Cue For Murder полностью

Basil looked and saw a long, weedy youth whom any draft board would automatically classify as 4F on sight. His blondness was as wan as a faded water-color. He bore all the sad stigmata of the shabby genteel—worn suit carefully pressed, cracked shoes scrupulously polished. His manner was a blend of eagerness and anxiety. It was just for the purpose of keeping such perennial job-seekers out of their offices that big business men surrounded themselves with cordons of secretaries and receptionists. But Basil had always had a sneaking suspicion that this system kept out a good deal of grain along with the chaff, so he took a certain perverse pleasure in saying: “I’ll show you the way. I’m just going there myself.”

Milhau’s office was on the ground floor to the right of the box office—two rooms as small, dark, and glossy as Milhau himself. The outer office was ruled by a houri with soft, improbably golden hair and hard, brown eyes. She recognized Basil whom she had seen with the police when Ingelow’s death was first discovered. “Dr. Willing—go right in.” Her stony gaze shifted to the youth. He winced and colored and mumbled something inaudible. A little regretfully Basil left him to his fate and went inside.

“Hello.” Milhau at his desk waved Basil to a chair and pushed a box of cigars in his direction. “Hutchins says you want to see the rehearsal this morning. That’s O.K. with me, but what’s the big idea?”

Basil pushed the cigars back with a shake of his head. “Timing.”

“Timing?” Milhau took one of the cigars himself and bit off the end. “I don’t get it. Nobody has an alibi—I mean nobody that’s under suspicion.” He waited for Basil’s explanation. None came. He went on in a lower voice. “Listen, Dr. Willing—no one knows that Mrs. Ingelow is backing this revival of Fedora except you and me and Adeane. He told me you knew. I’m relying on you not to talk about it, because—”

The door burst open and the houri plunged into the room. “A Mr. Russell to see you—from Carson’s.” She was excited.

Milhau’s eyes narrowed. “So they got somebody?” he said in a level voice.

“Yeah. And he’s been in hospital six weeks. Hasn’t seen a newspaper.”

“Oh.” Basil was aware of some message passing from the girl’s eyes to Milhau’s. Then Milhau said: “You’ll excuse me a minute, Dr. Willing?”

“Certainly.” Basil settled back in his chair. Milhau looked as if Basil’s presence hardly suited his programme but he dared not protest. He spoke to his secretary with resignation. “Send the guy in.”

The weedy youth came in diffidently. “My name’s Russell, and I’m from the Lemuel Carson agency. Mr. Carson said there was a small part for me in a play called Fedora.”

“Yeah.” Milhau’s voice was genial, but his gaze was coldly appraising. “It’s a walk-on part. You only appear in the first act. All you have to do is to lie perfectly still on a couch in an alcove at the back of the stage. You’re supposed to be dying.”

The boy smiled. “I ought to be able to do that. I’ve been doing nothing else for the last six weeks. How many lines do I speak?”

“None.”

The boy’s face fell. Basil recalled that in minor parts an actor’s salary bore some relation to the number of lines he spoke on stage.

Milhau went on in his level voice: “You’ll get fifty dollars a week.”

“Fifty bucks and no lines to speak!” Russell smiled nervously. “Seems as if there must be a catch in it!”

“I’ve had trouble getting anyone to play the part at short notice,” answered Milhau. “As it is, you’ll only have one rehearsal. Then—if you do all right—we’ll sign a contract.”

“That suits me.” Russell was beaming as if he had just found the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow.

Again the door burst open. It was not the secretary this time, but Rodney Tait. The doctor’s bag in his hand looked incongruous with his tweed jacket and flannel trousers. He nodded briefly to Basil, ignored Russell, and marched up to Milhau’s desk. He turned the bag upside down and dumped its contents on the blotter—a shining array of surgical knives.

“Listen, Sam. I want you to lock them in your safe in the presence of witnesses.”

“But—” began Milhau.

“And give me a receipt!” continued Rod implacably. “If I’ve got to carry this bag on stage tonight I’m going to carry it empty. Nobody’s going to say again that I was the only person seen on stage with a knife in my hand.”

“All right, all right!” Milhau looked anxiously at Russell. “Some other time—”

“No, now!” Rod’s voice was taut and brittle. “I’m not going to be put on the spot again.”

“Oh, all right!” Frowning, Milhau got up and went to a wall safe. His thick fingers fiddled with the lock for a moment, and the massive door swung open ponderously. He picked up the knives by their handles and dropped them on the floor of the safe.

“All right,” said Rod with a sigh of relief. “Now you can close the door.”

Milhau swung the door back into place and fumbled with the lock again.