old stuff. Iris Archer in The First Lady Seaton.’
‘Yes. Only for some reason or other Iris Archer isn’t going to play the part.’
This was obviously news to Cosgrove and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘What’s the matter with Archer? Why isn’t she playing the part?’
‘I don’t know. Gibson had a chat with her last night. She talks a lot of nonsense about the part being unsuitable.’
Cosgrove nodded. ‘Well, get down to Southampton and see what Temple has to say about it.’
Rex wearily levered himself from the arm of the chair.
‘I’d sooner cover that new movie at the Empire,’ he grinned. ‘It’s all about an editor who took the wrong turning.’
‘Southampton!’
‘OK, Snow White! OK!’
Rex made a hasty yet dignified retreat.
Four hours later, his vermilion two-seater sports car was nosing its way through Southampton’s dock traffic, and he was wondering if there would be any other newspapermen present. There was nothing Rex hated more than mass interviews. However, knowing Temple and his wife in the days when they were both journalists was certainly a point in his favour. When the Golden Clipper bumped gently to a standstill, Rex had no difficulty in segregating Paul Temple and Steve from the crowds that thronged to see Hollywood’s latest film face, which, as usual, proved more than a little disappointing in its everyday proportions.
Over a drink in the buffet, Rex surveyed his old acquaintances with a quizzical stare. Temple, he decided, had hardly altered as far as features were concerned since the days when he was a penurious journalist. True, he must be quite a stone lighter, but that suited him.
Steve, who was always ready to talk ‘shop’ with Bryant or any of the other reporters, said quietly: ‘How’s the circulation, Rex?’
‘Not so good lately. Wrong time of year.’
‘It’s always the wrong time of year,’ put in Temple, with a twinkle in his eye.
‘They’re sending us out after all sorts of stories that the subs slaughter down to four lines on page eight,’ declared Rex moodily, ordering himself another whisky.
‘What exactly are you doing down at Southampton?’ demanded Steve curiously.
Rex splashed soda into his glass. ‘To be quite candid, I came down here to see your delightful husband,’ he grinned.
‘Things must certainly be in a bad way if I’m considered to be in the news,’ laughed Temple. ‘What’s it all about?’
Rex took a cigarette from his case and scratched a match. ‘The play, for one thing. You might as well give me all the dope about it. Be a sport, Temple – it isn’t as if the publicity will do the show any harm – or will it?’
‘By Timothy, you boys must be hard up for news,’ murmured Temple sympathetically.
‘There isn’t any story, Rex,’ added Steve wistfully. ‘If there was a story, you could have it like a shot, couldn’t he, darling?’
Temple nodded. ‘Like a shot,’ he corroborated.
‘But is Iris Archer leaving the cast, or isn’t she?’
Temple dived in his pocket and produced a crumpled Western Union Cable. ‘I got this just before we left New York; that’s all I know.’ He tossed the cable over to the reporter, who straightened it out and read:
‘Terribly sorry unable to play Lady Seaton stop will explain later stop lots of love Iris.’
‘And a very large full stop,’ added Temple ruefully.
Rex folded the paper and handed it back to the novelist. ‘I thought you wrote the play specially for Iris Archer.’
‘So I did.’
Rex wrinkled his forehead. ‘Then it seems funny that—’
‘Don’t worry him, Rex,’ advised Steve, who knew just how sore the point was with her husband.
‘But look here, I’ve got to have some sort of a story to take back to town!’
Temple and Steve regarded him innocently.
‘Hadn’t you better go and catch Sylvia Larone before she gets the train?’ suggested Steve. ‘You could ask her what she really thought of Hollywood.’
Rex ignored the suggestion. ‘Tell me your plans for the future,’ he said.
‘We’re going to Scotland for three weeks.’
‘The South of France, dear,’ Steve prompted gently.
‘Scotland,’ repeated Temple firmly.
‘The South of France.’
‘All right,’ chipped in Rex, eyeing them impatiently. ‘I’ll say Scotland and the South of France. Then what?’
Temple said quietly: ‘Well, I’ve promised my publishers a new novel for Christmas—’
Rex shifted impatiently on his high stool.
‘I’m not running the literary page,’ he said heavily. ‘I’ve got to go back to town with a story. Not a “puff” for a new novel.’
‘But we haven’t got a story, Rex. Nothing’s happened – nothing at all.’
Rex shook his head sadly. ‘All right,’ he murmured resignedly. ‘Tell me something about the trip – your personal reactions and all that sort of hot air. I’ll have to turn in a couple of “sticks” or they’ll murder me.’
Temple laughed. Then he caught sight of a distinguished-looking man who had just entered the buffet.
‘Here’s Doctor Steiner. He’ll tell you all about the trip – won’t you, Doctor?’
Temple introduced the newcomer.
‘It will be possible to get a train soon, Mr Temple?’ queried the doctor.
‘Why yes – it’s due almost any minute. Then I’m afraid we shall have to leave you. We go by road,’ said Temple.
‘Ach, it is sad to part so soon. It has been such a pleasant journey and a wonderful experience. Just look at my buttonhole – the carnation is quite fresh, and I bought it in New York.’
Rex Bryant was impressed with this small point. The doctor was obviously a man who noticed things.
‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a sort of interview, sir,’ he barged in hastily. ‘Is this your first trip across the Atlantic?’
‘I should have warned you, Doctor, that Mr Bryant is a representative of the
