Mac blinked. He said: “Well, there was that fellow Kramer. Seemed like a real nice guy to me. Not a bit stuck up. Looked at my scrap-book. Said it was the dandiest he’d ever seen. Fine fellow, that.”
I might have known the doorman’s taste in people would be as indifferent as his taste in pets. I said: “I don’t mean Kramer. Was there anyone else?”
“There was that woman that came just after you and Miss Pattison,” said the doorman somberly, “the woman I thought was Miss Rue. I’d never seen Miss Rue before, not in the flesh. She hadn’t never acted at the Dagonet. And, since she was the only woman on Mr. Troth’s list who hadn’t come, I figured this woman was her, see?” “No,” I said. You mean it wasn’t Miss Rue?” “No, it wasn’t Miss Rue. She came much later on.” He smiled a sentimental smile. “No mistaking Miss Rue when she came—just like a beautiful dream.”
“But there’s no other woman in the company,” I said, feeling rather queer. “Didn’t she give you her name—say anything?”
“She didn’t say nothing.” Mac’s rheumy eyes were fixed on my face. “Ran straight past me, she did. Didn’t even say good-evening. Just like she was in a real hurry.” He leaned forward and added dismally: “Just like she didn’t want to be seen—almost.”
Lillian perched on my shoulder, started to purr louder. “What did she look like?”
“My eyes ain’t so good as they were. And her face was all muffled up in her coat like. But I did kind of glimpse it. That’s why I knew she wasn’t Miss Rue. That woman wasn’t pretty like Miss Rue. Her cheeks were all white and sort of drawn like she was sick.”
I tried to keep my voice casual. “When did she leave?”
“I didn’t see her leave.”
I stared. “You’re trying to tell me this woman went into the theater and never came out?”
“I didn’t see her leave,” repeated Mac stubbornly. “Maybe she snuck out, though. When Mr. Gwynne brings me down Lillian, he said she’d maybe want some milk so I ran over to the drugstore to get her some. Maybe this woman snuck out then. Guess she did. Guess she wanted to leave without being seen just like she came.”
He stopped there suddenly, didn’t say any more. We looked at each other. Almost deliberately. I had kept until last the most crucial of all my questions.
“Did you happen to notice,” I said very slowly, “just what this woman was wearing?”
Mac flicked his scrap-book shut. “Guess I’m not one for noticing what women wears. Wait a minute, though. Sure, I remember something—something she had over her arm like.”
I didn’t have to listen. I knew damn well what was coming next.
“Guess I do remember what she had over her arm, too,” said the doorman in a voice that sounded far away and unreal. “Seems it was a sort of a fur—a light tan fur.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I STARED at the doorman who returned it without interest. The most alarming fancies were scudding through my mind. That unknown woman, clasping a fur to her throat, had not been just a prop for Lenz’s theorizing; she was real; she’d actually crept past the doorman into the Dagonet last night and had crept out again—God knows when.
I tried to think of something to say. But I gave up. I merely smiled a sickly smile and withdrew.
I was half way up the stairs to stage level when Iris caught up with me. She was looking very pleased with herself and a new kind of Garbo haircut which flopped around her shoulders. As a matter of fact it was a particularly successful haircut and I stopped feeling depressed —just like that.
“So that’s what you’ve been doing while Rome was burning,” I said. “Having your hair fiddled with.”
Iris slipped her arm through mine. “And I’ve been pulling strings at City Hall,” she said.
“City Hall! What on earth were you doing at City Hall?”
She smiled rather guiltily and did something to a strand of hair that had gone a bit too Garbo. “Finding out about marriage licenses,” she said. “It’s really awfully elementary, Peter. All you have to do is …”
That time I didn’t have to nip the propaganda in the bud; she nipped it herself. She looked at me with eyes that were suddenly worried.
“What’s happened, darling? I can tell from your face. Have you found out anything else about last night?”
There’s nothing you can do against feminine intuition. I said: “Yes, I found out something about last night.
There’s a new woman in our lives; a woman with a light tan …”
I broke off as Henry Prince hurried to join us, looking very hot and flustered.
“Mr. Duluth, my uncle may be a bit late. He wants to take the candid camera shots this morning. Is that all right?”
I said it would be all right. But I didn’t feel it. I added, in a mood of sudden and complete dejection, “Henry, would you describe your uncle as a woman with a light tan fur?”
He looked startled. “No,” he said, “I wouldn’t.”
“Neither would I,” I said.
We went onto the stage.
Everyone was there ready for rehearsal. But the atmosphere was prickly as a porcupine. Gerald was smoldering alone in one corner; Wessler was being stiff and withdrawn in another, while Mirabelle was hurtling back and forth across the stage, taking sips of brandy and kicking at props which presumably she felt were in the wrong position. Even the good-natured Theo Ffoulkes was being objectionable. I heard her damping poor Eddie’s enthusiasm for his rat traps and telling him he’d never rid the Dagonet of vermin unless he had the place fumigated with hydrocyanic gas.
I put a stop to the general waspishness by calling the rehearsal to order. Since Kramer hadn’t arrived, I started them on the second act which, in my opinion, packed the biggest wallop of any second act Broadway had seen in seasons. But from the gun everything went sour. The whole company sogged down like beer without yeast and I couldn’t do anything about it. I was patient, I was sarcastic, I was indignant, I was fighting mad. Nothing helped. I was almost ready to dash to the nearest bar, get utterly pie-eyed and let the whole Peter Duluth comeback roll merrily to hell.
And then, on top of it all, Kramer arrived. He slipped unobtrusively over to Henry and me, his plump face more than usually self-satisfied, his shoulder draped with a miniature camera in a case. He said did I want him to act right away or could he take some shots first.
I said: “Take as many shots as you like. And use a machine-gun.” Mr. Kramer thought that was funny and gave a fat giggle. As he moved rather furtively up into the wings I held onto the arms of my seat, waiting for violent reactions to the “provocative dose.”
None of the actors had noticed Kramer. They were too absorbed with the task of giving the worst performances of their various careers. Theo snapped her exit line and flounced off stage leaving Mirabelle and Gerald alone together to go into one of their more intense scenes. While Kramer took up a strategic position and fiddled with his camera, Mirabelle’s back was turned to him. But, just as he was set to click the shutter, she spun round and stared at him, her arms stiff at her sides. She must have stayed that way for a good five seconds. Then she swept downstage to the footlights.
“Peter, what’s that man doing here? Get rid of him. Send him away.”
Beneath the vivid red of her hair, her face was white as a Chesterfield packet. Her eyes were blazing. Gerald had moved to her side, looking very young, very handsome and ready to bite anyone that crossed her.
“Get rid of him, Peter,” she said shrilly. “I’m damned if I’ll have photographers at rehearsal.”
Mirabelle had never been temperamental about photographers before. With a certain sinking of the heart, I realized that the “provocative dose” was beginning to work already. I went up on stage. I explained rather ruefully that Kramer had my permission both to take candid camera shots and also to make a stab at the Comstock role.
While I spoke, I watched Mirabelle’s face. Only once did her eyelids flicker. Then, very quietly, she said: “If any
photographs are taken at rehearsal, I shall leave the cast.”
“That goes for me too,” put in Gerald, sticking out his jaw.
So far as I was concerned, that was that. Whatever Lenz’s plans with regard to Kramer were, I wasn’t going to sacrifice Mirabelle and Gerald. I was all set to tell Kramer to get the hell out when his bright, unwinking eyes fixed Mirabelle’s face and he said softly:
“You surely don’t mean that, Miss Rue. Rehearsal photographs are swell publicity for my nephew’s play. You’re interested in the play’s success aren’t you?”
His tone was distinctly insolent. I waited for Mirabelle to flare up, but to my amazement she didn’t. She just stood there without saying anything.
Kramer moved across stage, poured a glass of brandy from that damned bottle and brought it to Mirabelle. “Here, Miss Rue, drink this. You’re on edge—tired.” His plump lips folded away from each other in a smile. “I know I’ll get good results. The pictures I’ve taken of you in the past have been the most successful of my career, haven’t they?”
Mirabelle took the brandy with fingers that shook. She drained the glass. “All right, Kramer,” she said. “Take all the damn photographs you want.” She tossed the empty glass to Eddie, turned her back on Uncle George and said: “Come on, Peter, let’s get down to it again. God, what a lousy performance.”
Kramer held the field triumphantly. For the next twenty minutes he crouched and lay in the wings, clicking his shutter.
At length the second act wound to its miserable end and I put them straight back to the first without a break. Things didn’t improve. Wessler was apathetic, almost ponderous. Even Mirabelle managed to get strident in her first big entrance. I was ready for the worst possible type of catastrophe when Kramer’s scene came.
But the unexpected happened, as usual. Kramer took his cue, entered, spoke his two lines, died and let himself be lowered into the coffin. He stayed there patiently with the lid down for about ten minutes until Wessler and Gerald carried him and the coffin off-stage. No one made a fuss. And, which was even more surprising, Kramer did a very professional job. He had all his business down pat; he made the scene far stronger than it had been with Comstock.
As a director I should have been delighted. But I wasn’t. My last excuse for removing Uncle George from the Dagonet had been taken away from me.
When the act was over, I called a halt and sent them out to get something to eat, with instructions to be back by six.
I kept Iris behind. She was still inexperienced in the theater and a bad rehearsal affected her much more than the others. As soon as the stage was cleared, I put her through one of her entrances which she’d been slipping up on badly.
I made her enter and walk across the stage ten times. It was still wrong. Finally my frayed nerves got the better of me.
“For the eight hundredth time—slouch!” I said. “Walk as if you’d been up since three in the morning milking cows. Haven’t you the remotest conception of the part? Watch me.”
I vaulted up onto the stage and was just going into a passionate demonstration when the swing-door was kicked open and Eddie Troth strode in. His face, normally so cheerful, was white and hard with anger. He didn’t seem to be conscious of Iris. He just gripped my arm and said: “I want you to see something.”
He was so intense about it that I followed him. He led me down the stairs and through the double doors again below the stage.
The atmosphere was as thick as it had been before. The frugal light from the gratings still spotlighted odd corners of crowded theatrical junk.
“Look!” Eddie was pointing first at one trap, then at another. “See what I mean?”
I was beginning to see. When I had been there last, a rat had been caught in each of those traps. Now there were no rats.
“They’re empty,” I said.
“Sure. They’re all empty—every damn one of them.” Eddie led me from trap to trap, muttering: “You saw for yourself. There were dozens caught. Now they’ve gone. And I wanted to save you the expense of fumigation.”
I said: “I told you they’d probably escape if you didn’t drown them.”
“Escape!” Eddie snorted. “They couldn’t have escaped —not out of those traps.” He bent low over one of them. A trembling finger pointed to a wire gadget which was detachable so that the rats could be taken out. It was hanging loose. “See that? It’s been tampered with. So’ve all the others.”
I stared with a certain amount of incredulity. “Are you trying to tell me someone deliberately let those rats out?”
Eddie’s eyes were gray as slate. “Someone came down here, Mr. Duluth, and let out every one of those goddamn rats. That’s what he did.”
“But why should anyone do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know why.” Eddie hitched up his pants. “But
I’ve got a pretty good idea who. And I’m going to fix his feet. You’re a witness. That’s all I want.”
He strode out of the cellar. Since there was so much blood in his eye, I felt I’d better follow. As I emerged into the corridor, I was just in time to see him disappear into the doorman’s room.
And I heard his voice right away. It was hoarse with fury. He was accusing Mac of having sabotaged the traps for the entertainment of the Siamese cat. He was threatening to strangle the unfortunate Lillian if there was any more funny business.
I saw no good reason why the doorman should be blamed. I went to his aid, but Eddie was beyond himself with rage. There was nothing I could do to calm him down.
Finally I got tough with him. I called him out in the passage. I said: “There’s enough trouble around this place without you getting temperamental too. I don’t know who buggered up your traps and I don’t care. But I do want this place free of rats. If you can’t work it with traps, we’ll have to get the fumigators in and do it thoroughly.”
“But…” Eddie’s mouth was suddenly sulky.
“I know you wanted to save me the expense. I don’t give a damn about that.” I wasn’t used to Eddie’s being obstinate and it made me mad. “Get the fumigating people on the phone right away. Tell them to come round as soon as they can and blast this place wide open with hydrocyanic gas. Tell the cast there’ll be no rehearsals until it’s safe again. At least I can get the Dagonet efficiently deloused.”
For a moment I thought Eddie was going to come back at me, but he must have sensed that I was dangerously near the breaking point. He strode back into the doorman’s room, dialed a number and passed my orders on tersely to someone at the other end of the wire. He slammed down the receiver.
“The squad’ll be round this evening. I’ll tell the cast rehearsals are postponed indefinitely.”
He shot me a savage look and stalked away.
I wondered why he was taking it so hard.
As soon as my stage manager had gone, Mac ventured to emerge from his sanctuary behind the table, clutching the placid Lillian to his breast.
“I didn’t let no rats out of them traps, Mr. Duluth,” he implored. “He ain’t got no right to strangle my Lillian.”
Although I had nothing but distrust for Lillian personally, the old man’s affection for her was rather moving. I assured him I’d prevent Eddie’s strangling her and that I was convinced he’d had no share in releasing the rats.
With moist eyes and trembling lips, Mac crushed my fingers in a horny hand and said he’d never forget my kindness, no sir, he’d never forget it.
Then a queer, crafty look came into his eyes. “You was asking me about people that came to the theater last night when they had no right,” he said. “Like that woman with the fur over her arm.” “Yes,” I said, instantly alert.
“Guess I could tell you something that’d interest you.” He cocked his head on one side like a sinister vulture. “I said I wouldn’t tell. Promised, I did. But you’ve been good to me. I’d like to do right by you.”
I didn’t say anything. I waited for him to go on. “I’ll tell you
how it was, Mr. Duluth.” he said. “Quite a while after the gentleman with a beard came last night, I thought I’d take a bit of air. So I puts on my coat, picks up Lillian and goes down the alley to the grille that leads to the street. Kind of cold, but I like to see the people go by. And, boy, did Lillian make a hit? Almost everyone asked me what she was and several ladies stroked her.” His old face registered sentimental pride. “Lillian’s real friendly. Let ‘em all stroke her. Yes, sir.”
There was some more about Lillian’s friendliness. “I’d been down there about five minutes when I first saw this guy, hovering around, his collar up and his hat tugged down, se6? I thought once he was coming up to talk to me but Mr. Troth came out of the stage door and passed me, saying: ‘Rehearsal’s almost over. The rest’ll be out soon.’ When he saw Mr. Troth, this guy kind of slips away. And the same thing happened a couple of minutes later when Mr. Gwynne and Miss Ffoulkes came out.” Mac leaned forward furtively. “But soon as they’re gone, this guy comes up again, sneaking up to the grille. He puts his hands through the grille toward Lillian and says: ‘Hi there.’ “
He paused, nodding his head. “Lillian had been so friendly with the others. But soon as she saw this guy, she pressed her ears back like she was scared and struggled and fought and jumped out of my arms and dashed back to the theater. I ran after her; I comes in here into my room. And she was hiding—” he pointed—“right there under the table. I was calling to her when I looks up and there’s this guy again, right in the room, kind of smiling.”
Mac bared his few teeth in an imitation of his strange visitor’s smile. ” Tm afraid it ain’t no use trying to get that cat out while I’m around,’ he says. ‘Cats hate me. My wife used to like ‘em a lot but she couldn’t never keep them while I was around.’ I asked him what he thought he wanted, coming into the theater like that. He didn’t say nothing. He just look out a five-dollar bill and waved it and said: ‘Guess you’re feeling pretty thirsty. How about taking that cat over the street for a milk or a beer?’”
Puzzle for Players Page 10