Recast
Matt Hagen held the false moustache up to his upper lip and shifted his clay to grip it firmly in place. Such artificial props weren't his style, but even he could admit the effect when they were discarded was electric. Tonight's prosthetics were in their box, waiting. He put a hand in, let his clay slide them up the arm and onto his face. The nose, the eyebrows, the beard, each shuffled neatly into place and he examined his face minutely in the mirror. The moustache crawled left a touch and settled again. Happy with his look, he smirked, perfecting the expression he would be wearing for the next forty minutes. Intermission was over. Time to return to his audience.
###
Hs victim backed away, and Hagen moved with him, stalking forwards as he hurled the accusations. The older man shook his head in denial, broke, turned to flee, and Hagen took him down, straight into the beanbag. Pinning the man's arms up behind his back Hagen secured them with one hand, turned his face towards the dark void and ripped the moustache from his face. He had his reward: five hundred shocked gasps echoed. His audience now, and he was going to make sure it stayed that way until the curtain.
When he had been introduced to his co-star he had baulked. If Wayne wanted to turn an undercover operation into a millionaire's vanity project, Hagen was not lowering himself to working with amateurs.
Then the wily old buzzard he was playing against smoothly upstaged him at the first rehearsal, and he'd realised he wasn't the only ringer in the cast. By halfway through the first act he'd had to turn his own performance up a notch. Screen acting hadn't prepared him for a soft-spoken man who could project his voice to the back row, and make scenery chew itself. Did RADA issue training courses in large ham, or did it just come naturally?
He'd asked if the old man was channelling Rickman, only to get a smooth response of "No, sir, Olivier." It had evolved into a friendly war over the audience. Let his co-star have them for the first act, he'd win them back in the second.
###
"We've had a series of murders in Gotham," Wayne had said without preamble. "Five killed in their homes and eight injured in freak accidents."
"I saw in the papers," Hagen sat in the Wayne penthouse, holding an entirely cosmetic drink as he watched ex-Commissioner Gordon pacing by the window. "I'm outta the business, and even if I was, you think a guy with a knife can hurt this?" He let the mud ripple, dropping the human guise he'd used to get to the penthouse.
"No." Gordon and Wayne exchanged a look, and Hagen suddenly realised the other reason they might have called him.
"Hey, it isn't me," he protested. "My parole officer's the Bat. If I'd been killing actors, he'd have got me first!"
"We know." Gordon threw another cynical look at Wayne and glowered at Clayface. "I didn't want you in on this, but Bruce seems to think you're trustworthy." Hagen shifted back to his movie-star form, and smiled his best trustworthy smile at the billionaire. Always keep the backers happy. "But this has to stop. With the Joker loose it could be him. God knows where he'd take this." Hagen shrugged. The Joker wasn't really his problem, but he knew Gordon had a history with the clown after what had happened to his daughter. Oh yeah, she was Wayne's daughter-in-law now. That explained why the billionaire was in on this.
"What does this have to do with me?" He asked, hoping they'd get to the pitch.
"The on-stage accidents came with threats," Gordon said, all business. "The affected theatres closed. Then five actors were murdered in their homes. All male, between the ages of twenty and thirty."
"And then the other theatres closed because no actors in that age range were willing to work," Wayne added.
"Call themselves actors," Hagen snorted. "'The show must go on.'" He had kept going even when the hydraulic squid had malfunctioned on "Space Monster Zeta" and nearly electrocuted the cast. His final scenes were filmed from the right side so the burns weren't visible. Not a problem he would ever have again, unless Wayne came through with a cure.
"Exactly," Gordon said. "We need to end this quickly. We're going to use a play to draw him out."
"And you want me to bodyguard?" Hagen said, uninterested. Wayne smiled, and Hagen frowned. He knew that expression from somewhere but he couldn't think where.
"Not exactly."
###
It had been a good evening, the crowd happy and bubbly as they left. 'Matthew Francis' had congratulated his co-star, signed autographs by the stage door, posed for a few pictures with his adoring public and left last. The walk through the night streets of Gotham was vital for the role, establishing a routine hat could be tracked. He kept to the brightly-lit main streets. A poorly-timed mugging could ruin both performances.
Matthew Francis' small apartment was in the East End. Out-of-towners so often saw the price alone and never thought about the neighbourhood. Perfectly placed on the corner of a tenement block, the fire escape back door didn't fit properly, the lock was broken and the ridges on the building made climbing easy. He walked into his apartment, and a few minutes later, two Gotham police officers walked out and stood either side of the front door.
When he had asked for props, Wayne had come through magnificently. If the billionaire took all Selina's coaching this well, they'd just need to add a costume, and Wayne could make a great sidekick. A picture of a loving family, shelves for his DVD collection, and the small amount that a struggling actor could fit in a case. The clothes were washed regularly, as if they were worn and not imitated, and he took care to mimic their natural fading. Method meant immersion, and Matt Hagen was a perfectionist.
He made himself a coffee, changing into a robe in the bathroom and relaxed,
flicking through the papers, checking the reviews and tearing out a new mention to add to his pinboard of clippings. A four-star review because the idiot reviewer felt the plot was "far-fetched", though he praised the performances and gave the edge to Pennyworth for 'laudable gravitas'. Alfred's brilliant upstaging during the stairs speech was something he hadn't worked out how to counter, but it worked for the play. The window scene in Act Two let him get his own back, once Hagen had the set changed to move it from the side of the stage to the back.
A 'certain dynamic rivalry' read the Gotham Post. Of course there was: a RADA-trained classical actor against Matt Hagen, Method star of screen, and now stage. Old versus new, a conflict of styles, attitudes and a perfect mirror to the play's own themes. The imbeciles didn't realise what they were seeing.
There was the flicker of a cape across the window. Batman, or one of the junior bats, as if he needed the help. Getting careless - wait, Batman was never careless.
He stood up, took two steps towards the kitchen, and turned: Matthew Francis, amateur actor surprised, as portrayed perfectly by Matt Hagen, film veteran. It was an open cue. His visitor, standing by the open fire escape door, did not disappoint.
The trenchcoat was long, ragged at the hems and sleeves, which had created the impression of a cape. The mask was featureless, hinting at something terribly deformed in the way the face beneath it moved. The long double-edged dagger was unsheathed, held so the light glinted off it.
"Who are you?" Francis/Hagen stammered, ready for the third act: the reveal.
"Your death." The sepulchral voice intoned like a knell. The empty hand reached up, pulled the mask away. Under the mask the man's face was twisted, the jaw askew so the bottom did not meet the top. The eyes protruded, staring insanely, one near melted, the white drawn down into the scars that marred the once handsome face. The scars ridged into the hairline, cutting swathes through the otherwise immaculately groomed shock of white hair. The man lowered the mask to his side, and simply looked at Hagen.
"Oh my god! You're Basil Karlo!" Matt Hagen did not fanboy. Matthew Francis was free to. The man paused for a moment, as if Francis/Hagen had thrown the script off, but any good actor could improvise.
"You know of me. Good." The deep voice sent a shiver up his spine as if he still had one. Memories of sitting in dark theatres, watching the screen enthralled.
"You were my inspiration," Francis/Hagen said sincerely. "I collected all your films. It was a loss to the craft when you stopped acting."
"I never stopped. I was prevented!" The cry was tortured, pitch-perfect in anguish. "They said I was too old." Anger to soft despair, the reveal from 'The Monster in the Night' 1957. Matt knew he should be arresting him, but he didn't move. A good method actor should draw on his own experience, and with Basil Karlo it was too easy to lose himself in the role.
"Too old for what?" Hagen asked, speaking the required line.
"They wanted to replace me, recast my finest part," Karlo said, stepping forwards so the light from the escape door threw half his face into sharp relief. "They wanted to remake Dread Castle, to make the next Clayface film without me. They did not even say it to my face. I learned from seeing the advertisement."
"That's a shabby way to treat an actor." Matthew Francis was outraged. Matt Hagen figured it was part of getting old, but if Karlo 's agent wasn't screwing the studio for residuals, he needed a better agent. Karlo was warming to his theme. Hagen leaned closer, giving Karlo what every actor needed: an audience.
"They offered me a cameo. A cameo in a film that would not exist without me! I designed the make-up, the look, I invented Clayface."
"Bad contract?" That sympathy was all Hagen, not Francis, and one day Clayface would be paying a visit to his first agent who'd negotiated the work-for-hire contract on Captain Starfighter and the Zorkons.
"They took it all. They said anyone could be Clayface." Karlo grimaced.
"You originated the role," Hagen agreed. "Other actors put their own spin on it, but it won;t be the same."
"They won't find any other actors..." The voice rang out, foreboding, and Matt hung on every nuance, enthralled. "...for I have made sure of this. Let no one presume to be Clayface, for fear that the true and only Clayface shall return."
"So you've been killing actors?"
"Those who would presume to replace me. The fakes, the frauds."
"So why me? I'm a stage actor." Matthew Francis was baffled. Matt Hagen was enjoying himself.
"Your name came up in their discussions. They would get you a Screen Actors' Guild membership for usurping me!"
"Not interested," Matt/Matthew said, honestly.
"And yet I see the greed on your face. You would take the role, try to outdo me, make them forget my name ever existed." Karlo whirled, coat flaring, pointing the knife at Matthew Francis' heart. "And I tell you, you will not succeed!" Hagen didn't clap. He merged his hands under his robe to make sure.
"Why a replacement? Why not a ... passing of the torch?" Hagen suggested. "The original Clayface and his protege, passing the legacy of terror on to the next generation? Let the legend of the first be an unreachable achievement for all his successors to strive for and fall short?"
"A mentor?" Karlo said, touching the tip of the knife to his scarred lip, in his iconic gesture of contemplation before murder. Hagen had never before realised how carefully it was done, the latex not even cut by the blade.
"There are good roles for mentors," Hagen said, and realised he'd nearly broken character. Karlo moved, weight down on the ball of his left foot, weight shifting as his right skimmed the floor, exchanging as Hagen watched entranced. So that was how he performed that unnatural glide.
"Mentors die. Mentors get fewer lines. Mentors don't get top billing. And Basil Karlo is never second-billed!" Hagen nodded, watching every word, each timed breath. "Am I to be Guiness, recalled for a role he hated? Why should I settle for a legacy when I can still act, nay, when I am at my height?" Hagen mouthed the words with him. Feet of Clay 1958, closing epilogue. "Now you must die. Know that I regret the inevitability of this, but that you die in the service of a cause immeasurably greater."
"Ultimatum of Fate, 1952," Hagen breathed. "I understand, but first, grant a dying man his wish." The next line from the script, and Karlo followed his cue. Hagen had heard the man never forgot a script.
"A last request is little to offer, for a very little life." Karlo inclined his head but did not move. Hagen took an entirely cosmetic breath, and walked slowly to the shelves, taking down a single DVD and going completely off-script.
"Could you autograph this for me?"
"I can leave no evidence."
"I know. But I know that I shall die having gained Basil Karlo's autograph." The line was dreadfully cribbed from the female lead, Marriage for Murder, 1954, adjusted for fan-Hagen. Karlo, as he had in the film, inclined his head, scrawling a signature on the DVD. In the film, the lead had smashed a lamp over his head as he went for the kiss. Hagen didn't, but did crane his head to see the writing.
"Could you make it out to Matt, Mr. Karlo? Thank you." He took it back, looked at the scrawled signature, and smiled.
"And now it is time for the curtain to fall. I have granted your wish and now it is time for you to perform your ultimate service to mankind. To show the world that, once and for all, now and forever, I...am Clayface." The words hung in the air and Hagen stood up and applauded.
Karlo bowed, then almost regretfully he reached forward and slashed out with the knife, parting the mud at Hagen's throat. No blood flowed. Hagen relaxed, let his mud flow into his more normal form and Karlo gaped and fled, pulling the door open, only to be immersed from the knees down in a flow of mud from outside. The other police officer cuffed him, before it also dissolved and flowed back to Clayface's main mass, drawing the struggling Karlo with it.
"Thank you," the mudman said, sincerely, as the apartment door shut. "I could never get that line read quite right."
###
"You were your own police guard?" Selina laughed, raising her glass. Wayne's penthouse made a convenient debriefing location, and Hagen took pleasure in the view, or as much pleasure as he could in anything these days.
"Why risk Gotham's finest?" Hagen replied, "No offense, Gordon."
"None taken. If you ever give up crime, you'd be useful on the force."
"I don't work scale," Matt quipped, and looked at Selina. "Talk to my agent."
"I promise not to gouge you too hard," she purred, and Matt laughed as Gordon glowered.
"So where's Karlo?" Hagen asked, turning his drink in his hand. The wrap party should always involve champagne, it was tradition even if he couldn't drink. Gordon filled him in brusquely.
"He's a problem. He's a killer, but we can't put him in Blackgate or Arkham. At his age, he won't live."
"He's in good shape for it, climbing the fire escape like that," Selina murmured, looking at Wayne thoughtfully. "He's what, ninety?"
"At least," Hagen said, thinking back to the days in the vintage cinema. Most of those films had come out before he was born.
"You should have called us when he first arrived," Gordon said, knocking back his champagne. Hagen was honestly shocked, or as shocked as he could feel.
"And miss an acting class from Basil Karlo?"
"Helpful advice on keeping up with Alfred," Selina teased, and Matt grinned.
"I'm holding my own just fine."
"I am sure sir believes that." Matt didn't jump as the butler appeared from nowhere, refilling Selina's glass.
"So do the reviewers," Hagen commented, and the butler continued about his duties as if talking mudmen were an every day occurance.
"At last count, sir, it was equally split." Hagen laughed. He'd known the old buzzard had been counting clippings.
"Which brings us to the other matter." Wayne set his glass down, all business. "Now we've caught the culprit, we can close the play. Matt, you've more than fulfilled your part of the deal, so I'll pay for the full run anyway."
"Why close it?" Hagen let his mud ripple into a more relaxed shape. Wayne seemed unaffected. Gordon scowled, minutely shifting away from him.
"Because we caught the murderer," Wayne said, sounding perplexed. Behind him, his butler coughed.
"If you will forgive my presumption, sir, I believe Mr. Hagen means 'the show must go on.'"
###
Hagen stood in the wings watching Pennyworth already in position on the stage. On other nights the walk up from the dressing room straight on stage let him get into character as a new arrival, but tonight he'd have to take Pennyworth's tooth-grinding advice and 'just act'.
He could hear the crowd through the curtain, quieting in anticipation as the MC announced the play. He wanted to hear the intro tonight, just for the only change he had asked Wayne to make. With the killer caught, Matthew Francis was a known alias, and could safely be discarded. Beyond the curtain, the woman finished welcoming people to the outdoor theatre, thanked the audience for being there, and got to the only bit that mattered:
"And tonight, starring Matt Hagen, Alfred Pennyworth and Alec Cawthorne, the Play in the Park Company is delighted to present Sleuth."
Author Note: This story was inspired by Chris Dee's Cat Tales, and would fit between Blueprints and Electron 29.