“Ah,” went the crowd, as one. Because, after all, we all know that.

“So come on, then,” said Dorothy. “Which one of you is it?”

The crowd now took to a collective silence.

“All right,” said Dorothy. “Then let me put it another way. I will count to ten, and if the hero has not identified himself before this time I will execute two people at random. Come on, now, I’m counting down.”

“Oh, all right,” came a voice from an air-conditioning duct. “Don’t shoot anyone, I’m coming out.”

Jack was making good progress along the corridor. If good progress can indeed be measured by progress along a corridor.

“We really can’t help you,” said Amelie, wiggling in front.

Jack looked down at those long, long legs. They were just like re – Oh, they were real legs, weren’t they?

Jack said, “Get a move on.”

“Amelie’s right,” said Mr Tinto. “We can’t help you. We don’t know anything.”

“You know something,” said Jack. “I’ve been following the American Dream, me, and I know how it works. You can lead me to the next person in the chain of command. That’s how it works, I know it.”

They were approaching a lift. The doors of this were gold.

“That’s not how it works,” said Mr Tinto. “Well, I suppose it is in theory, but not in reality, no.”

“I have no time to debate issues with you,” said Jack, flashing the cleaver’s blade before Mr Tinto’s frightened eyes. “I am a desperate man.”

“Well, clearly so, yes. But you are making a mistake.”

“They always say that,” said Jack.

“Who do?” asked the man in beige as Jack hauled him bodily onwards.

“Baddies,” said Jack. “It’s a threatening thing to say, ‘You are making a big mistake.’”

“I don’t mean it to be threatening,” the beige man protested. “I’m just telling you the truth – you are making a big mistake.”

“We’ll see,” said Jack. “Get a move on, please.”

And on they went and they reached the lift. And at the lift Dorothy caught up with them.

“Is everything all right?” Jack asked her.

“Yes, it is now,” she replied.

“I don’t like the sound of that.” And Jack reached out and pressed the “up” button. “What happened? You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

“No, I just knocked them on the head.”

“All of them?”

“No, just the one – the chef who’d stripped down to his vest and bare feet and hidden himself in the air-conditioning system.”

Jack shook his head. “Do chefs often do that?” he asked.

“They do here in Hollywood,” said Dorothy. “Going up.”

And the lift doors opened.

“Everyone inside,” said Jack.

“Do I really have to?” asked Mr Tinto.

“Yes,” said Jack. “You do.”

“But you don’t need two hostages. Why not just take Amelie here?”

All were now inside the lift and the lift doors closed upon them. Jack pressed the topmost button. The lift began to rise.

“What did you say?” asked Amelie.

“I’m only saying,” said Mr Tinto, “that in hostage situations such as this, I’m the one most likely to get shot. They rarely shoot the pretty girl – she’ll probably end up snogging the hostage-taker.”

“Snogging?” said Amelie.

“Well, shagging,” said Mr Tinto.

“What?” said Amelie, and she smacked Mr Tinto right in the face.

“Go girl,” said Dorothy.

“Not in the face,” cried Mr Tinto. And he burst into tears.

“She didn’t hit you that hard,” said Jack. “Don’t be such a baby.”

“I’m not paid to get smacked,” said Mr Tinto. “Taken hostage, yes, that was in my contract. But not smacked. I always demand a stunt double if there’s any smacking involved. Or being thrown through windows.”

Jack rolled his eyes.

“Well, I’ve not been paid for any shagging,” said Amelie. “That’s work for a body double. I don’t do that kind of work.”

“Oh, please,” said Mr Tinto. “It’s common knowledge that you’ve done stag films.”

“I’ve done no such thing. And we all know how you get work. Whose casting couch did you have to bend over to –”

“Would you please stop now,” said Jack. “I’m in charge here. I have the cleaver.”

“Yes,” said Mr Tinto, “and I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. That is a real cleaver – you could have injured me with that. If I wasn’t a professional I would have stopped you dead on the set and demanded a prop.”

“A what?” said Jack.

“A soft cleaver. A rubber one.”

“This is a real cleaver,” said Jack.

“Yes, I know, and you can stop threatening me with it now – we’re no longer on camera.”

“We might be,” said Amelie. “The director never called ‘cut’.”

Jack looked towards Dorothy. “Is it just me,” he asked, “or is something not altogether right with these two hostages?”

“Oh, come off it, luvvie,” said Mr Tinto. “Just because you’re all Stanislavski method acting to disguise the fact that you can’t remember your lines –”

“What?” went Jack.

“It’s true,” said Amelie. “You were far too rough with Sydney.”

“Thank you, Marilyn.”

“Sydney?” went Jack. “Marilyn?”

“Oh please, sir,” said Sydney. “As if you didn’t recognise us.”

The lift went clunk and stopped. They had reached their destination.

“Now just stop!” shouted Jack. “What is all this about? What are you saying? What is all this Marilyn and Sydney business?”

“You have to be jesting and your jest is in very poor taste,” said Sydney. “Well, we’re here now. Back in character everyone. And cue. Press the open-door button, please.”

Jack shook his head and pressed the “open” button.

And the lift doors opened.

And Jack beheld.

And Dorothy also beheld. And so did Sydney and so did Marilyn.

And Sydney said, “Typical, that.”

“Typical?” said Jack, and he stared. There was nothing. Nothing at all. The lift was at the top of its shaft, but there was no floor for them to step out onto. Just a big empty nothing. Four interior walls of the building. And these, it appeared, constructed from canvas and timber. Far, far below them there was to be seen the above parts of a ceiling below – the ceiling of the lecture room they had so recently left. And the above parts of another ceiling that followed the corridor that they had followed to enter the lift they now stood in. And stood in somewhat fearfully. Clinging onto one another now, for fear of falling the considerable distance to their doom below.

“Utterly typical,” said Sydney, pressing himself back from the open lift doors and flattening himself against the opposite wall.

Jack did more slack-jawed starings. Then he turned, shook Marilyn away from his arm and squared up large before Sydney. “Speak to me,” Jack demanded. “Explain what is going on here.”

“The set’s not finished,” said Sydney. “Utterly typical. Labour disputes with the union, I expect. I was on Casablanca, back in forty-two with Bogart, half the sets weren’t finished. We had to double up the Blue Parrot Café with the airport lounge, although I don’t think anyone noticed. They were too entranced by my acting.”

And Jack hit Sydney. Right in the face.

And Sydney broke down in tears.

“You beast,” howled Marilyn. “How unprofessional. How dare you hit a Hollywood legend like that. He came out of retirement to play this part – you have no right to treat him in such a way.”

Jack turned upon her. “You speak to me,” he said, “or I’ll throw you out of the lift and you can make your own way downstairs.”

“No, stop, please.”

“Then speak.”

And Marilyn spoke. “We are actors,” she said. “Surely you recognise us. This is Mister Sydney Greenstreet and I am Marilyn Monroe.”

“Marilyn Monroe?” asked Jack. “But you can’t be her. I saw her effigy at the wax museum, although –”

“It is her,” said Dorothy. “But I didn’t recognise you – how come?”

“Because when I play a role, I am that person.”