The Secret Tunnel (21 page)

I groaned.

“What’s the matter, old chap? Got a bit of a headache?”

I smiled and composed myself. “No, Boy. Just trying to work something out.”

“Oh, you men and your mysteries,” said Belinda. “Now, look lively. We’re here.”

Charing Cross Road was choked with traffic, pedestrian, horse-drawn, and motorized. The façade of the Garrick was ablaze with electric light, illuminating the names TALLULAH BANKHEAD and HUGO TAYLOR in vast red letters. Somewhere the words “The Lady of the Camellias” appeared in much smaller type; nobody was here for poor Alexandre Dumas. Almost as bright were the diamonds adorning the heads, throats, and chests of the audience, now piling into the theater in a fur-wreathed crush. We were just in time, and joined the end of the line.

The five-minute bell was ringing, and there was no time for drinks. We made our way to our box, where Bertrand and Simmonds were already sitting, looking thoroughly awkward in their cobbled-together evening wear. Bertrand was wearing a jacket several sizes too large for him; the sleeves came down way over his hands. But at least his shirt was clean; that was money well spent. They stood up when we arrived and moved to the back of the box—but Morgan soon put everyone at ease. Belinda was as charming as ever; if she had any inkling of the nature of my friendship with her husband, or of the kind of people I associated with, she kept it to herself.

The theater was packed to the rafters. Up in the gods sat the real Taylor and Bankhead fans, those theatergoers who kept the business alive, who sweated and toiled to afford their tickets and repaid the stars even more in terms of their devotion. Further down, the clothes became more opulent, the faces less expressive of eager anticipation. By the time you got to the dress circle and the orchestra, hardly anyone was looking toward the stage. They were all far too busy talking to friends, waving at acquaintances, standing to show off gowns and jewels. In the other boxes people were drinking champagne and eating sandwiches—and casting suspicious, disapproving glances toward us. Frankie must have been delighted at the thought of placing people like us in the middle of all these titles and jewels. I scanned the boxes for a familiar face—and yes, there was the Prime Minister himself, just as Frankie had said, in earnest conversation with a woman who looked about 100 years old, so encrusted with jewels that she might have been wearing armor.

And there, in another box, was another familiar face, beneath a turban and a plume of feathers, above a treasure chest of jewels—Lady Antonia. So she was here. Of course. She would be. The chickens were coming home to roost.

A sudden hush fell over the auditorium, there was a certain
amount of pointing and craning of necks, and the orchestra struck up the National Anthem. Everyone turned toward the royal box—just two doors up from us, as it were—and awaited The Presence. Who would it be? King George himself? Queen Mary? The Prince of Wales? Even a good American like me could not suppress a thrill of excitement.

Everyone stood. In the royal box I saw a glitter of jewels, a flash of brass. A handsome young man in naval uniform advanced to the front of the box, waved to the crowd a few times, then took his seat next to a beautiful young woman in a chic silver sheath dress, a diamond necklace at her throat, a white fox fur around her shoulders.

The audience, taking its lead from the royal personage, sat down.

“Who is it?” I asked Morgan.

“Prince George, isn’t it? Belinda?”

“Yes, of course it is.”

“Which one is he, then?”

“The fourth son,” said Belinda. “The bad one.”

“Oh!” I began to take more interest. “In what way?”

“Oh, you know. Affairs left, right, and center. They say he dopes.”

“No kidding! And who’s that with him?”

“Oh, it’s that ghastly girlfriend of his, Kiki Preston.”

Simmonds and Bertrand practically pushed us out of the way to get a look.

“
Non!
Is that really her? She is quite beautiful,” said Bertrand, rather grudgingly. “But you can tell, I think, by her eyes…”

“Tell what?”

“Ah, she is a notorious drug addict! She is known in your newspapers as the Girl with the Silver Syringe.”

“You’d kidding.”

“She’s an American,” said Belinda. “Rich as Croesus, of course, but aren’t they all?”

“Not this one.”

“But for some reason she’s taken a fancy to the theater.” Belinda lowered her voice. “Apparently, she’s appeared in revue.”

“And what’s the connection to Prince George?”

“Well…the obvious one, I suppose,” said Belinda. “Although I’m not sure if she isn’t barking up the wrong tree, if you know what I mean.”

“What, you mean he’s—?”

“
Mais oui
,” said Bertrand, who seemed to know all the royal scandal while purporting to despise the kind of prurient interest that fostered it. “He is also said to have been the lover of the Maharani of Cooch Behar. Who, perhaps, provided the diamonds that adorn the neck of Miss Preston.”

“You don’t say. That’s an awful lot of sparklers,” said Morgan, clearly impressed. “I hope you don’t expect me to give you trinkets like that, old girl.”

“I wouldn’t be seen dead in them,” said Belinda, loyally, casting a lingering look at said sparklers. “I’m quite content with what I’ve got.” She waggled her ring finger, where a tiny diamond shone.

“One day I’ll buy you a diamond as big as a plum.”

“I don’t want jewels, Harry. I just want you.”

This was starting to make me feel rather unwell, so I turned my attention to the stage. It was well after eight o’clock by now, and the curtain should have been up. The orchestra was getting fidgety; the conductor was in earnest conversation with someone. I sensed a hitch, as did much of the audience.

People were starting to get restless, when a harassed man in a dinner jacket walked in front of the curtain.

“Your Royal Highness, my lords, ladies and gentlemen!” He held up his hands, and the audience was silent. “We apologize for the late start to tonight’s show. This is due to the indisposition of Mr. Hugo Taylor—”

His next words were lost. Groans and cries of “no!” rang out from the top of the balcony all the way down to the front of the orchestra.

“Please, ladies and gentlemen! Mr. Taylor assures me that he will be able to go on, and craves your patience.”

There was a burst of applause; again the manager begged for silence.

“We will have the curtain up in approximately half an hour. In the meantime, the orchestra will entertain us with a medley of light operatic airs. And finally, ladies and gentlemen…”

There was a pause, a hush; surely he was not going to announce that Tallulah had gone AWOL?

“Is there a doctor in the house?”

I stood up immediately—one is trained to do so—and announced my presence to the stage. For a moment, all eyes were on me. Even from the royal box.

 

Hugo Taylor looked ghastly. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was shaking.

The stage manager left us alone.

“What appears to be the matter, Mr. Taylor?”

“I’m not sure. I suddenly got taken very ill… Hello, don’t I know you?”

“We were on the train together.”

“Thought so. I never forget a handsome face. So you’re a doctor, are you? Any good?”

“I haven’t killed anyone yet.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Because I rather think that someone is trying to kill me.”

“What gives you that impression?”

“You may remember I was attacked on the train.”

“An unfortunate collision with a cocktail cabinet, you said.”

“Cocktail cabinet, my arse. That’s what that goon from
the studio told me to say, to avoid scandal. Actually, someone crept up on me and hit me over the head. Nearly cracked my skull.” He parted his hair to show the wound. “Fortunately, it won’t show up on stage, at least I hope not.”

“And what happened tonight?”

“I don’t know. I was right as rain this afternoon, just the usual nerves, nothing much. I never eat before a performance because I always get the shits if I do. Forgive me if I speak plainly.”

“I’d much rather you did.”

“So it can’t have been anything I ate. I mean, a funny oyster or something.” I took his pulse; it was fast and erratic, but nothing too alarming. He was not about to drop dead.

“Have you taken anything? Any medication?” I wondered if he, like his
Rob Roy
costar and, apparently, Prince George’s friend Kiki Preston, was a drug addict.

“Certainly not. I’m fit as a fiddle. And if you are driving at what I think you’re driving at, no, I haven’t sniffed or injected anything, swallowed it, or stuck it up my bum, as I believe some people do. I can’t stand all that stuff.” He scowled.

“When did you become ill?”

“Just now. Twenty minutes ago. Just before we were due to go on. I have a little ritual when I’m going on stage. I do a few limbering-up exercises, then I wash, and dress, and do my makeup. Then I warm up the voice. There’s a lot of words in this, you know, and it wouldn’t do to get hoarse in the final act.”

“How do you do that?”

“The usual rubbish, la la la la up and down the arpeggios. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. A quick gargle with Listerine, to nobble any germs that might be lurking, and, incidentally, to sweeten the breath for my leading lady.”

“Do you swallow?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Listerine.”

“Oh, I see. Well, no. I sloosh it around, one, two, three, and then I spit it into the sink.”

“Do you have the bottle here?”

“No. My dresser has it. He’s squireled it away somewhere. I usually have a quick glug in the interval.”

“Did you use a glass?”

“Why? What’s the big emergency?”

“Did you, or didn’t you?”

“Yes, of course. I don’t swig from the bottle. Here. This is the one.”

I took the glass and sniffed it. It stank of mouthwash, of course—but wasn’t there just the faintest whiff of almonds? And that could mean only one thing.

“What happened when you became ill?”

“I was just opening telegrams and signing photos, the usual stuff you do before you go on, when I felt terribly weak. I thought it might be first-night nerves, although usually I don’t go for that kind of rubbish. Then I felt giddy, and I thought I was going to faint.”

“What sort of giddy?”

“As if I was standing on the edge of a cliff, with a great big sheer drop beneath me.”

“Vertigo. That makes sense.”

“What the bloody hell is happening to me, doctor?”

“You’ve been poisoned. I’m almost certain that it’s cyanide.”

“Fuck me! Cyanide! Isn’t that rather…well, dangerous?”

“It’s extremely dangerous. Not to mention lethal.”

“Shit. Am I going to die?”

“No. If you were going to die, you’d be dead by now. You’ve had a very lucky escape. Can you breathe properly?”

“It’s coming back. I felt terribly winded just before you got in.”

“Your pulse is slowing down. I think you’re going to be all right. But you must go straight home and rest.”

“Not on your life. I’ve got to go on. Can’t let the audience down, old chap. First rule of the theater.”

“But Mr. Taylor, someone has tried to kill you.”

“Well, in that case, the safest place for me is out there, isn’t it? I’m on nearly all the time. Perhaps while we’re doing Act One, the police could have a little sniff around and see who’s trying to do the dirty. It’s really most inconvenient, tonight of all nights. We have some rather important guests.”

“So I saw.”

And, as if on cue, the door burst open and there, looking resplendent in his uniform, stood His Royal Highness Prince George, fourth son of King George V.

“Hugo! Christ! Are you all right?”

“Georgie!”

The Prince rushed toward Taylor, who sat wilting on his chair, much like the consumptive heroine of the play in which he was about to appear, and embraced him.

“Whatever is the matter with him? And who are you?” He looked me up and down, with somewhat more interest than I imagined a royal personage would have for a commoner.

“This is Doctor… Er… I’m sorry, old chap, I forgot your name.”

“Mitchell. Edward Mitchell.” I shook the Prince’s hand. “Mitch, to my friends.”

“Well, Mitch. I wonder if you know my friend, Miss Preston? She’s American too.” He spoke rather like Lady Antonia:
Ameddican
.

“I don’t believe so.”

“George, for Christ’s sake, that’s like asking if you know some crofter in the Outer Hebrides just because he happens to be British.”

“It’s quite possible that I do,” said the Prince. “One meets so many people.”

When he smiled, he was dangerously handsome—quite as much as Hugo Taylor. What an attractive couple they made…

“Is he ill, Mitch?”

“He’s had a very lucky escape.”

“Yes, yes, well, enough of that, George doesn’t need to hear the gory details. Dodgy oyster for lunch, you know. Nothing serious.”

I didn’t contradict him.

“I say, do you need a little something to get you through the evening? You know… A little livener…”

“No thank you,” said Hugo, rather primly. “You know my opinion of all that.”

“As you like it. But I’m sure that the good doctor would agree that cocaine is an excellent stimulant and that its harmful effects have been greatly overexaggerated.”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

Perhaps the Prince was not used to straight answers, particularly of the negative variety. He looked quite taken aback.

“There, Georgie, you see? Not everyone shares your taste for danger.”

“Well, well. As long as you’re all right. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”