Cue For Murder полностью

“According to your story, Vladimir did not move once when you were near him. Can’t you remember a single gesture? A flicker of an eyelid? A twitching of mouth or finger? A reflex flinching when you touched him?”

Rod closed his eyes for a moment. Suddenly he opened them flinging his head back. “Don’t go by what I say! It’s like trying to remember a dream. The image is so faint, and you’re trying so hard to grasp it that before you know it, you’re inventing instead of remembering. I don’t believe he moved, but I can’t swear it. I wasn’t paying close attention, and I won’t guess because—if he didn’t move—that would mean that Wanda or Leonard did it before I went near him, and I would be swearing away their lives!”

“Very altruistic of you,” said Foyle, coldly. “But what about your own position? You carried a bag of surgical knives on stage. The entire audience saw a knife in your hand when you leaned over Vladimir. Of the three people who had the opportunity to stab him you alone are known to have had a weapon at hand.”

For the first time Rod looked frightened. “But one of the knives was stolen from me . . . ” He turned to Basil.

“Is this the one that was missing?” Basil indicated the knife the medical examiner had left on the table.

Rod looked and winced as he saw the dark stains on the blade. “It looks like it.” He lifted his eyes to Foyle. “There wouldn’t have been a knife missing if—if—I—”

“On the contrary,” answered Foyle. “If you were the murderer the most obvious way to divert suspicion from yourself would be to pretend one of the knives was stolen before the curtain rose. Now will you tell us the truth?” Foyle leaned forward, chin out-thrust, hands still behind his back. “I don’t ask you to guess, and I don’t ask you to swear to anything. But I do ask you to give us your honest impression: Was Vladimir alive the first time you touched him?”

Rod dropped his eyelids. His mouth settled in a tragic line. His response was dragged from him. “Yes.”

“And was he alive the last time you touched him?”

This time the response was even more reluctant.

“I think so, but that’s just a guess.”

“How many people approached him after that?”

“One.”

“And that was?

“Miss Morley.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tait. That will be all for the present.”

Rod rose and stumbled toward the gap in the wings like a drunken man. Suddenly he halted. Pauline was standing there in the shadow of the proscenium arch. Basil wondered how long she had been listening. Rod stared at her as if he didn’t recognize her.

“Rod!” She plucked at his sleeve, face turned up to him. “Don’t look like that. Everything’s going to be all right. I’ll take you home now in my car.”

“What do you think I am? A baby? I can take myself home, thank you!” His voice rasped hoarsely and he stalked away toward his dressing room.

For a moment Pauline stood still looking after him. Then her head drooped like a wilting flower on its stalk. Basil rose and went toward her. “Pauline!”

“Oh, it’s you.” She lifted her head slowly as if it were too heavy for her neck to support. “Are you running with the hounds now?”

“I’m trying to get at the truth. That’s the best cure for everything. Why don’t you help?”

“What can I do?”

“Now, you’re a costume designer. You must understand clothes and textures and colors. We want someone to look all through the theater—dressing rooms, lockers, everywhere—for a long cloak or overcoat or dressing gown that would envelop an average figure from head to foot and look black after dark. Will you do it?”

“I suppose I might as well.” She turned away listlessly.

Foyle had listened to this in astonishment. “Don’t you know the lieutenant put a man on that job the minute he heard your story of the figure on the fire escape?”

“She needs something to do,” answered Basil. “And it’s always interesting to get two reports and compare them.”

III

Leonard Martin still wore the dark wig, padded shoulders, and high-heeled boots of Grech, the Russian police officer, but he was no longer Grech. The quiet voice and deprecating smile that acknowledged Foyle’s greeting were those of Leonard Martin himself.

“I enjoyed your performance,” said Basil. “Sardou left Grech a lay figure. You made him a neat sketch of a policeman on the job.”

Leonard was pleasantly surprised. “I’m glad you liked it. Most people prefer lay figures on stage and screen—especially if they have nice legs.”

“Wish I’d seen you.” Foyle grinned. “I might have picked up a few pointers. Let’s see if you’re as good a policeman off stage as on. Mr. Tait who played Dr. Lorek can’t even feel a pulse! Do you recognize any of these objects?”

“No.”

“Ever see this before?” Foyle held out the cigarette lighter.

But Leonard did not touch it. Hands resting easily on his knees, he bent his head forward to look at it. “No, I can’t say I have.”

Foyle put it back on the table. “Let’s see—you approached Vladimir twice, didn’t you?”