Cue For Murder

Chapter Thirteen. Alarums and Excursions

BASIL WENT to the switch and turned out the apartment lights. Then he closed the door and went down the enclosed staircase. His footfalls sounded loud in the stillness. He had no idea if they could be heard beyond the walls that enclosed the stairs. At the foot he paused to listen. There was no sound. He opened the door and stepped across the wings to the stage.

A few hours ago it had been all lights and bustle. Now the work light—a single bald bulb dangling from a wire in the roof—made a patch of sickly white light in the shadowy stillness. A sudden flutter startled him. Again the canary flew across the patch of light and perched on a rope attached to a pulley overhead. Eyes like black pinheads shone in the faint light.

The murmur of traffic from the world outside only seemed to underscore the silence here. There was something disturbing about that silence—a sense of something beyond it, listening and waiting and watching. No wonder the haunted house is always the empty house he thought, as he left the patch of light and stepped into the deep shadow of the wings.

The double doors leading to the bedroom alcove stood open, as they had stood to-night when the curtain fell, but now the curtain was raised. A faint glow from stars and lighted buildings seeped through a small window in the lobby back of the topmost balcony. In that diluted darkness, Basil faced row upon row of empty seats rising in tiers toward the domed ceiling like something vast and dim in a nightmare. He stood listening to the stillness. There was something else. The sound of a footfall on the other side of the backdrop. He was not alone.

He crossed the stage to the wings at left. He saw only darkness, but he heard footsteps receding. He snapped on his flashlight. The small beam painted monstrous shadows on the dusty tangle of wires and ropes flanking the stage. One of the looped wires was swinging gently to and fro as if someone had brushed it in passing. Underneath it something like a bundle of clothes lay on the floor. He hurried forward and found Pauline.

Forgetting his own danger, he knelt beside her. Dark in the faint light, a thin stream of blood trickled across her wrist. Basil laid his flashlight on the floor and searched for the source of the hemorrhage. To his relief he found it was only a flesh wound in the upper part of the right arm. With a penknife he cut away the sleeve and improvised a dressing with a clean handkerchief of his own. As he worked, he was conscious of a faint odor, familiar yet elusive. He noticed something white on the floor. It was a large white handkerchief, damp and sticky to the touch. When he picked it up the faint odor grew a little stronger. It came from the handkerchief—evanescent and rather sweet like a breath of wind from an orchard. He thrust it in his pocket.

Pauline stirred and opened her eyes. “W-what?”

“You’re all right,” Basil reassured her. “Just a flesh wound that nicked a vein. How did it happen?”

“Someone jumped at me in the darkness. I couldn’t see who it was. I lifted my arm to shield my head. There was a sharp pain in my arm. I don’t remember anything after that.”

“Why did you come back here?”

“To warn you. It was the red curtain—the one with the gold fringe—I mean when I screamed. I couldn’t explain before him, but I saw—”

“Yes. I know. It’s all right.”

“I should have thought of it sooner. After all it’s my job to know about colors.”

“How did you get in?”

“I was going to pound on the door until you heard me. But then I saw the fire door at the top of the fire escape was open.”

“I’m going to find him.” Basil handed her his flashlight. “Keep this on, and if you see anyone, yell.”

Basil crossed the stage to the door at left and passed through to the region backstage. Out here on bare boards his footfalls were hollow and echoing through the auditorium. Would there be an echo in a theater building designed with special attention to acoustics? He stopped walking. The echo went on. It was not an echo at all. Someone else was walking toward the fire escape on the other side of the stage set—someone who must have been crouching in the wings listening to his talk with Pauline. Basil might be able to reach the fire escape ahead of this other person if he turned back and crossed the stage.

Moving as quietly as possible, he returned and through the door at left crossed the stage to the right wing. On the stage itself there was still the vague light from the window behind the top balcony. Beyond the wings there was still that one patch of light cast by a single electric bulb. But in the maze of wings just beyond the wall of Vladimir’s parlor the shadows deepened into darkness. And he had left his flashlight with Pauline.

As he stepped into that margin of darkness, a slight sound startled him. He turned his head. He had a fleeting impression of a shadow moving among the other shadows that were still. The image had hardly registered on his retina when something heavy collided with his shoulder. He struck out at it, and his knuckles grazed rough cloth. It pulled away from him with such a violent wrench that he was thrown against a flimsy wall of lath and canvas. Again he was conscious of that vague, sweetish odor. Someone was breathing hard quite near him in the darkness. Then footfalls clattered on the boards, receding again. Someone was running away.

He tried to follow the sound, but he came up flat against a wall of lath and canvas. He groped his way through the wings toward the iron stairs that led to the fire escape. There was a thin margin of pale light at the edge of the fire door.

Lightly and quickly he ran up the stairs and pushed the door open. There was no one there—on the landing or below on the stairs or in the alley. The wind cooled his face and stirred his hair.

The stars seemed to watch him remotely. The whole city was spread before him—a theatrically exaggerated backdrop of mountainous buildings lighted up like Christmas trees. He clung to the iron railing, leaning against the wind. At this height it was solid as a wall. Again the hot, red glare from the Tilbury sign pulsated like the flickering of a great fire: Time For Tilbury’s Tea! He looked at the clock. It was just half past nine. As he watched, the minute hand jerked forward convulsively. It didn’t move the space allotted to a single minute. In one jerk, it traversed the space representing two minutes. He stood still, staring at it. Then he heard a whistle blowing shrilly, in the street beyond the alley. That was the only warning. Suddenly, silently the red face of the clock disappeared. The fatuous message of the Tilbury advertisement—Time For Tilbury’s Tea!—faded and did not flash again. The lights in the cocktail bar went out. Building after building grew dark and indistinct against the stars. Now there was no light anywhere but the street lamp at the corner and a cluster of small lights that looked like fireflies at the far end of the street. The globe of the street light turned orange, faded and died. The fireflies vanished. There was no sound of traffic now. Faintly lit by the stars the street was empty and silent, the city nothing but a mass of shadows against the sky ghostly as the ruins of Nineveh or Tyre. Basil frowned. He had forgotten that this was the night of the black-out. He turned back into the theater. A woman was standing at the foot of the iron staircase. A long sable cloak was thrown over her shoulders as if she had snatched it up because it was the first wrap at hand. She turned her head at the sound of Basil’s footfalls.

He recognized Wanda Morley.

The wind had blown her dark hair into a cloud around her vivid, mobile face. Her tilted eyes shone golden in the dim light and the yellow jewel on her finger flashed as she laid one hand on the railing.

“Dr. Willing!” Her voice shook. “How grim you look.”

She stepped back and the cloak fell open revealing the white dress she had worn that evening.

“How did you get in?”

“By the stage door, naturally. I got a key from Sam Milhau.”

“When did you come?”

“I don’t know why I should answer these questions.” Her eyes measured him.

“Would you prefer to answer the police?”

“I came just this minute,” she answered breathlessly. “Why should the police question me about it?”

“Did you meet anyone in the alley? Or see anyone on the fire escape?”

“No.” She drew the fur cloak about her shoulders as if she felt a sudden chill. “Is anything wrong? Has anything happened?”

Again he ignored her question. “Why did you come here alone in the black-out?”

“Why shouldn’t I be alone?”

“You’re usually surrounded by maids and press agents.”

Wanda lifted her black lashes pathetically. “If you knew how I hated all that sort of thing. How I long for a sane, serene, uncomplicated life . . .”

“In the suburbs doing all your own housework. Yes, I know all that. But I also know that there are some things one doesn’t care to confide in a press agent or even a maid.”

Wanda moved a little nearer and her voice dropped. “I came to see you. I have to tell you something, but—I didn’t want anyone else to know. I’m afraid.”

There was a whir of wings. Wanda started convulsively and clenched her hands. The canary flew overhead and alighted on the railing of the staircase. “What on earth is that bird doing here?” she demanded.

“That bird is a valuable witness,” answered Basil.

“I—don’t understand.”

“I think you do,” returned Basil. “I think that is what you came to tell me. I saw how frightened you were this evening when Inspector Foyle asked you about the canary, and you were frightened that day at your house when I showed an oblique interest in canaries in general. You suspected the truth the moment you saw that item in the newspaper about the canary several days ago. The possibility of murder was drawn to your attention before the murder took place, when the police asked your press agent if the canary business was a publicity stunt of yours. The murderer saw that you suspected him. Actress as you are you could not hide your fear of him. And when you realized his suspicion of your suspicion you believed your own life was no longer safe. You want him put under lock and key as soon as possible for your own safety and you’ve come here to tell me about him. Haven’t you?”

“Do you really think he would . . . kill me?”

“How else could he protect himself?”

In the dim light Wanda’s rouged lips were dark against her ghastly white face. She swayed and clutched the railing of the stairway to steady herself.

“There’s one thing I’d like to know,” went on Basil. “Does the Tilbury clock keep time accurately?”

A shaky smile quivered on Wanda’s lips. “So you noticed? So few people do!”

“You mean it’s not accurate?”

Wanda’s smile steadied. “Outdoor clocks on tall buildings are never reliable to the split second unless they’re covered with glass.”

“Why not?”

“Because the hands are blown by the wind. It’s not strong enough to affect the hour hand, but at that height on a blustery day the wind does alter the position of the minute hand by several minutes if it’s blowing in the right direction. Most people never notice it, because they only glance at such a clock now and then. But I have good reason to remember it. When I had my first small part on Broadway I used to live in that hotel on 45th Street where most actors live in their salad days. I had a room in the back with windows looking toward 44th and Broadway like the room Seymour Hutchins has now. I set my watch by the Tilbury clock and was ten minutes late for an appointment with a producer who had promised me a good supporting role. He happened to be a crank about punctuality, and I did not get the job. I made inquiries then and learned that on really windy days the Tilbury clock may be fast or slow by as much as ten minutes. They ought to put a glass over it, but I suppose that would spoil the looks of the building.”

“The police will want to know that and other things,” said Basil. “Are you going to tell?”

“I . . .” Wanda’s mouth opened and closed. “I . . .”

Something flashed between them with the blue glitter of steel. There was a singing vibration. In the wall behind Wanda a silver knife handle quivered half a foot from her head. The steel blade was embedded in the wall.

Wanda screamed like an animal. “No, I won’t tell! Never!” Her knees could not support her. She sank to the floor in a pool of fur. Her mouth was shapeless with terror. Her eyes stared into the darkness. “Put out the light!” she whispered to Basil. “Please! He saw me coming here this evening. He knew you were alone in the theater—as I did—and he understood that I was coming to see you and why. I think he plans to kill us both. Oh, do put out the light!”

A dark figure moved out of the shadows and set foot on the iron stairway. “Don’t follow me. I have other knives—the whole surgical kit—and they’re all sharp now.” Light feet ran up the stairs. A man’s head and shoulders were silhouetted against a glittering slice of stars. Someone was passing through the fire door.

Basil took the stairs two at a time. The door was open. He took a step onto the top landing of the fire escape. A dark figure was waiting for him. Only the face and the knife were pale in the starlight.

OceanofPDF.com