Puzzle for Players

by Patrick Quentin

  For a second he stood in the doorway like an actor deliberately holding his entrance. He showed no sign of noticing either Wessler or me. His sad eyes were fixed on Lenz’s face.

  He said: “You wish to speak with me, Herr Doktor? M “Yes,” said Lenz. “Here are some visitors from New York to see you.”

  Wessler moved forward, his face alight with a shy tenderness. He stretched his hands out to his brother. “Hier bin ich, Wolfgang.”

  Von Brandt half turned to look at him. There was not the slightest hint of recognition in his eyes. With a gesture of mild distaste he drew back from Wessler’s outstretched arms.

  “Es tut mir so leid. Aber ich kenne Sie nicht.“f Wessler’s face dropped. Lenz who had been watching them both carefully said: “But you do know him, Herr Von Brandt. It is your brother.”

  “My brother!” Once again Von Brandt’s eyes moved searchingly over Wessler. Then his lips curled in a smile. “You try to mock me, Herr Doktor. I have but one brother—Wolfgang von Brandt. He is dead in an accident; he is dead from saving the great Wessler’s life. I do not wish to talk with impostors. Please to do me the favor of asking this man to leave.”

  “Here I am, Wolfgang.”

  “I’m so sorry. But I don’t know you.”

  It was pathetic to see the light drain out of Wessler’s face. He started brokenly to speak in German but Lenz shook his head and said:

  “Perhaps it would be best for you to leave us for a while.”

  Wessler left, sneaking out of the room like a whipped great Dane.

  As soon as he had gone, Wolfgang von Brandt moved toward me, pausing straight in front of me. Over his shoulder he said: “And this gentleman, Herr Doktor?”

  Lenz said: “This is Mr. Duluth. He has come from New York to see you.”

  “Mr. Duluth!” Von Brandt’s face lightened. “So at last I see you, Mr. Duluth. Please, please, to forgive for me my so poor English. It is not so in the part. I learn it word perfect. You do not have to worry from rehearsals. I know every little bit, everything. That play—It is my play; it is my child. It is not so good in English as in German, but it is yet good. Soon when I am better from my headaches, my sleeplessness, I leave this place; I come to New York, and we start the production. And I do not know how I can thank you for believing in me and in my play at this so trying time. You help me to fulfill my dearest wish—to act this play to an American audience.”

  It was rather heart-breaking. I didn’t know what to say. Von Brandt’s voice ran on excitedly. Over and over again, he said the same things; how perfectly he had learned his role in English, how eager he was to come to the Dagonet; how soon he could be cured of his headaches and sleeplessness.

  I didn’t contradict him; I didn’t by the slightest gesture let him think I knew there was anything wrong. But in my mind I was certain Lenz had been far too optimistic. Wolfgang von Brandt was charming; he was as courteous and normal as anyone could be.

  But the very platform of his sanity rested on his insane conviction that he was Conrad Wessler.

  All the time he was talking to me, Lenz watched him with a sort of wary anxiety like a trainer watching his most promising piece of champ material. It was impossible to guess what was in his mind.

  Von Brandt was still talking eagerly when the door swung open and Wessler strode into the room. His gaze, bewildered and tormented, found Lenz’s.

  “I know you say for me to stay outside. But I cannot. That this should happen after all there had been between us—that I cannot bear. I must make my brother know.”

  Ignoring Lenz’s lifted hand, he crossed to Von Brandt’s side and gripped his arms.

  “Wolfgang, you cannot torture me so. We, the two of us, we have always loved each other, yes? We have been two brothers facing the world. You must your eyes open; you must see—see that I am your brother, Conrad.”

  Von Brandt made no effort to release himself from his brother’s grip. The two of them stood close together, staring at each other: Wessler, wild urgent; Von Brandt cold as glass, with vague, distant eyes.

  “Wolfgang, hör’mich.” Wessler shook his arms roughly. “Ich bin dein Bruder — dein Bruder. Verstanden? Dein bruder....Konrad.” [1]

  Neither Lenz nor I moved. It had become something out of our province, something that could only resolve itself in its own way. Wessler was still speaking, in quick imploring German; and Von Brandt was staring at him, remote, dimly curious.

  Then, as Wessler’s voice ran on, a subtle change came over Von Brandt’s face. I hardly noticed it at first; then gradually I saw his eyelids flicker; saw that glassy indifference slide out of his eyes; saw his lips drawn tight and then relax into an unsteady, twitching smile.

  There was something horrible about that smile, something ominous like a growing crack in the foundation of an otherwise solid building. And it spread, spread over his face until every feature seemed part of that twisted, senseless smile.

  His voice came hoars and very soft. “So ist es. So ist es. Konrad, du bist zurückgekommen. Du bist gekommen mein Stück zu entstehlen. Ich soli’ ‘s gewüsst haben…. Ich…” [2]

  The words drifted away into silence. For one second “Von Brandt stood there gazing at his brother, his arms limp at his sides, the smile still flickering foolishly around his lips. Then he laughed, a high crazy laugh. His right arm lunged forward, clutching at Wessler’s throat. He hurled himself after it, scratching and beating wildly with his other fist. In a flash the two brothers were rolling on the floor, locked together in a silent, meaningless struggle.

  Almost instantly Lenz had two attendants there. They pinioned Von Brandt’s arms behind him; dragged him from Wessler and out of the room. As they were pulling him toward the door, he was weeping and laughing and yelling like a madman.

  Slowly Wessler got up from the floor. He wasn’t injured, of course. He could have killed his brother with one hand tied behind him if he had wanted to. But I’d never seen a man so nakedly, tragically miserable.

  He half stumbled to Lenz’s desk. He leaned over it, whispering: “What is it? What then have I done? It is just that I want him to know me—his brother. What is it I have done?”

  Dr. Lenz was watching him steadily. “When I saw how your brother reacted to you, I asked you not to come into this room.”

  “I know. I know. But I meant no harm. What is it I have done?”

  “Frankly, I do not know yet. I did not expect things to turn out this way.” Lenz’s tone was sympathetic. There was the faintest trace of a smile in his eyes. “But, at least, you have achieved my original purpose for me. Painful as it must have been to you, you have destroyed the delusion.”

  He rose from his chair, holding out his hand to Wessler.

  “Whatever may happen in the future, Wolfgang von Brandt and Conrad Wessler are two distinct personalities again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  LENZ WENT ON talking for a while, trying to cheer Wessler up. He wasn’t successful. The Austrian was convinced that his brother had gone off the rails again and that he himself was entirely responsible.

  Finally the two of us left, driving back to New York in dejected silence. I was worried as hell from the point of view of the play. Whatever psychotherapeutic good that wild scene might have done Von Brandt, it had set Wessler way back. There were only five more rehearsing days before my hypothetical opening night. Only five days! And I had Wessler in this condition and Mirabelle in danger of being poisoned. All that—not counting the police.

  We had a miserable sort of snack together in an automat. Wessler said of course he was prepared to go to rehearsal as usual. After a brief visit to my office, I drove him down to the Dagonet.

  Eddie was there, rehearsing odd scenes where Wessler didn’t figure. I don’t know how long it had been going, but no one was any too cheerful. On a property table, very conspicuous, stood a new bottle of brandy for Mirabelle. When I came on stage, Gerald Gwynne was standing over it, an almost too self-conscious guardian.


  Theo crossed to us. I guess she was going to ask about Von Brandt, but I managed to give her the high-sign in time.

  Gloomily, I got the play started from the beginning.

  Now, as I look back, I realize that one of the main reasons why I didn’t abandon the production in despair was the fact that I never lost my enthusiasm for the play itself. Even that afternoon when, God knows, there was little enough to be hopeful about, I found myself getting a kick out of the rehearsal.

  And, all things considered, it didn’t go so badly. My

  only major concern was Mirabelle. At first, it was just the analyst’s report on the brandy that worried me. Her performance seemed as smooth as ever. But, gradually, as the first act slid into the second act, it began to dawn on me that something was wrong again. She started missing her cues—a thing she’d never done before. She picked them up almost immediately but there was a queer, empty void between the last speech and hers, and I could see from her face that she was fighting desperately against an uncertain memory.

  I didn’t say anything. I just sat there, watching. It was about five minutes later she called for a glass of brandy. Gerald sprang to the table, poured a jigger and brought it to her. She gulped it down and went right on playing. It seemed to pick her up for a while.

  But only for a while. Just toward the end of the second act, her voice cracked. She tried to say a line and couldn’t. She tried it three times before she got it straight. I don’t think the others had noticed anything wrong until that moment. But they noticed then. I saw Theo watching her curiously. Iris, too, kept shooting her quick, anxious glances.

  I didn’t know what to do. It was a pretty awful sensation, seeing her breaking up like that, thinking the things I was thinking, and not having any way of coping with the situation.

  I decided to wait five more minutes and then make some excuse to stop the rehearsal. That seemed the only practical thing to do. Then, just before the five minutes had elapsed, Mirabelle broke off her speech with a little sob. She dashed across the stage to the brandy bottle. Her fingers shaking, she managed to pour some into the glass and gulp it down.

  “Mirabelle,” I called, “what’s the matter?”

  She stood there, staring out across the footlights, her cheeks the color of cigarette ash. Then she threw up her hands to cover her face. Gerald made a move toward her, but she pushed him aside. She started running zigzag like a blind man toward the swing-door.

  We were all of us too shocked to follow. We just stood there watching, as her hand caught at the handle of the door and tugged it back.

  In a second she was gone. There was nothing but the swinging door flapping monotonously back and forth.

  Like a flash Gerald started after her. But I was even quicker. I was there at his side, gripping his arm.

  I said fiercely: “It’s the brandy. You were supposed to be taking care of it. You …”

  “No, the brandy’s all right.” He swung back to me, his lips red and tight in his white face. “I tasted it. It’s all right, I say.”

  I broke away from him, moving toward the table where the bottle was. He went there too. He got there before me, standing square between me and the bottle.

  “Let me taste it,” I said. “I don’t believe you. Let me taste it.”

  ‘The brandy’s all right.”

  I tried to knock him away but he twisted round. While my fingers were touching the bottle, he grabbed it. He stood there with it in his hand, glaring at me. Then suddenly, he lifted the bottle and sent it splintering against the boards.

  That seemed to mean only one thing to me. I couldn’t think of anyone but Gerald, standing there in front of me, his young face stubborn and defiant. I’d put him on to guard the brandy and he wouldn’t let me taste it. He’d smashed the bottle before I could taste it.

  I said: “You did it. I thought all along you did it. You…”

  Then I broke off. Suddenly the whole stage seemed to be slipping away from beneath my feet. A voice had sounded behind me, a voice that wasn’t Iris’s or Theo’s or Eddie’s or Wessler’s. It said:

  “Seems like I came in at a dramatic moment. Is this part of the show? Or is it just—on the side?”

  I spun round. There, smiling pleasantly up at me from the orchestra pit, stood Inspector Clarke.

  He said: “You told me I could drop in on a rehearsal.”

  I stared stupidly at him until Gerald moved away, muttering: “Going to Mirabelle.”

  That spurred me into action. “You’re not going to Mirabelle. You’re staying here. I’m going,” I said.

  I forgot Clarke; I forgot the rest of the cast who were staring at me as if I were cuckoo. I shoved Gerald aside and ran to the swing-door.

  I looked first in her dressing-room. She wasn’t there. I went down to the doorman’s room, asked Mac urgently whether Miss Rue had left. He said no, no-one had gone.

  I was up the stairs again in a flash. Without any deliberate plan, I swung up to the second floor dressing-rooms. Ahead of me loomed the door to the room where, that very first night, Theo had started the ball of mystery and danger rolling by her crazy experience with the mirror.

  The door was shut. I went to it, swinging it open, glancing in. The room was in darkness. A faint smell of greasepaint floated out to me. No one was visible.

  I shall never quite know what prompted me to switch on the lights. I suppose I was reacting instinctively to a situation which linked itself up in my mind with that other time when I had looked into that dressing-room.

  My fingers moved to the switch and snapped it down, sending light to the little chain of bulbs around the mirror. My hand fell to my side. I stepped back, keeping myself from crying out.

  At first I tried telling myself that I didn’t believe it; that I couldn’t possibly be seeing the thing reflected there in the mirror. The glass was on the side-wall at a slanting angle to the door. It threw back to me—not my own image, but a view of the curtained clothes closet and- the corner of the room which the closet cut off from me.

  Peering out from the mirror, behind the reflection of those curtains, was a face—the gray, agonized face of a woman.

  There was a prickly sensation at the nape of my neck. The theater seemed suddenly void and desolate. Not a sound anywhere. Just that tingling at my neck and the reflection of that face in the mirror—that twisted, tormented face half shrouded by the curtains.

  I crossed the threshold. The image slipped from the mirror. I couldn’t see it now, but I was horribly conscious that something was there in the corner behind the closet. I walked forward. I reached the closet. I passed it—and stared into the corner beyond.

  There, crouched on a chair, her head tilted backward, her hands clasped at her throat, was a woman—a woman whose face I did not recognize but whose eyes I knew, whose tumbled chestnut hair was as familiar to me as my own.

  I dropped on my knees; I reached for her cold, stiff hands, clasping them in my own. I was half off my head with anxiety and fear.

  “Mirabelle, darling,” I said. “What is it? Tell me what’s the matter? What’s wrong with you?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  SHE DIDN’T speak. She didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, she pulled one of her hands from mine and raised it to cover the blank, twitching mask of her face. I stayed there on the floor, slipping my arms around her waist I didn’t know what was the matter. I couldn’t guess. I only hoped that somehow by being there I might be able to help her.

  I don’t know how long we stayed like that. But, gradually, the small body began to relax its tight, straining control. The fingers of her left hand, which had been clutching fiercely into the flesh of mine, eased their pressure. She gave a sob—so soft that I could scarcely hear it, and feel it only as a slight quivering in her spine.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s—it’s passing off now.”

  The hand dropped slowly from her face. That ghastly mask of suffering was gone. Her cheeks were white, drawn, b
ut they were Mirabelle’s cheeks again. Her mouth tried to smile.

  “Don’t worry, Peter. I—I can take it.”

  I said: “I know what it is, Mirabelle. It’s your brandy. They’ve been trying to poison you. I found out about it. It’s—its my fault. I should have gone to the police.”

  She shook her head. “No, Peter, it isn’t the brandy.”

  “But there was codeine in it. Someone …”

  “Yes, there’s codeine in it. But it’s the codeine that’s made it bearable. That’s one of the things they gave me to help when—when the pain comes.”

  “The pain!”

  “I tried not to have you know. I’ve been trying like hell to keep anyone from knowing. Only Gerald. He’s been helping me; he’s been wonderful to me. You saw my face

  just now in the mirror. You saw the way it made me look—hideous, like an old, old hag, Peter. I couldn’t bear any of you to know. It’s been my nightmare that you might find out.”

  I still had her hand in mine. Slowly I could feel the warmth seeping back into her fingers. “But, Mirabelle, what is it—I don’t understand.”

  Once again she tried to smile. “This is the way it hit me after—after the divorce and getting free from Roland. It came instead of a nervous breakdown. They say that’s what causes it, your nerves being shot. They call it tic douloureux. It’s a nerve in your face and it gets out of control. Suddenly it’s there, twitching, distorting your face and you can’t do anything about it. And it’s hell, Peter. I never knew there was so much pain in the world. I couldn’t have stood it all this time if it hadn’t been for the codeine.”

  She added hesitantly: “I didn’t want anyone to know there was something the matter with me. I didn’t dare take pills. That’s why I had the codeine made up in a brandy bottle with brandy flavoring and everything. I didn’t mind people thinking I was a drunk. There’s some sort of glamor even in being a drunk. But I couldn’t have borne letting people know I had this—this damn, hideous thing. They’d have thought I was passee, breaking up. The brandy was just—just my idea of putting up a front.”