Sadly, I crossed out “How?” at the top of the page. It wouldn’t work, or rather it worked too welclass="underline" no one had an alibi. Each time the doughty six had been in the same place at more or less the same time and all had equal opportunity to commit the murders. So, instead of “How?” I wrote a large question mark over the column next to “Why?” Here I recorded the mysteries.
Opposite Eglanova’s name I wrote “Shears.” If she had sliced the cable, why did she leave the shears in her own dressing room? That was a problem which I left unsolved as I moved on to the next name on the list.
Wilbur. Why? God knows. He didn’t get on with Sutton but obviously if he hated her, for some reason as yet unknown, he would hardly have come to work in the same company with her, create a whole new ballet around her. Was he jealous of her? No. He didn’t like women to begin with; nor did their love interests overlap. Professional jealousy? None that I could see. Something in the past, perhaps? Mysteries? Why did he quarrel with Ella the afternoon of the day she was killed?
Alyosha. Why? Love for Eglanova and hatred of Ella his ex-mistress. That was clear-cut, a perfect crime of passion. He had been married to Eglanova, left her for Ella who had deserted him; then he went back to Eglanova, as official slave and acolyte, and now, seeing that Eglanova was soon to be succeeded by Sutton, he lost his head and removed Ella from this vale of tears. Mysteries? Why would he put the shears in Eglanova’s dressing room, implicating her if he’d done the murder for love of her? My head began to ache. Those god-damned shears … they made a mess of every theory. Then a new idea occurred to me. Suppose the person who had done the murder had put the shears some place else and then another villain had, for malicious reasons, put them in Eglanova’s room from which I moved them again … button button who’s got the button?
Washburn. Why? Well, he is the most devious man alive. For all I know he may have wanted to get rid of both Sutton and Eglanova, and he saw this as a perfect way to take care of them. Among the mysteries was the fact of that letter I found from Armiger, the English ballerina. Why had Mr. Washburn wanted to engage a big star when the succession had already been arranged, when it had been all but announced that Sutton was to succeed Eglanova for the next season? And what was Mr. Washburn really up to at Miles’ apartment that night?
Louis. Why? I could think of no reason. There was an old rumor in the company that Ella fancied him but since he was so obviously interested in the other side he could hardly have been disturbed by her love for him, presuming that glacier had ever experienced such a tender emotion. I made a note to ask Louis about Ella; it was possible that he had some unsuspected slant on her character. More and more I was convinced that her character would provide the clue to the puzzle.
Jane? Well, despite the mysterious visit to Miles and her incriminating presence in the classroom with Magda, she had no motive. She was not in line to succeed Sutton even though she was the understudy in Eclipse. She had no professional reason for wanting Ella out of the way and after living a while with her, I was fairly sure she had no private reason as well; their private lives had never touched, as far as I knew.
Gloomily, I studied the page, awaiting revelation. None came. The thought that my hypothesis might be wrong was chilling. I was going on the theory that X had killed Ella, that Miles had found out and was on the point of revealing X’s identity to the police when X, getting wind of this, jammed Miles’ head into that gas burner, not knowing that Miles had somehow gotten a letter or document off to Magda, his proof that X had done the murder. Then X had made a date with Magda to meet her at the studio to discuss the letter … perhaps, even to buy it from her. When she wouldn’t hand it over X had seized the purse which contained whatever it was the murderer wanted and shoved Magda through the window. That was my theory, the police’s theory, too. But suppose Miles had killed Ella and then died of a heart attack and that Y, for reasons unknown, killed Magda? Or suppose … But I made up my mind not to think of any more difficulties. First, I would follow the obvious line; if that failed … well, it wouldn’t fail. As I look back on it now, I think my confidence in myself at that point was remarkably unjustified.
I had reason to believe from Gleason’s behavior that morning at the inquest that he was planning to make an arrest in the next twenty-four hours … Elmer Bush had said as much in his column and he had undoubtedly got it from the horse’s ass. I looked at my watch. Three-thirty. I had less than a day in which to find the murderer.
I spent about twenty valuable minutes on the telephone, lining up the suspects, making appointments for spurious reasons. Then I told the duo-typists that they would see me no more that day. If the press wanted news, I recommended they contact Gleason, or Elmer Bush. Miss Flynn wished me luck.
Eglanova’s maid let me in without comment. I sometimes wonder if she knows any English. From the bathroom I heard Eglanova’s voice above a Niagara of bathwater. “Peter! I am right out in one minute!”
The maid withdrew and, feeling like a Pinkerton man, I covered the living room and the bedroom with the speed of an Electrolux vacuum cleaner. Needless to say, I found nothing of interest. The rooms were an old-fashioned clutter of photographs and bric-a-brac and antimacassars, establishing, as her legs did not, that Eglanova was an Edwardian, a displaced person in time.
“If I keep you waiting, I am sorry,” she said, sweeping down on me in a creation of mauve satin, her head wrapped in a towel. “I wash my hair. First, soap and water. Then gasoline. Gives marvelous luster. Even during the war I use gasoline. I tell authorities Eglanova’s hair important, too. They give me little coupon book … so nice of them. And people say Americans are barbarians!” She sat down in her usual place by the window. I sat opposite her. The inevitable hot tea and lemon was brought us.
“You like nougat?”
I shook my head and watched, fascinated, while she devoured two large awful-looking pieces of nougat. “From admirer,” she said, her mouth full. “He sends me nougat from Rome, Italy. Only place for nougat … and Parma violets: I eat pound of violets at one sitting once when I dance in Florence.”
“I’ll stick to tea.”
“You never be big and strong,” she said and took a swig of tea. Outside the sun glared, like a globe of brass in the afternoon.
I decided the direct approach was best. “I think they’re going to arrest Jane.”
Eglanova blinked, as though I had made a move to strike her. Unsteadily, she put her tea beside the gaily painted nougat box on a marble-topped table. “What … why you think this?”
“She’s being watched every second by a plain-clothes man … the way they watched Miles when he was to be arrested.”
Eglanova smiled wryly. “They watch me, too, Peter. I am no fool. I know all along they suspect me. I have engaged two lawyers … in case.”