III
Robert proved to be a grave, white-coated American who stood behind a cocktail bar in the glittering basement of one of the West End hotels. Inigo did not know which hotel it was. He knew very little about these establishments, and then everything had happened so quickly. Leaving Messrs. Pitsner and Porry behind, the four of them had rushed down and entered an enormous car; the car had shot them round several corners; and after that he found himself looking at Robert. The entry of Robert upon the scene did not make for clarity and a steady progression of events. After two of his cocktails, the very largest and strongest that Inigo had ever tasted, Inigo found the day tended to slip further and further into unreality. He himself was all right, solidly there in the centre and quite determined to do all that he had planned to do, but everything else, however bright and noisy it might be, was at some remove from himself and reality, all phantasmagoria. Throughout he realized that Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer was a personage of great power and influence, who had only to clap his hands and your name would be in all the papers and on all the hoardings, but he did not feel any respect for him because, after all, Mr.¬ÝMortimer too was a figure in the phantasmagoria.
That is why Inigo, after being asked what the idea was, did not hesitate to speak out boldly. “You like these things I’ve written, don’t you?” he said. “You want to use them, and you’d like me to write some more?”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs it. And you‚Äôre lucky, as I told you before. Hello, Tommy! Yes, I want to talk to you, but you‚Äôll have to wait. All right, make it Tuesday.‚Äù These last remarks, of course, were not addressed to Inigo but to some stranger who wanted to join them. The place was filling with people, and most of them seemed to be anxious to talk to Mr.¬ÝMortimer. ‚ÄúYes you‚Äôre lucky.‚Äù
“No doubt you’re right, absolutely,” said Inigo, speaking with great firmness and looking sternly at two people, a very large man and a very small woman, who threatened to break in. “But I don’t care much about that. In fact I don’t give a damn.”
‚ÄúWhat!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMortimer was horrified.
‚ÄúNot really‚ÅÝ‚Äînot a damn. If you don‚Äôt mind my putting it that way. I‚Äôm not trying to be offensive, you know, please understand that. Hello, is this for me?‚Äù For two more glasses, charged with the sorceries of the grave Robert, had suddenly appeared from nowhere.
‚ÄúIt is,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝMortimer, a trifle grimly. Could this fantastic young man be drunk? The query, a hopeful one, was there in his quick glance at the glass.
‚ÄúI want you,‚Äù Inigo continued, after smiling at Mr.¬ÝNott, who intimated from a distance that the latest drink had been provided by him, ‚ÄúI want you to see a friend of mine, one of the girls in our concert party.‚Äù
‚ÄúAh!‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝMortimer put a great deal of meaning into this single syllable.
“I don’t want you to engage her, naturally,” said Inigo with dignity. “You haven’t seen her. But once you see her you’ll want to give her a part. She’s a genius.”
Mr.¬ÝMortimer smiled. Then he nodded to several people, presumably important people, people with names and careers in the profession, people who would only be too glad if he would give them even the smallest part. And then he smiled again.
“Genius,” said Inigo again. “The real thing.”
The other was paternal. “Don’t you bother your head about your concert party, my boy. You’ve done with that. In a month or two, you’ll laugh when you think of it. You will.”
“Because you’ve taken my songs, you mean?”
“That’s right. You’ll be too busy.”
‚ÄúCan‚Äôt be done,‚Äù said Inigo, who felt vaguely that this was a good hard businesslike phrase. ‚ÄúCan‚Äôt be done, absolutely. Those are my terms. You‚Äôve got to have a look at this girl‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äòsee her working‚Äô as they say in The Stage advertisements. Otherwise, no songs. I don‚Äôt want to be vulgar‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough I feel it‚Äôs all in the part‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut take it or leave it.‚Äù
‚ÄúBut my dear chap,‚Äù the great man protested, ‚Äúit‚Äôs absurd. It‚Äôs all right standing by your friends‚ÅÝ‚Äîdone it myself‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut who d‚Äôyou think I am? Of course I know there‚Äôs always a certain amount of new talent knocking about in the provinces‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôve gone down and spotted a few myself in my time‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut really you can‚Äôt expect me, Monte Mortimer, to go and have a look at a girl in a concert party I never heard of, you can‚Äôt expect it, you can‚Äôt really! No, damn it!‚Äù
‚ÄúIf you saw this girl‚ÅÝ‚Äîher name‚Äôs Susie Dean, by the way,‚Äù Inigo added, with a little thrill of pleasure, ‚Äúyou‚Äôd jump at her. Somebody will very soon, I can tell you that. And it might as well be you.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝMortimer shook his head and smiled like one who pities innocent and impressionable youth, ignorant as yet of this hard world.
This would not do for Inigo. “You never heard of these songs of mine before, did you? Well, this girl’s better than those songs. And as a matter of fact there’s a fellow too in the party, a light comedian and dancer, who’s first-class too. This is no ordinary concert party, I can tell you. Hang it, I ought to know. This girl’s worth fifty of that Georgia woman. Take my word for it. Why, if somebody had told you yesterday about these songs of mine, you wouldn’t have believed them.”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs all right,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer dubiously. ‚ÄúBut now I‚Äôve heard the songs.‚Äù
“And tonight you’ll see this girl,” Inigo told him.
“Tonight! You’re crazy.”
“The place is Gatford.”
‚ÄúI never heard of it,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMortimer moaned. ‚ÄúWhat d‚Äôyou call it? Gatford? My God! Tonight at Gatford! Oh, come now, you‚Äôve had your laugh‚ÅÝ‚Äîlet‚Äôs talk sense, let‚Äôs get down to business.‚Äù
“I have got down to it,” Inigo pointed out. “I’m up to the neck in it, absolutely. No Gatford, no songs.”
“It’s blackmail, my dear chap, it really is. You can’t dictate to me like that. You’re cutting your own throat.”
“As to that,” Inigo told him, at once heartily and firmly, “I don’t give a damn. Have another of Robert’s potions?”
‚ÄúWe must get a bit of food,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer. ‚ÄúI ordered a table here. You must lunch with me.‚Äù
“Delighted! And, thank you. But I warn you,” Inigo added, “I shan’t unbend. The more food and drink I have, the more iron goes into my will. Even now it’s got a metallic sound.”
‚ÄúHang on a minute, my boy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer, darting Assyrian glances to left and right. ‚ÄúHello, Jeff! ‚ÄôLo, Milly. Yes, in a minute.‚Äù And off he went.
Inigo found himself talking to Mr.¬ÝAlfred Nott, who popped up as quickly and quietly as a fish out of the sea. The place was very full now, and Robert and his assistants or acolytes were concocting and shaking and pouring out and handing over their liquid fire-and-ice as fast as they could. Everybody talked at once, at full speed, and at the top of his voice. Inigo was trying to tell Mr.¬ÝNott, who was a friendly little man, all about the Good Companions, but other people‚Äôs conversations or, rather, monologues were forever getting in the way. He was compelled to learn that about twenty shows were rotten, their theatres full of paper every night; that various gentlemen of the profession had been touched for tenners; that various ladies had said once and for all that they were not going to have their salaries slashed like that and that if Mr.¬ÝFenkel didn‚Äôt like it he could do the other thing; that Queenie was at her old game, grabbing all the fat; that it was as much as your life was, worth at the Pall Mall to get a laugh when Tommy Mawson was on.
“Did you say you knew Jimmy Nunn?” roared Inigo.
‚ÄúKnow him well,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝNott, in his wheezing voice. ‚ÄúMe and Jimmy‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ panto in Burnley in nineteen‚ÅÝ‚Äîlet me see‚ÅÝ‚Äîit must have been‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“What?”
“It died standing, believe me,” said a voice right in Inigo’s ear.
He jumped and looked round. “What? I beg your pardon,” he gasped.
“Granted,” said the owner of the voice, with grave politeness. “I said it died standing. The remark was not addressed to you.”
“I know it wasn’t, now,” said Inigo. “I’m sorry.”
“But for your information, I may say it referred to the act of Kramer and Konley at the New York Palace,” the man continued bitterly. “The act died standing and now they’re through with Big Time. Isn’t that so, Oby?”
“I’ll say it is,” said a voice from the other side.
“Thanks very much,” said Inigo. He did not understand what they were talking about, but by this time it did not matter. This was not the ordinary sane world.
‚ÄúLaugh,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝNott, who was apparently just finishing a story, ‚ÄúI thought I should never stop for weeks. You oughter seen him, ol‚Äô man.‚Äù And he laughed himself, and so Inigo laughed too, having no doubt at all that it had been very funny indeed.
Then Mr.¬ÝMortimer arrived again, with various people swarming and crying in his wake, and said it was time they had a bit of food and led the way out of Robert‚Äôs domain into a much larger room, more glittering and noisier still, a medley of little tables and hurrying waiters and popping corks and Madame Butterfly with full tremolo effects. Mr.¬ÝNott went with them, and then Miss Georgia appeared again, bringing with her Mr.¬ÝTanker and two other people whose names Inigo never caught, a Semitic youth with waved hair and a small dark girl with the whitest face and reddest lips Inigo had ever seen. The moment they had sat down, waiters descended upon them with oysters and caviar and champagne and other things that Inigo ate and drank in a dim sort of way. Everybody talked at once, and Miss Georgia and Mr.¬ÝTanker, the Semitic youth and the small dark girl, all shouted to friends of theirs at other tables, and sometimes people stopped at the table because they ‚Äújust had to tell you‚Äù and then Miss Georgia or the Semitic youth ‚Äújust had to tell‚Äù them something back, so that it was like lunching in a painted and gilded pandemonium. Inigo, however, even when the champagne was still bubbling inside him, kept hold of the thread that had guided him from the real world into this sumptuous craziness, and though Mr.¬ÝMortimer affected the utmost incredulity and dismay, Inigo held on and only repeated his ‚Äúterms‚Äù; a word he liked to bring out as often as possible because he felt it was a word of power. Mr.¬ÝMortimer began looking at him with increasing respect. He condescended to ask questions, to which Inigo bellowed back (you had to bellow) the most enthusiastic replies. It was obvious that the great man was weakening. Inigo referred pointedly to the afternoon train he was catching, back to Gatford. The songs would be returning on that train too. Though of course they might come up to London again, those songs, quite soon.
‚ÄúGet me a boy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer to a waiter. Though the lunch was still going on, he took Inigo to one side, away from the table. A great man does not announce a decision when he is barely eighteen inches from a mixed grill. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll do it,‚Äù he said impressively. ‚ÄúIt wrecks the rest of this day, but I can fix that. Tell me where I‚Äôve got to go and don‚Äôt forget to see I‚Äôve got a decent seat. Better wire now. I can run you down myself in my car. No, I can‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚Äîshan‚Äôt get down till about eight. How far is this place? About a hundred miles or so, eh? Do it under three hours and get back sometime tonight. You don‚Äôt think so? You don‚Äôt know my car, my boy. I‚Äôll eat it.‚Äù And when the pageboy arrived, he gave him instructions and messages innumerable, and among them was one from Inigo, a wire to the Gatford Hippodrome to reserve one stall. The great Monte Mortimer would see the Good Companions. Inigo did not say so in his wire; he sang it softly but triumphantly in his heart. And all the lights in the place seemed to grow brighter; the waiters suddenly began bringing nectar and ambrosia; the tables were crowded with the drollest good fellows and the prettiest women in London, such laughter, such wit; and the orchestra stopped making an irritating noise and decided to play the most delicious little tunes, to fiddle you into a happy trance.
‚ÄúI should like to ask you a question,‚Äù said Inigo carefully, when he was taking leave of Mr.¬ÝMortimer. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre a man of experience, you know the world. Do you honestly think I can be described as feeble?‚Äù
“As what?”
“Feeble is the word.”
‚ÄúI could call you many things,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer, perhaps a trifle grimly. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre a young man who could be called many things. But not feeble. If you‚Äôre feeble, most of the young men who work for me have been dead a long time. I don‚Äôt know what you‚Äôre like at pulling out the teeth of sharks, but in the ordinary way, just doing the ordinary sort of things, such as making a very busy and quite well-known theatrical producer go across England to see a pierrot show he‚Äôs never heard of before, you‚Äôre‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, you‚Äôre not feeble. And‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù he paused, artfully.
“Well?”
“You can tell her that from me. And that’s where I get one in, don’t I? Thought so. See you tonight then, and my God, if this girl of yours is a frost, you’ll hear something from me. And, don’t forget, these numbers of yours have got to go with a bang. I’m banking on them, not the girl. Bye-bye.”
Inigo caught the 3:15. It sent him to sleep and then wakened him at Birmingham. The train from Birmingham to Gatford was crowded with young men who all seemed far more excited than Inigo was, though they had only been to a football match, whereas he had been‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, where had he been? Oh, he didn‚Äôt know, it was all so absurd. Perhaps on the borders of a dream‚ÅÝ‚Äîby train, and at a reduced fare, namely a single fare and a third for the double journey‚ÅÝ‚Äîto a Charing Cross Road that might easily have begun swelling and quivering like a bubble. Felder and Hunterman, Pitsner and Porry‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe Anthropophagi and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. Gatford station, however, contrived to hint that it knew what was going on in his own head. ‚ÄúStuff and nonsense!‚Äù it said, platforms, porters, kiosks, and all.