Death of A Beauty Queen E-Book

E. R. Punshon

• Herausgeber: Dean Street Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Description Mr. Sargent, the manager of the Brush Hill Central Cinema, wished he had never held a Beauty Competition. Caroline Mears, the predicted winner, had already caused trouble with one of the other girls. Paul Irwin, a strong Puritan and influential councillor, had taken it into his head to come backstage to look for his son Leslie, who hoped to marry Caroline against his father's wishes. Just as the winner of the competition was being announced, different news spread through the cinema like lightning - Caroline Mears had been murdered! Superintendent Mitchell of Scotland Yard and his young sergeant, Bobby Owen, were faced with one of the most puzzling cases of their careers. There were at least seven suspects, against four of whom an equally good case could be made out. There was Paul Irwin's maddening reiteration that he had 'nothing to say' to all questions, and a multitude of confusing evidence, none of which fitted the main jigsaw puzzle. Conundrums abound in this whodunit: one which will keep even the most seasoned mystery reader guessing - right to the very last page. Death of A Beauty Queen is the fifth of E.R. Punshon's acclaimed Bobby Owen mysteries, first published in 1935 and part of a series which eventually spanned thirty-five novels. This edition features a new introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans. "What is distinction? The few who achieve it step - plot or no plot - unquestioned into the first rank. We recognized it in Sherlock Holmes, and in Trent's Last Case, in The Mystery of the Villa Rose, in the Father Brown stories and in the works of Mr. E.R. Punshon we salute it every time." Dorothy L. Sayers

Leseprobe

E.R. PUNSHONDeath of A Beauty Queen

Mr. Sargent, the manager of the Brush Hill Central Cinema, wished he had never held a Beauty Competition. Caroline Mears, the predicted winner, had already caused trouble with one of the other girls. Paul Irwin, a strong Puritan and influential councillor, had taken it into his head to come backstage to look for his son Leslie, who hoped to marry Caroline against his father’s wishes. Just as the winner of the competition was being announced, different news spread through the cinema like lightning – Caroline Mears had been murdered!

Superintendent Mitchell of Scotland Yard and his young sergeant, Bobby Owen, were faced with one of the most puzzling cases of their careers. There were at least seven suspects, against four of whom an equally good case could be made out. There was Paul Irwin’s maddening reiteration that he had ‘nothing to say’ to all questions, and a multitude of confusing evidence, none of which fitted the main jigsaw puzzle. Conundrums abound in this whodunit: one which will keep even the most seasoned mystery reader guessing – right to the very last page.

Death of A Beauty Queen is the fifth of E.R. Punshon’s acclaimed Bobby Owen mysteries, first published in 1935 and part of a series which eventually spanned thirty-five novels.

INTRODUCTION

“I don’t like religion in murder cases—complicates things so.”

Superintendent Mitchell, Death of a Beauty Queen

In 1902 Ernest Robertson Punshon, a twenty-eight-year-old life assurance agent residing at 17 Makin Street, Walton-on-the-Hill, Liverpool with a retired schoolteacher aunt, had recently published his first novel, Earth’s Great Lord, a romance of the Australian outback; yet the nascent author was not above participating in weekly writing competitions held by The Academy, a London literary review. In July of that year Punshon succeeding in winning The Academy’s one Guinea prize, for the “best description of a dream,” beating out thirty-five other competitors. Punshon’s dream, as he detailed it, was a child’s nightmare about sin and divine retribution:

I dreamed that I stood on a low sandy shore. Before me stretched a great sea, murmurous with tiny waves. Beyond the horizon, hidden from my sight but not from my knowledge, sat an angel. At his feet were a number of envelopes bearing the names of men. These he was opening one by one at regular intervals and from each in succession flashed out a huge light spreading over half the sky and proclaiming eternal judgment, the salvation or damnation of the person whose name had been written.

Presently I became aware that the next to be opened would declare my own fate. I ran blindly to and fro, watching dreadfully, till at last the great light flashed out, the sky flamed with the sentence, and as I strained to read it, I awoke.

I suppose that at the time of this dream I would have been about ten years old. I distinctly remember my frantic efforts to be very good indeed for several days thereafter.

The conflict between imperatives of wrath and mercy forms the theme of E. R. Punshon’s fifth Bobby Owen mystery, Death of a Beauty Queen (1935), a novel in which the author depicts psychologically credible murder in arealistic environment. The dead lovely of the title is scheming Caroline Mears, knifed in her dressing room on the night of her triumphin the beauty competition at Brush Hill Central Cinema. Caroline Mears had been determined at all costs to make it to Hollywood and see her name—altered, she imagined, to “Caroline La Merre”—“flared in electric splendor in every busy street throughout the world”; but now someone has forever short-circuited her shining dream of global fame and fortune.

It becomes the job of what to E. R. Punshon’s growing audience of devoted readers was the now pleasingly familiar team of Superintendent Mitchell and Sergeant Bobby Owen (along with a cast of supporting policeman) to discover who murdered Caroline Mears. Numerous suspects are on hand in the case, starting with Lilian Ellis, a hot-tempered rival beauty who aimed—rather less ambitiously than Caroline, but certainly no less anxiously—to use a strong finish in the contest as a stepping stone to securing a coveted mannequin position at the Brush Hill Bon Marche; but also including a company of males who for varying reasons had become interested in Caroline’s fate: Mr Sargent, “owner—under his bankers of course—of the cinema”; photographer Roy Beattie, rather a partisan on behalf of Lilian Ellis; an unnamed “tough looking bloke” who stormed past the doorman the night of the contest, looking for a “Carrie Quin”; Claude Maddox and Leslie Irwin, young gentlemen trailing in Caroline’s wondrous wake; and the puritanical Paul Irwin, Leslie’s righteous father, who as a member of the borough council had fiercely fought to force Sunday closures of Brush Hill cinemas. The elder Irwin fervently believed that Caroline Mears was a designing wanton who, left to her own devious devices, was sure to wreck his son’s promising young life.

From his own family history E. R. Punshon was well aware that men could founder on the shoals of sensual allurements. His mother’s older brother, Richard Webb Halket, once Deputy Commissioner and Chief Assistant of the Chinese Imperial Maritime Customs in Shanghai, had embezzled heavily from his office, served a two-year prison term, frequented brothels and finally been successfully sued for divorce after deserting his wife, Rose Bloom Halket, and three children and cohabiting with a barmaid, Dora M’Guff, in Woolloomooloo, Australia. Surely one need not necessarily have been possessed of a puritanical mindset to have looked askance at these disreputable episodes from a life.

In Death of a Beauty Queen, however, it is religious zealotry that comes in for criticism from several of the characters, including Bobby Owen himself. Mr Sargent—a biased party, to be sure—denounces Paul Irwin as “an awful old fanatic….Sticks at nothing to get his own way, because he’s so sure he’s right and doing the work of the Lord, and everyone else is in outer darkness.” At another point in the novel, Superintendent Mitchell observes: “Religious people of the Paul Irwin kind are so jolly sure all the rest of us are vile sinners they’re always ready to believe the worst—of other people.” For his part, Bobby not only references the famous free-thinker Voltaire but also invokes the wisdom of the feminist and pacifist Christian minister Maude Royden, a Liverpool contemporary of Punshon’s: “I remember once hearing Maude Royden say, in a sermon, that when a member of her congregation came to her and said: ‘God is telling me to do something,’ her first thought was always: ‘Now what crime or folly are you going to commit?’”

“It’s so easy to take your own wishes for divine,” concurs Superintendent Mitchell, “and so convenient, because then you know you’re right, you and God against the world.” Yet rather than wrathfully cast stones at moral transgressors, we can always, of course, choose mildly to turn the other cheek. In Death of a Beauty Queen, there is, in addition to an interesting murder puzzle (with one particularly clever clue), a complex and compelling human drama, enriched with memorable portrayals of major and minor characters alike. Dorothy L. Sayers astutely emphasized this latter point when she warmly reviewed the novel in the Sunday Times. “Some readers prefer their detective stories to be of the conventional kind,” allowed Sayers, “they like to enjoy the surface excitement without the inward disturbance that comes of being forced to take things seriously.” Yet Sayers believed the future of crime fiction lay with serious-minded authors like E.R. Punshon, who had the desire, as well as the capacity, “to persuade us that violence really hurts.” Death of a Beauty Queen was, she concluded, “a fine and interesting novel, where the emotional discords are resolved in a strain of genuine pathos….”

I hope that modern readers will agree, as I do, with Dorothy L. Sayers that in Death of a Beauty Queen we have a Golden Age detective novel that, if not alone in its time, was, along with select others from its day, ahead of it. In the novel the knife blow that slays the beauty queen does not simply remove a piece from a chessboard in some antiseptic murder game; it sparks a deadly fuse in a succession of poignant human tragedies. Death of a Beauty Queen merited Sayers’ commendation eight decades ago, just as it amply merits revival today.

Curtis Evans

CHAPTER ONEBeauty’s Stab

She came out quickly, self-confidently, royally, with none of that hesitation or apparent self-mistrust that had marked the entry of some of the other competitors on the stage of the Brush Hill Central Cinema. Turning, she faced the crowded audience, and stood, superb and lovely, her tall figure outlined against the neutral-tinted curtain that formed certainly an equal background for all, but that also showed off very effectively her gown of gold brocade, cut in the new sweeping ‘stream-line’ fashion.

For just the fraction of a second there was complete silence, and for just that moment her self-confidence wavered, so that a passing fear flickered an instant in her light, rather hard, blue eyes – her worst feature, perhaps, but one not very noticeable at first or at a distance. Then it passed as she understood that her confidence had not been misplaced, that it was her beauty itself that had imposed upon this crowded audience the silence she had mistaken during one brief instant for indifference, but that in reality was appreciation far deeper than the facile rounds of clapping some of the other competitors had earned.

But now the applause began, low at first, then swelling into organ notes that filled all the building, that bathed the soul of the girl standing there in an almost physical delight.

It flowed about her; it enveloped her; she made little movements with her hands as if to draw it closer to her; she seemed to herself no longer human but half divine; she seemed to float above the world – above all the rest of humanity – borne up to the very heavens on the wings of this tumultuous cheering. Instinctively she closed her eyes. A profound instinct, a strange sub-conscious knowledge in her inner self, told her they had in them some quality that at times was apt to check the enthusiasm of her admirers, and let her curled, exquisite eyelashes droop upon her rounded cheek. It was a gesture she had practised. It had a modest and demure air; it gave, she was well aware – for she knew these things as a child knows how to breathe or smile or cry – an added attraction of contrast to her somewhat flamboyant beauty, to her masses of golden hair, her large, strongly marked features of almost perfect shape and harmony, her imposing height, so that she seemed a veritable goddess of old Grecian dream, even though to some eyes it might have seemed also that there showed a hint of a possible coming grossness.

Still the applause continued. It beat into her soul like fine music on one who understands; she glowed in it like metal white hot in the furnace; she felt it wafting her away to all those delights of fame and wealth and power wherefor panted her soul. To herself she seemed to soar high above the life of common, everyday humanity, to be freed from all those trammelling bonds of necessity and need that hitherto had irked. To her it was as a release from everyday existence, from life itself, and in such a moment how could she remember that a release from existence and from life means merely – death?

Hollywood! That was the magic word of power this cheering seemed to her to spell. How glad she was that now she could start for Hollywood at once, and could scorn the tuppenny-ha’penny little engagement at the Colossal Film Studio, Palmer’s Hill, that was the prize to-night, and that this continuous applause seemed to certify already hers. She supposed that the news of this triumph to-night would at once be recorded everywhere, for all her favourite film papers agreed in telling her how continually the wide world was ‘scoured’ for possible ‘stars’ by the magnates of the films. So, knowing all about her, they would welcome her eagerly; they would ‘groom’ her a little, and then her career of triumph would begin.

From under her half-closed lids, with those long curling lashes that veiled so well the hard appraising look her eyes sometimes showed, she bestowed an approving smile upon the spectators. They were applauding still – as, indeed, was only right and proper. How proud they would all be to remember this night, in times to come when her name was famous everywhere, and ‘Caroline Mears’ flared in electric splendour in every busy street throughout the world. Well, she did not grudge them their satisfaction, even though she felt they ought to pay a little extra each for the privilege – a little extra in cash that should be hers for herself alone. Only, was ‘Mears’ too ordinary a name for the bright magnificence of the lights that she foresaw? She decided on the instant to change it to ‘Demeres’ – or ‘Le Merre’ perhaps. Yes, ‘Le Merre’ it should be – or, no, ‘La Merre,’ of course, and a slight pucker of anxiety creased for an instant the satin-like smoothness of her brow as her glance picked out, standing alone at one side of the auditorium – those hard, clear, brightly shining eyes of hers possessed wonderful sight – a tall, straight man, apparently of middle age, who stood there, erect and stern and rigid, taking no part in the general applause that now was slackening a little.

What was he doing there, she wondered? Anyhow, she had the money; and what did it matter if his glance beat upon hers with a hint of a force before which that of her beauty was as that of ice before fire? With an effort, but only with an effort, she averted her gaze.

In the wings, Mr Sargent, owner – under his bankers of course – of the cinema, and organizer of this Beauty Contest, with its prize of a film engagement, that had moved all Brush Hill to its depths, was beckoning to her to come off now the cheering was dying down, and Martin, the timekeeper, whose job it was to note with a stop-watch the duration of the applause each competitor earned, said to him: ‘You’ll need a crowbar, Mr Sargent, to prise that girl off.’

‘She’s a winner all right,’ Sargent answered. ‘They’re beginning clapping again.’

‘Asked ’em to, she did,’ observed Martin; and added dispassionately: ‘Some of the rest of ’em aren’t so dusty. Lilian Ellis, for one – that comes on next.’ Then he said: ‘Someone told me Paul Irwin was in front.’

‘Irwin? Councillor Irwin?’ Sargent repeated, startled. ‘Why, what’s he snooping round for, the old killjoy? Wanting to make more mischief?’

‘His boy’s behind,’ Martin explained. ‘Young Leslie – sweet on this girl, they say, and likely old man Paul thought he would have a look at her.’

‘Half the young fools in the place are sweet on her,’ growled the manager. ‘If it’s only that – she’s turned him down anyhow. I’ll go and have a word with the old man, though,’ he added, looking uneasy again.

For Paul Irwin, a member of the borough council, was no friend to cinemas, or, for that matter, to any other form of public entertainment, and had fought hard to get the Brush Hill cinemas closed on Sundays – indeed it was for that purpose he had been elected to the council to represent a group holding certain strict old-fashioned ideas. For Mr Irwin’s powers and influence the cinema owner had considerable respect, and he hoped sincerely the old campaign was not going to be reopened.

Again he beckoned to the girl on the stage to come off, and again she took no notice, but, with a bow and a smile to right and left, appeared rather to invite renewed applause. Yet her glance that stabbed so keenly from under her half-closed eyes was again upon that tall and rigid figure of the man of whom Sargent and Martin had just been speaking.

‘Well, I don’t care,’ she was telling herself. ‘He can do what he likes – it’s enough to pay my fare to Hollywood, and I can start to-morrow if I like.’

In the wings, Martin said to Sargent:

‘Well, you’ve got to get her off somehow or we shall be here all night – there’s Lord knows how many of ’em waiting their turn.’

Sargent nodded, and walked out on the stage. He bowed to the audience, who stopped applauding, a little puzzled by his unexpected appearance. He bowed to Caroline, who understood it very well, and who turned on him angry eyes that did not harmonize too well with her smiling lips, and then he took her hand.

‘Got to give the others a chance, you know, my dear,’ he said to her, in an undertone, as he conducted her off the stage to a fresh round of applause.

If Miss Caroline Mears had ever heard of that celebrated retort: ‘Je ne vois pas la nécessité,’ she would probably have quoted it now – at any rate it very accurately represented her sentiments. As it was she said nothing, and consoled herself with the reflection that she had managed to stop on the stage longer than any of her rivals and so would probably be best remembered when it came to the voting.

‘Lilian Ellis next,’ said Martin, in a loud voice. He was slightly bored with the whole business, and, besides, he knew Mrs Martin was keeping hot for him a nice plate of fried fish and chips. ‘Now where’s she got to?’ he demanded wearily.

‘I’m here,’ a small voice answered, as there came forward – though looking more than half-inclined to run for it – a girl who had been standing and shivering and panicking in a corner close by, waiting for the summons that had seemed so long in coming, while the courage she had with pain and grief screwed up to sticking point oozed slowly, surely away, till now very little indeed of it was left her.

She was tall, too; nearly as tall as the magnificent Caroline herself, though built on much less generous lines – ‘scraggy’ was in fact the description Caroline had done her best to broadcast of her – and she was as dark as Caroline was fair, with very large dark brown eyes and dark rippling hair. Her features were a little on the small side, though finely moulded and in perfect proportion, and, if it was the beauty of the soft radiance of her eyes that generally attracted attention first, a minor beauty she could equally have boasted was the perfection of her teeth. Their regular and pearly whiteness flashed like a ray of light through her rare smile, but unfortunately she had never learnt the trick of showing them to advantage. Her lips were generally pressed firmly together to express the resolution and distrust a hard, unlucky life had taught her, though it may be her smile was all the more captivating when it came because it so seldom lit up the gravity of her young face. At the moment she was perhaps hardly looking her best, for her nervousness was palpable, and had induced a slight perspiration, while a chilly draught, blowing straight into the corner where she had been waiting, had resulted in a certain unfortunate redness of the nose. Now, as she moved forward in answer to Martin’s summons, she and Caroline came face to face, and, with real admiration, Lilian whispered:

‘You looked lovely. They did clap, didn’t they?’ Caroline’s glance flashed over the other girl and recognized a dangerous rival. There was, it had to be acknowledged, something attractive, something in an odd contradictory way both appealing and compelling, about her. Feature by feature, item by item, Caroline was confident of her own superiority – with the possible exception of those lustrous teeth silly little Lilian had luckily no idea how to use to advantage. Not that Caroline was dissatisfied with her own, polished and shining and large and strong, real ‘ivory castles’ of the advertisement that could crack a nut with ease but, if hers were ‘ivory castles,’ Lilian’s were like two rows of well-matched pearls, and added their share to that rather inexplicable attractiveness the child certainly possessed. People were such fools, too – Lilian’s smile might win them to give her an applause to rival that just now awarded to Caroline. Like summer lightning across the sea all this flashed through her mind – though intensely felt rather than clearly thought – and showed her dream of Hollywood endangered. She said:

‘Disqualified – isn’t it awful?’

Lilian looked bewildered.

‘Disqualified,’ Caroline repeated, in a rapid whisper. ‘I stopped too long on the stage – against the rules. You’ve got to run away just as soon as the clapping starts, or they disqualify you. Mind you’re careful.’

‘Oh, I will – oh, I am sorry,’ Lilian exclaimed, in consternation at such a catastrophe. ‘Oh, they won’t really–’

‘Now then, Miss Ellis, stage waiting,’ Martin bawled. ‘Come along there – got to finish some time to-night,’ he protested, thinking longingly of fish and chips – so much more to a practical, middle-aged man than all the lovely ladies that are or ever were.

Lilian found herself on the stage. This surprised her, for she had no idea how she had got there. The one clear thought in her mind was that she must be careful not to get disqualified. If that happened she would lose her chance of getting the job as permanent mannequin at the Brush Hill Bon Marche she had applied for, and had been as good as promised if she met with any success to-night. Mr Ginn, the staff manager, was in front to-night, she knew, though of course it was quite impossible to distinguish him in that sea of white faces, all intimidatingly staring. She could only hope he thought she was satisfactory, for a job at the Brush Hill Bon Marché meant a lot to a girl with a fretful, invalid mother to support as well as two small brothers of inconceivable appetites and an absolutely bewildering habit of growing out of their clothes almost as soon as they put them on. At any rate, the one thing she had to be careful of was not to risk poor Carrie’s fate and get herself disqualified.

No one was clapping as yet as they had clapped the unlucky Caroline. In point of fact, as she had only just stepped into their view, the spectators had as yet hardly had time, but to her it seemed that she had been standing there a hundred years or so. But, if they were not clapping, they were all, as she perceived to her extreme astonishment, staring their very hardest. It was rather awful. It needed courage to stand there and endure that. And she had never had much courage, only temper – as her mother had found out once or twice when she had pushed complaining a little bit too far, or those two boys of whom a shameful legend of her youth proclaimed that she had chased them with a dinner-knife all down the street merely because they had been having some fun with a lame kitten. Indeed in the school she had been attending at the time the shocking story was still repeated of how, when a horrified mistress asked her what she had been intending to do with the dinner-knife, she responded firmly:

‘I was going to chop them up.’

But, in an emergency like this, temper and fierce display of dinner-knives were no use, only firm courage was required, and, above all, care to run no risk of sharing Caroline’s unhappy fate of disqualification.

The clapping started, a little hesitatingly, for no one was quite so sure about this thin and nervous-looking girl as they had been about the flamboyant, self-confident Caroline. But the clapping continued – it even grew in volume. Bewildered, Lilian listened. It seemed to her to have gone on for long, and vividly she remembered Caroline’s warning. If she were not careful she would share the same unhappy fate. To avoid it, one had to run, it seemed, when the clapping started. And now it had started.

She ran.

The clapping stopped. Someone laughed. Laughter’s infectious, and this audience was in a happy mood. It spread; it ran like the wind from one to another. A gust of uproarious merriment followed Lilian as she fled, till one might have thought it blew her from the stage. The judging committee in the big stage box shared in the general hilarity to such an extent that most of its members forgot even to mark her card. Mr Sargent said:

‘The little fool’s ruined her chance all right.’ He added reflectively: ‘I thought at first she was going to be the high spot of the evening.’

Martin called:

‘Next, please; next number.’ He said to Lilian as, bewildered and breathless, she paused near by, ‘What in blazes made you play the giddy goat like that?’

CHAPTER TWOFather and Son

Now, on the stage, there followed each other a somewhat monotonous procession of pretty girls, for so variable is the mind of man that, strange as it must seem, even pretty girls may come in time to bore. But this profound truth is not one that as yet has come to be recognized by the producers of musical comedies who still believe that true joy lies in endless repetition.

To each competitor in succession, however, good-natured spectators gave a round of applause that had generally a spear-head of enthusiasm in the one special spot in the auditorium where had assembled the friends and admirers of the girl at the moment apparent. But near where stood the silent, grim, watchful personage the keen eyes of Caroline Mears had picked out, whose presence, too, had been mentioned by Martin to Mr Sargent, such clapping and applause seemed always soon to die away. It was as though his mere presence – upright, immovable, and stern – spread a kind of unease around, acting as a check and a restraint.

‘Blooming block of ice,’ Sargent muttered; and if ‘blooming’ is not the most appropriate adjective to apply to a lump of ice, neither is it the one that the proprietor – under the bankers – of the cinema actually employed.

He had come round to the front of the house, and, having paused only to rebuke an attendant he found flirting in the corridors when she ought to have been selling ices in the auditorium, he was now, from behind a curtain hanging over a door at the back, regarding Councillor Paul Irwin with marked disfavour.

‘Even chances he’s going to start another agitation – bring it up at the next council meeting, perhaps, and tell them a beauty contest’s a public scandal,’ he thought ruefully.

‘Well, I can tell him his precious boy has got the chuck from Caroline if that’ll smooth him down, but I wish the old blighter would keep his nose out of the place.’ He went through the door to where the councillor was standing. ‘Well, Mr. Irwin, sir,’ he said warmly, ‘it’s an unexpected honour to see you here to-night – a real pleasure.’

Paul Irwin turned his eyes slowly upon the other. They were strange eyes – deep-sunk and vivid – burning, if the expression may be allowed, with a kind of cold fire, as it is said that in extreme frost uncovered steel and glowing embers will each burn the incautious hand that touches them. His actual age was sixty, but he could easily have passed for a vigorous forty, so apparent were the strength and energy still showing in every gesture he made, every word he spoke. In his hair and trim beard – he was probably the only bearded man in the audience – not a single grey hair showed as yet, and, from each side of his great hooked nose, his deep-set eyes glowed with a kind of restrained and fierce energy that well held the passing years at bay. They gave him, indeed, with their far-off look as if they searched for distant, hidden things, something of the air of a watching, patient eagle waiting upon heights inaccessible to all but itself. The lines of the close-shut mouth were straight, as though a ruler had drawn them, and were pressed together as by a constant effort of the will. As a young man he must have been unusually handsome; now, in his maturity rather than his age, for of age his vigour gave no hint, he had a daunting and formidable air that came very largely from the impression of concealed tension that he gave, as if the very stillness of his attitude, the marked impassivity of pose and features alike, suggested some coiled spring the merest touch might release into fierce vehemence of action. He was dressed in well-worn clothes that were even a little shabby, but with a shabbiness that seemed of indifference rather than of poverty, and he had on a broad-brimmed hat of black felt – his one little affectation in dress, for no one, summer or winter, wet or fine, had ever seen him wearing any other kind. He said now, speaking very quietly, but still with that manner of force in reserve that seemed natural to the man:

‘It is neither honour nor pleasure to be here, either for me or for–’ and a slow, condemnatory movement of his hand indicated all the audience.

‘Oh, come, Mr Irwin,’ protested Sargent uncomfortably.

‘I know you and your friends call me a killjoy,’ Irwin went on. ‘It is not true. For one thing, no one can kill true joy, and, besides, joy is always good. But where’s the joy or the good, or the fun either, of watching a lot of empty-headed girls preen themselves one after the other like a lot of peacocks on a terrace in a park?’

‘Oh, well, now then, Mr Irwin,’ protested Sargent feebly. ‘Besides, as far as that goes, aren’t peacocks good to look at?’

‘Yes, and good for nothing else,’ retorted Irwin, in the same level, controlled tones in which nevertheless one could feel his passion beating against the bars of his self-restraint like an angered tiger at the bars of its cage. ‘Foolish girls showing themselves off like toasted cheese in a trap for silly mice,’ he pronounced.

Mr Sargent turned so as to bestow an unseen wink on the vacancy behind him. He thought:

‘I know what’s biting the old man, and making him talk like the day of judgment.’

Aloud, he said:

‘Oh, that’s a bit hard on ’em – on us all. What’s the good of being pretty if no one ever sees you? It’s a talent and gift like any other, and it oughtn’t to be hid.’

‘Hid?’ repeated Irwin, with a terrific emphasis, as he flashed his eyes at the stage where a girl had just entered in what she fondly believed to be a real mannequin glide; and he was going on to say something more when Sargent interposed quickly:

‘I see your boy Leslie is behind to-night.’

The old man always held himself so stiff, so rigid and upright, he could not well grow more so. But all the same there was an almost visible increase of tension in his voice and attitude as he said slowly:

‘I thought you always told us you never allowed anyone behind who was not there on business? Is Leslie there on business?’

Sargent shrugged his shoulders.

‘That’s all right in the ordinary way,’ he declared. ‘Speaking generally, we never do. It’s the sack for any of the staff who lets in anybody not on business. But a night like this is different. There’s dozens of competitors, and they’ve all brought their fathers and their mothers and their uncles and their aunts, and they’re all rushing in and out because they’ve forgotten their nail-polish or they’ve just thought of some new gadget for their frocks or their hair or their noses, and then there’s telegrams and bouquets and chocolates being fetched along without stopping – why, it’s all more like the first day of the winter sales in the West End than a well-managed, self-respecting cinema. How can we sort out the chap who’s bringing a competitor the lipstick her life depends on – and she’ll throw a fit of hysterics if she doesn’t get it good and quick – from the chap who only wants to kiss one of ’em good luck?’

Mr Irwin looked grimmer than ever.

‘Promiscuous kissing,’ he commented. ‘That, at least, I think could be controlled. And you tell me Leslie is taking part in all this?’

In spite of himself his voice softened as he pronounced his son’s name – for the moment a kind of radiance showed through the austerity of his tone and attitude and then was gone again. At his side, Sargent was indulging in a little bad language, though only thought, not uttered. ‘Promiscuous kissing, indeed!’ A nice twist the sour old puritan had given his words. Who could tell what that phrase might not have grown to in a day or two? But he judged it prudent to control his wrath. Irwin had a large and influential following in Brush Hill, and altogether was a personage with whom a quarrel was best avoided. So Sargent permitted himself only the mildest of protests.

‘I don’t think I said anything about promiscuous kissing,’ he remarked; ‘and I’ll tell you one thing, Mr Irwin. This is the last Beauty Contest that’ll ever be held here – never again. Handling that crowd of girls, all of ’em all worked up, all of ’em making eyes at you because then they think you’ll give ’em the best chance, and all of ’em dead sure you’re favouring the other one – handling a horde of hungry lions is nothing to it: nothing at all,’ declared Mr Sargent, pausing to wipe a forehead that had begun to perspire gently at the mere memory of all he had been through that night.

‘If Leslie is behind,’ Mr Irwin said unexpectedly, ‘I suppose there can be no objection to his father joining him?’

Mr Sargent fairly jumped, the suggestion surprised him so. But he accepted it very willingly. The crabbed old Puritan would be able to see for himself that ‘behind’ was no sink of iniquity, that no mysterious ‘orgies’ were going on there, but that it was merely a workshop like any other, where the always serious and often tedious business of entertainment was seriously and often tediously, practised. Besides, the old man would soon discover there was no ‘promiscuous kissing’ – the phrase still rankled – going on, and, if any story founded on those two unlucky words got about, Mr Irwin’s visit would provide an effective reply. Of course, it was hard luck on young Leslie Irwin – a little like throwing him to the wolves. The boy would have the scare of his young life when he saw his formidable old father in the one place where he must have thought he would be safe from meeting him. But then Mr Sargent had his own reason for not objecting to that happening.

‘Why, certainly, Mr Irwin,’ he answered. ‘Always pleased for any responsible person like yourself to have, a look round. We’ll go now, shall we?’

They went along the deserted corridor together, and in the abrupt and direct style he practised – for the injunction to be wise as serpents, harmless as doves, was the one scriptural injunction he never felt had any personal application – Mr Irwin said:

‘I suppose you know well enough it’s the Caroline Mears girl has brought Leslie here?’

‘Oh, half Brush Hill knows that,’ retorted Sargent, with a note of resentment in his tone that entirely escaped his companion’s attention, absorbed as the old man was with his own thoughts.

He put out his hand now, and laid it heavily on Sargent’s shoulder.

‘It would ruin the boy,’ he said. ‘He shall never marry her – never.’

‘Ow-w, my shoulder,’ gasped Sargent, almost doubled up under the weight of that fierce grip.

‘I am sorry,’ Mr Irwin said, releasing him. ‘I feel strongly. I mean it. The boy shall have no wife so light-minded, so worldly – a girl with nothing in her head but dancing and running about and all kinds of frivolity.’

Sargent was rubbing his shoulder – whereon, when he undressed for bed, he found the marks of his companion’s fingers still visible. He said in the same sulky and resentful tones:

‘That’s all right. I should feel that way myself. It would never do. Only, how are you going to stop it? They’re both of age.’

‘I will find a way. I will not have Leslie ruined – ruined body and soul,’ the other answered, with a slow concentrated force that had about it something almost terrifying. ‘That’s what it would mean,’ he added, more quietly. ‘I’ve seen it happen. I would give my own soul to make sure it does not happen to Leslie.’

As always when he spoke of his son, his voice softened to gentleness, for the moment a sort of radiance surrounding him, though soon it passed, and soon he was his own stern self again.

‘Oh, well,’ Sargent muttered, scared a little by the almost demoniacal energy that throbbed in the other’s tones, ‘there’s no need to worry. As a matter of fact, I happen to know Miss Mears has given him the chuck – I mean, she’s breaking off her friendship with him, completely and entirely.’

‘With Leslie,’ repeated Mr Irwin, and something that was nearly a smile plucked momentarily at the corner of his mouth. He made a little gesture of incredulity with one hand – such a gesture as a man might make if he heard that another had refused a fortune. ‘She’ll never do that,’ he said slowly. ‘She may pretend, for her own purposes, but that’s all. I doubt he’ll never be safe while she’s alive – never. Only death will make him safe from her.’

‘It’s through here,’ Sargent said, opening the door. He turned, and looked up suddenly at Irwin, who was some six or nine inches the taller. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said, ‘and death’s the only cure.’

He had spoken with some energy. A stage-hand, who was passing, heard, and turned to stare. Sargent saw him, and shouted angrily:

‘You, there, get on with your job, can’t you?’

The man vanished in a scutter, and Sargent said morosely: ‘They spend half their time yarning and gossiping instead of working. Come this way, Mr Irwin.’

CHAPTER THREE‘Behind’

Paul Irwin had never since his childhood been in any place of public entertainment – museums excepted, if they come within the terms of the definition – and never even in his wildest imaginings had he supposed that one day he would find himself behind the scenes of a theatre or a cinema.

He had no idea, therefore, that what he was now witnessing was not entirely normal, or that in the ordinary way activity ‘behind’ is as disciplined, controlled, and regular as that in any warehouse or office, all present knowing their jobs and intent only on carrying them out.

That every corridor should be swarming with excited girls; that rushing about in every direction should be equally excited relatives and friends; that a bewildered stage-doorkeeper should have given up all efforts to keep out unauthorised persons without legitimate reasons for claiming entry, since while he was arguing with one man, who might prove to be the father of a competitor bringing her some fal-lal she had to have or die upon the spot, various others on equally important errands, or on no errands at all, would be dashing wildly by; that girls in smart evening dresses that Paul took for undress, and girls in undress he hoped was smart evening attire, should be darting in and out of overcrowded dressing-rooms sometimes as many as a dozen had to share since there was nothing like enough accommodation for such a tribe of competitors – all this he supposed to be quite normal. He had no idea, even, that the confusion and the excitement were growing worse every minute, for, by now, Wood, the door-keeper, had finally thrown in his hand, and was complaining bitterly to a crony of the opprobrious epithets heaped upon him by a young man he had endeavoured to eject in the belief that he was a mere intruder, but who had turned out to be Roy Beattie, the ‘art’ photographer, as he liked to call himself, who had been specially invited by the management to take photographs of the most popular competitors, singly and in groups.

‘Called me a pumpkin-pated foozledum,’ bitterly complained Wood, who measured an insult more by syllable than by significance. ‘How was I to know he was here legitimate? – and not like half the rest of ’em, letting on to be fathers or uncles or brothers of girls they’ve never seen before except to cuddle in a corner. Why, there was one tough looking bloke said he was pa to a Carrie Quin, or some such name, and, before I could look at the list and make sure there wasn’t any Carrie Quin, he did a bunk past.’

‘Can’t you fetch ’em out again when they try that on?’ asked the crony.

‘In a general way,’ answered Wood, ‘that’s what I do – so quick they never know what’s happening till they’re outside again smarter than ninepence. But to-night, if I got busy after one, half a dozen more would be slipping in. Besides, this bloke wasn’t a young smartie, so I didn’t worry; looked more like it was handbags he was after than hugging and kissing round the corner.’

‘Does seem, to-night,’ agreed the other sympathetically, ‘like a special crazy evening at Bedlam more than anything else.’

‘Here’s the photographic bloke again,’ said Wood, bristling. ‘I’m not going to take any more of his pumpkin-pated-foozledum language, even if it costs me my job.’

‘Sock him one in the jaw,’ urged the crony, traitorously thinking that, if thus Wood did lose his job, then there might be a chance for anyone happening to be on the spot at the moment.

But Roy Beattie’s intentions were quite peaceable and friendly. He was a tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed youngster, good-looking and powerfully built, more like, in appearance, the typical athletic ‘hearty’ than an ‘art’ photographer whose work tended to be somewhat finicky and precious.

‘Just look after that for me, will you?’ he said, handing Wood a small dispatch-case. ‘Take care of it – I’ve just got some ripping studies of Miss Mears I don’t want mixed with the others.’

Wood took the dispatch-case, and at the same time glanced at a paper by his side.

‘She’s the favourite, at evens,’ he announced. ‘Lilian Ellis was runner up, but she’s done herself in the way she bunked off the stage.’

Beattie went red. He was, in fact, a somewhat ingenuous young man, with little in his life but ‘studies’ and ‘exposures’ and ‘effects,’ even though he believed himself most sophisticated, and, on the strength of a stay in Paris and a little chatter about new theories of art, in the very forefront of contemporary thought, with a profound experience of life. At the moment, or rather during such rare moments as he could spare from photography, he was, like other ingenuous and innocent young men of his type, an enthusiastic Fascist, just as he might have been an enthusiastic Communist had their fairy-tales been the first he had chanced to hear. But perhaps in any case the dark ominous threat of the black shirt would always have appealed more to his sense of drama than the Communist red he thought rather commonplace and gaudy – and then you can do so much more in photography with blacks and shadows than you can with reds. Now, though, he went red himself, as he stretched out a long arm, terminating in an enormous hand, and took possession of the paper Wood had referred to.

‘Do you mean you’ve been making a book about the girls’ chances?’ he demanded. ‘Infernal cheek – I’ve a jolly good mind to show it to Mr Sargent.’ He put the paper in his pocket. ‘If anyone wants it,’ he said, ‘they can come and ask me, and I’ll tell ’em what I think of ’em.’

He walked off indignantly, leaving Wood quite breathless, and a little way down the corridor came on Sargent himself, still in the company of Paul Irwin. Had Sargent been alone, Beattie might quite possibly, in the heat of his indignation, have complained about this betting on the chances of the different competitors that had struck him as such a piece of impudence; but Paul’s presence had on him the repressing, almost chilling, effect, it often exercised on younger people. Then, too, an indignant matron had just recognised the cinema owner, and now came hurrying up, eager to unburden herself of a grievance.

‘You said there wouldn’t be any favouritism,’ she protested; ‘and there’s my girl got to share her room with such a crowd none of them can’t even turn round – and only one glass between them all – and there’s that Caroline Mears got a room all to herself.’

‘She had to go somewhere, hadn’t she?’ Sargent defended himself. ‘I couldn’t push her in where there wasn’t any room already. I know we’ve had to ask competitors to put up with crowded conditions, and we couldn’t make the crowding worse by putting more in a room, now could we?’

‘That’s no reason why Caroline Mears should have a room all to herself,’ insisted the still indignant matron, ‘and my girl not able even to get hold of a glass to see herself in – and “Private” and “No Admission” stuck on her door, so her ladyship shan’t be interfered with. “No admission,” indeed,’ she snorted. ‘Shows who’s meant to win.’

‘We’ve nothing to do with the judging, that’s for the committee alone’ – Sargent explained mildly – ‘and that notice on the door has nothing to do with Miss Mears. What’s happened is that Miss Mears’s name was left out of the list by some accident. Her name wasn’t down for any dressing-room, and they had to come and tell me one competitor had been forgotten – no accommodation provided, and every dressing-room crowded to capacity. I told them they had got to put her somewhere, and they said there wasn’t any somewhere. They said: “We can’t ask her to do her dressing in the corridor, can we?” So I said: “Well, there’s my private office – stick her in there; only mind you leave the ‘No Admission’ notice on the door, or someone will go barging in while she’s pulling up her stockings.” So that’s what was done. The “No Admission” notice is just one I put on myself, in the hope of having a corner to myself to-night. No chance of that now, though. The fact is, we’ve just had to manage the best way we can. This way, Mr Irwin.’

He hurried on, leaving a still profoundly dissatisfied lady behind him. Mr Irwin said:

‘Miss Mears’s name having been forgotten seems to have turned out rather a good thing for her.’

‘She doesn’t think so,’ retorted Sargent. ‘You ought to have heard her shouting about having to dress in a man’s office without so much as a looking-glass in the whole place, except the one she had in her handbag.’