The bar in front of him was wet and sloppy; Sir Charles Hanover Gresham carefully rested his forearms on the raised dry rim of it and held the folded copy of Stagecraft that he was reading up out of the puddles. His forearms, not his elbows; when you have but one suit and it is getting threadbare you remember not to rest your elbows on a bar or a table. Just as, when you sit, you always pull up the trouser legs an inch or two to keep the knees from becoming baggy.

When you are an actor you remember those things. Even if you're a has-been who never really was and who certainly never will be, living — barely — off blackmail, drinking beer in a Bowery bar, hung over and miserable, at two o'clock on a cool fall afternoon, you remember.

But you always read Stagecraft.

He was reading it now. “Gambler Angels Meller,” a one-column headline told him; he read even that, casually. Then he came to a name in the second paragraph, the name of the playwright. One of his eyebrows rose a full millimeter at that name. Wayne Campbell, his patron,  had written another play.

The first in three full years. Not that that mattered to Wayne, for his last play and his second last had both sold to Hollywood for very substantial sums. New plays or no, Wayne Campbell would keep on eating caviar and drinking champagne. And new plays or no, he, Sir Charles Hanover Gresham, would keep on eating hamburger sandwiches and drinking beer. It was the only thing he was ashamed of — not the hamburgers and the beer, but the means by which he was forced to obtain them. Blackmail is a nasty word; he hated it.

But now, possibly, just possibly-Even that chance was worth celebrating. He looked at the bar in front of him; fifteen cents lay there. He took his last dollar bill from his pocket and put it down on the one dry spot on the bar.

“Mac!” he said. Mac, the bartender, who had been gazing into space through the wall, came over. He asked,

“The same, Charlie?”

“Not the same, Mac. This time the amber fluid.”

“You mean whiskey?”

“I do indeed. One for you and one for me. Ah, with the Grape my jading life provide...”

Mac poured two shots and refilled Sir Charles's beer glass. “Chaser's on me.” He rang up fifty cents.

Sir Charles raised his shot glass and looked past it, not at Mac the bartender but at his own reflection in the smeary back-bar mirror. A quite distinguished-looking gentleman stared back at him. They smiled at one another; then they both looked at Mac, one of them from the front, the other from the back.

“To your excellent health, Mac,” they said — Sir Charles aloud and his reflection silently. The raw, cheap whiskey burned a warm and grateful path.

Mac looked over and said, “You're a screwy guy, Charlie, but I like you. Sometimes I think you really are a knight. I dunno.”

“A Hair perhaps divides the False and True”  said Sir Charles. “Do you by any chance know Omar, Mac?”

“Omar who?”

“The tentmaker. A great old boy, Mac; he's got me down to a T. Listen to this:

 

 

After a momentary silence spake

Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make:

'They sneer at me from leaning all awry:  

What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?' ”

 

 

Mac said, “I don't get it.”

Sir Charles sighed. “Am I all awry, Mac? Seriously, I'm going to phone and make an important appointment, maybe.

Do I look all right or am I leaning all awry? Oh, Lord, Mac, I just thought what that would make me. Hamawry.”

“You look all right, Charlie.”

“But, Mac, you missed that horrible pun. Ham awry. Ham on rye.”

“You mean you want a sandwich?”

Sir Charles smiled gently. He said, “I'll change my mind, Mac; I'm not hungry after all. But perhaps the exchequer will stand another drink.”

It stood another drink. Mac went to another customer.

The haze was coming, the gentle haze. The figure in the back-bar mirror smiled at him as though they had a secret in common. And they had, but the drinks were helping them to forget it — at least to shove it to the back of the mind. Now, through the gentle haze that was not really drunkenness, that figure in the mirror did not say, “You're a fraud and a failure, Sir Charles, living on black mail,” as it so often and so accusingly had said. No, now it said, “You're a fine fellow, Sir Charles; a little down on your luck for these last few — let us not say how many-years. Things are going to change. You'll walk the boards; you'll hold audiences in the palm of your hand. You're an actor,  man.”

He downed his second shot to that, and then, sipping his beer slowly, he read again the article in Stagecraft,  the actor's Bible.

GAMBLER ANGELS MELLER

There wasn't much detail, but there was enough. The name of the melodrama was The Perfect Crime,  which didn't matter; the author was Wayne Campbell, which did matter.

Wayne could try to get him into the cast; Wayne would try.

And not because of threat of blackmail; quite the converse.

And, although this didn't matter either, the play was being backed by Nick Corianos. Maybe, come to think of it, that did matter. Nick Corianos was a plunger, a real bigshot.

 The Perfect Crime wouldn't lack for funds, not if Nick was backing it. You've heard of Nick Corianos. Legend has it that he once dropped half a million dollars in a single forty-hour session of poker, and laughed about it. Legend says many unpleasant things about him, too, but the police have never proved them.

Sir Charles smiled at the thought — Nick Corianos getting away with The Perfect Crime.  He wondered if that thought had come to Corianos, if it was part of his reason for backing this particular play. One of life's little pleasures, thinking such things. Posing, posturing, knowing you were ridiculous, knowing you were a cheat and a failure, you lived on the little pleasures — and the big dreams.

Still smiling gently, he picked up his change and went to the phone booth at the front of the tavern near the door. He dialed Wayne Campbell's number. He said, “Wayne? This is Charles Gresham.”

“Yes?”

“May I see you, at your office?”

Now listen, Gresham, if it's more money, no. You've got some coming in three days and you agreed, definitely agreed, that if I gave you that amount regularly, you'd—”

“Wayne, it's not money. The opposite, my dear boy. It can save you money.”

“How?” He was cold, suspicious.

“You'll be casting for your new play. Oh, I know you don't do the actual casting yourself, but a word from you — a word from you, Wayne, would get me a part. Even a walk-on, Wayne, anything, and I won't bother you again.”

“While the play runs, you mean?”

Sir Charles cleared his throat. He said, regretfully, “Of course, while the play runs. But if it's a play of yours, Wayne, it may run a long time.”

“You'd get drunk and get fired before it got out of rehearsal.”

“No. I don't drink when I'm working, Wayne. What have you to lose? I won't disgrace you. You know I can act. Don't you?”

“Yes.” It was grudging, but it was a yes. “All right —you've got a point if it'll save me money. And it's a cast of fourteen; I suppose I could—”

“I'll be right over, Wayne. And thanks, thanks a lot.” He left the booth and went outside, quickly, into the cool, crisp air, before he'd be tempted to take another drink to celebrate the fact that he would be on the boards again. Might be,  he corrected himself quickly. Even with help from Wayne Campbell, it was no certainty.

He shivered a little, walking to the subway. He'd have to buy himself a coat out of his next — allowance. It was turning colder; he shivered more as he walked from the subway to Wayne's office. But Wayne's office was warm, if Wayne wasn't. Wayne sat there staring at him.

Finally he said, “You don't look the part, Gresham.

Damn it all, you don't look it. And that's funny.”

Sir Charles said, “I don't know why it's funny, Wayne.

But looking the part means nothing. There is such a thing as make-up, such a thing as acting. A true actor can look any part.”

Surprisingly, Wayne was chuckling with amusement.

He said, “You don't know it's funny, Gresham, but it is.

I've got two possibilities you can try for. One of them is practically a walk-on; you'd get three short speeches. The other—”

“Yes?”

“It is funny, Gresham. There's a blackmailer in my play.

And damn it all, you are one; you've been living off me for five years now.”

Sir Charles said, “Very reasonably, Wayne. You must admit my demands are modest, and that I've never increased them.”

“You are a very paragon of blackmailers, Gresham. I assure you it's a pleasure — practically. But the cream of the jest would be letting you play the blackmailer in my play so that for the duration of it I wouldn't be paying you blackmail.

And it's a fairly strong supporting role; it'd pay you a lot more than you ask from me. But—”

“But what?”

“Damned if you look it. I don't think you'd be convincing, as a blackmailer. You're always so apologetic and ashamed about it — and yes, I know, you wouldn't be doing it if you could earn your eats — and drinks — any other way.

But the blackmailer in my play is a fairly hard-boiled mug.

Has to be. People wouldn't believe in anybody like you, Gresham.”

“Give me a chance at it, Wayne. Let me read the part.”

“I think we'd better settle for the smaller role. You said you'd settle for a walk-on, and this other part is a little better than that. You wouldn't be convincing in the fat role. You're just not a heavy, Gresham.”

“Let me read it. At least let me read it.”

Wayne Campbell shrugged. He pointed to a bound manuscript on a corner of his desk, nearer to Sir Charles than to him. He said, “Okay, the role is Richter. Your biggest scene, your longest and most dramatic speech is about two pages back of the first-act curtain. Go ahead and read it to me.”

Sir Charles's fingers trembled just slightly with eagerness as he found the first-act curtain and thumbed back. He said, “Let me read it to myself first, Wayne, to get the sense of it.”

It was a longish speech, but he read it rapidly twice and he had it; memorizing had always been easy for him. He put down the manuscript and thought an instant to put himself in the mood.

His face grow cold and hard. Iris eyes hooded. He stood up and leaned his hands on the desk, caught Wayne's eyes with his own, and poured on the speech, his voice cold and precise and deadly.

And it was a balm to his actor's soul that Wayne's eyes widened as he listened to it. He said, “I'll be damned. You can act. Okay, I'll try to get you the role. I didn't think you had it in you, but you have. Only if you cross me up by drinking—”

“I won't.” Sir Charles sat down; he'd been calm and cold during the speech. Now he was trembling a little again and he didn't want it to show. Wayne might think it was drink or poor health, and not know that it was eagerness and excitement.

This might be the start of it, the comeback he'd hoped for —he hated to think how long it had been that he'd been hoping.

But one good supporting role, and in a Wayne Campbell play that might have a long run, and he'd be on his way. Producers would notice him and there'd be another and slightly better role when this play folded, and a better one after that.

He knew he was kidding himself, but the excitement, the hope was there. It went to his head like stronger drink than any tavern served.

Maybe he'd even have a chance to play again in a Shakespeare revival, and there are always Shakespeare revivals. He knew most of every major Shakesperean role, although he'd played only minor ones. Macbeth, that great speech of Macbeth's—He said, “I wish you were Shakespeare, Wayne. I wish you were just writing Macbeth.  Beautiful stuff in there, Wayne. Listen: Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,  To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools  The way to dusty death. Out, out—”

“Brief candle, et cetera. Sure, it's beautiful and I wish, too, that I were Shakespeare, Gresham. But I haven't got all day to listen.”

Sir Charles sighed and stood up. Macbeth had stood him in good stead; he wasn't trembling any more. He said, “Nobody ever has time to listen. Well, Wayne, thanks tremendously.”

“Wait a minute. You sound as though I'm doing the casting and have already signed you. I'm only the first hurdle.

We're going to let the director do the actual casting, with Corianos's and my advice and consent, but we haven't hired a director yet. I think it's going to be Dixon, but it isn't a hundred per cent sure yet.”

“Shall I go talk to him? I know him slightly.”

“Ummm — not till it's definite. If I send you to him, he'll be sure we are hiring him, and maybe he'll want more money.

Not that it won't take plenty to get him anyway. But you can talk to Nick; he's putting up the money and he'll have a say in the casting.”

“Sure, I'll do that, Wayne.”

Wayne reached for his wallet. “Here's twenty bucks,” he said. “Straighten out a little; get a shave and a haircut and a clean shirt. Your suit's all right. Maybe you should have it pressed. And listen—”

“Yes?”

“That twenty's no gift. It comes out of your next.”

“More than fair. How shall I handle Corianos? Sell him on the idea that I can handle the part, as I did you?”

Wayne Campbell grinned, lie said, “Speak the speech, I pray you, as you haw, pronounced it to me, trippingly on the tongue; but if you month it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the towncrier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air—

I can recite Shakespeare, too.”

“We'll not mention how.” Sir Charles smiled. “Thanks a million, Wayne. Good-by.”

He got the haircut, which he needed, and the shave, which he didn't really need — he'd shaved this morning. He bought a new white shirt and had his shoes shined and his suit pressed. He had his soul lifted with three Manhattans in a respectable bar — three, sipped slowly, and no more. And he ate — the three cherries from the Manhattans.

The back-bar mirror wasn't smeary. It was blue glass, though, and it made him look sinister. He smiled a sinister smile at his reflection. He thought, Blackmailer. The role; play it to the hilt, throw yourself into it. And someday you'll play Macbeth.

Should he try it on the bartender? No. He'd tried it on bartenders before.

The blue reflection in the back-bar mirror smiled at him.

He looked from it to the front windows and the front windows, too, were faintly blue with dusk. And that meant it was time. Corianos might be in his office above his club by now.

He went out into the blue dusk. He took a cab. Not for practical reasons; it was only ten blocks and he could easily have walked. But, psychologically, a cab was important. As important as was an oversize tip to the driver.

The Blue Flamingo, Nick Corianos's current club, was still closed, of course, but the service entrance was open. Sir Charles went in. One waiter was working, putting cloths on tables. Sir Charles asked, “Will you direct me to Mr. Corianos's office, please?”

“Third floor. There's a self-service elevator over there.”

He pointed, and, looking again at Sir Charles, he added, “Sir.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Charles.

He took the elevator to the third floor. It let him off in a dimly lighted corridor, from which opened several doors.

Only one door had a light behind it showing through the ground glass. It was marked “Private.” He tapped on it gently; a voice called out, “Come in.” He went in. Two big men were playing gin rummy across a desk.

One of them asked him, “Yeah?”

“Is either of you Mr. Corianos?”

“What do you want to see him about?”

“My card, sir.” Sir Charles handed it to the one who had spoken; he felt sure by looking at them that neither one of them was Nick Corianos. “Will you tell Mr. Corianos that I wish to speak to him about a matter in connection with the play he is backing?”

The man who had spoken looked at the card. He said,

“Okay,” and put down his hand of cards; he walked to the door of an inner office and through it. After a moment he appeared at the door again; he said, “Okay.” Sir Charles went in.

Nick Corianos looked up from the card lying on the ornate mahogany desk before him. He asked, “Is it a gag?”

“Is what a gag?”

“Sit down. Is it a gag, or are you really Sir Charles Hanover Gresham? I mean, are you really a — that would be a knight, wouldn't it? Are you really a knight?”

Sir Charles smiled. “I have never yet admitted, in so many words, that I am not. Would it not be foolish to start now? At any rate, it gets me in to see people much more easily.”

Nick Corianos laughed. He said, “I see what you mean.

And I'm beginning to guess what you want. You're a ham, aren't you?”

“I am an actor. I have been informed that you are backing a play; in fact, I have seen a script of the play. I am interested in playing the role of Richter.”

Nick Corianos frowned. “Richter — that's the name of the blackmailer in the play?”

“It is.” Sir Charles held up a hand. “Please do not tell me offhand that I do not look the part. A true actor can look, and can be, anything. I can be a blackmailer.”

Nick Corianos said, “Possibly. But I'm not handling the casting.”

Sir Charles smiled, and then let the smile fade. He stood up and leaned forward, his hands resting on Nick's mahogany desk. He smiled again, but the smile was different. His voice was cold, precise, perfect. He said, “Listen, pal, you can't shove me off. I know too much. Maybe I can't prove it myself, but the police can, once I tell them where to look. Walter Donovan. Does that name mean anything to you, pal? Or the   date September first? Or a spot a hundred yards off the road to Bridgeport, halfway between Stamford and there. Do you think you can—?”

“That's enough,” Nick said. There was an ugly black automatic in his right hand. His left was pushing a buzzer on his desk.

Sir Charles Hanover Gresham stared at the automatic, and he saw it — not only the automatic, but everything. He saw death, and for just a second there was panic.

And then all the panic was gone, and there was left a vast amusement.

It had been perfect, all down the line. The Perfect Crime— advertised as such, and he hadn't guessed it. He hadn't even suspected it.

And yet, he thought, why wouldn't — why shouldn't —Wayne Campbell be tired enough of a blackmailer who had bled him, however mildly, for so many years? And why wouldn't one of the best playwrights in the world be clever enough to do it this way?

So clever, and so simple, however Wayne had come across the information against Nick Corianos which he had written on a special page, especially inserted in his copy of the script. Speak the speech, I pray you—

And he had even known that he, Charles, wouldn't give him away. Even now, before the trigger was pulled, he could blurt: “Wayne Campbell knows this, too. He did it, not I!”

But even to say that now couldn't save him, for that black automatic had turned fiction into fact, and although he might manage Campbell's death along with his own, it wouldn't save his own life. Wayne had even known him well enough to know, to be sure, that he wouldn't do that — at no advantage to himself.

He stood up straight, taking his hands off the desk but carefully keeping them at his sides, as the two big men came through the wide doorway that led to the outer office.

Nick said, “Pete, get that canvas mail sack out of the drawer out there. And is the car in front of the service entrance?”

“Sure, chief.” One of the men ducked back through the door.

Nick hadn't taken his eyes — or the cold muzzle of the gun — off Sir Charles.

Sir Charles smiled at him. He said, “May I ask a boon?”

“What?”

“A favor. Besides the one you already intend to do for me. I ask thirty-five seconds.”

“Huh?”

“I've timed it; it should take that long. Most actors do it in thirty — they push the pace. I refer, of course, to the immortal lines from Macbeth.  Have I your permission to die thirty-five seconds from now, rather than right at this exact instant?”

Nick's eyes got even narrower. He said, “I don't get it, but what's thirty-five seconds, if you really keep your hands in sight?”

Sir Charles said, “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow—”

One of the big men was back in the doorway, something made of canvas rolled up under his arm. He asked, “Is the guy screwy?”

“Shut up,” Nick said.

And then no one was interrupting him. No one was even impatient. And thirty-five seconds were ample.

“... Out, out, brief candle, Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more; it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.”

He paused, and the quiet pause lengthened.

He bowed slightly and straightened so the audience would know that there was no more. And then Nick's finger tightened on the trigger.

The applause was deafening.