I felt absurdly relieved. Ever since that incredible thing had happened at the Dagonet, I had been waiting with lugubrious pessimism for someone to mention the police.
“Then there’ll be no inquest?” I asked hopefully. “We won’t have hordes of dumb detectives scrambling over the production?”
“An inquest?” Lenz’s imperial tilted upward, registering mild surprise. “My dear Mr. Duluth, why should there be an inquest? An elderly actor dies of myocardial failure in the presence of a reputable physician. Why should that require police investigation?”
I glanced at Iris. She was still twisting the edge of the cushion and looking intense. “You don’t know the half of what happened,” I said.
I told him the whole story then. Lenz wasn’t only backing the show; he was backing my return to life. Telling him all was the most comforting thing that had happened to me that loathsome night.
“Now you know what led up to it, don’t you think Comstock’s death is a matter for the police?” I concluded, hoping to hell he’d say no. Because I knew that if we got the show mixed up with the police, we were through.
There was the faintest twinkle in Lenz’s placid grey eyes. “What you have told me, grotesque though it may be, only makes the situation that much more reasonable. Mr. Comstock was an actor, an impressionable, probably a superstitious person. He arrived at the Dagonet in an extremely wrought-up condition, his mind full of memories of this girl, this Lillian Reed. Memory and a conscience can do strange things. After the rehearsal, he went to Mr. Wessler’s dressing-room, perhaps following an impulse to revisit the scene of the tragedy. He found the broken mirror. That, in itself, would heighten his superstitious mood. He looks in the mirror, he sees perhaps his own face distorted by the broken glass. How logical to transfer to the mirror the image that was in his mind; how logical to imagine he saw the face of the dead girl.” Lenz produced a large pair of horn-rimmed spectacles which he always used to emphasize significant points. “All that, or any of that, Mr. Duluth, would have been more than sufficient to precipitate a fatal attack.”
The spectacles were returned to the pocket. Presumably Dr. Lenz considered the situation adequately explained.
I didn’t.
I said: “But what about everything else? The broken mirror, the broken pane of glass, the crushed statuette and …?”
“And what Theo saw upstairs?” put in Iris suddenly. “She saw a woman’s face reflected in a mirror, too. She saw it before Comstock …”
Dr. Lenz lifted an impressive hand for silence. He got it. “Mr. Duluth, Miss Pattison.” He eyed us both with paternal tolerance. “It is easy to make mysteries where there are none—particularly when one is not in an absolutely normal state of health. I am vitally interested in the welfare of your play. So are you. I strongly advise you not to jeopardize your success by worrying— until there is real cause to worry.”
I didn’t like that until. It gave the whole show away. It proved what I had already suspected, that Lenz was humoring us both as if we were a couple of nuts in his sanitorium. He knew things were wrong as hell at the Dagonet but he wasn’t going to admit it to us because he still didn’t trust our nerves.
“But…” I began.
It wasn’t any use butting Dr. Lenz. Patients didn’t pay him enormous fees to tell them everything was going to be all right—for nothing.
I found myself wanting a drink. I was wanting it horribly when the buzzer shrilled again. I went out into the hall and opened to Theo Ffoulkes.
The English actress looked tired, but defiantly matter-of-fact.
“Hellish late, Peter,” she said. “But I had to come.”
She walked briskly into the living-room, blew on glove-less hands and said: “Iris, be a cherub and make me a cup of tea. I’m frozen.” She grinned at Lenz. “Why on earth don’t those two get married? Save an awful lot on rent. You’re backing the show, aren’t you? Saw you at rehearsal tonight. Lucky man, you’re going to make a mint of money.”
“Don’t make bright conversation, Theo,” I said gloomily. “If you’ve got anything to say, out with it.” I screwed up my mouth and jerked a thumb at Lenz: “Don’t mind him, see? He’s okay … one of the mob.”
Theo sat down on the arm of the couch and tugged off her felt hat, revealing graying, closely cropped hair.
“I went back to the theater for my gloves, Peter. The doorman told me about Lionel. What did he die of?”
Iris moved into the kitchen and started clattering kettles.
“Bum heart,” I said.
“That’s what I was afraid of.” Theo lit a Goldflake, coughing and making a grimace. “It’s my fault, isn’t it, Peter? I frightened him to death by dashing onto the stage and acting like a chump. In a way, I’m responsible for killing him.”
She looked really worried.
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Whatever frightened him happened a long time after that.”
“But I did see that face in the mirror.” Theo’s lips mangled the Goldflake. “That’s what I came to tell you. I wasn’t playing the fool or telling bedtime stories.”
I glanced at Lenz slyly. “Dr. Lenz says we mustn’t talk about those things,” I said. “It’s naughty.”
Lenz remained imperturbable. He was leaning forward in his small steel chair, eying Theo intently. “You’ll pardon my asking, Miss Ffoulkes, but does the name Lillian Reed mean anything to you?”
I saw what he was driving at. He was trying to prove that Theo had already heard the Dagonet legend and had been subsconsciously influenced by it.
“Lillian Reed,” said Theo. “Lillian! You mean the woman Comstock talked about? Have you found out who she is?”
“Yes,” I said. “We have. She’s a very charming person. She’s a ghost.”
I told her the Lillian story. As one of my oldest and sanest friends in the theater and as one of the people who had met up with Lillian’s reflection at the Dagonet, I figured she would be better off knowing the truth than having to guess.
She looked very white and queer. “Peter, how weird! That’s exactly what I saw.” Then she added quickly: “Was Wessler on stage when it happened? Did he see it all? Is he all right?”
I said yes, he was all right.
Lenz was still gazing at the Englishwoman. “You are sure, Miss Ffoulkes, that it was a woman’s face you saw in the glass?”
“Why, yes. The face was contorted, well, you know, sort of twisted with pain and I couldn’t see the hair because the head was tilted backward. But I’m sure it was a woman from the way she was dressed. There was something around her throat. It looked like a fur—a light tan fur.”
Theo got up and started marching about the room. “I want to have this out, Peter, before I go home. I don’t believe in ghostly reflections and all that bosh. But I’ve been thinking. There’s that curtained clothes closet immediately opposite the minor. If someone had been hiding in there and the curtains weren’t properly drawn, her face could have shown in the mirror although the rest of her was invisible. I’m sure that’s what happened.”
That was a thoroughly sensible remark. If someone had been hiding there, she could easily have slipped out before Gerald and I arrived. It would also explain how the lights got turned out after Theo left them on.
Theo continued: “But, even if that’s what happened, why on earth should anyone want to scare me?”
“You were just thrown in as an extra, darling.” Iris emerged from the kitchen with tea on a tray. “If Dr. Lenz is wrong and if someone really was acting up, it was obviously Comstock she was trying to scare. As I told Peter, I’m sure that depressing doorman was responsible for it all, trying to avenge his girl-wife or something. How many lumps of sugar?”
“Three,” said Theo. She took the cup, swallowed the tea at one gulp and put the saucer down on a table with a bang. “I thought she might have been trying to scare Comstock, too. But I don’t see how it’s possible. It all happened in Wessler’s dresing-room, didn’t it? If th
e doorman or someone had been arranging some gruesome sort of tableau for Comstock, how could they possibly know he would go into that particular room?” There was an odd flush on her cheeks. “Strikes me there’s only one person it could have been intended for—and that’s Wessler.”
I was beginning to wish we’d taken Lenz’s advice and stopped trying to make brilliant deductions. The idea of a diabolical scheme to sabotage Wessler, the bulwark of the play, was too dreary to contemplate.
“Be reasonable,” I said. “Who would want to upset Wessler?”
“I could tell you someone.” Theo stopped in front of me, her hands jammed in the pockets of her tweed jacket, looking like a handsome wardress in a Reform School for Delinquent Girls. “Mirabelle. She’s been foul to Wessler ever since she joined the company. She doesn’t give a twopenny hoot that he was in that ghastly accident and ought to have every consideration. She was perfectly furious when he snaffled the first stage dressing-room. I bet she did some dirty trick in the hopes of scaring him out of it, and Comstock just got tangled up by mistake.”
I was amazed at the pent-up malice in her voice. Theo was the friendliest soul in the world. I’d never dreamed she felt that way about Mirabelle.
“Theo, darling,” I said patiently, “you’re cuckoo. Mirabelle wasn’t in the theater when you were scared. And when Comstock was scared she was on stage with us. How could she conceivably have done anything screwy like that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. That’s just what I feel. And if anyone is trying to frighten Wessler, I’m bloody well going to see they don’t get any further.” Suddenly the flush that had been in Theo’s cheeks flooded her whole face. She picked up her handbag. “Well,” she said gruffly, “having made a prize ass of myself, I think I’ll toddle along.”
With a rather embarrassed smile at Lenz and a nod to Iris she moved toward the door. Before she got there, a sudden fit of coughing overtook her. She stood quite still, a hand to her throat. She said: “Damn! Any suggestions for this blasted cough of mine, Dr. Lenz? Or aren’t you that kind of a doctor?”
During her unexpected outburst against Mirabelle, Dr. Lenz had been gazing up at the ceiling, politely oblivious to what was going on. Now he switched on his personality again and became a dominating force. He produced a fountain pen and a prescription blank and scribbled a note which he handed her.
“I always recommend codeine as a palliative for coughs, Miss Ffoulkes. It is obtainable only on a physician’s prescription.” He wagged the imperial impressively. “Take care you do not overdose for it is potentially a dangerous drug.”
“Poison, eh?” Theo stuffed the prescription in her bag. “Thanks a lot. Next time I feel the urge, I can try codeine on my friends. Goodnight, children. Sleep well.”
I followed her out into the hall and opened the front door.
“Don’t bother yourself too much about this business,” I said. “I guess we’ll get things in their proper proportions tomorrow.”
She didn’t say anything. Her long, rather beautiful fingers played with the door handle. Then she looked up, staring me straight in the face with those clear, steady eyes of hers. “I’m sorry. It was filthy of me to spit out like that about Mirabelle.”
“Don’t give it a thought.”
She smiled a funny, twisted smile. “God I’m a mess, aren’t I, Peter? And I swore I’d never do it again.”
I didn’t get what she was driving at. I didn’t say anything.
“It’s not that I hate Mirabelle really, Peter, I think she’s a marvelous actress. A grand person. And she’s got more guts in her little finger than I have in my entire system. But I want to slay her whenever she’s with him. I know he’s not in love with her. He probably loathes her. But he’s fascinated. She’s made him conscious of her every second.” She shrugged tweedy shoulders. “He doesn’t even notice whether I’m there or not.”
I understood then. Gerald had been right. Poor Theo, with her genius for falling in love with the wrong person, was stuck on Conrad Wessler. “I shouldn’t get too tragic about it, my dear,” I said. “You never know.”
“Never know? I know nothing on earth could make Wessler aware of my existence. Sometimes I wish something would happen to him, that he would crack up and couldn’t act any more, couldn’t be the Great Wessler. Then perhaps, if no one else wanted him— She threw out a hand in a gesture of self-mockery. Her lips were smiling but there were two large tears moving slowly down her cheeks. They were round, gleaming like glycerine. I’d never seen tears like that—outside the theater. “It’s nice of you to listen, Peter. You’re really an awfully nice person.”
“I’m just an ex-drunk,” I said. “And I’m sentimental.”
“I won’t be difficult, darling, I swear I won’t let this interfere with the show.” Theo squeezed my hand and kissed me impulsively. “I’m used to frustrated passions, Peter. I’m one of those women that men forget on stage and off.”
She hurried away toward the elevator. I shut the door.
When I got back to the living-room, Iris and Lenz were being amiably banal.
Iris said: “It was funny the way Theo lit into Mirabelle. And I think it was mean of her to go off and leave everything up in the air.”
Lenz looked up gravely. “The air, Miss Pattison, is the very best place for the matter to be left tonight.” He produced a large gold watch from the end of his large gold chain and stared at it significantly. ‘Two o’clock. I suggest it is time for us all to get some sleep.”
When Lenz suggested anything, neither Iris nor I dreamed of gainsaying him. Iris rose and kissed me demurely while Lenz stood watching—a kind of Olympian duenna. Then I went with her to the door. In the hall she kissed me again, a little less respectably.
“Darling,” she said, “promise you won’t worry.”
I said I wouldn’t worry. She looked at me and said: “Why were you out here such a long time with Theo? Was she making love to you?”
“Yes,” I said. “Every woman makes love to me. Passionate love.”
Iris watched me thoughtfully for a moment. Then she said: “I don’t think they do, Peter. I don’t think you’re at all the type that attracts the normal woman. Your ears are too big.”
She kissed me again, told me again not to worry and went.
I returned to the living-room, taking with me Dr. Lenz’s formidable black briefcase which contained, I felt sure, documents of the most vital and international importance to psychiatry. Dr. Lenz had crossed to the window and was gazing out at the East River with the self-satisfaction of a deity surveying one of his more successful enterprises.
“Miss Pattison has gone?” he asked in a slightly suspicious tone as if he thought I would clap my hands and materialize her out of his vest pocket.
I said yes. His finger and thumb settled like two substantial moths on the extreme tip of his imperial. His eyes were fixed solemnly on my face.
“Mr. Duluth,” he said, “I do trust that you will not let tonight’s experience worry you unduly.”
We all seemed to be telling each other not to worry. It was a singularly useless thing to do.
I said: “That was just a stall of yours before Theo came, wasn’t it? You do think there was something phony back of Comstock’s death?” I added uneasily: “And you do think we may be having some more trouble?”
Dr. Lenz regarded his thumb nail. “I do not wish to alarm you, Mr. Duluth, but, at the risk of sounding trite, I must confess that certain things happened tonight for which there seems to be no immediate explanation. I do not subscribe to the supernatural. I do feel, however, that some malicious force may have been directed against some member of your company. Whether that person was Mr. Comstock himself or someone else, I have no means of telling at the present time. But I think that we should be very unwise not to keep ourselves—prepared.”
That sounded ominous, but he took some of the sting out of it by adding: “During the next few days I shall have some time free f
rom my duties at the sanitorium and I am willing to offer my services to make a more thorough investigation. You agree with me, of course, that it would be disastrous to introduce the police at this stage. Disastrous for you because your own future is tied up so closely with the play. Disastrous for me—” there was a slow twinkle in his eyes—“because I have invested in it not only a considerable sum of money but the health of my two most interesting patients.”
I agreed fervently about the police. And in spite of what his admissions implied I felt a bit happier. Dr. Lenz had tackled mysteries before and I felt there was no problem on earth that could withstand his bearded concentration.
“Meanwhile,” he added gravely, “I must insist that you …”
“Do not worry unduly,” I finished. “Yes, I know.” Dr. Lenz was consulting his watch again. “Listen,” I said. “Since it’s so late, why not spend the night here. There’s plenty of room.”
He inclined his imperial. “That is kind, Mr. Duluth. In fact, when I left the sanitorium this evening, I had that very thought in mind.”
His large fingers slid open the zipper of his briefcase. They produced a neatly folded object which he shook out to its full magnificent length. It was a gray flannel nightshirt.
So much for the documents of vital and international importance to psychiatry.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BY some nefarious means, Iris suborned Louise, my daily help, into admitting her to the apartment next morning. She appeared at the breakfast table, bearing scrambled eggs on a tray, looking very domestic and hark-hark-the-lark in a tweed coat and skirt. It was all shameless propaganda for her recently launched matrimonial campaign, and I was certain Dr. Lenz would show disapproval. But he didn’t. He congratulated Iris on her scrambled eggs and—although I had suspected him of dieting exclusively on manna—he showed flattering and ample appreciation. In fact, he was navigating a third helping across the hazard of his beard when the house telephone announced Henry Prince.
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