‘If you’re suggesting what I think you are,’ said Cribb, ‘I ought to warn you that it’s a criminal offence. We’ve our duty to do, sir, and we’ve every right to ask for your cooperation. That’s not to say we’ll stop the goings-on behind the footlights, even though I’ve serious doubts about ’em.’
‘Come, come now,’ said Plunkett. ‘It’s a private performance. Besides, there’s nothing in my show that you can’t see in other halls.’ From his look of injured innocence he might have been staging a temperance concert.
Cribb nodded. ‘I’ll grant you that, sir. Such performances can sometimes be seen in penny gaffs in the backstreets of Cairo. But I ain’t here to reminisce. Where’s the conjurer this girl worked with?’
‘Professor Virgo? I had him escorted to his dressing-room. He was more than a little upset, of course, and I didn’t want a panic backstage. As it is, only a handful of people know about this, you see.’
‘Who would they be?’
‘Why, the two trap-men who work down here, yourselves, Professor Virgo and me.’
‘What about the dead girl’s sister?’
‘Bella? Good Lord, I’d forgotten. Nobody’s told her. She’ll be down here looking—’
Cribb reacted quickly. ‘That sheet, if you please, Thackeray. She’ll be shaken enough at the news, without actually seeing the body. Will you tell her, Mr Plunkett, or shall I?’
‘I’d rather you did, if you’ve no objection.’
‘Very well. You’d better question Virgo, Thackeray. Find out what you can about the man himself, and then go over the performance with him step by step.’ In case the responsibility went to his constable’s head, he added, ‘And get your jacket and trousers on. You look ridiculous.’
Nevertheless it was with a justifiable feeling of importance that Thackeray tapped on Professor Virgo’s door a few minutes later. Constables capable of conducting important interviews were by no means thick on the ground in the Metropolitan area.
The Professor was sitting at a small dressing-table made from a tea-chest, a bottle of whisky in his left hand, and a wand in his right, with which he was moodily prodding a fat white rabbit in a hutch. Thackeray cleared his throat in a business-like way. He knew all about questioning suspects. You had to be in control from the start, establish your official status and then keep the questions going like revolver shots. ‘Detective Constable Thackeray, sir, of Scotland Yard. I have some questions for you.’
‘Questions?’ Professor Virgo twitched in surprise. So did the rabbit.
‘Will you kindly tell me how long you’ve been on the bill at the Paragon, sir?’ A good opening question, requiring a short statement of fact. Get them into the way of repeating facts and they’d be hard put to introduce evasions later.
There was a lengthy pause.
‘You heard me, sir?’
Several seconds later, Virgo spoke: ‘W-when I am nervous I develop an im-p-p—’
‘—pediment?’ God, what appalling luck! His first major interrogation and he had landed a stutterer.
‘About six weeks is the answer to your qu-qu—’
‘I believe you’re a sword-swallower by training?’
Virgo nodded.
‘And you had an accident?’
‘At the Ti-Ti—’
‘Tivoli Garden. Then what happened, sir?’
‘S-s-sore—’
‘—throat. Yes, I can believe that, sir. You was taken to Philbeach House in Kensington, wasn’t you?’ Putting words into their mouths was not the recommended procedure, but this interview was liable to last all night if he didn’t.
Another nod.
‘Someone there offered you an engagement at the Paragon. Am I correct? Good. Now who was that?’
‘Mrs B-B—’
‘Body. Thank you. Now where did you first meet the Pinkus sisters—at Philbeach House? Right. Did the suggestion that they worked with you come from them or from you?’
‘From them.’
‘I see. And when did you first appear with them at the Paragon?’
Virgo held up his fingers. ‘Th-th—’
‘Three days ago? No? Three weeks. Very good. Are you still feeling nervous? What’s the name of your rabbit? Never mind. Look here, Professor Virgo, I need to hear your account of what happened tonight, from the moment you got to the theatre. Are you able to manage that? Have a drop of your whisky. Not for me, thanks. I’m on duty, you see.’
When he had upended the bottle for several seconds, Virgo seemed to recover some of his confidence. He was a decent-looking man, with regular features, but desperately thin. He wouldn’t last long in Newgate, Thackeray reflected.
‘G-got here about eleven. They didn’t want us here while the other show was in p-p—’
‘—progress.’
‘I wasn’t the first turn so I had some time to get my things ready. I put them outside the door here for the p-propman to collect and take downstairs.’
‘That would be your swords,’ recalled Thackeray, ‘and your table, with the wand, your hat, gloves and the glass of magic fluid. What was in that fluid, sir?’
‘W-water, and a little colouring.’ Virgo produced a small bottle of cochineal.
‘May I have it, sir? I’ll see that it’s returned. Now when were your props taken to the stage?’
‘During the m-m—’
‘Monologue. I see. Do you know who moved them?’
Virgo shook his head.
‘So they was probably waiting in the wings about twenty minutes, That’s a long time. Don’t people ever tamper with a conjurer’s tricks when they’re lying about like that, sir?’
‘Oh yes. You get lots of jokers in the theatre. That’s what happened to my swords at the Ti-Ti—’
‘Tivoli Gardens. Yes, sir. Then why did you allow your props to go down there so long before you did?’
Virgo raised his finger confidentially. ‘Ah, there wasn’t much they could do with those few things, was there? They could only add something to the magical fluid, and that’s a chance you take. Why, my assistant once swallowed a glass of d-disappearing liquid and found later it was dosed with ca-ca-cas—’
‘Cascara.’ Both men smiled. ‘So you came into the wings during the transformation scene,’ Thackeray went on, ‘and waited on the side opposite your table, which was brought on by er—a propman.’
‘Yes. I went through the tricks as usual. The swords and the fire-eating. Then I introduced Miss Lola. It’s odd you know. I never s-stutter during a per-per—’
‘—formance,’ said Thackeray. ‘Did anything unusual happen?’
‘Not really. I handed her the drink after she had taken off the cloak. Then I made sure that she—do you know the trick?’
‘She stood on the trap,’ said Thackeray in a superior way.
‘Yes. She drank the water, I shielded her with the cloak and she dropped through the trap as usual.’
‘But she screamed,’ said Thackeray.
‘Yes. That was the moment of her heart-attack, I suppose, poor child. She must have been terrified by the occasion. I don’t think I’ve p-played to such a distinguished audience in my life, either.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I finished the act and when I came off, the man from the trap-floor told me she was dead. I was speechless.’
‘I can believe that,’ Thackeray assured him. ‘A very tragical thing to happen, sir.’
‘A choker,’ said Virgo. ‘I shall have to change my act now. That trick is impossible without twin s-sisters. And s-sword-swallowing isn’t enough to keep a house like this one happy. They aren’t content until there’s a girl on the stage showing a plentiful amount of l-l—’
‘Lower limb?’ said Thackeray.
Virgo nodded. ‘So you see I can’t p-perform with Miss Bella on her own.’ He tapped the wand on his forehead. ‘Perhaps I could saw her in ha-ha—’
‘I shouldn’t,’ said Thackeray hastily. ‘There ain’t much future in that sor
t of trick, sir. Well, I’m grateful for your answers to my inquiries. I must get back to my sergeant now. If he should want to speak to you, where will you be, sir?’
‘In here for at least an hour,’ said Virgo with a note of self-pity in his voice. ‘I have to wait for the p-private omnibus to convey us all back to Philbeach H-H—’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Finding the trap-floor deserted, Thackeray eventually tracked down his superior in the quick-change room. One of the scene-shifters was stationed at the door to repel intruders. For the rest of that evening quick changes would have to be performed in the wings, a contingency unlikely to cause embarrassment to anyone at the Paragon. Thackeray established his identity by flourishing his notebook—what a comfort to have it on one’s person again!—and was admitted.
‘There you are, Constable,’ said Cribb. ‘I was starting to wonder if you were lost in the dressing-rooms.’
Thackeray returned a sharp look. ‘The questioning took longer than you’d think, Sergeant. The Professor had a defect of speech.’
‘I’m not surprised. If you swallowed swords for a living you’d probably impair your faculties in time.’
‘That’s a risk I don’t propose to take, Sarge,’ said Thackeray firmly, now on his guard against any suggestion of Cribb’s. He repeated Virgo’s story, referring only briefly to his notes. ‘So I can’t believe he would deliberately poison Miss Pinkus,’ he concluded, ‘seeing that he’d only known the girl three weeks. Besides, she and Bella was needed for the disappearing act. It won’t be easy finding replacements. And in case the thought had crossed your mind, Sarge,’ he added, grinning, but still with a certain wariness, ‘I don’t happen to have a twin brother.’
‘Even if you had, Thackeray, I can’t picture him in spangles and tights,’ Cribb reassured him. ‘No, from what I gathered when I questioned our friend Plunkett, the Professor ain’t likely to be looking for replacements. He’s a pure-bred sword-swallower and fire-eater. The disappearing trick was put in at the insistence of the management. The patrons don’t take to any kind of turn, however excellent, without its provision of undraped female flesh. But Virgo only performed the disappearing trick under protest. When you’re shoving swords down your own throat to impress an audience you don’t like to sully your act with conjuring-tricks, or so Plunkett tells me.’
‘That puts it in a new light, Sarge. Now you mention it, he didn’t seem particularly put out that he wouldn’t be able to do the trick again, but I didn’t see no significance in it. I think I was too occupied trying to encourage him not to stutter. I’m rather short on experience of interviewing suspects, I’m afraid.’
It was Cribb’s turn to grin. ‘We’ll remedy that, Constable. I must be off to report Miss Pinkus’s death in the right quarter, but I want you to stay here and collect statements from everyone who was on that stage tonight up to the moment of Lola’s death. You can tell ’em you’re in the Force. Say you’re carrying out routine investigations, consequent upon the sudden decease of Miss Pinkus. It’ll take you most of the night, but don’t let anyone go until you’ve questioned ’em. That’ll give you some experience all right. Oh, and get statements from the orchestra as well, will you?’
CHAPTER
12
THACKERAY EXAMINED A FAINT blue stain on the coffee-cup he was holding. The heat of the cup had done what several minutes’ assiduous scrubbing with carbolic soap had failed to do earlier: removed some of the residue of ink from his first and second fingers. The evidence of two laborious days’ copying of statements was now neatly implanted on Great Scotland Yard porcelain, for he and Sergeant Cribb were seated on upright leather-upholstered chairs, being treated with unaccustomed hospitality by Inspector Jowett.
‘From one’s position here at headquarters one has to be constantly on one’s guard against getting out of touch with—if you will forgive the phrase—the humble seekers after clues, the ferrets of the Force, in short, gentlemen, yourselves. Another digestive biscuit, Sergeant?’
The back of Cribb’s neck had become noticeably pinker during Jowett’s condescensions. He shook his head. Thackeray too felt a hotness around the collar and a curdling sensation in his stomach. Both their digestions would need something stronger after this than a biscuit. Each of them clearly remembered a time when Jowett was a detective sergeant competent only at sheering away from trouble. That ability, and certain family connexions, were said to have made his promotion inevitable. If Cribb and Thackeray were ferrets, Jowett was a pedigree rabbit, and much more acceptable in the Yard. In conversation his nose twitched distractingly.
‘We at headquarters,’ he continued, ‘often envy you denizens of the underworld, you know. Unfortunately an efficient C.I.D. requires its planners, its co-ordinators, its intel-ligencers. So we remain bound to our chairs directing the efforts of worthy bobbies like yourselves, while the detectives within us cry out to be with you. For example, gentlemen, I have been reading with interest your report on the death of the young woman last Tuesday at that music hall.’
‘The Paragon, sir.’
‘Yes. Deuced unfortunate thing to happen. But what a splendid setting for an investigation! You have been to other music halls too, I gather?’
‘Just the Grampian in Blackfriars Road, sir,’ said Cribb. Curious as to Jowett’s intentions, he added: ‘Are you interested in variety entertainment yourself?’
‘No, no. That’s not my style of recreation at all. Hardly ever set foot inside such a place. Light opera is far more to my taste.’
‘When constabulary duty’s to be done, eh sir?’ said Cribb.
‘What?’
‘Pirates of Penzance, sir.’
‘Ah, yes. Quite so.’ The allusion was plainly lost on Inspector Jowett. ‘I like point-to-point meetings too.’ He put down his cup and felt in his pocket for his tobacco. ‘Your visit to the Paragon interests me, though. Tell me what you know about the place.’
‘The Paragon? I think we’ve formed a pretty clear picture of what goes on there, sir. We’ve seen it for ourselves and we’ve documented the goings-on there in thirty or more statements.’
‘Please enlighten me.’
‘Well, sir, to most of the world it’s a run of the mill music hall, a trifle more expensive than some of the halls, but offering the same kind of entertainment three nights a week as hundreds of others. It has its promenade, of course, and there’s an element of license in that quarter, but otherwise the whole thing’s as nice as ninepence—if you like music halls, that is.’
‘I assure you that I don’t, but go on.’
‘The owner of the Paragon is the gin magnate, Sir Douglas Butterleigh. It seems he has an affection for the halls. He started a home for destitute performers in Kensington, Philbeach House. You may have heard of it. Now his idea was that artistes falling ill or suffering an accident could be rescued from the poor-house and put in the care of a certain Mrs Body at Philbeach House. When they were sufficiently restored they’d return to the stage at the Paragon. The manager there is a Mr Plunkett, and I got his account of the Paragon from him the other evening. Now Plunkett’s a hard-headed businessman, and in no time at all he saw Butterleigh’s idea wasn’t going to fill that music hall three nights a week.’
‘Philanthropists rarely visualise their charity in commercial terms,’ Jowett observed from the centre of a cloud of smoke.
‘Well, Plunkett persisted for a few months, but the bill at the Paragon wasn’t responding very well to charity. Three-quarters of the guests at Philbeach House were singers—and poor ones at that. You can’t recruit a music hall company from singers alone. So importations were made and soon the Paragon was operating like any other hall, and attracting a regular audience. Sir Douglas Butterleigh didn’t know much about it because he was an invalid and out of the way. To salve his conscience, I suppose, Plunkett decided he would have to find something to occupy the dregs and lees at Philbeach House. He conceived the idea of a special performance just to show ’em
they weren’t forgotten.’
‘In addition to the regular show?’
‘Exactly. But this was a quite different class of audience. Plunkett made it clear he was offering a charitable entertainment. He priced his tickets high, put Sir Douglas’s name on them and then did the rounds of London society. He promised ’em a midnight show, strictly for a good cause, and every ticket was sold inside a week.’
‘Really. I find that difficult to account for.’
‘So did I, sir, until Plunkett told me what he told his customers: that since they were buying tickets for a private show they might expect something different in the way of entertainment. What he’d done, in fact, was to persuade a couple of lady vocalists to be transported across the stage with little more on ’em than a ray of limelight.’
‘-’Pon my soul, what an extraordinary idea!’
‘My sentiments entirely, sir, but there’s no accounting for taste. Plunkett tells me the turn was a roaring success. The audience wouldn’t let the show go on until those two had been pushed back and forth a dozen times, like the favourite frame in a magic lantern. And when the evening came to an end he was bombarded by requests for tickets for the next one. He realised he’d discovered a gold-mine. A secret music hall for the well-to-do, with certain additional attractions.’
‘That’s ingenious, by George.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cribb, ‘but Plunket was too smart a showman to believe it could continue very long like that. Even if he persuaded all the females in residence at Philbeach House to play the part of living statues—and most of ’em were sufficiently close to penury to do it—his customers were going to tire of the entertainment before long. Like any other bill, his midnight show needed variety. But he couldn’t turn singers into sword-swallowers overnight. Nor did he want to recruit performers in the usual way, through their agents. That could only complicate his plans. No, the company for the midnight show had to come from Philbeach House. Once a performer was sufficiently unfortunate to be living on charity he wasn’t likely to argue over the kind of work you offered him. Plunkett’s problem was that Mrs Body’s guest-list didn’t provide the variety he wanted. There wasn’t a tightrope walker or a trapeze-artiste among ’em.’
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