Tommy the Tipster makes a classic stock character. I could not have written a better rodent into my 1922 West End musical The Pied Piper. The little man crouches, with ridiculous prominence, behind a potted palm in the LaSalle Theatre lobby. Tommy's greasily groomed moustache wriggles beneath his battered, straw boater, and his miniature pencil scribbles a mile a minute. What on earth could that scurvy little informant be writing?

Under normal circumstances, this odd little fellow would disappear behind the hordes of producers, theatre critics, and Chicago society that greet the cast of Moonlight Revels in the lobby of the LaSalle Theatre. The richly furnished foyer is packed with gentlemen in black top hats, starched shirtfronts and double cuffs, satin bowties and plastrons, and precious tie-tacks and cuff-links. In one hand they wield their programme, gloves and walking stick. In the other they hold a glass of champagne. Hanging on their arms is the alabaster limb of a beautiful, slender companion festooned with pearls, furs, and a crimped coiffure, complete with kiss curls and feathery, diamond-studded combs. I find many long, black lashes batting my way, accompanied by the flirtatious arch of as many crimson lips.

Draped in a burgundy smoking jacket, my hair pomade-slicked to dazzling perfection, I enter the room. Cheers and applause greet me as I join my fellow cast-mates in the lobby. I am hailed more vociferously than the rest; I am also the writer, composer and director of the evening's entertainment. Making a short bow and accepting a glass of the champagne, I make a toast to a very successful opening night, dropping the names of many producers who are present (old men whose chests swell with pride at the mention of their names).

Until half past twelve I mingle with throngs of admirers and potential investors, confident that my show will be in New York within a fortnight. I am very pleased. Even so, I manage to keep Tommy the Tipster in my sights always. Why are you here, tonight, Tommy? Surely he has not connected me with the MacRoth family. I have been very careful about that. With apparent satisfaction, the Tipster tucks his journal into his breast pocket, prepared to bring information - I can only guess what - to the Augusti Brothers. I examine my wristwatch and motion to my man, Keaton.

Stationed near the front entrance, my valet is immaculately manicured, as usual, in white tie and tailcoat. Correctly reading my nod, he engages the nearby telephone and calls for my car, while keeping his eyes on the Tipster. I make two or three final farewells before disappearing back into my dressing room. Stowed in a trunk, separate from my other costumes and accessories, I withdraw the items necessary for moonlighting as my alter ego - The Suicide King. Donning cloak, harlequin mask and rapier, I meet Keaton at the stage door, in the alley, where he sits behind the wheel of my Crossley Manchester. "Please tell me you haven't lost him already, Keaton."

"Hardly, Sir. Naturally, the knave is en route to Palazzo Augusti."

"He shall never make it, Keaton," I give the manservant a crooked smile.

Without raising an eyebrow, Keaton slams the Crossley's accelerator to the floor and we fly down Madison Avenue, in hot pursuit. "Very good, Sir."