And Miss Turner, nestling in his arms and emitting Arabian sex-appeal as fast as she could, was remembering very clearly the other first night. How she had shrieked…she would never be able to shriek to-night, that was quite certain. Even though she’d told M. Miltonne to fall with his back to the audience and give her a wink to show her everything was all right…no, she’d make a hopeless mess of the shriek, she knew that.
On the canvas crags, Phillipo the Rebel Leader drew his revolver and obliged with his big line of the evening: “So…you make love to my woman, eh?” Miss Turner attempted to shield her lover from the range of the Rebel Leader’s revolver. M. Miltonne thrust her nobly aside and behind him, wondering all the time about that damned gun in Phillipo’s hand.…The Rebel Leader fired. M. Miltonne sank gracefully to the ground with a slight groan. Miss Turner waited until she saw his wink, and shrieked magnificently for sheer relief and joy. M. Miltonne staggered to his feet, drew his own revolver and gave Phillipo exactly what he deserved and in just the place he deserved it. Phillipo fell and the curtain followed suit.
M. Gasnier dabbed his forehead thankfully with his handkerchief, and raised his baton for the short piece of music between Scenes One and Two. The house breathed an audible sigh of release from suspense. Mr. Amethyst sat back in his seat and said to the elderly lady next to him, “There! What did I tell you? You can’t expect justice every time, you know.” It was over. And nothing had happened.
Though, as a matter of fact, quite a lot had happened during that first scene of the second act. Quietly, efficiently, and according to plan. At the beginning of the act, the box which the dress circle had decided was to have the pleasure of housing a Royal Personage was filled instead with Mr. Wilson, senr., Mr. Douglas B. Douglas, and two plain-clothes policemen. They were screened from the view of the audience by the curtains of the box, though several of the One Hundred and Ten Ladies and Gentlemen of the Chorus looked up at Box B in the middle of their Riff Ruffian Rag gyrations, and asked one another out of the corner of their mouths what the hell all that bunch were doing up in that box. Mr. Wilson, junr., was putting in much useful work through the leaky panelling between the two boxes.
“He’s getting a bit het up,” said the running commentary. “He’s been the last word in self-composure all night up till now, but he’s looking a bit wonky now. He’s leaning forward—got his head buried in his hands…I believe your theatrical idea’s going to come off, dad.”
Mr. Wilson, senr., did not answer. Instead, he stepped out of Box B into the darkened passage outside. The two plain-clothes men followed him. Mr. Wilson put his finger round the handle of the door of Box C, opened it inch by inch and stepped inside. Mr. Watcyns was directly in front of him and his back to the door, leaning forward in his seat and silhouetted by the glare from the stage. Down on the stage, M. Miltonne’s song had finished and the line or two of dialogue before the shot was taking place. Mr. Wilson laid a hand on Mr. Watcyns’ shoulder at the precise moment when the shot rang out, and whispered: “This was when you killed him, wasn’t it?”
Mr. Watcyns’ head shot round. He stared at Mr. Wilson—a panic-stricken, horrible stare. On the stage, the second shot rang out and the curtain fell in a round of applause.
“What d’you mean?” said Mr. Watcyns slowly.
“I charge you with the murder of Brandon Baker and Gwen Astle,” said Mr. Wilson, still with his hand on Ivor Watcyns’ shoulder. “Will you come outside—as quietly as possible?”
Mr. Watcyns appeared to recover some of his composure. He smiled. Yes, actually smiled. “Damn him!” thought Mr. Wilson.
“How very extraordinary!” said Mr. Watcyns quietly. “Yes, of course, I’ll come.”
And Mr. Watcyns rose slowly from his seat, gathered his programme, his opera glasses, and his large box of expensive chocolates, took a last look at the goings-on on the stage, and turned towards the door of the box. Still smiling.
“Out this way, please,” said Mr. Wilson.
“This will make a marvellous story for the newspapers, won’t it?” said Mr. Watcyns softly. And selected a chocolate from his box and put it to his mouth with what seemed to Mr. Wilson an unnecessarily quick movement.
Mr. Wilson had the chocolate knocked out of his hand in a flash. Not quite quick enough, though. It was only half a chocolate—and a squashed and squelchy half at that—which landed on the carpet of the box as the result of Mr. Wilson’s action. Mr. Watcyns munched the other half, smiling. Then he flopped quietly on to the floor of the box.
“Come in here,” said Mr. Wilson to the two men outside the door. “Take him along to the station right away. I think he’s poisoned himself. Go on—get a move on. I’ll follow you there in a minute.”
Mr. Watcyns’ limp body was carted away. Mr. Wilson picked up the large and expensive box of chocolates which he had left behind. Made by a well-known firm. Soft centres. All wrapped in silver paper except one row—the row from which Mr. Watcyns had just made a selection. He picked up the specimen from the floor which Mr. Watcyns had half eaten. Smelt it. A tinge of almonds…cyanide, of potassium maybe. Soon find that out, though.
On the stage, the low comedian made a joke about Yorkshire-pudding in front of a drop curtain showing the Grand Canal at Venice.…
Chapter Twelve
Not the least of the attractions of a Douglas B. Douglas first night was the party which took place on the stage after the final curtain had fallen. Grand shows, those parties, and Mr. Amethyst (who was always invited, in case he went over the mark in his paper next day) often thought it would be a good thing if Mr. Douglas would hold the party in public and keep the actual production in camera. Speeches were made, most of them inaudible. Everyone kissed everyone. Champagne flowed like water, and occasionally bore a marked similarity in taste to this latter fluid. Leading ladies gave their bouquets to members of the chorus with a display of generosity and sisterly love which proved definitely, if such proof were needed, that they were hopelessly, magnificently tight.
Excerpts from the show were given in slightly thick voices, and were received by the other members of the company as rapturously as though they were being heard for the first time, and had not been drummed into their ears for the past five weeks at rehearsals.
The gentleman from Yorkshire who had financed the production left at 1 a.m. with one of the ballet dancers, and his name appeared some months later in an undefended suit in the Divorce Courts. At midnight, the debris, human and otherwise, was swept into a corner of the stage and M. Gasnier and his merry men staggered back to the orchestra pit and played dance music until four. At seven, the cleaners came in and expressed their opinions of Suchlike Goings-on in a few well-chosen phrases. The result of which being that the company gave an unbelievably bad performance at the matinée the following afternoon, and the poor provincials who had paid three-and-six for an upper circle seat went home and wondered why in heaven’s name the papers had made all that fuss about the show.
Consequently it came as a bit of a bombshell when the last curtain-call had been taken and the final speech had been made and Mr. Douglas B. Douglas turned to his company and said, rather shortly, “Thank you all very much. You have been splendid. Herbert has an announcement to make on my behalf. Good night,” and exited smartly between two flats of the Blue Music Café ballroom scenery. And another bombshell when Herbert, still in shirt-sleeves, announced that Mr. Douglas regretted that there would not be the usual first-night party to-night, but hoped to have a celebration of some sort on the occasion of the show’s fiftieth performance. And started to dismantle the Café Ballroom as though tonight were the three hundred and fifteenth performance of Blue Music instead of the first.
“No party?” wailed the One Hundred and Ten Ladies and Gentlemen of the Chorus. “But why?” shrieked the Twenty-four Ballet Whos. To which Herbert, who knew nothing himself and was wondering what the hell was the matter with the boss, wa
s a tower of mystery and contented himself—but not the others—by saying “Aha!” several times, and suggesting that no doubt they would learn All About It Later On.
And so, instead of that customary first-night whoopee, there took place a series of smaller and slightly less noisy gatherings at a number of restaurants, hotels, boarding houses, night clubs and private homes. And the wildest rumours circulated over and around repeat orders of whisky, gin-and-gingers, port, Benedictine, Worthington, and—in one case—Ovaltine. The backer had gone smash and D.B.D. was in the soup, even if the show was a success. The new French bloke was walking out at the end of the week. That Scotland Yard man with the attractive smile had arrested D.B.D. on a charge of complicity in the murder of Brandon Baker. And so forth.
The most important of these gatherings took place in M. Miltonne’s dressing-room in the theatre itself. Present, M. Miltonne (now feeling very well, and greatly anxious to sing three French songs which had been banned from his last Folies review); Mr. Douglas B. Douglas with half a dozen bottles of champagne; Mr. Amethyst of the Morning Herald as a privileged guest—privileged in the sense that he would have nosed in anyway, and it was much better for him to have the whole truth given him than have him get hold of it in a roundabout way; Mr. Wilson, senr., and Mr. Wilson, junr.
“Now then,” said Mr. Douglas, pouring out champagne until the company had been made comfortable. “Get going, Wilson. Oh, I should explain to you two that Inspector Wilson has been looking into the affairs of my show ever since the death of Brandon Baker. Aided and abetted by his son here. A bigger pair of blethers I’ve never met in all my life. Though I must confess they’ve done rather more than blether in this case.”
“For those kind words,” said Derek, “much thanks. Damned good champagne, anyway.”
“But the Brandon Baker business—” said M. Miltonne. “Surely there was no mystery about that? I mean—didn’t the fellow who killed him commit suicide after he’d done it?”
“That’s just it,” said Mr. Douglas. “Come on, Wilson, put in a new needle and start off the record.”
“Well,” said Mr. Wilson, settling himself comfortably on the dressing-room settee and swaying the glass of champagne in his hand in a contented manner, “well…this is all rather like the last chapter of a mystery novel, isn’t it? You know…chaps. one to twenty-seven—utter and complete bafflement (if there’s such a word), and then chap. twenty-eight…along comes the brilliant detective and reveals in a few well-chosen sentences that the person who did the dirty deed was none other than the deceased man’s Great-aunt Pauline, and that the whole thing was perfectly obvious from the time the string of pearls was found secreted in the wing of the butler’s parrot at Margate.”
“Cut the cackle,” said Derek, “and get on with it.”
“Right,” said Mr. Wilson. “We’ll start by squashing the obvious solution—the one you just referred to, M. Miltonne. Brandon Baker was not killed by the man Foster. He was killed by Ivor Watcyns. And I’ll tell you how right away. Watcyns was sitting in Box C on the first night. Just before Riff Ruffian whatever-it’s-called number finished, he got out of the box, slipped down the stairs which lead from the corridors outside the boxes, opened that little door which leads backstage, and hid in the folds of the curtain in the wings.”
“Objection number one,” said Mr. Douglas. “How the blazes did he get out of the box without being noticed? I’ve sat in those boxes a score of times, and whenever anyone opens the door in one of the boxes opposite there’s a glare of light comes and hits you bang in the eye. He’d be bound to be noticed by the people in the boxes opposite. I’d have noticed him myself, I’m perfectly certain.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Mr. Wilson, “because he got one of your attendants to switch off the lights in the corridor outside the boxes as soon as each act began. Said he was leaving the door open, because the ventilation of the theatre dated from the time of the early Holy Roman Empire. So that he’d be perfectly able to clear out of his box when he wished without the people opposite noticing anything. Objection overruled.”
“Objection number two, then,” said Mr. Amethyst. “How d’you mean—he hid himself behind the curtain once he got through to the stage? He’d be bound to be noticed coming through the door and going to the curtain, wouldn’t he?”
“No,” said Mr. Wilson, “I don’t think he would. If you go and have a look at the curtains, you’ll find that when they’re drawn back they nearly overlap inside the proscenium a good bit. In fact, they very nearly come right to the door. And you’ve got to remember that the wings would be pretty well empty at the moment he arrived. All the chorus had just cleared off the stage and were in their dressing-rooms, changing for the next scene. Herbert and the rest of the scene-shifting gang were away backstage getting ready the next set. He might have been noticed, of course…but he wasn’t. Objection again overruled.”
“Isn’t he marvellous?” said Derek. “Another five minutes and he’ll be sucking a briar and telling us that the whole thing was elementary, my dear Amethyst—elementary.”
“Shut up,” said Mr. Wilson pleasantly. “Right—where was I? Oh yes…I’d got friend Watcyns in behind the curtains, hadn’t I? On the stage, Baker and Miss What’s-her-name were doing their love stuff. Another couple of minutes and Foster appears on the mountains, levels his revolver at Baker and fires. At exactly the same moment Watcyns fired from behind the curtains…through the curtain, as a matter of fact, and unfortunately from his point of view. Commotion on the stage and in the wings, during which our friend sneaks back through the door, hops upstairs to his box, and then comes out again in a few minutes and asks an attendant what’s the matter on the stage. Elem—simple, wasn’t it?”
“Crikey!” said M. Miltonne, crossing the Channel in an unguarded moment.
“But why? I mean—how d’you arrive at all this?” demanded Mr. Douglas.
“That’s rather more complicated. First of all, there was the question—why did Foster kill Brandon Baker? There wasn’t a shadow of a motive anywhere. From what I can gather poor Foster was just about the last man on earth to take hold of a revolver, let alone level it at a fellow human being and pull the trigger.”
“I bear you out there,” said Mr. Douglas. “I’ve known Hilary Foster on and off for the last twenty years, and he’s definitely no killer. The sort of man who goes home after a show and spends the rest of the night reading Lamb’s Essays or making fretwork pipe-racks.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Wilson. “Well, then, the natural thing to think was that Foster had had the murder planted on him by someone else. As a matter of fact, I believe our friend Watcyns had a sort of secondary plot in case anything went wrong with his first one. Don’t you always send a message round at the end of your dress rehearsals if there’s anything you want altered, Mr. Douglas?”
“That’s right.”
“Yes…well, the bold Herbert changed Foster’s revolver just before the first performance started. Acting on instructions from you.”
“But—”
“Exactly—you never gave such instructions. I shouldn’t be surprised if Watcyns intercepted one of your notes on its way round backstage and added the bit about changing the gun. It might have made things look very black for poor Herb, especially as he destroys all these notes you send to him. He would swear that you told him to swap revolvers, and you and your secretary who writes the notes would swear that you said nothing of the sort. A very useful little bit of business to fall back on.”
“He doesn’t seem to have overlooked anything, does he?” said Mr. Amethyst.
“One thing only. The hole in the curtain. My dear Watson here came across that in one of his rare moments of consciousness. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was something. It told us that someone at some time or another had fired a bullet through the curtain either on to the stage or from the stage out into the auditorium. And that set u
s off looking for bullets.”
“And did we look for bullets!” put in Derek. “Old man Wilson had his only son hopping all over the blessed stage firing imaginary bullets at imaginary leading men.”
“You see—if Brandon Baker had actually been shot dead by Foster, the bullet would have ended up at the very bottom of the proscenium wall. Either that, or it would have missed the proscenium altogether and finished inside the bassoon in the orchestra. Or even inside one of the front-row stall occupants. But it didn’t. We found the bullet buried in the proscenium wall—about four and a half feet up. Exactly the position it would have adopted if it had been fired by someone standing in the wings opposite.”
“You’re certain it was the type of bullet that would be used in Watcyns’ revolver?” asked M. Miltonne.
“Not knowing what type of revolver he used on the night, I’m not at all certain. It is the type of bullet that would be used in the revolver we found when we searched Ivor Watcyns’s flat earlier this evening. But the actual revolver used by Foster seems to have completely disappeared.”
“And I’ll tell you when it did disappear,” said Derek. “That time we were in here reconstructing the crime—the morning after the night before, remember? When someone did a quick exit from the theatre. I’m willing to swear that was friend Watcyns, back to collect evidence that might be incriminating—in the shape of the revolver Foster used in the show.”
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