For a moment I couldn’t speak. I could only think how Mirabelle had been fighting this ghastly thing and yet playing brilliantly in my show, never letting anyone guess what she was enduring.
I said: “You poor darling! What you’ve been doing—I think it’s the bravest thing I ever heard of.”
“Not brave, darling. Just crazy. They told me at the hospital I was mad to start playing again. But you read me the script of Troubled Waters. I knew I had to play Cleonie. I wanted to more than anything in life. I was just damn well going to come and act for you. Nothing mattered but that.”
She rose rather shakily and crossed to a chair in front of the dressing-table. “But I’ve been pretty mean and selfish. All along I could have explained so many of the things that were happening here. But I just let you take it on the chin because I was too vain to break down and tell you what was wrong.”
“Why should you have told me?”
Of course I should have. At least I can tell you now.” She took a comb from her bag and started combing her disheveled hair. “While we were rehearsing at the Vandolan, it seemed to be all right. I took my dope to kill the pain. I got by. The first time it hit me when I wasn’t ready for it was on the evening we moved here to the Dagonet. I’d just got to the iron grille. I was turning down the alley when a messenger boy chased after me. He—he had that Siamese cat in his arms. He didn’t say anything. He just thrust it at me and ran. I was astounded. I read the message on the label and I knew only one person could have thought that out. I knew Roland Gates must be back in New York.”
She paused. “That was a shock, Peter. I was scared. I had the cat in my arms. I didn’t know what to do. And then—then I felt an attack coming on. I couldn’t go anywhere but inside the theater. I dashed past the doorman’s room, hoping he wouldn’t see me. I came up here where I thought I’d be alone until it was over. But I’d only been here a few minutes when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I couldn’t bear to be seen in that state. I got into the closet. I had the cat. I still had it; it was sort of clawing its way up to my shoulder. I hardly noticed it because I was in so much pain. Then the footsteps stopped outside; suddenly the lights were switched on. I didn’t realize about the closet being opposite the mirror. I found myself staring at Theo’s reflection in the glass. I saw her face go all white with panic. Then she disappeared and I heard her running downstairs.”
I didn’t interrupt. I just stood at her side, listening to that quiet, incredible story.
“After Theo had gone, I didn’t know what to do. I felt sure someone would come up to investigate. I couldn’t really think straight. But I thought if—if only I turned out the lights again, it might be all right. I went to do that. That was when the cat got away; it clawed out of my arms and flashed through the door. You know the rest. You and Gerald came. Gerald had guessed. Somehow he managed to get you out of the room before you’d seen in the curtained closet. While you were upstairs, he smuggled me out into a back room. He told me to stay there until he gave me the sign. Then you found the cat, Gerald took it to the doorman and told him to go out and buy it milk.
That’s when I got out again. I just stayed in the alley till I saw the doorman come back. Then I made my second entrance. That was Gerald’s idea so that you’d never guess it was me in the closet” At least one of the Dagonet’s mysteries was a mystery no longer. I knew now exactly who had been the woman with the light tan fur.
Mirabelle was saying: ‘Then we started the first rehearsal. I wasn’t feeling too sure of myself. Those damn attacks take an awful lot out of you and all the time you people were worrying about the face in the mirror, I—I knew I was responsible and should have told you. And then, on top of it all, Kramer arrived. Gerald told you how he blackmailed me, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said, “Gerald said Kramer had some photographs.”
She gave a dry little laugh. “You should have seen them. He knew what was the matter with me. He’d found it out at the hospital and somehow he’d taken a picture when—when the pain was at its worst. You can guess what that first rehearsal was like for me. And then, as a climax, Comstock staggered in and said that about the mirror and died. That shot me to hell. I knew I was responsible for the face Theo had seen. I—I couldn’t imagine what had frightened Comstock. And yet I felt somehow it was my fault; that by not explaining to Theo, I’d got the old man so scared and superstitious that he’d frightened himself to death.”
I said: “No, that hadn’t anything to do with you, Mirabelle. That was deliberately staged. It was something quite quite different.” I added quietly: “And you pretended your brandy was all gone because it wasn’t brandy and you didn’t want us to know?”
“Yes. And I knew, too, codeine wouldn’t have been good for someone with a heart attack. That’s why I lied. And that’s why I sent Gerald to get the bottle back from Wessler. I was frightened he’d find out God, how I’d hate to have that man find out.” She’d taken out a lipstick and was pushing it across her mouth. “After that, things were pretty tough. Kramer was always around; then he tried to force me into getting Roland into the play. Gerald told you. I was scared stiff of having to see Roland again. That day when I went to your office and tried to get Kramer out of the cast, I thought I’d reached the end, that I couldn’t take it any more. That’s why I broke down. Then Roland came in. It sounds queer but from then on, I knew I’d be all right. I had seen Roland; I’d spoken to him; and I discovered he couldn’t hurt me any more. I had him right out of my system. He was just a cardboard villain in a puppet show, something you hissed and weren’t really afraid of. That gave me courage with Kramer. I sent Gerald round to tell him to go to hell. Gerald didn’t see him but he did find the photographs and destroy them. Then—then Kramer was killed.”
She swung round on the thin, wooden chair, gazing at me earnestly. “Neither Gerald nor I know anything about that, Peter. We didn’t kill him. We don’t know who killed him.”
It was amazing how she told that story, flatly, calmly, never for a moment stressing her own incredible courage.
“I might have been all right after that,” she said, “after Kramer was out of the way and there didn’t seem to be anything to be afraid of. But, last night at rehearsal, Wessler slapped me right there on the cheek, on the nerve. I—Gerald managed to get me away. He knew the wretched business would start up again. We were there in my dressing-room when you came with the brandy. I couldn’t bear to have you see. But I was in hell, until Gerald gave me Theo’s codeine pills. Somehow he’d managed to get her bag. I took half her codeine. I—I hoped it would last me through.”
I should have guessed, of course. I should have guessed from Lenz’s sign-off and Gerald’s attitude that I was only making a fool of myself trying to get officious and prying over that stolen handbag.
“Last night,” Mirabelle was saying, “late, after Gerald had gone and I was in bed I felt the attack coming on again. I searched for the codeine pills I had taken from Theo. That was all the dope I had in the house. I couldn’t find them. The pain was so bad that I could think of only one thing to do—to call Dr. Lenz. I knew he’d be able to help me.”
I remembered that hoarse, strangled voice on the wire. It was a vivid reminder of the torment Mirabelle must have been going through.
“But after I’d telephoned, Peter, I found the pills. I took them. They eased the pain so that I was all right again when you and Lenz came. Even so, I had planned to tell Lenz, but since you’d come along, I didn’t have the nerve. I just pretended I hadn’t called, that it was some practical joke.”
“But Lenz guessed?” I said.
“Yes. He guessed something was wrong. He wrote me a little note. You knew that, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“It’s Lenz’s note that’s going to save me, Peter,” she said very quietly. “He told me he’d guessed I was ill. Next day I saw him and told him the truth. He told me of a new treatment. It’s just been discovered. Some sort of alcohol injecti
ons. He says you can take them without giving up work and they stop the pain for always; they kill the nerve. I thought I’d begin them tomorrow.” She got up, smiling ruefully. “With any luck, I’ll stop being a problem for you soon. I’ll be all right. I won’t have to go through this senseless parade of subterfuge and—and misery any longer.”
That was the only thing I gave a damn about just then. Lenz knew of something that would fix her up. Mirabelle was going to be all right.
She’d finished with her lipstick and compact. Somehow she had managed to look just the same as ever—the radiant, indomitable Mirabelle Rue.
“Well, Peter, that’s over. I’m glad you know.” She gave a little ironical smile. “When I joined the company I hoped I’d be able to do a bit toward helping you up to the top again. I’ve turned out to be pretty much of a hindrance, haven’t I?”
I said: “I can’t begin to say just how much of a help you’ve been and are going to be. You’re swell, Mirabelle.”
“Oh, no. Just an actress. We actresses have to do screwy things, otherwise we’d still be knocking around fourth road companies.” She glanced at me oddly. “I think I better tell you the other crazy thing about me. Or have you guessed?”
“What?”
“About Gerald. Peter, you can’t imagine how wonderful and loyal that boy’s been. He’s had his own problems. He fell heavily for Iris. You know that. He didn’t have a prayer and at his age that seems so appallingly tragic.
But, apart from that day when he wanted to quit for Hollywood, he’s stuck by me one hundred percent,”
“I’m glad,” I said.
“And I’m very proud,” said Mirabelle softly. “Not only because he’s going to be a fine actor but because he’s a thoroughly nice person too. A mother doesn’t usually get it both ways.”
I asked incredulously: “You mean Gerald’s your son?”
She nodded. “Remember I told you the other day I’d been married before I came east to be an actress, before I met Roland? My husband was given sole custody of Gerald by the judges. I was supposed to be a scarlet woman. But Gerald came to me, Peter. And he didn’t do it until he’d landed his first big part on Broadway. The theater’s in his blood the way it’s in mine. He’s going to crash through.” She paused, “I think I’ve done a pretty damn good job as a mother.”
I thought of what I’d said to Iris about the Mirabelle-Gecaid relationship. I was as far out on that as I had been on everything else.
Mirabelle said: “You won’t let Gerald know I told you? He wants to stand on his own feet in the theater. He doesn’t want to be Mirabelle Rue’s son.” She grinned. “And it’d be rather embarrassing for me to have to dazzle the world with a grown-up son when my official age is thirty-two.”
“Of course I won’t tell,” I said.
Her eyes suddenly hardened. “Particularly you mustn’t tell Wessler. He’s so damn pompous and self-righteous. He has me down pat as the wicked woman who swills brandy and cradle-snatches. He just knows every damn thing about everything. I couldn’t bear to have him find out the truth.” She laughed harshly. “God, but it hits me as funny sometimes when he recoils from me as if I were the Seven Deadly Sins. Me—an upright American Mother fighting life squarely and cleanly with a bottle of painkiller disguised as brandy.” She laughed again. “Wouldn’t he love me, though, if he knew the truth? Wouldn’t I be the very prototype of the Heroic Hausfrau?”
I said: “You still feel that strongly about Wessler?”
“More and more strongly as the days go by.” Her eyes clouded over, showing an oddly baffled anxiety. “Sometimes it scares me, Peter. It’s as if I’m obsessed with him. I can’t explain how I feel or why. It’s something violent and primitive, something that makes me itch to bash his face in with my bare fists. I never hated Roland that way.” She shook her head. “I guess it’s nothing really. It’s just that I’m neurotic and all mixed up emotionally with the play. Half the time I think he really is Kirchner and —and that I’m Cleonie.”
I stared at her, saw the sudden tightening of her lips. “In the play,” I said softly, “Cleonie feels that way about Kirchner because, in spite of it all, she’s crazy about him. Maybe there’s something in that.”
“Me—crazy about Wessler!” Mirabelle tossed back her chestnut hair, she threw out her hands and gave a jarring laugh. “My God, don’t be ridiculous, Peter. Hell, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Okay,” I said. “I won’t be ridiculous.”
It didn’t seem to matter much one way or the other. So many more important things about Mirabelle were straightening themselves out. As we started down the stairs to stage level, I felt almost cheerful.
It wasn’t until we reached the swing-door that I remembered Inspector Clarke.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
HE WAS still there, chatting amiably with a very glum, nervous company. He greeted Mirabelle and me as if there had been nothing at all unusual about our precipitous exits from the stage. He stayed while I got the rehearsal started again, sitting next to me in the house, his bland gaze fixed on the actors. He made me nervous as hell. As soon as was decently possible, I had the cast knock-off.
The inspector remained after the others had gone, standing in the aisle, watching me cryptically.
At length he said: “Remember Kramer, the guy that was asphyxiated in a coffin here, couple of days ago?”
“No,” I said sourly, “I’ve forgotten all about him.”
“I haven’t.” Clarke lit a cigarette. “I’ve been looking into his past. Seems he wasn’t a very desirable character. Went in for a little blackmail on the side. Know that?”
“Did he?” I said.
“Yeah. Sort of a guy someone might easily want to get out of the way.” Clarke’s eyes were watching me over the burning cigarette. “Do you know what I’ve decided? I’ve decided that someone here at the Dagonet deliberately murdered George Kramer.”
He couldn’t know how ineffectual his shock tactics were. I smiled at him. “I suppose it’s the bloodhound in you. All right, I’ll stooge for you. Maybe I killed him in an absent-minded moment.”
“No-oo. But you might admit that you and Lenz and probably the rest of ‘em too know perfectly well what’s been going on around here.” He flicked ash onto the red plush carpet of the aisle. “I worked with you before, didn’t I? You know you can trust me.”
“Sure I trust you,” I said. “But what has that got to do with the price of eggs?”
Clarke was still looking at me. “Of course I see your point. You’re scared we’ll close the show if we find out too much. Even so, are you sure you’re being smart? You’d look pretty funny if you had a third accidental death around here, wouldn’t you?”
He didn’t give me a chance to crack back at that one. He strolled away from me toward the swing-door—and
through it… , ,.
Sometime later that night, when I was in bed making a bad try at going to sleep, I made a good try at considering the mystery of the Dagonet, sifting what was explained from what still remained inexplicable. Mirabelle, with her story of suffering and courage, had accounted for so much. And, if my theory about Kramer and Gates had been correct, there was still an adequate explanation for the original attempt on Wessler, the plot which had killed Comstock. On the surface, it seemed as if each crazy incident had fitted itself into a logical pattern which had worked itself out and was now no longer a problem
And yet, even if that were the ultimate solution, which I doubted, there was still something else which could not be thrust away into a conveniently air-tight cubicle. Someone had murdered George Kramer. I knew it and now Inspector Clarke knew it.
However sunny the future might appear, there was no getting around the fact that the Dagonet was still an arena for the most disruptive of all combats—a murderer versus the police…
That’s how I was thinking when I fell asleep. And that’s how I went on thinking the next morning and the next and the next. Although rehearsa
ls were going encouragingly, although the business machine at my office ran smoothly, although advance bookings started piling up and the whole hectic process of getting ready for the opening got under way, I felt that constant sensation of uncertainty, something the way Damocles must have felt at that dinner party where the sword dangled above his scalp on one precarious horse-hair.
But nothing happened. During the last four rehearsing days, I could almost have believed that my production was just the same as any other guy’s. I saw neither hide nor hair of Inspector Clarke. Mirabelle missed one rehearsal to go for her first treatment. But she was back on the job as sure and dependable as ever, drawing me aside and whispering that the doctor was confident he could cure her. There were no personality clashes and no exhibitions of temperament except an occasional show of testiness on Wessler’s part. He got it into his head that the ending was false psychology and tried on several occasions to argue about it with Henry. But, since his arguments were always spluttered in German, to Henry’s complete bewilderment, nothing ever came of it
It was symptomatic, however, of Wessler’s mood. As the opening night drew nearer, he became increasingly restless and irritable. This was the first time in his life he’d opened without Von Brandt constantly at his side, and I guess it was largely worry about his half-brother that kept him on edge.
Having come to that conclusion, I stayed cheerful. An anxious male lead seemed such a small item to put up with when I had expected so much that was worse.
Eddie was a marvel during those last days. He took all the practical problems off my hands. He had the stage set in record time. And the designer had done a job with the single Pennsylvania Dutch interior. Gradually, as the billboards were pasted over with announcements of Troubled Waters and the electric sign blazed Mira-belle’s and Wessler’s name across the Dagonet, I slid back into feeling carefree and exhilarated.
Puzzle for Players Page 21
