THE PLAY GOES ON

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18926, 23 November 1929, Page 19 (Supplement)

THE PLAY GOES ON

The romance of Francois, Apache dancer, and Fada, of the red curls, his girl.—Thrills for first-nighters. — Then the Grim Hand of Death reaches into the Theatre for one who little suspects it is so near.

(Written for the “ Star ” by

JUNE BARNES.)

THEATRELAND was all agog. A new sensation, “ The Killing,” had just opened at the Rivoli Theatre. Expectant first-nighters had been treated to something a little new to them. A little different. The dazzling curtain had been rolled magically upward and the audience beheld on the stage an underground Paris den. A cafe where Apache gangs gathered to whisper about their vices and murders and other gentle things, along with their wining and dining and dancing. Into the clatter of many tongues and scraping feet a shadow came slipping down the stone stairway. It was Francois, the best dancer and killer of them all. He came into their midst as a jungle cat might slip upon a group of hunters around a camp fire, so silent and soft-footed. He gave a few quick turns and landed into the middle of a cluttered table. Much startled, but appreciating their favourite’s artful approach, they called for a dance, many dances. Francois, preening himself in their admiration, looked around and called for Fada. Where was Fada? She was his girl, and supposed to come at his beck and call. But Fada, his partner in life and crime and dancing, was not present. So Francois danced alone. An angry dance, a dance of disappointment, a dance of gathering temper. Fada would pay for this, for deserting him this evening. He would beat her—beat her beat her. these thoughts were keeping time to his tapping, slapping, sliding feet. And then the rest of the gathering joined him in dancing and drinking. Other slim little girls tried to make up for the missing Fada. And Francois danced a? only a demon could possibly dance, with bitterness and anger in his heart. The curtain came down, and the first act was over. Jaded dramatic critics yawned, “Not so hot.” -“The rest had better be an improvement, eh, my triends?” But newspaper reviewers are longsuffering, patient creatures, and are always hoping for the best, and so they for the second act. The house was full and the music good, at least. It changed now to a slow, almost murmuring refrain. And the curtain rolled away, and the second act began to unfold. * A shadowy man came slipping in and out of the shrubbery, hugging the wall of a great nch man’s house, his tools of housebreaking handy, and also another tool of death, if needed. He climbed cat-like up the iron trellis and peered through the long French window. He seemed startled and undecided by what he saw inside the house. Then he climbed slowly down again, and in slipping away ran into two men who were approaching—Francois and another. Striking a knowing pose, he asked: * “ How much is it worth to you, Francois, to know where your Fada is just now. eh?** and he leered up at him. “This,” said Francois, and he grasped the shadow man around the throat with his long, thin fingers. The man, with terror,* pointed to the upper window. “ She is there, in the arms of her rich lover.” Francois glared .at him, then, like lightning, he scaled the trellis, up to the lighted window. The two men watching him saw him gently push open the window, just enough to step in, and slowly and quietly they slipped off among the shadows. A black velvet curtain swung together for just a second, leaving the audience in suspense. Then a shrill scream came ringing out over the heads in the darkened theatre, a scream that made people shudder. Then the curtain parted and the audience gazed into a man’s room. A beau- • tiful lounging room. Francois was standing inside the French window, with a wicked leer on his lips and passion in his brilliant eyes, and a steely blue pistol in his nervous fingers. Standing, facing him in fright, was an elegant little man, in a dressinggown, very much upset. By his side was Fada—the little dancer of the streets and the cabarets. A fiery little creature with a head of tangled red curls and black velvety eyes, like pansies. Her very tight, very short black satin dress hinted of yet more beauty to be seen. She was watching Francois as a bird must watch the cat that is closing in. “So, Fada, my girl, this is how you are true to me, your partner, hey? This is why you didn’t come to dance this evening. This is how you prove your love to me, I see. I, vour man, F rancois.” Fada shook her head at him, and smiled. “Ah, Francois, my lover, this is M. Mistelii, the great theatrical manager. Me has been offering us a very large salary to come and dance in his theatre. He saw us one night, in *The Black Bat,’ and he says you are a great artist. I came to bargain for money, and to make arrangements. You see, I wanted to surprise you. You ‘are too busy to haggle over terms, is it nqt so, Francois?” and she watched him very closely, as though she were watching every nerve in his body. “M. Mistelii will tell you that he considers you a great artist, and that he wants us to dance for him,” and she turned to the elegant little man. M. Mistelii sighed and, seeming to see a way out from the menace of that shining pistol, said: “Oh, yes, yes, to be sure, and I will be honoured to have you and your partner dance in my theatre. Anything you do will be very excellent. The little lady here can make any arrangements that suit you, and I will try to please.” Francois was a vain chap, and any talk about his dancing and his greatness was pleasing and too great a foil for his anger, and so he began to believe everything was all right. He smiled. “But wait, ’ he said. about this? The Shadow climb - 1 up to the window and saw you in his arms.” “Oh, that?” and Fada snapped her fingers. "I was so appreciative of his offer to us that I threw my arms around his shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. He is such a kind little man, so good to give us this offer, Francois.” "Oh,” and Francois’ vanity came to the fore, and carelessly slipping the fclue gun into his pocket, he said: “Come then, Fada, let us give M. a sample of our dancing to Convince him he is making no mistake.” As they twisted in and out of their

wild dance, Fada’s eyes flashed a warning and a message to M. Mistelii. The little man mopped his forehead with his large silk handkerchief and sank into a chair. After the dance was over he ordered many glasses of champagne to seal the bargain and to toast the greatness of Francois. When he was finally alone, he groaned, and mopping his head very hard, he murmured: “Now, I wonder if she planned to trap me and arranged for him to catch us here together? That little witch is clever and a quick thinker. But that man, ugh, he is a tiger. I really believe he would use that gun. I rather think I’ll let them dance. They are just wild enough to take with the public.” And so the curtain came down once more, and the waiting critics said: “Well, we’ll see what the last act is,” and the first-nighters talked and discussed and gossiped. Just before the curtain went up for the last act, two gentlemen in faultless evening attire and two beautifullygowned women were ushered into the first box on the right of the stage. The audience gave them scant attention for the music was beginning to sigh and the curtain was already quivering to rise. Ah, the third act, now. This was a strange kind of play. The scene was a beautiful stage, draped in glittering, crimson hangings. The lights shifted here and there, turning them to bloodred one moment and pale, ethereal colours the next. Making mysterious shadows—creeping everywhere. A murmur ran through the audience as Francois, in a black velvet and silk gypsy costume, red silk bandana gathered roynd his head and with other gypsy trimmings, came to the footlights. “Before we begin, I want to thank our kind friend and manager, M. Mistelii for making it possible for us to dance before you to-night. He recognises artists when he sees them, and, I intend to pay him back for his kindness to us,” and he bowed to the little man in the right-hand stage box'. The little man returned his bow, and nervously mopped his forehead. Francois slipped back into the wings and the music grew in cadence. Two shadowy figures crept upon the stage among the shifting lights—changing mysterious lights. They' began to dance, the music grew faster. They were joined by other sinister figures who haunted the underworld dancing dens. They danced and whirled about Francois and Fada, in wild heathenish dances. They twisted, and twirled each other, and the audience was spellbound. Then Freda danced alone, the dance of the Vampire, after her prey, and was joined by Francois, who came ddncing to tame her arid to love her. But she repulsed him, and wanted to dance alone. So she danced other dances strange, disdainful dances, while Fran cois stood with folded arms. Then the lights grew bright and clear and silver coloured. The other dancers huddled in a group, afraid, hiding their faces. And Francois caught the whirling Fada and pulled her to him. making her dance. Holding her out from him, and gazing into her face, he said: “Why are you so cold to me, little one, and why do you not want to dance with me? Your feet seem to stuipble when, in times past they have always been in tune with mine? Your is not in this dance with me. You don't melt into my arms as usual. Why little one?” r And Fada, in a short little green frock, with her red curls, looking like a seanymph, answered: “Your arms seem like iron bands tonight, Francois. They crush me. They are not your gentle arms. You are brutal to me. You worry me. I wish you were more like a gentleman,” and she pouted her red lips at him, as she pulled away, tossing back her cur^. “Ah,” hissed Francois, through his sharp teeth. “A gentleman, eh? So you have changed, my Fada, and I thought it was only my imagination.” And he began to circle about her,, slinking and gliding, and Fada grew afraid, and put out her hands to stop him. Then in a mad swept her off her feet to wild, wild music, bending and twisting her body until the audience gasped for fear he would break her in two. Then grasping her by her red curls, he said in a passionate voice: “Now I know all. I will now pay our kind manager for taking us from the underworld and making us a lady and a gentleman. For putting us on this beautiful stage, and for stealing the love of my woman,” and unmindful of the shrill screams of Fada, and the murmurs of the chorus, he pulled the steely blue gun from his gay romany scarf, that was twisted about his waist, and pointing it at M. Mistelii, he said, with a polite little bow: “I thank you, sir,” and he fired straight and true at the doomed man, sitting in the right-hand box. His companions jumped up and screamed, and the audience, forgetting it was only a play, stood up in horror. M. Mistelii slowly slumped forward to the railing of the box and the music began to wail and Francois and Fada started a wilder dance, passionate and mad and were joined by the other dancers, and then the curtain slowly fell. The audience gasped in relief and looked over to the right-hand box, but M. Mistelii had disappeared. Filing out into the brightly lighted street was a first-night audience, thrilled for the moment by something different. And the critics said it was good because it had brought an audience to its feet in fear. Yes, the play was a success. People came for thrills. Several days after the opening night, a party was ushered into the large box to the left of the stage, looking for an evening’s entertainment. One was a big, heavy-set man with diamonds and fat jowls. A vivid little blonde girl and two other persons, a man with a hawk nose and a woman with restless hands. They were almost late, and so caused no flurry of the glasses for people were all set for the opening thrill. After the last act—after the audience had come to its feet, as usual, and the little man in the right-hand stage box had slumped forward* —after the wailing music and the mad dances, the brilliant lights had brought them back to themselves again. ... But now confusion reigned in the bojc to the left of the stage. The big man with the diamonds and the fat jowls also lav slumped forward in his chair —dead! He, too, had been an actor in a play, but the play of “life.” Some one had taken advantage of the stage shots and Big Tom Haney, Prince of the Underworld, was no more. Someone had “thanked” him for something too. The police? Ah, yes the police grew busy. They promised to find the killer. In fact they are almost certain of his or her name. “Just a little time,” is their cry. But the stage play goes on. It is a success fed now by curiosity and wonder and belief in the real killing that took place beyond its footlights. !‘ (Anglo-American N. S. Copyright.)