“Not here, Sir!” the call boy shouted. Gas lanterns flickered in the evening twilight, and Max Grenville inhaled a whiff of talc.
“Mr. Landrew used the space next to the Green Room,” the theater manager explained. “This is the ladies’ realm.”
One of the ladies stuck out her feather-clad head but, noticing the somber procession, retreated.
“Here we are,” the manager pointed at the door. “For the record, we haven’t touched anything.”
He added, “An uncomfortable event. We had to hastily replace Hamlet with some dimwit comedy. Needless to say, the audience was disappointed.”
Mr. Grenville had received a telegram from Inspector Digby at Scotland Yard while dining at his club.
“Come at once,” Digby wrote. “A body at the Savoy Theater.”
The inspector met him at the stage door.
“An irregular case,” Digby said, chewing on his red mustache. “Mr. Landrew arrived at the theater in the afternoon and went straight to his dressing room, which he occupied since his Russian tour. Everything was quiet, but then the porter found a letter in the morning post addressed to the actor. He brought it to Mr. Landrew, and about a quarter of an hour later, he heard a bone-chilling scream...”
Running to the dressing room, the porter found Mr. Landrew prostrated on the floor, very much dead.
Stepping into the dressing room of the West End celebrity, Max Grenville inhaled tobacco smoke and some heavy oriental perfume.
Mr. Landrew, in his silk gown, lay on the floor next to the dressing table. Bending down, Max examined the red, puffy face and bulging eyes. The dressing room was lit by gas.
“Next year we plan to install the new Swan lamps,” the manager said. “Would you like me to bring a candle?”
“No need,” Max said absent-mindedly. “Why did he,” the detective pointed at the body, “light a candle if he arrived at the theater in the afternoon? Look at the stump,” Max picked up a candlestick. “This is a new-fangled candle and they shrink almost to nothing. That means it was lit around three o’clock, because when the porter discovered the body, the candle had already gone out.”
“November in London is always dark,” Digby said, and Max chuckled.
“True, but the gas would have been enough. This is the envelope,” he said, putting on leather gloves. “Wait, gentlemen.”
A single sheet with the drawing of entwined hands slid into his palm.
“I have never seen this sign before,” Digby muttered, and Grenville grimly replied,
“I have. This is the seal of the Russian terrorists who organized the assassination attempts on the emperor last year. No doubt that Mr. Landrew was connected with them and was murdered by a poisoned candle, most probably for his disobedience. Where is the porter?” he demanded.
The theater manager shrugged.
“He only works the day shift.”
“And he is most probably crossing the Channel now, because it was he who supplied both the candle and the envelope,” Grenville sighed.
“Take up the body.”
“Mr. Landrew used the space next to the Green Room,” the theater manager explained. “This is the ladies’ realm.”
One of the ladies stuck out her feather-clad head but, noticing the somber procession, retreated.
“Here we are,” the manager pointed at the door. “For the record, we haven’t touched anything.”
He added, “An uncomfortable event. We had to hastily replace Hamlet with some dimwit comedy. Needless to say, the audience was disappointed.”
Mr. Grenville had received a telegram from Inspector Digby at Scotland Yard while dining at his club.
“Come at once,” Digby wrote. “A body at the Savoy Theater.”
The inspector met him at the stage door.
“An irregular case,” Digby said, chewing on his red mustache. “Mr. Landrew arrived at the theater in the afternoon and went straight to his dressing room, which he occupied since his Russian tour. Everything was quiet, but then the porter found a letter in the morning post addressed to the actor. He brought it to Mr. Landrew, and about a quarter of an hour later, he heard a bone-chilling scream...”
Running to the dressing room, the porter found Mr. Landrew prostrated on the floor, very much dead.
Stepping into the dressing room of the West End celebrity, Max Grenville inhaled tobacco smoke and some heavy oriental perfume.
Mr. Landrew, in his silk gown, lay on the floor next to the dressing table. Bending down, Max examined the red, puffy face and bulging eyes. The dressing room was lit by gas.
“Next year we plan to install the new Swan lamps,” the manager said. “Would you like me to bring a candle?”
“No need,” Max said absent-mindedly. “Why did he,” the detective pointed at the body, “light a candle if he arrived at the theater in the afternoon? Look at the stump,” Max picked up a candlestick. “This is a new-fangled candle and they shrink almost to nothing. That means it was lit around three o’clock, because when the porter discovered the body, the candle had already gone out.”
“November in London is always dark,” Digby said, and Max chuckled.
“True, but the gas would have been enough. This is the envelope,” he said, putting on leather gloves. “Wait, gentlemen.”
A single sheet with the drawing of entwined hands slid into his palm.
“I have never seen this sign before,” Digby muttered, and Grenville grimly replied,
“I have. This is the seal of the Russian terrorists who organized the assassination attempts on the emperor last year. No doubt that Mr. Landrew was connected with them and was murdered by a poisoned candle, most probably for his disobedience. Where is the porter?” he demanded.
The theater manager shrugged.
“He only works the day shift.”
“And he is most probably crossing the Channel now, because it was he who supplied both the candle and the envelope,” Grenville sighed.
“Take up the body.”
