Quick Curtain

by Alan Melville

  “Of course,” said Mr. Wilson. “Then that’s not much help, is it? Still, you might arrange for someone to ask the men at each exit if they’ve seen the gentleman, would you? The man at the stage-door too, of course. And I wonder if you could put rather more than two men on the search inside the theatre? Two men after a third man isn’t really much good, you know. Thanks so much. I’m not putting you to too much trouble, am I?”

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Douglas, wondering how many unsolved crimes Mr. Wilson had had to deal with. “Smith—Jackson—Anderson—you, and you—and you two—search the whole damn’ place, and don’t come back until you’ve found Foster. You two—go round every exit and make sure he hasn’t left the theatre. Go to the stage-door first and ask old Roberts. Get a move on.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Wilson. “So nice to have to work with people who are really helpful for a change. That notice about smoking—does it mean what it says, Mr. Douglas?”

  “Have a cigar,” said Mr. Douglas in reply.

  “No, thanks. I’ll stick to my pipe, if you don’t mind. I’ve been aching for a pipe all night, but I was sitting between a dowager duchess and a young man who looked as if he’d be sick if I brought out the thing. That’s the worst of putting on a boiled shirt and sitting in the stalls. Now I’d rather like to find that bullet—”

  Mr. Wilson lit a pipe slowly and carefully, using five matches in the process and scattering tobacco over most of Herbert’s newly cleaned stage. He then walked back to the spot where Mr. Baker had fallen.

  “It’s gone,” said Mr. Wilson.

  “What’s gone?” asked Mr. Douglas.

  “The chalk outline we made of his body. Oh, of course…we’ve revolved the stage, haven’t we? Stupid of me.…I’m not used to these wonderful mechanical contraptions. Could we have it back where it was, please? Steady—steady!”

  Mr. Wilson had unfortunately placed one of his large feet on the revolving stage and the other off it. He sat down abruptly and was carried off in an arc until he freed himself of the revolving part.

  “Very funny,” said Mr. Wilson sadly, picking himself up and dusting the seat of his trousers. “Very amusing indeed. I wonder you theatre people don’t use the idea more in your shows. Now then…a little further round, please. Woah. Back just an inch or so. There…that’s fine. That’s the exact position occupied by Mr. Baker when he fell. Clever of me, wasn’t it?”

  “Extremely,” said Mr. Douglas.

  “Now…I want to know exactly where this fellow Foster would be standing when he fired the shot. Up there, wasn’t it? Derek…would you go up and represent the gentleman? I’d go, but this waistcoat—you know, not for mountains. Thank you.”

  “A little to the right, sir,” said Herbert. “Bit more still. There. That’s as near as dammit, sir.”

  “Splendid,” said Mr. Wilson. “Now, then. He stood up there and he fired at Baker down here. Wasn’t it a funny thing to do, by the way? Shooting a man in full view of about two thousand people, and with not the chance of a lump of margarine in hell of getting away with it.”

  “But he has got away, blast you,” said Mr. Douglas, exasperated.

  “Oh yes,” said Mr. Wilson. “So he has. I’d forgotten that. Well…he fired. Mr. Douglas, will you come and be Mr. Baker for a minute, please?”

  “Me?” said Mr. Douglas.

  “Yes. It’s all right. Derek hasn’t a revolver. Just stand there, please. That’s right. Now, the bullet would go through there, wouldn’t it?”

  Mr. Wilson prodded Mr. Douglas’s breast pocket with his forefinger. Mr. Douglas felt slightly sick.

  “Right through you, and out the other side…and on. You wouldn’t like to collapse on the stage, Mr. Douglas, just as poor Mr. Baker did?”

  “No,” said Mr. Douglas, “I wouldn’t.”

  “No, of course not. It’s a very dirty stage. The seat of my…Yes, right on in this line. It would hit the side wall of the proscenium, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Douglas. “Would it?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Wilson. “And it did. There it is, you see. There’s the little black-guard. I’ll get Anderson along to-morrow to dig it out and have a look at it.”

  Mr. Wilson took a long, interested gaze at the little black mark where the bullet had entered the white plaster of the proscenium. Some of the plaster had broken off and lay on the stage.

  “Has anyone got a footrule?” asked Mr. Wilson. “Or a tape-measure, or anything like that?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Herbert, producing footrule from the little pocket down the side of his dungaree trousers and tape-measure from around his neck. “Here you are, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Wilson, taking the tape-measure. “You seem to be a very remarkable man. Positive walking Woolworth’s, aren’t you? You haven’t got such a thing as a double whisky on you, by any chance?”

  “I had, sir,” said Herbert, perfectly seriously. “But I gave it to the leading lady—Miss Astle, sir. She had a fit of the jimjams, sir.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Wilson, placing the tape-measure up the wall of the proscenium. “That’s odd,” said Mr. Wilson. “Very odd indeed.”

  “What’s odd?” demanded Mr. Douglas.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. Right, you can come down now, Derek. Thanks very much. You look quite attractive up there on the Alps. Quite like Garibaldi.”

  “Mr. Douglas!”

  “Well, what is it?”

  One of the squadron detailed to hunt for Mr. Foster appeared on the stage.

  “Mr. Foster’s dressing-room door’s locked, sir. We can’t get an answer.”

  “Force it open,” said Mr. Douglas tersely.

  “Right, sir.”

  “I’d like to come and see what’s to be seen, if you don’t mind,” said Mr. Wilson. “Coming, Derek? This way, is it?”

  It was, of course, Herbert who forced open the dressing-room door. No one else had a spanner on their person. A few deft attacks on the lock with the spanner, and a mighty heave from Herbert’s left shoulder, and the trick was done. Herbert shot inside the room, followed rather ceremoniously by Mr. Wilson and Mr. Douglas.

  “Wouldn’t you have thought you would have looked here first?” asked Mr. Wilson quietly. “I mean, surely this was the natural place…”

  Mr. Foster was in his dressing-room. Hanging by the neck.

  Chapter Three

  It certainly made a lovely story.

  Under the circumstances, Mr. Amethyst decided to rewrite his notice altogether. He did not waste the first effort, which had been a good one and full of slightly naughty puns, but used it on the following Friday for the new show at the Hippodrome. A few names had to be changed here and there, but otherwise it stood firm and seemed entirely suitable. For the unfortunate first night of Blue Music Mr. Amethyst wrote:

  One is getting a little tired of hearing every theatrical writer in London say that Mr. Douglas B. Douglas has Done It Again. If Doing It Again means (as I take it to mean) that Mr. Douglas has concocted the same mixture from the same prescription and served it to the same patients in the same doses, then I suggest that it is not altogether a complimentary remark. My colleagues, however, are unable to say that Mr. Douglas has Done It again with regard to his latest production Blue Music, which opened at the Grosvenor last night and closed the same evening. It is only fair to add that Mr. Douglas was stopped from (presumably) Doing It Again by a murder.

  I have very often felt a strong desire to put an end to Mr. Douglas’s spectacular musical shows in a similar manner; fortunately for my readers, there had always been something or other to restrain me from carrying out this decidedly praiseworthy ideal. My machine-gun has been stupidly left at home in my flat, or I have been wedged in the centre of a row of seats, between a corpulent countess and a pot-bellied politician, where escape
would have been difficult if not altogether impossible. However, the idea has been used by someone more fortunately situated, and while I hold no brief for killing in cold blood (even if it be the killing of an actor who has long warranted assassination), it is, I feel, one of those situations which make one support the people who are always crying out for the abolition of the death penalty.

  Mr. Douglas’s latest venture, before it came to its timely end, was another musical comedy in which both comedy and music were conspicuous by their absence. The only trace of commendable acting came from Miss Eve Turner as Coletta, but as this transpired to be not acting but actuality, it is perhaps over-generous to do more than mention the fact that Miss Turner can shriek. In the leading rôle, Miss Astle wore a succession of charming frocks and showed how simple it is for a musical-comedy heroine to take a high C if the brass in the orchestra are sufficiently intelligent to blow very hard at the right time.

  A great deal could be said about Mr. Brandon Baker’s performance as Jack, but since there is a particularly restricting proverb concerning speaking ill of the dead, I will merely mention that the last thing Mr. Baker did was the best thing Mr. Baker did. The chorus were well-trained, over-worked, and under-dressed, and I have no doubt that after a decent length of time has been allowed to lapse Mr. Douglas will have the temerity to restage Blue Music and that it will probably run for two years. Unfortunately, even in these stirring and unsettled times one cannot count on a murder at every first night.…

  The Morning Herald’s actual report of the crime was slightly less amusing in its own loud way:

  FAMOUS MUSICAL-COMEDY STAR

  MURDERED BRANDON BAKER SHOT

  DURING FIRST NIGHT PERFORMANCE

  WEST END THEATRE TRAGEDY

  Fellow Actor’s Suicide

  By Our Special Correspondent

  The gaiety and glamour of a typical Douglas B. Douglas first night came to a sudden and tragic end at the Grosvenor Theatre, London, last night, through the murder of Brandon Baker, the well-known musical-comedy star, before the eyes of a crowded and fashionable audience. The tragedy occurred at the commencement of the second act, when Mr. Baker was shot dead by J. Hilary Foster, another member of the company, who was also on the stage at the time. The amazed audience were astounded to see Mr. Baker fall suddenly in the front of the stage, and their supposition that what had happened was only part of the performance gave way to horror when they saw a thin stream of blood flow from the famous actor’s body towards the footlights. The tragedy had a sensational sequel, Foster being found hanging dead in his dressing-room shortly after the curtain had been lowered. It is thought that in the confusion resulting from the fatal shot, Foster was able to escape unnoticed from the stage, lock himself in his dressing-room and there commit suicide.

  Inspector Wilson of the C.I.D., who was in the theatre at the time of the outrage, was quickly on the stage, and has the matter in hand. Photographs of Brandon Baker in some of his most famous rôles appear in our back page to-day, and to-morrow we are presenting with every copy a special Brandon Baker Souvenir Supplement, artistically printed on art paper, and giving a profusely illustrated story of this famous actor’s meteoric career—a souvenir that will be treasured by the countless thousands to whom Brandon Baker was a household word. The demand for to-morrow’s issue is sure to be enormous—make sure of obtaining your copy by placing an order with your newsagent NOW.…

  Mr. Douglas B. Douglas, the famous theatrical impresario and producer of the show Blue Music, which had so tragic and short-lived a run, gave an exclusive interview to our special representative before leaving the theatre last night: “It is a terrible shock to us all,” said Mr. Douglas. “Mr. Baker was one of the most popular and capable artists I have ever had the honour of dealing with. I cannot imagine what possible motive Foster could have had for this dreadful crime. The show, of course, will be postponed for a little while, but you can tell your readers that I intend putting it on again at the Grosvenor in the very near future, and that I hope to have a Continental actor of world-wide reputation in the late Mr. Baker’s part. It is the biggest and most spectacular production I have ever been associated with, and I am certain that it will make a big hit with the London public.”…Miss Gwen Astle, the leading lady of Blue Music, was still suffering from the shock of the tragedy when our representative ’phoned her last night, but she was able to send a message to Morning Herald readers: “It is simply terrible,” Miss Astle said in a voice still quivering with emotion. “He was the nicest man I ever knew in my life. I can’t imagine anyone making an enemy of him. He was a regular trouper. I feel I want to give up my association with Blue Music now that this has happened, but I have my duty to my public to consider first of all, and I shall resume my part when the play is put on again. It is a glorious part—quite the best I have ever had.”…An article on “Pagliacci Puppets—Former Tragedies of the Theatre World” appears to-day in page 12, and in Saturday’s issue of the Morning Herald Miss Gwen Astle will commence a revealing series of articles entitled “Brandon Baker as I Knew Him”. These intimate glimpses into the private and public life of Britain’s favourite musical-comedy star are sure to arouse tremendous interest, and readers will be well advised to place a standing order with…

  Mr. Wilson read the Morning Herald’s version of the business and smiled sadly. Mr. Wilson bought The Times for news, the Morning Herald for amusement’s sake, and the Daily Gazette for gossip. Meet Mr. Wilson sitting in the morning-room of his flat in Gower Street. Not looking at all like a detective (but then Mr. Wilson never did that), and not living in at all the sort of house one would associate with a detective. No massive volumes of criminals’ biographies on the book-shelves; no relics of the chase suspended over the mantelpiece; no set of magnifying-glasses neatly dangling in a fretwork frame to the left of the fireplace. And Mr. Wilson is wearing neither the beater’s cap nor the pipe with the Mae West curves that your true detective ought to wear; he is, in fact, looking extremely spruce for a man of over fifty in a dressing-gown of pale-blue silk with a white fleck running over it, and smoking a perfectly ordinary Virginian cigarette. Disappointing, but true. Mr. Wilson, then, sighed sadly at what the Morning Herald had to say about the business, and turned back to his coffee-pot, against which a leather-bound omnibus of William Shakespeare was propped.

  “’Morning, dad,” said Mr. Wilson, junr., appearing suddenly in a slightly less tasteful dressing-gown and making straight for the grapefruit.

  “Our revels now are ended,” said Mr. Wilson, senr., in reply. “These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air…and, like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded with a sleep. Good morning. Have some coffee?”

  “Thanks,” said Derek. “Why the Shakespeare at this time of the morning? It was Shakespeare, wasn’t it?”

  “I’d been reading three newspapers and I needed soothing,” said Mr. Wilson. “And I don’t believe it was Shakespeare. As a matter of fact, he pinched it wholesale from a bloke called Stirling. But it’s most appropriate, don’t you think? To last night’s business, I mean?”

  “Most,” said Derek. “Toast.”

  “The manners of the modern generation,” said Mr. Wilson, passing the toast, “are simply appalling. When I was your age and wanted the toast to be passed, I should have said, ‘Please, sir, would you mind passing the toast?’ Only we never had toast for breakfast then—”

  “There you are, then,” said Derek. “Now pass the sugar and don’t blether so much.”

  “What time did you get in last night, Derek?” asked Mr. Wilson.

  “Four. You don’t know what work is, you policemen. Snooping round marking the spot where the body occurred with a bit of chalk, and then going home to your hot-water bottle. While we poor benighted reporters have to stay up all night concocting a juicy st
ory for our nitwit readers.”

  “Find anything?”

  “Nope. I rang up Miss Astle, bless her. Unfortunately she’d been rung up earlier in the morning by the Morning Herald, the Daily News, the Daily Observer, the Morning Courier, and practically everyone else except the Christian Herald and the Feathered World. All she said was, ‘Oh, go to hell!’ Just like that. Crisply and snappily. Not a bit lady-likely. Not even leading-lady-likely. But I made a half-column exclusive interview out of it, so it didn’t really matter.”

  “Funny business, isn’t it?”

  “Think so? You’ve a queer sense of humour, then. Pass the mustard.”

  “Can’t you reach for anything?” said Mr. Wilson peevishly. “No, but I mean…when a bloke kills another bloke he doesn’t usually choose the centre of a floodlit stage, with two thousand people looking on, as the most suitable place for doing it.”

  “Agreed. Usually he chooses the depths of Pine Tree Crook, or the deserted quarry down Badger’s Lane, or the backside of the Battersea Power Station. In this case he didn’t, though. I suppose nine out of every ten murderers are on the verge of insanity when they actually commit the dirty deed. And this fellow Foster was the tenth. He was completely loopy.”

  “But why? Why did he do it at all?”

  “Search me,” said the younger Wilson. “Perhaps dear Brandon cut in on his best line in the show. He had only about three to say in the whole night, so far as I could see. Enough to make anyone murder anyone.”

  “I was speaking to Douglas about him last night. It seems he’s had parts in Douglas’s show for a good many years back now, and D. B. D. ventured the opinion that Mr. Hilary Foster was one of the two sober, respectable, quiet-living men connected with the British Stage to-day.”

  “Did he say who was the other?”

  “No. He didn’t. I gathered it was himself.”