Sultan!
What mugs they had been not to think of him before! Sultan, devotee of night clubs and manager of the Alhambra Theater. Sultan, collector of women and of women’s photographs.
“Love to Sam!” “Kindest regards!” “With happy memories!”
The office had been filled with similar inscriptions. Miss Ballantyne’s, Kelly admitted, had been less florid—somewhat more chaste—than a majority of them. Probably a nice girl till Sultan got hold of her. Were actresses ever nice girls?
It seemed clear enough, now, what had happened. The little drama in Lear’s dressing room had been carefully arranged. Nobody had actually seen the woman pick up that square of paper; she had merely appeared to do so. It might have been in her pocket just before she entered the room. She had stooped down quickly—and when she came up the paper was in her hand.
“What’s that?” Sultan had inquired, or words to that effect. And he had taken the paper from her. After that everybody had seen it. In the excitement of the moment nobody would doubt that it had been there all the time.
“Easy!” said Detective Sergeant Kelly. “So easy that everybody muffed it! That’s the way things are, sometimes.”
Sheets was still faintly dubious. “What about the marks on Lear’s window sill?” he asked. “What about the fire escape and the car parked underneath?”
“There’s always marks on window sills,” said Kelly. “As for the car, maybe it was there and maybe it wasn’t. I never did like that doorman. He remembered things too quick, once I’d put them into his head. But it don’t mean anything, even if it was there. There’s always cars in alleys. For that matter, maybe it was all a plant, to make it look like the murderer went down the escape.”
“Well,” said Sheets, “what’s your idea now, Johnny?”
“Lear’s a bum—was a bum—everybody knows that. His wife told us all about him. He was making faces at this Ballantyne girl, and she didn’t like it; she liked Sultan. Well, maybe it was Sultan that didn’t like it. Anyway, it got pretty bad, and one of them—Sultan or the girl—bumped him off. Then they framed this thing between them to make it look like the murder was part of the other two. How’s that?”
“It could be,” admitted Sheets cautiously. “That trick in the dressing room looks suspicious, all right. But I don’t think the girl did it. She was on the stage.”
“How do we know she was? We don’t know when Lear was killed. That’s what the Carvel woman said about herself.”
“Oh, Lord!” prayed William Sheets piously. “We’ll be back believing Ridinghood did it, again, first thing we know.”
“No, we won’t! Ridinghood’s out. Maybe he suspects what happened, though. You never can tell. Maybe the Carvel dame suspects. I’ll tell you what it is, Billy: we went wrong when we began to believe all these cases had to be hooked up. That was a mistake. Maybe they are; but they don’t have to be—see? This hunch looks pretty good to me. What we’ve got to do is stick to the Lear case. It’s all we’ve got, really. The rest is all buried somewhere. Let’s get the man that killed Lear. If he turns out to be the man that killed the other fellows, too—which he won’t—it’ll be swell. But, anyway, we’ll have somebody.”
They proceeded forthwith to the Alhambra, the hour being shortly after nine in the evening, and requested audience with Sultan, the manager, who was anything but pleased to see them. He had heard, with a certain dismay, of their earlier visit. Their interest in the portrait of Roberta Ballantyne had bothered him more than he cared to show.
“Anything I can do for you, gentlemen,” he said suavely, in response to their greeting. “Anything at all!”
There was an admirable directness about Kelly at times. He jerked a brutal thumb at the portrait of Roberta Ballantyne and asked: “Who’s this Ballantyne woman?”
“An actress,” answered Sultan, smiling. “You know who she is, Kelly. She’s in the show.”
“What’s she to you?”
“Nothing,” said the house manager promptly, “nothing at all. She’s a friend, of course. Everybody in the company is a friend of mine.”
“Why’d she give you her picture?”
“Because I asked her for it. I collect photographs of the people who come to this theater.”
“Ever had her out?”
Sultan’s red face became redder. He frowned. “Honestly, Kelly,” he said mildly enough, “I don’t think it’s any of your business—but I’ll tell you. Yes, I have! She’s had dinner with me—supper, that is, after the show—a couple of times.”
“What’s she know about this Lear case?”
“Not a thing,” snapped Sultan. He added more courteously: “On my honor, not a thing!”
“Did she tell you so?”
“Well, yes, she did. Naturally, after it happened, we talked it over. I asked her if she had any suspicions, and she said she hadn’t.”
“Not a suspish, eh?” Kelly grinned sardonically. “Were you out together the night before Lear was killed?”
The manager hesitated. It was a shocking situation, after a fashion. Kelly perhaps knew all about it, and if he lied he might be inviting disaster. On the other hand, the detective might be merely bluffing. He decided to tell the truth.
“Yes!”
“Talk about Lear?”
“Somewhat. A bit, perhaps.”
“She didn’t like him?”
“Yes, she did! She liked him a lot. She said so.”
Kelly was puzzled. The answer had come like a shot. It had all the ringing quality of truth.
“Oh, she did, did she? Had no complaints to make about his conduct, or anything like that?”
“Certainly not. Mr. Lear’s conduct was always exemplary.”
“Whatever that is,” grinned Kelly. “Well, come clean, Sultan!” He lied easily. “We know you were out together the night before it happened. We know more than you think. Exactly what did you talk about? Had you been out together before that?”
Sultan shrugged and was suddenly cynical. “I can’t answer more than one question at a time,” he sneered. “I’ll tell you what I know, and you can think what you damn please about it. I don’t know what tree you’re barking up, Kelly, but whatever it is you think you know, you’re wrong. Yes, we had been out together—but not on this engagement. I’ve known Miss Ballantyne for more than a year. We used to pal around a bit when she was here in another show, a year ago. That’s why we went out together this time. We were already friends.”
“Get down to Lear,” suggested the detective. “You talked about him.”
“She said she had been to Mr. Lear to make a complaint.” The words came reluctantly from the manager’s lips.
“What kind of a complaint?” Kelly was excited underneath his brusque exterior, but he was careful to maintain his front.
“There was a man in the company who had been bothering her, and she didn’t like it. She’d told him so, and he continued to bother her. So she complained to Mr. Lear.”
“Why to Mr. Lear? Why not to the manager of the company?”
“Mr. Lear was a sort of father to the members of the company—if you know what I mean.”
Kelly’s sneer was beautifully apparent. “I can guess!”
“I doubt it,” answered Sultan. “You’re one of those fellows who believe that all stage people— But what’s the use!”
“Who was the actor that was bothering her?”
Sultan was silent for a moment. Then he spoke slowly. “You’re dragging all this out of me—and you’re going to get a wrong notion about things after I’ve told you. Well, I can’t help it!”
“Who was he?”
“His name is—Moore.”
“What!” Kelly almost bounced in his chair. “You mean the stage manager? The fellow who testified at the inquest?”
“Yes.”
“Good grief!” said the detective, and tried hastily to readjust his thoughts to fit this surprising piece of information. “Why, he’s—he’s an old man! Isn’t he?”
“Oh, no—and what if he were? He’s about forty or so, I guess.”
“Hm-m!” Detective Sergeant Kelly shot a swift glance at his associate, the silent Sheets, who spread his hands helplessly.
“Hm-m!” said Detective Sergeant Kelly.
His mind raced. It could be! It could be so! And, of course, if it were Moore, then nothing that Moore had said at the inquest was to be depended on. What had Moore said at the inquest? Kelly couldn’t remember—rather, he could remember only a long series of negatives and denials. That little runt! There had been a row, of course, when Lear had called him down—probably a grand one.
Again he had a picture of the scene in Lear’s dressing room as it had been described to him on his arrival. He saw the entrance of Miss Roberta Ballantyne—saw her stoop and rise again—with a paper in her hand—saw Sultan snatch the paper.
Saxon had told the story, and it had been very vivid.
Was Sultan trying now to fool him?
“Why haven’t you said anything about this before?” he asked.
“Because I’m satisfied that Moore had nothing to do with the murder of Mr. Lear. I know Moore, and he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“He was bothering Miss Ballantyne, you said.”
“He wasn’t hurting her. He wouldn’t have hurt her. I hope I haven’t given you the wrong idea, there. But his attentions displeased her, and when he persisted in them she complained.”
“She preferred yours,” said Kelly brutally, and the house manager writhed in impotent anger.
He mastered himself. “Yes,” he retorted coolly, “she preferred mine. What I’m telling you is that Moore didn’t kill Lear. It’s what I was afraid you’d believe. I was protecting Moore from you two infernal blockheads. Do you want to pinch me for it?”
But Kelly was as cool as Sultan. “Maybe,” he said, without emotion. “I’ll take care of that later.” He hesitated. “About that square of paper, Sultan. You didn’t happen to write it yourself?”
“Good God, no! Why should I have written it?”
“I can think of a reason. Miss Ballantyne didn’t write it?”
“Do you think we’re both crazy?”
“I’m hanged if I know exactly what I do think of you,” confessed Kelly. “I’ll tell you when I’ve made up my mind. Meanwhile, keep your mouth shut. Understand? Not a word to Moore about any of this, or you’ll be in trouble yourself.”
“I won’t say a word,” growled Sultan, “but I’m sorry I ever heard of you two birds.”
“That’s all right,” said Kelly, with a smile. “Hate me and Sheets all you like. We can stand it.”
“Thanks,” said Sultan dryly. “Thanks a lot. I certainly appreciate all you’ve done for me.”
Kelly returned the sneer with enthusiasm. “Don’t mention it,” he begged, turning to the door; and from the door sill he added significantly, “to anybody!”
For several moments, Sam Sultan stood looking at the closed door. Then he made a sudden gesture, and his laugh was harsh as an iron hinge.
“Oh, no,” he observed aloud, “I won’t say a word! Not a word!”
By which he meant that he would say many words, and that quickly, to Stanley Moore; for he was as certain in his heart that Moore had killed Lear as he was that he had not done so himself.
What was more, he was very glad of it.