The Real Inspector Hound and Other Plays (2 page)

Anyway
,
BIRDBOOT,
with a box of Black Magic, makes his way down to join
MOON
and plumps himself down next to him, plumpish middle-aged
BIRDBOOT
and younger taller, less-relaxed
MOON.

BIRDBOOT
(
sitting down; conspiratorially
): Me and the lads have had a meeting in the bar and decided it’s first-class family entertainment but if it goes on beyond half-past ten it’s self-indulgent—pass it on … (
and laughs jovially
) I’m on my own tonight, don’t mind if I join you?

MOON
: Hello, Birdboot.

BIRDBOOT
: Where’s Higgs?

MOON
: I’m standing in.

MOON AND BIRDBOOT
: Where’s Higgs?

MOON
: Every time.

BIRDBOOT
: What?

MOON
: It is as if we only existed one at a time, combining to achieve continuity. I keep space warm for Higgs. My presence defines his absence, his absence confirms my presence, his presence precludes mine. … When Higgs and I walk down this aisle together to claim our common seat, the oceans will fall into the sky and the trees will hang with fishes.

BIRDBOOT
(
he has not been paying attention, looking around vaguely, now catches up
): Where’s Higgs?

MOON
: The very sight of me with a complimentary ticket is enough. The streets are impassable tonight, the country is rising and the cry goes up from hill to hill—Where—is—Higgs? (
Small pause
.) Perhaps he’s dead at last, or trapped in a lift somewhere, or succumbed to amnesia, wandering the land with his turn-ups stuffed with ticket-stubs.
(
BIRDBOOT
regards him doubtfully for a moment
.)

BIRDBOOT
: Yes. … Yes, well I didn’t bring Myrtle tonight—not exactly her cup of tea, I thought, tonight.

MOON
: Over her head, you mean?

BIRDBOOT
: Well, no—I mean it’s a sort of a
thriller
, isn’t it?

MOON
: Is it?

BIRDBOOT
: That’s what I heard. Who killed thing?—no one will leave the house.

MOON
: I suppose so. Underneath.

BIRDBOOT
:
Underneath
?!? It’s a whodunnit, man!—Look at it!
(
They look at it. The room. The
BODY.
Silence
.)
Has it started yet?

MOON
: Yes.
(
Pause. They look at it
.)

BIRDBOOT
: Are you sure?

MOON
: It’s a pause.

BIRDBOOT
: You can’t start with a
pause
! If you want my opinion there’s total panic back there. (
Laughs and subsides
.) Where’s Higgs tonight, then?

MOON
: It will follow me to the grave and become my epitaph—Here lies Moon the second string: where’s Higgs? … Sometimes I dream of revolution, a bloody
coup d’etat
by the second rank—troupes of actors slaughtered by their understudies, magicians sawn in half by indefatigably smiling glamour girls, cricket teams wiped out by marauding bands of twelfth men—I dream of champions chopped down by rabbit-punching sparring partners while eternal bridesmaids turn and rape the bridegrooms over the sausage rolls and parliamentary private secretaries plant bombs in the Minister’s Humber—comedians die on provincial stages, robbed of their feeds by mutely triumphant stooges—
—and—march—
—an army of assistants and deputies, the seconds-in-command, the runners-up, the right-handmen—storming the palace gates wherein the second son has already mounted the throne having committed regicide with a croquet-mallet—stand-ins of the world stand up!—
(
Beat
.) Sometimes I dream of Higgs.
(
Pause
,
BIRDBOOT
regards him doubtfully. He is at a loss, and grasps reality in the form of his box of chocolates
.)

BIRDBOOT
(
Chewing into mike
): Have a chocolate!

MOON
: What kind?

BIRDBOOT
: (
Chewing into mike
): Black Magic.

MOON
: No thanks.
(
Chewing stops dead
.)
(
Of such tiny victories and defeats
. …)

BIRDBOOT
: I’ll give you a tip, then. Watch the girl.

MOON
: You think she did it?

BIRDBOOT
: No, no—the
girl
, watch her.

MOON
: What girl?

BIRDBOOT
: You won’t know her, I’ll give you a nudge.

MOON
:
You
know her, do you?

BIRDBOOT
(
suspiciously, bridling
): What’s
that
supposed to mean?

MOON
: I beg your pardon?

BIRDBOOT
: I’m trying to tip you a wink—give you a nudge as good as a tip—for God’s sake, Moon, what’s the matter with you?—you could do yourself some good, spotting her first time out—she’s new, from the provinces, going straight to the top. I don’t want to put words into your mouth but a word from us and we could make her.

MOON
: I suppose you’ve made dozens of them, like that.

BIRDBOOT
(
instantly outraged
): I’ll have you know I’m a family man devoted to my homely but good-natured wife, and if you’re suggesting—

MOON
: No, no—

BIRDBOOT
:—A man of my scrupulous morality—

MOON
: I’m sorry—

BIRDBOOT
:—falsely besmirched.

MOON
: Is that her?
(
For
M
RS. DRUDGE
has entered
.)

BIRDBOOT
:—don’t be absurd, wouldn’t be seen dead with the old—ah.
(M
RS
. D
RUDGE
is the char, middle-aged, turbanned. She heads straight for the radio, dusting on the trot
.)

MOON
(
reading his programme
): Mrs. Drudge the Help.

RADIO
(
without preamble, having been switched on by
MRS. DRUDGE
):
We interrupt our programme for a special police message.
(
MRS. DRUDGE
stops to listen
.)
The search still goes on for the escaped madman who is on the run in Essex.

MRS. DRUDGE
(
fear and dismay
): Essex !

RADIO
: County police led by Inspector Hound have received a report that the man has been seen in the desolate marshes around Muldoon Manor.
(
Fearful gasp from
MRS. DRUDGE
.)
The man is wearing a darkish suit with a lightish shirt He is of medium height and build and youngish. Anyone seeing a man answering to this description and acting suspiciously, is advised to phone the nearest police station.
(
A man answering this description has appeared behind
MRS. DRUDGE.
He is acting suspiciously. He creeps in. He creeps out
.
MRS. DRUDGE
does not see him. He does not see the body
.)
That is the end of the police message.
(
MRS. DRUDGE
turns off the radio and resumes her cleaning. She does not see the body. Quite fortuitously
;
her view of the body is always blocked, and when it isn’t she has her back to it. However, she is dusting and polishing her way towards it
.)

BIRDBOOT
: So that’s what they say about me, is it?

MOON
: What?

BIRDBOOT
: Oh, I know what goes on behind my back—sniggers—slanders—hole-in-corner innuendo—What have you heard?

MOON
: Nothing.

BIRDBOOT
(
urbanely
): Tittle tattle. Tittle, my dear fellow, tattle. I take no notice of it—the sly envy of scandal mongers—I can afford to ignore them, I’m a respectable married man—

MOON
: Incidentally——

BIRDBOOT
: Water off a duck’s back, I assure you.

MOON
: Who was that lady I saw you with last night?

BIRDBOOT
(
unexpectedly stung into fury
): How dare you! (
More quietly
) How dare you. Don’t you come here with your slimy insinuations! My wife Myrtle understands perfectly well that a man of my critical standing is obliged occasionally to
mingle with the world of the footlights, simply by way of keeping
au fait
with the latest——mingle with the world of the footlights, simply by way of keeping
au fait
with the latest——

MOON
: I’m sorry——

BIRDBOOT
: That a critic of my scrupulous integrity should be
vilified and pilloried in the stocks of common gossip——

MOON
: Ssssh——

BIRDBOOT
: I have nothing to hide!—why, if this should reach the
ears of my beloved Myrtle——

MOON
: Can I have a chocolate?

BIRDBOOT
: What? Oh——(
Mollified
.) Oh yes—my dear fellowyes,
let’s have a chocolate—No point in—yes, good show. (
Pops chocolate into his mouth and chews
.) Which one do you fancy?—Cherry? Strawberry? Coffee cream? Turkish delight?

MOON
: I’ll have montelimar.
(
Chewing stops
.)

BIRDBOOT
: Ah. Sorry. (
Just missed that one
.)

MOON
: Gooseberry fondue?

BIRDBOOT
: No.

MOON
: Pistacchio fudge? Nectarine cluster? Hickory nut praline? Chateau Neuf du Pape ’55 cracknell?

BIRDBOOT
: I’m afraid not … Caramel?

MOON
: Yes, all right.

BIRDBOOT
: Thanks very much. (
He gives
MOON
a chocolate. Pause
.) Incidentally, old chap, I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention—I mean, you know how these misunderstandings get about....

MOON
: What?

BIRDBOOT
: The fact is, Myrtle simply doesn’t
like
the theatre.... (
He tails off hopelessly
.
MRS. DRUDGE,
whose discovery of the body has been imminent, now—by way of tidying the room—slides the couch over the corpse, hiding it completely. She resumes dusting and humming
.)

MOON
: By the way, congratulations, Birdboot.

BIRDBOOT
: What?

MOON
: At the Theatre Royal. Your entire review reproduced in neon!

BIRDBOOT
(
pleased
): Oh … that old thing.

MOON
: You’ve seen it, of course.

BIRDBOOT
(
vaguely
): Well, I was passing. …

MOON
: I definitely intend to take a second look when it has settled down.

BIRDBOOT
: As a matter of fact I have a few colour transparencies—I don’t know whether you’d care to …?

MOON
: Please, please—love to, love to....
(
BIRDBOOT
hands over a few colour slides and a battery-powered viewer which
MOON
holds up to his eyes as he speaks
.) Yes... yes... lovely... awfully sound. It has scale, it has colour, it is, in the best sense of the word, electric. Large as it is, it is a small masterpiece—I would go so far as to say—kinetic without being pop, and having said that, I think it must be said that here we have a review that adds a new dimension to the critical scene. I urge you to make haste to the Theatre Royal, for this is the stuff of life itself. (
Handing back the slides, morosely
): All I ever got was “Unforgettable” on the posters for … What was it?