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“I’m sure if we give him enough time, he’ll remember more. He’s brilliant with films.”
“Okay,” said Briggs. “We’ll change the subject, and then come back to it.”
Malcolm returned to the room with a phone number. Gardener left the table and rang it. The line was dead, so he called the station, asking them to follow it up and supply an address. Then he sat back down. “No luck. I’ve asked the station to check it out.”
“Stewart was just saying how much you enjoy films, Malcolm. Do you go and see many?”
“I love films, Alan. Always have. I go a couple of times a week. Chris joins me at least once.”
“What sort of films?”
“All sorts of films. What I like about films is that they take you away from reality, show you someone else’s problems for a couple of hours.” Malcolm chuckled. “And they usually have happy endings. I love the black-and-whites mostly. They didn’t rely on special effects, just bloody good stories. They knew how to make them, then.”
“Are you into horror?” asked Briggs.
“I’ve seen a few,” replied Malcolm.
“Remember an actor called Lon Chaney?”
“Who doesn’t?”
Gardener was especially grateful to Alan Briggs for the way he was handling the interview.
“What was so good about Chaney, Malcolm?”
“He was the best, pure magic to watch. They called him ‘The Man of a Thousand Faces’.”
“Why was that?”
“Make-up expert. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do. He did it all himself, and he used to carry a little black bag around. I did hear that the make-up case is in the Natural History Museum in Los Angeles. But the thing is, nobody knew how he did things. He used to endure such pain and torment just to get the part right. He wore a seventy-pound hump for The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and for The Phantom of the Opera he was said to have pushed discs up under his cheekbones to create the effect.”
Briggs’ expression grew distasteful. “Going a bit far, isn’t it?”
“That was Chaney for you,” replied Malcolm. “He was a perfectionist. That’s probably why he was the highest paid actor in Hollywood.”
Briggs then slid the quotes towards Malcolm. “Do you recognise these?”
Malcolm studied them, but shook his head. “No, but if you don’t mind I’ll write them down and check it out. Do you think they’re from Chaney’s films?”
“Possibly,” replied Gardener.
“Even if they
are, Son, and even if the killer is an expert with make-up just like Chaney was, it still doesn’t tell you why he’s doing it, or who he is.”
“True,” offered Briggs. “But if we know that’s where he’s heading, we may find something in Chaney’s past that will give us a clue. Was Fletcher ever into that kind of thing? You know, make-up and acting?”
“No. Not in the time that I knew him. He was a bookworm. Why? You don’t think he’s your man, do you?”
“That’s why we need to find him, Malcolm. If he isn’t the killer, he could be the next victim. If he is...” Briggs left the sentence unfinished, leaving Gardener aware of the implications. He knew his father well enough to know that he, too, would have worked out the answer. “Have you heard of a director called Wallace Henry Corndell?” Briggs asked.
“Yes. That’s who Leonard White sold his house to.”
“What about William Henry Corndell?”
Malcolm paused before answering. “There’s no director of that name.”
“Not a director, Dad, an actor,” said Gardener.
