“Try thinking about him now,” suggested Foyle.
Basil intervened. “Take it step by step. When you first came on stage you took off your wraps—hat, coat, and gloves. As I remember you took them off slowly and piled them on a chair. Was that your own idea or part of the play?”
“It was Milhau’s idea. He directed. Leonard as Grech was supposed to rush in excitedly, tearing off his gauntlets and thrusting them in his belt in order to keep his hands free for his revolver.” Rod smiled slightly. “Milhau’s idea of a police officer at the scene of a murder—a sort of disciplined hustle. Then I was supposed to come in slowly and take my things off methodically and leave them neatly on a chair—the professional man who makes haste slowly and refuses to be rushed or rattled. Contrast. Get it?”
“Then it was part of Milhau’s direction that you should both remove your gloves?” continued Basil.
“Why, yes.” The question seemed to puzzle Rod.
“And then you entered the alcove and—take it on from there.”
“I went up to the bed and that was the first time I looked at Vladimir. I—I thought he was doing a pretty good job. He really looked like a dying man. He didn’t move or speak. His face was sort of relaxed. Usually when you play a dead man on the stage you want to sneeze—nerves, of course—and that makes your face look tense. I lifted his arm to feel his pulse and—”
“Was there any pulse?”
“I don’t know! Great Scott, I’m not a doctor. I’ve taken a first-aid course like everybody else, but I never can find any of the pulse and pressure points when I want to. I just pretended to feel his pulse tonight. I didn’t really feel it.”
“You shouldn’t have lifted his arm,” said Basil. “You’re more likely to find the pulse when the arm hangs down. Was the arm a dead weight?”
“It was relaxed. He was supposed to be limp. That’s part of the play.”
“But it wasn’t stiff?”
“Oh, no.”
“Was his skin warm?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I pushed up his right eyelid. The way doctors do.”
“And still you can’t say whether he was dead or not!” Foyle was sarcastic.
“It’s difficult to tell whether a man at the point of death is alive or dead,” Basil reminded the Inspector. “Even doctors who are looking for signs of death can make mistakes at such moments. A layman who thinks he is dealing with a live man pretending to be dead could easily be mistaken one way or the other. A man may be alive and still have no perceptible pulse. The skin of a live man suffering from a chill may be cooler to the touch than the skin of a dead man who has just died of fever.” Basil turned back to Rod. “Did the eyeball move? Or the pupil expand?”
“I don’t think so. I remember thinking he was trying to keep as still as possible.”
“And after that?”
“I called for hot water and pretended to write a prescription. Then I opened the surgical bag and took out that probe you had told me a real surgeon would use. I pulled the bed quilt down just to his collar bone and pretended to dig a bullet out of his neck. Then I put a dressing on his neck where the wound was supposed to be—just a square of gauze, no bandage. That was the point where I left the alcove to consult Grech. A few moments later I returned to the alcove with the hot water and the prescribed medicine I had sent for, pretended to cleanse the wound, and made a more elaborate dressing. I fussed over him for a while, feeling his pulse again and pretending to let a few drops of medicine fall on his tongue. I didn’t really give him anything. Finally I went down stage right and announced that he was dead.”
“‘Downstage right?’” queried Foyle.
“Downstage is up near the footlights,” explained Rod. “Right is stage right—my right as I face the house on stage. In other words, stage right is house left.”
“Naturally,” Basil smiled. “The stage is the other side of the mirror held up to nature where right is left and up is down. We’ll remember that when you say ‘right’ you mean stage right. Did you go near Vladimir again?”
“No. I just stood there until the curtain fell. Then I took the first curtain call with Wanda and Leonard and—you know the rest.”
“According to your story, Vladimir did not move once when you were near him. Can’t you remember a single gesture? A flicker of an eyelid? A twitching of mouth or finger? A reflex flinching when you touched him?”
Rod closed his eyes for a moment. Suddenly he opened them flinging his head back. “Don’t go by what I say! It’s like trying to remember a dream. The image is so faint, and you’re trying so hard to grasp it that before you know it, you’re inventing instead of remembering. I don’t believe he moved, but I can’t swear it. I wasn’t paying close attention, and I won’t guess because—if he didn’t move—that would mean that Wanda or Leonard did it before I went near him, and I would be swearing away their lives!”
“Very altruistic of you,” said Foyle, coldly. “But what about your own position? You carried a bag of surgical knives on stage. The entire audience saw a knife in your hand when you leaned over Vladimir. Of the three people who had the opportunity to stab him you alone are known to have had a weapon at hand.”
For the first time Rod looked frightened. “But one of the knives was stolen from me . . . ” He turned to Basil.
“Is this the one that was missing?” Basil indicated the knife the medical examiner had left on the table.
Rod looked and winced as he saw the dark stains on the blade. “It looks like it.” He lifted his eyes to Foyle. “There wouldn’t have been a knife missing if—if—I—”
“On the contrary,” answered Foyle. “If you were the murderer the most obvious way to divert suspicion from yourself would be to pretend one of the knives was stolen before the curtain rose. Now will you tell us the truth?” Foyle leaned forward, chin out-thrust, hands still behind his back. “I don’t ask you to guess, and I don’t ask you to swear to anything. But I do ask you to give us your honest impression: Was Vladimir alive the first time you touched him?”
Rod dropped his eyelids. His mouth settled in a tragic line. His response was dragged from him. “Yes.”
“And was he alive the last time you touched him?”
This time the response was even more reluctant.
“I think so, but that’s just a guess.”
“How many people approached him after that?”
“One.”
“And that was?
“Miss Morley.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tait. That will be all for the present.”
Rod rose and stumbled toward the gap in the wings like a drunken man. Suddenly he halted. Pauline was standing there in the shadow of the proscenium arch. Basil wondered how long she had been listening. Rod stared at her as if he didn’t recognize her.
“Rod!” She plucked at his sleeve, face turned up to him. “Don’t look like that. Everything’s going to be all right. I’ll take you home now in my car.”
“What do you think I am? A baby? I can take myself home, thank you!” His voice rasped hoarsely and he stalked away toward his dressing room.
For a moment Pauline stood still looking after him. Then her head drooped like a wilting flower on its stalk. Basil rose and went toward her. “Pauline!”
“Oh, it’s you.” She lifted her head slowly as if it were too heavy for her neck to support. “Are you running with the hounds now?”
“I’m trying to get at the truth. That’s the best cure for everything. Why don’t you help?”
“What can I do?”