“Dodd, if you don’t gather your ape, you’ll never work London again,” screamed Henry Wilding, the stage manager.
As the Dodd Chimpanzees, costumed in evening dress, took their final bow, Mickey, the youngest chimp, had bolted toward the audience. Leaping from the stage, he charged a woman in an aisle seat in the stalls. Landing in her lap, Mickey plucked her feathered hat from her head—colorful ostrich plumes were all the fashion—to the sounds of her screams.
The audience went crazy with laughter, thinking it all part of the act. But instead of returning to the stage, Mickey leapt from seat to seat in the stalls, grabbing hat after hat. Finally, he jumped into the aisle and raced for the back of the theatre, with Dodd, a man of about sixty, puffing frantically behind.
For Wilding, this was a stage wait, the very worst thing that could happen. The artistes gathered in the wings weren’t amused either. It was a Saturday night, and they wouldn’t be getting their weekly pay until the second show concluded—a necessary measure to prevent the less scrupulous from skipping out on the final performance. Now the show was delayed, and that meant the bookies and creditors who waited outside the stage door on Saturday nights to get paid up would get restless. For the big wages they were paid, Layton had been surprised to learn that so many artistes were broke, never a penny in their pockets. Bimba Bamba had even tried to borrow money from him.
The house lights were on full now, so Dodd could find Mickey. Layton, standing stage right in the wings, sighed and tapped his foot impatiently. At long last, the monkey was recovered, the lights dimmed, and the show resumed with the top-billed act, “The World’s Greatest Juggler.” Of course, every performer called him or herself the greatest, Layton thought wryly. This man, the American headliner W. C. Fields, had a bulbous pink nose, the fumes of alcohol coming off him thick as a storm cloud, and he looked unprepossessing at best.
Pushing a cart filled with all kinds of objects onto the stage, Fields got five cigar boxes revolving in the air. Then bunches of bananas, then five full milk bottles. The crowd broke into applause. Even Layton was impressed. By this time, he’d seen many a juggler but never one with such ease and nonchalance. That was the secret, he thought. The great ones were so good, they never broke a sweat.
Onstage, Fields kept juggling and puffing away on his massive stogie. He’d chastise the objects in a nasal American accent if they didn’t land smoothly in his hand, shouting, “Damn you, behave! Do what you’re told!”
One act later, the show wrapped, and Layton walked out the stage door to go back to his digs. Cissie and Layton had suites with a sitting room and bedroom, meals and tea included. At breakfast and dinner, they sat at a great table with other top-of-the-bill artistes currently performing in the West End. Voltaire, a French illusionist; Nell Swan, a singer; the Menjou Brothers and Juanita, a dental aerial act, which performed by gripping with teeth instead of hands and legs; and Hetty Hudson, a famous male impersonator, all lived there. Layton had thought architects vain, but they were nothing compared to variety performers. The lodgers bragged constantly about past performances, a daily litany of “I remember when I played the Royal Hippodrome in Liverpool” or “Like the time I was top of the bill at the Tivoli!”
Layton walked along the dimly lit alley behind the theatre where a few people hung about, smoking and talking. A few audience members stood around, hoping to meet their favorite artistes and ask for an autograph.
“Don’t give me that load of shite, you stupid wee lassie,” came a shrill voice to Layton’s right. He saw a man in a brown suit and derby grabbing a woman by her wrist and violently shaking her.
Layton paid no mind; the alley behind a theatre had a drama all its own: arguments between lovers, Piccadilly Johnnies hounding female stars, and would-be actors trying to talk to agents.
“Where’s me money? Stump up. I’ve been too patient with ya, lassie,” snarled the man. As the woman struggled to break free, the electric light post in the alley illuminated her frightened face: Beryl Wheeler, Voltaire’s assistant, a girl of about twenty.
“Hello, Beryl. What’s all the noise?” asked Layton in the friendliest of voices.
“Shove off, mate,” shouted the man. “This is business, and it’s between me and her.”
Layton wasn’t eager to get his head busted open for Voltaire’s tart, but there was something else… He paused and stared at the man for a few seconds.
“You’re a moneylender, aren’t you?” he asked.
“That’s one way of puttin’ it. Be glad that you don’t owe me money, guv.”
“What’s the amount in question?” Layton asked, as if he were a City of London banker at a loan interview.
“This slut owes me two quid for the last four weeks. It’s time to pay up, and I ain’t taking payment in kind—if you know what I mean,” said the man, giving Beryl’s shapely body the eye.
With a sigh, Layton pulled out his wallet. “This will settle the debt.”
“Oh, Frank, that’s ever so nice of you,” gushed Beryl.
“Off you go,” said Layton, and she fled down the alley. The man made to follow, but Layton held up a hand. “Hold on. I helped you collect a debt. I want a commission.”
The man was at first puzzled, then angry. “On your way, arsehole.”
“Not monetary compensation. Just a little information.”
This interested the man. He studied Layton, then nodded.
“Ever hear of Hugh Rice?”
“Everyone in London’s heard of Hughie Rice,” the man said with a great laugh. “In fact, I used to collect for him.” His eyes narrowed. “But he’s dead, if ya happen to be lookin’ for him.”
“I know that.” Layton leaned forward and lowered his voice. “How much did you know of his business dealings?”
“Quite a bit, guv.”
“Did he ever do business with theatre people—not actors and that lot, but the men who owned the theatres?”
“Aye, Hughie was rich. He lent money to all sorts of businesspeople, the ones that could not get credit and were bloody desperate. Factory owners, shipping companies, you name it.” The man’s coarse face broke into a smile. “I do remember he helped out some theatre fellas when they were in a bad way, ’cause they let him go to the theatre all the time for free.”
“If they came to Hugh Rice,” Layton said slowly, “then they had nowhere else to turn.”
“That’s the long and short of it, guv. The lender of last resort, as they say.”
“I imagine the interest on such a loan was quite high?”
“Sky’s the limit,” said the man, nodding.
“And there was a late-payment penalty, I suppose.”
“Indeed, there was, guv.” The man took a set of brass knuckles from his side pocket and gave them a long, loving caress. “I believe with the theatre people, we had to apply the penalty more than once.”
• • •
“Johnnie told me they were in over their heads. They were building the Britannia, the Fulham, the Grand, and the Vauxhall Hippodrome, all at once! No wonder they were hard up.”
Layton was sitting on the bed in Cissie’s room. In theatrical digs, certain items of propriety were ignored—such as gentlemen being allowed in a lady’s room after ten.
“Back then, Clifton and Glenn had trouble making the payroll and paying the bills,” Cissie said. She was pacing back and forth in front of Layton, her hands on her hips. “And they were on me to pay the artistes way less, to be tougher in negotiating. That’s always a bad sign.”
“If no one would lend them money to cover the shortfall,” Layton said, “the circuit would have gone bankrupt. They’d have lost everything.”
“They must have turned to Rice to bail them out,” Cissie said, pausing at the window. The pale glow of the lamps outside glistened on the dark, slick street. “Not exactly the Bank of England. Much higher interest rates.”
“I believe it’s called usury,” Layton said, lying back against the pillow and lacing his fingers behind his head. “Did things get better after the accident?”
“At first, no one would go near a MacMillan circuit theatre for fear it would collapse. It was a few months before things got back to normal. But then they made money hand over fist, let me tell you.”
Layton had learned much about the criminal world during those five long years in Mulcaster. Extortion, he’d found, was perhaps the most lucrative of crimes, offering a long-term stream of revenue. In most cases, the victim had nowhere else to go and would agree to the loan and its incredibly high interest rates. But the transaction wasn’t executed on paper; its terms were stated verbally, often with veiled threats about the consequences of missing a weekly payment. With interest piling up, the loan was impossible to pay off. Where a bank would file suit, a gang would use violence to collect.
This violence, Layton knew, was the foundation of the criminal life. Once a gang got its hooks into you, it never let go. The partners hadn’t been able to get Rice off their backs. They’d realized he was going to bleed them dry.
“Clifton and Glenn were trapped, but they couldn’t go to the police, or Rice would murder them,” said Layton.
“And the investors would find out the circuit was broke.”
“So they murdered Rice—along with all the others.” Layton shook his head and gave a low whistle. “Both Clifton and Glenn had to be in on this.”
“The bastards,” Cissie breathed.
“Still, this is all a guess.”
“I know someone we might talk to,” Cissie said tentatively. “Someone who might know something.”
• • •
“I just put the kettle on. Would you like a nice cup of tea?”
Harry Barker, the retired head accountant of the MacMillan circuit, looked like a bookkeeper. Spectacles covered his worn-out, watery blue eyes. He was white haired and stooped from years of hunching over a desk. This was what a retired architect would also look like, Layton imagined, after decades spent bending over a draughting table.
Barker’s second-floor flat in Bloomsbury was homey and, for a lifelong bachelor, very neatly kept. Prints and paintings of seascapes covered the dark-green walls; the furniture on which Cissie and Layton sat was plush, stuffed leather.
“Good to see you again, Cissie,” said Barker as he brought the tea service into the parlor.
“Reminds me of the old days, Harry. Do you miss the theatre?”
“No, all that’s behind me now. Besides, I worked in the front office. I could have been adding numbers in a steel mill. No magic of the theatre for me.”
“Frank here paints the cloths. He’s very artistic,” said Cissie proudly, taking a cup of tea from Barker.
“Oh, do you, Frank? That’s grand. I always wished I was artistic, but alas.” Barker sighed. “I was born with a head for numbers and naught else.”
Cissie and the old man chatted and reminisced; Layton listened, sipping his tea and eating his biscuits. Barker, who seemed genuinely pleased to have visitors in his retirement, told them enthusiastically of his trips to the Royal Albert Hall and the British Museum. He’d even been to the Tower of London for the first time in his life.
As they spoke, a calico cat wandered in and jumped into Barker’s lap, curling up in a ball for a nap. As he stroked his pet, Barker inquired after people he’d worked with, including Clifton and Glenn. Cissie skillfully steered the conversation toward the front office, commenting about pay scales for actors and the cost of printing bills.
“Things have gotten expensive as hell, Harry, but the circuit is doing well. Wasn’t always like that, eh?”
“That’s the God’s own truth. I remember when we didn’t have enough coal to heat the Bedford Variety. The customers about froze to death,” said Barker, chuckling. “Almost went under. No one would give us credit.”
“No one?”
Barker set down his cup and smiled at Cissie.
“We’ve known each other for more than twenty years, Cis. I remember your first day as a secretary. You were a bright young thing; everyone could see that.”
“You’re ever so kind, Harry,” Cissie said, covering his hand with hers and smiling up at him. “You always were.”
“So, between two old friends, what’s your game, girl?”
For a man in his seventies, Layton thought, Barker’s mind was sharp as a twenty-five-year-old’s. He didn’t miss a thing.
“Who helped us out, Harry, when no one would give us tuppence?” Cissie asked matter-of-factly.
“Let’s just say it was a rather unconventional lender. He gave the circuit what the Yanks call a ‘bridge loan.’”
“Hugh Rice?”
The old man smiled, set down his tea cup, and gently shooed the calico cat away. Standing, he walked over to his parlor window and stared down at the street.
“Never met him, thank goodness, but it was an act of God he died that night. A miracle. He was bleeding us dry with those interest rates. We were under his bloody thumb. And if we were ever late on a payment, well…” Barker shook his head. “Remember when Mr. Clifton was convalescing, Cissie? That broken leg wasn’t from a carriage accident.”