Murder Unprompted

The cast burst into shouts of delight, but cut them off sharply, waiting to hear what followed from this.

‘And basically what has happened is — he has offered us a theatre to transfer the show to the West End!’

This was greeted with more euphoria. As it died away, Salome Search, who plumed herself on knowing a bit about the mechanics of ‘going in’ to the West End, having once spent a week in the chorus of an ill-fated musical at the Apollo, asked, ‘Does that mean Lanthorn Productions will be presenting the show?’

‘Oh no. I will be presenting the show. Denis’s company will just be renting us the theatre. It gives us a lot more freedom than if Lanthorn actually took over.’

And a lot more chance to fail, thought Charles cynically.

‘So when will we be going in to the King’s?’ asked Alex.

‘Ah, it’s not the King’s,’ said Paul. ‘No, Denis reckons the King’s is far too big for this show. We’d get lost in there. No, he’s offering us the Variety.’

‘Oh,’ said all the cast at the same moment, trying not to sound disappointed.

The Variety Theatre had had a chequered history. It was called a West End theatre, but its position, in Macklin Street, was a little too far from Shaftesbury Avenue for the designation to sound convincing. It had been a popular Music Hall venue before the First World War, and come back to prominence in the fifties with a series of intimate revues. Since then it had justified its name by the variety of managements who had tried to make a go of it and the variety of fare they had presented there. Mime shows, light shows, nude shows, drag shows had all been washed up there as theatrical fashions ebbed and flowed. Religious rock musicals had followed on modern dance extravaganzas; one-man shows based on eighteenth-century letters had succeeded abortive attempts to revive the art of stage revue; poetry readings had drawn the same size audiences as South African jail diaries; laser shows, a punk rock musical and a gay version of Romeo and Juliet in black leather had all been tried, and failed.

It was currently occupied by an entertainment based on Maori song and dance, which had somehow maintained its sickly life there for nearly three months.

‘Now I know what you’re all thinking,’ said Paul Lexington hastily. ‘That the Variety hasn’t had a success for the past twenty years. Don’t worry. The Hooded Owl is going to change all that. Listen, Denis Thornton has just taken over the lease and he’s no fool. He’s been looking for a property to reopen the theatre under his management and we are it. If we go to the Variety, we’ll go in with maximum publicity and really put the place back on the map!’

The cast were so willing to believe the best that Paul Lexington’s rabble-rousing techniques worked and they instantly forgot their reservations and shouted again with excitement. Yes, of course they could succeed where others had failed. They were good. The Hooded Owl was good. Not only were they going to take the West End by storm, they were going to redefine its boundaries.

Alex Household adjusted his question. ‘So when do we go in to the Variety?’

‘If all goes well, we’d open there in about four weeks. 30th October.’

The date seemed very near and was greeted with renewed cheering.

‘Now there are a few things to sort out,’ the producer continued. ‘I’ll have to go back to my investors. Because of the guarantees required I’m going to have to raise a bit more money. But that shouldn’t be any problem.’

In the ecstatic mood of the company, no one was so cynical as to think of the last sentence as understatement. In order to be allowed to go into the West End, Paul would have to put up in advance all of the rehearsal money and two weeks’ running costs for the production. The rehearsal money would be paid back when the show opened, the rest when it closed. Couldn’t be that much, the cast all thought; as Paul said, it shouldn’t be any problem.

‘So I’m going to be very busy for the next couple of weeks, rushing around, raising the loot. I’m also going to be getting lots more people down to see the show, so remember — give of your best every night, you never know who’s going to be in.’

‘But basically — don’t worry. I’ll sort it all out. And The Hooded Owl is going in to the West End!’

Malcolm Harris reappeared for the Friday performance of the second week. No one had really noticed his absence, just as no one had really noticed his presence when he had been there. Presumably the previous weekend his ferret-faced women had taken him back to his ferret-faced children, and he had spent the week teaching history.

He came in to the Number One dressing room after the performance. Alex Household looked at him in the mirror and asked, ‘Well, happy with the way your little masterpiece is shaping up?’

‘Not very,’ the author replied awkwardly.

‘Why not?’

‘Well, the lines are all over the place.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I’m sorry, Alex, but I have to say it — you’re really killing the big speech about the Hooded Owl.’

‘Killing it? Oh, come on. That’s the high spot of the evening. Not a sweet-paper rustles, even the chronic bronchitics are cured at that moment.’

‘Well, of course. That’s how it’s meant to be. But you’re not saying the lines as written. Again tonight you said, “And this bird has seen it all, lived through it all, silently, impassively”.’

‘That’s what I say every night.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t. The line, as written, is, “And this bird has lived through it all, has seen it all, impassively, in silence”.’

‘Oh Lord — really! What difference does it make? I think my version flows better, actually, sounds more poetic.’

‘It’s not meant to sound bloody poetic, for God’s sake! It would be out of character for the father to sound poetic.’

‘Oh, look — ’

Charles decided a tactical intervention might be in order. As if he had suddenly walked into the room and heard none of the preceding exchange, he asked naively, ‘What do you think of the news about the Variety, eh, Malcolm?’

‘Oh, it’s very encouraging,’ said the schoolmaster. ‘Salome told me before the show tonight.’

Oh dear, that was a slip-up on Paul Lexington’s part. The author should have been told as soon as the Producer knew, not hear the rumour from a third party. Fortunately, though, Malcolm did not seem aggrieved. His ignorance of the theatre encompassed a great deal of humility (about everything except the actors getting his lines right).

‘Do you think you can cope with fame and all those royalties?’ asked Charles playfully.

The schoolmaster gave a shy smile. ‘I think I’ll manage.’

‘Hmm. Make sure your agent sorts out a good deal for you. Remember this axiom of theatrical business — all managements are sharks.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it’ll be all right.’

‘Who is your agent, by the way?’

Malcolm’s smile grew broader. ‘That’s the wonderful thing. When Paul heard I hadn’t got an agent, he was shocked.’

‘I should think so. And he recommended someone to you?’

‘No, better than that, Charles. He said he’d represent me himself. Keep it all in the family, he said. Isn’t that terrific?’

‘And you’ve signed up with him?’

‘You bet. And no messing about with short contracts. He’s really showing his confidence in me and agreed to let me sign up for three years.’

‘Ah.’ It was all Charles could say. The damage was done; the contract was signed. He found it incredible that every day produced new innocents to fall for the oldest tricks in the business. But there was no point now in telling Malcolm the folly of signing up with the same person as agent and manager, no point in making him think what would happen when he was in dispute with the management and needed an agent to represent his interests. The