“So the Rat’s in his hole at last!”
“Beaver!” whispered Felix Gardener. It was a line that most actors would have played for a laugh. Few actors could have played it otherwise, but Felix Gardener did. He made it sound horrible.
The Beaver came downstage. His right hand now held a revolver. “You’re not a killer, Rat,” he said. “I am. Put ’em up.”
Gardener’s hands went slowly above his head. Surbonadier patted him all over, still covering him with the gun. Then he backed away. He began to arraign Gardener. The intensity of his fury, repressed and controlled apparently by the most stringent effort, touched the audience like venom. The emotional contact between the players and the house was tightened to an almost unendurable tension. Nigel felt profoundly uncomfortable. It seemed to him that this was no fustian scene between the Rat and the Beaver, but a development of the antagonism of two men, indecently played out in public. “Carruthers, the Rat” was his friend Felix Gardener, and the “Beaver” was Arthur Surbonadier, who hated him. The whole business was beastly and he would have liked to look away from it, but for the life of him he couldn’t do so.
“Round every corner, Rat, you’ve waited for me,” Surbonadier was saying now. “Every job I’ve done this last year you’ve bitched for me, Rat — Rat. You’ve mucked round my girl.” His voice rose hysterically. “I’ve had enough. I’m through — I’ve come to finish it and, by God, I’ve come to finish you!”
“Not this evening, Beaver. It’s a lovely little plan and I hate to spoil your party, but you see we’re not alone.”
“What are you saying?”
“We’re not alone.” Gardener spoke with the exasperating facetiousness of the popular hero. “There’s a good angel watching over you, Beaver. You’re covered, my Beaver.”
“Do I look easy?”
“You look lovely, my Beaver, but if you don’t believe me take a step to your right and glance in the mirror behind me, and I think you’ll see the image of the angel that’s watching you.”
Surbonadier moved upstage. His right hand still held the revolver levelled at Gardener, but for a second he shifted his gaze to the mirror above Gardener’s head. Then slowly he turned and stared at the upstage entrance. A moment, and Stephanie Vaughan stood in the doorway. She too held a revolver, pointed at Surbonadier.
“Jenny!” whispered Surbonadier. He dropped his hand and the barrel of the gun shone blue. It hung limply from his fingers and as though in a dream he let Gardener take it from him.
“Thank you, Jennifer, ” said Gardener. Miss Vaughan, with a little laugh, lowered her gun.
“You don’t have any luck, do you, Beaver?” she said.
Surbonadier uttered a curious little whinnying sound, turned, and clawed at Gardener’s neck, forcing up his chin. Gardener’s hand jerked up. The report of the revolver, anticipated by every nerve in the audience, was deafeningly loud. Surbonadier crumpled up and, turning a face that was blank of every expression but that of profound astonishment, fell in a heap at Gardener’s feet. So far the acting honours in the scene had been even, but now Felix Gardener surpassed anything that had gone before. His face reflected, horribly, the surprise on Surbonadier’s. He stood looking foolishly at the gun in his hand and then let it fall to the floor. He turned, bewildered, and peering at the audience as though asking a question. He looked at the stage exits as if he meditated an escape. Then he gazed at Stephanie Vaughan, who, in her turn, was looking with horror from him to what he had done. When at last he spoke — and his lips moved once or twice before any words were heard — it was with the voice of an automaton. Miss Vaughan replied like an echo. They spoke as though they were talking machines. Gardener kept his gaze fixed on the revolver. Once he made as if he would pick it up, but drew his hand back as though it were untouchable.
“God, that man can act!” said a voice behind Nigel. He woke up to feel Alleyn’s hand on his knee.
“Is this the end?” the inspector whispered.
“Yes,” said Nigel. “The curtain comes down in a moment.”
“Then let’s get out.”
“What!”
“Let’s get out,” repeated Alleyn; and then, with a change of voice: “Are you looking for me?”
Their seats were on the aisle. Glancing up, Nigel saw that an usher was bending over his friend.
“Are you Inspector Alleyn, sir?”
“Yes. You want me. I’ll come. Get up, Bathgate.”
Completely at a loss, Nigel rose and followed Alleyn and the usher up the aisle, into the foyer, and out by a sort of office to the stage door alley. No one spoke until then, when the usher said:
“It’s terrible, sir — it’s terrible.”
“Quite,” said Alleyn coldly. “I know.”
“Did you guess, sir? Have they all guessed?”
“I don’t think so. Is someone going to ask for a doctor? Not that there’s any hurry for that.”
“My Gawd, sir, is he dead?”
“Of course he’s dead.”
As they approached the stage door old Blair came running out, wringing his hands.
Alleyn walked past him, followed by Nigel. A man in a dinner jacket, his face very white, came down the passage.
“Inspector Alleyn?” he said.
“Here,” said Alleyn. “Is the curtain down?”
“I don’t think so. Shall I go out in front and ask for a doctor? We didn’t realize. I didn’t stop the show. Nobody realized — they don’t know in front — I don’t think they know in front. He said we ought to send for you,” the man gabbled on madly. They reached the wings just as the curtain came down; Stephanie Vaughan and Gardener were still on the stage. The applause from the auditorium broke like a storm of hail. Simpson, the stage manager, darted out of the prompt corner. As soon as the fringe of the curtain touched the stage Miss Vaughan screamed and hurled her arms round Gardener’s neck. Simpson held back the curtain, looking with horror at Surbonadier, who lay close to his feet. The man in evening dress, who was the business manager, stepped through. The orchestra blared out the first note of the National Anthem, but the man must have held up his hand or spoken to them, because the noise of the one note petered out foolishly. On the stage they heard the business manager speaking to the audience.
“If there is a doctor in front, will he kindly come round to the stage door? Thank you.”
The orchestra again struck up the National Anthem. Behind the curtain Alleyn spoke to Simpson.
“Go to the street door and stop anyone from leaving. No one is to go out. You understand? Bathgate, find a telephone and get the Yard. Tell them from me what has happened and ask them to send the usual people. Say I’ll want constables.” He turned to the business manager, who had come through the curtain. “Show Mr. Bathgate the way to the nearest telephone and then come back here.” He knelt down by Surbonadier.
The business manager glanced at Nigel.
“Where’s a telephone?” asked Nigel.
“Yes, of course,” said the business manager. “I’ll show you.”
They went together through a door in the proscenium that led to the auditorium, almost colliding with a tall man in a tail coat
“I’m the doctor,” he said. “What’s it all about?”
“On the stage,” said Nigel, “if you’ll go through.” The doctor glanced at him and went on to the stage.
In the auditorium the last stragglers were still finding their way out. Some women with their heads together stood with bundles of dust sheets in their arms.
“Get on with your work,” said the business manager savagely. “My name’s Stavely, Mr. — Mr. —”