“I suppose not. I suppose he thought having had the opening already . . . But that was only one act. The whole production has never been shown in public, so technically this is a pre-production rehearsal.”
“Aw, gee, Mr. Milhau,” the boy was arguing. He was a plump, swarthy youth who had evidently been chosen for the part because his large, moist, black eyes and oily waves of black hair suggested the coarse vitality of a peasant. “It’s just a superstition . . .”
The cackle of voices rose again. A tall, thin figure pushed its way through the crowd of actors on the stage clustered around Milhau and the boy.
“Mr. Milhau!” It was Russell. His voice broke like an adolescent’s. “I’m sorry, but I can’t play
“Well, now, Russell, it’s just a superstition,” Milhau took over the boy’s own argument glibly.
“You may call it superstition, but I believe in good luck and bad. I’m not going to play that part tonight.”
“A hundred a week!” snapped Milhau.
“No,” retorted Russell. “There’s something fishy going on around here, and I don’t like it. Why didn’t you tell me about the murder when I applied for this job? Why did you get a new man like me instead of getting one of the actors who only appears in the last act to play
There was complete silence as Russell stalked down the steps and up the center aisle to the exit.
Before anyone could speak, Adeane left his seat in the orchestra and lounged down to the footlights, hands in his pockets. “I never heard such blasted nonsense in all my life!” he drawled scornfully. “Anybody’d think you were a pack of kids or savages the way you fuss over your taboos. I’m not an actor, thank God—I’m a dramatist just doing a little acting on the side, so I’m not superstitious. I walk under ladders all the time and spill salt whenever I get the chance. I’ll be glad to play
Milhau came down to the footlights. “Thank you, Adeane. I won’t forget this. You’ll get the same salary you’re getting now, and let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”
“How about reading some of my plays?” responded Adeane with the same smile he had given Margot when he told her she “owed” him something.
Milhau swallowed and steeled himself to make a real sacrifice. “O.K. Give them to my secretary.”
Adeane looked as if he were patting himself on the back. “Thanks, Mr. Milhau. I’ll do that!”
But the rest of the company was uneasy. Wanda spoke. “Sam, do we have to go on with
Margot answered her: “Of course we do! It’s all settled. Mr. Milhau and I between us would make things very unpleasant for anyone who broke a contract at the last moment.”
“You heard the lady,” said Milhau curtly. “The box office is sold out for weeks ahead, and no silly superstition is going to keep me from seeing that curtain rise tonight at 8:40 sharp!”
“What about me?” The boy in pea-green slacks looked at Milhau impudently.
“Oh—go to hell!” Milhau hurried back to his own office—the rehearsal was over.
BASIL HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN his appointment to meet Lambert, the toxicologist, in Foyle’s office at Police Headquarters late that afternoon. A taxi took him downtown through a twilight that the overcast sky turned into night. All the office buildings were gay with lighted windows, but it was no longer a pleasantly decorative sight to those who realized how ships bringing oil and sugar to New York were silhouetted against the glow of these towers for the benefit of submarines many miles at sea.
As Basil entered the Inspector’s private office he heard the hollow, dehumanized voice of a radio announcer: “When you hear the time signal it will be just five o’clock, Naval Observatory Time . . .” As the whistle tooted he looked at his own watch and found that it was nearly ten minutes fast.
At the radio controls stood Lambert himself—a short, chunky man with a porcine face who looked more like a stockbroker or an insurance salesman than a biological chemist. The Inspector was hunched over his own desk, his lean, sharp face twisted into a frowning knot as he read Lambert’s report on the knife handle.
“Just wanted to get the war news,” explained Lambert. “But there doesn’t seem to be any.”
“The city of New York will have a complete practice black-out tonight between 14th Street and 125th from nine-thirty to nine-fifty,” said the hollow voice. “In discussing plans for the dim-out, which will be enforced in the near future, General Wilkenson said—”
