“That’s your department—conundrums and riddles.” Foyle pushed the slip of paper over to Basil and picked up the wallet. “Money—no draft card—no driver’s license—”
“There was an official looking card of some sort in that cellophane pocket,” said Basil. “I saw it when he paid for a drink in the bar next door.”
“No sign of a card now,” insisted the lieutenant.
“Could it have been taken from him on stage?” demanded Foyle.
“He carried the wallet in the breast pocket of his waistcoat,” answered Basil. “And he didn’t wear the waistcoat on stage.”
“Detail two men to search the theater for an official-looking card,” Foyle instructed the lieutenant. “Any fingerprints on this cigarette case? Or lighter?”
“Yes. We’ve photographed them already. All his own.”
Foyle wiped both objects clean with his own handkerchief. “See if Miss Morley is ready to be questioned.”
The Homicide lieutenant returned in a few moments. “Miss Morley’s physician says she’s in no condition for questioning, but I told him she’d have to identify the body.”
There was a sound of footfalls beyond the canvas wall. The single door at left was thrown open. Foyle and Basil rose as Wanda Morley made the most dramatic entrance of her long stage career. She was still wearing Fedora’s dress of golden gauze, but it was crumpled since she had lain down in it, and the gilt glitter looked tawdry under a harsh, direct light. She had removed her diamonds. Dark hair hung in stringy locks about her ravaged face. At close range her coarse stage make-up buried her beauty like a barbaric mask of tragedy. Blackened brows, bronzed eyelids, and reddened lips were as grotesque as a clown’s paint beside cheeks that must have been gray under the ivory powder. She was supported by her personal physician and her lawyer on either side. They were followed by her press agent and Milhau. Next came her dresser carrying the sable cloak, a jewel case, and a phial of smelling salts.
“Sorry to trouble you, Miss Morley,” said Foyle gravely. “I am an Assistant Chief Inspector of Police. My name is Foyle.”
Wanda looked at him with dull eyes. This scene was unrehearsed, its lines unwritten, its cues untimed, its peripeties unplanned. She was on her own, improvising everything she said or did as she went along without the guidance of script or director. There was no prompter to come to her aid if she faltered, no understudy to fill her place if she collapsed. She seemed to be stumbling and groping through an unfamiliar world. “Oh . . . yes . . .” Her voice was hesitant, uncomprehending.
“This way, please.” Foyle led the whole group toward the alcove.
Wanda followed slowly. She made an apparent effort to look down at the dead man’s face. It was still coated thickly with the corpse make-up—marble white and ash gray with a blue tinge around lips and eyes. Yet it was a comely face now, with the sullen temper that had distorted the mouth gone forever. She bit her lower lip as it started to quiver.
“I—” She turned back to the Inspector hastily. Tears stood in her golden eyes. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was a mere breath. “I don’t know this man. I never saw him before tonight!”
Was it Basil’s imagination? Or was there something terrible about this denial. Somehow it seemed like a betrayal. . . . He tried to recall her smile as she turned toward this man in the alcove when the curtain fell. You can get up now, darling! First act’s over and your job is done. . . . Was it the smile she would give a stranger?
Basil’s quiet voice ended the silence. “You called him ‘darling.’”
Wanda closed her eyes. “I call everybody ‘darling.’ It means nothing in the theater.”
“But Miss Morley!” protested the Inspector. “I understood that it was you who secured this man to play the part of Vladimir tonight?”
“I—there is some mistake . . .” Wanda opened her eyes and looked at Milhau. “I had thought of getting some friend of mine to play the part, but you said you’d rather have a professional, Sam, don’t you remember? And I let the whole thing drop. So naturally tonight I assumed that . . . this man came from you.”
There was more realism in the theater than Milhau had bargained for. Real candles and real food were one thing, but a real murder was another. His round face was sallow and oily with sweat. He wrung his hands again. “But Wanda—you were so stubborn about it! Don’t you remember? I finally said ‘Okay, have it your own way!’ So I didn’t get anybody, and tonight when this fellow walked in I assumed that he came from you! My God, who did send him? And why? I’ve got eighty thousand of my own money in this show and now—it’s ruined! I’m ruined! You’re ruined!”
Wanda closed her eyes again.
Foyle could be ruthless on occasion. “Miss Morley! On the stage you actually kissed the dead man on the lips just before the curtain fell. Are you asking us to believe that you didn’t know then whether he was alive or dead? Or did you stab him yourself at that moment?”
“I—Oh—” Wanda slumped and the arms of her doctor caught her. Apparently she was unconscious.
The doctor addressed Foyle sternly. “Miss Morley is in no condition for questioning. She is a great artist, and her nervous system is too sensitive to bear shocks of this sort. I must get her home at once.”
Lawyer and press agent bristled, obviously determined to back up the doctor if necessary. Foyle wasn’t afraid of law or medicine, but he had a healthy respect for the press.
“All right,” he sighed. “Take her home.”
The dresser wrapped Wanda in her sable cloak. The lawyer helped the doctor carry her out to her car. The press agent followed to fend off reporters. As the stage door opened, Basil heard the “Ah’s” and “Oh’s” of the crowd. Flashlight bulbs flared briefly in the alley. The door closed.
Foyle turned to the lieutenant. “Mr. Tait next.”
II
Like a master of ceremonies the lieutenant brought his next number through the wings onto the stage. The immaculate morning dress of Dr. Lorek had wilted considerably. The Ascot tie was loosened, the stiff white collar unbuttoned, and sweat mingled with pink powder and grease paint to make Rod’s face a shiny red. His round eyes, lengthened by a few strokes of eyebrow pencil at the outer corners, rolled in their sockets displaying white rims like a startled horse. As he sat down he ran his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture that disarranged all the neatly brushed waves. He looked very young and very distressed but not in the least guilty.
“Mr. Tait, do you recognize any of these things?” Foyle pointed to Vladimir’s belongings on the table.
“No.”
“Have you ever seen this before?” Foyle handed Rod the cigarette case. Rod turned it over, unconsciously leaving beautiful impressions of his fingertips on the freshly wiped surface. He returned it to Foyle with a shake of the head. “No.”
Foyle remained standing, hands behind his back, looking down on his victim. “Mr. Tait, on stage during the first act you approached the actor playing the part of Vladimir. Was he alive or dead at that moment?”
“Good Lord, I—I don’t know.”
“Do you really ask me to believe you could stand so close to a man and not know whether he was breathing or not?”
“But the light was so dim!” cried Rod. “He was made up to look like a corpse. He was supposed to act like a dying man—eyes half closed, lips parted, body still. When people are lying down they breathe quietly. Ordinarily you don’t notice whether people are breathing or not unless they’re panting or snoring. How can I tell now whether he was acting the part of a dying man or really dying? I wasn’t thinking about him then. I had my own part to think about.”