Murder Unprompted: A Charles Paris Murder Mystery (7 page)

‘But I’m sure, Alex, we can sort out some sort of generous terms for you if you want to understudy –’

‘Understudy!’ the actor repeated, rising to his feet. ‘Understudy . . .’

‘I mean it’s up to you. You just say what you want and I’ll –’

‘Say what I want, eh?’ Alex’s anger was beginning to build. ‘Say what I want. Shall I tell you what I want? I want the world rid of all the little shits like you who run it. I want you all out – gone – dead – exterminated!’

‘Look, Alex, I’m sorry –’

‘Sorry, yes, but you’re not as sorry as you will be! You dare to offer me the job of understudy to a part I CREATED! Well, you know what you can do with your job – stuff it! Understudy!’

And, with that sense of occasion that never deserts an actor even in the most real crises of emotion, Alex Household exited from the gym.

There was a murmur of mixed reaction from the cast. They were sorry, yes, angry, yes, but inside each felt relief. In each mind was the thought: It wasn’t
me
.

‘I’m sorry, this is very painful,’ Paul Lexington continued, with the same hint of relish. ‘It’s not the part of the producer’s job that I enjoy.

‘I mentioned cast changes.’

They were all struck dumb again. In their relief they had forgotten that. The axe was still poised overhead. Eyes again slid round to Salome Search.

‘Charles,’ said Paul Lexington, ‘I’m sorry . . .’

CHARLES WAS no less hurt than Alex Household at losing his part in
The Hooded Owl,
but his way of showing the hurt was different. He was not quick to anger and confrontation; shocks caught up with him slowly and he usually faced them in solitary depression rather than by throwing a scene. A bottle of Bell’s was the only witness of his lowest moods.

It was just the two of them. The rest of the cast had survived the axe. Charles stayed at the meeting long enough to hear when the rehearsal call was for the Monday; if he accepted Paul’s offer of an understudy job, then he’d have to be there. But he wasn’t sure whether he was going to accept. He said he’d think about it over the weekend, and let Paul know on the Monday.

When he left, the other actors offered him clumsy commiseration, as to someone who had been bereaved. And, as to the bereaved, their words glowed with the grateful confidence that their own worlds were still intact.

It was when he got outside into the sunlight of a newly-trendy Covent Garden that the disappointment hit him. His armour of cynicism was shown up as useless; all he could feel was how desperately he had wanted the job and how bitter he felt at the injustice that had taken it away from him.

Because it was injustice; he knew it wasn’t a matter of talent. He had played that part well, certainly at least as well as the actor taking over from him.

George Birkitt.

He knew George Birkitt, had worked with him on a television sit. com. called
The Strutters.
He liked George Birkitt and thought he was a good actor. But to lose the part to George Birkitt . . . that he found hard to stomach.

And why? Simply because George Birkitt was a better-known name from television. After
The Strutters,
he had gone on to play a leading part in another sit. com. called
Fly-Buttons.
That had just started screening as part of the ITV Autumn Season and so suddenly George Birkitt was a familiar name. The sort of name which, on a poster – particularly if placed directly beneath that of Michael Banks – would in theory bring the punters in.

Whereas Charles Paris, who knew that he had given one of the best performances of his career in
The Hooded Owl,
was a name that the punters wouldn’t know from a bar of soap.

So he was out, and George Birkitt was in.

Charles just walked. Walked through the streets of London. He often did at times of emotional crisis. He didn’t really notice where he was going, just plodded on mechanically.

The sight of an open pub told him how much time had passed and also reminded him of his normal comfort in moments of stress.

But he didn’t want to sit in a pub, listening to the jollity and in-jokes of office workers.

He went into an off-licence and bought a large bottle of Bell’s.

But he didn’t want just to go back to Hereford Road and drink it on his own.

He needed someone to talk to. Someone who would understand what he was going through.

There was only one person who would really understand, because he was going through exactly the same. And that was Alex Household.

The new flat was at the top of a tall house in Bloomsbury, round the back of the British Museum. Alex opened the door suspiciously and, when he saw who was there, was about to shut it again.

‘I don’t want your bloody sympathy, Charles!’

‘That’s not what I’m bringing. I’ve got the boot too.’

‘Oh Lord.’ Alex Household drew aside to let him into the flat. The interior was still full of boxes and packing cases, showing signs of recent occupation.

‘I’ve bought a bottle of whisky and I’m planning to drink my way right through it.’ Charles slumped on to a sofa. ‘You going to help me, or are you still on the “no stimulants” routine?’

‘I’ll help you. What does it matter what I do now?’

‘Transcendental meditation no good? Doesn’t the “earth’s plenty” –’

‘Listen, Charles!’ Alex turned in fury, his fist clenched.

‘Sorry. Stupid remark. I’m as screwed up as you are.’

‘Yes, I must say this is a wonderful “new start”.’ Alex laughed bitterly. ‘For the last few months I’ve really been feeling together, an integrated personality for the first time since my breakdown. And now . . . Do you know, my psychiatrist spent hour after hour convincing me that it was all in the mind, that nobody really was out to get me, that the world wasn’t conspiring against me . . . And I’d just about begun to believe him. And now – this. Something like this happens and you realise it’s all true. The world really is conspiring against you. I’d like to see a psychiatrist convince me this is all in the mind. It’s a –’

Charles interrupted him crudely. ‘Glasses. Be too sordid for both of us to drink out of the bottle.’

Alex went off for glasses and Charles put the bottle down on a coffee table. As he did so, he moved a handkerchief that was lying on it.

He uncovered a gun. The Smith and Wesson Chiefs Special.

Alex saw him looking at it as he came back with the glasses.

‘Yes, I’d just got that out when you rang the bell.’

‘Thinking of using it?’

Alex smiled a little twisted smile. ‘Had crossed my mind. Trouble was, I couldn’t decide whether to use it on myself or on the rest of the bastards.’

Charles laughed uneasily. ‘I’m sure your psychiatrist wouldn’t recommend suicide.’

‘No, he wouldn’t. He was a great believer in
expressing
aggression, not bottling it up. If I were to take this gun and shoot . . . who? Paul Lexington? Micky Banks? Bobby Anscombe? Doesn’t matter, there are so many of them. No, if I were to do that, my psychiatrist would reckon it proved my cure was complete.’ He suddenly found this notion very funny and burst into laughter.

Charles poured two large measures of Bell’s and handed one over. The laughter subsided, leaving Alex drained and depressed.

‘So what are you going to do, Alex?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘About the understudy job.’

‘I don’t know,’ the actor intoned lethargically. ‘It’d be work, I suppose. I could keep on the flat.’

‘And see Lesley-Jane . . .’

‘Yes.’ The name evinced no sign of interest. ‘Give me another drink.’

Charles obliged, and filled up his own at the same time.

‘Were you offered the same deal, Charles?’

‘What – the great honour of understudying my own part? Oh yes, Paul nobly offered me that.’

‘And what are you going to do about it?’

‘God knows. Ask my agent, I suppose.’

‘Hmm. Give me another drink.’

‘Maurice, it’s Charles.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t ring me at home. I try to keep work and my private life separate.’

‘I know, but this is important. And it’s the weekend.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that, Charles.’

‘Was that your wife I spoke to?’

‘Mind your own business.’

‘Listen, Maurice, about
The Hooded Owl . . .
I’ve got the boot.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Oh, all of a sudden you know. On Thursday you didn’t even know the show was transferring.’

‘No, I had a call yesterday afternoon from Paul . . . Leamington?’

‘Lexington.’

‘Yes. Pleasant young man he sounded.’

‘Oh, a great charmer.’

‘Anyway, he told me about the necessity of recasting. And I said, of course, I fully understood.’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘Now what’s that tone of voice for, Charles?’

‘Well, really! You “fully understood” that your client had got the sack. Why didn’t you stand up for me?’

‘Now come on, Charles. We both know you’re a very good actor, but you’re not a
name,
are you?’

‘Hardly surprising, with you for a bloody agent,’ Charles mumbled.

‘What was that, Charles? I didn’t catch it.’

‘Never mind.’

‘Well, anyway, the good news is that Mr. Leventon –’

‘Lexington.’

‘Yes, has offered most attractive terms for an understudy contract for you.’

‘Oh, terrific.’

‘No, really very generous. I mean, a hundred and fifty a week – that’s as much as I’d’ve expected you to get for actually
acting
.’

Blood money, thought Charles.

‘Six-month contract, too. I mean, when were you last offered a six-month contract for anything?’

‘So you reckon I should take it?’

‘Well, of course, Charles. What’s the alternative?’

‘No other lucrative jobs on the horizon?’

‘’Fraid not, Charles. As you know, it’s not a good time. All the provincial companies have sorted out their seasons, most of the big tellies are cast, there’s not much on the –’

‘Yes, all right, all right. In other words, things are exactly as usual.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you really think I should take it?’

‘Yes. I can’t think why you’re havering. It’s obvious. A very good offer.’

‘Yes, but it is understudying a part I’ve already played – and played well.’

‘So?’

‘So . . . it becomes a matter of pride.’

‘Pride? You, Charles? Oh, really.’ And Maurice Skellern let out a gasping laugh, as if the joke had really cheered up his weekend.

It was inevitable that, when rerehearsals started on the Monday, the centre of attention should be Michael Banks. His theatrical successes exceeded those of all the rest of the cast added together (and the money Paul Lexington had agreed with his agent quite possibly exceeded their total too).

His face was so familiar that he seemed to have been with the production for weeks. Few of the cast would have seen him in the revues of the late thirties where his career started, but they would all have caught up with the films he had made in the immediate post-war years. He had had a distinguished war, being wounded once and decorated twice, and had spent the next five years recreating it in a series of patriotic British movies. Michael Banks it always was who gazed grimly at the enemy submarine from the bridge, Michael Banks who went back for the wounded private in the jungle, Michael Banks who ignored the smoke pouring from his Spitfire’s engine as he trained his sights on the alien Messerschmidt.

He had then gone to Hollywood in the early fifties and stayed there long enough to show that he could cope with the system and be moderately successful, but not so long as to alienate his chauvinistic British following.

The West End then beckoned, and he appeared as a solid juvenile in a sequence of light comedies. He was good box office and managements fell over themselves to get his name on their marquees.

That continued until the early sixties, when, for the first time, his career seemed to be under threat. Fashions had changed; the new youth-oriented culture had nothing but contempt for the gritty, laconic heroism of the war, of which Michael Banks remained the symbol. The trendies of Camaby Street flounced around in military uniforms, sporting flowers of peace where medals once had hung. Acting styles changed too, as did the plays in which they were exhibited. The mannered delivery of West End comedies sounded ridiculous at the kitchen sink, and became the butt of the booming satire industry.

‘The wind of change’, that phrase coined by Harold Macmillan in 1960, grew to have a more general application than just to Africa, or just to politics. It represented a change of style, and this new wind threatened to blow away all that was dated and traditional.

Amongst other things, it threatened to blow away the career of Michael Banks.

And it might well have done. He had reached that most difficult of ages for a successful actor, his forties. The audience who had loved him as a stage juvenile were themselves growing old, and could not fail to notice the signs of ageing in their idol. The rising generation was not interested. To them Michael Banks represented that anathema – something their parents liked. If they saw him in a play, they saw a middle-aged man pretending to be young, in an outdated vehicle that bore as much relation to their reality as crinolines and penny-farthings.

He did two more West End comedies, neither of which lasted three months, and theatre managements were suddenly less anxious to pick up the phone and plead with his agent. The British film industry, such as it was, was committed to making zany films about Swinging London and, if there were any parts for the over-forties, they went to outrageous character actors.

One or two offers of touring productions or guest star status in provincial reps came in, a sure sign that their managements were trying to cash in on the name of Michael Banks before it was completely forgotten.

It was the nadir of his career. He was all right financially – he had always been shrewd and he had made his money in days when the Inland Revenue had allowed people to keep some of it – but his prospects of regaining his former place in the public’s esteem seemed negligible.