The boy smiled. “I ought to be able to do that. I’ve been doing nothing else for the last six weeks. How many lines do I speak?”
“None.”
The boy’s face fell. Basil recalled that in minor parts an actor’s salary bore some relation to the number of lines he spoke on stage.
Milhau went on in his level voice: “You’ll get fifty dollars a week.”
“Fifty bucks and no lines to speak!” Russell smiled nervously. “Seems as if there must be a catch in it!”
“I’ve had trouble getting anyone to play the part at short notice,” answered Milhau. “As it is, you’ll only have one rehearsal. Then—if you do all right—we’ll sign a contract.”
“That suits me.” Russell was beaming as if he had just found the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow.
Again the door burst open. It was not the secretary this time, but Rodney Tait. The doctor’s bag in his hand looked incongruous with his tweed jacket and flannel trousers. He nodded briefly to Basil, ignored Russell, and marched up to Milhau’s desk. He turned the bag upside down and dumped its contents on the blotter—a shining array of surgical knives.
“Listen, Sam. I want you to lock them in your safe in the presence of witnesses.”
“But—” began Milhau.
“And give me a receipt!” continued Rod implacably. “If I’ve got to carry this bag on stage tonight I’m going to carry it empty. Nobody’s going to say again that I was the only person seen on stage with a knife in my hand.”
“All right, all right!” Milhau looked anxiously at Russell. “Some other time—”
“No, now!” Rod’s voice was taut and brittle. “I’m not going to be put on the spot again.”
“Oh, all right!” Frowning, Milhau got up and went to a wall safe. His thick fingers fiddled with the lock for a moment, and the massive door swung open ponderously. He picked up the knives by their handles and dropped them on the floor of the safe.
“All right,” said Rod with a sigh of relief. “Now you can close the door.”
Milhau swung the door back into place and fumbled with the lock again.
Rod held out the empty black bag to Basil. “I call you to witness that the bag is empty. Put your hand inside and make sure.”
Basil obliged with a grin. The bag was empty.
Rod turned to Russell. “You, too!”
Russell looked inside the bag. “There’s nothing there now. But—I don’t understand—”
“I want everyone to realize that if anything happens tonight it has nothing to do with me!” explained Rod.
“Hello, Sam.”
The three men turned and saw Pauline in the doorway. She looked like a schoolgirl, hatless, in low-heeled shoes, and a polo coat, with a portfolio under one arm. Her fresh young face showed no sign of the strains and shocks of the last few days. She nodded casually to Basil as she came forward and even more casually to Rod. “Here are the sketches for Wanda’s new costume.”
“Wanda’s new costume?” Milhau lifted his hands in the air and shook them helplessly. “Is this an office or a madhouse? What new costume?”
“For the first act,” answered Pauline quietly. “Wanda says she’ll never wear that gold dress again.”
“Why not? That gold dress cost money!”
“Well . . .” Pauline smiled slightly. “It did get rather crushed the other evening.”
“Why can’t she have it pressed?”
“Come on, Sam. Be human. Don’t make it any harder for her than it is. After what happened she just can’t wear that gold dress again. The associations are too unpleasant.” Pauline opened her portfolio on the desk.
“I don’t see why not.” Milhau looked at the sketches cursorily. “What’s this, no yellow? Wanda always wears yellow or gold because of her eyes.”
“She wants it as different as possible this time,” explained Pauline. “All white—ermine, velvet, and diamonds.”
Milhau frowned. “Too high-keyed for those deep reds and blues in the background.”
“I’m not so sure.” Pauline was pleading. “I think it might be effective to have Wanda the one pale note in that dark scene. Ermine-and-diamonds does give a sort of ice-and-snow effect that’s good with a Russian background, and it would set off her dark hair.”
“How are you going to get this ready by tonight?”
“She has an ermine coat of her own and diamonds. Rosamonde has promised to rush the dress here by seven-thirty. It’s perfectly simple—a few lengths of white velvet cut and stitched together.”
“Oh, all right.” Milhau waved her aside. “But do try to keep the cost down.”
“Sam, are you busy?”
It was Leonard this time. His long, bronzed face was serious.
“Oh, no, I’m not busy! I’m a gentleman of leisure!” groaned Milhau. “What now?”
“I just wanted to make a suggestion about tonight.” Leonard leaned against the corner of Milhau’s desk. “Don’t you think we’d all be a little happier if the fellow who plays Vladimir weren’t made up quite so . . . realistically? You could have his head turned away from the audience you know.”
The secretary stuck her improbable golden head around the door jamb. “Rehearsal, Mr. Milhau. Everybody’s waiting for you on stage!”
Milhau groaned again, snatched a dog-eared copy of the script from his desk and rose. “Why did I ever go into show business?” he asked the universe. “Why wasn’t I a bootblack or a truck driver?”
As he plunged through the lobby to the auditorium the others straggled after him. Russell fell into step beside Basil.
“Excuse me . . .” Russell’s manner was more anxious than ever. “But—” His voice sank to a whisper. “There’s something queer going on here. I don’t understand it. Why does this man they call ‘Rod’ make such a fuss about carrying a knife on stage? Why does Miss Morley want a new costume when she only wore the other one once? And why is an old skinflint like Sam Milhau offering fifty bucks a week for a walk-on part that’s not worth thirty-five?”
Basil looked at him almost as appraisingly as Milhau had done. “Is it true you’ve been in hospital for six weeks without seeing a newspaper?”
“Yes. I had a touch of tuberculosis.”
“You might as well hear the truth from me,” went on Basil. “You’re sure to hear it from someone sooner or later, and I don’t think it’s quite fair to keep you in the dark. I suppose Milhau thinks that if he can just get you through one or two performances before you learn the truth you won’t mind so much when you do learn it.”
“Learn what?”
“Your predecessor who played the part of Vladimir at the opening night before last was murdered on stage.”
“W-what?” Russell stood stock still in the middle of the center aisle. Basil stood beside him as the others went on down to the footlights. “He was stabbed with a surgical knife like those you saw in Rod’s bag. It happened during the first act but his death wasn’t discovered until the curtain fell.”
“And no one noticed he was dying until then?”
“No, because he was playing the part of Vladimir—a dying man—all during the first act. He was even made up to look like a corpse.”
The word “corpse” seemed to bring the thing home to Russell. “Who did it?” he demanded hoarsely.
“No one knows. Only four people had the opportunity. Three are actors who’ll be on stage with you tonight: Wanda Morley, Rodney Tait, and Leonard Martin. The fourth is the wife of the murdered man, a Mrs. Ingelow.”
“What’s the idea of going on with the show?”
“It’s the only way Milhau can get any return on the money he’s already invested in it.”