probably did not have the intelligence or knowledge to argue the merits of the piece on a literary level; it was just an instinct that never failed.
Miss Thompson, the secretary, next introduced a question from: ‘Mr Henry Oxenford, one of our keenest members, who’s interested in all things theatrical.’ Mr Oxenford, one of the bow-tied types who hang about amateur dramatic societies, content to be precious rather than queer, stood up and put his well-rehearsed enquiry, ‘I would like to know whether you, as a performer, be it as Tony Lumpkin or Lionel Wilkins, find the danger that a part tends to take over your private life and you become like that person?’
Christopher Milton laughed boyishly. ‘You mean when I’m working on the television series, do I go around trying to con money off everyone I meet?’
‘Well, not exactly.’
‘Oh, I beg yours.’ The Lionel Wilkins line was, as ever, perfectly delivered and got its laugh. Charles watched Christopher Milton’s eyes and saw him decide to continue in the Wilkins voice and prolong the misunderstanding. ‘Oh, I see what you mean — do I go up to people in the street and say, Look ’ere, I’ve got this great project. Wouldn’t you like to buy shares in the first motel on the moon? Not only do you get the normal dividends, but you also get a free weekend every year once the motel is completed. Now the shares aren’t yet officially on the market, but I can let you have some at a price which…’ And he was away, re-creating the plot of a recent episode of Straight Up, Guv. The Friends of the Palace Theatre loved it.
As he drew to the end of his routine, before Miss Thompson could introduce Mrs Horton who had been waving her arm like a schoolgirl know-all between each question, he glanced at his watch. ‘Oh, look at the time. I’m afraid we’ve gone on much longer than we intended. We’ve still got a lot of work to do on this show — oh, you may have liked it, but there are a good few things to he altered yet — so we must draw it to a close there.’
The Friends of the Palace Theatre started to leave through the stalls. An autograph cluster gathered round the star. The other members of the cast, who hadn’t got much of a look-in on the discussion, trickled back through the curtains. Mark Spelthorne dawdled, seeing if there were any fans of The Fighter Pilots on the autograph trail. When it became apparent there weren’t, he vanished smartly.
Christopher Milton finished the signings and waved cheerily from the stage until the last Friend had gone out of the doors at the back of the stalls. When he turned his face was instantly twisted with rage. ‘Cows! Stupid, bloody cows!’ He pushed through the curtains, shouting imperiously, ‘Wally! Dickie! Come on, we’ve got to get this script altered, even if we have to work all bloody night.’
As Charles waited to hear the inevitable news that there would be a rehearsal call at ten the following morning, he began to understand the personality-splitting pressure of a public image.
Gerald Venables was sitting waiting in his car, a Mercedes 280 SL, with the lights doused, by the stage door. He had the collar of his raincoat turned up and was slumped against the window in an attitude cribbed from some B-movie. He was trying so hard to be inconspicuous that Charles saw him instantly. ‘Hello.’
‘Ssh. Get in.’ The passenger door was slipped open. Charles climbed in clumsily. ‘So, what gives?’ Gerald hissed, his eyes scanning the empty road ahead.
‘Just been a bit of a dust-up, boss,’ Charles hissed back.
Gerald didn’t realise he was being sent up, but ran out of slang. ‘What? You mean a fight?’
‘Too right, boss.’
‘Irons?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Irons — you know, guns. God, don’t you watch any television?’
‘Not much.’
‘Well, give us the dirt. Who swung a bunch of fives at whom?’ The grammatical resolution of the question rather weakened its underworld flavour.
Charles gave a quick account of the scene in the green room and the solicitor nodded knowingly. ‘So you reckon this McMahon could be our cookie?’
‘Our saboteur, the man devoted to the destruction of the show..?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know. Certainly he hates Christopher Milton. If anything were to happen to the star tonight, I would have no doubt about who to look for. But I don’t think Kevin can have been responsible for the other accidents, not the first two, anyway.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because why should he? When the pianist was shot at, Kevin didn’t know what was going to happen to his script, rehearsals had hardly started. I reckon at that stage he must have been full of excitement, you know, his first West End show and all that.’
‘But it can’t have taken long for him to realise the way things were going.’
‘Yes, I suppose he could have built up a sufficient head of resentment by the time Everard Austick met with his accident.’
‘Yes, surely, and — ’
‘There’s another snag, Gerald. Kevin’s resentment is completely against Christopher Milton. Sniping at these minor figures may be bad for the show, but it doesn’t hurt the star much. Christopher Milton doesn’t care who his supporting cast are, so long as they don’t argue with him or do anything better than he does. If Kevin McMahon did want to get at anyone he’d go straight for the one who was bugging him — and, with the star out of the way, there might be a chance that his musical could survive in another production.’
‘Yes. So we’ve got to look for someone else as the mastermind behind the whole sequence of crimes.’
‘If there is a sequence, Gerald, if there are any crimes. So far the only evidence I have of misdoing is what happened at the King’s Theatre. I know someone tampered with the rope holding those flats up. All the others could be genuine accidents. In fact, the thing at the King’s may have a perfectly legitimate explanation.’
‘I don’t know, Charles. I still have the feeling that they’re all linked and that something funny’s going on.’
There was a silence. ‘Hmm. Yes, I can feel a sort of foreboding too, but I don’t know why.’
As he spoke, light spilled across the road from the stage door. Christopher Milton, Dickie Peck, Wally Wilson and the show’s musical director, Pete Masters, came out, escorted by Milton’s driver, who smartly moved forward to the parked Corniche and opened the doors. They all got in. ‘Let’s follow them,’ whispered Charles, more to satisfy Gerald’s love of the dramatic than anything else.
They let the Rolls disappear at the junction on to the main road, confident that Leeds’ central one-way system would make it difficult to lose their quarry, and started up in pursuit.
Gerald’s ‘Follow that car’ routine was as exaggerated as his ‘I am waiting unobtrusively’ one, involving many sudden swivels of the head and bursts of squealing acceleration alternating with dawdling so slowly that it drew, hoots of annoyance from other road-users. But the inhabitants of the Rolls did not appear to notice them. There were none of the sudden right-angled swerves up side-roads beloved of gangsters in movies. They drove sedately round the one-way system and into Neville Street, where they swung off the main road and came to rest at the entrance of the Dragonara Hotel. Gerald, who hadn’t been expecting the stop, overshot, screeched to a halt and reversed to a spying position, flashed at by the righteous headlights of other drivers in the one-way street.
The party disembarking from the Corniche still did not take any notice of their pursuers. The four of them walked straight into the foyer and the driver slid the car away to the hotel car park.
‘Well…’ said Gerald.
‘Well, I guess we’ve found out where he’s staying.’
‘Yes. Yes, we have.’
‘I could have asked him and saved us the trouble.’
‘Yes, but at least this way we can tell if he’s lying.’
‘What on earth do you mean? Why should he lie about staying in the newest, poshest hotel in Leeds?’
‘I don’t know.’ They both felt very foolish.
‘By the way, Gerald, why aren’t you staying at the Dragonara? I thought that was your usual style.’
‘I didn’t know it existed. Polly, my secretary, booked me into the Queen’s. More traditional, I think… I’m only here for the one night. I suppose I could try and get transferred, see if there’s a room here.’
‘What good would that do?’
‘Well, then I’d be in the hotel, I could spy, I…’
