“Joke over,” said Mr. Wilson, junr. “That bacon’s a bit obstinate, isn’t it?”
“It’s all wrong, you see, Derek. If Foster were a highly strung, temperamental sort of fellow, you could have understood him doing Brandon Baker in in that way. If he were the kind of man who might have been one angle in an eternal triangle, another angle of which was the said Brandon—you could have understood it again. But he wasn’t. A most respectable married man, with a wife and three children in Winchmore Hill. A man who went straight home from the theatre every night and had malted milk and biscuits in front of the fire. It’s all wrong, I tell you.”
“I don’t see what’s biting you,” said Derek. “The thing’s as plain as your face—”
“May I remind you that a great many people, including your Aunt Susan, are of the opinion that you take after me in looks?”
“Hard words,” said Mr. Wilson, junr.
“I agree,” said Mr. Wilson, senr. “Go on.”
“I don’t see anything to worry about. A fires at B with a revolver. B dies gracefully in the glare of three spotlights and to the accompaniment of an augmented orchestra, under the direction of M. René Whoever-it-was. A very nice death, I’m sure. A then does a bunk and is found suspended from a suitable beam in his dressing-room. Deductions from the foregoing: one, murder of B by A. And two, suicide of A as a result of murdering B. I should have thought the whole thing was absolutely straightforward, even to a detective.”
“Thanks very much,” said Mr. Wilson.
“I suppose you’re worrying about a motive?” asked Derek.
“No, I’m not. I think far too much fuss is made about motives. I once spent three months concocting a perfectly wonderful motive for a gentleman named Hepplewaite, who battered his wife more or less to pulp with a frying-pan in the autumn of 1928. An absolutely cast-iron motive, I had, for the poor chap’s carrying-ons. It turned out eventually that he was subject to violent epileptic seizures and hadn’t the slightest idea what he was doing.”
“Too bad,” said Derek sympathetically. “More coffee, please, dad. What is worrying you, then?”
“The bit of plaster where the bullet hit the proscenium wall,” said Mr. Wilson, pouring out simultaneous flows of black coffee and hot milk like an expert.
Mr. Wilson’s son and heir wiped a few odds and ends of egg from around his mouth and looked interested.
“Well?” he asked.
“It was about four feet too high,” said Mr. Wilson. “If you draw a little triangle—”
“Isosceles or eternal?” asked Derek, drawing several on the table-cloth with the prongs of his fork.
“Right-angled, as a matter of fact,” said Mr. Wilson. “Put Mr. Foster at the top of one side with a revolver in his hand. And put Mr. Baker at the end of the other side opposite the right angle, with a half-naked dancer in his arms. Make Mr. Foster shoot a bullet bang at Mr. Baker, and what happens? Unless Mr. Baker has abnormally chromium-plated bones inside him, the bullet goes on downwards after passing through his innards. In this case it didn’t. Apparently Mr. Baker’s heart was so hard that it was deflected up again, and went on almost parallel with the level of the stage until its little journey was stopped by the proscenium. Do you get me?”
“Not exactly,” said Derek. “You mean that the bullet ought to have been buried at the very bottom of the proscenium instead of about five feet up?”
“Quite. For a reporter you’re very quick at picking up things. In fact, I’m not so sure that it would have ended up in the proscenium at all. More likely it would have hit the actual stage. Or gone on and put amen to the fellow who bangs the percussion in the orchestra. That’s how any respectable bullet would have behaved under the circumstances. But, of course, this is all supposition. Mr. Baker may have the kind of heart that deflects bullets. I don’t know. I’ve never had to deal with the murder of an actor before. There’s one way we can find out, though.”
“And that is?”
“Go round to the theatre and reconstruct the crime. Have you finished eating?”
“I’ve finished what there is to eat, so I suppose so,” said Derek. “Are you going now?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wilson. “Are you busy, or can you come along?”
“I’m covering the Baker murder case for the Gazette, as it happens,” said Mr. Wilson, junr.
“My God!” said Mr. Wilson, senr. “All right. Go and get your collar and tie on.”
“Same conditions as usual, dad,” said Derek. “You don’t keep anything up your sleeve, and I don’t give the paper anything without your permission. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Mr. Wilson. “If you must use such a vulgar expression.”
***
There is nothing quite so depressing as an empty theatre. In comparison, morgues are merry. The dust-sheets stretched sadly over row after row of red-plush seats, the dirty plaster ornaments on the walls looking filthier than ever in the half-light, the stage a drab and dismal affair robbed of its scenery and curtains and lighting. It is a funny thing that the wise housewife, if she wishes to conceal the fact that she missed dusting the top of the mantelpiece this morning, dims the lights in her sitting-room as much as possible; whereas the wise man of the theatre, in the same situation, switches on every ounce, therm, unit, or whatever it is of his candle-power and makes everything shining and dazzling in the glare.
Wilson père et fils arrived at the Grosvenor at half past ten, having called in at Mr. Douglas B. Douglas’s office en route to obtain permission to look over the theatre and a large bunch of keys to help them in the job. Three buxom charladies were scouring the foyer entrance very thoroughly. They knew quite well that there would be no performance that night, but they had not yet received orders to down tools, and they were blessed if they were going to lose a full week’s salary if they could help it.
“I wish people would be more careful where they’re putting their feet,” said the most buxom of the three pointedly as Mr. Wilson and Derek stepped across the marble floor of the foyer.
“I’m so sorry,” said Derek. “My father’s a policeman, and you know what policemen’s feet are. No restraint.”
“It’s you I’m talking to,” said the charlady, wringing out a scouring-cloth in a vicious manner. “Look at them marks there. Didn’t you see the mat as you came in? Really, if a poor ’ard-working woman ’asn’t enough to do without—”
“Ha!” said Mr. Wilson, senr.
“Come on, you,” said Mr. Wilson, junr.
The only other inhabitant of the theatre appeared to be an elderly man with a beery moustache who lived most of his life in a little glass case at the stage entrance, handling letters to the chorus from their boy friends, and keeping the boy friends themselves at a safe distance. “’Ere, ’ere, ’ere, ’ere!” said this gentlemen, on catching sight of the Wilson family. “What d’you think you’re a-doing of, you two, eh? ’Ere, ’ere, out of ’ere. ’Ere!”
“Hear, hear,” said Derek.
“Shut up,” said Mr. Wilson. “I’m sorry to trouble you. I’m Inspector Wilson from Scotland Yard. I have Mr. Douglas’s permission to look over the theatre in connection with the murder of Mr. Baker last night.”
“Oh,” said the gentleman with the beer-stained moustache, obviously impressed. “Scotland Yard, eh? Arrr. Go right ahead, sir, in that case. Sorry to ave cort you up sharp-like, but you’ve got to be careful-like, especially arfter larst night’s to-do.”
“Quite so,” said Mr. Wilson. “Is there anyone in the theatre? Any of the stage staff, I mean?”
“’Erbert’s ’ere,” said the moustache.
“Splendid,” said Mr. Wilson, and went in search of Herbert.
Herbert was making a wonderfully successful attempt to dismantle Act Two, Scene One, of Blue Music (The Rebel’s Stronghold in the Moroccan Hills) alone and unaided, and pack it neat
ly away until further required. He had half of the Stronghold folded flat against the wings of the stage when the Wilsons appeared.
“Hi!” said Mr. Wilson.
“’Morning, sir,” said Herbert.
“Don’t take that bit down. I want it.”
“You’re welcome to it,” said Herbert. “Heaviest bit of ruddy scenery I’ve ever handled.”
“Dad’s come to reconstruct the crime,” said Derek. “You’ll upset everything, moving about all the little clues like mountains, you know.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Herbert. “Didn’t think you’d be here again. I thought everything was more or less settled up now that poor Mr. Foster was found…you know.”
“I know,” said Mr. Wilson. “Just idle curiosity, that’s all. Herbert, would you mind being Mr. Foster for the next few minutes?”
“Eh?” said Herbert, feeling his collar.
“On the mountain. Not in the dressing-room. Go and stand as near as possible to the spot where he stood, will you? Oh, and take one end of this bit of string with you. Go on, man, don’t look so worried. It’s string—not rope.”
“I don’t know how you can say such things, sir,” said Herbert, and scaled what was left of the Stronghold.
“Now,” said Mr. Wilson, “I’m going to be poor Mr. Baker this time. Where’s that chalk-mark? Ah, yes.…He’d stand about here, wouldn’t he? Derek, get hold of that string and pull it tight towards me.”
“What is all this?” asked Derek. “Knotty Tests for Britain’s Boy Scouts?”
“More or less,” said Mr. Wilson. “Bring it over here. Keep it tight. Okay, as you would say in your disgusting slanguage. Put it on the pocket of my overcoat. Hold it there. Now I’m going to collapse gracefully on the stage, just as Mr. Baker did, poor chap. And I want you to carry on the string, keeping it perfectly tight, until something stops you.”
Mr. Wilson collapsed, but not gracefully. Mr. Wilson, junr., walked on with his bit of string, very nearly pulling Herbert off the Stronghold in obeying his father’s remark about keeping it tight. The line of the bullet which ended Brandon Baker’s brilliant career came to an end itself exactly where the stage and the proscenium met.
“You see?” said Mr. Wilson, getting up and dusting himself. “Now that’s a sensible sort of place for a bullet to land in the circumstances. Now let’s try to find out why it didn’t. What about a little more light on the subject? This place is about as well-lit as Erebus.”
“Where?” asked Derek.
“Erebus,” said Mr. Wilson. “A village in Fife. The main street is lit by two oil-lamps. Go up that ladder, Derek, and pull a few switches.”
“Third from the left, top row, sir,” shouted Herbert from the heights. “That’s the house lights. And the one next to it is your battens.”
Derek pulled a few switches as ordered, but not, apparently, as advised. The first resulted in a green spotlight being centred on Mr. Wilson’s bowler-hat.
“You do look nice, dad,” said Derek. “Like that time at Dover. You’d make a most attractive Demon King, really. ‘But stop, my fairy foe, and not so fast. My evil powers are not yet past.’’’
“Shut up!” said Mr. Wilson. “And put on some lights.”
Mr. Wilson, junr., tried again. The house-lights went up and then down. A blue spot appeared on the back curtain. At the fourth attempt, the entire theatre was plunged in darkness. It was then that a door slammed and a pair of feet were heard running at a pretty pace up the side gangway of the auditorium.
“Who’s that?” barked Mr. Wilson. “Who the hell’s that?”
Another door slammed.
“Derek, lights, for God’s sake!”
More by good luck than careful selection, Mr. Wilson, junr., found the right switch and flooded the stage with light.
“Who the hell was that?” asked Mr. Wilson.
“There’s no one in the theatre, except the cleaners and the stage-doorkeeper and the three of us,” said Herbert. “I know that for certain, sir.”
“That was no cleaner…nor the old boy at the stage-door, from the pace he was moving at. Derek!”
“Adsum,” said Derek.
“Go round to the main entrance and see if anyone’s gone out past the cleaners.”
“The life you policemen lead…” said Derek. “I don’t know how you find time to do anything, you’re so busy giving orders. All right, I’ll go.”
“Queer, sir,” said Herbert.
“Damned queer.”
“Can I come down now, sir?”
“Eh? Oh yes, come on down. You’ve been a great help, Herbert. I’ll see you get a peerage for this.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Herbert. “They’ve been given for less, I’ve no doubt, sir.”
“Hey!” said Derek from the other side of the curtain.
Mr. Wilson poked his face round the curtain. The theatre itself was still in darkness. He could just make out the figure of his son and heir leaning against the brass rail of the orchestra pit.
“Well?” said Mr. Wilson. “Anything?”
“Yes. A man went out of the main entrance at a hell of a lick. The chars are all het up about their lovely clean marble slab. They didn’t have time to take the fellow in, but they think he was a tall thinnish bloke in a light-grey overcoat and a dark felt hat!”
“That might be Mr. Douglas, sir,” said Herbert, appearing suddenly around the curtain. “Except that he’s fat.”
“It might be Ramsay Macdonald,” said Mr. Wilson. “Except that he wears horn-rimmed glasses and is at Geneva at the moment.”
“But hey!” said Derek. “That’s not all, folks. Come down here. I’ve had an idea.”
“You ought to print that in your paper as To-day’s Colossal Sensation,” said Mr. Wilson, climbing over the conductor’s desk and out into the auditorium. “What is it?”
“Do you see what I see?” asked Derek.
“It all depends,” said Mr. Wilson. “Probably not.”
Ever noticed, when a curtain in a theatre doesn’t quite fit, or has been pulled off the straight, or is rather the worse for wear, how very clearly you can see the goings-on on the stage through the little slice of brilliant light that comes through? A pair of dancers’ shoes, a chink of scenery, something like that? It is the invariable habit in amateur theatricals for the members of the cast to have a squint through the curtain to see if their sisters and aunts are in their seats yet. They can’t possibly be seen, they think; yet if only they could see themselves as the audience sees them! The glare of the stage-lights reveals everything in a curtain that isn’t altogether protective.
“I see,” said Derek, pointing to where the two halves of the curtain met in the centre of the stage, “a small round hole. And…just a minute, while I climb up.…Yes. If that isn’t a bullet-hole, then I’m a Nazi!”
“Very interesting,” said Mr. Wilson, climbing after his offspring and inspecting the hole carefully. “You’re right, for once. It is a bullet-hole.”
“Gosh!” said Derek. “Don’t you see, nit-wit? The shot was fired from the audience. By someone who knew the play, who knew that a shot was going to be fired at Brandon Baker during the play, by someone who synchronized his own shot with the one fired by the Foster fellow. Gosh!…What a story!”
“It’s not a story,” said Mr. Wilson. “It’s a myth. Derek, you’re raving. You seem to forget that when Brandon Baker was murdered the curtain was up.”
“Oh,” said Derek. “Yes, there is that to consider, isn’t there? Hell and blast!”
“Exactly. But you’ve got us moving, at any rate. Herbert…could you pull the curtains along, please? Right along, just as they would be when the murder took place. Thanks…now, Derek, come on up on the stage.”
The curtains rolled smoothly along, their folds billowing until they anchored safely at
each side of the stage.
“Right, Herbert,” said Mr. Wilson. “Stand just where you are for the moment, will you? That’s just about where Baker was standing when he was shot. Now, let’s see.…”
Mr. Wilson produced his favourite pipe from his jacket pocket. Instead of going through the usual rites of cleaning and filling and lighting, he held it by the bowl at about the level of his shoulders.
“Look along there, son,” he said. “We could go through all our little performance with the string again, but it’s hardly necessary. Even a youth of your intelligence can tell that three very important things—the mark where the bullet landed in the proscenium wall, the position occupied by the late Brandon Baker’s heart, and the little round hole in this curtain—are all as near as dammit in a straight line with this pipe. Substitute revolver for pipe, and what have you?”
“My God!” said Derek. “You mean—Brandon Baker was murdered by someone standing in this spot?”
“I didn’t say anything of the kind,” said Mr. Wilson. “But I do say that at some time in the history of this theatre a man (or a woman) has stood concealed behind this curtain and fired a bullet straight across the stage so that it buried itself in the wall of the proscenium opposite. And I should be very much surprised if it didn’t happen at exactly the moment when the unfortunate Mr. Foster fired his little revolver from the Heights of Abraham yonder. It would be much the most convenient time to choose, don’t you think?”
Chapter Four
Keeping well to the true theatrical traditions to the bitter end, the funeral of and inquest on Mr. Brandon Baker clashed magnificently on the following Friday. The funeral (memorial service at St. Oswald’s, internment afterwards at Gloucester Street Cemetery) and the inquest (at the Craven Street coroner’s court) were both timed for eleven-thirty. It is really rather wonderful how the people of the Theatre manage these things.
Mr. Douglas B. Douglas had postponed the first night of Blue Music from the previous Thursday (when it would have clashed with the opening of Never A Care at the Ambassador’s, a show in which Mr. Douglas had a fair amount of money) until the Tuesday (when it clashed splendidly with the first performance of Brothers And Others at the Duke of York’s, a show in which Mr. Douglas had no money at all). Not that the public objected to the clashing; they went, of course, to Blue Music, and the play at the Duke of York’s had to be papered so liberally that it began to look like a wallpaper emporium.
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