Cue For Murder полностью

He tried to follow the sound, but he came up flat against a wall of lath and canvas. He groped his way through the wings toward the iron stairs that led to the fire escape. There was a thin margin of pale light at the edge of the fire door.

Lightly and quickly he ran up the stairs and pushed the door open. There was no one there—on the landing or below on the stairs or in the alley. The wind cooled his face and stirred his hair.

The stars seemed to watch him remotely. The whole city was spread before him—a theatrically exaggerated backdrop of mountainous buildings lighted up like Christmas trees. He clung to the iron railing, leaning against the wind. At this height it was solid as a wall. Again the hot, red glare from the Tilbury sign pulsated like the flickering of a great fire: Time For Tilbury’s Tea! He looked at the clock. It was just half past nine. As he watched, the minute hand jerked forward convulsively. It didn’t move the space allotted to a single minute. In one jerk, it traversed the space representing two minutes. He stood still, staring at it. Then he heard a whistle blowing shrilly, in the street beyond the alley. That was the only warning. Suddenly, silently the red face of the clock disappeared. The fatuous message of the Tilbury advertisement—Time For Tilbury’s Tea!—faded and did not flash again. The lights in the cocktail bar went out. Building after building grew dark and indistinct against the stars. Now there was no light anywhere but the street lamp at the corner and a cluster of small lights that looked like fireflies at the far end of the street. The globe of the street light turned orange, faded and died. The fireflies vanished. There was no sound of traffic now. Faintly lit by the stars the street was empty and silent, the city nothing but a mass of shadows against the sky ghostly as the ruins of Nineveh or Tyre. Basil frowned. He had forgotten that this was the night of the black-out. He turned back into the theater. A woman was standing at the foot of the iron staircase. A long sable cloak was thrown over her shoulders as if she had snatched it up because it was the first wrap at hand. She turned her head at the sound of Basil’s footfalls.

He recognized Wanda Morley.

The wind had blown her dark hair into a cloud around her vivid, mobile face. Her tilted eyes shone golden in the dim light and the yellow jewel on her finger flashed as she laid one hand on the railing.

“Dr. Willing!” Her voice shook. “How grim you look.”

She stepped back and the cloak fell open revealing the white dress she had worn that evening.

“How did you get in?”

“By the stage door, naturally. I got a key from Sam Milhau.”

“When did you come?”

“I don’t know why I should answer these questions.” Her eyes measured him.

“Would you prefer to answer the police?”

“I came just this minute,” she answered breathlessly. “Why should the police question me about it?”

“Did you meet anyone in the alley? Or see anyone on the fire escape?”

“No.” She drew the fur cloak about her shoulders as if she felt a sudden chill. “Is anything wrong? Has anything happened?”

Again he ignored her question. “Why did you come here alone in the black-out?”

“Why shouldn’t I be alone?”

“You’re usually surrounded by maids and press agents.”

Wanda lifted her black lashes pathetically. “If you knew how I hated all that sort of thing. How I long for a sane, serene, uncomplicated life . . .”

“In the suburbs doing all your own housework. Yes, I know all that. But I also know that there are some things one doesn’t care to confide in a press agent or even a maid.”

Wanda moved a little nearer and her voice dropped. “I came to see you. I have to tell you something, but—I didn’t want anyone else to know. I’m afraid.”

There was a whir of wings. Wanda started convulsively and clenched her hands. The canary flew overhead and alighted on the railing of the staircase. “What on earth is that bird doing here?” she demanded.

“That bird is a valuable witness,” answered Basil.

“I—don’t understand.”

“I think you do,” returned Basil. “I think that is what you came to tell me. I saw how frightened you were this evening when Inspector Foyle asked you about the canary, and you were frightened that day at your house when I showed an oblique interest in canaries in general. You suspected the truth the moment you saw that item in the newspaper about the canary several days ago. The possibility of murder was drawn to your attention before the murder took place, when the police asked your press agent if the canary business was a publicity stunt of yours. The murderer saw that you suspected him. Actress as you are you could not hide your fear of him. And when you realized his suspicion of your suspicion you believed your own life was no longer safe. You want him put under lock and key as soon as possible for your own safety and you’ve come here to tell me about him. Haven’t you?”

“Do you really think he would . . . kill me?”