The Serpent's Sting

by Robert Gott

  ‘What just happened, Brian?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Maybe they’ve posted a couple of blokes upstairs, and they’ll be coming back. Let’s have a look.’

  We stood at the bottom of the stairs expecting to see a burly figure stationed at the top. There was no one. We climbed upstairs slowly, and found the bathroom door open. Brian hurried ahead of me and entered the bathroom first. I followed. I think my jaw actually dropped open in an involuntary spasm of surprise. The bath was empty, spotlessly clean and dry, without so much as a drop of water on the floor around it. Private Dervian had been tidied away.

  ‘This has got Intelligence written all over it,’ I said. ‘If you know anything about this, Brian, now would be the time to tell me.’

  Brian’s face had had a look of amazement on it from the moment I’d joined him in discovering the empty tub, and he did a good job of keeping it there as he shook his head and said, ‘I’m flummoxed.’

  ‘This is the kind of ruthless efficiency I associate with James Fowler,’ I said.

  ‘Getting the body here in the first place was done with ruthless efficiency, too.’

  ‘Geraldine Buchanan had to be behind that. She was the only one who knew where I lived.’

  ‘Dervian’s mate — Harlen Quist, was that his name? — he knew where you lived.’

  ‘Private Harlen Quist. When I say it now, it sounds like such a phoney name. The Yanks aren’t convinced that he’s a real soldier. Did you think his accent was real?’

  ‘I just assumed he was who he said he was. I wasn’t listening for a fake accent. It sounded real to me.’

  ‘I’m one hundred per cent certain that Geraldine is working for Intelligence. She’s undercover, of course, so at the moment it looks like she’s on the wrong side. I recognise the method. She could be in danger — but you know something, Brian, I don’t really care. A plague on James Fowler and all his kind.’ I narrowed my eyes at Brian when I said this, just to remind him that if he was one of their kind, this applied to him as well. He was rescued from the need to respond by the arrival home of our mother.

  ‘Brian?’ she called.

  ‘I’ll be right down,’ he called back. ‘What will you do now, Will?’

  With defiant pleasure I said, ‘I’m going to have a bath.’

  I discerned a subtle change in Roger Teddle’s demeanour when I entered our dressing room. He’d already made up his face, so it wasn’t anything to do with his expression. There was just a general sense of his having withdrawn slightly. Perhaps our conversation about drugs had made him wary of me. I didn’t press him for an explanation. I changed into the Mother Goose costume, and as soon as I was fully dressed and made up I felt energised, and the previous twenty-four hours fell away as belonging to another world.

  The last Melbourne performance was a sell-out, and I know that I was guilty of over-playing the part. In my defence, the audience came with me and laughed uproariously at my antics. There were three curtain calls, and I don’t recall ever feeling happier than when I took my bows. Several members of the company congratulated me. There were a few who didn’t. They felt strongly that we were an ensemble, and that to acknowledge one above another wasn’t done. I agreed with them in essence, so didn’t feel slighted.

  As I changed out of my costume, I regretted the amount of energy I’d expended in this performance, and hoped it wouldn’t mute the evening’s appearance at Puckapunyal. Roger sat, uncharacteristically fully clothed, rather glumly staring at himself in the mirror.

  ‘You’re not yourself, Roger. Is something wrong?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve got the energy to do this all over again in Ballarat. My feet are in a terrible state. It might be time to retire. The wife has an annuity from her father’s estate. Nothing grand. Quite modest, but enough to be comfortable on. Don’t tell anyone. I haven’t decided finally yet. I’ll do it after tonight’s show.’

  ‘I’ll miss you, Roger, if you do decide to retire, and I’ll have to break in a new Maid.’

  ‘There are plenty of actors out there who are better than I am, Will. We both know that.’

  ‘None of them will be as pleasant company in the dressing room,’ I said, just to be polite. Roger was tolerable, but hardly pleasant. I wasn’t feeling much real regret at the prospect of him retiring. In fact, I was excited by the possibility of working with someone new.

  ‘I’ll come and watch you sign autographs,’ he said.

  ‘Just give me a minute.’ I remembered, as I bent to tie up my shoelaces, that James Fowler had said that there’d be somebody here to talk to me after the performance. Perhaps the finding of Anthony Dervian’s body had altered his plans.

  There was a large crowd at the stage door, and when I emerged there was a deeply satisfying round of applause. I stepped down from the stoop, and began signing autographs and accepting congratulations. Roger remained on the stoop, elevated above the crowd. I was smiling, with my head down, as I took books, programs, and bits of paper and signed my name. People moved to let me through, until my way was blocked by a man who stood stock-still in front of me. I raised my eyes to look into those of Gregory Marlow. His arms were by his side, and as he moved his right one slightly, I saw that he was holding a large pistol. It was World War I vintage. My father had had one. I had time to step back as Marlow raised it and pointed it at my chest. Two women close to him screamed, and the crowd surged away from him. His face was expressionless. I watched in horrified fascination as his finger squeezed the trigger. There was an explosion, and my hand flew to a searing burn along my neck. In front of me, Gregory Marlow had fallen to the ground, his right hand and arm now a bloodied mess.

  ‘He’s hurt!’ someone shouted. It came from behind me, and I turned to see Roger, still standing but with a flower of blood spreading across his shirt. He looked surprised, and then he fell forwards into the arms of an Australian sailor. After that, there was pandemonium. Flash bulbs went off in my face, and I was so disoriented by pain and shock that the following thirty minutes remain an uncertain blur. I know I was propelled towards the stage door, pushed inside, and helped to my dressing room. The sailor, carrying Roger’s limp body, followed close behind.

  The sensible thing to do would have been to cancel the Puckapunyal performance. It was because of my fierce insistence that it went ahead. It was this that helped secure me in the public’s mind as a kind of hero. This was misguided, of course. There was nothing heroic in my insistence. I simply didn’t know what else to do, and as long as I was on stage, I didn’t have to think about how close I’d come to dying. Gregory Marlow’s pistol hadn’t been cleaned or serviced in many years, and while it discharged its bullet, which missed its target, it also blew apart in Marlow’s hand, taking that extremity with it. Roger had taken the bullet in his shoulder, and it was expected that he’d recover. Marlow’s life hung in the balance. He’d lost a lot of blood by the time doctors had attempted, and failed, to save his arm below the elbow. The bullet had grazed my neck on its way through to Roger, and that wound was angry and painful.

  My wound might have been angry, but Percy Wavel was equally angry. He sat opposite me in the back of the truck on our way to Puckapunyal. I knew he was fuming, but he couldn’t show it. With Roger Teddles in hospital, and in the absence of an understudy, there was only one person who could play the Maid, and that was the person who’d directed the play and ostensibly knew all the moves. That person was Percy Wavel. He’d initially refused point blank. My heroic decision to go on, despite the trauma of attempted murder, made Percy’s refusal seem small, mean, and unpatriotic. So there he sat, grimly clutching Roger’s costume across his knees.

  ‘No one in the audience knows who you are. You’re all dress, and wig, and make-up.’

  ‘The company knows who I am. If I make a fool of myself in front of them, how will I get them to take direction from me in the future?’
<
br />   There was no one else in the back of our truck. The rest of the cast was following in the truck behind us. Percy Wavel and I sat among costumes and bits of the set.

  ‘Just follow me, Percy, and if you think you’re falling flat, just lift your skirts and show your legs. I believe that was advice you gave me.’

  ‘My legs aren’t as hairy as yours, so it won’t be as funny.’

  ‘They’re skinny and knobbly. It’ll be funny enough.’

  Soldiers are the best audience in the world. The sound of four hundred men on the other side of the curtain, settling into their seats, calling to each other, and laughing rambunctiously is intimidating. It sounds like it could go wrong so easily, with high spirits transmogrifying into mean spirits if they feel cheated by the entertainment. Without alcohol to poison their blood, they are peerless in their delight and appreciation.

  And so it was that night, New Year’s Eve, 1942. How they stamped and clamoured and whistled. Percy did his best as the Maid, and no one minded that he couldn’t be heard or that he was unsure where he was meant to be. We turned this into bits of business, with me, and others, dragging him into place. In the end, it was Percy Wavel who made the biggest impression on the crowd. He and I were taking our final bows when Percy turned his back on the audience, bent over, and pulled his voluminous skirts over his head. He was wearing no underpants. I thought the thunderous whooping and stomping might cause the roof to collapse. With one small gesture, Percy had stolen the show. Afterwards, on the way back into town, I congratulated him on this moment of tawdry genius.

  ‘That’s the kind of courage I expect from all my actors, Will. Who dares, wins.’

  ‘Who bares, wins, I think you mean.’

  He laughed, and for a brief moment I actually liked him.

  I woke the next day to Brian standing at the foot of my bed, holding The Argus in one hand and The Age in the other. I was on the front page of both. I wasn’t front and centre. That honour went to General Montgomery, who was having some success in Tunisia. However, I was down on the bottom right. ‘Assassination attempt on leading man fails,’ said The Argus. ‘Courageous actor shot. Refuses to cancel Puckapunyal show’, said The Age. I sat up in bed, exposing the burn on my neck.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ Brian said. ‘Is it true then?’

  ‘What does The Argus say?’

  Brian read:

  Leading stage actor, Mr William Power, narrowly escaped an assassination attempt yesterday afternoon. The assassin, who was badly injured in the incident, is yet to be interviewed by police. Mr Power, who suffered a bullet wound to the neck, refused to cancel a scheduled performance before troops at Puckapunyal army base. A spokesman for the army praised Mr Power’s courage and declared that it was precisely this sort of patriotism in the face of great challenges that would help us win the war. Mr Power was not available for comment.

  Brian put The Argus down and read from The Age:

  The well-known actor, Mr William Power, currently appearing in the Tivoli Theatre Company’s production of Mother Goose, was shot at and wounded by an unknown man yesterday afternoon. No motive for the attack has been discovered. The assailant suffered severe injuries when the antique gun he fired with exploded in his grasp. The extent of Mr Power’s injuries are not known but he insisted on taking part in a special performance of Mother Goose for the benefit of our soldiers at Puckapunyal army base. A spokesman for the army thanked Mr Power for his leadership and praised him for his courage. ‘A lesser man would have walked away from this commitment. Mr Power is an inspiration to us all’, the spokesman said.

  Brian put both papers at the end of the bed.

  ‘Twenty-four hours ago,’ he said, ‘you were standing over a corpse in the bathtub. Now here you are, the great hero. Who shot you?’

  Without thinking I said, ‘A man named Gregory Marlow.’

  ‘You knew him?’ Brian was incredulous. ‘Have you told the police this?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to the police, Brian. I’m going to Carlton to make a statement this morning.’

  Why had I mentioned Marlow’s name? Well, there was no point not telling Brian the truth, so I did so.

  ‘And you’ve still got his precious autograph collection?’

  ‘Yes. It’s under the socks in the third drawer.’

  Brian retrieved it and flicked through the pages.

  ‘Very impressive. He’s got Melba’s scribble. Still, there’s something wrong with this bloke.’ He suddenly began to laugh.

  ‘You signed his book, Will! Was this before or after you kicked him in the nuts?’

  ‘After. I know, it’s inappropriate.’

  ‘“It was a pleasure to meet you”,’ Brian read. ‘Why did you write that?’

  ‘I don’t know. My brain wasn’t functioning properly. I’m not going to tell the police about the incident with Marlow. It’s enough that they know that he’s crazy, so that nothing he tells them will have any credibility.’

  The telephone rang, and Mother called up the stairs that it was for me.

  ‘Has Mother read the papers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My success must be a grave disappointment to her.’

  ‘Don’t be so mean-spirited, Will. Mother is preoccupied with Peter’s grief. He isn’t coping all that well with John’s death. You haven’t seen him for a couple of days. He’s not himself. He’s falling apart.’

  ‘Mother as a sympathetic listener is so alien an idea that I can’t comprehend it.’

  Brian made a small sound of disapproval and left the bedroom. I got up, threw on a dressing gown, and went downstairs to take the telephone call. Mother was nowhere to be seen. Clearly, there wasn’t room in her sympathy schedule for her wounded son. I picked up the handset.

  ‘Yes, hello?’

  ‘Will, it’s Percy Wavel.’

  I felt sick. What reason would he have to telephone me at home, except to tell me that Roger had died? I left so long a silence that he was obliged to ask, ‘Will, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here. It’s Roger, isn’t it?’

  ‘Roger?’ He seemed confused. ‘Oh, that Roger. No, he’s fine, or he will be, although I don’t think he’ll be doing any more stage work. His shoulder’s a bit of a mess, apparently. He probably won’t have full movement in it ever again. Still, he should have retired years ago. No, that’s not what I was ringing about. You need to come in to the theatre this afternoon. Mr Parnell wants to talk to you.’

  Given that Wallace Parnell managed the Tivoli, and that he could make or break a career, it would have been unwise to refuse the meeting.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I said, and saying nothing more, Percy hung up. I thought this abruptness boded ill, although on reflection it was perfectly consistent with Percy’s reluctance to offer praise. He would have read the papers. He just couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge that I was making a bit of a splash.

  I put the handset back, and thought about going into the front room where Mother would now be. I decided I couldn’t face a conversation with her, and instead went upstairs to shave, bathe, and dress. I left the house an hour later, and walked to the Carlton Police Station at the southern end of Drummond Street. I wasn’t expecting a guard of honour, but I also wasn’t expecting to have to deal with the oaf on the front desk. I explained that I was there to provide a statement regarding the incident that had taken place the previous day.

  ‘What incident?’ he asked.

  ‘I was shot.’

  ‘You don’t look like someone who’s been shot.’

  I pulled my collar down to fully reveal the raw burn on my neck. He snorted.

  ‘Air rifle, was it?’

  I had to discipline myself against correcting this dim-witted dolt. He was at least forty-five, and still a constable. I wanted to tread carefully, because my place in the pub
lic’s affection was far from secure, and with two bodies and a tranche of pornographic drawings coalescing in my imagination as a sort of sword of Damocles, I felt vulnerable to scandal.

  ‘I wonder if I might talk to someone above the rank of constable?’

  This didn’t strike quite the bland note I was striving for, and the constable curled his lip disagreeably before saying, ‘Wait here, your majesty.’

  He took my request into a back room and soon re-emerged with a younger but senior officer.

  ‘Ah, Mr Power. I was told to expect you. Do come through.’

  I followed him into a dingy little room, which I at first thought must be the place where low-life was interviewed, but which turned out to be this man’s office, and one of the rewards of seniority. The nineteenth-century building hadn’t caught up with the 1940s. His name was Senior Constable Murchison, and he was perfectly pleasant. He took my statement, typing it laboriously as I spoke. When I’d finished, he gave it to me to read, and, unsure of the etiquette around correcting his numerous spelling errors, I simply signed it.

  ‘It seems like a straightforward case of a nutter having a pop at someone in the public eye. The world is full to overflowing with crazy people, Mr Power. It won’t come to trial. It’s open and shut. He’ll plead guilty, and go down for attempted murder. He might die, in which case there’ll be a coronial inquest — but again, there’s no mystery here. Who knows why he hated you? Envy? Some religious objection to you dressing up as a woman? He might tell us, but I doubt it. You’re quite sure you’d never seen him before yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘Never,’ I lied.

  ‘At any rate, you’re lucky he was such a nong. If he’d known anything about guns, you’d be dead man.’

  Senior Constable Murchison smiled as if he believed this to be reassuring and not horrifying.