“Well, this is ever so nice a surprise, Frank,” she cooed.
“Thought I’d sneak up here and catch the show since no one’s in Box B. You won’t tell, will you, luv?”
“I’d never tell on a good-lookin’ bloke like you, Frankie,” Deidre said, running her hand up his arm.
Layton looked down at her in surprise. Cissie liked to tease him about the usherettes; she claimed some of the girls had taken a fancy to him. He’d thought her daft. Apparently not.
“You and me should pop out to the pub and have a friendly drink after the show,” Deidre was saying in a silky voice. “Buy me a shandy or two.”
“That’s a topping idea, Deidre. One night, we’ll do that,” Layton said impatiently. The Nine Hindustanis would be up soon.
But Deidre was persistent. She edged closer, until her face, which was rather pretty, was just a few inches from his chest.
“You’re such a proper gentleman, Frank. Remember when you picked up all the programs I dropped?”
“Why…yes,” Layton said, trying to place the incident. She had backed him right up against the plaster wall. He put his palms out to brace himself. “You’re a handsome lass, Deidre, and you can be sure we’ll go out for that shandy sometime soon,” he stuttered.
“I’m going to hold you to it, Frankie.” To his relief, Deidre drew back then and left, giving him a flirtatious wave over her shoulder.
Layton didn’t move from the wall until she was gone. As he was about to start down the corridor to the box, he stopped, looked at both palms, and placed them on his cheeks.
They were warm, very warm. Almost hot. It was as though he’d placed his hands over a stove. Layton’s first thought was that Deidre’s advances had sent his body temperature shooting up, but no… He turned and placed his hands against the wall. Instead of the normal, cool feel of plaster, heat radiated through him.
Stunned, Layton ran his hand from the bottom of the wall up as high as he could reach. Terror left his knees weak and watery. In the stud cavity, a fire was raging. A wire must have shorted out. Layton got on his knees and put his nose to the wooden baseboard; he smelled acrid smoke. Back on his feet, he looked at the ceiling. The cavity would act like a chimney, drawing the fire up to the roof directly above the auditorium. Once it got into the wood and steel framing, it would spread like a forest fire.
Layton bolted down the dress circle aisle, past a surprised Deidre, and back to the pass door. But now he remembered: one could go out the door, but not in, a precaution meant to keep the public from getting backstage. Desperate times called for desperate measures. At the edge of the orchestra pit, Layton ran up the little side steps onto the stage—the Nine Hindustanis were just beginning their turn—and ran into the wings.
“Wilding, lower the fire curtain! There’s an electrical fire on the south wall,” he yelled to the stage manager.
Without missing a beat, Wilding ordered the stagehands to lower the sheet-metal fire curtain, located directly behind the proscenium arch. He walked calmly onto the stage, stopping the acrobats in midtumble, faced the crowd, and smiled.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there have been some technical difficulties with tonight’s performance. Please exit the auditorium now. For your inconvenience, you will be given a full refund, plus a free pass to a future performance.”
As he finished his announcement, the curtain came down behind him. A collective groan swept through the theatre, but everyone rose from their seats and began to shuffle out in an orderly manner. Wilding ordered the orchestra conductor to play the regular exit music, as they would at the end of any show. Obediently, the band cranked out a jaunty John Philip Sousa march, “The Washington Post.”
In the meantime, Layton had rung up the London County fire commission from the stage manager’s desk. The performers knew something was amiss and had gathered in the wings, looks of confusion covering their faces.
“Everyone out the stage door to the alley, please,” ordered Layton in a polite but firm tone.
“Yes, do as you’re told,” Wilding yelled, as if he were commanding dull-witted schoolchildren.
In the alley behind the theatre, an incongruous crowd assembled. They all milled about: a magician and his assistants, dressed in the golden finery of Arabs; acrobats in orange, skintight leotards; a female singer in a lavish white satin gown; a pack of collies; five Pygmies; comics in absurd suits; and a man holding a dummy dressed in white tails.
Layton and Wilding had made their way to the grand entrance foyer when the fire trucks clanged up. The fire commander, in his red helmet, ran up, demanding to know the fire’s location. He and four of his men followed Layton down to the first-floor wall, below the boxes. After Layton pointed to the approximate location, the firemen began to chop away at the ornate plaster wall with axes. Smoke and yellow-orange flames gushed forth from the hole.
Two of the other firemen had run into the auditorium, dragging a canvas fire hose behind them, and hooked it to a wall valve that connected to the public water supply in the street. They poured water into the cavity. The commander ordered the men to chop away the walls directly above them, on the second floor, to get to the fire in its entirety.
In twenty minutes’ time, the fire was out. Luckily, the men had contained it within one cavity and prevented its reaching the roof. Pieces of wet plaster and wood lath covered the ground.
Thank God, Layton thought, staring at the char and scorch marks, that the fire had been concealed behind the wall. If smoke had billowed out into the auditorium, it would have set off a panic and a stampede to the doors.
Wilding went out into the alley and brought everyone in.
“We’re still going to get paid for tonight?” someone bellowed.
“Read your contract, you clot,” yelled Cissie, who had just arrived. “This is an act of God, and you don’t get tuppence.”
“Shut your gobs, get dressed, and go home. You’ll be told when to come back,” snarled Wilding.
An explosion of cursing and grumbling erupted. As the crew and performers shuffled back in, Cyril and Neville spotted Layton, standing by the stage manager’s desk. They approached and hugged him fiercely.
“Good show, Frank, damn good show,” shouted Neville. Everyone gathered then and began shaking Layton’s hand and pounding him on the back.
“He’s a hero. Three cheers for Frank!” yelled Wilding.
Cissie threw her arms around Layton and kissed his cheek. Mangogo shook his hand like a proper Englishman, then let out a shrill yell—likely Pygmy praise for bravery, Layton thought.
“Let me stand you a Guinness, Frank. It’d be an honor,” said Luigi.
“I’ll buy you a drink too,” added the Incredible Paul Cinquevalli. “As many drinks as you want.”
Though Layton was embarrassed by the attention, he had to admit that he felt good inside, happy and elated. Most of the artistes and crew had left, but a few hung back, talking to a middle-aged man in a gray tweed suit by the stair to the fly gallery.
As Layton watched, Florrie Robins, the singer, turned and pointed…to him. The man gave her a nod and walked over.
“Good evening, Mr. Owen. Jack Pennington of the Daily Mail. Just a few questions about tonight’s fire.”
Layton froze. Before he could retreat into the shadows, the reporter pounced, asking him what he did in the theatre and how he’d discovered the fire. For discretion’s sake, he omitted Deidre’s role in the matter. If she hadn’t pressed her affections on him, the Queen’s Palace might have been engulfed in flames! He further downplayed the discovery as pure accident: he’d bent to tie his shoe and smelled a whiff of smoke.
The reporter scribbled busily in a little leather-bound notebook, then said curtly, “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Owen,” and strode off. Unlike the artistes, Pennington didn’t seem at all impressed with Layton.
As he l
eft, another stranger approached Layton and Cissie. This one was a short, plump man, bald as a coot.
“Hullo there. I’m supposed take a snap of Frank Owen,” the man said, holding up his Kodak camera.
Layton flashed a look of panic at Cissie. She smiled.
“Hold on, mate, while I fetch him.” Cissie ducked into the scene shop and, out of earshot of the photographer, shouted, “Joe Clayton, you pillock, get your arse over here.”
Clayton was busy setting cans of paint on a shelf. He looked up, confused.
“There’s a fellow in the wings from Fleet Street. He’s doing a story on the people who work in variety theatres, and he needs a snap of a good-lookin’ backstage bloke. You’ll get a whole quid for doing it.”
Clayton stared at her in wonderment. “You’re pulling me plonker. My face ain’t worth a farthing.”
“No, mate. Management selected you. Look, here’s the lolly.”
Clayton’s look of puzzlement turned instantly to joy, his mind clearly calculating how many pints of Guinness he could get for the quid in Cissie’s hand.
• • •
“May I congratulate the hero?”
“You may.”
Cissie draped her naked body over Layton’s and gave him a long, passionate kiss, which he returned in kind. Sighing, she laid her head on his chest and enfolded him in her arms, pressing tightly against him.
Layton loved lying in bed with Cissie, her body warm against his skin. Her sandy-blond hair splayed out against his chest; he adored the smell of it, the silky feel. Like all Englishwomen, by day, Cissie wore her hair pinned up. When she undid the tight knots and let its long, golden weight come tumbling down, the erotic charge that shot through Layton took his breath away.
“That was some quick thinking tonight,” Cissie said. “And don’t tell me it was something any Englishman would do. Most would have pissed their pants and panicked.”
She had taken the words from Layton’s mouth. He replayed the night’s events; though it had all happened so suddenly, he was pleased with what he’d done.
“Why the Cheshire Cat grin?” Cissie asked.
“Because I’m happy, and I’m cuddling the girl I love,” said Layton. He kissed her on the forehead. “I adore you, Mrs. Mapes.”
Cissie propped herself up on her elbow and looked into Layton’s eyes.
“And I love you,” she said. “With all my heart.”
“Then please marry me, Mrs. Mapes.”
Layton felt elated, as if he were rising up off the bed and floating to the ceiling, like one of those new German dirigibles that had been invented. The sensation was incredible. Instead of hydrogen levitating him, it was pure joy and happiness. Layton had never thought that love would return to his life again, and he had stoically accepted that as fact. But two miracles had occurred: he had found his son—and fallen in love again.
“I’ll make you happy the rest of your life. I swear to you I will,” Layton said softly, looking her square in her beautiful eyes.
“I’d put a shilling to a pound you will, and I accept. Yes, I’ll marry you, Mr. Frank Douglas Owen Layton.”
“No matter what comes of this bad business?” Layton said quietly.
“No matter what. I’m yours, ducks.”
“If the truth comes out, you’ll be Mrs. Douglas Layton. If not, Mrs. Frank Owen.”
“Either name’s jolly good for me. But in the end, my last name will be Layton, because we’ll bring the bastards who wronged you to justice. It’ll all come out in the wash, luv. You’ll see.” Cissie looked up at Layton, her eyes wide and earnest. “You’ve got me and Sherlock Phipps on the case.”
“You’re a practical girl, Cissie. You know that wishing for something doesn’t necessarily make it true. Suppose we can’t prove I was framed?”
The minute the words were out, Layton regretted them. He hadn’t wanted to muck up such a special moment.
Cissie just propped herself up on both arms and smiled.
“You’re right, life can be shite, and evil often isn’t punished. But, luv, you and me are together for life.” With that, she settled down next to Layton and pulled the thick blanket over them. They drifted off to sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms.
And the following evening, Joe Clayton’s face appeared next to a short piece in the Daily Mail about Frank Owen’s wonderful bravery during the Queen’s Palace fire.
35
It was almost noon, and Cissie hadn’t made it to work yet. Though she’d never met Alice Browne, somehow, she had found the news of her death deeply unsettling. Cissie couldn’t get the poor woman out of her mind. Layton’s description of her eyes staring out into space got to her. But she had to get back, she told herself sternly. Today was Monday, and every Monday afternoon, in her office at the MacMillan circuit’s flagship venue, His Majesty’s Empire on St. Martin’s Lane, she gave critiques to nervous agents. When she suggested an act be tightened or a gag thrown out, it had the power of a papal bull, and she was instantly obeyed.
As the tobacconist gave the change for her purchases of cigarettes, the bell on the front door of the shop rang. In strode Nigel Stockton, the head of the Hall Syndicate, MacMillan’s chief rival.
Cissie smiled. She had no intention of trying to avoid him.
“Good day to you, Nigel. Haven’t seen you in a million bloody years.”
“Hello, Cissie,” replied the tall man in a terse voice.
Cissie always had the impression that the man’s face was carved from granite like those statues in the museums.
Cissie, who possessed a professional mean streak, desired to continue the conversation when it was apparent that Stockton didn’t wish to do so.
“I see that attendance has been down for you, Nigel. In fact, it’s been down for the past five years or so.”
“We’ve been holding our own.”
“Must be bloody hard to do without any top stars. Oh…hold on, we have all the top stars. Jimmy Conway signed with us last week. Didn’t he have a long-term contract with the Hall Syndicate at one time?”
Cissie could see that the blood vessels in Nigel’s temples were throbbing.
“The circuit has a wealth of talent to draw on,” replied Stockton.
When a theatre circuit lost big-name performers, it had to depend on second-rate specialty acts and singers. Since everyone in the world wanted to perform onstage, the circuit had no trouble filling the bill with acts, but audiences knew they weren’t up to snuff. The ventriloquists always moved their lips, and the jugglers often dropped things.
“Why, of course, you still have Martini’s Birds. Amazing what you can train pigeons to do—and they never shit onstage. Is that Egyptian dwarf-tossing act still with you? They’re a spiffin’ lot.”
Hall still made money, because the variety theatre was so popular in Great Britain, but made nowhere near the money MacMillan made, which was a big sore point with its investors. As Cissie expected, Stockton lost his composure.
“Listen, you bloody bitch, we discovered and nurtured all that talent, then you stole them right from under us. You wouldn’t know a talented performer if he came down from the sky and bit you on your fat arse.”
Instead of launching a rebuttal, Cissie did something far more effective—she started laughing uncontrollably in Stockton’s face. People in the tobacconist shop looked at her with astonishment. She couldn’t stop laughing, which enraged Stockton, a man who usually commanded great respect.
“Damn you, woman. You’re lucky you weren’t with your no-talent husband that night. You would have gotten yours, m’girl.”
That comment stopped Cissie’s laughter dead. She stared at Stockton.
“Samuels and the rest of those turncoats got what they deserved,” snarled Stockton. “Your circuit should have gone under.”
Cissie ran out of the
tobacconist’s shop, all the way to her office. People on the street stopped to watch her bolt by. Out of breath by the time she reached the Metro, she had to sit on the gold-carpeted stairs in the grand foyer to compose herself. As her lungs huffed and puffed, she lit a cigarette to calm herself down.
She remembered an incident some years ago when Stockton had come unannounced to see Clifton and Glenn. It came right after Sunny Samuels, Hall’s most popular performer, and Dainty Amy came on board. Those were two big fishes MacMillan had landed. Lots of jealousy. Nigel Stockton had lost a packet. He was mad—mad as hell. One day, out of the blue, Stockton had come storming into the head office, screaming his head off. He and Clifton and Glenn went into Clifton’s office, and all hell broke loose. The shouting continued for over an hour. Stockton walked out, swearing he’d get even with them. He slammed the door so hard, the glass shattered.
Cissie trudged up to her office. Connected directly to it was a big storage room stuffed full of filing cabinets and open shelving. Cissie wanted to book a specialty act, the Cambridge Brothers, Fun on a Billiards Table, for the MacMillan Empire. To complete the deal, she needed to know how big their names had been on another theatre’s bill. These bills, forty-by-sixty-inch broadsheets posted throughout London, were a show’s main means of publicity. The typography and position of an act on the bill were deeply important to the artistes, as they established backstage status and determined who got the best dressing rooms. Cissie had weathered many a fight over lettering size, with artistes even whipping out rulers to prove a point, and positioning, with the top spot and that directly below it being most desirable.
Flipping through the broadsheets, she came across Sunny’s name at the top of the bill in the biggest letters. Losing him that night was a crushing blow for Clifton and Glenn, who had paid big money to steal him. They had been lucky the other top performers who’d been given complimentary tickets, like Dainty Amy, Kitty Rayburn, or Queenie Laurence, didn’t show up that opening night. Many more stars than Sunny would have been dead. Stockton’s tirade echoed in Cissie’s ears. “The circuit should have gone under.” Stockton had been wishing that had happened to MacMillan. She could hear the anguish in his angry voice.
The Fallen Architect Page 22