The door opened. For one dreadful moment, Basil feared the play had begun and he was going to be caught on stage. But it was Pauline who came off the set, shutting the door behind her. It closed with the dry snap of real wood and he saw that it was made of plywood set in a lath frame.
There was a thread of frown between Pauline’s brows. Her mouth drooped disconsolately. She stopped when she saw him. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for a way out.”
“Are you good at finding things?”
“What’s lost?”
“Nothing very important. And it isn’t exactly lost. It’s only . . . Rod and Leon can’t find it, and neither can I.”
“Then it’s probably lost. What is it?”
“A knife.”
Basil’s composure hid a sense of shock. “What sort of knife?”
“Well, it’s like this,” Pauline went on wearily. “Sam Milhau is awfully keen on what he calls ‘realism.’ That doesn’t mean that he likes human characters or possible situations in the plays he produces. It just means that he likes the details of a production as literal as possible. Only he doesn’t call it ‘literal.’ He calls it ‘authentic.’ Real food if there’s a meal, real flowers if there’s a garden. He’d have real fires in stage fireplaces if the fire department would let him. Tonight Rod plays the part of a surgeon who has to probe a wound for a bullet, and Milhau wants Rod to carry a real surgical bag with real scalpels and what not. Of course Milhau didn’t want to pay a lot for his realism, so the prop man tried to get a surgical bag second hand. He couldn’t get one because surgeons are donating all their old instruments to the Red Cross these days. Then Rod remembered that one of his uncles was a retired surgeon, and he got hold of this uncle’s old kit. The knife blades were awfully blunt and rusty, but he polished them up a little so they’d look clean and bright—more ‘realism.’ He’s been carrying the bag at pre-views and try-outs, and tonight—about ten minutes ago—he opened the bag and saw that one of the knives was missing. He says it’s the same knife he used at the pre-views, so I went on stage just now to see if he’d left it on the set, but it isn’t there. Suppose you come and take a look around his dressing room.”
Pauline led the way to another door on the floor level and tapped lightly. A voice shouted: “Come in!”
They entered a room about sixteen feet square. Rodney Tait stood in front of a dressing table examining the contents of its drawer. A dressing gown of light blue flannel was belted tightly around his waist. Leonard Martin was pacing the floor—five steps in one direction, stop and turn, five steps in the other direction, and da capo. He, too, wore a dressing gown, but his was silk of a vivid, cardinal red.
Rod grinned at sight of Basil. “Got a criminologist on the job?”
“Well, the knife is missing.” Pauline perched on the arm of a chair. “It could have been stolen.”
Leonard laughed. “Who would steal an old surgical knife? Some ardent Red Cross worker?”
“Are you sure the kit was complete in the first place?” asked Basil.
“No, I’m not.” Rod shut the drawer with a slam. “I never examined it very thoroughly until tonight, but I have an impression that all the pockets were filled when I first used it.” He turned to Leonard. “Haven’t you?”
“Yes, but it’s just an impression,” responded Leonard. “I could be mistaken.”
“Well, you didn’t leave it on the set,” announced Pauline. “I looked all over the alcove, and it just wasn’t there.”
The bag stood on the dressing table—a very ordinary bag of black calfskin scuffed and cracked with age. Basil looked inside. Sewn to the lining were loops and pockets something like the interior of a woman’s sewing bag. All but one were filled with surgical instruments. There was nothing to indicate whether that one had contained a knife recently or not. Basil took out a probe and examined it in the intense glare that came from the high-powered bulbs framing the mirror. The blade bore the name of a Boston manufacturer. It was good steel, freshly cleaned, though the edge was dull. The handle was engraved rather elaborately with a spiral pattern of grooves and “lands” like the interior rifling of a gun barrel in reverse, though the grooves were much deeper and the lands correspondingly higher.
“This is the instrument you’d probably need if you were probing for a bullet,” said Basil, picking up a probe.
“Is it?” Rod was interested. “Then I shan’t worry about the missing scalpel. What do I take the bullet out with?”
“Rod, don’t be an idiot!” cried Pauline. “As if anyone in the audience could see what you’re using when you’re way back in the alcove. All they get is a flash of light along the blade. You might just as well use a bread-knife.”
“I don’t care whether they can see me or not,” retorted Rod. “I’m like Milhau—I want realism. Everything must be authentic.”
Pauline and Leonard laughed. Evidently Milhau’s “realism” was a running gag.
But Rod was serious. “Even if the audience can’t see the knife, I can.”
“For the gods see everywhere?” suggested Basil.
“Exactly,” agreed Rod. “It has a psychological effect on me to know I’m doing the right thing in the right way whether the audience knows it or not. I never could see anything funny about the fellow who blacked all over for Othello. I’d do the same thing myself!”
“Are you sure it was a scalpel you used during rehearsal?” asked Basil.
“Well, it was a knife like this.” Rod held up a scalpel. “That’s another reason I’m pretty sure a knife is missing. I have a distinct impression that there was a pair of these, and now there’s only one.
Basil turned to Pauline. “Did you search the set thoroughly?”
“Indeed I did. I spent about five minutes poking into everything there.”
“And you’re sure the knife isn’t in here?” Basil turned back to Rod. “You might easily have laid it down somewhere in this room instead of returning it to the bag after the pre-view.”
“That’s what I thought. But I’ve looked and so has Leonard, and it just isn’t here.”
Basil’s glance swept the small room. It was furnished sparingly—rug, couch, dressing table, bench, wardrobe, and washstand. All the movable furniture was pushed back against the walls leaving a space about fourteen feet square in the middle of the room.
“No windows?” remarked Basil.
“There are no windows backstage even in dressing rooms,” explained Leonard. “If there were, daylight might filter onto the set in the wrong place. Or a draught might blow against a sturdy brick wall until it flapped like a flag, and the audience would see it was only painted canvas.”
Basil sat on the upholstered couch and slipped his hand down between seat and back. He fished out a cigarette stub, two hairpins, a broken pencil, a ten-cent piece, and a small nail file, but nothing that remotely resembled a surgical knife.
Pauline was watching him curiously. “You really think it matters?”
“Well . . . a sharp knife isn’t a good thing to leave lying around.” He made his voice casual.
“But it wasn’t sharp!” protested Rod. “Those knives haven’t been used for years.”
“Then your realism didn’t extend to sharpening the knife?” murmured Basil.
“No. Too much like work when they’re as blunt as that. Besides, I’ve cut myself with a razor too often to hanker after handling a really sharp knife on stage.”
“They’re quite sharp enough as they are.” Leonard displayed a small, dark cut on his right forefinger. “I did that just now when Rod asked me to go through the bag for him.”