The audience sat in almost cataleptic stillness as it realized that Vladimir had been lying wounded—perhaps dying—in this inner room all the time that Wanda and the servants, unaware of his presence, waited in the alcove for him to come home. Fur cap, military tunic, and high boots lay in a heap on the floor as if he had dropped them there before he crawled blindly into bed exhausted, scarcely conscious . . .
Even now Vladimir did not move or speak.
Grech was the first to enter the alcove. He leaned over the bed with his back to the audience, hiding Vladimir from view. After a moment he turned. How like Inspector Foyle and all the other policemen Basil had ever known was the curt, businesslike tone of Grech’s voice as he rapped out one word: Wounded.
Wanda had turned her head from the fire at the sound of the doors opening. As Grech approached the bed she had risen. Now with a cry that seemed torn from her heart, she ran into the alcove and dropped on her knees beside the bed. Her arms cradled Vladimir’s head. She sobbed aloud, her face against his shoulder.
Grech came downstage center and spoke to the nearest servant: Who is that woman?
Only then, when Grech stood for the first time in the full glare of the footlights, did Basil recognize him as Leonard Martin. Basil was so fascinated by this discovery that he could not take his eyes off Leonard for some time after. The colorless brows and lashes had been darkened. A wig hid the bald head and thin fringe of sandy hair. A full-skirted overcoat with broad shoulders made him look larger and more formidable. But it was not make-up alone that gave Leonard all the rugged virility he had seemed to lack off-stage. Everything about him was different—voice, gait, gesture, and bearing were those of another man. Wanda had won the sympathy of the audience by the intensity of her own personality. For that very reason she had not acted at all. It was Fedora as Wanda Morley, not Wanda Morley as Fedora. She could control the expression of her emotions at will, but they were always her emotions. She could not simulate another character alien to her own temperament. With Leonard it was different. He was more than an actor—he was an artist. He didn’t use Grech as a vehicle for exploiting his own personality. He didn’t even act Grech—he was Grech. He destroyed his own personality temporarily in order to make Grech, the policeman, a living, breathing individual with a robust personality all his own that had nothing to do with a quiet, sickly little actor named Leonard Martin. Wanda was merely an alluring woman. Leonard was a creative artist. Basil wondered if the audience appreciated the difference between sex appeal and art.
Perhaps Wanda was afraid of comparisons, for now she went out of her way to draw the attention of the audience to herself. How could anyone watch Grech question the household servants near the footlights, while Wanda, in the alcove, kept her hands in constant motion by straightening Vladimir’s pillow, stroking his cheek, lifting his arm back onto the bed?
The door at left opened to admit Dr. Lorek. His entrance completely destroyed the illusion of reality on stage which Leonard Martin had created. Once again the moonlight was just blue lamplight; the roofs of Moscow, painted canvas.
Even if Basil had not known who was playing Lorek he would have recognized Rodney Tait at once. He was supposed to be a distinguished surgeon called in to save a valuable patient lying at the point of death; but he only succeeded in being exactly what he had seemed off stage—a personable, debonair young man without a care in the world. His success in the theater was obviously owing to a pleasing voice and easy manner, rather than any talent as an actor. His good-humored presence served him well enough when he played young men like himself. But, like Wanda, he was incapable of portraying any character alien to his own nature. Tonight he was miscast in just such a role. He was trying—too hard. With artless solemnity he divested himself of padded overcoat, fur cap, and fur-lined gloves, piling them neatly on a chair. You could almost hear the beat of the dramatic school metronome between each carefully spaced syllable when he exclaimed woodenly: An accident?
The fluid perfection of Leonard’s delivery was a painful contrast as he answered: Attempted murder.
