Ngaio Marsh - Killer Dolphin

Dear Peregrine Jay,

Your preliminaries seem to be going forward smoothly and according to plan. We are all very happy with the general shaping and development of the original project and are satisfied that the decision to open with your own play is a sound one, especially in view of your current success at The Unicorn. This is merely an informal note to bring to your notice Mr. W. Hartly Grove, an actor, as you will of course know, of repute and experience. Mr. Conducis personally will be very pleased if you give favourable attention to Mr. Grove when forming your company.

With kind regards,

Yours sincerely,

Stanley Greenslade

When Peregrine read this note he was visited by a sense of misgiving so acute as to be quite disproportionate to its cause. In no profession are personal introductions and dearboymanship more busily exploited than in the theatre. For an actor to get the ear of the casting authority through an introduction to régisseur or management is a commonplace manoeuvre. For a second or two, Peregrine wondered with dismay if he could possibly be moved by jealousy and if the power so strangely, so inexplicably put into his hands had perhaps already sown a detestable seed of corruption. But no, he thought, on consideration, there were grounds more relative than that for his reaction, and he turned to Meyer to find the latter watching him with a half-smile.

“I don’t like this,” Peregrine said.

“So I see, dear boy. May one know why?”

“Of course. I don’t like W. Hartly Grove’s reputation. I try to be madly impervious to gossip in the theatre and I don’t know that I believe what they say about Harry Grove.”

“What do they say?”

“Vaguely shady behaviour. I’ve directed him once and knew him before that. He taught voice production at my drama school and disappeared over a weekend. Undefined scandal. Most women find him attractive, I believe. I can’t say,” Peregrine added, rumpling up his hair, “that he did anything specifically objectionable in the later production and I must allow that personally I found him an amusing fellow. But apart from the two women in the company nobody liked him. They said they didn’t but you could see them eyeing him and knowing he eyed them.”

“This,” said Meyer, raising a letter that lay on his desk, “is practically an order. I suppose yours is, too.”

“Yes, blast it.”

“You’ve been given a fabulously free hand up to now, Perry. No business of mine, of course, dear boy, but frankly I’ve never seen anything like it. General management, director, author — the lot. Staggering.”

“I hope,” Peregrine said with a very direct look at his manager, “staggering though it may be, I got it on my reputation as a director and playwright. I believe I did. There is no other conceivable explanation, Winty.”

“No, no, old boy, of course not,” said Winter Meyer in a hurry.

“As for W. Hartly Grove, I suppose I can’t jib. As a matter of fact he would be well cast as Mr. W.H. It’s his sort of thing. But I don’t like it. My God,” Peregrine said, “haven’t I stuck my neck out far enough with Marcus Knight in the lead and liable to throw an average of three dirty great temperaments per rehearsal? What have I done to deserve Harry Grove as a bonus?”

“The Great Star’s shaping up for trouble already. He’s calling me twice a day to make difficulties over his contract.”

“Who’s winning?”

“I am,” said Winter Meyer. “So far.”

“Good for you.”

“I’m getting sick of it,” Meyer said. “Matter of fact it’s on my desk now.” He lifted a sheet of blotting paper and riffled the pages of the typewritten document he exposed. “Still,” he said, “he’s signed and he can’t get past that one. We almost had to provide an extra page for it. Take a gander.”

The enormous and completely illegible signature did indeed occupy a surprising area. Peregrine glanced at it and then looked more closely.

“I’ve seen that before,” he said. “It looks like a cyclone.”

“Once seen never forgotten.”

“I’ve seen it,” Peregrine said, “recently. Where , I wonder.”

Winter Meyer looked bored. “Did he sign your autograph book?” he asked bitterly.

“It was somewhere unexpected. Ah, well. Never mind. The fun will start with the first rehearsal. He’ll want me to rewrite his part, of course, adding great hunks of ham and corn and any amount of fat. It’s tricky enough as it is. Strictly speaking, a playwright shouldn’t direct his own stuff. He’s too tender with it. But it’s been done before and by the Lord I mean to do it again. Marco or no Marco. He looks like the Grafton portrait of Shakespeare. He’s got the voice of an angel and colossal prestige. He’s a brilliant actor and this is a part he can play. It’ll be a ding-dong go which of us wins but by heaven I’m game if he is.”

“Fair enough,” said Meyer. “Live for ever, dear boy. Live for ever.”

They settled at their respective desks. Presently Peregrine’s buzzer rang and a young woman provided by the management and secreted in an auxiliary cubby-hole said: “Victoria and Albert for you, Mr. Jay.”

Peregrine refrained from saying: “Always available to Her Majesty and the Prince Consort.” He was too apprehensive. He said: “Oh yes. Right. Thank you,” and was put into communication with the expert

“Mr. Jay,” the expert said, “is this a convenient time for you to speak?”

“Certainly.”

“I thought it best to have a word with you. We will, of course, write formally with full reports for you to hand to your principal but I felt—really,” said the expert and his voice, Peregrine noticed with mounting excitement, was trembling, “really it is the most remarkable thing. I—well, to be brief with you, the writing in question has been exhaustively examined. It has been compared by three experts with the known signatures and they find enough coincidence to give the strongest presumption of identical authorship. They are perfectly satisfied as to the age of the cheveril and the writing materials and that apart from saltwater stains there has been no subsequent interference. In fact, my dear Mr. Jay, incredible as one might think it, the glove and the document actually seem to be what they purport to be.”

Peregrine said, “I’ve always felt this would happen and now I can’t believe it.”

“The question is: what is to be done with them?”

“You will keep them for the time being?”

“We are prepared to do so. We would very much like,” said the expert, and Peregrine caught the wraith of a chuckle in the receiver, “to keep them altogether. However! I think my principals will, after consultation, make an approach to—er—the owner. Through you, of course, and—I imagine this would be the correct proceeding—Mr. Greenslade.”

“Yes. And—no publicity?”

“Good God, no!” the expert exclaimed quite shrilly. “I should hope not. Imagine!” There was a long pause. “Have you any idea,” the expert said, “whenever he will contemplate selling?”

“No more than you have.”

“No. I see. Well: you will have the reports and a full statement from us within the next week. I—must confess—I—I have rung you up simply because I— in short—I am, as you obviously are, a devotee.”

“I’ve written a play about the glove,” Peregrine said impulsively. “We’re opening here with it.”

“Really? A play,” said the expert and his voice flattened.

“It isn’t cheek!” Peregrine shouted into the telephone. “In its way it’s a tribute. A play! Yes, a play.”

“Oh, please! Of course. Of course.”

“Well, thank you for telling me.”