by Molly Thynne
“Howells says they parted, so presumably Anthony went into the restaurant. Certainly the door-keeper saw him leave over half an hour later.”
Arkwright raised his eyebrows.
“Without his violin-case?”
Constantine frowned.
“That’s not the only queer feature of the case. Why did he go back into the restaurant at all? The appointment with Civita had fallen through. Have you found anyone who served him with coffee or drinks? I think we can take it that he didn’t go into the supper-room. The place would be far beyond his means.”
“He didn’t. I’ve ascertained that. And he ordered nothing. There’s every indication that he remained in the lounge until he was seen to leave the place for good. When we’ve traced that blessed violin-case we may be nearer to knowing what he did. If it wasn’t for that business to-day and that other journey of his, I should be inclined to think that he’d just wandered off and forgotten where he lived. He was getting old, and if he’d been worrying about this scheme of his and the shortage of money he might have had a lapse.”
“His brain was clear enough when he went away before. There’s no doubt that he made all his arrangements, gave instructions to the landlady and so forth, in the most normal manner. If, as we think, there’s some connection between this absence and the last, he’s probably in full possession of his faculties now.”
Arkwright rose to his feet.
“Well, I’ve done my best,” he said. “And I’ve started the machinery working. It’ll sweep the old gentleman in automatically in the course of the next few days. Meanwhile, I’ve got a nice little pile of stuff waiting for me at the Yard and I’ve got to tackle it. They’ll report to me if anything transpires and I’ll let you know.”
“I’m really grateful,” Constantine assured him. “I know you’ve gone out of your way to take a hand in this. If I wasn’t personally interested in the affair I wouldn’t have put the extra load on your shoulders just now.”
Arkwright beamed affectionately on him from his great height.
“That’s all right. You’ve given me a pretty hefty shove in the right direction twice, you know, though I hate your secretive methods! If you find old Anthony for yourself to-night, I suppose you’ll lock him in a drawer and hand him to me on a salver with my breakfast to-morrow morning!”
Constantine shook his head.
“I’m going home to bed. All I ask is that you don’t treat me to a dose of my own medicine! If anything crops up I want to know about it, no matter what hour of the day or night. I’m very sorry for that girl.”
“Right. Only don’t blame me if I spoil your beauty sleep. And I count on you to protect me from Manners. I’d rather face a Chicago gunman than Manners in his dignified wrath!”
Arkwright was only half serious, but it was a significant fact that the voice that strove with Manners over the telephone in the small hours of the morning was that of an unsuspecting subordinate, despatched by the inspector to the nearest call-box.
Constantine, roused by the insistent bell, emerged from his bedroom to the sound of an imperturbably reiterated: “Doctor Constantine has retired for the night,” and brushed Manners’s portly pyjama-clad form away from the mouthpiece with a decision that quelled the protest on his lips.
He listened; then, with a brisk affirmative, hung up the receiver.
“A taxi and my heavy overcoat,” he said, “then you’d better get back to bed. No, I don’t know when I shall be back. I’m perfectly aware of the fact that it’s past one o’clock. It was raining when I went to bed, and I’ll take your word for it that it’s raining still. Good heavens, Manners, I’m not an octogenarian!”
He beat an inglorious retreat, thereby missing the spectacle of Manners, for once crudely human, apostrophizing the closed bedroom door.
When his taxi deposited him at the main entrance of the Parthenon Picture Theatre he found the doors closed and locked and the vast frontage in darkness. There was no sign of life anywhere, but, making his way down the narrow side-street, he saw a gleam of light at the end and a dark figure in uniform standing within its radius.
Following the constable’s directions, he went through a door, down a short passage ending in a steep flight of steps, and found himself in a low-ceilinged, dimly-lit structure that, from the untidy conglomeration of theatrical properties stacked against the walls, he realized must be the cavity under the stage built for the cabaret shows with which the management interspersed the cinema performance.
A long table ran down the centre, littered with the instrument-cases and coats of the orchestra. Behind it gleamed the pale faces of a little group of men talking excitedly among themselves.
To his right as he entered was another table, at which Arkwright, a couple of officers of the C.I.D. and the police surgeon, were standing.
As his eyes grew more accustomed to the dim light he realized the grim significance of the table, at the foot of which a photographer was packing up his paraphernalia preparatory to departure.
Arkwright turned and saw him.
“We’ve got him, sir,” he said, as he came forward. “I’m afraid it’s worse than you suspected.”
“Dead?” asked Constantine, his eyes on the table.
Arkwright nodded.
“Been dead about eight hours according to the surgeon. At least, he puts the time at between six and nine hours ago.”
For a moment Constantine stood silent, his mind on the girl with whom he had been dining not so many hours before, then he wrenched his mind back to the present.
“What was it? Heart failure?” he asked.
“It’ll take an autopsy to decide that,” was the abrupt answer. “From the look of things he died quite peacefully, and, except for a superficial wound at the back of the neck, there’s no sign of violence, but . . .”
He paused, then:
“Come and look at this,” he said, swinging round on his heel.
Constantine followed him as he skirted the table and led the way to a low cavity, a little over a foot in height, that ran the whole length of the end of the room. Constantine, though a small man, had to stoop to peer into it.
Arkwright snapped on a light and revealed a litter of musical scores piled on the floor.
“This runs under the orchestra,” he said, “and it’s used as a kind of storeroom by the members. It’s here that they found the body.”
He pointed to an empty space at the extreme end of the cupboardlike structure. A couple of music-stands and a broken chair stood in front of it.
Constantine indicated them.
“How did he manage to get behind these?” he asked. “Or have they been moved?”
“We moved them to get the body out, but they have been put back. The place was pretty much as you see it. The body was literally jammed behind them. If it hadn’t been for a change in the programme to-morrow that necessitated fresh music, it might have been here for days. As it was, a couple of chaps from the orchestra came here after the performance to-night to sort out the new music, and, of course, they spotted it.”
Constantine bent forward and examined the cramped space behind the chair. He was met by a faint odour that made him retreat abruptly.
“He never got there by himself,” he said. “Apart from the unlikelihood of his attempting such a thing, it’s an almost impossible feat for an old and probably sick man.”
“He was put there,” agreed Arkwright grimly. “And when I said ‘jammed’ I meant it. The legs haven’t stiffened yet, but we couldn’t straighten out of the body, and you’ll see for yourself that the position’s unnatural.”
“In fact, whether he died of heart failure or not, the body was deliberately hidden? It’s no good asking if you’ve any clue as to how it got here?”
“None. We were called in less than an hour ago, and, as you see, the routine work’s only just finished, but I’ve detained everybody who was on the premises at the time and we may get something from them. The audience had already
dispersed. Apparently the members of the orchestra hung about chatting and discussing to-morrow’s programme for a bit, with the result that it was nearly midnight before they started to look out the scores and unearthed the body. I’ve established one rather significant fact, however. There are only two ways of getting into this place: one through the orchestra and the other by the door you came in at. Now the orchestra has never been unoccupied for a moment since the place opened at one o’clock to-day, and the stage door you used has a spring lock and can only be opened from inside. Also, the members of the orchestra are in the habit of slipping out into passage for an occasional cigarette, and they declare that, in consequence, the passage and this place are continually occupied. They are unanimous in declaring that it would have been next to impossible to smuggle a body in during the last eight hours.”
“What about the organist? I suppose they have one of those jack-in-the-box affairs that rises out of the bowels of the earth and subsides again when the solos are over?”
Arkwright shook his head.
“I see what you’re driving at,” he said; “but the organ here is a fixed one and the organist sits actually in the orchestra.”
“Even then he would hardly be likely to notice anyone who passed behind him when he was playing.”
“I quite agree, but I’ve just been speaking to a man who states that he was sitting in the orchestra all through the organ solos. He’s a non-smoker, and was reading a book in a chair close to the door all the time. He declares that no one could have passed him without his knowledge. And you must remember that anyone wishing to reach the orchestra, unless he came through this room, would have to go through the auditorium.”
“The old man may have died in here.”
“We can’t afford to ignore that possibility,” agreed Arkwright, “but, owing to the interest his absence had already aroused, he would certainly have been noticed if he’d been seen at all. It is a fact, however, that he was one of the few people who possessed a key to the side-door from the street. He could have got in.”
“In which case, assuming that he did come in and die from natural causes, why hide the body?”
“Exactly. And the key’s missing.”
“Missing?”
“We’ve been through his pockets. His key-ring’s there, but the key has been removed. According to various members of the orchestra he always kept it on the ring, and had often been seen to use it. And there’s the wound in the neck. The doctor states that it is too slight to have been the cause of death, and, though I’ve only made a cursory examination, there seems nothing in this room that could have caused it if he got it in falling. At the same time, it’s sufficiently deep to be painful, and it’s unlikely that he would have walked in here with a hole in his neck and made no effort to get it attended to.”
“He might have been knocked down or injured in the street and made his way here only to die of shock or heart failure.”
“He might. But it seems improbable that he should have concealed himself first in a place that would be awkward even for an able-bodied man to get into. We shall know more, of course, after the post-mortem. What about Miss Anthony?”
“Let her sleep in peace to-night, at any rate,” said Constantine decisively. “I should suggest that you allow me to get in touch with Lord Marlowe at once and let him break the news to her to-morrow.”
“Right,” agreed Arkwright with relief. “Of all a policeman’s jobs, that’s the one I hate the most. Meanwhile, I must get on with this one. Are you too tired to stay for a bit?”
Constantine glowered at him.
“Between you and Manners it’s a wonder I’m alive at all,” he snapped. “There’s no objection, I suppose, to my having a chat with the crowd over there?”
He indicated the little group on the other side of the long table.
Arkwright grinned.
“Not the slightest. No doubt you’ll worm more out of them in five minutes than an unfortunate policeman could in an hour. Good luck to you, sir!”
He joined the doctor, who was waiting for him in the doorway.
Constantine, seeing that the little group round the smaller table had evaporated, strolled over to it and turned back the edge of the green baize tablecloth that had been spread over the body of the old man. The face he revealed was so like the one he had reconstructed from the data he had gathered concerning Betty’s grandfather that he was startled. Sensitive and intelligent in the stillness of death, it bore lines only to be found on the faces of those whose bodies are a prey to their emotions. In life he could picture the old man as impetuous, irascible, and, withal, lovable. A good friend and a bad enemy.
With a sigh he replaced the cloth, stood for a moment contemplating the contents of the dead man’s pockets, now piled in a little heap on a chair, then joined the group of musicians at the other end of the room.
Constantine, when he set out to please, was difficult to withstand. Something of a jack-of-all-trades himself, he could talk shop with most men, and even those members of the orchestra who had begun to chafe at their detention by Arkwright thawed under the spell of his quiet friendliness. The saxophone player, who had been the first to discover the body, was only too glad of a fresh audience, and took full advantage of his opportunity.
Constantine listened patiently, putting in a question here and there that drew the information he needed. He gathered that Julius Anthony, in spite of his intolerance and rabid contempt for the type of music he was required to play, was both liked and respected by his colleagues. The conductor spoke of him as the best first violin he had ever had the luck to secure.
“He hadn’t the knack for the sort of stuff we play here,” he said, “but he was a sounder musician than I am, and I don’t mind admitting it.”
“I know the type,” agreed Constantine. “It’s commoner in Germany than here. Music is, literally, life to people of that sort.”
“That just about expresses it. I don’t believe he had any other interests at all except music. If he had I never heard him speak of them. Now I’m fond enough of my job, but billiards is my hobby.”
“I’d give something to know how he got here,” said another of the men. “I’ve been in and out of this place myself at intervals all through the afternoon and evening, and I’m ready to swear there’s been one or other of us about most of the time.”
The conductor nodded.
“The thing’s a mystery,” he agreed. “It’s a long job, ours, and, provided everybody’s present during the orchestral selection, I don’t make a fuss if the fellows slip off now and again. If Mr. Anthony didn’t want to be seen, I suppose, knowing the ways of the place, he could have managed it, but what would he want to hide for?”
“He didn’t get behind those props of his own accord,” declared the saxophone player emphatically. “I saw him and the way he was lying, and I’m certain of it.”
“There are other exits, I suppose, besides the one in front?” said Constantine.
“Two, one on each side of the auditorium, not far from the orchestra, but there’s a pretty sharp eye kept on them. You see, boys are apt to hang round them, and the little beggars slip in when they’re opened to let the various houses out. As a result they’re never opened except between the houses when there’s an attendant on duty. The rest of the time they’re closed with a bar and can’t be opened from outside. Besides, anyone coming in that way would have to go through the orchestra to get here, and I’ll wager no one could do that without being seen. What time do they think he died, sir?”
Constantine made a rapid calculation.
“Some time between four-thirty and six-thirty, according to the doctor. It’s only a rough estimate, of course, and he may alter his mind after a further examination.”
“Then he didn’t come through the orchestra. One or other of us was there all the time, even during the organ solos.”
“Is the stage door at the end of the passage here always kept locked?”
�
�Always. As a matter of fact, we don’t use it much. It’s easier to slip through the barrier and out at the emergency exit. And you may take it that whichever door we do use we shut after us. It’s the one thing the management’s fussy about, owing to the boys. They’re always on the look-out for a chance to slip in, and, for our own sakes, we don’t want them round here messing about with the things.”
“How do you get back if you do get out?”
“Through the main entrance. Mr. Anthony was the only one of us who had a key to the stage door. He used to come here and play the organ in the mornings sometimes, for his own amusement. It’s electric run, and, as there was no objection, Mr. Raleigh here arranged for him to have a key.”
The conductor nodded.
“He was a fine organist. I’ve come down more than once in the mornings to listen to him.”
The little knot of men in the doorway stepped aside to make way for the ambulance men with a stretcher, and the conductor instinctively moved in their direction. Constantine followed him, and, waiting till they were out of hearing of the others, said:
“I suppose there’s no chance that anyone did leave any of the doors open to-day?”
“It’s extraordinarily unlikely. The truth is there’s been a hell of a fuss over those doors. A short time ago one of the doormen here was discovered letting in boys through the emergency exit at twopence a head. He was making quite a nice little profit out of it too. Since then they’ve been doubly strict. Besides which, as Campion said, we don’t want the little beggars monkeying with our things. As a matter of fact, it was Mr. Anthony who prevented the man from getting the sack. He got round the manager, and that and his war record saved him.”
