Quick Curtain

by Alan Melville

  “Yes, I suppose that’s it.”

  “Ivor Watcyns still in the hotel?”

  “Yes. At least, he was this morning. That’s where I got into trouble with these flat-feet here—I did my level best to persuade them that I had a fairly good idea who had done the murder, and that our only chance of getting hold of him was to lie low and not let the news of the murder all over the village. I could have got in touch with him then—he’s no idea who I am, you see. Thinks I’m merely a depressing example of the hiking genius. Unfortunately these birds wouldn’t listen. They took one look at my zip-fastened shirt and put me down as N. B. G. right away. And then the Prune female in the post office started gibbering about the telegrams I’d been sending, and that I’d always acted peculiar-laike in her presence, and that settled it. I wasn’t exactly put behind bars, but I was locked in Mrs. Root’s back kitchen, which is the equivalent of a prison cell in Craile.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Wilson, senr.

  “I’m sure we’re sorry, sir,” said P. C. Root, finding his tongue and making somewhat shaky use of it.

  “We were only doing our duty, in a manner of speaking, sir,” said P. C. Lightfoot.

  “You couldn’t blame us, sir,” said P. C. Anon.

  “That’s all right,” said Mr. Wilson. “I think we’ll look up friend Watcyns at the hotel, Derek. You two—you’d better come along. I may have someone worth looking up for you this time. You’d better stay here and look after that girl’s body. I’ll telephone to headquarters to send down some men.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come on, then.”

  The two centenarians on the bench outside the “Craile Arms” stopped their debate on the state of the crops in pre-War England in mid-sentence as Mr. Wilson, senr., Mr. Wilson, junr., P. C. Root and P. C. Lightfoot stepped carefully inside the hotel. Centenarian A then ventured the opinion that there was Something Mighty Queer Up and No Mistake. Centenarian B concurred, adding that he had never liked the Look of that young gent in them there pants of his. Inside the hotel, the Wilsons and the guardians of the law punched all available bells and knocked on several windows and doors. The more intelligent maid appeared at last, carrying a bundle of bedclothes.

  “Could I see the proprietress?” asked Derek.

  “Sorry, sir. She’s away, sir.”

  “Away?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s gone off for a few days’ holiday, sir. Left by the first train this morning. She’s been feeling a bit run down like, sir, and she was going to take a few days off while we were slack-like, sir.”

  “I see,” said Derek. “Is Mr. Wright in the hotel just now?”

  “Him that was in Number eight, you mean, sir?”

  “That’s the chap.”

  “No, sir. He’s gorn, sir.”

  “Gone!”

  “Yes, sir. He went away this morning. Just after breakfast. He’d meant to stay the whole week, I think, sir, but he told me he got a letter calling him back to London and he’d have to go right away. He had his car brought round at ten and paid his bill—paid it right up for the whole week, sir—and off he went, sir.”

  “Damn!” said Derek. “Right, thanks very much. That’s all.”

  “Wright?” queried Mr. Wilson. “What’s Wright got to do with it?”

  “Watcyns and Gwen Astle were registered here as Mr. and Mrs. Wright. Double bedroom. Two pairs of shoes outside the door. Breakfast in bed. All mod. cons.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Wilson. “Well, the bird’s flown, damn him.”

  “Anything up, sir?” inquired P. C. Lightfoot from a distance.

  “Nothing—except that the man who murdered the woman you found last night has done a bunk,” said Mr. Wilson. “Not that he’ll get very far, though. Derek—where’s the telephone?”

  “In there—through that door.”

  “Right. Put a call through to Scotland Yard. I’ll speak when you get them. Now then, you two—I want as little publicity made about this matter as possible, understand? The fact that a woman was murdered here last night—that’ll get into the papers, of course, but there’s no need for anything more to get in, see? No ‘police expect to make an arrest immediately’, or ‘Scotland Yard are already on the scene of the crime’ stuff, get me? You’ll have reporters swarming down here, but you’ve got to keep your months shut, understand? The man who stayed here as Mr. Wright murdered the woman you found dead last night. We’ve no actual proof yet, but it’s a thousand to one that he did. But what I’m trying to get at is something that happened before that, see?

  “I’m not so interested in this killing, but I’m exceedingly interested in another—and the same fellow’s going to answer for both. As it happened, my son was quite right when he tried to get you to hush it up—this man Wright hadn’t any idea that there was someone down here watching him; what we want him to think is that he’s got away with it without anyone being any the wiser. So—you understand—keep your mouths shut and I’ll see you’re thanked in the proper way, understand?”

  P. C. Root and P. C. Lightfoot had nodded their heads vigorously at each of Mr. Wilson’s “understands”, with the result that their helmets were now seriously impeding their vision.

  “Call’s through, dad,” said Derek, appearing out of the hotel office.

  “Right,” said Mr. Wilson. “I’ll come and have a look over the place where you found the body, Lightfoot, if you’ll hang about outside until I’m ready. Where’s this ’phone?…Good God, I thought this type went out with crinolines.…Hullo, Scotland Yard?…Inspector Wilson speaking…put me through to Mr. Herries, will you?…Yes.…Herries?…Wilson speaking from Craile.…Craile…C-r-a—oh, it doesn’t matter—Wilson speaking from Llandudno.…Listen, John…Gwen Astle, the musical-comedy wench, was murdered down here last night.…Yes…and I know who murdered her, that’s more important…Ivor Watcyns.…Yes, the writer-bloke.…Listen—remember I told you there was more in that Brandon Baker murder than met the eye?…Right.…Well, I’ll lay a thousand quid to my winter flannels that Ivor Watcyns killed Brandon Baker, and planted it on the other fellow—Foster, that’s his name.…How?—it’s too long and too clever to tell you now, but I’m perfectly certain Watcyns has two stiff bodies to answer for.…Yes.…Listen, then.…He’s cleared out…he was staying at the hotel down here, and he did a bunk a bit after ten.…He’d come to London, sure, first of all.…I want you to get every man you can on to him…get round to his flat right away—three-eighteen Cluny Terrace, N.…There’s a chance he might go to Gwen Astle’s flat, too, if there was anything he didn’t want to be looked into…three-eighteen Chalmers Street, I think it is…you’ll find it in the directory.…But I want you to make sure he doesn’t get out of the country…watch the boat trains this afternoon…send someone down to Southampton and Tilbury…and get in touch with Croydon right away—if he’s moving he’ll probably move by air…there’s a ’plane for Berlin in half an hour, I know—see he’s not on that.…Right.…I’m sticking down here just now to have a look round, but I’ll be back in town to-night.…Yes, I’ll come along and see you then.…Oh, ring me up here if you get hold of him.…Yes—arrest him on the spot.…What? For the murder of Brandon Baker and Gwen Astle, of course.…Sure?…I’m as sure as a hen that’s laid a double-yolked egg.…Righto.…Thanks very much.…Good-bye.”

  “Surely and swiftly, the police net is closing in in all directions,” said Derek, who had listened to the recitation.

  “Yes…he won’t get out of the country if we can help it.”

  “I shouldn’t think he’ll try to,” said Derek.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s about the stupidest thing a murderer could do. It’s the first thing the police think of—watching the ports and the aerodromes. Much safer to go and book a room at the Strand Palace, in my opinion.”

  “For a man who knows he’s being chased, yes. But
Watcyns doesn’t know. That’s our advantage. The woman who was found dead last night hasn’t been identified as the woman who was staying with him here at the hotel. And won’t be. ‘Another Unsolved Murder Mystery’, the Daily Record will say. All to the good. Ivor Watcyns hasn’t the least grounds for thinking that anyone is connecting him with the murder of Gwen Astle—let alone with the murder of Brandon Baker. And in those circumstances I’ll be very much surprised if he doesn’t slip quietly away from England’s green and pleasant land some time to-day.”

  “Well, he won’t get very far,” said Derek; “unless he’s already aboard the lugger.”

  “Hope not.…I wonder—what about ringing up Douglas B. Douglas? He might know something about him, mightn’t he?”

  “He might. I’ll get him for you.”

  “Right.”

  Derek disentangled the various parts of the obsolete telephone and asked for Mr. Douglas B. Douglas’s London office. Was Mr. Douglas in? No, he wasn’t. Oh…any idea where one could find Mr. Douglas at this time of the day? Yes, Mr. Douglas was at the Grosvenor Theatre, supervising rehearsals for the reopening of Blue Music. Thank you very much.…Grosvenor Theatre? Oh—was Mr. Douglas B. Douglas in the theatre? Yes, he was. Could one speak to him, then, please? Sorry, but Mr. Douglas gave strict orders he was not to be interrupted during the rehearsal. Perhaps one could take a message, could one? Well…it was really rather important—a personal message. Inspector Wilson of Scotland Yard speaking. Scotland Yard? Yes, Scotland Yard. Oh, well, I’ll get Mr. Douglas right away in that case. Hold the line, please. Just a minute, sir.

  “Here—you’d better speak,” said Derek, handing the receiver to Mr. Wilson senr., “I said it was you. Sounds better.”

  “Right…what time is it now?” said Mr. Wilson while waiting with the receiver to his ear.

  “Two-fifteen. And I’ve had no lunch.”

  “Watcyns cleared out at ten. That’s four hours. Damn—he may be anywhere by now. If only we’d got the Yard people on the job sooner.”

  “Douglas may know the likely place he’d make for.”

  “Yes, but—Hullo?…That you, Douglas?…Wilson speaking. Yes—sorry to interrupt the show.…You don’t happen to know anything about Ivor Watcyns, do you?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Douglas B. Douglas’s deep baritone voice, “I do. He’s one of the most brilliant writers of the younger school. He’s done a great deal of work for me, and I hope he’ll do some more. Only he’s getting a bit high-hat in matters of payment these days, and what with the depression and the weather hitting the theatre business the way it’s doing, I very much doubt if—”

  “No, no,” interrupted Mr. Wilson. “I don’t want a biography, thank you. I mean—I’m rather anxious to get hold of him right away. You don’t know where I’d have any chance of finding him, do you? I’ve an idea he might have…gone abroad, or into the country, or something like that. I suppose you couldn’t…”

  “Just a minute,” said Mr. Douglas’s voice.

  “What’s he say?” asked Derek.

  “He hasn’t said anything important yet. Except, ‘Just a minute.’ I expect he’s gone to find out from some of his damned secretaries or something—two-fifteen—I’m afraid we’ve missed the boat, Derek. He could be in Paris by this time. There’s a ’plane leaves at— Hullo?”

  “Yes?”

  “Who’s that, please?” said Mr. Wilson, senr., preparatory to a few remarks on the subject of idiot operators who cut you off in the middle of a conversation.

  “This is Ivor Watcyns speaking,” said Watcyns’ smooth and pleasant voice in Mr. Wilson’s right ear. “I’m very busy with a rehearsal just now. What d’you want, please?”

  Mr. Wilson, senr., put back the antique receiver on its prehistoric hook.

  Chapter Eleven

  Away back about the Genesis of this business wasn’t it remarked that Douglas B. Douglas was a master of publicity? If there were any who doubted the truth of that statement at the time (and it is almost certain that there were not), they had the thing settled quite definitely by the way Mr. Douglas handled the reopening of his show Blue Music. From the moment when that heavy red curtain swept down and along and over the still body of Brandon Baker, Mr. Douglas realized that he was in on a Good Thing. There were temporary disadvantages, of course—the withdrawal of the show, the waste of the previous bout of publicity, the returning of a certain amount of good hard cash, the finding of another actor to take Brandon Baker’s place, the rehearsals and the job of working up the public once more into a state of coma in which they would pay five guineas for seats at the first night and not think they were doing anything out of the ordinary in paying that sum.

  There were those disadvantages, granted. But apart from them the thing (to use Mr. Douglas’s own expression) was a Wow of Wows. After all, it wasn’t every theatrical manager that got a perfectly high-class murder presented to him in the way of free publicity. It was an opportunity that came seldom to publicity-mongers, and Douglas B. Douglas took hold of it with two capable fists.

  Mr. Douglas B. Douglas (said the Daily Record) was negotiating with a world-famed American stage and screen star to take the leading part in his musical comedy Blue Music, vacated in such unhappy circumstances by the death of Brandon Baker. Mr. Douglas B. Douglas (remarked the Daily Echo) had left Croydon by air for Berlin, where he was hoping to fix up a contract with a famous Continental actor to play the leading part in Blue Music when the show reopened on the thirteenth. The famous theatrical manager Mr. Douglas B. Douglas (remarked the News-Courier) had left Berlin for Budapest, where he hoped to arrange for the appearance of a well-known European cabaret star in the late Brandon Baker’s part in the show Blue Music. And so on. Actually, Mr. Douglas B. Douglas got hold of a young English actor whom he found shaking an elegant leg among the ladies of the Folies Bergère in Paris, and whom he persuaded to take over the part at a salary which was approximately one-twentieth of that which he had paid the late Mr. Baker, on condition that he went into rehearsal at once, and that he played the part with a pronounced foreign accent.

  The young leg-shaker agreed, changed his name from Milton to Miltonne, went to seven Maurice Chevalier films to get the local colour Mr. Douglas demanded, crossed the Channel to his native shores and was billed as the “Rage of Paris”.

  That little job settled, Mr. Douglas fixed up an English actress who had been “resting” for the past eight months (this time at a salary one-thirtieth of that recently received by Gwen Astle), announced the lady as coming “Direct from Her American Triumphs”, and put the show once again into rehearsal. There was a nice large theatre vacant in Glasgow, and the Blue Music company went North—lock, stock, barrel, and revolving stage—and played to audiences of rather more than fifteen hundred pounds per week while the two newcomers to the show were being instructed in their parts. And that, in case you do not recognize it as such, is Big Business.

  There was also the murder side of it. A lot could be made of that. A lot was made of it. In an exclusive interview to the Evening Herald theatre correspondent, Mr. Douglas said that bad luck had dogged the show ever since it had gone into rehearsal. It would be remembered that Miss Astle’s priceless emerald bracelet had been stolen when the show was having its preliminary run in Manchester, following which there had been the sad deaths of Mr. Baker and Miss Astle herself. Mr. Douglas, however, was defying superstition and putting on the show for its reopening performance on Friday, the thirteenth.

  It was probable that the public would stay away from the show as a result of this succession of misfortunes, but Mr. Douglas had always believed in putting on a show for the Sake of Art, and could never have been accused of Pandering to the Taste of the Public. (A neat touch, this, the queue when the bookings opened being a mile and a quarter long, six deep, and causing traffic blocks at three different corners.)

  The electric-light signs whic
h had previously yelled at London that Blue Music was a Douglas B. Douglas production now screamed forth the news that Blue Music was a musical comedy with murders. The posters outside the Royalty Theatre had a neat edging of black around their gaudy colouring and gay printing—ostensibly out of respect for the late Baker-Astle combination, but really as an added publicity-magnet. The net result of which being that the gallery queue formed five days before the second first night (instead of only three days before, as had been the case at the first first night), the libraries put over deals in seats that constituted a record for any musical comedy ever produced in Great Britain, and before the curtain went up on the night of Friday the thirteenth the house had been sold out for the first seven weeks of the run.

  On the back of the tickets, which disappeared considerably quicker than hot cakes, there was printed the inscription: “This ticket is sold on the express understanding that no monies will be refunded in the event of the performance being stopped by any untoward circumstance, as in the case of the previous performance of Blue Music.” Which, of course, only made the seats go quicker than ever.

  At six o’clock on the Night, Mr. Wilson, senr., was wrestling with a white bow-tie in front of his dressing-table mirror.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Wilson senior, “it was a bit awkward, I admit. I certainly hadn’t expected to hear our murderer on the ’phone at that moment.”

  “Yet, when you come to think of it,” said Wilson fils, in the throes of a white waistcoat, “it was the natural thing to do for a man in his position.”

  “What was?” asked Mr. Wilson, senr.

  “Bluff it out. I mean, a man who’s as well-known as Ivor Watcyns couldn’t have expected to make a getaway without some questions being asked. If he’d been a nobody, like you or I, he’d have stood a fair chance of being able to clear out of the country without anyone caring a damn. But a man like Ivor Watcyns—well, D.B.D. would start asking where he’d got to, and then the papers would start shouting for him, and people would generally start to wonder why?”