“I’ll see you later, then.”
In the doorway Humbleby almost collided with Madge Crane. He stood aside to let her pass, and she thanked him brightly and unaffectedly. Her lack of affectation had been much publicised in the newspapers, and when strangers were about she lived up to it very resolutely. Fen had just time to note that as a consequence of his exchange with Humbleby the brothers Crane were eyeing him warily before Jocelyn Stafford, the producer, raised his voice to suggest that the conference should begin. Abandoning coffee-cups, it settled itself obediently at the table.
Fen found himself between Gresson on the one hand and Aubrey Medesco on the other. Medesco, an elderly man of formidable height and displacement, was the scenic designer, and like everyone else there he had a particular grudge against The Unfortunate Lady and everything to do with it. On hearing that he was to be employed on a film about Pope he had not unnaturally jumped to the conclusion that the villa at Twickenham, with its grotto, would be amply represented in it, and to the successful accomplishing of this mise-en-scene he had devoted, prior to the first script conference, a great deal of careful thought. Unluckily, however, the date chosen for the film’s occurrences had been 1716, when Pope was still living at Binfield; and the discovery that Twickenham did not, therefore, come into the
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