Cue For Murder полностью

He was standing on the top landing of another iron stairway—the sort you see in factory lofts, composing rooms, and other places where durability comes before comfort or beauty. Below, four stories deep, lay the fascinating confusion of a theater backstage on the eve of an important opening. There was no one else on the stairs now, but there were a hundred places in that huge windowless barn where a dark figure might have hidden: the dressing rooms opening onto the staircase; the maze of flies and catwalks overhead; and the wings far below where a mixed crowd of actors, stagehands, firemen, dressers, press agents and men from the producer’s office pullulated like ants around an ant heap. None of them noticed Basil as he stood looking down at them. Like him, none thought to look above eye-level without provocation. Any one of them might have been the dark figure he had seen. Or had the whole thing been an illusion born of the shifting shadows? His hand went to his pocket. The manuscript was still there. That much at least was solid and real.

He took it out and leaned forward to catch the light from below. The cover was made of coarse blue paper. It was labeled:

FEDORA, A Drama in three acts

By Victorien Sardou

He turned the pages. It was an English translation of the old French play, revised and modernized. All Desiré’s lines were crossed out, and all Fedora’s lines were checked with blue pencil. This must be Wanda’s script—the one she had used in learning the part of Fedora. At first he thought there were no other marks. Then he saw that one line spoken by another character had been heavily underscored in lead pencil:

SIREX: He cannot escape now, every hand is against him!

II

Basil went down the stairs. On each landing he passed a door. On the floor level he saw one embellished with a silver star. He rapped lightly.

The door flew open. “Oh, you’re late. I—Oh . . .”

It was Wanda herself. Dark hair streamed loosely across her shoulders. There was something snakelike about the small, flat head, the long neck, the lithe body and tilted jewel-bright eyes. Sulphurous yellow satin billowed around her—the color of a canary’s plumage. From throat to hem it was fastened with tiny buttons and loops of the same material. There must be at least twenty or thirty of them. Could she have fastened so many tricky little loops in the two or three minutes since he had seen a dark figure on the fire escape?

As she recognized Basil, her smile went out as if someone had snapped off a switch. For a moment her face was a cold, clay mask, painted rather garishly. Then she assumed artificial animation. “Dr. Willing!” This time her smile was a muscular effort. “Will you excuse me? I’m on in the first act, and I must dress now. I do hope you’ll enjoy the play!”

“I’m beginning to enjoy it already.”

Her eyes opened wide. “What do you mean?”

“Hasn’t the play begun already? Or, at least, a play?” He held out the manuscript. “I believe this is yours.” He showed her the first page with all Fedora’s lines checked.

“Why, yes.” But she wasn’t looking at the manuscript. She was looking at the hand that held it. “What have you been doing to your gloves?”

He looked down. The palm of his white glove was streaked with black dust. He laughed. “Your fire escape needs a spring cleaning. I was in the alley just now when you dropped this, and I followed you up the fire escape.”

“Are you crazy? I was never on the fire escape! What would I be doing there?”

“I don’t know, but I couldn’t help wondering. And I couldn’t help thinking it odd that you marked one line spoken by one of the other characters. A rather sinister line.” Basil read it aloud: “He cannot escape now, every hand is against him!”

Wanda’s pupils dilated until her eyes looked almost black. “I never marked that line!”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know. Why should anyone else mark a line in my script?” Her gaze went beyond him.

He turned. There was no one there, but he had an impression she was waiting for someone.

“You really must excuse me,” she said hurriedly. ‘I’ll see you after the play, I hope.” She stepped backward, closing the door. She had forgotten all about her script.

With something like a shrug, Basil put it back in his overcoat pocket and wandered off in search of a door to the front of the theater.