Lear had been a likable fellow, it appeared.
An eccentric, of course! He held himself aloof from the rest of the company; but in this, it seemed, he was not unique among stage celebrities.
It was his habit to appear for a matinée promptly at two o’clock and shut himself away in his dressing room. It was Moore’s habit, promptly at two-thirty o’clock, to knock gently upon the star’s door as an indication that the curtain was rising.
Lear knew the moment of his own entrance to the tick of a clock. He had never before been known to miss his cue.
“Never before having been murdered,” muttered Rainfall to Saxon, with grim humor.
Sometimes, at Moore’s mnemonic tap, Lear would be heard to respond, but the tradition was not established. When, therefore, he had failed to respond upon the afternoon of his death, the stage manager had felt no anxiety. With the advent of the star’s actual cue, however, and still no sign from the dressing room, Moore had become alarmed and had entered the room.
“Mr. Lear,” he said simply, “was seated at his dressing table—dead!”
“You knew at once that he was dead?” Kipp’s innocent query was suave as cream.
“I think I did. There was something about him—”
“You had seen the bodies of dead men before?”
“Only in their coffins,” admitted Moore.
“At any rate, you were sure that Mr. Lear was dead?”
“I was afraid so. It was significant that he had not responded to his cue.”
“You had seen him enter at two o’clock?”
“I saw him when he came in—yes, sir. He seemed to be in the best of health and spirits.”
“And, as usual, he went at once to his dressing room? Quite so! Was he alone?”
“Quite alone.”
“What of his wife? Was it not her custom to arrive with him?”
“We knew nothing about his wife,” answered Moore simply. “I, at least, knew nothing about her until to-day. Miss Carvel—the young lady who appears to have been his wife—used to come to the theater by herself, usually in a taxicab.”
“And you heard no one with him, at any time, after he entered his room?”
“I heard no one at any time.”
“Very well, then. You found him, as you supposed, dead. What did you do then?”
“There was only one thing to do, and I had authority to do it. The curtain was up—the house was waiting. The actors on the stage were stopped in their tracks. Mr. Lear had no permanent understudy. I knew his lines myself but never actually had played the part. For one evening—or two—in case of an ordinary illness, I could have filled in. But if Mr. Lear were really dead—as I feared— you see? Anyway, the curtain had to come down. I ordered it down.”
“Dramatic!” commented Deputy Kipp.
“Dramatic!” wrote each reporter at the press table. Then, having completed a certain number of pages, each handed his copy to a slant-eyed junior, who hurried with it to the nearest telephone.
The coroner’s assistant stroked his curving mustache. His fingers played with a square of white paper on the table. After a moment he lifted the paper with a theatrical gesture and presented it before the actor’s eyes.
“When you entered Mr. Lear’s dressing room, Mr. Moore, immediately before you discovered that he was dead, were you aware of this piece of paper any place within view?”
The stage manager’s reply was prompt. “I was not. It was discovered later—just outside the door.”
“You are quite certain it was not pinned to the door? In your agitation, you might not have noticed it, perhaps. Is it not conceivable that it was dislodged when you opened the door? That it then fluttered to the floor where later it was found? It is not very large, you see. It would have been easy to overlook.”
The stage manager was puzzled. “I suppose it is conceivable,” he admitted. “I have no memory of it.”
The deputy handed the square of paper to the members of the jury. It passed from hand to hand. The jurors gazed upon it owlishly, then owlishly upon the stage manager. In the mind of each was a conviction that Stanley Moore had pinned the paper on the door himself and was now denying it.
“Are you familiar with the handwriting of Mr. Lear?” asked the deputy coroner. “I realize, of course, that the words on this square of paper are printed in ink rather than written; but is there any suggestion of the handwriting of the deceased?”
“None that I can see—no, sir. I suppose he could have written it—printed it—but in that case—”
“Ah, yes! In that case?”
“It would surely have meant that he knew—that he was going to die!”
“Precisely! And suppose he did know he was going to die, or perhaps had some premonition of death, do you think he might then have written— printed—such a note and left it to be found upon the door?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Why, Mr. Moore?”
“In the first place, why should he have printed it? He knew how to write. But he wouldn’t have done it, anyway. If he had thought he was going to die, he would have called for somebody. If he had thought he was seriously ill, he would not have allowed the performance to begin. An actor owes something to his public, and he doesn’t forget it: if he’s any good, he doesn’t. Mr. Lear was one of the best. He would never have let an audience down like that.”
“I see! In your opinion, then, this square of paper was not left in Mr. Lear’s dressing room, or outside Mr. Lear’s dressing room, by Mr. Lear himself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you any idea who else might have done such a thing?”
“I have not.”
“There are, however, jealousies upon the stage, as elsewhere? It is at least conceivable that Mr. Lear had enemies?”
The stage manager shrugged. “I suppose so. But jealousy and enmity aren’t the same thing, Mr. Coroner. A man may be jealous of another man without wanting to kill him. And the man who wrote that thing was advertising—murder!”
“Tut, tut, Mr. Moore! The word murder has not been used. It has not yet been established by this jury how Mr. Lear met his death.”
“It has been pretty well established by the doctors.”
“Still, it is for the jury to decide.”
This was merely one of Kipp’s engaging fictions, since he dictated all decisions himself.
“When two other men meet their death in the same way—” argued Moore, a bit obstinately; but again Deputy Kipp good-humoredly interrupted.
“We are investigating the death of one man only—Patrick Lear, otherwise Stacey. You have been reading the newspapers, Mr. Moore, and forming premature opinions. Let us admit, if you like, that jealousy and enmity are not synonymous. What can you tell us of any jealousies existing among the members of the company headed by the deceased? Did you, for example, feel any jealousy toward him yourself?”
“Certainly not!” The stage manager spoke with some heat. “We were the best of friends.”
“Excellent! And what of the others?”
“They were fond enough of Mr. Lear, I believe. He was perhaps a bit of a martinet, at times. A little impatient with others less gifted than himself. Mr. Lear’s effort always was to bring the entire production up to that high level of artistry reached by himself alone.”
“And some of the company resented this attitude?”
“Not that—no! There may have been some private grumbling, but no more than that. There always is. Nothing was ever said, that I remember.”
A reporter who had just scratched a hasty question upon a scrap of paper, got up suddenly and handed it across to the inquisitor. Deputy Kipp looked at it with bleak eyes. However, it was the next question that he asked.
“To return to the square of paper, for a moment, Mr. Moore: I want you to clarify your earlier inference. Do you believe it possible that it may— the paper, not your inference—have been dropped upon the floor, where it was found, after the discovery of Mr. Lear’s body?”
“You mean by someone entering the room immediately after I had left it?”
“Yes—or still later by some member of the company gathered about the body when the excitement was at its highest.”
The stage manager hesitated. “Well, yes,” he replied, at length. “I don’t know whether that is what I was actually suggesting, but it might have happened that way.”
“You had no particular person in mind?”
“No, sir. Certainly not! I am merely certain that Mr. Lear didn’t write it himself.”
“Very well! In short, then, Mr. Moore, you know of no incident whatever, however slight, that might throw some light upon the death of Mr. Lear. You are as anxious as we, I am sure, to clear up this mystery. Think carefully, if you will. What can you suggest?”
“Nothing! I am as mystified as anybody could be.”
“Thank you. You may stand aside. Mr. Sultan, please.”
But neither Sultan, the house manager, nor any of those who followed him, could add to the testimony of Stanley Moore, the little man who—excepting always the tacitly assumed murderer—had been the last to see the star alive and the first to see him dead.