‘Well,’ said Inspector Umpelty, hoisting himself to his feet,’
‘I’m sure we’re very much obliged to you, miss, for your information, though at the moment it doesn’t seem, to get us much farther. If anything should occur to you in connection with this Alexis, or if you sir, should happen to call to mind where you saw Alexis before, we shall be very greatly obliged. And you mustn’t take account of what his lordship here has been saying,’ because he’s a gentleman that makes up poetry and talks a bit humorous at times.’
Having thus, as he supposed, restored confidence in the mind of Miss Olga Kohn, the Inspector; shepherded his companion away, but it was to Wimsey that the girl turned while Umpelty was hunting in the little hall for his hat.
‘That policeman doesn’t believe a word I’ve been saying,’ she whispered anxiously, ‘but you do, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ replied;Wimsey. ‘But you see, I can believe a thing without understanding it. It’s all a matter, of training.’
Chapter XXIII. The Evidence Of The Theatrical Agent
‘Art honest, or a man of many deeds
And many faces to them? Thou’rt a plotter,
a politician.’
— Death’s Jest-Book
Monday, 29 June
WIMSEY and the Inspector spent Sunday in. Town, and on the Monday started out for Shaftesbury Avenue. At the first two names on their list they drew blank; either the agent had given out no photographs of Olga Kohn or he could not remember anything of the circumstances. The third agent, a Mr Isaac J. Sullivan, had a smaller and dingier office than the other two. Its antechamber was thronged with the usual crowd, patiently waiting for notice. The Inspector sent his name by a mournful-eyed-secretary, who looked as though he had spent all his life saying ‘No’ to people and taking the blame for it. Nothing happened. Wimsey seated himself philosophically on the extreme end of a bench already occupied: by eight other people and began to work out a crossword, in the morning paper. The Inspector fidgeted. The secretary, emerging from the inner door, was promptly besieged by a rush of applicants. He pushed them away firmly but not harshly, and returned to his, desk.
‘Look here, young man,’ said the, Inspector, ‘I’ve got to see Mr Sullivan at once. This is a police matter.’
‘Mr Sullivan’s engaged,’ said the secretary, impassively.
‘He’s got to be disengaged then,’ said the Inspector. ‘’Presently,’ said the secretary, copying something into a large book.
‘I’ve no time to waste,’ said the Inspector, and strode across to the inner door.
‘Mr Sullivan’s not there,’ said the secretary, intercepting him with eel-like agility
‘Oh, yes, he is,’ replied the Inspector. ‘Now, don’t you go obstructing me in the performance of my duty.’ He, put the secretary aside with one hand and flung the door open, revealing a young lady in the minimum of clothing, who was displaying her charms to a couple of stout gentlemen with large cigars.
‘Shut the door, blast you,’ said one gentleman, without looking around. ‘Hell of a draught, and you’ll let all that lot in.’
‘Which of you is Mr Sullivan?’ demanded the Inspector, standing his ground, and glaring at a second door on the opposite side of the room.
‘Sullivan ain’t here. Shut that door, will you?’
The Inspector retired, discomfited, amid loud applause — from the ante-room.
‘I say old man,’ said Wimsey, ‘what: do you think the blighter means by this “Bright-eyed after swallowing a wingless biped?” Sounds like the tiger who conveyed the young lady of Riga.’
The Inspector snorted.
There was an interval. Presently the inner door opened again and the young lady emerged, clothed and apparently very much in her right mind, for she smiled round and observed to an acquaintance seated next to Wimsey:
‘O. K. darling. “Aeroplane Girl,’ first row, song and dance, start next week.’
The acquaintance offered suitable congratulations, the two men with cigars came out with their hats’ on and the assembly surged towards the inner room.
‘Now, ladies,’ protested the ‘secretary, ‘it’s not a bit of use. Mr Sullivan’s engaged.’
‘Look here,’ said the Inspector.
At this moment the door opened a fraction of an inch and an impatient voice bellowed: ‘Horrocks!’
‘I’ll tell him,’ said the secretary, hastily, and wormed himself neatly through the crack of the door, frustrating the efforts of a golden-haired sylph to rush the barrier.
Presently the door opened again and the bellowing voice was heard to observe:
‘I don’t care if he’s Godalmighty. He’s got to wait. Send that girl in, and-oh, Horrocks
The secretary turned back — fatally. The sylph was under his guard in a moment. There was an altercation on the threshold. Then, suddenly; the door opened to its full extent and disgorged, all in a heap, the sylph, the secretary, and an immensely stout man, wearing a benevolent expression entirely at variance with his hectoring voice.
‘Now, Grace, my; girl, don’t you get trying it on. There’s nothing for you today. You’re wasting my time. Be a good girl. I’ll let you know when, anything turns up. Hullo, Phyllis, back again? That’s right. Might want you next week. No, Mammy, no grey-haired mommas wanted today. I — hullo!’
His eye fell on Wimsey who had got stuck over his crossword and was gazing vaguely round in search of inspiration.,
‘Here, Horrocks! Why the hell didn’t you tell me? What do you think I pay you for? Wasting my time. Here, you, what’s your name? Never been here before, have you? I’m wanting your type. Hi! Rosencrantz!’
Another: gentleman, slightly less bulky but also inclined to embonpoint, appeared in the doorway.
‘Told you we should have something to suit you,’ bellowed the first gentleman, excitedly.
‘Vot for?’ demanded Mr Rosencrantz, languidly.
‘What for?’ Indignation quivered in the tone. ‘Why, for the Worm that Turned, to be sure! J’ever see such a perfect type? You’ve got the right thing here, my boy. Knock ’em flat, eh? The nose alone would carry the play for you.’
‘That’s all very well, Sullivan,’ replied Mr Rosencrantz, ‘but can he act?’
‘Act?’ exploded Mr Sullivan. ‘He don’t have to act. He’s only got to walk on. Look at it! Ain’t that the perfect Worm? Here, you, thingummy, speak up, can’t you?’
‘Well, really, don’t you know.’ Wimsey, screwed his monoocle more firmly into his eye. ‘Really, old fellow, you make me feel all of a doo-dab, what?’
‘There you, are!’ said Mr Sullivan, triumphantly. ‘Voice like a plum. Carries his clothes well, eh! I wouldn’t sell you a feller that wasn’t the goods, Rosencrantz, you know that’
‘Pretty fair,’ admitted Mr Rosencrantz, grudgingly. ‘Walk a bit, will you?’
Wimsey obliged by mincing delicately in the direction of the inner office. Mr Sullivan purred after, him. Mr Rosencrantz followed. Horrocks, aghast, caught Mr Sullivan by the sleeve.
‘I say,’ he said, ‘look out. I think there’s a mistake.’
‘Wotcher mean, mistake?’ retorted his employer in a fierce’ whisper. ‘I dunno who he is, but he’s got the goods, all right, so don’t come butting in.’
‘Ever played lead?’ demanded Mr Rosencrantz of Wimsey.
Lord Peter paused in the inner doorway, raking the petrified audience right and left with impertinent eyes.
‘I have played lead,’—he announced, ‘before all the crowned heads of Europe. Off with the mask! The Worm has Turned!’ I am Lord Peter Wimsey, the Piccadilly Sleuth, hot on the trail of Murder.’
‘He drew the two stout gentlemen into the room and shut the door behind them.
‘That’s a good curtain,’ said somebody,
‘Well!’ gasped the Inspector. ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’
He made for the door, and this time Horrocks offered no resistance.
‘Well, well,
well,’ said Mr Sullivan, ‘Well, well!’ He turned Wimsey’s card over and stared at it. ‘Dear, dear, what a pity. Such a waste, eh, Rosencrantz? With your face, you ought to be makin’ a fortune.’
‘There ain’t nothing in this for me, anyhow,’ said Mr Rosencrantz, ‘so I’d better be pushin’ along. The Vorm is a good Vorm, Sullivan, as Shakespeare says, but he ain’t on the market. Unless Lord Peter has a fancy for the thing. It ‘ud go vell, eh? Lord Peter Vimsey in the title role? The nobility ain’t much cop these days, but Lord Peter is vell known. He does somethings. Nowadays, they all-vant somebody as does somethings. A lord is nothing, but a lord that flies the Atlantic or keeps a hatshop or detects murders — there might be a draw in that, vot you think?’
Mr Sullivan looked hopefully at Wimsey.
‘Sorry,’ said his lordship. ‘Can’t be done.’
‘Times are bad,’ said Mr Rosencrantz, who seemed to grow more enthusiastic as the desired article was withdrawn from his grasp, ‘but I make you a good offer. Vot you say, to two hundred a week eh?’
Wimsey shook his head.
‘Three hundred?’ suggested Mr Rosencrantz.
‘Sorry, old horse. I’m not selling.’
‘Five hundred, then.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Mr Umpelty.
‘It’s no go,’ said Mr Sullivan. ‘Very sad, but it’s no go. Suppose you are rich, eh? Great pity., It won’t last,’ you know. Super-tax and death-duties. Better take what. you can while you can. No?’
‘Definitely, no,’ said Wimsey.
Mr Rosencrantz sighed.
‘Oh, veil — I’d best be moving. See you tomorrow, Sully. You have something for me then, eh?’
He retired, not through the antechamber, but through the private door on the opposite side of the room. Mr Sullivan turned to his visitors.
‘You want me? Tell me what you want and make it snappy. I’m busy.’
The Inspector produced Olga’s photograph.
‘The Kohn girl,’ eh? Yes, what about her? No trouble, eh? A good girl. Works hard. Nothing against her here.’
The Inspector explained that they wanted to know whether Mr Sullivan had, distributed any photographs of Olga; recently.
‘Well now, let me think. She hasn’t been round here for a good time. Doing mannequin work, I rather think. Better for her. A good girl and-a good-looker, but she can’t act, poor child. Just a minute, though. Where’s Horrocks?’
He surged to the door, set it cautiously ajar and bawled ‘Horrocks!’’ through the crack. The secretary sidled in.
‘Horrocks! You know this photograph of the little Kohn? Have we sent it out lately?’
‘Why, yes, sir.’ Don’t you remember? That fellow who said he wanted Russian types for the provinces.’
‘That’s right, that’s right. I knew there was somebody. Tell these gentlemen about him We didn’t know him,’ did we?’
‘No, — sir. Said he was starting management on his own. Name of — wait a minute.’ He pulled a-book from a shelf and turned the leaves with a wetted finger. ‘Yes, here we are — Maurice Vavasour.’
‘Fine sort of name,’ grunted Mr Sullivan. ‘Not his own, naturally. Never is. Probably called Potts or Spink. Can’t run a company as Potts or Spink. ‘ Not classy enough. I’ve got the fellow now: Little chap with a beard. Said he was casting for romantic drama and wanted a Russian type. We gave him the Livinsky girl and the little Petrovna and one or two more. He seemed stuck with this photograph, I remember. I told him Petrovna had more experience, but he said he didn’t mind about that. I didn’t like the fellow.’
‘No?’
‘No. Never like ’em when they want pretty girls without experience. Old Uncle Sullivan may be a hard nut, but he ain’t standing for anything of that sort. Told hire the girl was fitted up with a job, but he said he’d have a shot at her. She never came to me about it, though, so I suppose she
turned him down. If she had come, I’d have put her wise. I ain’t that keen on my commission, and if you ask any of the girls they’il tell you so. What’s the matter, eh? Has this Vavasour got her into a hole?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Wimsey. ‘She’s still in her mannequin job. But Vavasour show Mr Sullivan that other photograph, Inspector. Is that the man?’
Mr. Sullivan and Horrocks put; their heads together over the, photograph of Paul Alexis and shook them simultaneously.
‘No,’ said Horrocks, that’s not the man.’
.’Nothing like him,’ said Mr Sullivan.
‘Sure?’
‘Nothing like him,’ repeated, Mr Sullivan with emphasis. ‘How old’s that, fellow? Well, Vavasour was forty if he, was a day. Hollow-checked beggar, with a voice like Mother Siegel’s Syrup. Make a good Judas, if you were wanting such a thing.’
‘Or a Richard III,’ suggested Mr Horrocks.
‘If you read the part smarmy,’ said Mr Sullivan. ‘Can’t see him in Act V, though. All right for the bit with the citizens. You know. Enter Richard above, reading, between two monks. Matter of fact;’ he added, ‘that’s a difficult part to cast for. Inconsistent, to my mind.. You mightn’t think it, but I. do a bit of reading and thinking now and again, and what I say is, I don’t believe W. Shakespeare had his mind on the job when he wrote that part. Too slimy at the beginning and too tough at the end. It aan’t nature. Not but what the play always acts well. Plenty of pep in it, that’s why. Keeps moving. But he’s made Richard two men in one, that’s what I complain of. One of ‘em’s a wormy, plotting sort of fellow and the other’s a bold, bustling sort of chap who chops people’s heads off and flies into tempers. It don’t seem to fit, somehow, eh?’
Inspector Umpelty began to scrabble with his feet.
‘I always think,’ said Wimsey, ‘that Shakespeare meant Richard to be one of those men who are always deliberately acting a part — dramatising things, so to speak. I.don’t believe his furies are any more real than his love-making. The scene about the strawberries — that’s clearly all put on.’
‘Maybe, But the scene with Buckingham and the clock eh? Maybe you’re’ right. It ain’t supposed to be my business to know about Shakespeare, eh? Chorus-ladies’ legs are my department. But I been mixed up with the stage all my life one way and another, and it Ann’s all legs and bedroom scenes. That makes you laugh, um? To hear me go on like this. But I tell you what,’ it makes me sick, sometimes, been in this business. Half these managers don’t want actors and actresses they want types. When my old father was runnin’ a repertory company it was actors he wanted
fellows who could be Iago one night and Brutus the next and do a bit of farce or genteel comedy in the intervals. But now if a fellow, starts out making his hit with a stammer and an eyeglass he’s got to play stammers and eyeglasses tell he’s ninety. Poor, old Rosencrantz’ He sure was fed-up that you weren’t thinking of playing his Worm for him. As for getting an experienced actor and giving him a show in the part — nix! I’ve got the man that could do it, nice chap — clever as you make ’em. But he made a hit as the dear old silver-haired vicar in Roses Round the Door, and nobody well look at him now, except for silver-haired vicars. It’ll be the end of hem as an actor, but who cares? Only old Uncle Sullivan, who’s got to take his bread the side it’s buttered and look pleasant about et, eh?’
Inspector Umpelty rose to his feet.
‘I’m sure we’re much obliged to: you, Mr Sullivan,’ he said. ‘We won’t detain you any longer.’
‘Sorry I couldn’t — do more for you. If ever I see that Vavasour fellow again I’ll let you know. But he’s probably come to grief. Sure it ain’t any trouble for little Kohn?’
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