The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

Daniel Stashower The Adventure of the Agitated Actress

From Murder, My Dear Watson: New Tales of Sherlock Holmes

“We’ve all heard stories of your wonderful methods, Mr. Holmes,” said James Larrabee, drawing a cigarette from a silver box on the table. “There have been countless tales of your marvelous insight, your ingenuity in picking up and following clues, and the astonishing manner in which you gain information from the most trifling details. You and I have never met before today, but I dare say that in this brief moment or two you’ve discovered any number of things about me.”

Sherlock Holmes set down the newspaper he had been reading and gazed languidly at the ceiling. “Nothing of consequence, Mr. Larrabee,” he said. “I have scarcely more than asked myself why you rushed off and sent a telegram in such a frightened hurry, what possible excuse you could have had for gulping down a tumbler of raw brandy at the Lion’s Head on the way back, why your friend with the auburn hair left so suddenly by the terrace window, and what there can possibly be about the safe in the lower part of that desk to cause you such painful anxiety.” The detective took up the newspaper and idly turned the pages. “Beyond that,” he said, “I know nothing.”

“Holmes!” I cried. “This is uncanny! How could you have possibly deduced all of that? We arrived in this room not more than five minutes ago!”

My companion glanced at me with an air of strained abstraction, as though he had never seen me before. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, apparently wavering between competing impulses. Then he rose from his chair and crossed down to a row of blazing footlights. “I’m sorry, Frohman,” he called. “This isn’t working out as I’d hoped. We really don’t need Watson in this scene after all.”

“Gillette!” came a shout from the darkened space across the bright line of lights. “I do wish you’d make up your mind! Need I remind you that we open tomorrow night?” We heard a brief clatter of footsteps as Charles Frohman — a short, solidly built gentleman in the casual attire of a country squire — came scrambling up the side access stairs. As he crossed the forward lip of the stage, Frohman brandished a printed handbill. It read: ‘William Gillette in his Smash Play! Sherlock Holmes! Fresh from a Triumphant New York Run!”

“He throws off the balance of the scene,” Gillette was saying. “The situation doesn’t call for an admiring Watson.” He turned to me. “No offense, my dear Lyndal. You have clearly immersed yourself in the role. That gesture of yours — with your arm at the side — it suggests a man favoring an old wound. Splendid!”

I pressed my lips together and let my hand fall to my side. “Actually, Gillette,” I said, “I am endeavoring to keep my trousers from falling down.”

“Pardon?”

I opened my jacket and gathered up a fold of loose fabric around my waist. “There hasn’t been time for my final costume fitting,” I explained.

“I’m afraid I’m having the same difficulty,” said Arthur Creeson, who had been engaged to play the villainous James Larrabee. “If I’m not careful, I’ll find my trousers down at my ankles.”

Gillette gave a heavy sigh. “Quinn!” he called.

Young Henry Quinn, the boy playing the role of Billy, the Baker Street page, appeared from the wings. “Yes, Mr. Gillette?”

“Would you be so good as to fetch the wardrobe mistress? Or at least bring us some extra straight pins?” The boy nodded and darted backstage.

Charles Frohman, whose harried expression and lined forehead told of the rigors of his role as Gillette’s producer, folded the handbill and replaced it in his pocket. “I don’t see why you feel the need to tinker with the script at this late stage,” he insisted. “The play was an enormous success in New York. As far as America is concerned, you are Sherlock Holmes. Surely the London audiences will look on the play with equal favor?”

Gillette threw himself down in a chair and reached for his prompt book. “The London audience bears little relation to its American counterpart,” he said, flipping rapidly through the pages. “British tastes have been refined over centuries of Shakespeare and Marlowe. America has only lately weaned itself off of Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”

“Gillette,” said Frohman heavily, “you are being ridiculous.”

The actor reached for a pen and began scrawling over a page of script. “I am an American actor essaying an English part. I must take every precaution and make every possible refinement before submitting myself to the fine raking fire of the London critics. They will seize on a single false note as an excuse to send us packing.” He turned back to Arthur Creeson. “Now, then. Let us continue from the point at which Larrabee is endeavoring to cover his deception. Instead of Watson’s expression of incredulity, we shall restore Larrabee’s evasions. Do you recall the speech, Creeson?”

The actor nodded.

“Excellent. Let us resume.”

I withdrew to the wings as Gillette and Creeson took their places. A mask of impassive self-possession slipped over Gillette’s features as he stepped back into the character of Sherlock Holmes. “Why your friend with the auburn hair left so suddenly by the terrace window,” he said, picking up the dialogue in midsentence, “and what there can possibly be about the safe in the lower part of that desk to cause you such painful anxiety.”

“Ha! Very good!” cried Creeson, taking up his role as the devious James Larrabee. “Very good indeed! If those things were only true, I’d be wonderfully impressed. It would be absolutely marvelous!”

Gillette regarded him with an expression of weary impatience. “It won’t do, sir,” said he. “I have come to see Miss Alice Faulkner and will not leave until I have done so. I have reason to believe that the young lady is being held against her will. You shall have to give way, sir, or face the consequences.”

Creeson’s hands flew to his chest. “Against her will? This is outrageous! I will not tolerate—”

A high, trilling scream from backstage interrupted the line. Creeson held his expression and attempted to continue. “I will not tolerate such an accusation in my own—”

A second scream issued from backstage. Gillette gave a heavy sigh and rose from his chair as he reached for the prompt book. “Will that woman never learn her cue?” Shielding his eyes against the glare of the footlights, he stepped again to the lip of the stage and sought out Frohman. “This is what comes of engaging the company locally,” he said in an exasperated tone. “We have a mob of players in ill-fitting costumes who don’t know their scripts. We should have brought the New York company across, hang the expense.” He turned to the wings. “Quinn!”

The young actor stepped forward. “Yes, sir?”

“Will you kindly inform—”

Gillette’s instructions were cut short by the sudden appearance of Miss Maude Fenton, the actress playing the role of Alice Faulkner, who rushed from the wings in a state of obvious agitation. Her chestnut hair fell loosely about her shoulders and her velvet shirtwaist was imperfectly buttoned. “Gone!” she cried. “Missing! Taken from me!”

Gillette drummed his fingers across the prompt book. “My dear Miss Fenton,” he said, “you have dropped approximately seventeen pages from the script.”

“Hang the script!” she wailed. “I’m not playing a role! My brooch is missing! My beautiful, beautiful brooch! Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mr. Gillette, someone must have stolen it!”

Selma Kendall, the kindly, auburn-haired actress who had been engaged to play Madge Larrabee, hurried to Miss Fenton’s side. “It can’t be!” she cried. “He only just gave it — that is to say, you’ve only just acquired it! Are you certain you haven’t simply mislaid it?”

Miss Fenton accepted the linen pocket square I offered and dabbed at her streaming eyes. “I couldn’t possibly have mislaid it,” she said between sobs. “One doesn’t mislay something of that sort! How could such a thing have happened?”

Gillette, who had cast an impatient glance at his pocket watch during this exchange, now stepped forward to take command of the situation. “There, there, Miss Fenton,” he said, in the cautious, faltering tone of a man not used to dealing with female emotions. “I’m sure this is all very distressing. As soon as we have completed our run-through, we will conduct a most thorough search of the dressing areas. I’m sure your missing bauble will be discovered presently.”

“Gillette!” I cried. “You don’t mean to continue with the rehearsal? Can’t you see that Miss Fenton is too distraught to carry on?”

“But she must,” the actor declared. “As Mr. Frohman has been at pains to remind us, our little play has its London opening tomorrow evening. We shall complete the rehearsal, and then — after I have given a few notes — we shall locate the missing brooch. Miss Fenton is a fine actress, and I have every confidence in her ability to conceal her distress in the interim.” He patted the weeping actress on the back of her hand. “Will that do, my dear?”

At this, Miss Fenton’s distress appeared to gather momentum by steady degrees. First her lips began to tremble, then her shoulders commenced heaving, and lastly a strange caterwauling sound emerged from behind the handkerchief. After a moment or two of this, she threw herself into Gillette’s arms and began sobbing lustily upon his shoulder.

“Gillette,” called Frohman, straining to make himself heard above the lamentations, “perhaps it would be best to take a short pause.”

Gillette, seemingly unnerved by the wailing figure in his arms, gave a strained assent. “Very well. We shall repair to the dressing area. No doubt the missing object has simply slipped between the cushions of a settee.”

With Mr. Frohman in the lead, our small party made its way through the wings and along the backstage corridors to the ladies’ dressing area. As we wound past the scenery flats and crated property trunks, I found myself reflecting on how little I knew of the other members of our troupe. Although Gillette’s play had been a great success in America, only a handful of actors and crewmen had transferred to the London production. A great many members of the cast and technical staff, myself included, had been engaged locally after a brief open call. Up to this point, the rehearsals and staging had been a rushed affair, allowing for little of the easy camaraderie that usually develops among actors during the rehearsal period.

As a result, I knew little about my fellow players apart from the usual backstage gossip. Miss Fenton, in the role of the young heroine Alice Faulkner, was considered to be a promising ingenue. Reviewers frequently commented on her striking beauty, if not her talent. Selma Kendall, in the role of the conniving Madge Larrabee, had established herself in the provinces as a dependable support player, and was regarded as something of a mother hen by the younger actresses. Arthur Creeson, as the wicked James Larrabee, had been a promising romantic lead in his day, but excessive drink and gambling had marred his looks and scotched his reputation. William Allerford, whose high, domed forehead and startling white hair helped to make him so effective as the nefarious Professor Moriarty, was in fact the most gentle of men, with a great passion for tending the rosebushes at his cottage in Hove. As for myself, I had set out to become an opera singer in my younger days, but my talent had not matched my ambition, and over time I had evolved into a reliable, if unremarkable, second lead.

“Here we are,” Frohman was saying as we arrived at the end of a long corridor. “We shall make a thorough search.” After knocking on the unmarked door, he led us inside.

As was the custom of the day, the female members of the cast shared a communal dressing area in a narrow, sparsely appointed chamber illuminated by a long row of electrical lights. Along one wall was a long mirror with a row of wooden makeup tables before it. A random cluster of coat racks, reclining sofas, and well-worn armchairs were arrayed along the wall opposite. Needless to say, I had never been in a ladies’ dressing room before, and I admit that I felt my cheeks redden at the sight of so many underthings and delicates thrown carelessly over the furniture. I turned to avert my eyes from a cambric corset cover thrown across a ladderback chair, only to find myself gazing upon a startling assortment of hosiery and lace-trimmed drawers laid out upon a nearby ottoman.

“Gracious, Mr. Lyndal,” said Miss Kendall, taking a certain delight in my discomfiture. “One would almost think you’d never seen linens before.”

“Well, I — perhaps not so many at once,” I admitted, gathering my composure. “Dr. Watson is said to have an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents. My own experience, I regret to say, extends no further than Hatton Cross.”

Gillette, it appeared, did not share my sense of consternation. No sooner had we entered the dressing area than he began making an energetic and somewhat indiscriminate examination of the premises, darting from one side of the room to the other, opening drawers and tossing aside cushions and pillows with careless abandon.

“Well,” he announced, after five minutes’ effort, “I cannot find your brooch. However, in the interests of returning to our rehearsals as quickly as possible, I am prepared to buy you a new one.”

Miss Fenton stared at the actor with an expression of disbelief. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mr. Gillette. This was not a common piece of rolled plate and crystalline. It was a large, flawless sapphire in a rose gold setting, with a circle of diamond accents.”

Gillette’s eyes widened. “Was it, indeed? May I know how you came by such an item?”

A flush spread across Miss Fenton’s cheek. “It was — it was a gift from an admirer,” she said, glancing away. “I would prefer to say no more.”

“Be that as it may,” I said, “this is no small matter. We must notify the police at once!”

Gillette pressed his fingers together. “I’m afraid I must agree. This is most inconvenient.”

A look of panic flashed across Miss Fenton’s eyes. “Please, Mr. Gillette! You must not involve the police! That wouldn’t do at all!”

“But your sapphire—?”

She tugged at the lace trimming of her sleeve. “The gentleman in question — the man who presented me with the brooch — he is of a certain social standing, Mr. Gillette. He — that is to say, I — would prefer to keep the matter private. It would be most embarrassing for him if his — if his attentions to me should become generally known.”

Frohman gave a sudden cough. “It is not unknown for young actresses to form attachments with certain of their gentlemen admirers,” he said carefully. “Occasionally, however, when these matters become public knowledge, they are attended by a certain whiff of scandal. Especially if the gentleman concerned happens to be married.” He glanced at Miss Fenton, who held his gaze for a moment and then looked away. “Indeed,” said Frohman. “Well, we can’t have those whispers about the production, Gillette. Not before we’ve even opened.”

“Quite so,” I ventured, “and there is Miss Fenton’s reputation to consider. We must discover what happened to the brooch without involving the authorities. We shall have to mount a private investigation.”

All eyes turned to Gillette as a mood of keen expectation fell across the room. The actor did not appear to notice. Having caught sight of himself in the long mirror behind the dressing tables, he was making a meticulous adjustment to his waistcoat. At length, he became aware that the rest of us were staring intently at him.

“What?” he said, turning away from the mirror. “Why is everyone looking at me?”

“I am not Sherlock Holmes,” Gillette said several moments later, as we settled ourselves in a pair of armchairs. “I am an actor playing Sherlock Holmes. There is a very considerable difference. If I did a turn as a pantomime horse, Lyndal, I trust you would not expect me to pull a dray wagon and dine on straw?”

“But you’ve studied Sherlock Holmes,” I insisted. “You’ve examined his methods and turned them to your own purposes. Surely you might be able to do the same in this instance? Surely the author of such a fine detective play is not totally lacking in the powers of perception?”

Gillette gave me an appraising look. “Appealing to my vanity, Lyndal? Very shrewd.”

We had been arguing back and forth in this vein for some moments, though by this time — detective or no — Gillette had reluctantly agreed to give his attention to the matter of the missing brooch. Frohman had made him see that an extended disruption would place their financial interests in the hazard, and that Gillette, as head of the company, was the logical choice to take command of the situation. Toward that end, it was arranged that Gillette would question each member of the company individually, beginning with myself.

Gillette’s stage manager, catching wind of the situation, thought it would be a jolly lark to replace the standing set of James Larrabee’s drawing room with the lodgings of Sherlock Holmes at Baker Street, so that Gillette might have an appropriate setting in which to carry out his investigation. If Gillette noticed, he gave no sign. Stretching his arm toward a side table, he took up an outsize calabash pipe and began filling the meerschaum bowl.

“Why do you insist on smoking that ungainly thing?” I asked. “There’s no record whatsoever of Sherlock Holmes having ever touched a calabash. Dr. Watson tells us that he favors an oily black clay pipe as the companion of his deepest meditations, but is wont to replace it with his cherrywood when in a disputatious frame of mind.”

Gillette shook his head sadly. “I am not Sherlock Holmes,” he said again. “I am an actor playing Sherlock Holmes.”

“Still,” I insisted, “it does no harm to be as faithful to the original as possible.”

Gillette touched a flame to the tobacco and took several long draws to be certain the bowl was properly ignited. For a moment, his eyes were unfocused and dreamy, and I could not be certain that he had heard me. His eyes were fixed upon the fly curtains when he spoke again. “Lyndal,” he said, “turn and face downstage.”

“What?”

“Humor me. Face downstage.”

I rose and looked out across the forward edge of the stage.

“What do you see?” Gillette asked.

“Empty seats,” I said.

“Precisely. It is my ambition to fill those seats. Now, cast your eyes to the rear of the house. I want you to look at the left-hand aisle seat in the very last row.”

I stepped forward and narrowed my eyes. “Yes,” I said. “What of it?”

“Can you read the number plate upon that seat?”

“No,” I said. “Of course not.”

“Nor can I. By the same token, the man or woman seated there will not be able to appreciate the difference between a cherrywood pipe and an oily black clay. This is theater, Lyndal. A real detective does not do his work before an audience. I do. Therefore I am obliged to make my movements, speech, and stage properties readily discernible.” He held the calabash aloft. “This pipe will be visible from the back row, my friend. An actor must consider even the smallest object from every possible angle. That is the essence of theater.”

I considered the point. “I merely thought, inasmuch as you are attempting to inhabit the role of Sherlock Holmes, that you should wish to strive for authenticity.”

Gillette seemed to consider the point. “Well,” he said, “let us see how far that takes us. Tell me, Lyndal. Where were you when the robbery occurred?”

“Me? But surely you don’t think that I—”

“You are not the estimable Dr. Watson, my friend. You are merely an actor, like myself. Since Miss Fenton had her brooch with her when she arrived at the theater this morning, we must assume that the theft occurred shortly after first call. Can you account for your movements in that time?”

“Of course I can. You know perfectly well where I was. I was standing stage right, beside you, running through the first act.”

“So you were. Strange, my revision of the play has given you a perfect alibi. Had the theft occurred this afternoon, after I had restored the original text of the play, you should have been high on the list of suspects. A narrow escape, my friend.” He smiled and sent up a cloud of pipe smoke. “Since we have established your innocence, however, I wonder if I might trouble you to remain through the rest of the interviews?”

“Whatever for?”

“Perhaps I am striving for authenticity.” He turned and spotted young Henry Quinn hovering in his accustomed spot in the wings near the scenery cleats. “Quinn!” he called.

The boy stepped forward. “Yes, sir?”

“Would you ask Miss Fenton if she would be so good as to join us?”

“Right away, sir.”

I watched as the boy disappeared down the long corridor. “Gillette,” I said, lowering my voice, “this Baker Street set is quite comfortable in its way, but do you not think a bit of privacy might be indicated? Holmes is accustomed to conducting his interviews in confidence. Anyone might hear what passes between us here at the center of the stage.”

Gillette smiled. “I am not Sherlock Holmes,” he repeated.

After a moment or two Quinn stepped from the wings with Miss Fenton trailing behind him. Miss Fenton’s eyes and nose were red with weeping, and she was attended by Miss Kendall, who hovered protectively by her side. “May I remain, Mr. Gillette?” asked the older actress. “Miss Fenton is terribly upset by all of this.”

“Of course,” said Gillette in a soothing manner. “I shall try to dispense with the questioning as quickly as possible. Please be seated.” He folded his hands and leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me, Miss Fenton, are you quite certain that the brooch was in your possession when you arrived at the theater this morning?”

“Of course,” the actress replied. “1 had no intention of letting it out of my sight. I placed the pin in my jewelry case as I changed into costume.”

“And the jewelry case was on top of your dressing table?”

“Yes.”

“In plain sight?”

“Yes, but I saw no harm in that. I was alone at the time. Besides, Miss Kendall is the only other woman in the company, and I trust her as I would my own sister.” She reached across and took the older woman’s hand.

“No doubt,” said Gillette, “but do you mean to say that you intended to leave the gem in the dressing room during the rehearsal? Forgive me, but that seems a bit careless.”

“That was not my intention at all, Mr. Gillette. Once in costume, I planned to pin the brooch to my stockings. I should like to have worn it in plain view, but James — that is to say, the gentleman who gave it to me — would not have approved. He does not want anyone — he does not approve of ostentation.”

“In any case,” I said, “Alice Faulkner would hardly be likely to own such a splendid jewel.”

“Yes,” said Miss Fenton. “Just so.”

Gillette steepled his fingers. “How exactly did the jewel come to be stolen? It appears that it never left your sight.”

“It was unforgivable of me,” said Miss Fenton. “I arrived late to the theater this morning. In my haste, I overturned an entire pot of facial powder. I favor a particular type, Gervaise Graham’s Satinette, and I wished to see if I could persuade someone to step out and purchase a fresh supply for me. I can only have been gone for a moment. I stepped into the hallway looking for one of the stagehands, but of course they were all in their places in anticipation of the scene three set change. When I found no one close by, I realized that I had better finish getting ready as best I could without the powder.”

“So you returned to the dressing area?”

“Yes.”

“How long would you say that you were out of the room?”

“Two or three minutes. No more.”

“And when you returned the brooch was gone?”

She nodded. “That was when I screamed.”

“Indeed.” Gillette stood and clasped his hands behind his back. “Extraordinary,” he said, pacing a short line before a scenery flat decorated to resemble a bookcase. “Miss Kendall?”

“Yes?”

“Has anything been stolen from you?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. “Well, not this time.”

Gillette raised an eyebrow. “Not this time?”

The actress hesitated. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said. “From time to time I have noticed that one or two small things have gone astray. Nothing of any value. A small mirror, perhaps, or a copper or two.”

Miss Fenton nodded. “I’ve noticed that as well. I assumed that I’d simply misplaced the items. It was never anything to trouble over.”

Gillette frowned. “Miss Fenton, a moment ago, when the theft became known, it was clear that Miss Kendall was already aware that you had the brooch in your possession. May I ask who else among the company knew of the sapphire?”

“No one,” the actress said. “I only received the gift yesterday, but I would have been unlikely to flash it about, in any case. I couldn’t resist showing it to Selma, however.”

“No one else knew of it?”

“No one.”

Gillette turned to Miss Kendall. “Did you mention it to anyone?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Gillette.”

The actor resumed his pacing. “You’re quite certain? It may have been a perfectly innocent remark.”

“Maude asked me not to say anything to anyone,” said Miss Kendall. “We women are rather good with secrets.”

Gillette’s mouth pulled up slightly at the corners. “So I gather, Miss Kendall. So I gather.” He turned and studied the false book spines on the painted scenery flat. “Thank you for your time, ladies.”

I watched as the two actresses departed. “Gillette,” I said after a moment, “if Miss Kendall did not mention the sapphire to anyone, who else could have known that it existed?”

“No one,” he answered.

“Are you suggesting—” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Are you suggesting that Miss Kendall is the thief? After all, if she was the only one who knew—”

“No, Lyndal. I do not believe Miss Kendall is the thief.”

“Still,” I said, “there is little reason to suppose that she kept her own counsel. A theatrical company is a hotbed of gossip and petty jealousies.” I paused as a new thought struck me. “Miss Fenton seems most concerned with protecting the identify of her gentleman admirer, although this will not be possible if the police have to be summoned. Perhaps the theft was orchestrated to expose him.” I considered the possibility for a moment. “Yes, perhaps the intended victim is really this unknown patron, whomever he might be. He is undoubtedly a man of great wealth and position. Who knows? Perhaps this sinister plot extends all the way to the—”

“I think not,” said Gillette.

“No?”

“If the intention was nothing more than to expose a dalliance between a young actress and a man of position, one need not have resorted to theft. A word in the ear of certain society matrons would have the same effect, and far more swiftly.” He threw himself back down in his chair. “No, I believe that this was a crime of opportunity, rather than design. Miss Kendall and Miss Fenton both reported having noticed one or two small things missing from their dressing area on previous occasions. It seems that we have a petty thief in our midst, and that this person happened across the sapphire during those few moments when it was left unattended in the dressing room.”

“But who could it be? Most of us were either onstage or working behind the scenes, in plain view of at least one other person at all times.”

“So it would seem, but I’m not entirely convinced that someone couldn’t have slipped away for a moment or two without being noticed. The crew members are forever darting in and out. It would not have drawn any particular notice if one of them had slipped away for a moment or two.”

“Then we shall have to question the suspects,” I said. “We must expose this nefarious blackguard at once.”

Gillette regarded me over the bowl of his pipe. “Boucicault?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“That line you just quoted. I thought I recognized it from one of Mr. Boucicault’s melodramas.”

I flushed. “No,” I said. “It was my own.”

“Was it? How remarkably vivid.” He turned to young Henry Quinn, who was awaiting his instructions in the wings. “Quinn,” he called, “might I trouble you to run and fetch Mr. Allerford? I have a question or two I would like to put to him.”

“Allerford,” I said, as the boy disappeared into the wings. “So your suspicions have fallen upon the infamous Professor Moriarty, have they? There’s a bit of Holmes in you, after all.”

“Scarcely,” said Gillette with a weary sigh. “I am proceeding in alphabetical order.”

“Ah.”

Young Quinn returned a moment later to conduct Allerford into our presence. The actor wore a long black frock coat for his impersonation of the evil professor, and his white hair was pomaded into billowing cloud, exaggerating the size of his head and suggesting the heat of the character’s mental processes.

“Do sit down, Allerford,” Gillette said, as the actor stepped onto the stage, “and allow me to apologize for subjecting you to this interview. It pains me to suggest that you may in any way have—”

The actor held up his hands to break off the apologies. “No need, Gillette. I would do the same in your position. I presume you will wish to know where I was while the rest of you were running through the first act?”

Gillette nodded. “If you would be so kind.”

“I’m afraid the answer is far from satisfactory. I was in the gentlemen’s dressing area.”

“Alone?”

“I’m afraid so. All the others were onstage or in the costume shop for their fittings.” He gathered up a handful of loose fabric from his waistcoat. “My fitting was delayed until this afternoon. So I imagine I would have to be counted as the principal suspect, Gillette.” He allowed his features to shift and harden as he assumed the character of Professor Moriarty. “You’ll never hang this on me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he hissed, as his head oscillated in a reptilian fashion. “I have an ironclad alibi! I was alone in my dressing room reading a magazine!” The actor broke character and held up his palms in a gesture of futility. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything better, Gillette.”

“I’m sure nothing more will be required, Allerford. Again, let me apologize for this intrusion.”

“Not at all.”

“One more thing,” Gillette said, as Allerford rose to take his leave.

“Yes?”

“The magazine you were reading. It wasn’t The Strand, by any chance?”

“Why, yes. There was a copy lying about on the table.”

“A Sherlock Holmes adventure, was it?”

Allerford’s expression turned sheepish. “My tastes don’t run in that direction, I’m afraid. There was an article on the sugar planters of the Yucatan. Quite intriguing, if I may say.”

“I see.” Gillette began refilling the bowl of his pipe. “Much obliged, Allerford.”

“Gillette!” I said in an urgent whisper, as Allerford retreated into the wings. “What was that all about? Were you trying to catch him out?”

“What? No, I was just curious.” The actor’s expression grew unfocused as he touched a match to the tobacco. “Very curious.” He sat quietly for some moments, sending clouds of smoke up into the fly curtains.

“Gillette,” I said after a few moments, “shouldn’t we continue? I believe Mr. Creeson is next.”

“Creeson?”

“Yes. If we are to proceed alphabetically.”

“Very good. Creeson. By all means. Quinn! Ask Mr. Creeson to join us, if you would.”

With that, Gillette sank into his chair and remained there, scarcely moving, for the better part of two hours as a parade of actors, actresses, and stagehands passed before him. His questions and attitude were much the same as they had been with Allerford, but clearly his attention had wandered to some distant and inaccessible plateau. At times he appeared so preoccupied that I had to prod him to continue with the interviews. At one stage he drew his legs up to his chest and encircled them with his arms, looking for all the world like Sidney Paget’s illustration of Sherlock Holmes in the grip of one of his three-pipe problems. Unlike the great detective, however, Gillette soon gave way to meditations of a different sort. By the time the last of our interviews was completed, a contented snoring could be heard from the actor’s armchair.

“Gillette,” I said, shaking him by the shoulder. “I believe we’ve spoken to everyone now.”

“Have we? Very good.” He rose from the chair and stretched his long limbs. “Is Mr. Frohman anywhere about?”

“Right here, Gillette,” the producer called from the first row of seats. “I must say this appears to have been a colossal waste of time. I don’t see how we can avoid going to the police now.”

“I’m afraid I have to agree,” I said. “We are no closer to resolving the matter than we were this morning.” I glanced at Gillette, who was staring blankly into the footlights. “Gillette? Are you listening?”

“I think we may be able to keep the authorities out of the matter,” he answered. “Frohman? Might I trouble you to assemble the company?”

“Whatever for?” I asked. “You’ve already spoken to — Say! You don’t mean to say that you know who stole Miss Fenton’s brooch?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But then why should you—?”

He turned and held a finger to his lips. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the final act.”

The actor would say nothing more as the members of the cast and crew appeared from their various places and arrayed themselves in the first two rows of seats. Gillette, standing at the lip of the stage, looked over them with an expression of keen interest. “My friends,” he said after a moment, “you have all been very patient during this unpleasantness. I appreciate your indulgence. I’m sure that Sherlock Holmes would have gotten to the bottom of the matter in just a few moments, but as I am not Sherlock Holmes, it has taken me rather longer.”

“Mr. Gillette!” cried Miss Fenton. “Do you mean to say you’ve found my brooch?”

“No, dear lady,” he said, “I haven’t. But I trust that it will be back in your possession shortly.”

“Gillette,” said Frohman, “this is all very irregular. Where is the stone? Who is the thief?”

“The identity of the thief has been apparent from the beginning,” Gillette said placidly. “What I did not understand was the motivation.”

“But that’s nonsense!” cried Arthur Creeson. “The sapphire is extraordinarily valuable! What other motivation could there be?”

“I can think of several,” Gillette answered, “and our ‘nefarious blackguard,’ to borrow a colorful phrase, might have succumbed to any one of them.”

“You’re talking in circles, Gillette,” said Frohman. “If you’ve known the identity of the thief from the first, why didn’t you just say so?”

“I was anxious to resolve the matter quietly,” the actor answered. “Now, sadly, that is no longer possible.” Gillette stretched his long arms. Moving upstage, he took up his pipe and slowly filled the bowl with tobacco from a ragged Persian slipper. “It was my hope,” he said, “that the villain would come to regret these actions — the rash decision of an instant — and make amends. If the sapphire had simply been replaced on Miss Fenton’s dressing table, I should have put the incident behind and carried on as though I had never discerned the guilty party’s identity. Now, distasteful as it may be, the villain must be unmasked, and I must lose a member of my company on the eve of our London opening. Regrettable, but it can’t be helped.”

The members of the company shifted uneasily in their seats. “It’s one of us, then?” asked Mr. Allerford.

“Of course. That much should have been obvious to all of you.” He struck a match and ran it over the bowl of his pipe, lingering rather longer than necessary over the process. “The tragedy of the matter is that none of this would have happened if Miss Fenton had not stepped from her dressing room and left the stone unattended.”

The actress’s hands flew to her throat. “But I told you, I had spilled a pot of facial powder.”

“Precisely so. Gervaise Graham’s Satinette. A very distinctive shade. And so the catalyst of the crime now becomes the instrument of its solution.”

“How do you mean, Gillette?” I asked.

Gillette moved off to stand before the fireplace — or rather the canvas and wood strutting that had been arranged to resemble a fireplace. The actor spent a moment contemplating the plaster coals that rested upon a balsa grating. “Detective work,” he intoned, “is founded upon the observation of trifles. When Miss Fenton overturned that facial powder, she set in motion a chain of events that yielded a clue — a clue as transparent as that of a weaver’s tooth or a compositor’s thumb — and one that made it patently obvious who took the missing stone.”

“Gillette!” cried Mr. Frohman. “No more theatrics! Who took Miss Fenton’s sapphire?”

“The thief is here among us,” he declared, his voice rising to a vibrant timbre. “And the traces of Satinette facial powder are clearly visible upon — Wait! Stop him!”

All at once, the theater erupted into pandemonium as young Henry Quinn, who had been watching from his accustomed place in the wings, suddenly darted forward and raced toward the rear exit.

“Stop him!” Gillette called to a pair of burly stagehands. “Hendricks! O’Donnell! Don’t let him pass!”

The fleeing boy veered away from the stagehands, upsetting a flimsy side table in his flight, and made headlong for the forward edge of the stage. Gathering speed, he attempted to vault over the orchestra pit, and would very likely have cleared the chasm but for the fact that his ill-fitting trousers suddenly slipped to his ankles, entangling his legs and causing him to land in an awkward heap at the base of the pit.

“He’s out cold, Mr. Gillette,” came a voice from the pit. “Nasty bruise on his head.”

“Very good, Hendricks. If you would be so good as to carry him into the lobby, we shall decide what to do with him later.”

Miss Fenton pressed a linen handkerchief to her face as the unconscious figure was carried past. “I don’t understand, Mr. Gillette. Henry took my sapphire? He’s just a boy! I can’t believe he would do such a thing!”

“Strange to say, I believe Quinn’s intentions were relatively benign,” said Gillette. “He presumed, when he came across the stone on your dressing table, that it was nothing more than a piece of costume jewelry. It was only later, after the alarm had been raised, that he realized its value. At that point, he became frightened and could not think of a means to return it without confessing his guilt.”

“But what would a boy do with such a valuable stone?” Frohman asked.

“I have no idea,” said Gillette. “Indeed, I do not believe that he had any interest whatsoever in the sapphire.”

“No interest?” I said. “What other reason could he have had for taking it?”

“For the pin.”

“What?”

Gillette gave a rueful smile. “You are all wearing costumes that are several sizes too large. Our rehearsals have been slowed for want of sewing pins to hold up the men’s trousers and pin back the ladies’ frocks. I myself dispatched Quinn to find a fastener for Mr. Lyndal.”

“The essence of theater,” I said, shaking my head with wonder.

“Pardon me, Lyndal?”

“As you were saying earlier. An actor must consider even the smallest object from every possible angle. We all assumed that the brooch had been taken for its valuable stone. Only you would have thought to consider it from the back as well as the front.” I paused. “Well done, Gillette.”

The actor gave a slight bow as the company burst into spontaneous applause. “That is most kind,” he said, “but now, ladies and gentlemen, if there are no further distractions, I should like to continue with our rehearsal. Act one, scene four, I believe...”

It was several hours later when I knocked at the door to Gillette’s dressing room. He bade me enter and made me welcome with a glass of excellent port. We settled ourselves on a pair of makeup stools and sat for a few moments in a companionable silence.

“I understand that Miss Fenton has elected not to pursue the matter of Quinn’s theft with the authorities,” I said after a time.

“I thought not,” Gillette said. “I doubt if her gentleman friend would appreciate seeing the matter aired in the press. However, we will not be able to keep young Quinn with the company. He has been dismissed. Frohman has been in touch with another young man I once considered for the role. Charles Chapman.”

“Chaplin, I believe.”

“That’s it. I’m sure he’ll pick it up soon enough.”

“No doubt.”

I took a sip of port. “Gillette,” I said, “there is something about the affair that troubles me.”

He smiled and reached for a pipe. “I thought there might be,” he said.

“You claimed to have spotted Quinn’s guilt by the traces of face powder on his costume.”

“Indeed.”

I lifted my arm. “There are traces of Miss Fenton’s powder here on my sleeve as well. No doubt I acquired them when I was searching for the missing stone in the dressing area — after the theft had been discovered.”

“No doubt,” said Gillette.

“The others undoubtedly picked up traces of powder as well.”

“That is likely.”

“So Quinn himself might well have acquired his telltale dusting of powder after the theft had occurred, in which case it would not have been incriminating at all.”

Gillette regarded me with keen amusement. “Perhaps I noticed the powder on Quinn’s sleeve before we searched the dressing area,” he offered.

“Did you?”

He sighed. “No.”

“Then you were bluffing? That fine speech about the observation of trifles was nothing more than vain posturing?”

“It lured a confession out of Quinn, my friend, so it was not entirely in vain.”

“But you had no idea who the guilty party was! Not until the moment he lost his nerve and ran!”

Gillette leaned back and sent a series of billowy smoke rings toward the ceiling. “That is so,” he admitted, “but then, as I have been at some pains to remind you, I am not Sherlock Holmes.”