Cue For Murder

Chapter Five. Leading Juvenile

BASIL’S HOUSE was at its best early in the morning when eastern sunshine flooded the principal rooms. The street was wide, the buildings opposite low; so the front windows had daylight all day and a segment of starry sky at night just as if they overlooked a small town instead of a skyscraper city. He had selected this house in the first place because it reminded him of his father’s home in Baltimore, and a home was what he wanted after years of wandering from one set of students’ lodgings to another in Paris and Vienna. It had high ceilings, thick walls, and deep fireplaces built for fires that would heat a whole room. Living room and dining room had cream paneled walls. Firelight painted them with apricot highlights; sunshine washed them with lemon yellow.

The original colors of the rugs had dulled to quiet shades of buff and brown, like dead flowers pressed in a book; and the whole place was faded, and comfortable as an old bedroom slipper.

The next morning in the sun-splashed dining room, Basil glanced at the daily paper as he started his grapefruit.

MURDER ON STAGE

MAN STABBED AT MORLEY OPENING

Only the barest outline of the crime had caugh the night shift of the morning paper in time for this edition. Basil turned to the theatrical page. For once a dramatic critic had paid some attention to what was occurring on the stage.

WANDA MORLEY in FEDORA

Reviewed by Milverton Trowbridge

The sensational discovery of a murdered man on the stage of the Royalty Theatre last night interrupted Sam Milhau’s production of Fedora starring Wanda Morley, at the end of the first act. If such an incredible event had occurred in the action of the play, the writer would have condemned it unhesitatingly as a stale theatrical contrivance—a piece of pure ham, mechanical and impossible. But it is scarcely the function of a dramatic critic to subject reality to the same austere standard of criticism as make-believe. Suffice it to say that the impossible did happen last night at the Royalty, and it is now a story for the news section rather than an occasion for comment in this column. The identity of the murdered man, a super playing the walk-on part of Vladimir, has not been established. Apparently he was an amateur who had no connection with the stage. That is one of the many inexplicable features of the case. Many of us have felt on occasion that murdering an actor would be justifiable homicide, and there have been plays that would have justified the murder of the playwright; but it is difficult to understand why anyone would launch a murderous attack upon an inoffensive super who was apparently unknown to anyone else on the stage.

Everyone in the theatrical world will feel deep sympathy for Miss Morley who must have suffered a severe shock when she discovered the body. Judging by the first act alone her Fedora was a warm, highly colored interpretation, breathing new life into the lath and plaster of Sardou’s creaky old melodrama. When will our theater provide Miss Morley with a vehicle worthy of her great talent as an actress? She is wasted on this pinchbeck stuff that Huneker used to call “Sardoodle.”

Leonard Martin turned in one of his usual smooth performances as Grech, the police officer. Rodney Tait, making his debut on Broadway, was decidedly miscast as the elderly Dr. Lorek. Unfortunately there was no opportunity to observe him in the possibly more congenial role of Loris Ipanov as Loris does not appear until the second act.

There will be no performance of Fedora this evening. At the moment, it is uncertain whether or not the play will be resumed later this week.

This review irritated Basil. He had read it hoping to glean some significant sidelight on the murder. But, possibly through force of habit, the critic treated the murder the way he treated everything else that occurred on stage—as a peg on which to hang his own rather tepid “cuteness”—so Basil learned nothing.

Juniper came in with bacon and eggs. “Yo’ coffee’s gettin’ cold, Doctah Willin’,” he said, almost as grimly as a wife.

“I like my coffee cold—sometimes!”

The front doorbell rang.

“If that’s a bomb insurance salesman or a man from the Society for the Suppression of Red Nail Polish with a petition to be signed, just say that I died last week and was buried yesterday.”

As a rule Juniper was a blandly impenetrable obstruction to all casual time-wasters. This morning he met his match. As soon as the door opened, there was a rush of feet in the hall, and Pauline appeared in the doorway with Rodney Tait.

“Basil! You must help us!”

Astonished, Basil was on his feet already. “What can I do? What’s wrong?”

“You can find out who killed that man last night and you must—please! If you don’t, they’ll arrest Rod. I know they will. They’ve been questioning him for hours.”

Basil looked at Rodney. His eyes were puffy and red, as if he had been up all night. His jaw was set with a new firmness.

“I’m afraid we oughtn’t to have barged in like this at breakfast—” he began.

“Not at all,” interrupted Basil quickly. “Suppose you both sit down and tell me all about it. Coffee?”

“No, thanks. But we will cadge cigarettes.”

They sat on either side of him, opposite each other. Pauline was trim in the same neat suit she had worn yesterday. She faced the sun fearlessly. But Rod sat with his back to it, his eyes veiled in shadow. There was a V-shaped frown between his brows. His hands were restless.

Apparently last night’s quarrel was healed. Pauline looked at Rod, though she was speaking to Basil. “You’re a policeman, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re an Assistant District Attorney or something official. That Inspector Foyle behaved as if you were his bosom friend. All the police did.”

“Officially I’m a medical assistant to the District Attorney, specializing in psychiatry. They only call me in when they want to determine the sanity of a witness or a suspect.”

“But you’ve done all sorts of things unofficially. You’re supposed to advise them on psychological aspects of a case, aren’t you? And this case has psychological aspects. The police will never get the hang of it unless you help them. There are only three people who could have killed that man, and Rod’s one of them. The police are playing eena, meena, mina, mo. They’ve counted out Wanda and Leon already. They’re going for Rod. You must help. Please!”

Tranquilly, Basil poured a second cup of coffee and lit his first cigarette of the day. “What makes you think that?”

“I don’t think it. I know it. Partly because of the knife. They just can’t get over the fact that it belonged to Rod and came from a surgical bag he carried on stage. It would’ve been so damnably easy for Rod to carry the knife in the bag, slip it into Vladimir when Rod’s back was turned toward the audience, and then go on with the play as if nothing had happened.”

Basil drew on his cigarette. “I don’t think you’re being quite frank with me.”

“Why not?”

“The police knew all this last night. There was no talk of arresting Rod then.”

Pauline looked at Rod across the table. “Shall we tell him?”

“We have no business to bother you with all this, Dr. Willing,” muttered Rod. “But Pauline would come and . . .”

Pauline cut him short and turned back to Basil. “They think they have a motive.”

“Yes?”

“You remember Milhau said Bernhardt used to ask her ‘boy friends’ to play Vladimir? The police didn’t miss that point. They think Wanda knew the dead man. They don’t believe her denial. He could have been a lover . . .”

Basil turned to Rod. “Would that give you a motive?”

“No, it wouldn’t!” Rod answered sharply. “But the police seem to think it would. And so does Pauline.”

“How can I help it?” cried Pauline. “You’re always with her! You brought her to that art gallery yesterday. There’s been so much talk that the police got hold of it as soon as the case broke. And it would explain—a lot of things. . . .”

Basil turned back to Rod. “Let’s hear your side of it.”

Rod flushed uncomfortably and thrust his hands in his pockets. “I suppose you’d think me an utter heel if I said she ran after me, wouldn’t you?”

Pauline’s brows were daintily skeptical. “We should indeed! It was you who ran after her. I saw you.”

“Well, I didn’t.” Rod appealed to Basil. “I know it sounds incredible as well as shabby, but she did come after me all the time. I didn’t even like her.”

“Do you mean she was in love with you?” demanded Basil a little ungently.

“No,” answered Rod, surprisingly. “That’s the funny part of it. I don’t believe she cared a rap for me at all!”

“How modest!” murmured Pauline.

“Well, she never—er—made any passes at me!” Rod laughed. “I do sound like a maiden with reluctant feet, etc., don’t I? But there was something queer about the whole thing. Whenever I was in a public place—a restaurant, or a theater, or an art gallery—Wanda was always there too, asking me to get her a cocktail or light her cigarette, or something, chattering away and rolling her eyes at me. She was always asking me to take her places, too. Somehow I just couldn’t get rid of her—in public. But if we were alone together, her whole manner changed, and she let me alone. It was just the opposite of the usual thing. I couldn’t shake her in public without being rude, and I couldn’t be rude because I was dependent on her for my job as her leading man. She and Milhau were giving me my first chance on Broadway. If she had been in love with me I could have understood it better. But I swear she wasn’t. It was an awful nuisance—especially when Pauline noticed it. And now, it’s worse than a nuisance. If the police can establish that Vladimir was Wanda’s lover, they’ll assume I had a motive to kill him—jealousy. That, plus the knife, makes a pretty strong case against me. It would be a sweet mess to be accused of killing a man for the sake of a woman you’ve never cared a hoot about!”

“Wouldn’t Wanda deny that you had been in love with her?” suggested Basil.

“Well, would she? That’s the whole point. I don’t know what she’d do, because I don’t know why she chased me.”

“Rod!” Pauline was impatient. “Surely you’ve heard about the bees and flowers. You know perfectly well why she chased you.”

“But it wasn’t that at all! How many times do I have to say so before you’ll believe it?”

“Anyway, that isn’t the point,” went on Pauline. “The point is that she’s got you involved in a murder case. I don’t know why I should care—but I do.”

They smiled at each other. Something about that smile made Basil regret he had left his twenties behind him.

“Are you two engaged?” he asked bluntly.

A delicate pink color came into Pauline’s cheeks. Rod dropped his eyelids.

“I seem to have said the wrong thing,” went on Basil, “but I really can’t help you unless I have some idea of the relationships involved.”

Pauline crushed her cigarette in the ash tray. “Shall we tell him that, too?”

“I suppose we’ll have to.” Rod was embarrassed.

Pauline looked at Basil. “We were engaged until yesterday afternoon just before I ran into you at the art gallery. We’re not engaged now, and we don’t care anything about each other only—I don’t want Rod arrested for murder.”

Basil was beginning to understand why Pauline had looked so pale and tired yesterday. “Why was this engagement broken?”

“Oh, well—incompatibility—mutual consent and so forth—”

“What was the real reason?”

Pauline lifted her chin defiantly. “I wanted it announced, and Rod didn’t. I stood that for a while; but when it dragged on and on, the best thing seemed to be a clean break.”

Basil’s glance shifted again to Rod. “And why didn’t you want it announced?”

Rod’s cheeks were cherry red. “Well—because of Wanda. I mean—I was dependent on her for my job and my chance on Broadway. I thought if I let her know, I was engaged before the play opened I—I might not get that chance after all. . . .”

“So you do admit she chased you for the usual reason?” cried Pauline, furiously.

“No, I don’t. I have no idea why she was always after me. That’s the honest truth. But, of course, I couldn’t help wondering. I didn’t want to complicate things any more than they were already—by suddenly getting engaged. . . .”

Basil’s eyes rested on Rod’s face seriously. “I suppose you realize that this may be far more dangerous for you than the fact that the knife belonged to you?”

“How?” asked Pauline.

“It’s the nearest approach to a motive the police have had so far. Assuming that the man who played Vladimir was a lover of Wanda’s, the police will concentrate on you immediately.

They were both silent for a moment. Then Rod’s temper exploded. “How ridiculous!”

“Not at all. You admit you were seen with her everywhere.”

“But good heavens! That doesn’t mean anything. I was engaged to Pauline at the time.”

“But you didn’t want it announced—because of Wanda. And finally it was broken—because of Wanda. The police may say that your engagement to Pauline was a clever move to conceal your real affair with Wanda and your motive for stabbing Vladimir.”

“Why—it sounds as if someone had planned it!” There was awe in Pauline’s breathless voice.

“It does rather.” Basil held Rod’s eyes with his own. “Do you really mean it when you say Wanda seemed almost bored when you were alone with her? Think carefully, for it’s important. Didn’t she ever show any sign of personal interest in you, however subtle?”

“By ‘personal’ I suppose you mean ‘erotic’? No, she didn’t. And—well, it’s silly, but though I didn’t like her I was human enough to feel a little piqued about the whole thing. It is rather insulting to have a woman always seeking your company and yet remaining entirely impervious to your existence as a man. I’d got so I almost hated Wanda and then—this happened.”

“Hell knows no fury like a man scorned,” murmured Pauline, but there was no malice in her voice.

“Possibly Wanda felt she was the woman scorned?” ventured Basil. “You weren’t very responsive, were you?”

“There was nothing to respond to! So she couldn’t have felt that way.”

Pauline’s eyes were dancing. “Basil, you are interested. I can see you are! You will help us, won’t you? There’s nobody else who can. If somebody did plan all this, you’re the one to find out who and why. It might be Wanda herself. Suppose she knew this was going to happen to Vladimir? Suppose she chased Rod all these weeks just so suspicion would fall on him when it did happen? It was she who wanted to play Fedora in the first place. It was she who got Milhau to give Rod the part of the surgeon who carries a knife on stage. And I’m sure Vladimir was not a stranger to her. I’m sure he was the friend she invited to play Vladimir, even if she did deny it afterward.”

“In other words, you believe that Wanda murdered Vladimir herself?” asked Basil. “And planned the details of the crime to throw suspicion on Rod?”

“Isn’t it pretty obvious?” retorted Pauline. “Milhau had no reason to lie about knowing Vladimir. He isn’t a suspect—he wasn’t even on stage during the murder. Milhau must’ve been speaking the truth, and that means Wanda must have been lying. Vladimir must have been someone she had got to play the part, just as Milhau said. That means Vladimir was someone Wanda knew—perhaps someone she loved. There’s nothing to suggest that anyone else on stage ever saw him before, so Wanda must be the one who killed him.”

Rod was tilting the sugar bowl back and forth as if he needed some occupation for his hands. Basil didn’t wonder that he was embarrassed—the position of a man pursued by a woman he doesn’t like is hardly a graceful one.

“When did you first meet Wanda?” asked Basil.

“A year ago. In Chicago.”

“How did it happen?”

“Wanda had taken one of her New York successes, a Guitry play, out there. Leonard Martin was playing opposite her when he fell ill suddenly. They had to get someone else in a hurry. I was in Chicago with a road company that had just been stranded. I applied to Milhau for Leonard’s part and got it—largely because no one else was available. Wanda coached me herself, and I did fairly well.”

“You made a smash hit!” interpolated Pauline.

Rod smiled at her enthusiasm. “It was pure luck; the part happened to suit me, and Wanda’s coaching was a big help. Overnight I jumped from playing small parts in road companies to the male lead in a company fresh from Broadway. I was grateful, but I didn’t fall for her. That’s what made things so hard when she started behaving as if she’d fallen for me.”

“You’re not just being chivalrous when you say she didn’t care for you?” inquired Basil.

“No, that’s the truth. I’m never chivalrous.”

“Indeed you aren’t!” put in Pauline.

“And you’ve remained with the company ever since?” went on Basil.

“By the time we reached San Francisco, Sam Milhau put me under contract to play the lead in Fedora on Broadway this autumn.” Some lumps of sugar fell out of the bowl. Rod’s restless fingers arranged them in rows like dominoes.

“But Dr. Lorek is not the male lead in Fedora,” objected Basil.

“No,” agreed Rod, without looking up from the sugar lumps. “The big male part is Loris Ipanov; but he doesn’t come on until the second act so I played Lorek in the first. Milhau’s a thrifty producer, and as I’m just a beginner—glad of the chance—I couldn’t very well refuse to double in both parts. Lorek was a bad role for me, but Loris Ipanov might have been the making of me. Now—” He shrugged. “This murder may push me right back to where I was when I started a year ago.”

“When did Leonard Martin rejoin the company?”

Rod’s wall of sugar lumps toppled, and he began piling them up again. “Milhau was still casting Fedora when Leon turned up in New York a few weeks ago, quite recovered and raring to go. Of course, he wanted to play Loris Ipanov. He’s been Wanda’s leading man in lots of plays. But Milhau had already signed me for Ipanov, and most of the other good parts like Siriex were already cast. The best Milhau could do was to give Leon the part of Grech. He was game enough to take it and make a good job of it. He deserved a better break. He doesn’t just mug like the rest of us; he really acts.”

“You don’t mug!” protested Pauline. “You’re good! Really good!”

“You think so?” Rod eyed her with pleasure. For a moment they both seemed to forget Basil.

“Have you told the police about this gossip linking you to Wanda?” inquired Basil.

“N-no.” Rod frowned.

“You think we should?” cried Pauline.

“They’re sure to find out. They always check on the personal history of everyone involved in a case. They may miss some of the subtleties; but they never miss a matter of general knowledge, and anything concealed makes them suspicious. You’d better forestall them by letting all the skeletons out of the cupboard now before the bones begin to rattle.”

“But what is there to tell them?” Rod had the grace to flush. “I can’t say: See here, Inspector, Wanda Morley was always chasing me, but I didn’t care a hoot about her, and I’m sure she didn’t care a hoot about me. So if you hear any gossip, it’s just smoke without fire. That isn’t the sort of thing you can say to anybody, least of all a policeman. He’d never believe it, would he?”

“I see your point.” Basil smiled. “The police might agree with Pauline: Hell knows no fury like a man scorned—especially when he has a chance to stab a successful rival on the stage.”

“Basil!” cried Pauline. “Don’t say such things—even in fun!”

“Pauline, dear,” said Rod, gently. “He’s only anticipating what the police will say.”

“I know what to do!” Pauline turned to Rod. “We’ll tell the police you’re engaged to me!”

“But I’m not—”

“You can be—if you want to.”

Rod shook his head. “You know I won’t drag you into this!”

“Why on earth not?”

“Because.” Rod pushed his sugar lumps into a star pattern. “Just think what fun the more scurrilous tabloids would have with all three of us if we told the truth.”

“Three of us?”

“You and I and Wanda—the good old triangle.”

“You forget Vladimir,” put in Basil. “That would make it a quadrangle.”

“I don’t care! If there’s any question of your being accused of murder I’m going to say you’re still engaged to me! Then they couldn’t say that you were jealous of Wanda’s affair with Vladimir—if there was one.”

“Oh, yes, they could!” returned Basil. “They could say that you loved Rod, but that he didn’t love you. And they would say it if they heard you had broken your engagement to him yesterday.”

Tears stood in Pauline’s eyes. “Then you’ll have to find the murderer—as I said in the first place. The police wouldn’t listen to us, but they would listen to you. Last night that Inspector treated you as if you were a little tin god!”

Basil laughed. “That’s only because I have the District Attorney’s ear.” He looked Pauline in the eyes. “Are you quite sure you want me to find the murderer?”

“Sure? Why, of course!”

“Suppose it should be Rod after all?”

The tears that had gathered in her eyes slid down her cheeks unnoticed. Rod laughed awkwardly. “That’s frank anyway!” There was a brick-red flush on his face.

Pauline looked at Basil as directly as he had looked at her. “I know Rod has nothing to fear from truth. Go as far as you like!”

Something stirred in Rod’s eyes as he looked at her.

Basil hesitated. How young Pauline was! Only the very young had such faith that truth could not harm them or those they loved. He spoke briskly to scatter his own thoughts.

“All right. I’ll do what I can.” His eyes went to Rod’s hands. “Are you in the habit of that?”

“Of what?” Rod looked down at his hands. “Oh.” His flush deepened. He swept the sugar lumps together and dropped them into the bowl. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I do fiddle with things.”

“Especially sugar lumps at table.” Pauline eyed him with almost motherly indulgence. “It’s a filthy habit. And he’ll have to get over it, now that sugar is being rationed.”

Basil pushed back his chair from the table. “Suppose we adjourn to the next room. There’s something there I want to show you.”

They crossed the hall to another long, narrow room with cream paneled walls washed primrose by the eastern sun. Basil went to a desk and took out Wanda’s script of Fedora.

“Recognize this?”

Rod turned the pages. “It’s Wanda’s.”

“You’re sure it didn’t belong to the actor who played Siriex?”

“Of course not. I’ve seen this script in Wanda’s hands at every rehearsal. Seymour Hutchins, who played Siriex, had his script all marked up with notes in red ink.”

“Have you any idea why a line spoken by Siriex should be marked in Wanda’s script?”

“No, unless it was the cue for some bit of business she had worked out.”

“It couldn’t have been that,” cried Pauline. “She had no bit of business at that point in the first act.”

“Last night Milhau told the police that the running time of the first act was supposed to be forty-eight minutes,” went on Basil. “Did it run exactly that time last night?”

“Well, it may have been off schedule a minute or so either way,” admitted Rod. “But no more than that. Milhau’s very strict about timing.”

“Do you think you could make out a rough timetable of the principal incidents in the first act?”

“Such as?”

“Entrances and exits of Vladimir, Wanda, Leonard, and yourself. Also the occasions when any of you went near Vladimir on stage. If you can time the duration of such incidents it would help.”

“I can try.” Rod sat down at the desk and studied the script, jotting figures on the margin. After a few moments he drew a sheet of notepaper toward him and scribbled. “Is this what you want?”

Basil and Pauline read the time table over his shoulder.

Vladimir enters left and goes into alcove, closing doors:

8:35

Curtain rises:

8:40

Wanda enters left:

8:46

Leonard enters left and opens alcove doors:

8:51

Leonard near Vladimir:

8:51–8:52

Wanda near Vladimir:

8:53–9:00

Rodney enters left:

9:01

Rodney near Vladimir:

9:02–9:03

Leonard near Vladimir:

9:04–9:05

Leonard exits left:

9:06

Rodney near Vladimir:

9:07–9:24

Leonard re-enters:

9:24

Wanda near Vladimir:

9:25–9:28

Curtain:

9:28

Vladimir discovered dead:

9:30

“Of course you understand that’s only a rough estimate,” said Rod. “Based on my memory of about how long each scene ran at rehearsal.”

“Even if the timing isn’t accurate to the split second, it gives me an idea of the continuity of events on the stage,” replied Basil. “And that’s what I want.”

“That’s simple,” said Pauline. “Characters in order of their approaches to Vladimir: Leonard, Rod, Wanda, Leonard, Rod, Wanda. But I hope the police don’t get Milhau to make them a time table like this. Those seventeen minutes of Rod’s show up too clearly!”

“And that’s when I was holding the knife over Vladimir pretending to probe for a bullet!” Rod sighed wearily. “To hell with realism! I’ll never take a knife on stage again as long as I live.”

“I don’t believe you’ve allotted enough time to Wanda,” cried Pauline. “All during your scene with Grech and Siriex she kept edging up stage near the alcove to draw the attention of the audience away from you. Her scene-stealing gives her a longer time near the alcove than she would have had if she’d followed Milhau’s direction exactly.”

“But she wasn’t actually in the alcove!” insisted Rod. “She couldn’t have stabbed Vladimir from where she was.”

“N-no.” Pauline’s tone was grudging. “But she might have seen something . . .”

Basil was seeing the stage again in his mind’s eye—the actors coming and going as they had last night. “What about gloves?” he asked suddenly. “I seem to recall that Wanda came in carrying a muff without gloves, while you and Leonard both entered with gloves and pulled them off before approaching Vladimir in the alcove. Was that done on the spur of the moment? Or was it part of the direction of the play?”

“That was Milhau’s direction,” answered Rod. “The way we disposed of our wraps was supposed to indicate our characters in the play: Wanda, the great lady, careless of valuable furs; Leonard, the brisk and businesslike man-hunter, tearing off his gloves to get his hands free; I, the methodical professional man who won’t be hurried, piling everything neatly on a chair.”

“Then if any one of you had worn gloves on stage during the first act it would have attracted notice?”

“It would!”

“And it would have been impossible to put on gloves in the middle of the first act without drawing the attention of the audience, to say nothing of Milhau in the wings and the other actors on the stage?”

“Of course!”

Pauline’s eyes widened. “Were there fingerprints on the knife handle?”

“No.”

“Then why—?”

Basil cut her short. “One more question. Did you happen to notice a woman crossing the stage last night just before the curtain rose? She passed us in the wings.”

“No. What sort of woman?”

“A hard, plain suntanned face and brown hair about the same color. Eyes light—gray or blue. She wore no make-up but lipstick, and last night she wore a rather striking dress—diagonal black-and-white stripes—under a long, black velvet cloak. Is there any woman in the cast like that?”

Rod shook his head. “There’s only one other woman in the cast besides Wanda, and she’s a fluffy little blonde with curls.”

“Light eyes in a brown face and hair the same color?” repeated Pauline. “And a black-and-white dress. That sounds like Magpie.”

“Who is Magpie?”

“Oh, she’s just a woman you see around town at night clubs and so forth. Her real name is Margaret Ingelow. People call her Margot to her face, and Magpie behind her back, because she always wears black and white. She lives near Philadelphia—Huntingdon Valley, I think—but she has an apartment in New York. Her husband, John Ingelow, is working on some sort of war job in Panama. He inherited an engineering company. She was the daughter of a Washington surgeon, but there was nothing to distinguish her from hundreds of other girls until she married him. She’s a good horsewoman. She used to ride other people’s horses at the Horse Show here. That was where she met Ingelow. I have a vague idea they’re separated now.”

“Was she educated in France?” asked Basil.

“No, but I believe her husband was. Why?”

Basil let that question slide. “What would she be doing backstage at the Royalty?”

“I suppose she knows Milhau or somebody in the cast. She’s been stage-struck for some time.”

“I see.” Basil reflected a moment and then smiled. “How convenient it would be if we were in a small town instead of New York. Then I could stroll down to the village post office or the drugstore soda fountain and be reasonably certain that Margaret Ingelow would drop in sooner or later, so I could have a glimpse of her without deliberately seeking her out or getting the police to do so for me.”

Pauline was amused. “Basil, where do you spend your spare time in New York?”

“I don’t have much spare time. I suppose I spend most of it in libraries or theaters or the homes of people I know. Why?”

“It’s high time you got out of your rut,” returned Pauline. “If you don’t look out you’ll develop into an old fogey. Don’t you realize that modern New York is a small town with a completely village mentality? Haven’t you ever noticed that people in offices gossip around the water cooler just the way peasants in Syrian villages gossip around the village well? You wouldn’t find Magpie in a post office or a drugstore even if she were in the country, but if you want to see her without seeking her, all you have to do is to lunch at Capri’s in New York. She’s there every day.”

“Is she?” Basil was interested. “Then suppose you two meet me there for luncheon today. Shall we say one o’clock?”

“We’ll be there.” Rod rose. “This has been less of an ordeal than I expected. No association test—no lie detector—no psycho-analysis. You just ask ordinary questions like a policeman.”

Basil seized his opportunity. “Would you like an association test? I’ll give you a very brief one—a single word. You’re supposed to answer instantly with the first word it brings into your mind. Ready?”

“Shoot!” Rod was grinning as if this were a parlor game, but Pauline looked anxious.

“Canary.”

“Blood.”

Basil’s face was impassive. “Any idea why a canary should make you think of blood?”

“We had a pet canary at home when I was a boy. It got out of its cage one day and flew around the room. I tried to catch it, and I was pretty clumsy. I was only six or seven at the time. I caught it by one leg and—” He made a little grimace as if the memory were still an emotional sore. “The leg came off in my hand. The poor bird wilted and bled profusely, but it didn’t die quickly. My father had to chloroform it. The dreadful thing about cruelty to animals is that they judge you solely by your actions—never by words. You can never apologize or explain to them that your act was unintentional. That was the first time I saw death and the first time I saw blood flow from an act of violence. The fact that it was inadvertent didn’t make me feel any the less guilty, and I’ve always had a guilty feeling about canaries ever since.”

Pauline was watching Basil’s face. “That isn’t the way a murderer would talk, now, is it?”

“Unfortunately, murderers have no special way of talking.” Basil’s equable tone made his words inoffensive. “It would make things much easier for us if they did.”

When the pair had gone, Basil went back to the living room and turned over his file of recent newspapers until he came to a Sunday edition that devoted considerable space to stage and screen. He found what he was looking for in a picture section dedicated to churchgoers promenading on Easter Sunday, a few weeks earlier:

Miss Wanda Morley snapped on Fifth Avenue with her leading man, Mr. Rodney Tait. An engagement is rumored. . . .

It was a blurred action snapshot taken in bright sunlight. Wind molded Wanda’s print dress to her body and pushed back the floppy brim of her wide spring hat. One hand held the hat; the other was linked through Rod’s arm. They were looking into each other’s eyes and laughing happily. For a young man who was engaged to another woman the pose seemed a little indiscreet. . . .

Frowning, Basil cut out the picture and put it away in his desk. Then he tucked Wanda’s script of Fedora under one arm and set out for her house.

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