Murder Unprompted: A Charles Paris Murder Mystery (12 page)

But even when its use had been approved, it didn’t work as it should. Michael Banks, who by this time looked terminally tired, seemed to have lost the knack of timing which he had so laboriously achieved the day before, and so his lines were once again all over the place. Alex, from his position in the wings, was not concentrating as much and could not easily be kept informed about when they were stopping and starting, going back to rehearse lighting changes and so on, with the result that he was often feeding the wrong words.

Setting the transmitter’s volume level was also a problem. If it was too low, Michael kept mishearing lines and producing bizarre variations, many of which would, under other circumstances, have been funny, and did in fact produce some snorts of ill-advised laughter from the overwrought cast. If the level was set too high, Michael could hear all right, but unfortunately so could the rest of the theatre, in a sort of ghostly pre-echo.

But the climax of technical disaster came, as the climax always did, with the Hooded Owl speech. Charles was out in front and saw what happened.

It was then getting on for three in the morning, but in the last quarter of an hour things had been getting better. With the end of the play in sight, everyone seemed to get a second (or possibly tenth) wind. Michael Banks, for the first time in the run, showed some signs of his real power as the Hooded Owl speech drew near.

‘But, Father,’ said Lesley-Jane, ‘you will never be forgotten.’

‘Oh yes. Oh yes, I will.

‘Three generations of us have lived in this house. Three generations have passed through this room, slept here, argued here, made love here, even
picked up a passenger in Shaftesbury Avenue to take out to Neasden
. . . .’

There was silence in the theatre. The star, suddenly aware of what he had said, looked pitifully puzzled. Charles wondered if Alex Household had carried out his threat of feeding the wrong lines. If so, he had chosen a singularly inappropriate moment for the experiment.

It was some time before the cause of the error was identified. The transmitter was on the same wave-length as a passing radio-cab.

Somehow the Technical Run ended. Somehow a Dress Rehearsal was achieved on the Monday afternoon. And somehow, not too long after eight o’clock on the Monday evening, the curtain rose for the first time on the London production of
The Hooded Owl
by Malcolm Harris.

It was just competent. To say more would have been to overstate the case, but as a first preview it got by. The West End had witnessed many worse first previews.

The house was about a third full and they were respectful if not ecstatic in their reaction. Those of the cast who remembered the euphoria of Taunton were disappointed, but they comforted themselves with the fact that they were at least
on,
something which three days previously had looked most unlikely.

Michael Banks managed his lines fairly well, with only a couple of mishearings and one awfully long thirty seconds where he totally lost the thread. Perversely, George Birkitt seemed to have lost his lines completely and had to take at least half a dozen prompts. Charles Paris was heard to remark cynically that George, having seen that the star had got a deaf-aid, thought he ought to have one too.

Though he got the lines, Michael Banks’s performance was very subdued, only a vestige of what he could achieve. That was just the result of fatigue. The strains of the last fortnight were catching up with him, and he looked every one of his sixty-four years.

No one was too worried about it. After all, these were only previews. Wait till the first night they thought, and watch ‘Doctor Theatre’ do his work.

Two more previews to go, and then, at seven o’clock on the Thursday (early so that the critics could get their copy in), the curtain would go up on the first night proper of
The Hooded Owl
.

‘Hello, it’s me.’

‘Charles.’

‘Sorry to ring you at school, but I wanted to get hold of you and I’m in the theatre in the evenings.’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you talk, Frances?’

‘Well, I’ve got someone with me, but if you’re quick . . .’

‘It’s about the first night.’

‘Oh yes. Of your play. When is it?’

‘Thursday.’

‘Ah.’

‘I wondered if you could come . . .’

‘Thursday. Hmm. I am actually meant to be going to a meeting . . .’

‘Frances . . .’

‘But I suppose I could . . . Yes, all right, Charles. After all, I don’t want to miss your opening in this wonderful part you told me about.’

‘Ah.’

‘What?’

‘Hmm. It is a long time since we spoke, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m afraid you won’t have the pleasure of seeing me on-stage. Instead you will have the no doubt greater pleasure of sitting beside me.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘I’ll explain all on Thursday. See you in the foyer of the Variety Theatre in Macklin Street at quarter to seven.’

‘All right.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

He shivered. Was it imagination, or did she really sound colder towards him?

There was a small reception after the Tuesday night preview. This was not Paul Lexington pushing the boat out for the cast, which would have been very out of character; it was for the ticket agencies.

Charles had forgotten how important these now were to the survival of a West End show. As transport costs rose and London’s reputation for violence after dark grew, business was increasingly dependent on coachloads of theatre-goers coming in from the provinces. So the ticket agencies and the people who organised the coaches were very important and managements were wise to make a fuss of them.

Hence the reception, with bottles of wine and the odd crisp provided by Paul Lexington Productions. It was typical of the outfit that before the performance, the Company Manager, Wallas Ward, had come round the dressing rooms with a message from the management. The message had been that the reception was for the ticket agencies, and the cast were requested to ration themselves to one glass of wine each. It was like the old admonition at nursery teas, F.H.B. (Family Hold Back).

Charles thought it was appalling. He wouldn’t have minded the meanness of only allowing one glass each, if it hadn’t been that the reception was so timed as to prevent that vital half-hour in the pub before closing time, which was so much a part of the necessary wind-down from giving of himself in performance. (The fact that, as understudy, he wasn’t giving a performance did not reduce the necessity for the wind-down.)

But the cast were all very professional and knew the importance of the agencies’ backing, so they presented their most charming fronts. Needless to say, the focus of the visitors’ attention was Michael Banks, who, in spite of his fatigue, made himself most affable and approachable. Charles admired the skill with which the old pro conveyed an air of ease and relaxation, of the company having been one happy family, of the great fun he had had rehearsing for the show. At one point he overheard the star laughing and saying, ‘Long time since I’ve done theatre. Even had a little trouble learning the old lines. Still, got that sorted out now.’

As an exercise in the skills of understatement and of giving the wrong impression without actually lying, Charles thought that took some beating.

He himself got landed with a boring little man from Luton, who was a great stalwart of the local amateur dramatic society there and clearly, though he didn’t quite put it into words, thought
The Hooded Owl
a pale shadow of their recent production of
When We Are Married.
‘Also,’ he said expanding his criticism, ‘your show’s too long.’

‘Oh really?’ said Charles mildly. ‘You mean it sags?’

‘No, but it finishes too late. Coach party’d be very late back to Luton, and they don’t like that.’

‘Oh.’

‘What you want to do . . .’ The man paused, then magnanimously decided to give the benefit of his expertise, ‘What you want to do is chop ten minutes out of it. Then you may have a show.’

‘Oh,’ said Charles. ‘Thank you very much.’

It was Paul Lexington’s party, and since courting the ticket agencies was very much a management job, Charles was surprised to notice that the Producer wasn’t there. Wallas Ward was filling in, exercising his rather effete charm on the guests, but it wasn’t the same. Charles heard more than one question as to where Paul was. The ticket agents felt they weren’t getting the full treatment.

The Producer did finally arrive about half an hour into the party, and he scurried around meeting everyone, making up for his earlier absence. He did so with his customary boyish bounce, and yet there was something strange in his manner. His face had the dead whiteness of someone in shock. Charles wondered what new disaster had hit the production, or which of the Producer’s dubious deals had just blown up in his face.

He was soon to find out. The guests were eventually ushered out at about eleven forty-five. This took some doing, as they seemed prepared to stay all night. They didn’t seem to share their clients’ reservations about getting home late. It was only when the bottles of wine had been firmly put away and the last glass drained that they got the message. (Charles also got the message that he wasn’t going to get the quick slurp of wine at the end of the evening that he had been promising himself.)

Etiquette had demanded that none of the cast should leave until the last of their guests had gone, but, as soon as the final raincoat disappeared round the door of the theatre bar, the entire company leapt for their belongings to make a quick getaway.

‘Shall we go, Micky?’ Charles heard Lesley-Jane Decker say to the star.

Which was in itself interesting.

But they were all stopped by Paul Lexington clapping his hands. ‘Listen, everyone. I have some news. I’m afraid once again it’s good news and bad news. The good news is that we’ve got the ticket agencies on our side. They like the show and they’re going to recommend it to their clients – on one condition.

‘That condition is that we cut ten minutes out of the running time.’ This was greeted by a ripple of protest. Malcolm Harris, who would have been the most vigorous protester, was not present, but Peter Hickton, acting on the author’s behalf, remonstrated. ‘Look, we can’t do that. The play’s really tight now. We’ll ruin it.’

‘Sorry,’ said Paul. ‘Got to be done. Anything’ll cut down if it has to. Peter, see me in the production office at ten and we’ll go through the script. Then we’ll have a full cast call at two to give you the cuts. O.K., Wallas?’

The Company Manager nodded.

‘We should let Malcolm know,’ protested Peter Hickton. ‘It is his play.’

‘There isn’t time. Anyway, it’s not his play now. I’ve got the rights. I’m sorry it’s necessary, but it is. We won’t get the coach parties if the show ends as late as it does now.’

If anyone needed evidence of the power of the ticket agencies, there it was. Grumbling slightly, but accepting the inevitable, the cast once again made to leave, but Paul Lexington again stopped them.

‘Then there’s the bad news.’

They froze. They had all thought the cuts were the bad news.

‘I’ve just come from a meeting with Bobby Anscombe. I am afraid we could not agree over certain . . . artistic matters. As a result, he has decided to withdraw his backing from the production.’

This hit them like a communal heart-attack. As the shock receded, Charles found himself wondering what the disagreement had really been about. He felt certain that Paul Lexington had been trying to pull a fast one on his Co-producer. Maybe the missing contract had finally appeared and Bobby Anscombe hadn’t liked its provisions. It must have been something like that; Charles was beginning to understand the way Paul Lexington worked. But if he had tried to dupe the wily Bobby Anscombe as easily as the innocent Malcolm Harris, it was no wonder that he had come unstuck.

But, like the eternal Wobbly Man, the young Producer bounced back. ‘Now this is a pity, but it’s not a disaster. I would rather lose Bobby’s backing than compromise my artistic integrity over this production.’

The fact that no one laughed out loud at this remark suggested to Charles that they didn’t all share his view of the man. For most of them, his plausible exterior was still convincing.

‘There are other investors, and don’t worry, I’ve still got plenty of backing for this show. I’m not going to go bankrupt. Don’t worry about a thing.
The Hooded Owl
will go on, and, what’s more, it’ll be a huge success!’

But, in spite of the stirring words, in spite of the cast’s cheers, Charles could see panic in Paul Lexington’s eyes.

And when he thought about it, it didn’t surprise him He didn’t know the details of the funding of the show, but he could piece a certain amount together. Paul Lexington Productions had been able to mount
The Hooded Owl
at Taunton, but had been unable to bring it into town without Bobby Anscombe’s support.

And that support had been bought at the cost of considerably increasing the budget. With the Taunton cast, it remained a comparatively cheap show. But with Michael Banks’s – and indeed George Birkitt’s – names above the title, it was a much more expensive proposition.

And now the support, whose condition the cast changes had been, had been withdrawn.

Michael Banks was suddenly a very expensive albatross around Paul Lexington’s neck.

THE UNDERSTUDY’S is a strange role, and never is he made more aware of its strangeness than on a first night. He is caught up in the communal excitement, without the prospect of release that performance gives. He cannot quite detach himself or even avoid nerves; he has to be eternally in readiness; only when the final curtain has fallen can he be sure he will not have to go on. During the ‘half’ before the curtain rises, he has his twitchiest moments. He has to watch the actor he would replace for signs of strain or imminent collapse and wonder nervously whether he
could
actually remember the lines if he had to go on. Sometimes the worst happens, and the actor does not appear for the ‘half’. Then the understudy goes through agonies of indecision before the Company Manager gives him the order to get into costume and make-up. And how often, as the understudy trembles in the wings awaiting the rise of the curtain, does the real actor appear, full of apologies about a power failure on the Underground or the traffic on the Westway.