Cast in Order of Disappearance by Simon Brett Page B

light comedies. What’s in the Box? was one of the greatest successes of 1953, and in 1960 Steen’s purchase of the King’s Theatre off Shaftesbury Avenue heralded a string of commercial triumphs, including One Thing After Another , which ran for three years, and, currently, Sex of One and Haifa Dozen of the Other .
    Steen maintained his interest in the cinema and put money into many ventures including the highly successful Steenway Productions, which make horror films. He was also a major shareholder in three commercial television companies, and was at the time of his death interesting himself in the production of programmes for network on the new commercial radio station.
    Marius Steen was often criticised for his healthy disrespect for ‘Art’ and there are many stories of this supposed philistinism which he loved to tell against himself. (On first hearing of Michelangelo, he is reputed to have asked ‘Michael who?’ His alleged description of opera as ‘fat gits singing’ is probably apocryphal.) He was a forthright man who made enemies, but was loved and respected by his friends. He had no hobbies, maintaining that if a person needed hobbies, then there was something wrong with his work. He divided his time between his houses in London and Streatley and a villa in the South of France. In 1969 he was awarded the CBE for services to the theatre.
    Marius Steen married Rose Whittle in 1934. She died in 1949 and he never remarried. He leaves a son.
    Charles was impressed. It was quite an achievement for anyone in the theatre to command that many column inches in The Times. The obituary seemed like a washing of the body. It cleaned Steen up. The existence of the photographs, all the sordid aspects of the man’s life were rinsed away by the formalised prose. The Western ritual of death was observed—the obligation to remember the most dignified image of the deceased. Like those ghastly American mausoleums where the embalmed corpse is presented at its best, dressed and smiling, prior to burial. But Charles had a nagging feeling that, however Marius Steen was tarted up in death, his corpse would not lie down.
    Charles arrived at the Archer Street flat with a two-litre bottle of Valpolicella from Oddbins and a determination to be very slow on the uptake in any discussion of Steen’s death. Jacqui looked ghastly when she opened the door. Her face was pale and her eyes were puffy red slits.
    â€˜Are you all right?’
    â€˜I will be, Charles. I’ll just sit down for a moment.’
    â€˜Can I get you a drink?’
    â€˜No. It’d make me sick. But help yourself.’
    The events of the last few days had made Charles forget about Jacqui’s flat being done over, but inside it the evidence was all too clear. She had obviously made some attempt to tidy up. There were two cardboard boxes in the middle of the room full of bits of glass and torn clothes. But the curtains were still hanging shredded from their rails, and the bed smelt of oil from the smashed lamp. The little room looked sad and crippled.
    He didn’t make any comment, but found an unbroken glass and filled it with Valpolicella. ‘Do you want to go out to eat, Jacqui?’
    â€˜No, I couldn’t.’
    â€˜Hmm.’ The silence was obtrusive. Feebly he repeated himself. ‘Do you feel all right?’
    â€˜Charles, the bloke I loved and whose kid I’ve got has just been murdered.’
    â€˜I’m sorry.’ He stolidly avoided reacting to the word ‘murdered’. Jacqui softened. ‘I’ll get you some food later. When I can face it.’
    â€˜Don’t worry about that. Not particularly hungry.’
    â€˜No.’ Again they were conscious of the silence. Then Jacqui burst out. ‘He always was a little sod.’
    Charles was genuinely amazed. ‘Who?’
    â€˜Nigel.’
    â€˜Nigel Steen?’
    â€˜Well, who else?’
    â€˜Why do you