“What?” I said.
Lenz repeated that amazing sentence. He added: “You had been through more than any man can endure without some sort of false stimulant. Now that you have the more abiding stimulant of marriage I see no chance of your returning to the liquor habit.”
That struck me as amusing. I giggled. I said: “Aren’t we having more fun? Where are we, by the way? I don’t want to be inquisitive. But one does like to know these things.”
I could see a pucker of surprise crease Lenz’s forehead. He said: “Surely you know where you are, Mr.
Duluth. We are at the Dagonet Theater. This is the opening night of your production, Troubled Waters.”
I sat up. I looked down again into the crowded auditorium. It did look like the Dagonet—very like.
“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” I said. “Don’t say it.”
“But naturally I mean it, Mr. Duluth. Your business manager reports what I believe is called a sell-out at the box office. He …”
“But how?” I was getting in control of myself now. Things were coming back straight. Everything that had happened last night was clear and sharp. I could understand the whole works except for this. This was incredible. “It can’t be possible. It’s crazy. Wessler—you don’t mean he’s all right, after alir
“I’m afraid I do not, Mr. Duluth. Had it not been for your heroism last night in saving him and extinguishing that fire, he would undoubtedly have succumbed to the very brutal attack made upon him by the murderer of George Kramer. As it is, the severe contusion on the back of his head, where he was struck, necessitates a minor brain operation which will incapacitate him for some time. Although there is not the slightest doubt of his ultimate recovery, I am afraid you will not be able to count on him for the run of this particular show.”
I wished the orchestra would stop playing so that I could hear better. “Then we’re opening without Wessler,” I said. “You’re trying to tell me that. It’s not possible. It’s—” I stopped the sentence, swinging round to Lenz, gripping his arm fiercely. “You can’t have done this to me. I’d rather die than have it happen. Stop the show, make them stop the show. I’m not going to have that little pimp, Roland Gates …”
“No, Mr. Duluth, Mr. Roland Gates does not figure in tonight’s production.” Lenz gave a low chuckle. “I’m afraid he is in no condition to play in any production for some time to come.”
I remembered then how I had swung at him last night when I staggered out of the theater. In my exuberance, I forgot everything else. “Then I did hit him. I did lay him out.”
“Once again, no, Mr. Duluth. Last night, I regret to say, your aim was not at its surest. You may have hit at Mr. Gates, but you missed him. The actual striking was performed by Mr. Gates himself. It appears that the doorman stepped between you, attempting to avert a struggle. It so happened, in the melee, that Mr. Gates struck him, rendering him unconscious and dislodging two teeth. Inspector Clarke arrived at the theater almost simultaneously with the blow. When I informed him of Gates’ general behavior, I persuaded him to arrest Mr. Gates for disturbing the peace. He is to be shut up for an indefinite period.”
That was funny; riotously funny. It seemed as if, after all, there was some type of poetic justice somewhere. Then I banished Gates from my mind and gave it a chance to grapple with the vital problem.
“But who,” I said, “who in God’s name is playing the Wessler role?”
At that moment the lights in the orchestra pit flickered; a buzzer sounded offstage; the “Merry Widow” faded into a rustling which, in its turn, slipped into taut, expectant silence.
Dr. Lenz’s lifted hand indicated his unwillingness to speak at this most crucial of all moments. Slowly the curtain slid upward, brilliant lights played on the Pennsylvania Dutch interior. I clung to my chair, feeling dizzy and tormented with apprehension.
Troubled Waters had begun, the play on which I had pinned my existence, the play which I had deserted, the play which, miraculously, had outlived my captaincy of it and was opening here in the Dagonet before a crowded audience on the scheduled night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
IT WAS amazing for me, watching that play begin, when so long ago I had resigned myself to its complete and utter disintegration. There on the stage, crouching over a brick fireplace, was a girl in a gray, gingham dress. I knew, of course, that the girl was Iris. That was the way the act started, with Iris there alone. But I couldn’t believe it. It was something out of a dream. I thought of all the things that had happened to Iris in the last twenty-four hours. She had rescued me, God knows when, in God knows what bar, she had driven me to Elkton; she had married me; she had got me into some sort of shape; she had brought me back to the theater and to life. She’d done all that and here she was on the stage, starting the ball rolling, acting her part as if nothing had happened. Iris, who had never seen the stage until a few months before, was facing the biggest ordeal in an actress’s career.
Iris Duluth was an honest-to-God trouper.
I sat forward in my seat, clutching the rail of the box. In two seconds Kirchner would appear—the role by which the play stood or fell, the role which was going to be played neither by Conrad Wessler nor by Roland Gates. I had a moment of excruciating agony while Iris left the fireplace and crossed to the window. That was the cue. Kirchner had to enter then.
And he did. A man came in from the side door. He paused there, saying Kirchner’s first line of dialogue; then he moved across the stage to Iris. He was a tall man, not so tall as Wessler but of the same build, a man with dark hair and a straight, insolent carriage.
For a second, as the truth dawned on me, I could not speak. Then I whispered hoarsely: “Von Brandt.”
“Yes, Mr. Duluth.” Lenz’s voice just registered on my ear-drums. “Since neither he nor his brother is known to American audiences, Mr. Prince and I did not feel it necessary to make any official announcement of a cast change.”
I swung round on him. “But it’s not possible. You can’t have done it; it’s crazy. You’re giving the play over to Von Brandt. It’s all got to rest on him. You can’t do that. He’s—he’s insane; he’s mad.”
“Do not be alarmed, Mr. Duluth. There is a certain amount of risk, I admit. But it is very slight. You know yourself that Herr Wessler managed to break through the insane delusion that day when he made his brother recognize him. Since then, there has been a great change in Wolfgang von Brandt. He is almost well—I say almost, because I can only hope for a complete recovery after tonight. Your play has been struck by a tornado, Mr. Duluth, but it is one which bears out the truth of the proverb about the ill-wind. Herr Von Brandt needed just one thing to restore him to a normal state of mind. He needed to fulfill his suppressed ambition; he needed to appear on a stage before an audience. The tragic accident to Herr Wessler has given his brother the one chance to find himself again. I am hoping that he will be able not only to save the play but to save himself.”
That was just words to me, fantastic words from a textbook psychiatrist. Less than a week ago I had seen Wolfgang von Brandt spring on his brother in a fit of violent maniacal rage; I had seen him carried screaming away by trained attendants. That’s all I knew about Wolfgang von Brandt. Now he was here acting in my production before a crowded house. I, Peter Duluth, was responsible for whatever was going to happen.
I didn’t dare look at the stage. As I sat there, looking down at the dusty floor of the box, the dialogue of the play droned through my ears. It had no meaning to me. I could distinguish the various voices—Iris’s, Theo’s, Gerald’s. Then, dominating them all, that strange voice, a slow, vibrant voice with a German accent, the voice of Wolfgang von Brandt.
I don’t know how long that horrible suspension of existence lasted. But gradually it began to seep through to me that the play was progressing without a hitch; no one muffed his lines. Nothing was going wrong.
I looked up. I stared straight at the brilliantly lit stage. I remember that
first impression—the four people grouped in a striking tableau, Iris, Theo, Gerald, Von Brandt. They were staring at the door, listening to the faint cry that heralded Mirabelle offstage.
It was right. It was exactly the way I had directed that scene. The tension was there; it held just the correct length of time before Gerald and Von Brandt exited. Then they were back again and with them, vivid, electric, magnificent, was Mirabelle Rue.
With Mirabelle’s entrance, that awful wound-up sensation slipped away. From then on, I knew that by some miracle the play was all right. For the first time I began to feel the audience around me; I began to drop into their mood, see the show through their eyes and realize with tingling excitement that they were carried right out of themselves.
And it wasn’t only Mirabelle. Although I knew the tumult of anxiety and fear for Conrad Wessler that must be penned up inside her, she was dazzlingly good. But she didn’t have to put the play across single-handed. Iris and Gerald and Theo were immense. And there was Wolfgang von Brandt.
By that time I could look at him impartially, judging him as an actor, forgetting the crazy circumstances of his presence on stage. His technique was quite different from Wessler’s; it was less violent, subtler, with a quiet, devastating strength. But it was beautiful; it made a sensational foil for Mirabelle. And he was completely on top of the situation. He was Hans Kirchner of the play; he was living and breathing that imaginary character.
I sat there between Henry Prince and Dr. Lenz but I had no sensation of being near either of them. I was soaring in some shadowy world of elation and triumph. Tlie act went on and then it came to an end. The curtain dropped on it and instantly, like a dammed-up wave, applause roared from the house.
I wanted to stand on my head. I slapped Henry on the back. I shouted congratulations to him over the din of clapping. I tinned to Lenz, saying: “How did you do it?
Tell me how did you do it? He’s colossal. He’s as good as Wessler. And he knows the play backwards, every line, every bit of business; it’s as if he’d been rehearsing with us for months. How did you do it?”
The lights had snapped on. Still applauding, the audience below us was breaking up into individuals, streaming out for cigarettes and drinks.
Dr. Lenz was smiling, a grave, satisfied smile. “Herr Von Brandt’s performance does not surprise me. You know the way his mind has been working all through these years. He himself has explained it to me. Always, in Vienna, it was his overwhelming ambition to act. He wrote several plays, excellent plays, with a big male part. Each time he hoped to be able to act that part himself. Each time, the managers, the directors and Herr Wessler himself insisted that his half-brother should play them. Von Brandt’s normal ambition became an abnormal dream. At last, tonight, he has attained his goal. He has studied this role; he has loved it; it is for him now not the work of another but his own play. He is his own creation. This is his heaven on earth.”
I had no time to ask any more questions. The door to the box had opened on a swarm of people, rushing in with congratulations. The play was only one act gone but everyone took it for granted that we had a smash hit. They overwhelmed me with compliments; I was dizzy from shaking hands and saying “Thank you,” and keeping people from guessing that I was only half an hour out of the worst hangover in history.
The second act got under way. I’d always been sure of the second act. It was dynamite from the opening line to the curtain. I knew we’d get by with that. And we did. It was exhilarating to feel that tense mass reaction to it. When the curtain fell for the second time, I soared upward on the crest of the enthusiastic applause.
I didn’t wait for Lenz or Henry or Clarke to say anything. I got up, slipped out of the box and dashed around backstage. I ran onto the set. I didn’t care whether they’d finished the curtain calls or not.
Everyone was there. They were all milling around me. I kissed Iris. I said: “Darling, it’s a knock-out. You’re a knock-out. God, I love you. You’re wonderful. And I’ll never drink again—never, never again.”
I was shaking Gerald by the hand. Mirabelle was swirling around me, saying: “Darling, it’s good, isn’t it? It’s getting them. Hell with everything, it’s getting them.” Her eyes for one second showed the suffering behind them. “I thought I couldn’t make it, Peter. Not at first Now I’ve heard the news from the hospital. It’s all right Wessler’s going to come through. I guess it’s sort of for the best. When he’s well again, I’ll be through with my damn treatments too. We’ll both be hygienic and eupeptic together. God, isn’t it exciting? What a house! What a house!”
I kissed her too. I pushed past them to Wolfgang von Brandt. I took both his hands. He was smiling, a queer, half incredulous, half triumphant smile.
“It goes well, Mr. Duluth?”
“It goes splendidly.”
The smile spread over his face. “But I am so happy. Always I know it is to be this way. It is my part It has always been my part.”
It had. I told him so. I told everyone everything. Then Theo Ffoulkes clutched my arm and dragged me away.
“Darling,” I said, “oh, darling, darling, darling.”
She said: “Peter, my boy, we’re coming through.” She grinned, that frank, sardonic grin of hers. “Isn’t Von Brandt marvelous? It’s sheer genius; it’s incredible; he’s better than Wessler. And he’s so gorgeous to look at I never thought…”
I knew then she was going to say, “You never thought you could do it again, darling,” I said. “First the redheaded waiter, then Conrad Wessler, now Von Brandt More power to you.”
She said: “Peter, you’re still a louse.”
Eddie came up then, beaming from ear to ear. He dragged Theo away and threw me off the stage. They were ready for the last act. I went back to the box.
Lenz and Henry and Inspector Clarke were alone again, sitting side by side, making as incongruous a trio as I’d ever seen. It seems incredible to me now, but not for one moment that crazy evening had I stopped to consider just why Inspector Clarke was in our stage box.
While the audience hustled back to their seats beneath us, I turned exuberantly to Lenz and said: “It’s a riot. I can never thank you enough. It’s not only Von Brandt, it’s everything. There couldn’t have been any play if it hadn’t been for you.”
Dr. Lenz looked at me quizzically. He said: “You are thanking the wrong person, Mr. Duluth. It was completely beyond my power to have enabled the play to open. You owe the success of this evening entirely to Inspector Clarke.”
I said, suddenly uneasy: “Just what do you mean?”
“Surely you have not forgotten the disturbances which have taken place at the Dagonet during the past weeks, Mr. Duluth.” Lenz’s thumb stroked his imperial. “You must also remember that last night a murderous attack was made upon Herr Wessler. Someone waited in his dressing-room; struck him on the back of the head; set fire to the wardrobe and then locked the door. That was a deliberate homicidal attempt. That alone would have been sufficient to have the play closed—under normal circumstances.”
It was true, of course, I just hadn’t thought of it, that’s all.
“And,” Lenz was continuing, pausing a moment to bow to some other impressive beard in the house, “Inspector Clarke is fully cognizant of the fact that Mr. Kramer was murdered and that Mr. Comstock died from a shock which was criminally administered. If Inspector Clarke had chosen to make an immediate report to the Commissioner, Troubled Waters would not have had the slightest chance of opening tonight, if at all.”
I was completely sobered by then. The lights had dimmed; the curtain had gone up. But I hardly noticed. With a dull sensation of anxiety, I realized just how airy a bubble this success actually was. Here had I been deliriously whooping it up with one murder, one murder-attempt and one homicide all hanging like mill-stones around my neck.
“However,” Lenz was continuing softly, ‘Inspector Clarke has been unusually generous. At the risk of his own reputation, he is holding back officia
l police investigation until tomorrow.”
Clarke leaned toward me over Henry, smiling wryly. “It’s just that I didn’t want to miss the show,” he said. “I figured out from the rehearsals I was going to like it.”
“It’s swell of you,” I said doubtfully. “At least, I guess it is. But what about tomorrow? Tomorrow you’ll be tearing us limb from limb. We’ll have opened just to get a bunch of favorable reviews. Tomorrow we’ll fold up again like the Arabs’ tents.”
“I do not think so,” put in Lenz. “You see, after tonight there should be little or no investigation at the Dagonet itself.”
“What?” I said. “Little or no investigation when there’s so damn much to investigate?”
Lenz smiled. I could just tell it from the movement of his beard in the darkness. “On the contrary, Mr. Duluth, there is little or nothing to investigate. You see, during your absence, Inspector Clarke and I stumbled upon the solution of the Dagonet’s mystery.”
I stared at him, my mouth open.
“Dr. Lenz is being modest,” cut in Inspector Clarke. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. He figured the whole thing out himself.”
Vaguely I was conscious of my company down there on the stage below, of the vivid flame of Mirabelle’s dress, of Iris, and on the far side of the footlights the serried ranks of faces that were the audience.
“Yeah,” Inspector Clarke’s voice was casual, offhand. “Lenz has it all figured out. He’s given me the facts on a silver platter. All I have to do when your show’s over is to take a certain warrant out of my pocket and arrest the party who killed Comstock, murdered Kramer and tried to do away with Conrad Wessler….”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THAT WAS a stunner. I said weakly: “But who—who’re you going to arrest? What was it all about? How did you find out?”
Both Inspector Clarke and Dr. Lenz leaned forward, putting their elbows on the rail of the box. Henry and I were sandwiched anxiously in between.
Puzzle for Players Page 24
