The seventh shot A detective story
Though Barrison said nothing in reply, he privately agreed with the
playwright. Nothing very startling had happened, to be sure, yet he was
acutely conscious of something threatening or at least electric in the
air—a tension made up of a dozen small trifles which might or might not
be important. It would be difficult to analyze the impression made upon
him, but he would have had to be much less susceptible to atmosphere
than he was not to have felt that the actors in this new production
were playing parts other than those given them by Carlton, and that
they stood in rather singular and interesting relation to each other.
Mortimer infatuated with Sybil Merivale; Kitty Legaye, he strongly
suspected, in love with Mortimer; Crane wildly and youthfully jealous;
Miss Templeton in the dangerous mood of a woman scorned and an actress
supplanted! It looked like the makings of a very neat little drama, as
John Carlton had had the wit to see.
Barrison, however, was still inclined to look upon the whole affair as
something of a farce; it was diverting, but not absorbing. There was
nothing about it, as yet, to quicken his professional interest. He did,
to be sure, recall Grace Templeton’s wicked look in the restaurant,
and had a passing doubt as to what she was likely to do next; but he
brushed it away lightly enough, reminding himself that players were
emotional creatures and that they probably took it out in intensity
of temperament—and temper! They were not nearly so likely actually to
commit any desperate deeds as those who outwardly or habitually were
more calm and conservative.
But something happened at the stage door which disturbed this viewpoint.
When they crossed the stage the company was scattering right and left.
Miss Legaye was just departing, looking manifestly out of sorts; Sybil
and young Crane were talking together with radiant faces and evident
oblivion of their whereabouts; Mortimer was nowhere to be seen. Carlton
had stopped to speak to Willie Coster, so Barrison made his way out
alone.
He found Dukane standing by the “cage” occupied by the doorkeeper,
with an envelope in his hand.
“When did this come, Roberts?” he said.
“About twenty minutes ago, sir. You told me not to interrupt
rehearsals, and the boy said there was no answer.”
“A messenger boy?”
“No, sir—just a ragamuffin. Looked like he might be a newsboy, sir.”
Dukane stood looking at the envelope a moment in silence; then he
turned to Barrison with a smile.
“Funny thing, psychology!” he said. “I haven’t a reason on earth for
supposing this to be any more important than any of the rest of Alan
Mortimer’s notes—the saints know he gets enough of them!—and yet I have
a feeling in my bones that there’s something quite unpleasant inside
this envelope. Here, Mortimer, a note for you.”
The actor came around the corner from a corridor leading past a row of
dressing rooms, and they could see him thrust something into his coat
pocket.
“Went to his dressing room for a drink,” said Barrison to himself.
Indeed, he thought he could see the silver top of a protruding flask.
“Note for me? Let’s have it.”
He took it, stared at the superscription with a growing frown, and then
crumpled it up without opening it.
“Wrenn!” he exclaimed in a tone of ungoverned rage. “Where’s Wrenn? Did
he bring me this?”
“Wrenn?” repeated Dukane, surprised. “You mean your valet? Why, no; he
isn’t here. A boy brought it. Why don’t you read it? You don’t seem to
like the handwriting.”
With a muttered oath, the actor tore open the envelope and read what
was written on the inclosed sheet of paper. Then, with a face convulsed
and distorted with fury, he flung it from him as he might have flung a
scorpion that had tried to bite him.
“Threats!” he exclaimed savagely. “Threats! May Heaven curse any one
who threatens me! Threats!”
He seemed incapable of further articulation, and strode past them out
of the stage door. Barrison could see that he was the type of man
who can become literally blind and dazed with anger. Mentally the
detective decided that such uncontrolled and elemental temperaments
belonged properly behind bars; certainly they had no place in a world
of convention and self-restraint.
Quietly Dukane picked up both letter and envelope, and, after reading
what was written on them, passed them to Barrison.
“When I have a lunatic to dry nurse,” he observed grimly, “I have no
scruples in examining the stuff that is put in his feeding bottles.
Take a look at this communication, Barrison. I’ll admit I’m glad that
I don’t get such things myself.”
Jim glanced down the page of letter paper. On it, in scrawling
handwriting, was written:
You cannot always escape the consequences of your wickedness and
cruelty—don’t think it! Just now your future looks bright and
successful, but you cannot be sure. You are about to open in a new
play, and you expect to win fame and riches. But God does not forget,
though He seems to. God does punish people, even at the last moment.
I should think you would be afraid that lightning would strike the
theater, or that a worse fate would overtake you. Remember, Alan, the
wages of sin; remember what they are. Who are you to hope to escape?
I bid you farewell, _until the opening night_!
The last four words were heavily underlined. There was no signature.
“What do you make of it?” asked Dukane.
“It’s from a woman, of course. Quite an ordinary threatening letter. We
handle hundreds of them, and most of them come to nothing at all.”
“Possibly,” said Dukane thoughtfully. “And yet I don’t feel like
ignoring it entirely. Not on Mortimer’s own account, you understand.
He’s not the type of fellow I admire, and I don’t doubt he richly
deserves any punishment that may be in store for him. But he’s my star,
and if anything happens to him I stand to lose more money than I feel
like affording in these hard times.”
“I can have a couple of men detailed to keep an eye on him,” suggested
Barrison.
Dukane shook his head. “He’d find it out and be furious,” he returned.
“Whatever else he is, he’s no coward, and he detests having his
personal affairs interfered with. Hello! What is it you want?”
The thin, gaunt, white-haired man whom he addressed was standing, hat
in hand, in the alley just outside the stage door, and he was evidently
waiting to speak to the manager.
“If you please, sir,” he began, half apologetically, “Mr. Mortimer told
me to——”
“You’re Mortimer’s man, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir; I’m Wrenn. I came down in the car for Mr. Mortimer, sir.
He—he seemed a bit upset-like this morning.” His faded old eyes looked
appealingly at the manager.
“He did,” assented that gentleman dryly. “You take very good care of
Mr. Mortimer, Wrenn,” he added, in a kinder tone. “I’ve often noticed
it.”
“Thank you, sir. I try——”
“He sent you back for something?”
“Yes, sir.” The old servant was clearly anxious and ill at ease, and
the answer came falteringly: “A—a letter, sir, that he forgot——”
Barrison had already thrust that letter into his own pocket. He knew
that Dukane would prefer him not to produce it. As a specimen of
handwriting it was worth keeping, in case of possible emergencies in
the future.
Dukane affected to hunt about on the floor.
“Here is the envelope,” he said, giving it to the valet. “I don’t see
any letter. Mr. Mortimer must have put it in his pocket; indeed, I
think I saw him do so. He seemed a good deal excited, and probably
doesn’t remember.”
“Yes, sir, but——” Wrenn still hesitated.
“That’s all. Go back to your master and say the letter is nowhere to be
found. Tell him I said so.”
“Yes, sir.”
Unwillingly Wrenn walked away.
“A decent old chap,” commented Dukane, looking after him. “I can’t
understand why he sticks to that ill-tempered rake, but he seems
devoted to him.”
They went out together, and saw Wrenn say something at the window of
the great purring limousine that was waiting in the street at the
end of the court. After a minute he got in, and the car moved off
immediately.
“No,” said the manager, as though there had been no interruption to his
talk with Barrison, “I hardly think that we’d better have him shadowed,
even for his own protection. I think that the writer of that note means
to save her—er—sensational effect for the first night, don’t you?”
“Well,” admitted the detective, “it would be like a revengeful woman to
wait until a spectacular occasion of that sort if she meant to start
something. Particularly”—he spoke more slowly—“if she happened to be a
theatrical woman herself.”
“Ah, yes,” said Dukane calmly. “Especially if she happened to be a
theatrical woman herself.”
He was silent for a long minute as they walked toward Broadway. Then,
as he stopped to light a cigar, he said:
“Every woman is a theatrical woman in that sense. My dear fellow,
women are the real dramatists of this world. If a man wants to do a
thing—rob a bank, or elope with his friend’s wife, or commit a murder,
or anything like that—he goes ahead and does it as expeditiously and as
inconspicuously as possible. But a woman invariably wants to set the
stage. A woman must have invented rope ladders, suicide pacts, poisoned
wine cups, and the farewell letter to the husband. Next to staging a
love scene, a woman loves to stage a death scene—whether it’s murder,
suicide, tuberculosis, or a broken heart. Would any man in _Mimi’s_
situation have let himself be _dragged_ back to die in the arms of his
lost love? Hardly! He’d crawl into a hole or go to a hospital.”
“It was a man who wrote the story of _Mimi_,” Barrison reminded him.
“A man who, being French, knew all about women. Yes, I think we can
safely leave our precautions until September the fifteenth. Just the
same, Barrison, I shall be just as well pleased if you’ll manage to
drop in at rehearsals fairly often during the next fortnight. There
might be developments. I’ll leave word with Roberts in the morning that
you are to come in when you like.”
Barrison promised, and left him at the corner of Broadway.
As he walked back to his own rooms, Dukane’s words lingered in his
memory:
“Women are the real dramatists of this world!”
He thought of the same phrase that evening when, while he was in the
middle of his after-dinner brandy and cigar, his Japanese servant
announced:
“A lady on business. Very important.”
Barrison started up, hardly able to believe his eyes. The woman who
stood at his door was Miss Templeton!
CHAPTER V
MISS TEMPLETON
She was in full evening dress, with her splendid shoulders and arms
bare, and her brilliant hair uncovered and elaborately dressed. Her
tightly clinging gown was black, embroidered in an orchid design of
rose color and gold. A long black lace scarf, thrown over one arm, was
her only apology for a wrap. She was just then, as Barrison was obliged
to confess to himself, one of the handsomest women he had ever seen in
his life. He realized now that she was younger than he had thought.
Also she looked far less artificial and flamboyant than she had looked
at luncheon. Jim’s orange-shaded reading lamp was kinder to her than
that intrusively glaring sunbeam had been. There was even a softness
and a dignity about her, he thought. Perhaps, though, it was merely a
pose, put on for the occasion as she had put on her dinner dress.
Moving slowly and with a very real grace, she came a few steps into the
room and inclined her handsome head very slightly.
“Mr. Barrison?”
He bowed and drew a high-backed, brocaded chair into a more inviting
position. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you. I am Grace Templeton.”
“I know,” he said, smiling courteously. “I feel enormously honored.”