They returned to the theatre. Once again inside the building, Chase doffed his warm outer coat and gloves, then made his way to the late Count Hunyadi’s dressing room, where the cadaver of the emigré actor remained, slowly stiffening, before the glaring lights and reflective face of his makeup mirror. Irony tingeing his voice, Chase purred, “You will note that the late Count casts a distinct reflection in his looking glass. Hardly proper conduct for one of the undead.” He bent to examine the cadaver once more, peering first at one side of Hunyadi’s neck, then at the other.
Chase whirled. “Was he left-handed?”
Walter Quince, standing uneasily in the doorway, swallowed audibly. “I – I think so. He, ah, remarked something about it, I recall.”
Abel Chase placed the heels of his hands on the sides of Hunyadi’s head and moved it carefully to an upright position. He made a self-satisfied sound. “There is some stiffness here, but as yet very little. He is recently dead. Delacroix, look at this. Clel, you also.”
As they obeyed he lowered Hunyadi’s head carefully to his right shoulder, exposing the left side of his neck to view above the high, stiff collar of his costume shirt.
“What do you see?” Chase demanded.
“Two red marks.” Captain Cleland Baxter, having moved forward in his rolling, uneven gait, now leaned over to study the unmoving Hunyadi’s neck. “He played a vampire,” the police captain muttered, “and he carries the marks of the vampire. Good God! In this Year of Our Lord 1931 – it’s impossible.”
“No, my friend. Not impossible,” Chase responded. “Supernatural? That I doubt. But impossible? No.” He shook his head.
Claire Delacroix scanned the dressing room, her dark, intelligent eyes flashing from object to object. Sensing that the attention of the theatre manager was concentrated on her, she turned her gaze on him. “Mr Quince, the programme for tonight’s performance includes a biography of each actor, is that not correct?” When Quince nodded in the affirmative, she requested a copy and received it.
She scanned the pages, touching Abel Chase lightly on the elbow and bringing to his attention several items in the glossy booklet. Chase’s dark head and Claire Delacroix’s platinum tresses nearly touched as they conferred.
Chase frowned at Walter Quince. “This biography of Mr Hunyadi makes no mention of a wife.”
“Imre Hunyadi is – was – unmarried at the time of…” He inclined his own head toward the body.
“Yes, his demise,” Chase furnished.
Quince resumed. “Theatrical biographies seldom mention former spouses.”
“But gossip is common within the theatrical community, is it not?”
“Yes.” There was an uncomfortable pause. Then Quince added, “I believe he was married twice. The first time in his native Hungary. To one Elena Kadar.”
“Yes, I have heard of her,” Chase furnished. “A brilliant woman, sometimes called the Hungarian Madame Curie. She was engaged for some years in medical research, in the field of anesthesiology. I’ve read several of her papers. Apparently she treated Habsburg soldiers who had been wounded in the Great War and was greatly moved by their suffering. Hence the direction of her experiments. She ended her life a suicide. A tragic loss.”
“Ach, Major, Major, you know everything, don’t you?” Captain Baxter exclaimed.
“Not quite,” Chase demurred. Then, “Under what circumstances, Quince, was the Hunyadi marriage dissolved?”
The theatre manager reddened, indicating with a minute nod of his head toward Claire Delacroix that he was reluctant to speak of the matter in the presence of a female.
“Really,” Claire Delacroix said, “I know something of the world, Mr Quince. Speak freely, please.”
“Very well.” The manager took a moment to compose himself. Then he said, “Some years before the Great War, Mr Hunyadi travelled to America as a member of a theatrical troupe. Magyar Arte, I believe they were called. They performed plays in their native language for audiences of immigrants. While touring, Hunyadi took up with his Hungarian leading lady. A few years later they moved to Hollywood to pursue careers in motion pictures. The woman’s name was-” He looked around furtively, then mentioned the name of a popular film actress.
“They had one of those glittering Hollywood weddings,” he added.
“With no thought of a wife still in Hungary?” Claire Delacroix inquired.
Quince shook his head. “None. Count Hunyadi made several successful silents, but when talkies came in, well, his accent, you see… There are just so many roles for European noblemen. Word within our community was that he had become a dope fiend for a time. He was hospitalized, then released, and was hoping to revive his career with a successful stage tour.”
“Yes, there were rumours of his drug habit,” Captain Baxter put in. “We were alerted down at the Hall of Justice.”
Abel Chase looked around. “What of-” He named the actress who had been Imre Hunyadi’s second wife.
“When her earnings exceeded his own, Count Hunyadi spent her fortune on high living, fast companions and powerful motor cars. When she cut him off and demanded that he look for other work, he brought a lawsuit against her, which failed, but which led to a nasty divorce.”
“Tell me about the other members of the cast.”
“You’re thinking that his understudy might have done him in?” Baxter asked. “That Winkle fellow?”
“Entirely possible,” Chase admitted. “But a premature inference, Clel. Who are the others?”
“Timothy Rodgers, Philo Jenkins,” Quince supplied. “Estelle Miller and Jeanette Stallings, the two female leads – Lucy and Mina. And of course Samuel Pollard – Van Helsing.”
“Yes.” Abel Chase stroked his moustache thoughtfully as he examined the printed programme. “Captain Baxter, I noticed that Sergeant Costello is here tonight. A good man. Have him conduct a search of this room. And have Officer Murray assist him. And see to it that the rest of the theatre is searched as well. I shall require a thorough examination of the premises. While your men perform those tasks I shall question the male cast members. Miss Delacroix will examine the females.”
Baxter said, “Yes, Major. And – is it all right to phone for the dead wagon? Count Hunyadi has to get to the morgue, don’t you know, sir.”
“Not yet, Clel. Miss Delacroix is the possessor of a medical education. Although she seldom uses the honourific, she is entitled to be called doctor. I wish her to examine the remains before they are removed.”
“As you wish, Major.”
Chase nodded, pursing his lips. “Delacroix, have a look before you question the women of the cast, will you. And, Quince, gather these persons, Rodgers, Pollard, Winkle, and Jennings for me. And you’d better include the director, as well, Garrison.”
Claire Delacroix conscientiously checked Hunyadi for tell-tale signs, seeking to determine the cause of the Hungarian’s death. She conducted herself with a professional calm. At length she looked up from the remains and nodded. “It is clear that the immediate cause of Count Hunyadi’s death is heart failure.” She looked from one to another of the men in the dressing room. “The puzzle is, for what reason did his heart fail? I can find no overt cause. The death might have been natural, of course. But I will wish to examine the marks on his neck. Definitely, I will wish to examine those marks.”
“I think they’re a mere theatrical affectation,” Walter Quince offered.
“That may be the case,” Claire Delacroix conceded, “but I would not take that for granted. Then -” she addressed herself to Captain Baxter “- I would urge you to summon the coroner’s ambulance and have the remains removed for an autopsy at the earliest possible moment.”