Tangier by William Bayer

ever reached the top Peter was all they'd find. It was comical, the way they schemed and scraped, because Peter didn't care. Not for anyone, not even for his closest friends. (He called Camilla Weltonwhist "Mrs. Stout" behind her back.) But all that didn't matter, because he created an effect—which Laurence admired the same way he admired a fine performance by Gielgud or Olivier.
    Thank God , he thought, thank God he's come. Thank God that Peter Barclay is my friend.
    But the moment he thought that, he knew it wasn't true. Peter Barclay wasn't his friend, never would be, never could. They'd known each other all the years that Laurence had been in Tangier, and never, never once in all that time, had Peter had him in his house.
    His mind turned back to the play. He let the door slip closed, moved into the wings, and gave the signal to Derik Law. The house lights dimmed, the theater went black, then the great curtains were slowly drawn. The audience applauded the set and settled down. The Winslow Boy began.
    Laurence couldn't bear to stand in the wings on opening night, preferred instead to watch from the back. Here he could gauge the reactions of the house, pace about, take notes, and if the tension became too great he could slip out to the lobby for a rest.
    Everything seemed off to a good start. He had a sixth sense about such things, could tell almost immediately when an audience was getting glued. He could feel it building now and guessed it was on account of the play. He couldn't imagine people not liking The Winslow Boy , with its commitment to perseverance and family life.
    He was thinking about that and about Peter Barclay's praise (was counting on it now) when he felt a flash of pride. TP might be an amateur group, but professional standards were enforced. It wasn't like all those little clubs that Kelly had been involved with in the States. And though every expatriate colony had its group, TP was among the very best in the world. Word had gotten around about that. Some people in Gibraltar had even come over for advice.
    Laurence had done Heartbreak House , Death of a Salesman , and King Lear , then produced The Cherry Orchard, Hedda Gabler , and Ghosts . Kelly, damn him, wanted to do Boys in the Band . Said it would be "amusing to put a mirror up to all those queers." Then he'd made a nasty crack about the Shakespeare reading Laurence was planning for the fall. "Bunch of queens playing kings," he'd said. "Let's can the Shakespeare and write our own cabaret. We can beckon them out of their closets, show them what they are. I've already got a title: Queersville-sur-Mer ."
    It was a rotten, disgusting idea, and Laurence told him so to his face. "Do what you want, Kelly, in your personal life. But don't mess around with TP."
    Laurence was wincing over the memory of that when he heard footsteps in the lobby downstairs. A moment later the rear door opened and a young man in police uniform appeared. Laurence brought his forefinger to his lip and pointed toward the stage. The policeman nodded, then moved closer to whisper in his ear.
    "Have you seen Inspector Ouazzani?" he asked in French.
    Laurence pointed him out. The policeman crept down the aisle to Ouazzani's row, caught his attention, and handed him a note. Ouazzani read it, whispered something to his woman, then stood up and walked back up the aisle.
    "Sorry to leave in the middle, Mr. Luscombe," he said. "But I've been called away to work."
    Laurence nodded, and Ouazzani and the policeman left. It was damn decent, he thought, of the Inspector to explain.
    But what was happening? The hall was silent. No voices were coming from the stage. Laurence turned to see Kelly glaring out, hands on his hips, miming a slow burn. Silence, then a "Hear, hear" from the front. Someone else whistled from the side.
    Laurence was aghast. The man had brought the play to a halt. He was about to panic, run down the aisle and cry apologies, when Kelly gave a shrug, stepped back to where