Fredric Brown - The Shaggy Dog and Other Murders

"You are a very paragon of blackmailers, Gresham. I assure you it's a pleasure--practically. But the cream of the jest would be letting you play the blackmailer in my play so that for the duration of it I wouldn't be paying you blackmail. And it's a fairly strong supporting role; it'd pay you a lot more than you ask from me. But--"

"But what?"

"Damned if you look it. I don't think you'd be convinc-ing, as a blackmailer. You're always so apologetic and ashamed about it--and yes, I know, you wouldn't be doing it if you could earn your eats--and drinks--any other way. But the blackmailer in my play is a fairly hard-boiled mug. Has to be. People wouldn't believe in any-body like you, Gresham."

"Give me a chance at it, Wayne. Let me read the part."

"I think we'd better settle for the smaller role. You said you'd settle for a walk-on, and this other part is a little better than that. You wouldn't be convincing in the fat role. You're just not a heavy, Gresham."

"Let me read it. At least let me read it."

Wayne Campbell shrugged. He pointed to a bound manuscript on a corner of his desk, nearer to Sir Charles than to him. He said, "Okay, the role is Richter. Your biggest scene, your longest and most dramatic speech is about two pages back of the first-act curtain. Go ahead and read it to me."

Sir Charles's fingers trembled just slightly with eager-ness as he found the first-act curtain and thumbed back. He said, "Let me read it to myself first, Wayne, to get the sense of it." It was a longish speech, but he read it rapidly twice and he had it; memorizing had always been easy for him. He put down the manuscript and thought an instant to put himself in the mood.

His face grow cold and hard. Iris eyes hooded. He stood up and leaned his hands on the desk, caught Wayne's eyes with his own, and poured on the speech, his voice cold and precise and deadly.

And it was a balm to his actor's soul that Wayne's eyes widened as he listened to it. He said, "I'll be damned. You can act. Okay, I'll try to get you the role. I didn't think you had it in you, but you have. Only if you cross me up by drinking--"

"I won't." Sir Charles sat down; he'd been calm and cold during the speech. Now he was trembling a little again and he didn't want it to show. Wayne might think it was drink or poor health, and not know that it was eagerness and excitement. This might be the start of it, the comeback he'd hoped for--he hated to think how long it had been that he'd been hoping. But one good support-ing role, and in a Wayne Campbell play that might have a long run, and he'd be on his way. Producers would notice him and there'd be another and slightly better role when this play folded, and a better one after that.

He knew he was kidding himself, but the excitement, the hope was there. It went to his head like stronger drink than any tavern served.

Maybe he'd even have a chance to play again in a Shakespeare revival, and there are always Shakespeare revivals. He knew most of every major Shakesperean role, although he'd played only minor ones. Macbeth, that great speech of Macbeth's--

He said, "I wish you were Shakespeare, Wayne. I wish you were just writing Macbeth. Beautiful stuff in there, Wayne. Listen:

"Brief candle, et cetera. Sure, it's beautiful and I wish, too, that I were Shakespeare, Gresham. But I haven't got all day to listen."

Sir Charles sighed and stood up. Macbeth had stood him in good stead; he wasn't trembling any more. He said, "Nobody ever has time to listen. Well, Wayne, thanks tremendously."

"Wait a minute. You sound as though I'm doing the casting and have already signed you. I'm only the first hurdle. We're going to let the director do the actual cast-ing, with Corianos's and my advice and consent, but we haven't hired a director yet. I think it's going to be Dixon, but it isn't a hundred per cent sure yet."

"Shall I go talk to him? I know him slightly." "Ummm--not till it's definite. If I send you to him, he'll be sure we are hiring him, and maybe he'll want more money. Not that it won't take plenty to get him any-way. But you can talk to Nick; he's putting up the money and he'll have a say in the casting."

"Sure, I'll do that, Wayne."

Wayne reached for his wallet. "Here's twenty bucks," he said. "Straighten out a little; get a shave and a haircut and a clean shirt. Your suit's all right. Maybe you should have it pressed. And listen--" "Yes?"

"That twenty's no gift. It comes out of your next."

"More than fair. How shall I handle Corianos? Sell him on the idea that I can handle the part, as 1 did you?"

Wayne Campbell grinned, lie said, "Speak the speech, I pray you, as you haw, pronounced it to me, trippingly on the tongue; but if you month it, as many of your play-ers do, I had as lief the towncrier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air -- I can recite Shakespeare, too."

"We'll not mention how." Sir Charles smiled. "Thanks a million, Wayne. Good-by."

He got the haircut, which he needed, and the shave, which he didn't really need--he'd shaved this morning. He bought a new white shirt and had his shoes shined and his suit pressed. He had his soul lifted with three Manhat-tans in a respectable bar--three, sipped slowly, and no more. And he ate--the three cherries from the Manhattans.

The back-bar mirror wasn't smeary. It was blue glass, though, and it made him look sinister. He smiled a sinister smile at his reflection. He thought, Blackmailer. The role; play it to the hilt, throw yourself into it. And someday you'll play Macbeth.

Should he try it on the bartender? No. He'd tried it on bartenders before.

The blue reflection in the back-bar mirror smiled at him. He looked from it to the front windows and the front windows, too, were faintly blue with dusk. And that meant it was time. Corianos might be in his office above his club by now.

He went out into the blue dusk. He took a cab. Not for practical reasons; it was only ten blocks and he could easily have walked. But, psychologically, a cab was im-portant. As important as was an oversize tip to the driver.

The Blue Flamingo, Nick Corianos's current club, was still closed, of course, but the service entrance was open. Sir Charles went in. One waiter was working, putting cloths on tables. Sir Charles asked, "Will you direct me to Mr. Corianos's office, please?"

"Third floor. There's a self-service elevator over there." He pointed, and, looking again at Sir Charles, he added, "Sir."

"Thank you," said Sir Charles.

He took the elevator to the third floor. It let him off in a dimly lighted corridor, from which opened several doors. Only one door had a light behind it showing through the ground glass. It was marked "Private." He tapped on it gently; a voice called out, "Come in." He went in. Two big men were playing gin rummy across a desk.

One of them asked him, "Yeah?"

"Is either of you Mr. Corianos?"

"What do you want to see him about?"

"My card, sir." Sir Charles handed it to the one who had spoken; he felt sure by looking at them that neither one of them was Nick Corianos. "Will you tell Mr. Corianos that I wish to speak to him about a matter in connection with the play he is backing?"

The man who had spoken looked at the card. He said, "Okay," and put down his hand of cards; he walked to the door of an inner office and through it. After a moment he appeared at the door again; he said, "Okay." Sir Charles went in.

Nick Corianos looked up from the card lying on the ornate mahogany desk before him. He asked, "Is it a gag?"