by E.
“Something curious, Doctor,” was the reply. He indicated his note-book.
“We have separated iron, wood ash, silk and textile, a variety of metals which one would associate with the contents of a destroyed interior. That is all well and good. But I’ve also found something else.”
“What else?” asked Manson.
“I don’t know. I can’t separate it.” The sergeant described the reagent used which had produced the precipitate, and then placed the latter under his microscope for the scientist to inspect.
Doctor Manson’s examination, however, was no more successful than that of his deputy. At the end of an intensive search through the lenses for some five minutes, and comparison with preserved specimens of metals on slides taken from the cabinets in the laboratory, he confessed himself beaten.
“We had better put it through the spectroscope, Merry,” he announced. “That may give us a clue.”
Now, the spectroscope is the greatest detective known to man. It found helium in the sun many years before it was discovered on earth. It is the spectroscope that has enabled scientists to say of what matter the sun, the moon, and the planets are composed. The principle can be roughly described. Every metal heated to incandescence gives off its own distinctive colour, which never varies. Thus, a scientist who heated iron to incandescence and threw its rays through the prism of a spectroscope would see thrown up the colours of incandescent iron. If, on pointing the spectroscope at the sun, he saw reflected the same colours (among scores of others) he would know that there is iron in the sun. This is a very rough and ready explanation, but it will suffice to illustrate the experiments by which Doctor Manson hoped to identify the mysterious substance discovered in the ash debris from the Shepherd’s Bush fire.
In the course of the years scientists have listed the colours of the various metals when thus heated, and it is (to a scientist) a fairly simple matter to identify any metal by heating it as described, and putting its constant spectrum through the spectroscope. There are, still, a number of colours, however, which have no known name—they are still unknown metals.
Accordingly the Doctor and Merry proceeded to test the metal precipitate. Heated as required for the test, it was projected through the instrument. Two indigo lines showed up on the screen, as its characteristic spectrum colour, and in a certain wavelength.
Reference to the compiled spectrum list revealed the metal to be indium.
“Indium?” queried Merry. “What the deuce is that? I’ve never heard of it.”
He produced a book on metallurgy, and turning to its reference, read it out:
“Indium: a rare element occurring in certain zinc ores, is a silvery, very soft metal. It is unacted upon by air or boiling water, but burns to its sesquioxide when heated in air.”
“Now how the devil does that stuff come in the place?” he asked.
“Blessed if I know,” retorted Doctor Manson. He looked through the notes of his deputy, made during the tests. They showed the separation of a number of substances.
“Looks as if the stuff was mixed with petrol and oil. Does that convey anything to you, Merry?” he asked.
“Not a thing, Doctor. Incidentally, the mixture was dirty.”
“Well, we’ll have to find out something about it. Ring up a metallurgist, and see what he can suggest. Now, I think that is all, with the exception of one thing.”
His eyes caught sight of the collection of frocks which Merry had brought back from Shepherd’s Bush. “And that’s it,” he concluded.
Then followed what was to Wilkins a curious performance. The frocks were carried to the flat roof of the Yard and there placed in a large metal bin. Merry poured a portion of petrol mixed with oil over them, and they were then set on fire. When burnt out, the ashes were sprayed with water, gathered together and weighed.
The weight of the twelve dresses was compared, in quantitative analysis, with the weight of the ash representing the three hundred dresses which Mr. Oppenheimer stated were in the burned building, plus the bales of silk, and plus the debris from the burned interior. Doctor Manson regarded the figures with no little interest. And so did Sergeant Merry.
“We’ll have to work out a ratio, Merry,” the scientist announced, “but I don’t like the look of it at the moment.”
At that moment the door of the laboratory opened, and the head of Inspector Kenway appeared round the jamb, followed a moment later by the body of the same. He saw Merry. “Doctor in, Merry?” he asked, and then saw the figure of the scientist.
“Oh, there you are,” he added. “Got something funny for you. You know I’ve been tracing the past life of Miss de Grey?” Doctor Manson nodded.
“Well, I got the address of her flat in Town, and on getting back a little while ago blew round to the address to see what I could hunt up there. Who do you suppose I found there?”
“Not the least idea,” said Manson. “I’m a scientist—not a thought reader.”
“Well, I found Inspector Makepeace there nosing round. It seems your Mr. Oppenheimer telephoned some number to give a message and there was no answer, the ’phone having been disconnected. Then he ’phoned another number, saying he’d made a mistake. Makepeace said he’d come along to see what connection the first number had with a Mr. da Costa—he’s the gent Oppenheimer ’phoned to.”
Manson nodded again. “I know all that, Kenway,” he announced.
“Yes, but here’s what you don’t know. The flat I found Makepeace mooning into, the flat with the number Oppenheimer first asked for, was the one which Miss de Grey, of Dick Whittington fame, had occupied. And the janitor fellow didn’t know a Mr. da Costa. See.”
Manson stared.
“That’s a very peculiar circumstance, Kenway,” he said.
CHAPTER XV
FIRST CLUES
Apart from his surprising announcement on Miss de Grey’s flat, Inspector Kenway had not learned a great deal about the pantomime star’s private life. And what he had discovered, it seemed to him, did not throw much light on the riddle of her death. He had searched in vain for anything that would link her with the second Cat (since Doctor Manson’s pronouncement had wiped out altogether the first Cat as the murderer.) But nothing had come to light which provided any trace of association between Miss de Grey and the second Cat prior to their meeting at Burlington-on-Sea. On the contrary, Kenway had begun to doubt whether Miss de Grey even knew the second Cat at all. He had never appeared on the stage with her, and was hardly ever in the theatre once the curtain had gone up for the evening’s performance, when he knew that he was not likely to be called upon.
The inspector had begun his backwards search with the Dick Whittington company, who were still at the Old Sussex Theatre. Notified of his intention to question them once more, the members of the cast had assembled in the Circle Bar of the theatre at the convenient hour of eleven o’clock in the morning. It was the last fortnight of the run of the piece and as they waited they talked among themselves of the not-far-distant future.
It is brave talk, this chatter of theatrical people when the ‘notice has gone up’ of the end of the tour, especially if the show is a pantomime, and the artistes are past the bloom of theatrical youth. Pagliacci is acted more often, and more poignantly, off the stage than it is on the Boards. For, when the curtain rings down for the last time on pantomime, there begins the tragic search for work of the little artiste that is heartbreaking in its hopelessness; for pantomime comes but once a year, and makes jobs plentiful even for those of little talent.
You would not think so from the words and the poses of the artistes in the company of their fellows on these last nights. The mask is on the faces; the make-believe in the care-free carriage. Nobody is ever going to be ‘resting’, the theatrical euphemism for being out of a job. The names of The Great in production are bandied around familiarly. The little knockabout, who is just terrible, will pat a pocket and announce that Jack Hylton has approached him with an offer. The chorus lady of fifty,
haggard behind her paint, talks of Mr. Cochran. Nobody believes a word of it, of course, but nobody ever says so, save when, outside, some sympathetic soul will comment: “Poor little devil, she’ll never get another part.”
It was this way with the Dick Whittington company as they talked in the bar while awaiting the arrival of Inspector Kenway. The Mate stood by the Demon King. “Fixed up anything, old man?” he inquired.
Mr. Frederick Barnson straightened his tie, and examined the fake diamond ring on his finger. “Not exactly, old boy,” he announced. “I’m not in any hurry. Reckon I’ll take a bit of a holiday first. Got three good offers, mind you. Question which I’ll take. Thank God I’m not one of the kind who plays panto, and for the rest of the year has to hang round Hippodrome corner waiting for somebody to drop dead.” (He had stood on that heartbreak corner, and made the daily round of the agents’ offices for three months before Mr. de Benyat had given him the Demon King.)
“I’ve a little part in drama,” announced the manager, Mr. Castle. “Suits me. I used to do ‘if its’ in the Rhondda valley.”
“If its? Whatever are they?” asked the Fairy Queen.
Mr. Castle smiled reminiscently. “If it comes in, you get it,” he announced succinctly. “Fit-up was the real name. Sometimes we’d carry our own scenery and play A Royal Divorce at the town hall to £2 10s. gross, on which we’d send out for fish and chips all round, have a sumptuous repast in the throne-room scene, and sleep on the dress-baskets in the dressing-rooms. Then, next day, we’d walk or cadge rides to our next date, if any. Those were the days, laddie.”
The Captain scratched a puzzled head. “Blimey,” he said. “No legit, for me. Now, in my game you ain’t never stuck. There’s panto, halls revue, concert party with a bit of busking on the sands, circus, fêtes, all grist to the mill, me old china. Even done crowd work at Elstree? I ain’t never been flat on me pat yet.”
“You have ’em, if you likes.” The words came from the wardrobe mistress. “I was born in a portable theatre—and one of the best of them, too. My mother was playing leading lady, providing four baskets of wardrobe, costume and modern, and doing six plays a week with a ‘laughable farce’ thrown in, for thirty-five shillings a week. Yes, indeed, she lived well and reared four children on it—and kept her wardrobe up to date from the second-hand stores, and saved five shillings a week. Had to. She wasn’t always working. Oh yes, I played kids’ parts at a shilling a night, anything from Poor Joe in Bleak House to East Lynne. I sold chocolates between the acts; used to make three shillings a week that way, so Mother saved my money, too.
“Mind you, we’d get diggings for us all at six or seven shillings a week, and food was cheap—rabbits fourpence and sixpence each, butter sixpence a pound, eggs twenty-four for a shilling, bacon threepence a pound, and stewing meat fourpence. Mother always saw to it that we had plenty to eat. She’d come from rehearsal and cook by the time we came home from school. Oh yes, she saw we had some schooling of sorts.
“Then, I used to write out her parts from scripts, so I could read and write and recite all Shakespeare’s plays. We were happy, too. Little pleasures meant big things to me, such as a new hat or a quarter of sweets. Those were the days.”
Alderman FitzWarren cleared his throat, and addressed the Fairy. “Of course my side of the Profession would interest you the most since you study music, my dear,” he said. “The true art, if I may say so—Opera. Yes, yes, it’s a long journey from this travesty of a theatre to the Opera House, Milan. The theatre crowded with famous people, with gay, sparkling women struck to awed silence as the curtain rises on Tosca. And on towards the end where Cavaradossi bids farewell to love and life and walks to his death. The curtain falls, and the house rises to its feet and acclaims the hero—‘Cavaradossi, brava, brava’. That is success, my dear. Then one has lived, indeed.”
“Oh, Mr. James”—the Fairy looked her adoration—“I had no idea you had sung Cavaradossi in Milan.”
“I didn’t, my dear. I was in the back row of the chorus.”
The chatter was interrupted by the entrance of Inspector Kenway. He apologized for bringing them to the theatre in the morning leisure hours.
“The fact is,” he explained, “we feel that the cause of Miss de Grey’s death may lie somewhere in her earlier life. Perhaps some of you who knew her, or of her, may be able to help us. We would welcome any information of any kind.” He looked at the Glee Brothers.
The Mate shook a head. “No, Inspector, it’s no use looking at me,” he said. “I never saw her before this show. And we didn’t get much chance to know her, then. Nobody was very friendly with her. Right from the first rehearsal she showed us where we got off. Blimey, you’d have thought she owned the bloomin’ show. In fact one or two of the lads still think she had some spondulicks in it. I think Mrs. Wilson, the wardrobe mistress, was in a show with her once, though.”
The wardrobe mistress nodded. “Yes, that’s right,” she agreed. “I did know Miss de Grey before this show. She was playing a small part in the Sunshine Girl, and I was wardrobe mistress there, too. She wasn’t liked in that show, either, because of her airs and graces.”
“Did you know anything about her, Mrs. Wilson?” asked Kenway.
“Well, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. All I’ll say is that she wasn’t living on her salary.”
“In other words she had a friend, eh?”
The woman smiled. “Yes, sir, she had a gentleman friend. He was dressing her up to the nines, as the saying goes.”
“Did you know who he was?”
“No. I didn’t know his name. I saw him, though, when he called for her at the stage door in Manchester. He had a big black car.”
“What was he like?”
“Oh, tall chap, quite nice he seemed—too nice for my lady, I thought. He was a good-looking fellow, I should say he was a foreigner. Had light hair. He gave the stage-doorkeeper ten shillings to tell Miss de Grey he was waiting for her.”
“Was that the only time you saw him?”
“Only time I saw him, yes. But he came to see her at several places. Once she got permission to travel to the next date by road instead of by the usual train call. She arrived on the Monday too late for the show, and got the push—you know, the sack. I was surprised to see her playing Boy for Henri. Shouldn’t have thought he’d have taken her, though she was good-looking, and had a nice figure.”
The wardrobe mistress added that she didn’t have any trouble with Miss de Grey. The girl had her own dresser who looked after her, so she didn’t clash with her. Pressed to recall anything else she might have known about the star, Mrs. Wilson remembered that a girl in the other show said that Miss de Grey had a mother living in Manchester, but nobody seemed to know much about Miss de Grey’s private life more than that.
Miss Prue, questioned, could only add to the knowledge by stating that she thought that the gentleman friend mentioned by the wardrobe mistress must still have been a friend, because there was a photograph of a handsome gentleman on her dressing table at Burlington. “At least,” said Miss Prue, “it was there the first week, then it vanished.”
“Do you mean somebody took it?” asked Kenway.
“Oh no. If they had she’d have raised hell, sir. I mean she put it away somewhere. I thought at the time it might have been her husband, and she didn’t want gentlemen visitors to know that she was married. I knew, of course, from the clothes she wore that she must have some private means.”
“What about you, Mr. Lancy?” The inspector eyed the deputy Cat, interestedly. Here, he knew, was the principal suspect. Kenway was, indeed, at a loss to understand why it was that the deputy Cat was still at liberty. The Doctor had agreed that it was the Cat who had poisoned Miss de Grey. He had stated that it wasn’t Enora, the Cat. Since there were only the two of them it was obvious that Mr. Lancy was the man. Why the doctor was waiting, he could not understand, unless it was that he had not any direct evidence sufficient to guarantee a conviction.
It was true, of course, that if evidence lacking fact were given, then the accused man might easily be acquitted, and could not then be again brought up for trial even if fresh evidence were subsequently obtained. No man can be put in peril of his life twice on the same charge. Inspector Kenway, accordingly, waited with lively interest for anything that Lancy might say.
“Me?” queried the Cat. “Never heard of the bitch before this show. Never knew her even in this show. Never met her.”
“Never met her. You’re in the company.”
“Mebbe, but I still say I never met her. I was only a walking understudy, and never appeared with her at all. And I don’t want to be mixed up with her now, see.”
The inspector started to make some reply, but changed his mind, and lapsed into silence. No other member of the company could add anything to the little he had gained in the interviews. He wished them good morning.
Kenway’s next visit was to Mr. Joe Davis. Joe was a theatrical agent, with a small office in Soho. It was Joe who had sent Miss de Grey to Mr. Henri de Benyat, with the intimation that she could put a bit of money in any show for which she was engaged. Joe admitted the impeachment to the inspector.
“Sure, that’s right, Inspector,” he announced. “Money wasn’t any good to me, cos I don’t produce shows, see. But I had me ten per cent out of what Benyat paid her. How did I get hold of her?”
His story was straightforward enough. He had picked her out at an audition for show girls. She couldn’t do anything but she looked good, and anyway, all he wanted were show girls at that time. He was engaging them for a revue in the provinces.
Asked where he communicated with her, he replied that he wrote to her at the Cats’ Home.
“The Cats’ Home?” Inspector Kenway looked bewildered.
Mr. Davis chuckled. “Name the Profesh calls a theatrical girls’ club,” he explained. “Place for chorus girls, really. They can live there pretty cheaply, and most of ’em use it when they’re resting. Well, I sent her to Henri, and I haven’t had much to do with her since.”
