That evening Basil dined at home without company. Juniper, waiting on table, noticed that his master was silent and preoccupied. They had reached the cheese and fruit course when the telephone rang in the hall. Juniper left the dining room. Basil heard his voice muffled by the closed door. A moment later he came back. “There’s a Mr. Lazarus on the telephone,” he announced.
“Lazarus?” Basil looked up from his figs with a frown.
He reached the telephone in a dozen quick strides. The voice on the wire had a small, far away sound that gave the words uncanny emphasis. It might have been a disembodied spirit calling faintly across the Styx.
“Dr. Willing? This is Lazarus, the knife-grinder in the alley beside the Royalty Theatre. Excuse me for bothering you; but something has happened, and you said—”
“What has happened?”
“Well . . .” The voice was still fainter. “Someone has been in my workshop again.”
“Was the door forced open?”
“No, that wasn’t necessary, because the broken window latch hasn’t been repaired yet.”
“Then how do you know anyone has been there?”
“Because of Dickie.”
“Dickie?”
“My canary. Don’t you remember? He’s been let out of the cage again. I don’t see why anybody should do such a thing but—somebody did.”
A THRILL OF EXCITEMENT poured through Basil’s nerves. He had a sharp sense of something ominous and evil. His taxi seemed to crawl through the westward traffic. He left it at the corner of 44th and Fifth and walked the rest of the way to the theater.
He had to cross the street to get past the box-office door. There was a great turn-out for the “second first night” of
Basil slipped through the crowd to the mouth of the alley—an inconspicuous figure this evening in a light overcoat and a soft felt hat. There was a light in the window of the knife-grinder’s shack. Lazarus opened the door himself. His time-worn face was always so grave that it was hard to tell now if he were really more troubled than usual. He led the way to the bird cage. Dickie had decided on the avian equivalent of a night raid on the ice box. He was plunging his beak into his seed cup so vigorously that the seeds were sprayed all around the floor of the cage. His small, beady black eye rolled as if he were enjoying such unaccustomed late hours.
“Are you sure he couldn’t have escaped by himself this time?” asked Basil.
“Oh, no. I went out to get a bite to eat, and I left Dickie in his cage with the door securely latched. When I came back the cage was empty, and the door was standing open. Dickie was flying all around the room. I had some trouble catching him—I was afraid I might hurt him. He seems all right now but—after this I don’t like to leave him alone here tonight. . . .”
Basil saw that to an old man without a future, without a family, and perhaps without friends, this pet canary meant more than an ordinary man leading a normally gregarious life could understand. “If you’ll wait here until the performance is over, I’ll see if the bird can’t be taken elsewhere for a while.”
“Thank you, I’ll be glad to wait.” Lazarus sat down at the grindstone and took up a pair of shears. “I have plenty of work to do.”
Basil’s glance fell on a long, red mark like the scratch of a cat’s claw across Lazarus’ forefinger. “Have you cut your hand?”
“Oh, that.” Lazarus smiled. “See the scars?” He held out his hand, and Basil saw a dozen faint, thin white lines across the forefinger. “If you ever find an unidentified corpse with scars like that on his forefinger you’ll know he’s a knife-grinder. No matter how careful a grinder is he always cuts that part of his finger every few months.”
At the stage door Basil saw one of the assistant producers. “Where is Mr. Milhau?”
“In his apartment, Dr. Willing. I’ll show you the way.”
“I know the way to his office already.”
The man grinned. “His apartment is something else again.”
They passed down a dimly lit passage and went up a narrow, enclosed stairway to the top of the theater. To Basil’s surprise he was ushered into a comfortably furnished living room.
“Hello, come right in!” Milhau was holding a champagne cocktail in one hand, and his plump cheeks were flushed a bluish pink. His thick, pale lips stretched in a rubbery smile, but his eyes were glazed and unhappy. “I live in the country so I don’t use this place much,” he confided. “And then only when I’m in town for the night. It was built and furnished by the former owner of the theater.”
