The Mirror Crack'd Page #3

- Enjoy it.

- Here you are, my dear.

- Oh, thank you, darling.

How are my two favourite stars

getting along?

What are you trying to do,

give Marina another breakdown?

Why would I want to do

a thing like that, pumpkin?

Come on. Remember they used to grind

glass in each other's cold cream.

One would only kiss the other

if she had viral pneumonia.

They're professionals.

They take their job seriously.

- So did Attila the Hun.

- Marina, baby!

Oh, Marty, darling.

How thoughtful of you

to bring Lola to my party.

You know, I've always thought of Lola

as one of my oldest, oldest friends.

Jason, darling, I'm certainly looking

forward to working under you again.

Watch it, Lola.

Jason, how about a drink

with an old pal'?

- I only drink with friends.

- What am I, chopped chicken liver?

Bad enough forcing me

to use your wife in this picture,

but bringing her here with Marina

in the condition she's in.

- Think of the picture!

- I am!

- And the sanity of my leading lady!

- Bubbie, listen to me.

She's gonna be fine.

I'm looking out for our best interests.

Our best interests?

Hey, De Mille,

why don't you face reality?

When was the last time

Marina made a movie?

The advent of sound?

When did you direct a movie

that was any good?

- Well...

- Listen to me.

If Martin N Fenn wants to get

publicity for his two leading ladies,

he's gonna get it,

without any dissent.

Because the esteemed director

and his wife are only here

because of his good wishes.

And if he wishes, he can pull the plug

any time he wants, you got it?

- Whoopee.

- Good.

- So go and enjoy the party.

- You know what?

- What?

- You're a bastard.

Of course I'm a bastard.

I'm the producer.

Oh, Mr Rudd. I believe I've reached

some understanding

about the difference between

a producer and a director.

But who chooses the leading lady?

Whoever's sleeping with her.

Er, Vicar, may I introduce

our noted producer Mr Martin N Penn'?

I'm sure he'll tell you

everything you want to know.

What would you like to know,

Vicar, baby?

I'm sorry about your ulcers, Mr Fenn.

What?

Jason, we've got a problem upstairs.

That woman.

Marina.

Then the police came.

They took everybody's name.

They kept us there for hours, they did.

I just couldn't believe it.

I mean, she seemed as right as rain.

She was only five years older than me.

There was an awful flap.

Poor Mrs Babcock.

I mean, she just had one drink

and about five minutes later,

she sits down, sort of gasps...

...and then she's dead, poor thing.

What do you think of that?

Don't forget under

the curtains, Cherry dear.

- Miss Marple, I hope you don't mind.

- Mind?

Well, me doing Saturdays

up at the hall,

I did so want to see

all those film stars.

- It's not going to upset you?

- No, Cherry dear. It won't upset me.

In fact, it might even prove useful.

Really?

Put that duster away and sit down

and tell me everything that happened.

- Well...

- Exactly as it happened.

Well, I was moving about...

Yes, of course,

but what precisely did you see?

Well...

The whole village was there,

of course.

And there was a girl taking pictures.

Just about everybody. There was

Marine Gregg and her husband

Oh, I liked him.

I think he's smashing.

- Cherry, dear.

- Oh, sorry.

Then the secretery girl came up

with Heather Babcock

and Heather shook hands

with Miss Gregg

and then she went into a boring old

story about how they'd met years ago.

On and on she went. I thought

Miss Gregg was gonna fall asleep-

Honestly, she did go on, so.

Then a few minutes later,

you served Heather a drink

and not long afterwards, she dies.

Oh, no. No, I didn't serve her.

It was Mr Rudd.

- One daiquiri special.

- Oh, thank you.

Enjoy it.

I don't think she really liked it.

Thank you, Cherry dear,

you've been very helpful.

- Have I?

- Extremely.

- Oh, good.

Oh, I'll get it.

- Morning, Cherry.

- Morning, Doctor.

Morning, Miss Marple. How's the leg?

Good morning, Dr Haydock.

You know, I think it's very much better.

Shall I do upstairs now,

or finish here in the lounge?

- This is the drawing room, Cherry dear.

- Sorry, drawing room.

- Upstairs, I think.

- Right.

Oh, later on, I'll bring you in

a nice cup of tea.

Poor Heather Babcock.

Mmm.

She was a patient of yours, wasn't she?

She was on my list.

- Heart trouble?

- Nothing wrong with her heart.

- Which does rather...

- Stick out your tongue.

- Say "aah".

- Aah.

- Put it back.

- Which does rather suggest poison.

I think we should leave that

to the coroner, don't you?

Glad to see you started my treatment.

Treatment?

Unravelling, aren't I right?

You will have your little joke,

Dr Haydock.

You can't pull the wool

over my eyes, dear lady.

Look at you. Your cheeks are pink,

your eyes bright.

You're enjoying yourself.

Isn't that so?

Dr Haydock, I would be very distressed

if I thought you believed

that the only excitement in my life

was predicated on the unfortunate fate

of helpless victims

who somehow seem to fall into my path.

Upon examination,

the deceased's body was found to contain

massive traces of a barbiturate.

Phenobarbital.

Unquestionably the cause of death.

Had she a medical history for which

such a drug could have been prescribed?

Virtually none, sir.

Apart from chickenpox as a child

and German measles during the war.

According to her doctor,

she was in excellent health.

Thank you.

Bearing in mind the evidence

we have heard,

I have no choice but to record

a verdict of murder by poison

at the hand of person

or persons unknown.

- Dermot!

- Hello, Aunt Jane.

My favourite nephew.

What a pleasant surprise.

What are you doing here?

- Why, I've come to see you.

- Or to enquire about Heather Babcock.

What would a chief inspector from

Scotland Yard be doing in St Mary Mead

if poor Heather

had died of natural causes?

Well, he might have been passing by

and suddenly had a craving

for some of your special peach jam.

Now, Dermot, you know very well

I haven't made peach jam

since Taphrina deformans

attacked my Russell reds.

Now come and sit down

and let's have a little chat, shall we?

It was poison, wasn't it?

Aunt Jane, you wouldn't mind very much

I suppose if I anyway began

by asking the question, would you?

The poison was apparently

an American barbiturate,

marketed under the name of Calmadon.

It appears the principal ingredient

of it is...

Phenylethylmalonylurea.

I know it from my days

at Bridge Hampton Hospital in the war.

Mixed with alcohol,

it causes respiratory depression.

A drop in blood pressure.

Feeble heartbeat. Quite deadly, in fact.

And you naturally knew the victim,

Babcock?

Ooh, yes. Of course.

She was a simple soul. Friendly enough.

A bit of a bore,

but you don't kill someone for that.

If you did,

there'd be no one left in the village.

Well! So you're not being

much help, Aunt Jane.

No, I realise that.

So Mrs Babcock refused

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