“Eigh?”
Carstairs looked across at Pons with a worried frown.
“I do not quite understand, Mr Pons.”
“It is perfectly simple. Everything that I have so far learned leads me in one direction only. Toward a crystal-clear mind which is calculatedly plotting revenge.”
There was an ugly silence and our host stared at Pons, his open mouth a round, blank O in his face.
“You know who is responsible, Mr Pons?”
The question came from the secretary, whose eyes were fixed intently on my companion’s face.
Solar Pons shook his head, a faint smile in his lips.
“Not yet, Mr Abrahams. But I have some indications. I would prefer to say nothing more at this stage.”
“What are your plans, Mr Pons?”
Pons turned toward Carstairs.
“I shall return to London tomorrow afternoon, Mr Carstairs. I have learned enough here for the moment and I am convinced you are in no current danger. If the actions of your unknown persecutor run true to form, he will strike on the opening night of the new play.”
The famous actor looked disappointed and sat frowning into his liqueur glass. Pons noticed his downcast mood and rose from his seat.
“I shall not be far away, Mr Carstairs, and you can reach me in a moment by telephone. I will be at the theatre as soon as you begin rehearsals, and we will make plans.”
Our client got up too and clasped my friend’s hand impulsively.
“You are right, of course, Mr Pons. You could do little by hanging about here, though I must say I derive a good deal of comfort from your presence and that of Dr Parker. In the meantime, what do you wish me to do?”
“Report to me immediately you see anyone — friend or stranger — acting suspiciously about this estate. Be on your guard and impress in your servants the importance of securing the premises properly at night.”
He raised his hand at the expression of alarm on our client’s face.
“It is not that I fear anything specific, Mr Carstairs: it is just that we must be constantly on our guard. For example, if a message were to appear mysteriously on your desk one morning, it would be important to know how it had arrived. Securing the property would narrow down the field for speculation.”
“I see, Mr Pons.”
Relief was evident on Carstairs’ face.
“Anything else?”
“Let me know as soon as you are due in London to begin rehearsals. I will meet you at the theatre. I wish to mingle unobtrusively with the company and the backstage staff. Can that be arranged?”
“Certainly, Mr Pons. You prefer to be incognito?”
“That would be best. You may merely introduce me as Mr Smith, a friend who is obsessed with the glamour of the theatre. I shall be able to gain a good deal of background information in this manner long before the play opens.” Carstairs smiled.
“I see, Mr Pons. It shall be as you wish. Abrahams will keep you fully informed.” “Excellent. And now, I am feeling a little fatigued and the hour is late. We will just pay our respects to our hostess and then retire. Come, Parker.”
4
“I have just received a message from Carstairs, Parker. The company begins rehearsals for Death Comes to Thornfield at the Negresco this afternoon. Are you free?”
“I can make myself so, Pons.”
“Excellent, my dear fellow. In that case I should be glad of your company.”
A week had gone by since our visit to the actor’s home, and though it was now the end of January the bitter weather continued. But snow had held off. Pons had had much to occupy him during the past few days and having concluded some loose ends which had been fretting him in the Alcover swindle case, had now turned his attention back to Carstairs’ affairs.
If had chafed him that there should be such a delay but there was nothing to be done and it seemed obvious, even to me, that little else could happen until the actor’s latest play was put into production, if the pattern evolved by the secret persecutor continued in the same fashion.
We left our comfortable quarters at 7B Praed Street, and it was just three o’clock when we arrived at the Negresco, a palatial gilt rococo edifice in a narrow street near Shaftesbury Avenue. Carstairs himself was in the foyer to greet us and introduced us to Ayres, his business manager, a tall, sardonic man with greying hair. Abrahams was there, standing a little in the background, but he nodded agreeably enough and the statuesque figure of Miss Stillwood came forward briskly to shake our hands.
The rest of the company was already back-stage and the house-lights were on as we hurried down the central gangway of the theatre at the heels of the actor’s party. The curtain was up and a motley-looking crowd of people in ordinary clothes stood about languidly or sat sprawled in chairs on an opulent set with French windows, which represented the drawing-room of a large country house. I saw with amusement that the lay-out was extremely similar to that of the drawing-room of Carstairs’ own Surrey home and the fact was obviously not lost on Pons.
The actor looked back over his shoulder and seemed to read my companion’s thought.
“Appears familiar, does it not, Mr Pons? We have to do this or my wife would not know where she was.”
I saw a momentary expression of irritation pass across the mobile features of Sandra Stillwood and put it down to her husband’s remark but I then noticed that the tall, regal form of Dolly Richmond was standing in the centre of the stage, waiting for our party to come up.
I had never seen a professional play in production before and the next two hours passed in a blur. What seemed chaotic to me seemed natural to Carstairs and his company and in an astonishingly short space of time, the players were reading their lines, the producer was lounging in a front-row seat shouting instructions and exhortations to humbler members of the cast and Carstairs, Miss Stillwood and Miss Richmond were engaged in more dignified conferences with the producer and the play’s backer.
Pons had watched all this for half an hour or so, chuckling now and again at particular pieces of business, but I had noted his deep, piercing eyes raking all round the theatre. Later, I became dimly aware that he had disappeared and when I glanced back saw that his seat was empty. From far off came the hammer of carpenters and all the bustle of a great theatre and I imagined him prowling restlessly about backstage.
I thought it best to remain where I was. as I should otherwise only disturb him, and in mid-afternoon saw his lean form in a stage box looking down somewhat sardonically upon the scene of turmoil below. The play, as our client had hinted, was an exciting affair and I noticed a sort of tension which seemed to grip the cast as they approached the climactic scene in the last act in which Carstairs met his end in the dramatic death which gave the play its title.
I noticed a shadow at the corner of my eye and someone sat down on my right. At first I thought it was Pons but immediately picked him out in another stage box, evidently measuring the distance from it to the stage. I saw immediately what he was at and felt relief; the danger to Carstairs, if any. would undoubtedly come from such a box though I had no doubt that the stage management would let them only to persons known to them on the opening night.
I glanced round and saw that it was Ayres, Carstair’s business manager, who leaned across to me, his eyes gleaming.
“It looks as though we shall have a great success here, doctor, does it not?”
I hastened to agree but added a rider to the effect that it all depended on such events as had happened at Liverpool being prevented in future.
Ayres nodded gloomily.
“You’re right there, doctor. It’s a black business. Unfortunately there are only too many people who would like to see Cedric out of it.”