She sensed a chilliness, however, from several of those who had participated in the recent interrogation at the public house next door.
The cold front had first moved in at the Savoy when Larry Sullivan barely spoke to her. In the backseat of the Rolls Royce, she asked her actor friend if he was miffed with her.
“Miffed?” the portly actor asked, arching an eyebrow. “That hardly states it. How, Agatha, could you participate in that inquisition?”
“If you mean Inspector Greeno’s questioning, I thought it was polite and perfunctory. Really, Larry, we’d all come in contact with a victim in the most notorious murder case of the war. Police queries were inevitable.”
He huffed. “Surely you don’t suspect me of indiscretions.”
So that was it: Larry was not worried that he might be considered a murder suspect, but that his lovely bride, Danae, might hear tales out of school.
“Of course not,” Agatha assured him. “I really don’t believe the inspector has his eye on the St. James bunch at all, at this stage.”
“You mean, because of the other two killings.”
“That’s right. This seems a murder spree, clearly, and any thought that the Ward girl was someone’s murdered mistress has fallen by the roadside.”
Larry’s eyes popped. “Is that what the inspector thought?”
She touched the black sleeve of his tuxedo. “Larry, please. The inspector doesn’t think anything. Let’s save the melodramatics for the stage, shall we?”
Embarrassed, Larry rode in silence for a while, then turned to her with a child’s little smile. “I would just hate for you to have a bad opinion of me, Agatha. I think the world of you.”
“I’m sure you do, darling,” she’d said.
The coldest of them was probably Irene Helier Morris. The actress-turned-director had traded in her mannish rehearsal togs for a lovely black gown that showed off a figure that managed to be willowy and curvaceous at once. Her makeup was perfection, her dark blue eyes highlighted beautifully, her lipstick a bold crimson.
“I’m surprised you didn’t bring your inspector along,” Irene said, with a chilly smile.
“I asked him,” Agatha said, realizing the woman had been trifling with her, “but this loathsome case has him working evenings.”
In a rather premature display of celebration-the curtain had yet to go up, after all-waiters in red jackets threaded through the little party with silver trays of champagne in glasses. Irene plucked one off. Agatha did not-she did not indulge in alcoholic beverages.
“If I didn’t know you better,” Irene said, “I’d think you pulled us into this wretched affair for the publicity.”
“You do know me better.”
“Well, there hasn’t been any press, it’s true. Don’t think I haven’t considered it myself-plays in this climate can use any boost they can get.”
Not sure whether the director was trifling or not this time, Agatha smiled her most winning smile and said, “If you do turn this into a publicity stunt, my dear, neither you nor your husband need approach me again about producing one of my plays…. Excuse me.”
“Agatha,” the director said, touching Agatha’s shoulder-she had already turned away, “forgive me. Opening night jitters.”
Agatha turned and cast a sincere smile at the woman. “I understand. Do know that I think you’ve done a lovely job.”
“It’s a wonderful entertainment. I don’t believe I could have mucked it up if I’d tried.”
Now Agatha gave the director a smile to wonder about. “Oh, I’m sure you could have done, darling.”
Leaving Irene with a confused frown, Agatha found Janet Cummins and her cadet husband, Gordon, standing rather awkwardly against a wall-obviously feeling the outsiders. He was a most handsome boy in his blue uniform, and Janet was a knockout, proving the truth behind the cliche of a secretary turned raving beauty by taking off her eyeglasses. Janet’s full-bosomed figure was well-served by a pink off-the-shoulder gown.
“Well, Airman Cummins,” Agatha said and offered her hand.
He took it and half-smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t know whether to shake this or kiss it.”
“Entirely your choice.”
He shook it and all three of them laughed lightly.
“You are ravishing,” Agatha told Janet. “You belong up on that stage.”
The producer’s secretary beamed and all but blushed. Her complexion was peaches and cream and her brunette hair was nicely curled. The thought that Airman Cummins would have any need to go trolling among streetwalkers, with this pretty, voluptuous wife at hand, struck Agatha as absurd.
“I’m afraid,” Janet said, in belated response to Agatha’s compliment, “that my childhood ambitions to be an actress were quashed by a terrible strain of stage fright.”
“I suffer the same malady,” Agatha admitted. To the RAF cadet, she said, “I’m so delighted you could get leave for this evening.”
“Actually, I had picket duty again, but your friend Stephen Glanville, at the Air Ministry, arranged it for me. I have the whole night off to spend with Janet, don’t have to report in till nine a.m. He’s a true gentleman, Mr. Glanville is.”
“He is indeed. He’ll be here tonight. I’m expecting him momentarily.”
“I feel a fool, Mrs. Mallowan,” the cadet said, “not bringing a book for you to sign.”
“Did you forget?”
“Well… I thought it might be bad form, considering the occasion.”
“Nonsense. I’ll fix you up at a later date.”
His grin was infectiously boyish. “I’m so anxious to see how you’ve made this one into a play. The book ended so… finally.”
“I warned you before, young man-I’ve changed the ending. I hope you won’t be disappointed. Perhaps you can give me an honest appraisal, after the performance.”
“If I like it,” he said, “I’ll gush with praise.”
“And if you don’t?”
He shrugged. “I’ll gush with praise.”
They all laughed again and Agatha excused herself, to respond to Bertie Morris. The round producer with the matinee idol’s face stood off to one side, motioning at her frantically.
She joined him and said, “Why the semaphores, Bertie?”
“I need a favor. The critic from the Times desires the briefest of interviews.”
“Well, then, here it is: no.”
“But Agatha…”
“No. And if, at curtain, you try to ‘surprise’ me by requesting that I respond to the ‘author, author’ outcries with a speech, I will refuse… perhaps not graciously.”
“Not a speech… just a few words…”
“Bertie, must we have this conversation again? I cannot make speeches. I never make speeches. I won’t make speeches.”
“But Agatha…”
“And it is a very good thing that I don’t make speeches, because I should be so very bad at them.”
Bertie’s expression of disappointment melted into a warm smile. “Well, I had to try, didn’t I, darling?”
She returned the smile. “I suppose you did.”
“You’ve written a simply wonderful play.”
“I would settle for ‘good.’ ”
The producer chuckled, but the warmth in his eyes seemed genuine. “Agatha, in your quiet way, you are the most difficult prima donna of them all.”
“Bertie, you alone of the people I have called ‘darling’ tonight truly are… ‘darling,’ that is. And thank you.”
“Whatever for?”
“Well, for producing my play, for one thing, and selecting your lovely talented wife to direct, for another, as well as assembling such a fine cast in wartime. But also for being the only participant in those Golden Lion interviews, the other day, who hasn’t chastised me.”
“Oh, that! I thought it was exciting. A police inspector asking questions about a murder-rather like one of your plays!”
He seized a glass of champagne from a passing tray and moved on.
Twenty minutes later, Agatha was sitting in her inconspicuous seat off to one side between her two extremely handsome escorts-Stephen Glanville and Sir Bernard Spilsbury.