And So To Murder Read Free Page B

and echoing – all returned to her with horrible familiarity, as though she had been through the same scene somewhere before, and should have known what was coming.
    The real reason was that, secretly, she had feared it couldn’t last. It was much too good to be true. Somewhere, ran her secret conviction, the fates must be waiting to spoil her dreams again with some poisonously dirty trick.
    And, when it occurred, this dirty trick would of course concern the name of Cartwright. It was inevitable. She was haunted by Cartwright. Her universe was blackened by Cartwright. At the end of every pleasant avenue, up there popped Cartwright’s detestable face.
    Yet she fought against it.
    ‘You don’t mean that,’ she pleaded, hoping against hope. ‘Mr Hackett, you can’t mean it!’
    ‘I do mean it, though,’ said Mr Hackett affably.
    ‘I am to work on a detective-story instead of my own book?’
    ‘That’s it exactly.’
    ‘And Mr Cartwright’ – she managed to pronounce the name, though with incredible loathing – ‘is to work on the script of my book; my book?’
    ‘You’ve guessed it,’ beamed the producer.
    ‘But why?’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    Monica was so much in awe of him that, ordinarily, she would not have had the courage to protest. She would have suffered in silence, thinking that it must somehow be her own fault. But this was too much. There rose to her lips, spontaneously, the words: ‘It’s the silliest thing I ever heard of!’ Though she did not speak these words, something of their spirit must have got into her tone.
    ‘I said “why?”’ she insisted. ‘I mean why should we have to do each other’s books instead of doing our own?’
    ‘You don’t understand these things, Miss Stanton.’
    ‘I know that, Mr Hackett; but –’
    ‘Miss Stanton, are you a producer of ten years’ experience, or am I?’
    ‘You are, of course; but –’
    ‘Then that’s all right,’ said Mr Hackett more cheerfully. ‘You mustn’t try to change us all at once, Miss Stanton. Ha, ha, ha. We have our own little ways, you know. You must take my word for it that we know a little something about this business, after ten years’ experience. Eh? And you’ll learn. Yes, indeed. Why, with Bill Cartwright to teach you, you’ll pick up the business in no time.’
    The full enormity of the proposition was gradually seeping into Monica’s mind. She jumped to her feet.
    ‘You mean,’ she said, ‘that I’m to stay here and be taught – taught – how to write screen-plays by that – that repulsive – that foul –’
    Her companion was interested.
    ‘Ah? Do you know Bill Cartwright?’
    ‘No, I don’t know him. But my family have met him. And they say,’ cried Monica, departing from the strict letter of the truth, ‘they say he’s the most repulsive, disgusting, funny-looking object that ever walked the face of the earth!’
    ‘Oh, here! No, no, no.’
    ‘Indeed?’
    ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Miss Stanton,’ the producer assured her. ‘I’ve known Bill for years. He’d never take any beauty-prizes, Lord knows. But he’s not as bad as all that.’ Mr Hackett reflected. ‘In fact, I’d say he was rather distinguished-looking.’
    Monica choked.
    To Mr Hackett it seemed, dimly, that the little lady was annoyed about something.
    For Monica had long ago built up a mental picture of Mr William Cartwright, which she refused to alter by one line. Mr Cartwright was everywhere praised, at least in the book-reviews, for the ‘flawless soundness and pains-taking accuracy’ of his plots. This made the man even more insufferable. Monica felt that she could have despised him less if only he had been a little more slipshod. She pictured him as studious-looking, withered, dry, and donnish, with enormous spectacles. And she dwelt with loving hatred on the image.
    ‘I can’t do it,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’m terribly sorry. You know how grateful I am. But I can’t.’
    ‘Oh, of course,’