“You know the way I feel.”
“Then you’ve got to do something for us.” Iris came over to me, putting her hand on my arm. “You mustn’t tell this to a soul, Gerald. Not even to Mirabelle. That’s frightfully important. But you’ve got to do what we say. We think someone’s trying to doctor her brandy. We think someone’s trying to poison her.”
The skin around his cheek bones was suddenly taut and white. “Poison Mirabelle!”
“We’re not sure. We may be crazy. But we can’t take any chances. Gerald, you’re always with Mirabelle. You’ve got to watch her brandy. At rehearsal, all the time, you’ve got to watch it, taste it and be sure it’s— it’s all right. Will you do that for us?”
“But—but I can’t believe…”
“You don’t have to believe. You’ve just got to do that.”
“All right.” Gerald’s face relaxed. There was a queer, slightly derisive gleam back of his eyes. “Okay, Iris. If you want me to—I’ll do that.”
Iris put out her hand, letting him slip his brown fingers over it. “Thank you, Gerald, I…”
She stopped because there was a second knock at the door and it swung open almost immediately. Theo Ffoulkes came in, her lean, aristocratic face set in a pale mask. She was completely changed from the amused, resigned Theo who had spilled girlish confidences to me the night before.
“Iris, I’ve got to see Peter. I’ve been upstairs. He’s not … oh, there you are, Peter.”
She came right up to me. From under her arm, she brought out a folded newspaper. She thrust it at me, pointing to a certain place.
“You can’t have done this, Peter. You can’t have done a thing like thatl”
Gerald and Iris came up to me, reading over my elbows. I saw the paragraph she meant—right away. It said:
Possibly the most sensational news in the theater right now is a definite statement made by Roland Gates that he has been hired to understudy the male lead in Peter Duluth’s forthcoming production of Troubled Waters, starring Mirabelle Rue. At the moment the role opposite Miss Rue is being played by the famous Austrian actor, Conrad Wessler. But it is rumored that he has not been at all well and may have to relinquish the part. There is, therefore, a big chance that the public will once again be seeing the famous team of Gates and Rue which everyone supposed to have been permanently ruptured by last year’s notorious divorce suit. It is believed in many quarters that to appear with Gates after all that came out during the divorce is probably the most unwise thing Miss Rue could possibly do—if she wishes to retain the sympathy of the public.
After my latest encounter with Gates, I’d been expecting something like that. But the fact that I expected it didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
Theo’s eyes were cold as steel. “I can’t believe it, Peter. I can’t believe you’d let them print a thing like that. You know how sensitive Wessler is about the airplane accident. You know what it’ll do to him to read in the public press that he’s expected to crack up. And Gates for an understudy! You know Wessler would never let anyone understudy him but his brother and…”
“Let me have a chance to tell him what I think of him.” Gerald pushed her aside and came up to me, his face ready for murder. “Is this true?”
“In a way.”
“In a way! You must be mad. You did this without telling Mirabelle? After all that’s happened, you hire that filthy swine Gates to…”
“Shut up,” I cut in. “Shut up both of you, and listen to me. Yes, I let Gates take a script to learn the Wessler part. I did that. Do you suppose I did it because I thought it was a swell idea? Do you think I’m such a fool? Gates knows about Comstock; he knows Kramer was murdered. He threatened to tell the police unless I let him learn the
Wessler part and put this notice in the press. That’s what happened. I’d like to know what you would have done in my place. Let the show go to hell, throw up your own jobs, I suppose, just to keep Mirabelle and Wessler in cotton padding. After what happened to Kramer, I’d have thought you’d have gotten wise to what’s going on. In case there’s any misunderstanding, I’m not directing a Broadway production, I’m directing the Sino-Japanese war.”
That shocked them, all right.
Gerald gave a low whistle and said: “So Gates is taking up where Kramer left off. He’s blackmailing us himself.”
“He is,” I said. “But that’s nothing, checked up against the other things that are happening. I don’t give a damn about Gates. He doesn’t come into the picture unless Wessler cracks up. And it’s our job, mine and yours and Theo’s, to see that nothing happens to Wessler.”
Theo lit a Goldflake. She smiled a little twisted smile, looking miserable and ashamed. “I’m blasted sorry, Peter. Once again I’m the original bloody fool. I ought to have guessed.” She paused, adding: “You see, I thought that now—now Kramer’s out of the way, there weren’t any internal worries. I thought it was just the police we were up against.”
“Just a little ray of sunshine,” I said bitterly. “How about that purse of yours?”
“My handbag! My God, you don’t mean that’s tied up with it all. You don’t mean my codeine…?”
“I don’t know what’s going on,” put in Gerald in a slow drawling voice that had lost all anger or interest. “But I wouldn’t get intense over Theo’s bag, if I were you. There’s nothing at all dramatic about its disappearance.”
While we stared, he felt in his side-pocket and brought out a small black handbag.
“I was bringing it around to rehearsal to give it to you, Theo.”
Theo took the bag. “Yes, it’s mine. But where did you find it?”
“Couldn’t say offhand. It was in my pocket this morning. Must have picked it up at the Dagonet last night, thinking it was Mirabelle’s.”
“But you know it isn’t Mirabelle’s. YouVe seen me with it thousands of times.” Theo opened the clasp and looked in the bag. Then she stared at me. Her voice came soft, indecisive: “Last night, Peter, my bottle of codeine pills was half full. Now there’s hardly anything left.”
That brought us up with a jerk. I turned to Gerald. So did Iris and Theo. He was the only one completely in control of himself.
He said: “From what Iris said, I can imagine what you’re thinking. It isn’t at all true. I haven’t been poisoning anyone with codeine.”
“But who …?” began Theo.
‘That’s hardly my pigeon,” said Gerald. His eyes slid to Iris. They stayed there a moment. Then he gave her a queer little formal bow. “This is where I leave,” he said. “Good-bye all.”
Theo guessed we didn’t want her, either. In a moment she left too and we were alone.
I dropped onto the studio couch, feeling dead to the world.
“Now what the hell have we done?” I said.
Iris said: “About what?”
“About Gerald. What the hell have we done about Gerald?”
“Peter, you can’t think…”
“Yes, I can. He had Theo’s bag. He’s the obvious person to have lifted the codeine, isn’t he? And he’s the person we’ve put on to guard Mirabelle. That’s funny, that is. That’s hellish efficient.”
Iris looked stubborn. “Gerald wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“You seem to know a darn lot about Gerald. A darn sight too much if you ask me.”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“You know what I mean. I’m not blind. He came here to see you this morning. You were expecting him. My God, aren’t things tough enough for me without your double-crossing me too?”
Iris sat down at my side, taking both my arms. “I’m not double-crossing you, Peter.”
“Then I’d like to know what you are doing. I don’t blame you, mind. What have I got to offer? I’m only a theoretically cured drunk with a foul disposition. Why the hell you stuck to me all this time I can’t imagine.”
“Peter, don’t say that. You mustn’t say that.” Her eyes were miserable. A
nd I realized it. Although I was half cuckoo with jealousy I realized that and told myself her eyes couldn’t lie that way. “I’m for you, Peter—you and me. Gerald, he’s nothing. Maybe he thinks he’s in love with me. That doesn’t matter. You’ve got to believe that.”
“But he is in love with you?”
‘He says so. I’ve been trying to explain it all to you. He told me that night Comstock died. He said I’d got under his skin and there was nothing he could do about it. I didn’t pay any attention. I told him he was only a kid. I told him to forget it. But he didn’t. That’s why he made a fuss about going to Hollywood. That’s why he wanted to break his contract and get out of town. But you couldn’t spare him, and he—he said he had to see me sometimes, just see me. That’s why I said he could come to my apartment every now and then. There’s nothing more in it, I swear. But I hate complications. That’s why I’ve been so damn persistent in trying to get you to marry me and make everything tidy again.”
I knew she meant it. I slid my arm around her, letting my head lie on her lap. I said: “Who’d have thought this was going to be the happiest day of my life?”
Too soon I started thinking again. “Iris,” I said, “Fve just thought of something. If Gerald’s in love with you, what the hell is his relationship with Mirabelle.”
“He’s crazy about her. He follows her around night and day. He’d die for her.”
“And yet he’s in love with you. Isn’t that rather Eugene O’Neill?”
“Don’t be unsophisticated, Peter. Mirabelle gave him his start. She got him into Troubled Waters. He owes her everything.”
“And maybe she expects too much in return. Maybe she’s grabbing and he doesn’t want to be grabbed any more.” I felt suddenly worried again. “Darling, I wish to hell we hadn’t put him in charge of her brandy.”
“Gerald’s all right,” she said firmly. “He’s a darn fine kid. We can trust him.”
“So could we trust anyone else in the cast. Look where that’s gotten us.”
As I spoke, the phone rang. I reached over Iris for the receiver. When I heard Lenz’s voice I was so relieved I didn’t even wait to hear what he had to say, I just poured out the whole story of Mirabelle’s brandy and what we’d done about it.
“Iris says it’s okay to have Gerald take the responsibility,” I concluded.
Lenz did not speak right away. At last he said: “I think Miss Pattison is very wise.”
“But,” I insisted, “We’re putting Mirabelle’s life in his hands and for all we know he’s the person that’s trying to poison her.”
Lenz gave an odd little chuckle. “If Mr. Gwynne is trying to poison Miss Rue, you cannot tie his hands more efficiently than by making him solely responsible for her safety.”
That made sense, of course.
“I would not worry myself unduly on Miss Rue’s behalf,” he continued. “I have more than a belief that she can take care of herself. I telephoned you on a completely different matter. The time has come when I feel it wise for Herr Von Brandt to meet his brother again. Tve spoken to Herr Wessler and he is prepared to come out to the sanitorium this morning. I would like you to accompany him.”
There seemed to be so many more pressing things than Wessler’s half-brother. “But…” I began.
“I know you are a busy man, Mr. Duluth. I know this means forfeiting a rehearsal. But I cannot stress too strongly the importance of this meeting not only for Von Brandt’s sake but for Wessler’s also.”
What could I say? I said it. “All right, I’ll come.”
“Thank you, Mr. Duluth.” Lenz’s voice struck me as curiously excited. ‘Thank you very much.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I CALLED Eddie and told him to carry on the morning rehearsal as best he could without Wessler and myself. Then I took out my seldom used coupe and drove round to pick up Wessler.
The Lenz sanitorium was about thirty miles out in Westchester County. It was one of those clear, bright days that sometimes happen in November, and I found it an amazing relief to shake New York off my heels and breathe air for a change.
Wessler was elated and garrulous. But I knew this meeting with Von Brandt was going to be an emotional ordeal and I could tell that his almost childlike exhilaration was a nervous camouflage.
For he had never seen his beloved half-brother since the accident. After the first period of complete loss of memory had passed, Von Brandt had seemed almost normal for a while; then he had developed the crass conviction that he was himself Conrad Wessler. Afraid of making him worse, the psychiatrist at the Thespian Hospital had been unwilling to let the two brothers meet. And until now Lenz had kept on the same tack. I hoped like hell for Wessler’s sake that Lenz’s treatment was going to work.
But, when we finally reached the sanitorium and I swung the car up the long drive, I forgot all about Wessler. Ever since I had been let loose on the world, labeled “Cured,” I hadn’t been near the place. Seeing those antiseptic buildings and the green, landscaped park, I had a moment of panic, remembering the way I had been in those far too recent days and wondering dejectedly just how soon it would be before I was back again in one of Lenz’s politely padded cells.
Inside the building itself, however, my gloom was dispelled. We were met by a new, bright nurse who did not know me as an ex-patient; we were asked to wait in a room .which was hardly recognizable since the furniture had been switched around and given fresh slip covers— presumably as part of Lenz’s policy of keeping his patients from getting into a rut.
The nurse came back, still looking bright, and led us down a corridor to Lenz’s office. Lenz himself was sitting behind his desk. It was an awe-inspiring sight. In his own setting Lenz seemed even more aloof and Olympian.
“Herr Wessler, Mr. Duluth. I am thankful you were able to come so promptly.”
Wessler was twiddling his hat nervously in two large hands. He looked flushed and awkward.
“Wolfgang is again well? He know me? At last I can embrace my brother?” he asked eagerly.
“I am planning for you to meet him,” said Lenz. “You must understand that it has been a difficult case and I am by no means certain yet of the results of my treatment. Before I ask Herr Von Brandt to come here, I must explain the situation a little more fully.”
“Yes, yes, tell.” Wessler dropped into a leather chair. I drew a wooden one close to the desk.
“As you know,” began Lenz, “your brother’s main delusion lies in the fact that he believes himself to be not Wolfgang von Brandt but Conrad Wessler—the great actor, the idol of Vienna. Now that I am familiar with a certain amount of your background, I am not surprised by that confusion of identity. Correct me if I am wrong, Herr Wessler, but I believe that in Austria it was always you yourself who were in the spotlight. You were the nationally known figure; your brother, although he was constantly with you, took a very secondary place. He wrote plays for you, it is true. But largely he acted as your secretary, business manager, et cetera. He attended to all the more mundane details connected with your success.”
Wessler’s forehead was furrowed as if he were finding it a little hard to follow Lenz’s English. “Yes, so is true. It is naturally the one who acts that becomes well-known.” He hesitated. “They say, my enemies in Vienna, that Wolfgang can act as well as I; that I keep him down, stop him from acting because I am jealous of my success. That is what they say, mein enemies. But it is not true.
Wolfgang, he is my brother; I love him and I know. Perhaps there is in him the sparks of genius; sometimes I feel I see it; but Wolfgang he is always what you say strung up, temperamental. I say: No, Wolfgang, you must not act, but I say that because I feel it is bad for him to act. He would too excited get. It was that I am afraid of to act would make him perhaps lose his mind.” He threw out his hands. “It is difficult to explain other than that.”
Lenz was watching him, his eyes extremely interested.
“I think you have put your finger on the root of th
e trouble, Herr Wessler. I believe that your brother does have a very strong desire and possibly a great talent to act, latent in him. His is also a rather unstable personality. Your desire to keep him from the stage was admirable. But I feel it is that thwarted passion to be a great actor, bottled up inside him, which has made him confuse his own identity with yours. He wished so much to be what you are that now he believes himself to be you. It is a morbid type of Wish-fulfillment.”
Wessler said excitedly: “Yes, yes.”
“The doctors at the Thespian Hospital,” went on Lenz, “came to much the same conclusion. But they tried to do all in their power to shake his delusion, to make him see that he was Wolfgang von Brandt and not Conrad Wessler. I have approached him from the opposite point of view entirely. I have done everything to foster his delusion.” He glanced at me. “I have made him believe he has come to America—he, the great Conrad Wessler—to act in a play for you, Mr. Duluth. I have given him, as you know, the script of Troubled Waters. I have given him lessons to improve his English and have had him learn the part. He believes he is here in the sanitorium merely because he has been suffering from headaches and insomnia. He is convinced that in time he will appear as the great star on Broadway.”
He paused, looking down at his hands. “That may strike you as rather heartless. But I see in it the only way to cure him. I have done my utmost to let his delusion run its full course. I am hoping now that the sudden shock of confronting the delusion with the actuality may restore Herr Von Brandt to normalcy.”
Dr. Lenz rose from his chair and pressed a button. “Herr Wessler, please do not be too hopeful of a favourable outcome. But, whatever happens, I must ask you both to make no attempt to contradict anything Hen Von Brandt may say or wish.”
Wessler had risen too. He was standing, staring at the door, his mouth a firm, anxious line. There was something very dramatic about those moments of waiting. Even I, who was in no way emotionally involved, felt the tension. And then the door opened and a man came in, followed by a white-coated attendant. I had never seen Wolfgang von Brandt before. Somehow it came as a shock that he did not look more like his celebrated half-brother. There was a resemblance, but it was more one of expression than of feature. Von Brandt was shorter, slender and graceful, with black hair and very dark, very sad eyes.
Puzzle for Players Page 19
