The Serpent's Sting

by Robert Gott

  ‘The miracle of photography,’ he said.

  ‘You seem fixated on miracles, Percy,’ Roger said.

  ‘I’m a sucker for a good illusion.’

  Was I to take this as a subtle insult?

  ‘When my wife takes off the war paint before we get into bed,’ he said, ‘she looks pretty much the same.’

  The mention of a Wavel wife took me by surprise. I hadn’t thought of Wavel having a private life.

  There was a knock on our door, and the stage-door wallah poked his head around it to say that there was a small crowd waiting to get my autograph.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I was genuinely flummoxed.

  ‘Yes, Mr Power. They’re all clutching copies of The Listener-In. Shall I send them away?’

  ‘No you shall not,’ Percy Wavel said emphatically. ‘Will will sign every one of those magazines, if it takes him all night.’

  ‘I don’t think there are more than twenty people, Mr Wavel.’

  ‘Twenty star-struck women is a good start,’ Percy said.

  ‘Only some of them are women, Mr Wavel.’

  ‘Of course I’ll sign for them,’ I said. I dressed quickly, checked that my fountain pen was full (I never went anywhere without my fountain pen), and prepared to meet the novelty of fans.

  ‘Come back here afterwards,’ Percy said. ‘I need to discuss something with you, and with you, too, Roger.’

  As I walked towards the stage door, I was strangely nervous. The photographer’s warning words about the disappointment generated when careful lighting gave way to sunlight were uppermost in my mind. How would I feel if, when I appeared before these people, they failed to recognise me?

  I needn’t have worried. There was, perhaps, a slight pause when I opened the door, but these people were politely eager to have me sign their magazines. Nice remarks were made. No one was rude. Two of the men slipped me their telephone numbers, which I thought was a bit forward, but I’m as susceptible to flattery as the next person, and grateful for it, no matter from whom it comes. I smiled at the men, but shook my head. I wanted to dash their hopes gently, while expressing not the slightest shock or disapproval. I thought I saw Private Dervian at the back of the small crowd, but it was only a glimpse and then he wasn’t there, so perhaps shyness had caused him to leave without an autograph.

  It’s a strange sensation to be asked for an autograph. I supposed that at least some of the stage-door Jills and Johnnies were management plants. Nevertheless I can say without embarrassment that I relished the experience. When I returned to the dressing room, I casually asked Percy Wavel how many of the fans were a claque.

  ‘Oh, I imagine most of them, at this stage. I must say, Will, it’s refreshing to have an actor who actually understands how the business works.’

  I smiled. I was glad to be able to represent myself as more knowing than most, but was quietly disappointed that my autograph hunters were salaried. Still, those telephone numbers were above the call of duty, so that was at least something.

  ‘I have news,’ Percy said, ‘which I hope will please you.’

  He paused for effect.

  ‘Mother Goose has been an unexpected success. The Tivoli management wants to capitalise on this. They want to tour it in the regions. This will mean a change to your contract, Will, but management is willing to offer you an increase in your salary, in return for a commitment from you to don that wig and frock until the end of February next year. Roger’s contract already commits him to a tour.’

  ‘At no extra pay. I wasn’t expecting this tat to travel.’

  I was simultaneously pleased to have some financial security, and appalled that my turn as a pantomime dame might be never-ending.

  ‘When do we start?’ I asked.

  ‘As you know, the last performance in town is New Year’s Eve. Three days after that, you open in Ballarat.’

  ‘You? Don’t you mean, we?’

  ‘I won’t be going with you. I’m needed here. The Tivoli shows don’t direct themselves.’

  Given Percy Wavel’s minimal understanding of stagecraft, I suspected that that’s precisely what they did do — direct themselves.

  ‘The towns after Ballarat haven’t been confirmed yet. It’ll be hectic, and we can’t possibly send Sophie. Finding a replacement is urgent.’

  ‘Geraldine may turn up,’ I said, without conviction.

  ‘As I said, she has twenty-four hours, or she’s finished.’

  With that, he left us.

  On reflection, I found the prospect of a regional tour an exciting one, despite its pantomime limitations. It made the necessity of finding somewhere to live somewhat less urgent, and it removed me from the unpleasantness surrounding John Gilbert’s death. If Geraldine returned, the tour would be truly delightful. As I walked home from the theatre, though, my optimism about her returning faded. I found Brian in the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea. He looked pleased. He’d never been able to disguise his satisfaction at any small achievement.

  ‘I had lunch with Cloris today. We had lunch in Carlton — not that it’s relevant — and it was greasy and awful. The conversation, however, was interesting. I have to admit, Will, that the more I see of Cloris, the more I like her.’

  ‘You’re not now working on the assumption that Cloris is no longer a suspect just because you like her, are you?’

  ‘Well, I have to say that I don’t see her as a suspect. The idea that she could murder her brother is so bizarre that I can’t entertain it seriously.’

  ‘It’s always the person you least suspect, Brian. Don’t you read detective novels?’

  Brian ignored this question.

  ‘Cloris thinks that John may have taken his own life, and staged the disruption to his room to make it look as if he’d been kidnapped.’

  ‘Are the police sympathetic to this view, do you think?’

  ‘Cloris seemed to think so. Apparently, there were no signs of violence to John’s body. They’re still not sure of a cause of death.’

  ‘They were certainly less aggressive in their questioning than they would have been if they suspected foul play. And yet …’

  ‘And yet?’

  ‘We know something that they don’t. We know that John Gilbert had accused his father of murdering John’s mother.’

  ‘We should tell the police that, surely.’

  ‘A private-inquiry agent should always have something up his sleeve, Brian. Your job is to do a better job than the police. You have an advantage.’

  ‘What’s my advantage?’

  ‘You have good reason to believe that John Gilbert did not commit suicide. You have good reason to believe that his father killed him.’

  Brian seemed unconvinced.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes, Brian,’ I said firmly. ‘You do.’

  Chapter Five

  FITZGIBBON STREET

  GERALDINE DIDN’T SHOW UP for Monday’s performance, and her understudy was as awful as she’d always been. She really had no idea what she was doing. She couldn’t be heard, and galumphed about the stage with the grace of an elephant seal — an achievement given that she was thin — and she missed her cues by a country mile. Silverleaf isn’t a great part, but Sophie’s awfulness somehow made her the soggy heart of the play. She wasn’t sleeping with Percy Wavel, so perhaps there was someone in the Tivoli management who was enjoying what she had to offer off-stage.

  When we came into the wings I was obliged to listen to Percy’s final denunciations of Geraldine. He declared that, as far as the Tivoli was concerned, she was now definitively unemployable. There was nothing I could say in her defence. In fact, having to work with her understudy had begun to take the shine off my feelings for Geraldine. Indeed, I was almost as annoyed with her as Percy was.

  By the time I got back to the dressing room, Ro
ger had changed into his street clothes and was on the point of leaving. He wasn’t usually so expeditious, but he had a doctor’s appointment about his bunions, and he didn’t want to miss it. His bunions were the bane of his life, and having to force his feet into ill-fitting high-heel shoes didn’t help matters. I wished him well, and settled into removing my make-up. I was in the process of disengaging the wig when the dressing room door opened, and detectives Strachan and Radcliff let themselves in without so much as a by-your-leave. I was getting rather tired of being intruded upon by non-professionals at this most private of times in an actor’s day. There is an intimacy about shedding a character that shouldn’t be subject to the unknowing gaze of strangers. I put the wig on its stand and faced them, feeling vulnerable to their ridicule.

  ‘You look lovely,’ Strachan said with laconic acidity.

  ‘Perhaps you could wait outside until I’ve changed?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Radcliff said, ‘but perhaps not, too. We need to speak to you about a very serious matter.’

  I’m not sure why, but my immediate reaction to the remark was to wonder whether they’d somehow discovered the suspicions that John Gilbert held about the death of his mother. I waited.

  ‘Go ahead, Mr Power. Take off your make-up and get changed. We need you to come with us to the station.’

  ‘Is this in relation to John Gilbert’s death?’

  ‘No,’ Strachan said, ‘it isn’t.’

  They both stared at me in that disconcerting way they had. It managed to convey both a sense of bland neutrality and unsettling accusation. I was genuinely befuddled by the statement that this had nothing to do with John Gilbert, and I had the feeling that I’d given something crucial away, although I couldn’t have said what.

  ‘May I ask what it is about?’

  ‘It’s about a young woman named Geraldine Buchanan.’

  I was glad of the heavy make-up, because beneath it I felt the blood drain from my face. I was slightly dizzy.

  ‘You’ve found her?’

  My voice was hoarse.

  ‘What an interesting expression, Mr Power,’ Strachan said. ‘Have you put her somewhere?’

  I realised what a dreadful misstep my question had been, and that anything I said was bound to sound like awkward and desperate back-pedalling. I had to say something, so I was perhaps over-elaborate.

  ‘I meant simply that Miss Buchanan has failed to show up for a number of performances, and the whole company is being inconvenienced on account of her understudy being dreadful. I was hoping that you might have news about her whereabouts.’

  ‘We were hoping the same of you, Mr Power. Perhaps you should get on with changing out of your skirts.’

  I wasn’t deaf to that carefully chosen word, ‘skirts’, as opposed to ‘costume’.

  ‘I suppose some privacy is out of the question?’

  ‘I promise we won’t look,’ Radcliff said.

  Well, I didn’t particularly care. Actors can’t afford to be coy about their bodies, and I’m not anyway constrained generally by physical modesty. I stripped down and took my make-up off slowly. If detectives Strachan and Radcliff thought they could embarrass me, I’d demonstrate their incapacity to do so. I dressed, from the top down, and said, ‘Now, where were we?’

  ‘We’d like you to come with us to Russell Street. We have a few questions regarding the disappearance of Geraldine Buchanan.’

  The word ‘disappearance’ uttered by a policeman sounded more ominous than when I’d said it.

  ‘I don’t see how I can help you.’

  ‘We’re just making inquiries at this stage, Mr Power. We’d appreciate your co-operation.’

  ‘Co-operation’ and ‘coercion’ were synonymous as far as the police were concerned, so I walked with them to Russell Street, where I sat alone in a stuffy room for fifteen minutes. This technique was familiar to me. It was supposed to unsettle and unnerve a person as he pondered his reasons for being there. As I had nothing to be unsettled or unnerved about, it just irritated me.

  When Strachan and Radcliff returned, carrying folders to create the impression that their investigations were well ordered and well advanced, they got right down to business.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Geraldine Buchanan?’ Strachan asked, dexterously rolling a fountain pen through his fingers as he did so.

  ‘What is this about, Detective? Why are you asking me this question?’

  ‘Mr Power,’ Radcliff said, with exaggerated patience, ‘we haven’t brought you here on a whim. Miss Geraldine Buchanan has been reported as a missing person by the Tivoli management, and we have reason to believe that you may be able to shed some light on her whereabouts.’

  ‘And perhaps,’ Strachan added, ‘ease our concern that something sinister may have befallen her.’

  ‘Befallen? This is like being interviewed by John Milton.’

  ‘I think you should take this seriously, Mr Power. I’d save the witticisms until you’ve satisfactorily accounted for your relationship with Geraldine Buchanan. Now, would you answer the question, please? When was the last time you saw Miss Buchanan?’

  I thought quickly. Given that Geraldine had been reported as missing, the police might have visited her room, and if they’d done so they would have seen the portrait of me sitting on the easel. Would they have recognised me from it? It was a good likeness, but it wasn’t that good. Nevertheless, I thought it was unsafe to lie.

  ‘The last time I saw Miss Buchanan was on the 20th of December. I’d introduced myself to her the previous day, the 19th, after the matinee performance. I had only been with the company a couple of days, and I didn’t really know my fellow cast members. My casting had been something of a last-minute emergency …’ (Was there an expression that crossed Strachan’s face which suggested he thought casting me would only ever be in response to an emergency?) ‘… and I thought it would be the right thing to do to pop my head into dressing rooms after the show and introduce myself. Most people in this show also do something at the Tivoli, so by the time I’d got out of my make-up and costume, there were very few people about. Geraldine Buchanan was one of those people.’

  ‘So you introduced yourself?’

  Strachan managed to make that sound lubricious.

  ‘Formally, yes. We’d played opposite each other on stage, but we’d never exchanged pleasantries.’

  ‘And did you confine those pleasantries to the dressing room?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, we had a very pleasant cup of tea at my mother’s house.’

  ‘So you’d just met her, and you took her home to meet Mother?’

  I sighed.

  ‘Detective, not everyone moves through the world in a fog of barbarism. A chaperoned cup of tea shouldn’t send your pulse racing.’

  ‘And you returned to the theatre afterwards?’

  ‘No. I walked Miss Buchanan to her room in Parkville.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. I returned home. I visited her again the following day.’

  ‘We know you did. It’s what happened next that interests us.’

  I could feel that this was taking a turn for the worse, so obfuscation needed to be kept to a minimum.

  ‘We went into her room.’

  ‘Her bedroom.’

  ‘It’s a boarding house, Detective. Her room is inevitably her bedroom.’

  ‘And this time there was no chaperone.’

  I gave him his small victory and ignored the remark.

  ‘We chatted, and Geraldine said that she’d like to draw my portrait, so I sat for her.’

  ‘Naked.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You sat for Miss Buchanan, who you’d just met, naked.’

  ‘Certainly not. I barely knew her.’

  The detectives left what was supp
osed to be an uncomfortable silence. I knew now that they’d been in Geraldine’s room.

  ‘Let’s stop dancing around each other,’ I said. ‘It’s perfectly obvious that you’ve been in Geraldine’s room and that you’ve seen the portrait she did of me. She drew me shirtless, but that’s not how I posed.’

  ‘All right, Mr Power. We’ll stop dancing.’

  Strachan stood up and left the room. He returned almost immediately, holding a large sketchbook. He put it on the table in front of me.

  ‘Why do you think you’re here, Mr Power? I mean, why do you think you are here, as opposed to anyone else from the cast?’

  This was a question with mines strung out along its length.

  ‘Miss Buchanan is missing. There’s a portrait of me in her room.’

  ‘But how do you account for our being called to Miss Buchanan’s room in the first place?’

  ‘I presume someone reported her as missing.’

  Radcliff nodded.

  ‘It’s a little more nuanced than that.’

  He drummed his fingers on the cover of the sketchbook.

  ‘Did you visit Miss Buchanan’s bedroom on Christmas Day?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  I knew instantly that this was the wrong thing to say. Detectives try not to ask questions the answers to which they don’t already know. I backtracked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said simply. ‘Miss Buchanan was supposed to come to Mother’s house for Christmas lunch.’

  Radcliff’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Mother takes in Christmas strays, Detective Radcliff. There were two American soldiers there. Geraldine and I had met them after a performance at the Tivoli.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘The day after I’d introduced myself to her.’

  ‘You didn’t think these two Americans might be of interest to us?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. They were just two young men who came with us to a club, and I invited them to Christmas lunch, just as the newspapers encourage us to do.’