As it happened, when at two o’clock I arrived at the stage door, there was no one to stop me. I was able to wander freely through a mysterious succession of musty tiled corridors until I found the dressing-rooms. There were only three. One was marked Actors, one Actresses and the third, cryptically, Others. I knocked on the ladies’ door and heard familiar English giggles and shrieks. A voice shouted for me to enter. I turned the handle and was immersed suddenly in a confusion of tinsel and cheap brightly coloured fabric, the smell of sweat, paint and strong perfume. Smoking and still wearing her street clothes (a gorgeous pink frock with green trim) Mrs Cornelius stood leaning against an unplastered wall. Her blonde hair was fashionably waved. She wore bright red lipstick. With her emphatic mascara and rouge, she looked even lovelier than when I had last seen her in Constantinople.
She recognised me. At first she was expressionless, shaking her head. ‘Bloody ‘ell,’ she said. ‘Wotcher, Ivan.’ She began to chuckle, ‘It’s abart time ya turned up. Yore lookin’ the toff orl right. So yore doin’ as well as yer said, eh! ‘Ave yer come ter take me orf ter ‘Ollywood?’
I moved forward uncertainly between the clutter and the two other young women, oblivious of them. I took her hand and kissed it. ‘You remain the most beautiful creature in the world!’ I was entranced, as always. I could not disguise my ecstatic emotion. Behind me the skinny little girls giggled and whispered. Mrs Cornelius leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek. Her fragrance was intoxicating. ‘Come orf it, Ive. We ain’t on stage fer anuvver ten minutes! Still, I carn’t say I’m not pleased ter see yer, ‘cause I am. Wot yer bin up ter?’
It was my turn to smile. ‘Oh, all kinds of things. In the past year I’ve been on tour.’
‘Wot? Actin’?’
‘You could say so. They call it lecturing. How long have you been here?’
She had arrived in New York the previous summer. The show had been booked by an agency which led them to believe they would be appearing in major theatres, ‘Instead we come on between ther bloody flickers while they’re changin’ the effin’ reels. Ter keep ther bleedin’ customers from tearin’ up ther rotten seats!’ She shrugged, dismissing a wealth and variety of disappointments with her usual good humour. ‘But at least we’re workin’. An’ ther Yanks ain’t bad audiences, mostly. This is ther biggest bookin’ we’ve ‘ad since Phily-bloody-delphia. We got anuvver week, then it’s renewable. Dunno wot we’ll do if they don’t bleedin’ renew. Ther bloke managin’ us run off ter Brazil in February, wiv ther juvenile lead, littel effin’ poof.’
As she talked she began, with unconscious grace, to change into her costume. ‘Wot woz yore management like?’
‘I’m in a similar predicament. A change of directors. No further bookings. I’m currently at a loose end.’
She looked back at me, cigarette in the corner of her mouth, a small frown in her eyes. ‘Ya bin duffed up, ain’t yer? ‘Oo dun it, Ive?’
‘Cowboys,’ I said. ‘My last appearance wasn’t received too well. One of those Western towns.’
‘Yeah,’ she agreed, ‘they let yer know when yer ain’t goin’ over too well. So yore art o’ work, eh? Ya c’d orlways come in wiv us. Ya couldn’t do worse’n ther larst bloke. Managin’, I mean.’ She made small, dainty adjustments to her tights and spangled bodice. The costume matched those her friends were wearing.
I had nothing else to do. I would dearly love to be close to the woman who had been my most reliable friend. Yet I had no general experience of theatre work. I did not know what rates to charge or how to approach owners. There again I was sure to learn quickly. I said the idea had its attractions. She seemed pleasantly surprised. ‘Buy me some supper after ther show.’ she said as the distorted sounds of music came from the auditorium. ‘And we’ll tork abart it some more.’ She tripped towards the darkness.
‘Oh do, please do help us!’ whispered the last girl hastily, turning huge, vulnerable eyes on me. Then all three ran for the stage. The girl at the rear offered me a red grin.
That night Mrs Cornelius and I ate at Hong Kong Willy’s on Grant Avenue, ‘It woz yore fault, reelly,’ she said. ‘Writin’ orl them bleedin’ letters sayin’ ‘ow great it woz ‘ere. So I jumped at ther chance, din’ I? Yer orta think it over, this opportunity I’m offerin’.’ She had already convinced me (as she would always convince me) that my ‘gift of the gab’ made me ideally suited to manage the Beauties from Blighty. ‘It only needs a few ‘undred dollars extra cash ter get us orf ther grahnd. An’ you’ve got that much easy, aincha? Give it a try, Ivan, since yer’ve nuffink else on. We got orl the leaflets an’ stuff. Ya could do it! A small stake an’ you own ther Beauties.’
I was too embarrassed to tell her that my money was hard to ‘liquidate’. I promised her a decision as quickly as possible. I was certain I could manage the troupe. She had explained how the important trick was to keep the attention of theatre owners long enough to convince them of the value of the act. But money would be needed for improvements, to pay travel expenses for a while, and so on. It would mean that I should have to risk a visit to my bank. It was only on this point I hesitated.
When I returned to Goldberg’s a youngish man was waiting for me in the alcove beside the desk. He was tall, fashionably dressed and courteous, carrying himself with a straight-shouldered stance suggesting a military or sporting background. I was sure he was from the Justice Department and was on the point of asking how he had traced me when he introduced himself as Harry Galiano and vigorously shook my hand. With relief I realized he was an emissary from Annibale Santucci’s cousin. My message had been received, ‘If you ain’t too busy, the boss could see you tonight.’ He spoke with grave politeness. I asked for a moment to go to my room. There I used some of Mrs Mawgan’s remaining ‘wings’ to ensure I had a few more hours of wakefulness. When I rejoined him he smiled suddenly, with the same cheerful insouciance as Santucci. He was quite as proud, when he escorted me round the corner into Broadway, of the large blue Packard parked there. ‘Be my guest,’ he said. With a flourish he opened the passenger door.
For some time we drove in silence through the diffused, multicoloured night of downtown San Francisco. The fog was growing thicker. Harry was content to concentrate on steering his big machine through the confused traffic of Market, past the cable car terminus, and to the wharf, visible as a series of yellow lights barely piercing the fog. We were guided up the ramp by at least half a dozen shadowy men in blue overalls and then, with a moan, the ferry staggered in the water, lurched sluggishly from the dockside, settling down to a steady speed as she ploughed out into the unseen waters of the Bay. It was only then, as we stood smoking beside the shackled Packard, that Harry became talkative. He and Vince, he said, were ‘buddies from way back’, first in the hotel trade, as chefs, later as restaurant owners. These days his boss ran a select country-club out past Berkeley. That was where we were going. I would like the club. It was very European. Very high class.