“The year is 1900, D for Doyle,” Cissie said briskly.
And again, Layton thanked his lucky stars that she was such an efficient businesswoman.
With twenty-four theatres putting on twice-nightly shows six days a week, the chain’s contract department was huge. Gray metal filing cabinets lined the storage room on all sides. Another row of cabinets, stacked on top of this lower level, was accessible by rolling ladder. Each drawer held artistes’ contracts, arranged alphabetically and by year. Cissie scurried up the ladder like a mountain goat and pulled out a folder. The bigger the star, the fatter the folder, and Doyle’s was thick.
She flipped quickly through the folder, and her face fell. “No, not here, but…” A thought hit her, and she brightened. “Hello, now I remember! Hold on a bit, luv.”
Handing Layton Doyle’s file, Cissie moved the ladder across the room and climbed back up to retrieve another. She fanned herself with it as she descended.
“Whew, I’ll need a nice cup of tea after all this. This is Tommy Towers’s contract. He was supposed to top the bill that night.”
“The Most Beautiful Man in the World,” Layton said, nodding. The name was ironic; performers like Towers sold themselves with catchphrases or physical gimmicks. In Towers’s case, he wasn’t beautiful but uglier than a dog’s arse. His looks—or lack of them—were a constant joke. Such reverse acts did brisk business; May Mason, who called herself the World’s Greatest Soprano, was a current sensation. Her gimmick, of course, was that she sang like a screeching baboon.
“He got hurt, and we had to replace him. Look.” Cissie handed Layton a yellowing telegram from Towers’s file.
FELL ON ME HEAD STOP HARDEST PART OF ME BODY BUT BROKE ME LEG STOP CAN’T GO ON STOP TOMMY
“He even got us that doctor’s certificate we ask for. But look at this now.” Cissie pulled another telegram from Doyle’s file:
HEARD TOWERS OUT STOP DOYLE AVAILABLE STOP
It was signed by Jack Langham, Doyle’s agent.
Layton examined the telegrams, which had been sent from two different London post offices. The posted time of Towers’s message was 9:05 a.m. Langham’s was 9:45.
“The agent’s message was sent only forty minutes after the one Towers sent off,” Layton said, tapping the yellowed slips of paper.
Cissie laughed. “Bad news travels fast in the theatre world, Frank. One bloke’s misfortune is another’s opportunity.”
• • •
“Y’know, I don’t recall I was that plastered, but I still went down hard. Like a bloody football, bouncing off every one of them bleedin’ tube station steps. Hard cement, y’know. Was laid up on my arse for a fortnight.”
Layton and Cissie sat on either side of Tommy Towers as he put on his makeup. He was playing the Brixton Hippodrome; though he had a dressing room to himself, it was low and dingy. Plaster peeled off the yellowing walls, and the old upholstered chairs were filled with tatty-looking hangers-on.
Such men and women surrounded the variety theatre’s biggest stars, stroking egos and kissing arse for the privilege of being near the famous and wealthy. In exchange for their adulation, the star bought them drinks, meals, and gifts of clothes and jewelry. Attractive girls, Layton had noticed, were especially effective at extracting money. The more beautiful the woman and the uglier the man, the more largess flowed. If he’d been a “civilian,” the two girls hanging all over Tommy wouldn’t have come within a mile of him. But if he knew that, he certainly didn’t seem to care.
“I hobbled around on crutches for two months,” Tommy was saying. “Looked like Long John Silver.”
Drinks were flowing freely, and his followers laughed like hell at this line. A drunken, balding man in a rumpled suit bellowed, “You should have got a green parrot for your shoulder!” and held up a tumbler of gin, as if toasting Tommy’s comment.
“But, you know, it helped the act,” Tommy said, not minding the interruption. “Gave me a lot of new material. I was a cripple on top of being so ‘beautiful.’” He winked.
A beautiful blond in a black, low-cut gown bent down, kissed his cheek, and gave his pickle nose a playful yank. “You’re a ’andsome bloke to me, Tommy darling,” she crooned.
A sharp rap sounded on the dressing room door, and a freckled callboy stuck his head through. “Five minutes, Tommy,” he said with a big smile.
“Thank you, Phil,” Tommy shouted back, mussing his salt-and-pepper hair.
“So you just fell down the steps? No one bumped you?” Cissie said, edging the blond girl out of the way with her hip.
“Come to think of it, there may have been someone behind me. But I’m afeard I can’t remember, Cissie me girl.” Tommy rose and shrugged on his signature green-striped jacket, which had been hanging on his chair.
“Did you tell Jimmy Doyle’s agent you were hurt?” Layton asked. “Jack Langham, his name was.”
Tommy gave Layton a look of pure disgust. “Why would I tell that no-talent bastard’s agent anything at all?”
• • •
“At first, it seemed a wonderful bit of luck when that ugly shit broke his leg,” Jack Langham said. He sighed gravely. “But then look what happened.”
Langham’s office, like that of all London’s theatrical agents, comprised just two spaces: the waiting room, in which desperate would-be artistes sat for hours on hard wooden chairs, hoping to win a meeting; and the agent’s office. Cissie and Layton were in the latter, across from Langham, a lanky fellow who’d once played the straight man in a comedy duo. Many agents, Cissie told Layton on their way to the meeting, were former performers who preferred collecting ten percent of their clients’ earnings to suffering out the grind of show business. With a roster of big stars, they could make out very well indeed.
“Top of the bill on opening night in a brand-new theatre?” Langham shook his head, remembering. “It’s a performer’s dream. I was bowled over when you wired me, Cissie.”
“But…you wired me,” Cissie said, puzzled.
Langham blinked back at her, just as confused. “I never sent you a wire, girl. You wired me.”