False Scent by Ngaio Marsh Page B

one.
    “If you go on writing slip-slop for Mary when you’ve got this sort of stuff under your thatch,” he had said, “you deserve to drown in it. Parts of this thing are bloody awful and must come out. Other parts need a rewrite. Fix them and I’m ready to produce the piece.”
    Richard had fixed them.
    Gantry shoved his birthday present for Miss Bellamy into his pocket. It was a bit of pinchbeck he’d picked up for five bob on a street stall. He bought his presents in an inverse ratio to the monetary situation of the recipients and Miss Bellamy was rich.
    As he strode along in the direction of Knightsbridge, he thought with increasing enthusiasm about
Husbandry in Heaven
and of what he would do with it if he could persuade the Management to take it.
    “The actors,” he promised himself, “shall skip like young rams.”
    At Hyde Park Corner he began to sing again. At the corner of Wilton Place a chauffeur-driven car pulled up alongside him. The Management in the person of Mr. Montague Marchant, exquisitely dressed, with a gardenia in his coat, leaned from the window. His face and his hair were smooth, fair and pale, and his eyes wary.
    “Timmy!” Mr. Marchant shouted. “
Look
at you!
So
purposeful! Such
devouring
strides! Come in, do, for God’s sake, and let us support each other on our approach to the shrine.”
    Gantry said, “I wanted to see you.” He doubled himself up like a camel and got into the car. It was his custom to plunge directly into whatever matter concerned him at the moment. He presented his ideas with the same ruthless precipitancy that he brought to his work in the theatre. It was a deceptive characteristic, because in Gantry impulse was subordinate to design.
    He drew in his breath with an authoritative gasp. “Listen!” he said. “I have a proposition.”
    All the way along Sloane Street and into the King’s Road he thrust Richard’s play at Marchant. He was still talking, very eloquently, as they turned up Pardoner’s Row. Marchant listened with the undivided though guarded attention that the Management brought to bear only on the utterances of the elect.
    “You will do this,” Gantry said as the car turned in to Pardoner’s Place, “not for me and not for Dicky. You will do it because it’s going to be a Thing for the Management. Mark my words. Here we are. Oh misery,
how
I abominate grand parties!”
    “I’d have you remember,” Marchant said as they went in, “that I commit myself to nothing, Timmy.” ”
    “Naturally, my dear man. But naturally. You
will
commit yourself, however, I promise you. You will.”
    “Mary,
darling
!” they both exclaimed and were swallowed up by the party.
    Pinky and Bertie had arranged to go together. They came to this decision after a long gloomy post-luncheon talk in which they weighed the dictates of proper pride against those of professional expediency.
    “Face it, sweetie-pie,” Bertie had said, “if we
don’t
show up she’ll turn plug-ugly again and go straight to the Management. You know what a fuss Monty makes about personal relationships. ‘A happy theatre is a successful theatre.’ Nobody — but
nobody
can afford to cut up rough. He loathes internal strife.”
    Pinky, who was feeling the effects of her morning excesses, sombrely agreed. “God knows,” she said, “that at this juncture I can ill afford to get myself the reputation of being difficult. After all my contract isn’t signed, Bertie.”
    “It’s as clear as daylight; magnanimity must be our watchword.”
    “I’ll be blowed if I crawl.”
    “We shan’t have to, dear. A pressure of the hand and a long, long gaze into the eyeballs will carry us through.”
    “I resent having to.”
    “Never mind. Rise above. Watch me. I’m a past master at it. Gird up the loins, such as they are, and remember you’re an actress.” He giggled. “Looked at in the right way it’ll be rather fun.”
    “What shall I wear?”
    “Black, and no jewelry. She’ll be