Cue For Murder полностью

The curtain was falling as she led the way up the center aisle and down the side aisle to the door that gave back stage. They paused at the narrow gap in the wings. Wanda was taking curtain calls with Leonard and Rodney on either side of her. A messenger boy brought a big gilt basket of roses down the center aisle and hoisted it over the footlights to her. As the curtain fell again Rodney and Leonard retired to the wings opposite. Wanda took the last bow alone on an empty stage with her blood-red roses. No, not quite alone. Vladimir was still lying on the bed in the alcove. Basil felt grateful for that. He hated to see a stage corpse coming to life to take a curtain call.

At last the curtain was down for good, muting the thunder of applause. Wanda turned toward the wings. She seemed to be looking for someone. Then she glanced back at the alcove and smiled.

“You can get up now, darling!” She called gaily. “First act’s over, and your job is done. Was it very hard?”

No answer. Wanda laughed and picked up her sable cloak. “Get up! Is this your idea of a gag? The stagehands have to shift the scene. Next act in Paris.”

Dark fur cloak trailing from one arm, gauzy, golden skirts fluttering around her, she seemed to drift rather than walk to the alcove. Still laughing, she leaned over and touched Vladimir on the shoulder. Her smile died. She lifted her knuckles to her lips as if stifling a cry.

Basil crossed the stage to the alcove. Pauline, Rodney, and Leonard were close behind him. Wanda’s tawny eyes were wide open, staring straight into Basil’s.

“He’s—dead.” Her breath separated the words. Her eyes closed. She swayed and toppled. She lay on the bare boards of the stage as still as Vladimir himself. Pauline knelt beside Wanda, drawing the fur cloak over her, taking a crystal phial of smelling salts from Wanda’s purse. A stagehand came up to the edge of the group. “Listen, we gotta shift this scene now.”

No one paid any attention to him. Everyone was looking at the man on the bed. His half-shut eyes were filmed, his open lips were pale and dry. There was a little saliva at one corner of his mouth and one tiny drop of blood. It might have been caused by a pinprick.

Basil touched the neck. It was still warm. He pulled down the crimson quilt that had covered Vladimir all during the first act. The grooved handle of a surgical knife protruded from the chest just above the heart. There was no breath, no pulse. The dangling arm was rigid.

“Who is this man?” Basil lifted his eyes to Rodney and Leonard.

“I don’t know,” said Rodney.

Leonard nodded in sober agreement. “Never saw the fellow before in my life.”

The stagehand moved forward. “I don’t know the guy. Is he—?”

“Dead.” Basil supplied the word quietly. “And apparently murdered. Will you notify the Police Department at once?”

“But—the show—?”

A hint of grim amusement flickered at the corners of Basil’s mouth. “This is one time when the show will not go on.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s nine-forty, and—”

“One moment,” interrupted Rodney. “I make it nine-thirty.”

“You’re slow.” Leonard was looking at his own watch. “It’s exactly twenty minutes of ten.”

“Well, split the difference,” said Basil to the stagehand. “Tell them we discovered the death at about nine-thirty-five.”

“For the love of Pete, what’s going on here?” A plump, swarthy little man in a dinner jacket who looked as if he had been stuffed and varnished pranced across the stage in great excitement. “What are you doing here?” He stared at Basil. “I’m Milhau, the producer, and I must ask you to get off the stage at once. The man can’t shift the scene unless you—” His voice trailed away. Some of the stuffing seemed to ooze out of him and his patina lost a little of its gloss. His eyes were on the knife handle protruding from Vladimir’s chest. “W-why—w-what—Is this a gag?”

“No. It’s the real thing.”

“My God!” Milhau wailed and wrung puffy hands.

“Who is this actor?” inquired Basil.

“That’s no actor! Oh, my God!”

“Then who is he? And what is he doing here?”

“I don’t know.”

Basil began to lose patience. “You say you’re the producer of the play in which this man played the part of Vladimir; and yet you tell me he is not an actor, and you don’t even know who he is?”