last act parts is the short route to alcoholism.’
‘Hmm.’ Gerald pondered for a moment. ‘I sometimes think I drink too much. Difficult to avoid in my line of work. Occupational hazard.’
‘That’s what I feel about my line of work too,’ Charles agreed. ‘Though I must admit at times I worry about the amount I put away.’
‘Yes.’ There was a reflective pause. Then Gerald said, ‘How about a brandy?’
‘Love one.’
When it arrived, Charles raised his glass. ‘Many thanks, Gerald. This is the most painless audition I’ve ever undergone.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Incidentally, I don’t know anything about the time-scale on this show yet. What’s this — the second week of rehearsal?’
‘That’s right. Second of five. Then the show does one week in Leeds…’
‘Ah, Leeds…’
‘Friends up there?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Then a week at Bristol, a week at Brighton, a week of final rehearsal and previews in town and then it should open at the King’s Theatre on November 27th.’
‘Isn’t that a bit near Christmas? I mean, it’s a dodgy time for audiences.’
Gerald smiled smugly. ‘No problem. Christopher Milton’s name will carry us over Christmas. And then… we’ll be all right. Ideal family entertainment. Nothing to offend anyone.’
‘I see. And when do I start rehearsal?’
‘Tomorrow morning, if all goes well.’
‘If all goes well? You mean, if I’m not poisoned overnight by the mysterious saboteur.’
‘You may laugh, but I’ve a feeling there’s something up.’
‘I will keep my eyes skinned, word of honour.’ Charles made a Boy Scout salute.
‘And if you do find out anything… untoward or criminal, let me know first.’
‘Before the police?’
‘If possible. We have to watch the publicity angle on this.’
‘I see.’
‘We don’t want the fuzz queering our pitch.’
Charles smiled. It was reassuring to hear Gerald dropping into his thriller slang. The solicitor had always had the sneaking suspicion that crime held more exciting dimensions than the minor infringements of contracts which occupied his working life. His thirst for criminal glamour had to be satisfied by thrillers and, in moments of excitement, his language showed it. Gerald was excited now. He thought they were on to a case.
Charles didn’t. He felt certain that the whole idea of saboteurs had been dreamt up by nervy managements suddenly counting up the amount of money that they had invested in one stage show and one star. They were scared and they had to give what frightened them a tangible form. Sabotage was as good an all-purpose threat as any other.
Still, he wasn’t complaining. Nine months’ work, however boring it might be, was nine months’ work. It could sort out the taxman and one or two other pressing problems.
‘I’ll be very discreet, Gerald, and tell you everything.’
‘Good.’
‘Now let me buy you a brandy.’
‘I wouldn’t worry. It’s all on Arthur Balcombe. You didn’t really think I was taking you out on my own money?’
‘No, Gerald, I know you never do anything on your own money. Still, let’s have another brandy on Arthur Balcombe and imagine that I’ve bought it to thank you for the job.’
‘Okay. There is one thing, though.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve offered you the job, you’ve accepted it, but in a way it isn’t mine to offer.’
‘Now he tells me.’
‘I mean, I don’t think there’ll be any problem, but it’s just that you’ll have to go and see Dickie Peck before it’s all definite.’
‘Oh.’
‘Just to check details of your contract.’
‘Just to check details of my contract.’
‘Well, it’s also… sort of… to get in know you, to see if you are the kind of person who’s likely to get on with Christopher Milton, if you see what I — ’
‘What you mean by that formula of words is that Christopher Milton has an Approval of Cast clause in his contract and I’ve got to go and see Dickie Peck to be vetted.’
Gerald tried to find another formula of words, but eventually was forced to admit that that was exactly what he meant.
‘I get it. When do I see Peck?’
‘You’ve got an appointment at four o’clock.’
CHAPTER TWO
Dickie Peck worked for Creative Artists Ltd, one of the biggest film and theatre agencies in the country, and he was big. His clients were said to be managed by ‘Dickie Peck at Creative Artists’ rather than just by ‘Creative Artists’. In the agency world this designation often preceded a split from the parent company when an individual member of the staff would set up on his own (usually taking his best clients with him). But Dickie Peck had had his individual billing ever since anyone could remember and showed no signs of leaving the Creative Artists umbrella. There was no point in his making the break; he was a director of the company and worked within it in his own way at his own pace.
It was the pace which was annoying Charles as he sat waiting in the Creative Artists Reception in Bond Street. He had been informed by the over-made-up girl on the switchboard that Mr Peck was not yet back from lunch and as the clock ticked round to half past four, Charles felt all the resentment of someone who has finished lunch at half past three.
He was not alone in Reception. A young actress with carefully highlighted cheek-bones was reading The Stage and sighing dramatically from time to time; an actor whose old, hollow eyes betrayed his startlingly golden hair gave a performance of nonchalance by staring at his buckled patent leather shoes. The girl on the switchboard kept up a low monologue of ‘A call for you…,’ ‘I’m sorry, he’s tied up at the moment…’ and ‘Would you mind hanging on?’ She deftly snapped plugs in and out like a weaver at her loom.
It was nearly a quarter to five when Dickie Peck came through Reception. The girl on the switchboard stage-whispered, ‘Mr Peck, there’ve been a couple of calls and there’s a gentleman waiting to see you.’
He half-turned and Charles got an impression of a cigar with a long column of ash defying gravity at its end. Ignoring his visitor, the agent disappeared into his office. Five minutes later a summons came through on the receptionist’s intercom.
The office was high over Bond Street and Dickie Peck’s chair backed on to a bow-window. Cupboards and dusty glass-fronted book-cases lined the walls. The paint-work must once have been cream, but had yellowed with age. The dark red carpet smelt of dust. Nothing much on the desk. A current Spotlight, Actors L-Z (to check what Charles Paris looked like) and a circular ash-tray in the centre of which was a decorative half golf-ball. The channel around this was full of lengths of cigar ash, long and obscene, like turds.
The ash was long on the cigar that still drooped from the agent’s lips. It was an expensive one, but the end was so chewed and worried that it looked like the cheap brown-wrapping-paper sort.
The face which the cigar dwarfed was grey and lined, crowned by a long tongue of hair brushed inadequately
