“That was Milhau’s direction,” answered Rod. “The way we disposed of our wraps was supposed to indicate our characters in the play: Wanda, the great lady, careless of valuable furs; Leonard, the brisk and businesslike man-hunter, tearing off his gloves to get his hands free; I, the methodical professional man who won’t be hurried, piling everything neatly on a chair.”
“Then if any one of you had worn gloves on stage during the first act it would have attracted notice?”
“It would!”
“And it would have been impossible to put on gloves in the middle of the first act without drawing the attention of the audience, to say nothing of Milhau in the wings and the other actors on the stage?”
“Of course!”
Pauline’s eyes widened. “Were there fingerprints on the knife handle?”
“No.”
“Then why—?”
Basil cut her short. “One more question. Did you happen to notice a woman crossing the stage last night just before the curtain rose? She passed us in the wings.”
“No. What sort of woman?”
“A hard, plain suntanned face and brown hair about the same color. Eyes light—gray or blue. She wore no make-up but lipstick, and last night she wore a rather striking dress—diagonal black-and-white stripes—under a long, black velvet cloak. Is there any woman in the cast like that?”
Rod shook his head. “There’s only one other woman in the cast besides Wanda, and she’s a fluffy little blonde with curls.”
“Light eyes in a brown face and hair the same color?” repeated Pauline. “And a black-and-white dress. That sounds like Magpie.”
“Who is Magpie?”
“Oh, she’s just a woman you see around town at night clubs and so forth. Her real name is Margaret Ingelow. People call her Margot to her face, and Magpie behind her back, because she always wears black and white. She lives near Philadelphia—Huntingdon Valley, I think—but she has an apartment in New York. Her husband, John Ingelow, is working on some sort of war job in Panama. He inherited an engineering company. She was the daughter of a Washington surgeon, but there was nothing to distinguish her from hundreds of other girls until she married him. She’s a good horsewoman. She used to ride other people’s horses at the Horse Show here. That was where she met Ingelow. I have a vague idea they’re separated now.”
“Was she educated in France?” asked Basil.
“No, but I believe her husband was. Why?”
Basil let that question slide. “What would she be doing backstage at the Royalty?”
“I suppose she knows Milhau or somebody in the cast. She’s been stage-struck for some time.”
“I see.” Basil reflected a moment and then smiled. “How convenient it would be if we were in a small town instead of New York. Then I could stroll down to the village post office or the drugstore soda fountain and be reasonably certain that Margaret Ingelow would drop in sooner or later, so I could have a glimpse of her without deliberately seeking her out or getting the police to do so for me.”
Pauline was amused. “Basil, where do you spend your spare time in New York?”
“I don’t have much spare time. I suppose I spend most of it in libraries or theaters or the homes of people I know. Why?”
“It’s high time you got out of your rut,” returned Pauline. “If you don’t look out you’ll develop into an old fogey. Don’t you realize that modern New York is a small town with a completely village mentality? Haven’t you ever noticed that people in offices gossip around the water cooler just the way peasants in Syrian villages gossip around the village well? You wouldn’t find Magpie in a post office or a drugstore even if she were in the country, but if you want to see her without seeking her, all you have to do is to lunch at Capri’s in New York. She’s there every day.”
“Is she?” Basil was interested. “Then suppose you two meet me there for luncheon today. Shall we say one o’clock?”
“We’ll be there.” Rod rose. “This has been less of an ordeal than I expected. No association test—no lie detector—no psycho-analysis. You just ask ordinary questions like a policeman.”
Basil seized his opportunity. “Would you like an association test? I’ll give you a very brief one—a single word. You’re supposed to answer instantly with the first word it brings into your mind. Ready?”
“Shoot!” Rod was grinning as if this were a parlor game, but Pauline looked anxious.
Basil’s face was impassive. “Any idea why a canary should make you think of blood?”
