Last Act

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  Only, at last, taking the first of the many curtain calls Carl had planned, “in case,” she found herself thinking again of those side-galleries full of dissatisfied tradesmen, and became, on the thought, aware that they were indeed throwing something. But it was rose petals, crimson and white, not unpaid bills, that came gently fluttering down onto the stage. Smiling, bowing; bowing, smiling, she looked in vain for Michael as the house lights went up at last. Had he not waited for the end?

  Even with the house lights on, it began to seem as if the applause would never stop, but finally the audience began to drift away, and the exhausted, euphoric cast assembled on stage for the long business of picture-taking. By the time the last photographer was satisfied, or rather, when the stage hands and electricians proclaimed that they had had enough and began to leave, it was after eight o’clock—the time when the Prince’s reception began. “Lucky we don’t have to go back and change,” Anne said to Hilde Bernz as they hurried to their dressing-rooms.

  “I’ll say. Are you going just as you are?”

  “I think so. Just pick up my watch and purse. A bit absurd, with the costume, but I can’t help it.”

  “And leave the makeup? It will look pretty frightful close to.”

  “You’re right.” Anne sighed. “Besides, I haven’t got any theatrical remover back at the hostel. Oh, well, I’ll see you.”

  The dressing-room was full of flowers, and she looked quickly through the cards so as to thank any of the senders who would be at the reception, then began the slow task of removing the expertly applied makeup that turned her from young woman to younger man. She was interrupted by the telephone. “Yes?” she picked it off its hook.

  Silence. “Yes?” she said again, and heard breathing—quiet, steady. “What is it?” And then, trying for a German phrase, “Was ist?”

  Still nothing but that heavy, regular breathing. A crank, of course. She replaced the receiver, and went back to work on her face, only to have the bell ring again. She picked the receiver up, heard the same breathing, replaced and lifted it at once to call the operator. But the connection had not been severed; she got the breathing again. A practical joke, merely. She would ignore it. Her hands had been sticky with makeup remover when she lifted the receiver and as a result it had come off black on them. She washed them quickly in the small basin in the corner of the room and went back to work, ignoring the phone, which had been silent for a while, but now rang again. This was all taking too long. The others would be waiting for her; she was making them all late for the Prince’s reception. Her hands were beginning to shake from the long strain of the day. She washed her face, quickly and ruthlessly, then went to the cupboard for her purse and the bag with her own makeup.

  Odd. She thought she had left them on the top shelf, above the hanger with her fur jacket. No sign of them there. Desperate now, she looked quickly on the cupboard floor behind her shoes, but the two bags were not there either. On the chair, then, under her clothes? She could see they were not. Absurd. She could not possibly have lost them in this tiny, bare room. Fighting panic, she looked on the shelf above the basin, knowing all the time that they were not there. The telephone rang again and she picked it up automatically, still looking wildly round the room. “Found your bag yet?” asked the croaking, whispering voice. “Now, listen, you murderess …”

  “Murder?” It startled her into a reply, which she knew at once was a mistake.

  “How did you do it? Tamper with the steering? Fix the brakes? Or drug their drinks? My little sister never drank. Nor did that husband of yours.”

  “Robin!” She was shocked into silence. What horror from the past was this?

  “Yes, Robin. Your fine husband who seduced my sister; carried her off to England; promised her marriage. I don’t care about what you did to him. He deserved everything he got. But my sister; you killed my sister, you …”

  She listened, horrified, to the whispered string of obscenities, then slammed down the receiver, pulled her fur jacket from its hanger and hurried out of the room—anywhere to get away from that odious voice from the past and its unspeakable suggestions. In the corridor, she paused. It was all too quiet. Held by that horrible voice, she must have taken longer than she had realised, and the others had all gone on down and would be awaiting her impatiently in the greenroom. She had thought of borrowing makeup from Hilde, but now this seemed a trivial waste of time; she merely longed for the comfort of company. She hurried along the empty, echoing corridor, past the half open doors of other dressing rooms, and down the steep flight of stairs that led to the greenroom, her apologies ready on her lips.

  At the bottom of the stair she stopped dead. Not a sound from the greenroom. Impossible. But it was empty. She hurried across it to the door that led through to the front of the house. Locked. Impossible again. How could they have gone without her? Locked her in? Another way out? From the stage down into the orchestra pit? A climb, but not a difficult one. All some absurd muddle; the result of the long, exhausting day. She almost ran back and through to the huge stage, then stopped at sight of the heavy asbestos safety curtain which was normally only lowered once, during the interval. Now it effectively blocked her escape that way.

  Escape? On the thought, the lights went out. She drew in her breath to shout to the one remaining electrician for help, then held it. The electrician’s box commanded a total view of the stage. Impossible that whoever was up there was not aware of her presence. he must have blacked her out on purpose. A practical joke? No. She made herself let her breath out quietly … steadily. Someone wanted very much to frighten her, and someone was succeeding. Frighten? Hurt? Kill?

  “Murderess,” the voice had called her. Was the speaker up there now, in the electrician’s box, gloating in anticipation of revenge? It was a thought to chill the blood. Almost instinctively, she began to move, in the total darkness—not back towards the greenroom, but out on to the huge stage. The electrician’s box was reached by a stair and long corridor from the greenroom. Whoever had been up there would have to come down that way, and in the dark. It gave her a little time.

  Now she was moving, foot by cautious foot, down the shelving steps that led to the centre stage. To trip and fall would be fatal. But at last her groping foot found flat boards. She must be standing almost where she had been when she and Regulus sang their final duet. It seemed a million years ago. But she had noticed something, out of the corner of her eye, while they were singing. A tiny shift in the position of the backdrop that suggested the Roman forum if you looked at it from the front of the house. From where she stood, onstage, it was merely a striking mass of colour, but this afternoon she had seen it as different—as faintly out of true. It had made her think, swiftly, while Adolf Stern was singing, of what Michael had told her about the door there leading down to that sinister underground corridor.

  Locked? Unlocked? But Michael had told her. The falling of the safety curtain released the lock. She did not at all want to face that grim subterranean corridor alone, and in the dark, but still less did she want to stay here, waiting for … For whom? As she asked herself the question, she heard the smallest possible noise from the direction of the greenroom. Someone was coming. Someone in the dark, like her. Coming slowly therefore, not wishing, presumably, to betray himself by using a flashlight. But … coming.

  They might or might not know about the backstage corridor. Not many people did. And, even if it had a second lock, or a bolt, there might be a recess, somewhere that she could hide. If she could only find it. She had made herself stand still, while these thoughts tumbled through her mind, and now, miraculously, she had her reward. From above, a faint gleam of light. Impossible? No, it was there and, with it, she felt a stirring in the air. Of course. When the performance was over, the skylight between landing pad and stage was usually opened to air the auditorium. There was someone on duty all the time, to close it at the least threat of rain. On duty, unfortunately, outside and above the theatre. No use to her. Except for
this blessed hint of light. Moonlight, she thought, shafting in as it rose, and not for long. It made it possible to place herself. She had been a little nearer the centre of the stage than she thought. If she moved straight towards the darker loom in the darkness that had to be the backdrop, she should reach it at about dead centre.

  Her sandals—Marcus’ sandals—were made of blessedly silent plastic. As she took her first, careful step forwards, she heard another noise, and what sounded like a smothered oath from the direction of the greenroom. Her pursuer did not seem to know the opera house as well as she did. It was an advantage—not much of one, but an advantage just the same. Nor, she began to hope, was he aware that she knew he was there. He? It could be a woman just as well.

  Her questing hands found the heavy canvas of the backdrop. She bent down to feel its bottom. Yes, as she had hoped, it hung loose to the stage. She lowered herself, silent as death, to the cold floor and rolled gently underneath.

  Behind it, the blackness was absolute, but her groping hand felt the cold rock face. There was just room to stand up between it and the curtain, and she did so, very quietly, and began to feel along the rock, searching for the door. It must be camouflaged to look like rock from the auditorium when no backdrop was used, so she should find it more easily with hands than eyes. Feeling her way, she wished she could remember how Michael had opened the door from Josef’s little office. The lower ones had been worked by some kind of dialled device, but not, she thought, that first one on this level. What kind of a lock could be controlled, remotely, by the falling of a safety curtain? And would it be the only one?

  She went on silently searching, then stopped, rigid, at a shout from somewhere onstage. “Fräulein Paget?” A man’s voice. A stranger’s? No, she thought she had heard it, but where … when? “I am so sorry,” the voice went on in careful English. “I did not know you were here still. Did I frighten you, turning out the lights?” A thin edge of light showed under the backdrop. He was onstage, then, using a flashlight. “Where are you, Fräulein? We will be very late for His Highness’s reception.”

  At last, when he spoke of His Highness, she recognised the voice. Fritz, the palace servant. So—not the obscene, whispering threatener? How could she be sure? Every instinct kept her quiet. He shouted again, beginning to sound angry. “This is stupid, Fräulein. You are locked in. I can let you out. Where are you hiding?” His voice sounded farther off, as if he was moving away, back towards the greenroom, having swept the stage with his flashlight and seen nothing. Crazy to let him go. No, crazy to trust him. There had been something very dubious about his previous behaviour. And, she remembered suddenly, he had pretended to speak no English. Whether or not his was the threatening voice, he was no friend … And now, at last, her questing hand felt a change in the texture of the wall. Here it was warmer; rugged like rock, but not clammy. Feeling carefully up and down, she found the dividing line, but no hint of a hinge. How would one fit a door into solid rock? If only she had asked Michael more about it.

  “Fräulein Paget, this is ridiculous!” Fritz’s voice came from farther off still. “I go to turn the lights on. Then I shall find you.”

  A promise? No, a threat. She traced the width of the door with trembling hands. When the lights went on again, would her feet show below the backdrop? Ah, she could feel hinges this side of the door. So—back to the other, where there must be a fastening of some kind. Up and down, quietly searching in the dark. Nothing at the usual height for a door-knob, but this was no usual door. She made herself pause and think. Imagine the stage without the backdrop. There was no upper circle in the opera house. She did not think many of the audience would be able to see the bottom of the rock wall. So, if one wanted to conceal a fastening, one would set it low.

  She knelt down, very carefully not touching the backdrop. How long would it take Fritz to find his way back to the electrician’s box in the dark? Not long, since he was now using his flashlight. Anyway, when the lights did come on, there must be no tell-tale bulge in the backdrop.

  The wood was rougher at the bottom of the door. She sat back on her heels and went over it desperately pressing, pushing, twisting anything that could be pressed or pulled or twisted. And thought, as she did so, of Prince Rudolf, who had planned the whole tunnel complex. It would be like him to have something at once very simple and very tricky. Press, pull, twist … Had something shifted? No. And in the excitement of thinking it had, she had taken her hands off the door, and must start all over again from the bottom.

  And as she did so, the lights came on. A band of light showed under the backdrop and made the darkness of the back wall more absolute. A dim glow, showing through the canvas, suggested it would make a fairly adequate screen—until Fritz looked behind it. “Now I see you,” came his voice, triumphant from the electrician’s box. “Come out, Fräulein Paget, the game is over. His Highness will be displeased. Let us waste no more time.”

  He was not triumphant; he was in a cold rage. She resisted the temptation to crawl out from under the backdrop. Besides, how undignified … She would rather die here. Die? And on the thought a shot rang out, appallingly loud in the sensitive opera house. “Just to suggest you hurry,” came Fritz’s voice. “Next time, Fräulein, I might aim true.”

  Bluffing, she thought. He did not know where she was. But he had given up all pretence of friendliness. She could hear his footsteps clattering down the iron ladder from the electrician’s box. Then, one by one, dressing-room doors slammed. He was carrying out a systematic search now. He would find her soon enough.

  All this time she had been continuing the frantic search, both hands moving steadily up the side of the door, feeling, pulling, twisting. She did not even know what right and left hand had been doing, when the door suddenly gave and she almost fell through it. Blackness absolute. There would be stairs down. She must be very careful. But first, she must shut that betraying door. Safe on the other side, breathing fast but quietly, she felt about and found herself on a small platform, walls on either side of the door—rock, of course—and the expected stair going down dangerously soon. Small wonder no-one had ever considered this for theatrical exits and entrances.

  There was just room to get behind the door and shut it without falling down the stairs. It shut neatly, and she heard the latch click home. With a bit of luck Fritz would not realise she had got through, even if he did know about the door. Was it soundproofed, she wondered. Probably. And ridiculous to waste time on such imaginings when she ought to be climbing down that dark stair and hoping she could get out at the bottom. Hoping? She remembered how Michael had made her turn her back while he dialled. Had he said that the falling of the curtain unlocked both doors? Anyway, to hope is better than to despair. She moved forward, very cautious in the jet blackness, soft sandals careful on the rough floor, a guiding hand on the wall. And, as she moved, heard, from behind the closed door, the unmistakable, muffled thud of another shot.

  Step by careful step, she inched her way down the stair, trying, as she went, to remember how far down Michael had taken her from Josef’s office. But those steps had been made of wood, and regular, these were carved from the rock and varied both in height and depth. And it was cold, cold and damp, so that she could feel her own breath damp on her cheek. If she had to stay here long, it would probably kill her. Well, she thought to herself, taking another careful step, one way or another, I do seem due to die.

  And do not want to. Not down here, half buried already. Not with Michael still alienated. And not with the ecstatic applause of that last curtain call ringing in her ears. With all the opportunity of Regulus, two weeks of pure, hard-working happiness, stretching before her. It was not just for her own safety, her own life that she must fight, but for the opera, for the peace conference, even, which seemed so strangely linked with the opera’s success. For Lissenberg and its future. Worth fighting for—all of it—as Dr Hirsch had said. She moved steadily forward, and at last her right foot, feeling for the next step, found floor
instead, and her hand, instinctively reaching out to steady her, felt the smooth surface of a door, and felt it, miraculously, shift a little. It opened away from her, showing a glimmer of light. She was looking down the corridor, which stretched away to right and left, faintly illuminated by widely separated lights. Had it been lighted when she first entered it with Michael? She thought not; thought she remembered him switching on the lights, but could not be sure.

  Pushing the door shut behind her, she saw with dismay that it had no other form of catch but the curious dial that Michael had known how to use. She must hope that if Fritz should find the door at the top of the stair, the lock on it would hold him, at least for a while. So—she must waste no time. Which way? To the hostel, or to the hotel? Or, perhaps better still—if she could only open the door that masked the walkway—to the castle? Anyway, not the hostel. No one would be there. She turned to the left and moved quickly down the corridor.

  And here was a surprise. The next door—the one that led to the castle corridor—was open. Fritz was a palace servant. Had he come down this way? Left it open? If he had, he would be coming after her any minute now. Hurry … hurry … No time to wonder whether it would have been wiser to go on down the corridor and hope to get through the door to the hotel.

  And here was the masking door that concealed the entrance to the moving stairway, also standing open. That settled it. Something very odd indeed was going on, and they ought to be told at the palace. She pressed the button and the inner doors slid smoothly open. The walkway lay dark and silent in front of her, and she looked desperately at the levers Michael had used to start it, trying vainly to remember his complicated, swift movements. And, as she did so, the lights went on and the down side of the walkway sprang smoothly into life. Someone must have switched it on from the other end, be coming down from the palace. Who? Friend or enemy? Why was she so sure that this was merely another danger?