The Toff In Town

“I did wonder whether you’d care to start, instead of wind up,” said the producer.

“It would be over then—you’re a bit nervous, aren’t you?”

“I’d rather be the last performance,” said Allen with a sickly grin. “I—er—I telephoned my wife and told her that I wasn’t on until the end, she might miss part of it if I start too early. If you don’t mind——”

“No, no, that’s quite all right. It’s just as you prefer.” The produced glanced at the clock. “Ten minutes to go —Signer Toni, perhaps you will have one more rehearsal——”

“Si, si, signore.” Toni jumped towards the mike, gripped it, measured it, stared it in the eye and then took up his stance. The little comedy was played through again and went without a flaw, the purity of his voice held every one enthralled. McMahon looked at the Italian thoughtfully; in fact, everyone watched him, and so no one noticed the door open and Jolly put his head inside the room.

Rollison caught sight of him when he had been there for a couple of minutes, and immediately stood up and tip-toed across to him. Hedley turned and put his hand to his mouth for silence—Hedley and the producer were noticeably more touchy now that they were approaching the big moment

Rollison whispered: “What is it, Jolly?”

“I’m sorry to worry you now, sir, but I thought I ought to come,” said Jolly. “Mr. Higginbottom just telephoned.”

“Oh,” said Rollison heavily.

“He said that we were not to be intimidated because he was in difficulties,” went on Jolly. “But I gather from what he said, that he has been told to tell us to make sure the Mr. Allen broadcasts the new version. In fact, the woman came on the line and repeated her threat that we would not see Mr. Higgin-bottom again unless the broadcast went through perfectly. What are we to do, sir?”

Rollison said: “We must find out who’s watching Allen. There’s no other way.”

“I suppose not, sir,” said Jolly. “How—how do you propose to interfere with the broadcast, and make Mr. Allen say the wrong words?”

Jolly spoke carefully, as if he had difficulty in getting his words out. And between the lines, Rollison read his plea: “Can’t we let it go through? Can’t we give Snub this chance?”

The producer came up and spoke sharply.

“Come in if you’re coming, please—and no talking when the red light’s showing, we’ll be on the air then.”

“Sorry,” murmured Rollison. “Far corner, Jolly,” They tiptoed across the studio.

Allen was on an end seat of the front row. He glanced at Jolly without any great show of interest, and kept looking hard at McMahon. There was much hustle and bustle in the studio. The artist was at one table, the young Danes already sitting at the other one. The interviewer would move from the first to the second table to carry out successive interviews, being given time to move by an announcer, who would speak for a few seconds between each “act”. Only a few minutes remained. There was a sudden hush; everyone stared at the green light which glowed near the clock, waiting for it to turn red. A tall, good-looking young man arrived, one obviously known to the staff.

He moved to the upright microphone, buttoned his jacket, coughed and, without a glance at the script in his hand, began to speak.

He had been so casual that the others hardly noticed that the red light had replaced the green. In a voice so familiar that it seemed as if it came from a friend, he spoke briskly:

“This is the B.B.C. Home Service.”

Nothing happened when he stopped. Rollison looked about him in surprise, Jolly peered at the announcer, everyone waited and seemed to think some catastrophe had befallen the programme—and then Rollison saw that the announcer was looking through the glass partition and realised that the programme’s signature tune, the Knightsbridge March, was being played on a gramophone in the control room. The tall young man turned away and began to speak again.

“Once again we stop the mighty roar of London’s traffic and from the great crowds we bring you some of the interesting people who are In Town To-night!”

He stepped away from the microphone, and there was another silence while the London Again Suite, Oxford Street, was played over the air but did not sound in the studio. In the hush, it was impossible for Rollison and Jolly to whisper to each other. Then the wandering artist moved his script, coughed nervously, and Wentworth began to speak.

The programme was really on; in half an hour Allen would finish, that red light would fade, the green replace it. Green for safety . . .

Jolly put his mouth close to Rollison’s ear.

“You were going to tell me how you expect to influence what Allen has to say,” said Jolly. When Rollison simply looked at the back of Allen’s head, Jolly went on: “Are you sure it will be the right thing to do, sir? Is there any way of making sure that it will help the situation?”

Rollison said: “Jolly, supposing we do what we’re told—what will happen? Can these people afford to release Snub? He may have been on the spot when Merino-was killed—we still don’t know who murdered Merino, you know. It’s even possible that Pauline will manage to fake evidence which can’t be denied that Snub killed him. She’s clever and cunning, and I wouldn’t like to say that we can outwit her simply by giving way now and hoping to fight another day. Don’t forget that she’s put everything in getting that message put across to-night, and if she succeeds in that, then she’s won. If we’re to have a chance, the message mustn’t go out, and we have to find who ever is working for her here.”

Hedley glanced at him, obviously disapproving. The Danes had finished, the busker was about to perform. In the control room several people were standing against the wall. No one appeared to be taking any notice of Allen, but the minutes were flying by, and his turn would soon come. Next were the Lundys, then Toni—seven or eight minutes at the most remained.