Cue For Murder полностью

“Not in the least. Any rookie cop would have recognized you as an old lag. Inspector Foyle is probably trying to get hold of your record at this moment, though the false name will make it a little harder for him. Last night when you were pacing up and down Rodney’s dressing room you went just five single paces either way before you stopped and turned. That’s about twelve feet for a man of your stature, but there was a vacant space in the center of the room fifteen or sixteen feet square. No obstacle barred your path, for all furniture was pushed back to the walls. I’ve seen other men do that after spending months in a cell twelve feet square. Habit surrounds them with invisible walls wherever they go long after they are free. Last night you also recognized and avoided a simple fingerprint trap rather pointedly when Inspector Foyle handed you the dead man’s cigarette case of polished silver for identification. As a rule, only the man with a police record has the wish to hide his fingerprints and the experience to know a police trap when he sees one—especially at such a moment when we were all shaken by the discovery of the murder. Rodney Tait fell into the same trap immediately without realizing it was one. Foyle would never have tried such a simple trick on you if he’d realized you were an ex-convict.

“You even showed your police record in your characterization of Grech, the policeman in the play. It was an amusing satire on police mannerisms, obviously contrived by an actor who had a grudge against policemen in general.”

Leonard’s astonishment yielded to pleasure—the pleasure an artist takes in his own craftsmanship. For a moment the murder was forgotten. “Did you like my Grech?” he cried eagerly. “I’m glad! I always try to be as lifelike as possible in every detail of a characterization, and I thought some of the points I made last night were pretty good! The change in my voice between the moment I said: Who is that woman? and the moment I said: The Princess! And the bit of business where I pick up Fedora’s cloak and stroke it as if I were admiring the quality of the fur. Sam didn’t want me to do that, but I insisted it was essential. Contrasted with my rudeness to Vladimir’s servants it gives a perfect picture of a greedy beggar-on-horseback using a murder case as a stepping stone—”

“Leonard, darling, Dr. Willing isn’t interested in stage technique!” Wanda’s shoulders were shaking with laughter.

“But I am!” insisted Basil stoutly. “For instance, I noticed last night that even when you weren’t in the alcove you were up stage or near it. Was that Milhau’s direction, Miss Morley? Or your own idea?”

Leonard answered before Wanda could speak. “She’s always up stage, and it’s entirely her own idea.”

“Did you see anything unusual going on in the alcove when you were near it?” continued Basil.

Wanda was no longer laughing. “I wasn’t even looking at the alcove!” she protested a little shrilly. “I was entirely absorbed in playing my own part.”

“You can rely on the latter statement absolutely,” murmured Leonard.

“Why don’t you sit down, Leonard?” said Wanda in her most wheedling tone. “Have some coffee?”

“Thanks. Milk, but no sugar, please.”

“Rolls? Honey?”

“No, thanks.”

“It’s rose honey from Guatemala.”

“You know I have no sweet tooth, Wanda!”

“A break for Leon Henderson!” murmured Wanda.

Cup in hand, Leonard’s idle gaze followed a tugboat plowing sturdily through the wind-whipped water.

“The police are certain to discover the truth when they get your fingerprints and check with the F.B.I.,” said Basil. “But your secret will be safe enough with them unless its publication proves necessary to the conviction of the murderer.”

Leonard sat down on the wrought-iron railing of the balcony and sipped his café-au-lait with his back to the river. “I wouldn’t make a secret of it if I felt guilty. But that child ran right out under the wheels of my car before I could stamp on the brake. It was the police charge of drunkenness that prejudiced the jury against me. A medical test for drunkenness would have cleared me, but they didn’t bother with that. They just got up on the witness stand and swore that I had been drunk at the time. That was enough for judge and jury. As I wasn’t drunk, I felt I didn’t deserve a prison sentence. It ruined my health—I lost over twenty pounds in prison. But I’m not going to let it ruin my career too—if I can help it.”

Wanda wiped her hands on a napkin. “Honey is like a ripe mango,” she announced. “It should only be eaten in the bath tub. Tell me, Leon, how long were you standing in that window just now?”

“Only a few moments. I did hear about John Ingelow. I won’t tell the police, but,” he smiled, “I hope you will.”

“How can I, without drawing suspicion on myself?”