Noël Coward set his champagne glass down on the piano lid with a crisp, deliberate sound. His fingers tapped the lid in rhythm, mimicking the measured knock of Crocker's cane on the floor—a sound far too familiar to the occupants of the Palm Court.
"I don't know if you've noticed," Coward's voice rose, catching everyone's attention, "but our dear Harry has developed a habit: attending afternoon tea at the Savoy almost daily since last year—just to see his name in The Times social column."
He exaggeratedly mimicked Crocker's stiff posture while holding a teacup, pinky finger extended, then continued with a dry chuckle. "Last week, he spent fifty pounds on an avant-garde painting he didn't understand, merely because the Duchess of Devonshire admired the artist."
Ivor Novello's fingers danced over the piano keys, playing a whimsical snippet from The Beggar's Opera.
Gertrude Lawrence covered her mouth with her champagne glass, pearl earrings swaying, a soft laugh escaping her lips.
"At Claridge's, he insisted on ordering truffle foie gras in French—yet mispronounced 'truffle' as 'rat,'" she added, clearly enjoying the memory. Imitating Crocker's pompous tone: "'Please bring me a rat liver pâté.' The waiter's expression? Priceless."
Shane's fingers lightly rotated the gilded pen in his hand, his gaze scanning the room with unshakable calm. Beneath the surface chatter, the patterns of Harry Crocker's vanity became clearer.
"So that's it," Shane murmured, twirling his pen, "he values social recognition almost as much as box office revenue."
Lady Diana Cooper interjected gracefully, a faint smile curving her lips. Her fan snapped open, the Derby family crest catching the lamp light. The tip brushed Shane's wrist ever so lightly. "Indeed. He's practically worn down the carpet in the Royal Opera House manager's office just for an invitation to their charity gala."
Coward produced a gilded invitation from his inner jacket pocket, flipping it between his fingers. "Coincidentally, I received two invitations this morning: one for Mr. Cassidy…" he paused deliberately, "…and the other I was about to discard."
Novello struck a discordant note. "I hear the Royal Opera House is troubled by their new sound system. Is this the same technology that allows patrons in the boxes to hear every note distinctly?" His eyes briefly met Shane's.
Outside the French windows, a sightseeing boat glided down the Thames, laughter drifting faintly on the breeze. Shane traced the fragmented reflections on the water, a small smile forming. He understood instantly: he was both a carefully used piece and a willing player in the social game.
He turned to Coward, voice steady. "I happen to know friends adept at this sort of acoustic work." He accepted the invitation card with a subtle smile. "Perhaps Mr. Crocker should learn that etiquette alone cannot grant entry into certain circles."
Lawrence twisted her pearl necklace thoughtfully, her gaze meeting Shane's. "And the true ticket… is often held by the most unexpected people," she murmured.
Coward raised his refilled glass, eyes meeting Shane's with a hint of complicity. "Then let's give Harry a mathematics lesson he didn't anticipate—and a little social sleight of hand."
Shane's eyes rested on the Royal Opera House invitation. The invisible, centuries-old barriers of class and exclusivity were apparent. These London elites might allow outsiders to mingle temporarily, but acceptance was never guaranteed. Shane's purpose was not to be embraced—it was to extract strategic benefits from this intricate social web.
"So," he began, voice deliberate, "we need to show Crocker that what he desires will come—but only on our terms."
Lady Diana's fan snapped shut, a delicate smile appearing. "You simply need to show him the right numbers at the right time. That's all."
Novello's fingers resumed their sprightly melody. "For instance… having The Times social column publish in advance, hinting that a 'new American film magnate' will attend the Royal Opera House gala with a special guest."
Lawrence picked up her champagne glass, eyes sparkling. "And the 'special guest' is an aristocrat, naturally fascinated by Pioneer Optics technology," she added, glancing briefly at Coward. Words unspoken, yet understood.
Coward chuckled, handing Shane a newspaper clipping. "Like this gentleman—the Duke of Devonshire's nephew, fresh from Cambridge with a degree in optical physics."
Shane raised an eyebrow. "You had this ready?"
"The cards in a social game must always be shuffled in advance," Coward replied smoothly. "Especially when your opponent attempts to bluff his way into the circle."
J. D. Williams interjected nervously, "But what if Crocker realizes we're manipulating public perception?"
Shane folded the clipping, calm as ever. "He won't. He'll be too preoccupied ensuring he remains the center of attention at the gala."
Novello's playing turned somber. "So… when do we make the pre-sale numbers dance?"
Shane adjusted his suit cuff, standing tall. "Tomorrow morning, The Daily Mail will feature an article: 'The Future of Film Technology: How Color Film is Reshaping European Cinemas,' mentioning the advanced pre-sale of The Circus."
He smiled faintly. "Simultaneously, Crocker receives an anonymous note hinting that the Duchess of Devonshire is intrigued by a certain American businessman's distribution strategy."
Lawrence whistled softly. "He'll be desperate to prove he's the one to be invited."
Coward raised his glass, eyes glinting. "And we… simply hand him a 'slightly adjusted' revenue-sharing agreement when he's flustered."
The next day, The Daily Mail ran the article on page three. Cleverly, the editors noted: "Charlie Chaplin's new work, The Circus, will begin advanced pre-sales this week, marking Europe's first innovative distribution strategy."
At noon, a Savoy Hotel doorman delivered the paper to Suite 506. Shane's fingertips tapped deliberately over the bolded words: advanced pre-sale.
Mikhail rushed in. "Sir, Mr. Crocker called the Royal Opera House three times and sent someone to the Duke of Devonshire's residence with a letter."
Shane's lips curved slightly. The game had begun.
The phone rang sharply. "Mr. Cassidy," Crocker's voice was measured yet tense, "regarding tonight's meeting… we need to revisit some terms."
"Of course," Shane replied, watching gulls circle the Thames River. "I have an appointment with Noël at seven concerning the Royal Opera House…"
A crisp clink echoed through the line. "Six o'clock," Crocker said, lowering his voice, "in my private study. Some documents… may interest you."
After hanging up, Shane retrieved two contracts from a drawer. On one, the profit-sharing ratio was penciled in as "48%," a tiny clown doodle next to it. He studied it carefully, knowing this was only the opening move.