Star Trap (2 page)

‘That's right.'

‘I've seen stuff about it in the Press. Now let me think. . . .' He mused facetiously. ‘If it's a musical based on
She Stoops to Conquer
for a West End audience, then what would it be called? Um. How about
Conkers
? With an exclamation mark.'

‘No, it was going to be,' said Gerald with complete seriousness, ‘but then it was decided that that didn't really give the right impression of the sort of show it is.'

‘So what's it called now?'

‘Lumpkin!'

‘With an exclamation mark?'

‘Of course.'

‘With Christopher Milton as Tony Lumpkin?'

‘Of course. That was another reason for the title. It means a neat billing – “Christopher Milton as
Lumpkin!
” See what I mean?'

‘Yes, I do. Tony Lumpkin. Of course. One of the all-time great upstaging parts. Hmm. What's the script like?'

Gerald was reticent. ‘It's okay.'

‘Anything to do with Goldsmith?'

‘No. He hasn't any money in it.'

‘I didn't mean Goldsmith the impresario. I meant Oliver Goldsmith who wrote the thing.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry. I think the show makes the occasional nod in his direction.'

‘But presumably it's not designed for fans of Oliver Goldsmith?'

‘No, it's designed for fans of Christopher Milton. He's riding very high at the moment, with the telly show at the top of the ratings.'

‘What telly show?'

‘Oh, come on, Charles, don't be affected. You must have seen
Straight Up, Guv
.'

‘I don't think I have. I'm not a great telly viewer.' He did not possess a television in his Bayswater bed-sitter. He was not enthusiastic about the medium. It was a necessary evil for his career as an actor, because it was well paid, but he had never enjoyed the work (or the product).

‘Well, let me enlighten your ignorance. The show gets massive audience figures and it has made Christopher Milton just about the hottest property around. He's very big box office.'

‘So it doesn't really matter what show you put him in.'

‘Ah, but it does, and
Lumpkin!
is just right. Could make a lot of money. That's why I – the people I represent – are so anxious that nothing should go wrong. Either to the show – or to the star.'

‘I see. Who's written it?'

‘Well, it's basically a show which the Ipswich Warehouse Company put on last year to celebrate the bicentenary of Goldsmith's death.'

‘Oh yes, I remember reading a notice of that in
The Stage
. What was it called then?'

‘Liberty Hall.'

‘That's right.'

‘Book by a chap called Kevin McMahon, with music by some bloke whose name I forget. Anyway, Christopher Milton's agent, Dickie Peck – do you know him, by the way?'

‘By reputation.'

‘Well, he went down and saw the show and reckoned it had potential for his boy, got Christopher Milton himself down to see it, and they bought up the rights. I think they got them pretty cheap. Could be a good investment. I mean, the stage show should run at least a couple of years on Christopher Milton's name, and then there might be a chance of a film . . .'

‘And the script is more or less as at Ipswich?'

‘Hardly. No, there's been quite a lot of surgery. They've scrapped the original music and lyrics – or most of them anyway. And got in Carl Anthony and Micky Gorton to write new ones.'

‘You look at me as if I should have heard of them.'

‘You certainly should, Charles. They've written a whole string of Top Ten hits.
Heart Doctor
. . .
Gimme No More Lies . . . Disposable Man
– all that lot!'

‘Really, Charles, you are square.' Gerald prided himself on his sudden knowledge of the pop scene.

‘Some of us age quicker than others, man.'

Gerald ignored the dig. ‘The new music is excellent. It fits the style of the period, but it's also very . . . funky.' He tried too hard to deliver the last word naturally.

Charles laughed. ‘It sounds a riot. I hope I don't have to sing anything funky. I wouldn't know where to begin. Incidentally, I should have asked before – what part am I playing?'

‘You're playing Sir Charles Marlow. Do you know the play?'

‘Yes, I did a production of it once in Cardiff – with Bernard Walton of all people, when he was very new in the business. He played Young Marlow – his first starring rôle. And I'm the father . . . hmm. Only comes in at the end.'

‘That's right.'

‘Good.'

‘Why good?'

‘Last act parts are good. You can spend the whole evening in the pub.'

‘It was Everard Austick's part,' said Gerald reprovingly. ‘Ah yes, that was probably his downfall. A lifetime of 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 over baldness. The head was disproportionately small and accentuated the stocky bulk of body below it. Dickie Peck was dressed in a dark grey suit with thin lapels. A plain blue tie askew across a grubby white shirt. Tie and jacket dusted with cigar ash. It was not the traditional image of the big show business agent; more like a Town Hall clerk.

‘Charles Paris, isn't it? Take a chair.' He gestured expansively, but the ash at the end of his cigar miraculously stayed intact.

Charles sat on a low gilt chair whose red plush upholstery was as hard as wood.

‘Now, Mr Paris, I gather you've seen a representative of Amulet Productions about this part.'

‘Yes.' So Gerald wasn't just acting as solicitor for Arthur Balcombe.

‘And he explained what it was about?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good. As you gather, the part became vacant due to an accident to one of the cast.'

‘I know.' Charles didn't volunteer any comment. Gerald had been uncertain whether Dickie Peck shared his suspicions of sabotage or not and had asked Charles to play it carefully. The fewer people knew that there was an investigator in the company, the better.

Dickie Peck gave no sign of suspicion. He took a long draw at his cigar, extending the column of ash to an even more precarious length. He leant back and blew a slow jet of smoke to the ceiling. ‘This show, Mr Paris, is a very big one.'

‘So I gather.' Charles was getting tired of being told about the size of the operation.

‘It's likely to be a very big success.'

‘Good,' said Charles, feeling that some sort of comment was required.

‘And so it's important that everything about it should be right.'

Again Charles helped out the pause with a ‘Yes'.

‘Because what we have here is a show with a very big star. Christopher Milton, no less.'

Here a longer pause was left for some comment of amazed approbation. Charles produced a grunt which he hoped was appropriate.