Cue For Murder полностью

The sensational discovery of a murdered man on the stage of the Royalty Theatre last night interrupted Sam Milhau’s production of Fedora starring Wanda Morley, at the end of the first act. If such an incredible event had occurred in the action of the play, the writer would have condemned it unhesitatingly as a stale theatrical contrivance—a piece of pure ham, mechanical and impossible. But it is scarcely the function of a dramatic critic to subject reality to the same austere standard of criticism as make-believe. Suffice it to say that the impossible did happen last night at the Royalty, and it is now a story for the news section rather than an occasion for comment in this column. The identity of the murdered man, a super playing the walk-on part of Vladimir, has not been established. Apparently he was an amateur who had no connection with the stage. That is one of the many inexplicable features of the case. Many of us have felt on occasion that murdering an actor would be justifiable homicide, and there have been plays that would have justified the murder of the playwright; but it is difficult to understand why anyone would launch a murderous attack upon an inoffensive super who was apparently unknown to anyone else on the stage.

Everyone in the theatrical world will feel deep sympathy for Miss Morley who must have suffered a severe shock when she discovered the body. Judging by the first act alone her Fedora was a warm, highly colored interpretation, breathing new life into the lath and plaster of Sardou’s creaky old melodrama. When will our theater provide Miss Morley with a vehicle worthy of her great talent as an actress? She is wasted on this pinchbeck stuff that Huneker used to call “Sardoodle.”

Leonard Martin turned in one of his usual smooth performances as Grech, the police officer. Rodney Tait, making his debut on Broadway, was decidedly miscast as the elderly Dr. Lorek. Unfortunately there was no opportunity to observe him in the possibly more congenial role of Loris Ipanov as Loris does not appear until the second act.

There will be no performance of Fedora this evening. At the moment, it is uncertain whether or not the play will be resumed later this week.

This review irritated Basil. He had read it hoping to glean some significant sidelight on the murder. But, possibly through force of habit, the critic treated the murder the way he treated everything else that occurred on stage—as a peg on which to hang his own rather tepid “cuteness”—so Basil learned nothing.

Juniper came in with bacon and eggs. “Yo’ coffee’s gettin’ cold, Doctah Willin’,” he said, almost as grimly as a wife.

“I like my coffee cold—sometimes!”

The front doorbell rang.

“If that’s a bomb insurance salesman or a man from the Society for the Suppression of Red Nail Polish with a petition to be signed, just say that I died last week and was buried yesterday.”

As a rule Juniper was a blandly impenetrable obstruction to all casual time-wasters. This morning he met his match. As soon as the door opened, there was a rush of feet in the hall, and Pauline appeared in the doorway with Rodney Tait.

“Basil! You must help us!”

Astonished, Basil was on his feet already. “What can I do? What’s wrong?”

“You can find out who killed that man last night and you must—please! If you don’t, they’ll arrest Rod. I know they will. They’ve been questioning him for hours.”

Basil looked at Rodney. His eyes were puffy and red, as if he had been up all night. His jaw was set with a new firmness.

“I’m afraid we oughtn’t to have barged in like this at breakfast—” he began.

“Not at all,” interrupted Basil quickly. “Suppose you both sit down and tell me all about it. Coffee?”

“No, thanks. But we will cadge cigarettes.”

They sat on either side of him, opposite each other. Pauline was trim in the same neat suit she had worn yesterday. She faced the sun fearlessly. But Rod sat with his back to it, his eyes veiled in shadow. There was a V-shaped frown between his brows. His hands were restless.

Apparently last night’s quarrel was healed. Pauline looked at Rod, though she was speaking to Basil. “You’re a policeman, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re an Assistant District Attorney or something official. That Inspector Foyle behaved as if you were his bosom friend. All the police did.”

“Officially I’m a medical assistant to the District Attorney, specializing in psychiatry. They only call me in when they want to determine the sanity of a witness or a suspect.”

“But you’ve done all sorts of things unofficially. You’re supposed to advise them on psychological aspects of a case, aren’t you? And this case has psychological aspects. The police will never get the hang of it unless you help them. There are only three people who could have killed that man, and Rod’s one of them. The police are playing eena, meena, mina, mo. They’ve counted out Wanda and Leon already. They’re going for Rod. You must help. Please!”