“Er—it can pick up anything you say, even a whisper,” said Hedley. “Speak into it, not to one side—keep a foot away. Don’t let the script rustle too much, or the mike will pick that up, too.”
The Danish girl gripped the script tightly, until her knuckles showed white and the paper quivered violently. Her companion moistened his lips, stared at the mike and then at Wentworth, who had his copy of the script flat on the table in front of him. He was calm, friendly and reassuring. He leaned forward and whispered something, and then looked round.
“Quiet, everyone, please,” called Hedley.
A hush fell on the chattering Italians, but they continued to whisper earnestly near the piano. Wentworth opened with a summary of the organization which the Danes represented, finishing with the question:
“And you like it here in England?”
“Oh, we do!” exclaimed the girl.
“It is wonderful!” cried the boy.
Wentworth shook his head and sat back, tapping his script. Hedley raised his hands hopelessly and watched, half-way between the table and Rollison and Allen.
“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” said Wentworth patiently, “but you have to read from the script—from the paper. Now, look—I finish by saying: “And you like it here in England?” and then Hilda—not you, Hans, you come next, when I’ve spoken again. Hilda, you answer, just as it says on the paper. Forget about the microphone, just follow my words on the paper as you’re told there—see your name?”
“But how foolish!” cried Hilda.
“I shall never do this,” muttered Hans. That thing—it frightens me.” He glared at the microphone.
“Oh, yes you will,” said Wentworth reassuringly. “Now try again.” He read casually and fluently, and finished: “And you like it here in England?”
Hedley turned away from them, cutting them from Rollison’s view, and bending low near Allen.
“We must whisper,” he said. “Have you the alterations in the script?”
“Yes, they’re down here,” said Allen.
“Let me have a look at them.” Hedley took the script and began to read, scratching his chin as he did so. Wentworth, the boy and the girl continued to read, and Rollison judged that they were still giving trouble, the girl dropped her voice too much at the end of every sentence, the boy had a tendency to shout.
“Still determined on doing the alterations?” he asked Allen.
Allen nodded without speaking.
“Anyone here you know?” asked Rollison.
Allen shook his head, then looked at Hedley, as if to say that he knew this man, whom he had seen when he had called on Wednesday afternoon. Hedley kept nodding, and began to read in a whisper. The Danish couple reached the end of their few minutes” trial and Wentworth raised his voice, while everyone in the studio relaxed.
“That was very good—very good indeed,” said Wentworth. He looked through the glass partition, and one of the people with the head-phones beckoned. Wentworth called to Hedley: “Freddy wants a word with you, Mark—Mr. Allen ready yet?”
“No, we’ll have to have the last bit of his script re-typed, it’s been altered and affects your cues,” said Hedley. “Peggy!” he called one of the girls and gave her hasty instructions, then hurried out of the studio.
“How are you feeling?” asked Rollison.
“Hellish!” growled Allen.
Rollison shrugged his shoulders, stood up, and walked across the studio to listen from further away to the burly busker who sat in front of the microphone with every appearance of confidence. From here, Rollison could also study Allen more closely. His forehead was still plastered and his face scratched, but his sullen expression was most worrying.
One of the girls came into the studio, looked about her and made a bee-line for Alien.
Wentworth, at the mike, began to read: “Artists have the reputation of being unconventional people, and in the studio to-night is Mr. Arthur Mellor, whose pictures have been hung in the Royal Academy but who prefers to paint in a rather unusual fashion—in the leafy lanes and lovely villages of England. That is so, isn’t it, Mr. Mellor?”
The burly “busker” said crisply:
“That’s right. I dislike towns, and I don’t see why pictures I paint should hang on the walls of houses where only a few people can see them. If they’re worth looking at, then I think everyone, rich and poor, should have a chance to see them and if they’re not worth looking at, they ought to be burned. I paint inn-signs—have done for years.”
Rollison grimaced to himself.
The burly “busker” was the travelling artist and the neatly-dressed little man was presumably the real busker.
Then Rollison saw that the girl had given Allen a note; Allen was reading it, his hands clenched, his mouth tight. He gave an almost frightened, furtive glance, searching the faces of all the people near him, then looked back at the note. He crumpled it up and thrust it into his pocket.
The wandering artist talked on about his inn-signs . . .
Rollison let a few minutes pass and, when there was a break in the rehearsal, strolled across to Allen, who met him with a cold, hostile stare. It would be useless to ask him what the message said, and Rollison sat down as if he noticed nothing. They waited until the artist’s rehearsal was over, and the well-dressed man approached the other table, where Wentworth awaited him.
“All ready?” asked Wentworth.
“Yes—fire away.”
“This is a world of queues,” began Wentworth, “and weary queuers are often entertained by actors who prefer the road and the pavement to the stage itself. With us in the studio is . . .”
Rollison slid his right hand to Allen’s pocket, felt the crumpled paper, caught it between his middle finger and forefinger and gently drew it out. Allen was quite unaware of what he was doing. Rollison slipped the paper into his own pocket. The other girl came in, carrying some sheets of paper, and
Hedley took one from her and brought it to Alien.
“Just check this new script, will you?” he asked.
Allen read it and after a few minutes, Wentworth looked across at them inquiringly. Hedley gave the interviewer the sheet of the revised script, and Wentworth scanned it, then nodded.
“All set?” asked Hedley, and Allen went slowly, almost nervously, to the table. He sat down, and Hedley took the seat he had just vacated.
“Very nervous, isn’t he—much more than I thought he’d be, when I saw him the other day,” he remarked. “He looks as if he’s had an accident.”
“He has, and it shook him up a bit,” said Rollison, “but he’ll be all right once the stage-fright’s over.”
“Mike-fright,” corrected Hedley absently. “Hallo, here are the Lundys.” He hurried across the studio as a couple in evening dress entered. The man was tall and good-looking, dressed in tails, a fitting foil to his wife, who wore a gown of blue sequins—a handsome woman. Neither of them looked like the comic turn they were on stage and screen.
Allen was talking freely enough, in a low-pitched, well modulated voice.
Rollison took out the note, and read: “Don’t forget you’re being watched in the studio. If you get a word wrong, you won’t leave the room alive.”