Murder Unprompted: A Charles Paris Murder Mystery (5 page)

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 schoolmaster would have to find out the hard way.

But the knowledge did put Paul Lexington’s image in a different light. If he was capable of that sort of old-fashioned sharp practice, maybe his other dealings should be watched with a wary eye.

Further speculation about the producer was interrupted by the ebullient entrance of Lesley-Jane Decker. ‘Alex, Alex, have you heard? Bobby Anscombe was in tonight.’

‘Was he?’ said Alex and Charles in impressed unison.

‘Who?’ asked Malcolm Harris ignorantly.

But his question didn’t get an answer, so he siddled out into the corridor and away.

The answer he didn’t get was that Bobby Anscombe was a very big theatrical backer, or ‘angel’, whose instincts had directed his money into a string of lucrative hits. He was rich, shrewd, and prepared to take risks, to rush in, indeed, where other angels feared to tread. His style had paid off handsomely in the past, and the fact that he had come all the way to Taunton to see
The Hooded Owl
was the most encouraging boost so far for the transfer prospects.

Alex Household rubbed his hands slowly together. ‘That is very good news, Lesley-Jane, very good news.’

‘Yes, darling. Let’s hope he liked it.’

‘I don’t honestly see how he could have failed to.’ Alex’s confidence these days seemed to be unassailable. He reached out and took Lesley-Jane’s hand. ‘Tell me, do you fancy a
drive in the country
tomorrow morning? I could do with some fresh air.’

The way he italicised the words showed they had some private meaning for the couple.

‘Oh, I’d love to, darling, but I can’t. Got to go to the station to meet Mummy.’

‘Oh Lord, is she coming down again?’

‘She’s terribly lonely in town with only Daddy for company.’

‘Of course.’ Alex turned back to his mirror and started rubbing grease on to his face.

‘See you up in the bar?’ asked Lesley-Jane tentatively.

‘Possibly,’ said Alex Household.

‘Oh yes,’ said Charles Paris.

He had a good few drinks inside him as he left the theatre. The quickest way back to his digs was by a path near the car park and, as he walked along, he heard Paul Lexington’s voice from the other side of a wall.

‘Good,’ it said. ‘Excellent. I’m delighted at your reaction.’

‘We’ll talk on Monday about the points I made,’ said an unfamiliar voice, ‘but I think we can assume that, in principle, we have a deal.’

‘Terrific,’ said Paul Lexington’s voice.

A car door slammed, a powerful engine started, and there was a screech of tyres. As Charles came to the end of the wall by the car park exit, he was nearly run over by a silver-grey Rolls Corniche.

As he watched it go off up the road, its BA registration left him in no doubt that it belonged to Bobby Anscombe.

And the conversation he had overheard left him in no doubt that Bobby Anscombe was going to back
The Hooded Owl
.

He didn’t mention what he had overheard to anyone when he went in the next day for the Saturday matinée. After all, they’d all know soon enough when Paul made an official announcement.

But the Saturday passed and no official announcement was made.

The final week of the run began. The Monday passed, the Tuesday, the Wednesday, and still there was no official announcement. No one would say that the transfer was definite.

Paul Lexington was around that week, though he kept on rushing up to town for unspecified meetings. As the days went past his cheerful face began to look more strained and the shadows around his eyes deepened. His manner was still confident, and, if directly asked, he would say everything was going well, but the old conviction seemed to have gone.

The cast felt it too. As the time trickled away, there was less talk of the transfer, fewer fantasies of what they were going to do when they got to the West End, more discussion of other potential jobs. Though no one dared to put it into words they were all losing their faith.

And by the Saturday night, when the run ended, the atmosphere was one of gloom. The final performance was good and was received with more adulation than ever by the Taunton audience, but all the cast could feel their dreams slipping away. It was over, the play was finished, the right people hadn’t made the effort to come all the way from London to see it,
The Hooded Owl
was destined to begin and end its life at the Prince’s Theatre, Taunton.

So the mood of the cast party, held in the bar after the last performance, was more appropriate to a wake than a celebration. Still no one would voice the awful truth that faced them, but everyone knew. Any gaiety there was was forced.

Alex Household looked stunned and uncomprehending. Charles Paris was glad to pull out his old armour of cynicism and don it once again. Serve him right. He was too old to be seduced by that sort of childish hope in the theatre. Never mind, his old stand-bys would see him through. Cynicism and alcohol. He made the decision to get paralytically drunk.

He found himself, not wholly of his own volition, talking to Valerie Cass, who had appeared for yet another weekend. ‘You see,’ she was saying, ‘one does lose so much by being married. I mean, realising one’s full potential as a woman.’

She was obviously making some sort of sexual manoeuvre, though he wasn’t quite sure what. He tried to reconstruct their previous meeting back at Cheltenham. Had he made any sort of pass at her then? Was she trying to pick up some previous affair?

But no, surely not. Round that time he had been breaking off with Frances and it had, surprisingly, been a time of celibacy. No, if her motive was sexual, this was something new.

‘Of course,’ she went on, ‘one wouldn’t have had it any other way. I mean, bringing up a child can be very fulfilling, but occasionally, when one stops and thinks, one does realise the opportunities one has missed – I mean, both in career terms and . . . emotionally. I think there comes a point where one is justified in being a little selfish, in thinking of oneself and one’s own priorities for a moment. Don’t you?’

‘Oh, er, yes,’ replied Charles uneasily.

She seemed almost to be offering herself to him, and Charles was not in the habit of turning up such offers. And she remained an attractive woman. But something in the desperation of her manner turned him off.

‘I always thought you were the sort of man who understood a woman’s needs,’ she murmured to him.

Definitely time to change the subject. He looked around the bar. ‘No sign of Paul, is there?’

Valerie Cass looked rather piqued, but replied, ‘No, I expect he’s sorting out the details of the transfer.’

So she still believed in it. Presumably, her daughter did, too. It would be in keeping with her habitual breathless optimism.

He didn’t know whether to disillusion Valerie or not, but the decision was taken away from him by the arrival of Paul Lexington.

The cast drew apart to make room for him, drew apart with respect or loathing, as if uncertain whether they were dealing with royalty or with a leper. It all really depended on what news he bore.

Paul Lexington seemed aware of this as he clapped his hands for silence.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to thank you all for all the hard work you’ve put into making
The Hooded Owl
such a great success in Taunton.’

The silence was almost tangible. Was that all he had to say? Was that it? Was Taunton the end?

The Producer looked absolutely exhausted, but seemed almost to be playing with them, timing his lines to maximise the suspense.

‘And I would like to say,’ he continued after a long pause, ‘that today I have finally persuaded Bobby Anscombe to come into partnership with me to transfer the production to the West End!
The Hooded Owl
will open at the Variety Theatre on 30th October!’

The last sentence was lost in the cast’s screams of delight. Everyone leapt about, hugging each other, laughing, crying, howling with relief.

Charles Paris joined in the celebration, but he felt a slight detachment, a reserve within him. Because of the conversation he had overheard, Paul Lexington’s words did not quite ring true. The producer had had Bobby Anscombe’s assent a full week before.

Sure, there must have been details to sort out, but Charles couldn’t lose the feeling that Paul Lexington had deliberately prolonged the cast’s agony for reasons of his own.

What reasons? Hard to say. Maybe just to delay sorting out contracts for the West End, to avoid paying an extra week’s retainer or rehearsal money.

Charles regretted his suspicions, and tried to convince himself that they were unworthy. But he couldn’t. After the fast one Paul Lexington had pulled on Malcolm Harris, it was going to be a long time before he regained the trust of Charles Paris.

‘HELLO, FRANCES, it’s me.’

‘Charles! Where are you? How are you?’

‘I’m in London and I’m fine.’

‘I’m so glad you rang. There are things I need to talk to you about.’

‘That sounds ominous.’

‘Not too ominous. Just business.’

‘Business is by definition ominous. Still, if you want to talk to me, I would like to talk to you. Can I take you out to dinner tonight?’

‘Oh, Charles . . . I’m meant to be doing some marking.’

‘I thought when you were headmistress you delegated such menial tasks as marking.’

‘Don’t you believe it.’

‘Oh, come on. A quick dinner with me and then you can do the marking when you get back.’

‘I know quick dinners with you, Charles. You’ll get me back late and too drunk to read the stuff, let alone mark it.’

‘Oh, Frances . . . I am your husband. Don’t I have any rights to your time?’

Shouldn’t have said that. Not a very good argument, as Frances was quick to point out. Rather frostily.

‘I think you’ve allowed any claims you might have on my time to lapse for too long, Charles.’

‘O.K., forget I said that. Just come out to dinner with me for the pleasure of coming out to dinner with me.’

There was a silence from the other end of the line. Then she gave in. ‘All right. It’d be good to see you. But, by the way, what is all this inviting ladies out to dinner? Not your usual style. Have you won the pools or something?’

‘Better than that, dear. I’m just about to star in a West End show.’

‘Are you? Well, in that case, I’ll expect a big bunch of red roses too.’

He arrived at the Hampstead bistro first (almost unprecedented), with a big bunch of red roses (totally unprecedented), and asked the waiter for a vase to put them in. He then hid behind the foliage, and waited.

The expression on Frances’s face when she saw the flowers showed what a good idea they had been. He was always slightly amazed at how effective such corny old gestures were, and surprised that he didn’t resort to them more often.

‘Charles, how sweet of you.’

‘And how spontaneous,’ he said wryly as he kissed her.

She sat down and saw the glass of white wine he had ordered for her. ‘You even remembered what I drink. You’re in danger of becoming a smoothie, Charles Paris.’