The seventh shot A detective story
too—er—sophisticated to play _Lucille_. She is growing out of those
very girlish leading parts.”
“Why don’t you say,” interposed Kitty sharply, “that she’s too old? She
is—and, what’s more, she looks it!”
“She’s a ripping handsome woman, all the same,” declared Alan Mortimer,
scowling into his half-emptied glass.
Kitty bit her lip. “Of course _you_ would be sorry to see her go!” she
began.
“Who said I was sorry?” demanded the actor rather rudely. “I am not;
I’m glad. She was getting to be a nuisance——” He checked himself, a
glimmer of something like shame saving him in time. He turned to Sybil
Merivale, and there was a warm light in his black eyes as he added:
“I’m growing more glad every minute.”
Sybil was uncomfortable. She hated this man and feared him; she hated
the tone of the talk, the atmosphere of the table. She had a violent
instinct of repugnance when she thought of joining the company. And
yet—and yet a leading part, and on Broadway, and under Dukane! She
could not, she dared not lose so wonderful a chance. Her big blue eyes
were eager and troubled both at once.
Dukane watched the play of expression in her sensitive face. “Mobile
mouth—quick emotions—excellent eyes.” He went over these assets
mentally. Aloud he said, in the nice, impersonally friendly tone with
which he won people whenever he had the fancy: “You need only read the
part, you know, Miss Merivale. You’re not committed to anything.”
Sybil looked at him gratefully; he seemed to read her thoughts. All at
once, with a surge back of her usual gay courage, she cried, laughing:
“Committed! I only wish I were—or, rather, that _you_ were, Mr. Dukane!”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Mortimer, a little thickly. “’Course he’s
committed! You’re under contract, Miss—Miss M-Merivale. Word as good as
his bond—eh, Dukane?”
He was deeply flushed and his eyes glittered. In his excitement Sybil
found him detestable. Fancy having to play opposite that!
“Suppose you eat something,” suggested Dukane, pushing a plate with a
piece of cold beef on it in his direction. “Oh, yes, you do want it;
you’ve had a hard morning. Eat it, there’s a good fellow.”
“A-all right,” muttered Mortimer, attacking the beef somewhat
unsteadily. “Must keep up m’ strength, I s’pose.”
A waiter leaned down to him and murmured something in French.
“Eh?” said Mortimer. “Come again, George. Try Spanish; I know the
greaser lingo a bit.”
The waiter spoke again in halting English. The others could hardly help
hearing part of what he said. It concerned a “lady in mauve—table by
the window—just a minute, monsieur.”
“Oh, damn!” ejaculated Alan Mortimer, and immediately directed an
apologetic murmur toward Sybil. He got up, and walking with surprising
steadiness and that lithe, animal grace so characteristic of him, made
his way toward a table where a woman sat waiting with an expectant face.
“Grace Templeton!” exclaimed Kitty under her breath. Her brown eyes
snapped angrily. “I didn’t see her before—did you, Mr. Dukane?”
“I saw her when I first came in,” answered the manager quietly. “That
hair is so conspicuous. Really I think she should begin to confine
herself to adventuress parts. She is no longer the romantic type.”
“_And_ the dress!” Kitty shivered with a delicate suggestion of jarred
nerves or outraged taste.
Dukane dropped his eyes to hide the twinkle in them. It was true
that even in that lunch-time Broadway assemblage, in which brilliant
color combinations in the way both of hair and of garments proclaimed
right and left the daring and the resourcefulness of womankind, Miss
Templeton was a unique figure. Her hair was of a magnificent metallic
gold, and a certain smoldering fire in her black-fringed gray eyes
and a general impression she gave of violent and but half-controlled
emotions saved her beauty from being merely cheap and artificial and
made it vivid and compelling. A passionate, unforgettable woman, and her
gown, sensational as it was, somehow expressed her.
The French waiter had drawn upon his fund of native tact in calling it
mauve. It was, as a matter of fact, a sharp and thunderous purple—the
sort of color which is only permissible in stained glass or an
illuminated tenth century missal. It was a superb shade, but utterly
impossible for any sort of modern clothes. It blazed insolently against
the massed greenery of the restaurant window. A persistent ray of
yellow August sunshine, pushing its way past the cunningly contrived
leafy screen, fell full upon it and upon the burnished golden hair
above it. In that celestial spotlight Miss Templeton was almost too
dazzling for unshaded mortal eyes.
Now, as she sat looking up at Mortimer, who stood beside her table, her
expression was in keeping with the gown and the hair. It was violent,
conspicuous, crudely intense. Alan Mortimer’s expression, in its
way, was as violent as hers. They looked, the two of them, as though
they could have torn each other’s eyes out with fierce and complete
satisfaction.
“Am I very late, Mr. Dukane?” said an agreeably pitched voice just
behind Sybil.
Dukane started and raised his eyes. His face brightened.
“Barrison, my dear fellow, I am glad you came! Do you know, you were so
late that I had almost forgotten you! Miss Legaye, let me present Mr.
Barrison; Miss Merivale, Mr. Barrison.”
The newcomer smiled and sat down at the already crowded little table.
“If you say you had forgotten me,” he protested, “I shall think you did
not really need me at all, and that would be a hard blow to my vanity.”
“Nonsense!” said Dukane. “Nothing could touch the vanity of a
dyed-in-the-wool detective. What are you going to have, Barrison?”
“I have lunched, thanks. If that is coffee—yes, I will have a
demi-tasse. I thought Mr. Mortimer was to be with you, Mr. Dukane.”
“He is talking to Miss Templeton over there.”
Barrison’s eyes darted quickly to the other table. “Your leading woman,
is she not?”
“She was,” said Dukane calmly. “At present we are not sure whether we
have any leading woman or not—are we, Miss Merivale?” And he looked at
her kindly.
“And, what is more,” said Kitty Legaye irritably, “we shall never find
out at this rate. Do you people realize”—she glanced at a tiny gold
wrist watch—“that it is nearly two, and that our rehearsal——”
“Nearly two!” Sybil’s exclamation was one of real dismay. “And my
engagement with Mr. Altheimer——Oh!”
“Altheimer, eh?” Dukane looked at her with fresh interest. Whether a
manager wants an actress or not, it always makes him prick up his ears
to hear of another who may want her. “Telephone him that you have been
asked to rehearse for me to-day, and that”—he paused, considering—“that
you personally look upon your contract as very nearly signed.”
“Oh, Mr. Dukane!” Sybil flushed brilliantly. At that moment she forgot
her dread of being in Mortimer’s company; she was conscious of pure joy
and of nothing else.
“There—run along and phone him. You understand,” he added cautiously,
“I’m not really dependable. If you are very bad, I shall say I never
thought of engaging you.”
“I won’t be,” she laughed valiantly, and sped away in the direction of
the telephone booths.
Dukane turned to watch the way she walked. In a second he nodded. “Can
hurry without scampering,” he murmured critically, “and doesn’t swing
her arms about. H’m! Yes, yes; very good.”
“What do you really think of her?” asked Kitty, leaning forward. “You
know she is my discovery.”
“My dear girl, who am I, a mere worm of a manager, to say? I haven’t
seen her work yet. She has carriage and a voice, but she may lose
her head on the stage and she may read _Lucille_ as though she were
reciting the multiplication table. I should say she was intelligent,
but one never knows. I engaged a woman once who was all dignity and
fine forehead and bumps of perception and the manner born and all the
rest of it; and when it came to her big scene, she chewed gum and
giggled. I am too old ever to know anything definitely. We must wait
and see.”
“She is charming to look at,” Barrison ventured.
“Ah, you think so?” said the manager quickly. “I am inclined to like
her looks myself. And she has youth—youth!” He shook his head half
wistfully. “Here comes Mortimer back again, and in a worse temper, by
the powers, than when he went!”
The actor was evidently in a black mood. He made no reference to the
woman he had just left, but stood like an incarnate thundercloud beside
his empty chair and addressed the others in a voice that was distinctly
surly in spite of its naturally melodious inflections:
“What are we waiting for, anyway? Hello, Barrison! Let’s get back to
rehearsal.”
“My own idea exactly,” said Dukane. “As soon as Miss Merivale
returns——Ah, here she comes! Waiter——”
“This is my party,” remonstrated Kitty.
“Rubbish! I feed my flock. Barrison, you are of the flock, too, for the
occasion. How do you like being associated with the profession?”
The young detective laughed. Dukane looked at him with friendliness.
The manager was a man who liked excellence of all kinds, even when
it was out of his line. Barrison’s connection with the forthcoming
play, “Boots and Saddles,” was a purely technical one. A vital point
in the drama was the identification of a young soldier by his finger
prints. Dukane never permitted the critics, professional or amateur, to
catch him at a disadvantage in details of this kind. He knew Barrison
slightly, having met him at the Lambs’ Club, and found him an agreeable
fellow and a gentleman, as well as an acknowledged expert in his
profession. So he had asked him to show the exact Bertillon procedure,
that there might be no awkwardness or crudity in the development of the
stage situation.
Barrison himself was much entertained by this fleeting association with
the seductive and mysterious world “behind the scenes.” His busy life
left him small time for amusement, and for that reason he was the more
interested when he came upon a bit of professional work which was two
thirds play.
He was a quiet-seeming chap, with innocent blue eyes, a lazy, pleasant
manner, and a very disconcerting speed of action on occasion. His
superiors said that half of his undoubted success came from his
unexpectedness. It is certain that no one, on meeting him casually
and socially, would ever have suspected that he was one of the most
redoubtable, keen-brained, and steel-nerved detectives in all New York.
The bill was paid, and every one was standing as Sybil came back. She
was a little breathless and flushed, and Dukane, with a new note of
approbation on his mental tablets, got a very good idea of what she
would look like with a bit of make-up.
“I told Mr. Altheimer,” she cried eagerly. “And he was quite cross—yes,
really _quite_ cross! I was ever so flattered. I don’t believe he
wanted me one bit till he thought there was a chance of Mr. Dukane’s
wanting me.” She laughed joyously.
“Very likely, very likely,” Dukane murmured. “Why—what is the matter,
Miss Merivale?”
For the pretty color had faded from Sybil’s sensitive face. Her big
blue eyes looked suddenly dark and distressed. “What is the matter?”
the manager repeated, watching her closely.
She pulled herself together and managed a tremulous smile.
“Some one is walking over my grave,” she said lightly.
But as she turned to leave the dining room with the rest, she could not
help another backward glance at the brilliant figure in purple with the
golden sunbeam across her golden hair, and the odd look which had just
terrified her.
Barrison, accustomed to noticing everything, followed her gaze, and,
seeing the expression on Miss Templeton’s face, drew his lips into a
noiseless whistle. For there was murder in that look; Jim Barrison had