OPENING TONIGHT
WANDA MORLEY in FEDORA
Already the wind had torn a strip loose from one of the posters that displayed a sketch of Wanda. Like a pennant it flapped and rippled in the breeze. The box office was closed. There was no sign of life about the theater. A sturdy policeman paced the sidewalk and urged the idlers to move on.
Basil paused as he came to the alley. Like the playhouse, it was disenchanted by daylight. Now he saw that it was a blind alley blocked by the rear of another big theater building. Fire escapes at either end were linked by long balconies of wrought iron at each landing. Had the iron work been only a little lacier—more fanciful—it would have brought to mind back alleys of New Orleans.
Basil surveyed the fire escape of the Royalty at his right. Would he have had the nerve to climb it last night had he been able to see how high it went? All the ironwork was coated with a thick crust of black dust that at the slightest touch flaked off fine and powdery—“the dust of generations,” Pauline had said. Basil lifted his eyes. The tangled cluster of skyscrapers against the pure blue of the sky were as gray and bleak as bald mountain tops. He could see part of the Tilbury building from this point, but another skyscraper barred his view of the clock. He did not envy air-raid wardens their job of deciding which building was in which street if ever they had to enforce a real blackout.
Last night Basil had assumed that the alley could only be entered through 44th Street. Now he realized there were five other ways of entering or leaving it—the two fire escapes of the two theaters, their respective stage doors, and the kitchen door of the cocktail bar.
A slight noise drew Basil’s attention to the shack halfway down the alley. A man had just come out of it into the alley, and he was struggling to close the door against the wind.
Basil approached him. “Mr. Lazarus?”
“Yes?” The man looked at him sidewise. Like the mother of François Villon, he was “little and old and poor.” But his voice was surprisingly round and resonant—the voice of an actor.
“My name is Willing. I happened to read something in the papers about a burglar breaking into your workshop.”
“Yes?” Lazarus was cautiously noncommittal.
“I couldn’t help being interested. According to the newspapers, the burglar stole nothing; yet he released a canary from its cage. Newspaper reports are often careless and inaccurate. Is that what really happened? Or did the reporter color the story to suit his fancy?”
Lazarus considered. “You are from the police?”
“No. I’m attached to the District Attorney’s office, but this is not official. I’m just curious.”
“So.” Lazarus lost some of his caution. “After what happened at the theater last night I shouldn’t think anyone would be worrying about my burglary! It happened just the way the paper said. So far as I could see nothing was stolen. And the canary was set free.”
“May I see the canary?”
“Why not?” Lazarus unlocked the door he had just locked. Basil followed him inside. The shack was so tiny that there was hardly room for two men as well as the big grindstone and the chair in front of it. Shelves against the wall were piled with scissors, knives, and saws, all dull, many rusty. There was also a portable radio, an oil lamp, a glass, and a pitcher of water.
“From the cocktail bar,” explained Lazarus as his glance followed Basil’s. “They are very kind about letting me use their washroom, and the bartender often brings me sandwiches for my luncheon. You see, I don’t live here. I have a room uptown. I did have a wagon when I was younger, but all my customers are theater people in this neighborhood, and when I got older I began to think: “Why not have a workshop and stay in one place? So I sold the wagon, and here I am.”
“You were lucky to find such a suitable place,” said Basil.
Lazarus smiled wisely. “Sam Milhau built me this shack when he bought the Royalty Theatre. His father and I were friends years ago in Posen where we were born. In those days I was an actor too. In Warsaw I played Hamlet once—in Polish. But now . . .” He smiled. “I call Sam Dives, because, you see, I am Lazarus—almost a beggar and always at his gate. But it is better than one of those homes for old actors. Here I am free and independent. I pay my own way—all I get from Sam is this shack, rent free. I have work to do, and I hear all the theatrical gossip when stage people bring me their knives and scissors. And when they don’t, I have my own tenor to sing to me!”
Smiling, he turned toward the cage.
It was made of brass wire, roomy and clean. There were the usual wooden perches and swinging trapeze; the usual white porcelain cups of seed and water fitted into the wire at either end, and a bit of cuttlefish bone for sharpening a small beak. On the shelf near by was a bird bathtub and a package of bird seed.
Eyes like tiny jet beads blinked at Basil from a ball of yellow feathers. Frail, pink claws curled around the central perch.
“Half asleep now,” said Lazarus. “But he’s lively in the early morning when the eastern sun comes through the window. He sings nicely then. Imitates the radio if it’s turned on. He always joins in when I get Bach, but he doesn’t like modern music.”
“A discriminating bird,” Basil was amused. “What’s his name?”
“Dickie.”
This was disappointing—like meeting a dachshund called Hans or an Aberdeen terrier named Mac-something.
“When I passed your window last night I happened to look in, but I didn’t see Dickie. Was he here?”
“Yes, but the cage was covered with burlap so he would sleep from sunset to sunrise. I always do that when I work late by artificial light.”
“Why do you keep the bird here instead of at home?”
“My ‘home’ is a room on a court with no sun. I’m only there at night when Dickie should be asleep. It never occurred to me that anyone would break in and molest him if he were left here alone at night.”
“The cage seems comfortable.” Basil surveyed the freshly sanded floor, the clean water cup, the full seed cup. “Have you any idea why anyone should want to let a bird out of a nice cage like this?”
“No, I haven’t,” admitted Lazarus. “I was puzzled by the whole thing.”
“You’re sure nothing was stolen?”
“There’s nothing of value here—unless it is the radio. It wasn’t taken, and I couldn’t find anything else missing. I can’t imagine why anyone would break in at all. You can tell from the outside of the shack that there’s nothing worth stealing here.”
The bird was awake now. He hopped up to his trapeze, and his weight swung it gently back and forth like a pendulum. “Cheep?” he demanded with a rising inflection.
“Hello, Dickie,” said Lazarus, conversationally.
“Cheep!” responded the bird in exactly the tone of a human being responding: Hello there yourself!
Basil’s glance wandered to the grindstone. “Do you think it possible that someone could have used your stone to sharpen something—say a knife?”
Lazarus grew interested. “It’s possible. I hadn’t thought of that. If I had, I would have examined the stone more carefully when I first discovered the burglary yesterday morning. Of course, it’s too late now. I used it myself last night and this morning. But why should anyone take all the risk and trouble of burgling a shop in order to sharpen a knife? My prices are not high!”
“Suppose this person didn’t want any witnesses to his possession of the knife.”
“So. We’ll never know now.” Lazarus smiled at the bird. “Only Dickie can tell us what the burglar did, and he’s not talking. You should come back on Christmas Eve at midnight when all animals are supposed to talk!”