The Bat(87)

‘It was Rechtnagel’s idea. I had a go at being a c-clown in my youth, so I like to keep an eye on what’s happening onstage when the circus is in t-town, and I remember that number wasn’t part of the show until the rehearsal the previous day.’

‘Yes, I had a feeling Otto was behind it.’

Harry scratched his shaven chin.

‘I’ve got a problem gnawing away at me. I wonder if you can help. I might be barking up the wrong tree, but listen to this theory and tell me what you think. Otto knows I’m in the auditorium, he knows something I don’t know which he has to try and tell me, but he can’t say it openly. For a variety of different reasons. Perhaps because he himself is involved. So this number is cooked up for me. He wants to tell me that the person I’m hunting is a hunter himself, that he’s someone like me, a colleague. I know that sounds a bit weird, but you know how eccentric Otto could be. What do you think? Does that sound like him?’

The caretaker studied Harry for some time.

‘Officer, I think you should help yourself to a bit more c-coffee. That number wasn’t trying to tell you anything. It’s a c-classic Jandy Jandaschewsky number. Anyone in a circus can t-tell you that. Nothing more, nothing less. Sorry if that ruins things for you, but—’

‘On the contrary,’ Harry said, relieved. ‘In fact, that’s what I’d hoped to hear. Now I can safely exclude that theory. Was there more coffee, did you say?’

He asked to see the guillotine, and the caretaker took him to the props room.

‘I still get shivers down my spine whenever I walk in here, but now at least I sleep at n-night,’ the caretaker said, unlocking the door. ‘The room’s been scrubbed down since.’

A cold rush of air came out as the door opened.

‘Togs on,’ said the caretaker, pressing the light switch. The guillotine towered over the room with a rug over it, like a reclining diva.

‘Togs on?’

‘Oh, just an in-joke. We usually say that at St George’s when we enter a d-dark room. Yup.’

‘Why’s that?’ Harry raised the rug and felt the blade of the guillotine.

‘Oh, it’s an old yarn dating back to the 1970s. The boss here at that time was a Belgian, Albert Mosceau, a hot-blooded man, but those of us who worked under him liked him well enough, he was a genuine theatre person, bless his soul. People say, as you know, that theatre types are terrible philanderers and l-libertines, and that may be true, well, I’m just saying how it is. Anyway, in those days we had a famous, handsome actor in the company, n-no names mentioned, who was an old goat. The women swooned, and the men were jealous. Now and then we used to do a tour of the theatre for people who asked, and one day the guide came with a class of k-kids to the props room. He switched on the light – and there he was on the baroque sofa we used for Tennessee Williams’s The Glass Menagerie, rooting one of the canteen ladies.

‘Now the guide could of course have saved the day, for the famous actor, no names mentioned, was lying on his front. But the guide was a stripling who hoped to become an actor himself one day and was, like most theatre people, a vain galoot. So he wasn’t wearing glasses even though he was very short-sighted. Anyway, to cut to the chase, he didn’t see that things were happening on the sofa and he must have thought the sudden thronging at the door was because he was such a damned good talker, or something like that. As the guide continued waffling on about Tennessee Williams, the old goat swore, making sure not to show his face though, just his hairy arse. But the guide recognised the voice and exclaimed: “Goodness, is that you there, Bruce Lieslington?”’

The caretaker chewed his lower lip.

‘Oooh dear.’

Harry laughed and held up his palms. ‘It’s OK. I’ve forgotten the name already.’

‘Anyway, next day Mosceau called a meeting. He explained what had happened and said he considered it a very serious matter. “We can’t have this kind of publicity,” he said. “So I’m sorry to say that, with immediate effect, there will be a b-ban on this kind of g-g-guided tour.”’

The caretaker’s laughter resounded against the walls of the props room. Harry had to smile. Only the reclining diva in steel and wood was as silent and unapproachable.

‘Now I understand the “togs on”. What happened to the luckless guide? Did he become an actor in the end?’

‘Unfortunately for him and fortunately for the stage, no. But he stayed in the industry and today he’s the lighting engineer here at St George’s. Oh yes, I forgot, you’ve met him . . .’