Extreme, wholly male beauty is not a commonplace phenomenon. Marcus Knight possessed it to a generous degree. His oval face, with its subtly turned planes, his delicate nose, slightly tilted eyes and glossy hair might have been dreamed up by an artist of the Renaissance or indeed by the unknown painter of that unknown man whom many observers call the Grafton Shakespeare. He had the bodily harmony that declares itself through its covering and he moved like a panther. How old was he? Middle thirties? Younger? Forty, perhaps? It didn’t matter.
Alleyn led him cautiously by way of his own exquisite performance to the work of his fellow players. He uncovered a completely egotistic but shrewd appreciation of the play and a raw patch of professional jealousy when the work of his associates, particularly of Harry Grove, came into question. Grove’s Mr. W.H., it seemed, was not a true reading. It was showy. It was vulgar. It was even rather camp, said Marcus Knight.
Alleyn spoke of the theft of the glove and documents. Knight rejoiced that they had been recovered. He gazed with passionate concern at Alleyn. Was it certain they were uninjured? Was it quite, quite certain? Alleyn said it was and began to talk of their unequalled worth. Knight nodded several times very slowly in that larger-than-life manner that Alleyn associated with persons of his profession. It was more like a series of bows.
“Unique,” he said, on two mellifluous notes. “U-nique!”
Alleyn wondered what he would say if he knew of Jeremy’s substitution.
“Well,” he said lightly. “At least Mr. Conducis and the American purchaser can breathe again. I can’t help wondering who she may be.”
“She?”
“Now, why did I say ‘she’?” Alleyn ejaculated. “I suppose I must have been thinking of Mrs. Constantia Guzmann?”
It was formidable to see how rapidly, with what virtuosity, Knight changed colour from deepest plum to parchment and back again. He drew his brows together. He retracted his upper lip. It crossed Alleyn’s mind that it was a pity the role of William Shakespeare didn’t offer an opportunity for a display of these physical demonstrations of fury.
“What,” he asked, rising and looming over Alleyn, “has that person—Grove—said to you? I demand an answer. What has he said?”
“About Mrs. Constantia Guzmann, do you mean? Nothing. Why?”
“You lie!”
“I don’t, you know,” Alleyn said composedly. “Grove didn’t mention her to me. Really. She’s an extremely well-known collector. What’s the matter?”
Knight glowered at him in silence for some time. Fox cleared his throat
“Do you swear,” Knight began in the lowest register of his voice, building up a crescendo as he went on. “Do you swear the name of Guzmann has not — ah — has not been — ah — mentioned to you in connection with My Own. Here in this room. Today. Do you swear to this? Hah?”
“No, I don’t do that, either. It has.”
“All!” he bellowed suddenly. “The lot. The whole pack of them! He’s lunched and bloody dined on it. Don’t attempt to contradict me. He’s betrayed a deeply, deeply regretted confidence. A moment of weakness. On my part. Before I knew him for what he is: a false, false man.” He pointed at Alleyn. “Has he—has he told—her? Miss Meade? Destiny? You need not answer. I see it in your face. He has.”
“I’ve not spoken with Miss Meade,” Alleyn said.
“They’ve laughed together,” he roared. “At Me!”
“Perfectly maddening for you if they have,” Alleyn said, “but, if you’ll forgive me, it isn’t, as far as I know, entirely relevant to the business under discussion.”
“Yes, it is,” Knight passionately contradicted. “By God it is and I’ll tell you why. I’ve put a restraint upon myself. I have not allowed myself to speak about this man. I have been scrupulous lest I should be thought biased. But now — now! I tell you this and I speak from absolute conviction: if, as you hold, that appalling boy is not guilty and recovers his wits, and if he was attacked by the man who killed Jobbins, and if he remembers who attacked him, it will be at W. Hartly Grove he points his finger. Now!”
Alleyn, who had seen this pronouncement blowing up for the past five minutes, allowed himself as many seconds in which to be dumbfounded and then asked Marcus if he had any reasons, other, he hastily added, than those already adduced, for making this statement about Harry Grove. Nothing very specific emerged. There were dark and vague allusions to reputation and an ambiguous past. As his temper abated, and it did seem to abate gradually, Knight appeared to lose the fine edge of his argument. He talked of Trevor Vere and said he couldn’t understand why Alleyn dismissed the possibility that the boy had been caught out by Jobbins, overturned the dolphin and then run so fast down the circle aisle that he couldn’t prevent himself diving over the balustrade. Alleyn once again advanced the logical arguments against this theory.
“And there’s no possibility of some member of the public’s having hidden during performance?”
“Jay assures me not. A thorough routine search is made and the staff on both sides of the curtain confirm this. This is virtually a ‘new’ theatre. There are no stacks of scenery or properties or neglected hiding places.”
“You are saying,” said Knight, beginning portentously to nod again, “that this thing must have been done by One of Us.”
“That’s how it looks.”
“I am faced,” Knight said, “with a frightful dilemma.” He immediately became a man faced with a frightful dilemma and looked quite haggard. “Alleyn: what can one do? Idle for me to pretend I don’t feel as I do about this man. I know him to be a worthless, despicable person. I know him—”
“One moment. This is still Harry Grove?”
“Yes.” (Several nods.) “Yes. I am aware that the personal injuries he has inflicted upon me must be thought to prejudice my opinion.”
“I assure you—”
“And I am assuring you—oh with such deadly certainty—that there is only one among us who is capable of the crime.”
He gazed fixedly into Alleyn’s face. “I studied physiognomy,” he surprisingly said. “When I was in New York”—for a moment he looked hideously put out but instantly recovered—“I met a most distinguished authority—Earl P. Van Smidt—and I became seriously interested in the science. I have studied and observed and I have proved, my conclusions. Over and again. I have completely satisfied myself—but com-pletely—that when you see a pair of unusually round eyes, rather wide apart, very light blue and without depth—look out. Look out!” he repeated and flung himself into the chair he had vacated.
“What for?” Alleyn inquired.
“Treachery. Shiftiness. Utter unscrupulousness. Complete lack of ethical values. I quote from Van Smidt.”
“Dear me.”
“As for Conducis! But no matter. No matter.”
“Do you discover the same traits in Mr. Conducis?”
“I — I — am not familiar with Mr. Conducis.”
“You have met him, surely?”
“Formal meeting. On the opening night.”
“But never before that?”
“I may have done so. Years ago. I prefer—” Knight said surprisingly—“to forget the occurrence.” He swept it away.
“May I ask why?”
There was an appreciable pause before he said: “I was once his guest, if you can call it that, and I was subjected to an insolent disregard which I would have interpreted more readily if I had at that time been acquainted with Smidt. In my opinion,” Knight said, “Smidt should be compulsory reading for all police forces. You don’t mind my saying this?” he added in a casual, lordly manner.