Killer Dolphin by Ngaio Marsh Page B

Consolidated Oils. It had been created, broadly speaking, by Mr. Greenslade, to encompass the development of The Dolphin project. Behind his new desk in the office sat Mr. Winter Meyer, an extremely able theatrical business manager. He had been wooed into the service by Mr. Greenslade upon Peregrine’s suggestion, after a number of interviews and, Peregrine felt sure, exhaustive inquiries. Throughout these preliminaries, Mr. Conducis had remained, as it were, the mere effluvium: far from anxious and so potent that a kind of plushy assurance seemed to permeate the last detail of renaissance in The Dolphin.
    Mr. Meyer had now under his hand an entire scheme for promotion, presentation and maintenance embracing contracts with actors, designers, costumiers, front-of-house staff, stage-crew and press agents and the delicate manipulation of such elements as might be propitious to the general mana of the enterprise.
    He was a short, pale and restless man with rich curly hair, who, in what little private life belonged to him, collected bric-a-brac.
    “Good morning, Winty.”
    “Perry,” said Mr. Meyer as a definitive statement rather than a greeting.
    “And joy?”
    Mr. Meyer lolled his head from side to side.
    “Before I forget. Do we want a caretaker, watchman, day or night, stage-door keeper or any other lowly bod about the house?”
    “We shall in a couple of days.”
    Peregrine told him about Mr. Jobbins.
    “All right,” said Mr. Meyer. “If the references are good. Now, it’s my turn. Are you fully cast?”
    “Not quite. I’m hovering.”
    “What do you think of Harry Grove?”
    “As an actor?”
    “Yes.”
    “As an actor I think a lot of him.”
    “Just as well. You’ve got him.”
    “Winty, what the hell do you mean?”
    “A directive, dear boy: or what amounts to it. From Head Office.”
    “About
W. Hartly Grove
?”
    “You’ll probably find something in your mail.”
    Peregrine went to his desk. He was now very familiar with the look of Mr. Greenslade’s communications and hurriedly extracted the latest from the pile.
     
    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