Murder in the Title by Simon Brett Read Free Book Online

you?’
    â€˜Just the once,’ said Mimi tartly. Then she again looked sharply at her guest. ‘Oh, did I say – there was a telephone message for you?’
    â€˜No, you didn’t.’
    â€˜From the General Manager at the theatre.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜I didn’t wake you. Told him you was sleeping it off.’
    â€˜Thank you very much, Mimi.’
    â€˜Think nothing of it. Anything for my gentlemen.’ She gave a sickly smile, as usual obscuring whether she was aware or not of her own ironies. ‘Anyway, he wants you to go and see him.’
    No surprise, really, thought Charles. Long time since I’ve been sacked. The prospect gave him a perverse pleasure; it was the logical culmination of the previous day’s kamikaze behaviour.
    â€˜When does he want to see me?’
    â€˜Soon as convenient, he said.’
    â€˜I’d better go straight away.’ Charles rose.
    â€˜Oh no, you’ve got time to finish your eggs.’
    Charles sank back into his chair.
    The administrative office was at the top of the Regent Theatre, above the bar. When Charles entered, it was empty. The room, snatched out of storage space as an afterthought, was cramped but, compared to most of the theatre administrative offices he had seen, well organized. Its tidiness, he thought, probably reflected the mind of the General Manager. Donald Mason, it seemed, had been with the Regent less than a year, but had made a quick impression on the efficiency of the theatre. His predecessors, according to Gordon Tremlett who knew about such things, had been, to a man, creatures devoted to the principle of minimum effort.
    An in-tray and an out-tray were neatly aligned on the desk, with a telephone and intercom placed exactly between them. The in-tray was empty, a commendable sign of industry at that time in the morning. The out-tray was fairly full, and on top of it was a hand-written note.
    The writing was recognizably tiny. Charles had received a good-luck note in the same hand on the opening night of
The Message Is Murder
.
    He couldn’t read the note in the in-tray without crossing the room to peer at it. Which he knew he shouldn’t do.
    But which, with the recklessness of a man about to lose his job, he did.
    The note read as follows:
    SORRY ABOUT THE TOTAL COCK-UP OF EVERYTHING.
    NO EXCUSES.
    YOURS ABJECTLY,
    TONY
    Oh dear. What was the Artistic Director’s latest feat of mismanagement?
    Charles heard a movement outside the door and moved hastily across to the other side of the room. Donald Mason entered in another of his executive suits, looking grimly flustered.
    â€˜Sorry, Charles, won’t keep you a minute. One important call I must make.’ The General Manager dialled without disturbing the symmetry of the telephone’s position on his desk. ‘Ah, Mr Hughes. Donald Mason here, Regent Theatre. Just checking the position on the Drill Hall. Yes, yes, that’s what I heard. Hmm. No, of course I can see your point of view.’ The General Manager sighed. ‘Oh yes, I did mention it to him, but it must have slipped his mind. Yes, well, he’s got a lot on his plate, particularly when he’s in rehearsal for a show. Yes, I agree, he always does seem to be in rehearsal for a show. Well, we must make allowances, mustn’t we? The old artistic temperament, eh? What? Oh, yes. Anyway, no hard feelings on my side. Mr Hughes. You gave us plenty of warning and, if it’s booked, it’s booked. Okay, sorry again. ’Bye.’
    He put the phone down and looked at Charles with a grim smile. ‘Sometimes, you know. I feel like one of those men who follows a big parade with a shovel and cleans up after the horses. Except it’s a one-man parade that goes by the name of Antony Wensleigh.’
    â€˜Ah.’ Charles didn’t feel he could comment on the Artistic Director’s behaviour.
    â€˜Know what he’s done now? Only lost us the Drill