and have a drink, old boy. I want to introduce you—”
Anthony got up and Gosset, with his arm across his shoulders, flashing smiles, patting him, led him to the back of the box.
“I’m sorry,” Anthony said, “I can’t. Please let me off. I’m going backstage.”
“Much better not, old son.” The hand tightened on his shoulder.
“Listen, old son—” But Anthony had freed himself and slipped through the pass-door from the box to the stage.
At the foot of the breakneck stairs Dendra Gay stood waiting. “I thought you’d come,” she said.
Anthony said: “He’s drunk. He’s murdering the play.”
“It’s only one scene, Tony. He finishes early in the next act. It’s going colossally.”
“But don’t you understand—”
“I do. You
“Dendra—” he said uncertainly.
Someone came up and shook his hand and went on shaking it.
Flats were being laced together with a slap of rope on canvas. A chandelier ascended into darkness. “Lights,” said the stage manager, and the set was flooded with them. A distant voice began chanting.
“Last act, please. Last act.”
“Miss Bourne all right?” the stage manager suddenly demanded.
“She’ll be all right. She’s not on for ten minutes,” said a woman’s voice.
“What’s the matter with Miss Bourne?” Anthony asked.
“Tony, I must go and so must you. Tony, it’s going to be grand.
“Dendra—,” Tony began, but she had gone.
Beyond the curtain, horns and flutes announced the last act.
“Clear please.”
The stagehands came off.
“House lights.”
“House lights gone.”
“Stand by.”
And while Anthony still hesitated in the OP corner, the curtain rose. Canning Cumberland and H. J. Bannington opened the last act.
As Mike knelt by Coralie Bourne he heard someone enter the passage behind him. He turned and saw, silhouetted against the lighted stage, the actor who had looked at him through a window in the set.
The silhouette seemed to repeat the gesture Coralie Bourne had used, and to flatten itself against the wall.
A woman in an apron came out of the open door.
“I say — here!” Mike said.
Three things happened almost simultaneously. The woman cried out and knelt beside him. The man disappeared through a door on the right.
The woman, holding Coralie Bourne in her arms, said violently:
“Why have you come back?” Then the passage lights came on. Mike said: “Look here, I’m most frightfully sorry,” and took off the broad black hat. The dresser gaped at him, Coralie Bourne made a cres-cendo sound in her throat and opened her eyes. “Katie?” she said.
“It’s all right, my lamb. It’s not him, dear. You’re all right.” The dresser jerked her head at Mike: “Get out of it,” she said.
“Yes, of course, I’m most frightfully—” He backed out of the passage, colliding with a youth who said: “Five minutes, please.”
The dresser called out: “Tell them she’s not well. Tell them to hold the curtain.”
“No,” said Coralie Bourne strongly. “I’m all right, Katie. Don’t say anything. Katie, what was it?”
They disappeared into the room on the left.
Mike stood in the shadow of a stack of scenic flats by the entry into the passage. There was great activity on the stage. He caught a glimpse of Anthony Gill on the far side talking to a girl. The call-boy was speaking to the stage manager who now shouted into space: “Miss Bourne all right?” The dresser came into the passage and called: “She’ll be all right. She’s not on for ten minutes.” The youth began chanting: “Last act, please.” The stage manager gave a series of orders. A man with an eyeglass and a florid beard came from farther down the passage and stood outside the set, bracing his figure and giving little tweaks to his clothes. There was a sound of horns and flutes. Canning Cumberland emerged from the room on the right and on his way to the stage, passed close to Mike, leaving a strong smell of alcohol behind him. The curtain rose.
Behind his shelter, Mike stealthily removed his beard and stuffed it into the pocket of his overcoat.
A group of stagehands stood nearby. One of them said in a hoarse whisper: “’E’s squiffy.” “Garn, ’e’s going good.” “So ’e may be going good. And for why?
Ten minutes passed. Mike thought: “This affair has definitely not gone according to plan.” He listened. Some kind of tension seemed to be building up on the stage. Canning Cumberland’s voice rose on a loud but blurred note. A door in the set opened. “Don’t bother to come,” Cumberland said. “Good-bye. I can find my way out.”
The door slammed. Cumberland was standing near Mike. Then, very close, there was a loud explosion. The scenic flats vibrated, Mike’s flesh leapt on his bones, and Cumberland went into his dressing room. Mike heard the key turn in the door. The smell of alcohol mingled with the smell of gunpowder. A stagehand moved to a trestle table and laid a pistol on it. The actor with the eyeglass made an exit. He spoke for a moment to the stage manager, passed Mike, and disappeared in the passage.
Smells. There were all sorts of smells. Subconsciously, still listening to the play, he began to sort them out. Glue. Canvas. Greasepaint.
The call-boy tapped on doors. “Mr. George, please.” “Miss Bourne, please.” They came out, Coralie Bourne with her dresser. Mike heard her turn a door handle and say something. An indistinguishable voice answered her. Then she and her dresser passed him. The others spoke to her and she nodded and then seemed to withdraw into herself, waiting with her head bent, ready to make her entrance. Presently she drew back, walked swiftly to the door in the set, flung it open, and swept on, followed a minute later by Barry George.
Smells. Dust, stale paint, cloth. Gas. Increasingly, the smell of gas.
The group of stagehands moved away behind the set to the side of the stage. Mike edged out of cover. He could see the prompt-corner. The stage manager stood there with folded arms, watching the action. Behind him were grouped the players who were not on.
Two dressers stood apart, watching. The light from the set caught their faces. Coralie Bourne’s voice sent phrases flying like birds into the auditorium.
Mike began peering at the floor. Had he kicked some gas fitting adrift? The call-boy passed him, stared at him over his shoulder and went down the passage, tapping. “Five minutes to the curtain, please.
Five minutes.” The actor with the elderly makeup followed the call-boy out. “God, what a stink of gas,” he whispered. “Chronic, ain’t it?” said the call-boy. They stared at Mike and then crossed to the waiting group. The man said something to the stage manager who tipped his head up, sniffing. He made an impatient gesture and turned back to the prompt-box, reaching over the prompter’s head.
A bell rang somewhere up in the flies and Mike saw a stagehand climb to the curtain platform.
The little group near the prompt-corner was agitated. They looked back towards the passage entrance. The call-boy nodded and came running back. He knocked on the first door on the right. “
Mike ran into the passage. The call-boy coughed retchingly and jerked his hand at the door. “Gas!” he said. “Gas!”
“Break it in.”
“I’ll get Mr. Reynolds.”
He was gone. It was a narrow passage. From halfway across the opposite room Mike took a run, head down,
