also published as

Death at the Dolphin

“Dolphin?” the clerk repeated. “Dolphin. Well, yerse. We hold the keys. Were you wanting to view?”

“If I might, I was,” Peregrine Jay mumbled, wondering why such conversations should always be conducted in the past tense. “I mean,” he added boldly, “I did and I still do. I want to view, if you please.”

The clerk made a little face that might have been a sneer or an occupational tic. He glanced at Peregrine, who supposed his appearance was not glossy enough to make him a likely prospect.

“It is for sale, I believe?” Peregrine said.

“Oh, it’s for sale, all right,” the clerk agreed contemptuously. He re-examined some document that he had on his desk.

“May I view?”

“Now?”

“If it’s possible.”

“Well — I don’t know, reely, if we’ve anybody free at the moment,” said the clerk and frowned at the rain streaming dirtily down the windows of his office.

Peregrine said, “Look. The Dolphin is an old theatre. I am a man of the theatre. Here is my card. If you care to telephone my agents or the management of my current production at The Unicorn they will tell you that I am honest, sober and industrious, a bloody good director and playwright and possessed of whatever further attributes may move you to lend me the keys of The Dolphin for an hour. I would like to view it.”

The clerk’s face became inscrutable. “Oh, quite,” he muttered and edged Peregrine’s card across his desk, looking sideways at it as if it might scuttle. He retired within himself and seemed to arrive at a guarded conclusion.

“Yerse. Well, O.K., Mr.— er. It’s not usually done but we try to oblige.” He turned to a dirty-white board where keys hung like black tufts on a piece of disreputable ermine.