This Hitchcock pastiche begins with Laurence Olivier visiting the office of James Steerforth, an ex-Scotland Yard Inspector.Olivier is set to make the film version of Rebecca with Hitchcock in Hollywood. An old woman from Cornwall tells Olivier that she owns the rights to the book and will pay him twice as much as he is being offered by David O'Selznick. Olivier is intrigued and asks Steerforth to investigate the old woman's claims before he commits to the film. What secrets are Steerforth hiding as he believes the man is not Laurence Olivier. Who is the other Rebecca? From a tragic incident that occurred  in Cornwall while Steerforth was serving during the Great War, a murder mystery is about to be solved. Max, his oldest friend, and Clare, his secretary, see through his ruse and believe they may be able to save Steerforth. I have included the opening scenes from the play.

The lights rise. Against a green light, turning into a dreary, watery yellow, the sound of "Melancholy Baby" can be heard playing on a scratched record in the background. The outline of a coat stand is seen as the music ceases and the sound of a woman crying is heard as the dishevelled figure of James Steerforth, late forties, enters stage left. His face is wan; he looks terribly unwell, as he speaks to the audience, but is really speaking to himself.

Steerforth:    I have grown used to the quietude, my little girl. (His eyes fill with despair as he stares around the stage). Last night I dreamed of. . . I shall make it through this day. This is not how they will remember me. (He stops, nervous, as the lights rise behind him and his office is revealed. Steerforth smoothes down his uncombed hair and takes a deep breath). Someone will relieve me of this tedium.

He sits behind his bureau as the sound of voices are heard off stage, doors closing, as  Laurence Olivier, late thirties, enters, stage left. He wears a trench coat and homburg, which he takes off. He smiles disarmingly at Steerforth as he sits in the empty chair. Steerforth recognizes him instantly.

Steerforth:     May I help you? You are. . .

Olivier:     I most certainly hope so. Is there something ailing you?

Steerforth:   Just a little indigestion from the rubbish I ate last night. You must have taken a wrong direction? This is a joke, isn’t it? Clare is playing a trick on me.

Olivier:   I rarely make errors, Mr. Steerforth, and this is a situation I did not wish to find myself in. It was your rather unusual name, with its literary connotations, that drew me to your office in the first place.

Steerforth:   My father had a sense of humour when he named me. You are so well-known. The moustache does you an injustice. (Olivier glances at his watch). Is time pressing?

Olivier:   You could say that. My visit must be brief on this occasion. I have left David Niven in the car outside.  We are going to his club after we leave here. (He looks around the office). What is that terrible odour? It appears to be lingering on every level of the tenement. I felt quite nauseated as I tried to find your office.

Steerforth:   It emanates from the tanning works opposite. I have grown used to it. My phlegm only turned green yesterday after being brown for years. This area of the East End seems far from the usual places you frequent, Mr. Olivier.

Olivier:   I am not unaware of the desperate conditions in this country. I was told to contact you with certain conditions attached.

Steerforth:  Who told you about me?

Olivier:   That I cannot say for the present. My quandary increases daily.

Steerforth:   I enjoyed you in Wuthering Heights.

Olivier:   Why, thank you.

Steerforth:    The film had little to do with Emily Bronte’s book.

Olivier:    You can blame Sam Goldwyn for that. The Americans have to have everything explained for them. They have a strange understanding of the English language. Some have never heard of a pavement.

Steerforth:    How would they get on with Agatha Christie?

Olivier: (Laughs)   I rest my case. I like you, Steerforth. This building is advantageous for a chap who wishes to hide from the world. You are intelligent. Nothing seems to daunt you.

Steerforth:   Praise, indeed. It is a pity you did not win the Oscar for best actor for your performance of Heathcliff.

Olivier:    Awards mean so little when it is the performance that matters. This is what people will remember years from now.

Steerforth:   Call me Jim, if I am going to work for you. You must have been annoyed when you did not win the Oscar, Larry.

Olivier:  Films are meant to be watched as entertainment, not for artistic purposes. Making a film can be a matter of life and death for some. I can take it or leave it. Robert deserved his gong for Mr. Chips.

Steerforth:   I doubt if there will be a list of nominations again like there were for nineteen-thirty nine.

Olivier:   Vivien won for the pot-boiler she made. 

Steerforth:   I read somewhere that Margaret Mitchell wanted Basil Rathbone for the part of Rhett Butler.

Olivier:   So I have been told.

Steerforth:   Donat was superb in The Thirty-Nine Steps.

Olivier:    Do you know who directed it?

Steerforth:   Hitchcock. He’s a sly bugger if there ever was one. Impassioned eloquence and innuendo. I believe Ivor Novello should have left if there with the silent version of "The Lodger". 

Olivier:  Alfred is a superb visionary and I am to work with him soon. I received a letter at my flat on Monday. . .