The stage was already set for the first act. Every way he turned, he was blocked by a frail wall of muslin canvas stretched on frames of lathe, held upright by wooden braces nailed to the floor, and ropes running through pulleys anchored to the roof. It seemed to be the wrong side of a box set enclosing the stage completely on three sides. In the rear wall there was a small three-sided projection—apparently the obverse side of an alcove opening into the set. Beyond this alcove in the right wall of the set there was an open window. Outside the window, a backdrop was painted to represent snow-covered roofs against a starry sky—the view from the window. An electrician was just placing a blue-shaded lamp so that it would shine on the snow to simulate moonlight. A formidable tangle of wires filled the small space beyond, so Basil turned and went around to the opposite side of the set. There he found a door in the canvas wall. Facing it was another backdrop painted to represent a marble wall. In front of the wall stood a small table supporting a bowl of beaten brass. Apparently this was the segment of hallway beyond the door that would be visible to the audience when the door was opened during the action of the play. To an audience under the spell of a dramatic scene, that door would seem to lead to a whole houseful of rooms and beyond to a street and a city full of people. Actually it led to a few inches of backdrop with nothing beyond but the brick wall of the theater.
The door opened. For one dreadful moment, Basil feared the play had begun and he was going to be caught on stage. But it was Pauline who came off the set, shutting the door behind her. It closed with the dry snap of real wood and he saw that it was made of plywood set in a lath frame.
There was a thread of frown between Pauline’s brows. Her mouth drooped disconsolately. She stopped when she saw him. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for a way out.”
“Are you good at finding things?”
“What’s lost?”
“Nothing very important. And it isn’t exactly
“Then it’s probably lost. What is it?”
“A knife.”
Basil’s composure hid a sense of shock. “What sort of knife?”
“Well, it’s like this,” Pauline went on wearily. “Sam Milhau is awfully keen on what he calls ‘realism.’ That doesn’t mean that he likes human characters or possible situations in the plays he produces. It just means that he likes the details of a production as literal as possible. Only he doesn’t call it ‘literal.’ He calls it ‘authentic.’ Real food if there’s a meal, real flowers if there’s a garden. He’d have real fires in stage fireplaces if the fire department would let him. Tonight Rod plays the part of a surgeon who has to probe a wound for a bullet, and Milhau wants Rod to carry a real surgical bag with real scalpels and what not. Of course Milhau didn’t want to pay a lot for his realism, so the prop man tried to get a surgical bag second hand. He couldn’t get one because surgeons are donating all their old instruments to the Red Cross these days. Then Rod remembered that one of his uncles was a retired surgeon, and he got hold of this uncle’s old kit. The knife blades were awfully blunt and rusty, but he polished them up a little so they’d look clean and bright—more ‘realism.’ He’s been carrying the bag at pre-views and try-outs, and tonight—about ten minutes ago—he opened the bag and saw that one of the knives was missing. He says it’s the same knife he used at the pre-views, so I went on stage just now to see if he’d left it on the set, but it isn’t there. Suppose you come and take a look around his dressing room.”
Pauline led the way to another door on the floor level and tapped lightly. A voice shouted: “Come in!”
They entered a room about sixteen feet square. Rodney Tait stood in front of a dressing table examining the contents of its drawer. A dressing gown of light blue flannel was belted tightly around his waist. Leonard Martin was pacing the floor—five steps in one direction, stop and turn, five steps in the other direction, and
Rod grinned at sight of Basil. “Got a criminologist on the job?”
“Well, the knife is missing.” Pauline perched on the arm of a chair. “It could have been stolen.”
Leonard laughed. “Who would steal an old surgical knife? Some ardent Red Cross worker?”
“Are you sure the kit was complete in the first place?” asked Basil.
“No, I’m not.” Rod shut the drawer with a slam. “I never examined it very thoroughly until tonight, but I have an impression that all the pockets were filled when I first used it.” He turned to Leonard. “Haven’t you?”
“Yes, but it’s just an impression,” responded Leonard. “I could be mistaken.”
“Well, you didn’t leave it on the set,” announced Pauline. “I looked all over the alcove, and it just wasn’t there.”
