Читать книгу Vintage Murder - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 13

Hailey Hambledon knocked on Carolyn’s door.

‘Are you ready, Carol? It’s a quarter past.’

‘Come in, darling.’

He went into the bedroom she shared with Meyer. It looked exactly like all their other bedrooms on tour. There was the wardrobe trunk, the brilliant drape on the bed, Carolyn’s photos of Meyer, of herself, and of her father, the parson in Bucks. And there, on the dressing-table, was her complexion in its scarlet case. She was putting the final touches to her lovely face and nodded to him in the looking-glass.

‘Good morning, Mrs Meyer,’ said Hambledon and kissed her fingers with the same light gesture he had so often used on the stage.

‘Good morning, Mr Hambledon.’ They spoke with that unnatural and half-ironical gaiety that actors so often assume when greeting each other outside the theatre.

Carolyn turned back to her mirror.

‘I’m getting very set-looking, Hailey. Older and older.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Don’t you? I expect you do, really. You think to yourself sometimes: “It won’t be long before she is too old for such-and-such a part.”’

‘No. I love you. To me you do not change.’

‘Darling! So sweet! Still, we do grow older.’

‘Then why, why, why not make the most of what’s left? Carol – do you really believe you love me?’

‘You’re going to have another attack. Don’t.’

She got up and put on her hat, giving him a comically apprehensive look from under the brim. ‘Come along now,’ she said.

He shrugged his shoulders and opened the door for her. They went out, moving beautifully, with years of training behind their smallest gestures. It is this unconscious professionalism in the everyday actions of actors that so often seems unreal to outsiders. When they are very young actors, it often is unreal, when they are older it is merely habit. They are indeed ‘always acting’, but not in the sense that their critics suggest.

Carolyn and Hambledon went down in the lift and through the lounge towards the street door. Here they ran into Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, who was also staying at the Middleton.

‘Hullo!’ said Carolyn. ‘Have you been out already? You are an early one.’

‘I’ve been for a tram ride up to the top of those hills. Do you know, the town ends quite suddenly about four miles out, and you are on grassy hills with little bits of bush and the most enchanting view.’

‘It sounds delicious,’ said Carolyn vaguely.

‘No,’ said Alleyn, ‘it’s more exciting than that. How is your husband this morning?’

‘Still very cross, poor sweet. And black and blue, actually, just as he prophesied. It must have been a footballer. Are you coming to the show tonight?’

‘I want to, but, do you know, I can’t get a seat.’

‘Oh, nonsense. Alfie-Pooh will fix you up. Remind me to ask him, Hailey darling.’

‘Right,’ said Hambledon. ‘We ought to get along, Carol.’

‘Work, work, work,’ said Carolyn, suddenly looking tragic. ‘Goodbye, Mr Alleyn. Come round to my dressing-room after the show.’

‘And to mine,’ said Hambledon. ‘I want to know what you think of the piece. So long.’

‘Thank you so much. Goodbye,’ said Alleyn.

‘Nice man,’ said Carolyn when they had gone a little way.

‘Very nice indeed. Carol, you’ve got to listen to me, please. I’ve loved you with shameless constancy for – how long? Five years?’

‘Surely a little longer than that, darling. I fancy it’s six. It was during the run of Scissors to Grind at the Criterion. Don’t you remember—’

‘Very well – six. You say you’re fond of me – love me –’

‘Oughtn’t we to cross over here?’ interrupted Carolyn. ‘Pooh said the theatre was down that street, surely. Oh, do be careful!’ She gave a little scream. Hambledon, exasperated, had grasped her by the elbow and was hurrying her across a busy intersection.

‘I’m coming to your dressing-room as soon as we get there,’ he said angrily, ‘and I’m going to have it out with you.’

‘It would certainly be a better spot than the footpath,’ agreed Carolyn. ‘As my poor Pooh would say, there is a right and wrong kind of publicity.’

‘For God’s sake,’ said Hambledon, between clenched teeth, ‘stop talking to me about your husband.’