‘Well, well, well,’ said Mr Sullivan, ‘Well, well!’ He turned Wimsey’s card over and stared at it. ‘Dear, dear, what a pity. Such a waste, eh, Rosencrantz? With your face, you ought to be makin’ a fortune.’
‘There ain’t nothing in this for me, anyhow,’ said Mr Rosencrantz, ‘so I’d better be pushin’ along. The Vorm is a good Vorm, Sullivan, as Shakespeare says, but he ain’t on the market. Unless Lord Peter has a fancy for the thing. It ‘ud go vell, eh? Lord Peter Vimsey in the title role? The nobility ain’t much cop these days, but Lord Peter is vell known. He does somethings. Nowadays, they all-vant somebody as does somethings. A lord is nothing, but a lord that flies the Atlantic or keeps a hatshop or detects murders — there might be a draw in that, vot you think?’
Mr Sullivan looked hopefully at Wimsey.
‘Sorry,’ said his lordship. ‘Can’t be done.’
‘Times are bad,’ said Mr Rosencrantz, who seemed to grow more enthusiastic as the desired article was withdrawn from his grasp, ‘but I make you a good offer. Vot you say, to two hundred a week eh?’
Wimsey shook his head.
‘Three hundred?’ suggested Mr Rosencrantz.
‘Sorry, old horse. I’m not selling.’
‘Five hundred, then.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Mr Umpelty.
‘It’s no go,’ said Mr Sullivan. ‘Very sad, but it’s no go. Suppose you are rich, eh? Great pity., It won’t last,’ you know. Super-tax and death-duties. Better take what. you can while you can. No?’
‘Definitely, no,’ said Wimsey.
Mr Rosencrantz sighed.
‘Oh, veil — I’d best be moving. See you tomorrow, Sully. You have something for me then, eh?’
He retired, not through the antechamber, but through the private door on the opposite side of the room. Mr Sullivan turned to his visitors.
‘You want me? Tell me what you want and make it snappy. I’m busy.’
The Inspector produced Olga’s photograph.
‘The Kohn girl,’ eh? Yes, what about her? No trouble, eh? A good girl. Works hard. Nothing against her here.’
The Inspector explained that they wanted to know whether Mr Sullivan had, distributed any photographs of Olga; recently.
‘Well now, let me think. She hasn’t been round here for a good time. Doing mannequin work, I rather think. Better for her. A good girl and-a good-looker, but she can’t act, poor child. Just a minute, though. Where’s Horrocks?’
He surged to the door, set it cautiously ajar and bawled ‘Horrocks!’’ through the crack. The secretary sidled in.
‘Horrocks! You know this photograph of the little Kohn? Have we sent it out lately?’
‘Why, yes, sir.’ Don’t you remember? That fellow who said he wanted Russian types for the provinces.’
‘That’s right, that’s right. I knew there was somebody. Tell these gentlemen about him We didn’t know him,’ did we?’
‘No, — sir. Said he was starting management on his own. Name of — wait a minute.’ He pulled a-book from a shelf and turned the leaves with a wetted finger. ‘Yes, here we are — Maurice Vavasour.’
‘Fine sort of name,’ grunted Mr Sullivan. ‘Not his own, naturally. Never is. Probably called Potts or Spink. Can’t run a company as Potts or Spink. ‘ Not classy enough. I’ve got the fellow now: Little chap with a beard. Said he was casting for romantic drama and wanted a Russian type. We gave him the Livinsky girl and the little Petrovna and one or two more. He seemed stuck with this photograph, I remember. I told him Petrovna had more experience, but he said he didn’t mind about that. I didn’t like the fellow.’
‘No?’
‘No. Never like ’em when they want pretty girls without experience. Old Uncle Sullivan may be a hard nut, but he ain’t standing for anything of that sort. Told hire the girl was fitted up with a job, but he said he’d have a shot at her. She never came to me about it, though, so I suppose she
turned him down. If she had come, I’d have put her wise. I ain’t that keen on my commission, and if you ask any of the girls they’il tell you so. What’s the matter, eh? Has this Vavasour got her into a hole?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Wimsey. ‘She’s still in her mannequin job. But Vavasour show Mr Sullivan that other photograph, Inspector. Is that the man?’
Mr. Sullivan and Horrocks put; their heads together over the, photograph of Paul Alexis and shook them simultaneously.
‘No,’ said Horrocks, that’s not the man.’
.’Nothing like him,’ said Mr Sullivan.
‘Sure?’
‘Nothing like him,’ repeated, Mr Sullivan with emphasis. ‘How old’s that, fellow? Well, Vavasour was forty if he, was a day. Hollow-checked beggar, with a voice like Mother Siegel’s Syrup. Make a good Judas, if you were wanting such a thing.’
‘Or a Richard III,’ suggested Mr Horrocks.
‘If you read the part smarmy,’ said Mr Sullivan. ‘Can’t see him in Act V, though. All right for the bit with the citizens. You know. Enter Richard above, reading, between two monks. Matter of fact;’ he added, ‘that’s a difficult part to cast for. Inconsistent, to my mind.. You mightn’t think it, but I. do a bit of reading and thinking now and again, and what I say is, I don’t believe W. Shakespeare had his mind on the job when he wrote that part. Too slimy at the beginning and too tough at the end. It aan’t nature. Not but what the play always acts well. Plenty of pep in it, that’s why. Keeps moving. But he’s made Richard two men in one, that’s what I complain of. One of ‘em’s a wormy, plotting sort of fellow and the other’s a bold, bustling sort of chap who chops people’s heads off and flies into tempers. It don’t seem to fit, somehow, eh?’
Inspector Umpelty began to scrabble with his feet.
‘I always think,’ said Wimsey, ‘that Shakespeare meant Richard to be one of those men who are always deliberately acting a part — dramatising things, so to speak. I.don’t believe his furies are any more real than his love-making. The scene about the strawberries — that’s clearly all put on.’
‘Maybe, But the scene with Buckingham and the clock eh? Maybe you’re’ right. It ain’t supposed to be my business to know about Shakespeare, eh? Chorus-ladies’ legs are my department. But I been mixed up with the stage all my life one way and another, and it Ann’s all legs and bedroom scenes. That makes you laugh, um? To hear me go on like this. But I tell you what,’ it makes me sick, sometimes, been in this business. Half these managers don’t want actors and actresses they want types. When my old father was runnin’ a repertory company it was actors he wanted
fellows who could be Iago one night and Brutus the next and do a bit of farce or genteel comedy in the intervals. But now if a fellow, starts out making his hit with a stammer and an eyeglass he’s got to play stammers and eyeglasses tell he’s ninety. Poor, old Rosencrantz’ He sure was fed-up that you weren’t thinking of playing his Worm for him. As for getting an experienced actor and giving him a show in the part — nix! I’ve got the man that could do it, nice chap — clever as you make ’em. But he made a hit as the dear old silver-haired vicar in Roses Round the Door, and nobody well look at him now, except for silver-haired vicars. It’ll be the end of hem as an actor, but who cares? Only old Uncle Sullivan, who’s got to take his bread the side it’s buttered and look pleasant about et, eh?’