The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (107 page)

“Then we shall have to question the suspects,” I said. “We must expose this nefarious blackguard at once.”

Gillette regarded me over the bowl of his pipe. “Boucicault?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“That line you just quoted. I thought I recognized it from one of Mr. Boucicault's melodramas.”

I flushed. “No,” I said. “It was my own.”

“Was it? How remarkably vivid.” He turned to young Henry Quinn, who was awaiting his instructions in the wings. “Quinn,” he called, “might I trouble you to run and fetch Mr. Allerford? I have a question or two I would like to put to him.”

“Allerford,” I said, as the boy disappeared into the wings. “So your suspicions have fallen upon the infamous Professor Moriarty, have they? There's a bit of Holmes in you, after all.”

“Scarcely,” said Gillette with a weary sigh. “I am proceeding in alphabetical order.”

“Ah.”

Young Quinn returned a moment later to conduct Allerford into our presence. The actor wore a long black frock coat for his impersonation of the evil professor, and his white hair was pomaded into a billowing cloud, exaggerating the size of his head and suggesting the heat of the character's mental processes.

“Do sit down, Allerford,” Gillette said, as the actor stepped onto the stage, “and allow me to apologize for subjecting you to this interview. It pains me to suggest that you may in any way have—”

The actor held up his hands to break off the apologies. “No need, Gillette. I would do the same in your position. I presume you will wish to know where I was while the rest of you were running through the first act?”

Gillette nodded. “If you would be so kind.”

“I'm afraid the answer is far from satisfactory. I was in the gentlemen's dressing area.”

“Alone?”

“I'm afraid so. All the others were onstage or in the costume shop for their fittings.” He gathered up a handful of loose fabric from his waistcoat. “My fitting was delayed until this afternoon. So I imagine I would have to be counted as the principal suspect, Gillette.” He allowed his features to shift and harden as he assumed the character of Professor Moriarty. “You'll never hang this on me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he hissed, as his head oscillated in a reptilian fashion. “I have an ironclad alibi! I was alone in my dressing room reading a magazine!” The actor broke character and held up his palms in a gesture of futility. “I'm afraid I can't offer you anything better, Gillette.”

“I'm sure nothing more will be required, Allerford. Again, let me apologize for this intrusion.”

“Not at all.”

“One more thing,” Gillette said, as Allerford rose to take his leave.

“Yes?”

“The magazine you were reading. It wasn't
The Strand
, by any chance?”

“Why, yes. There was a copy lying about on the table.”

“A Sherlock Holmes adventure, was it?”

Allerford's expression turned sheepish. “My tastes don't run in that direction, I'm afraid. There was an article on the sugar planters of the Yucatán. Quite intriguing, if I may say.”

“I see.” Gillette began refilling the bowl of his pipe. “Much obliged, Allerford.”

“Gillette!” I said in an urgent whisper, as Allerford retreated into the wings. “What was that all about? Were you trying to catch him out?”

“What? No, I was just curious.” The actor's expression grew unfocused as he touched a match to the tobacco. “Very curious.” He sat quietly for some moments, sending clouds of smoke up into the fly curtains.

“Gillette,” I said after a few moments, “shouldn't we continue? I believe Mr. Creeson is next.”

“Creeson?”

“Yes. If we are to proceed alphabetically.”

“Very good. Creeson. By all means. Quinn! Ask Mr. Creeson to join us, if you would.”

With that, Gillette sank into his chair and remained there, scarcely moving, for the better part of two hours as a parade of actors, actresses, and stagehands passed before him. His questions and attitude were much the same as they had been with Allerford, but clearly his attention had wandered to some distant and inaccessible plateau. At times he appeared so preoccupied that I had to prod him to continue with the interviews. At one stage he drew his legs up to his chest and encircled them with his arms, looking for all the world like Sidney Paget's illustration of Sherlock Holmes in the grip of one of his three-pipe problems. Unlike the great detective, however, Gillette soon gave way to meditations of a different sort. By the time the last of our interviews was completed, a contented snoring could be heard from the actor's armchair.

“Gillette,” I said, shaking him by the shoulder. “I believe we've spoken to everyone now.”

“Have we? Very good.” He rose from the chair and stretched his long limbs. “Is Mr. Frohman anywhere about?”

“Right here, Gillette,” the producer called from the first row of seats. “I must say this appears to have been a colossal waste of time. I don't see how we can avoid going to the police now.”

“I'm afraid I have to agree,” I said. “We are no closer to resolving the matter than we were this morning.” I glanced at Gillette, who was staring blankly into the footlights. “Gillette? Are you listening?”

“I think we may be able to keep the authorities out of the matter,” he answered. “Frohman? Might I trouble you to assemble the company?”

“Whatever for?” I asked. “You've already spoken to—Say! You don't mean to say that you know who stole Miss Fenton's brooch?”

“I didn't say that.”

“But then why should you—?”

He turned and held a finger to his lips. “I'm afraid you'll have to wait for the final act.”

The actor would say nothing more as the members of the cast and crew appeared from their various places and arrayed themselves in the first two rows of seats. Gillette, standing at the lip of the stage, looked over them with an expression of keen interest. “My friends,” he said after a moment, “you have all been very patient during this unpleasantness. I appreciate your indulgence. I'm sure that Sherlock Holmes would have gotten to the bottom of the matter in just a few moments, but as I am not Sherlock Holmes, it has taken me rather longer.”

“Mr. Gillette!” cried Miss Fenton. “Do you mean to say you've found my brooch?”

“No, dear lady,” he said, “I haven't. But I trust that it will be back in your possession shortly.”

“Gillette,” said Frohman, “this is all very irregular. Where is the stone? Who is the thief?”

“The identity of the thief has been apparent from the beginning,” Gillette said placidly. “What I did not understand was the motivation.”

“But that's nonsense!” cried Arthur Creeson. “The sapphire is extraordinarily valuable! What other motivation could there be?”

“I can think of several,” Gillette answered, “and our ‘nefarious blackguard,' to borrow a colorful phrase, might have succumbed to any one of them.”

“You're talking in circles, Gillette,” said Frohman. “If you've known the identity of the thief from the first, why didn't you just say so?”

“I was anxious to resolve the matter quietly,” the actor answered. “Now, sadly, that is no longer possible.” Gillette stretched his long arms. Moving upstage, he took up his pipe and slowly filled the bowl with tobacco from a ragged Persian slipper. “It was my hope,” he said, “that the villain would come to regret these actions—the rash decision of an instant—and make amends. If the sapphire had simply been replaced on Miss Fenton's dressing table, I should have put the incident behind and carried on as though I had never discerned the guilty party's identity. Now, distasteful as it may be, the villain must be unmasked, and I must lose a member of my company on the eve of our London opening. Regrettable, but it can't be helped.”

The members of the company shifted uneasily in their seats. “It's one of us, then?” asked Mr. Allerford.

“Of course. That much should have been obvious to all of you.” He struck a match and ran it over the bowl of his pipe, lingering rather longer than necessary over the process. “The tragedy of the matter is that none of this would have happened if Miss Fenton had not stepped from her dressing room and left the stone unattended.”

The actress's hands flew to her throat. “But I told you, I had spilled a pot of facial powder.”

“Precisely so. Gervaise Graham's Satinette. A very distinctive shade. And so the catalyst of the crime now becomes the instrument of its solution.”

“How do you mean, Gillette?” I asked.

Gillette moved off to stand before the fireplace—or rather the canvas and wood strutting that had been arranged to resemble a fireplace. The actor spent a moment contemplating the plaster coals that rested upon a balsa grating. “Detective work,” he intoned, “is founded upon the observation of trifles. When Miss Fenton overturned that facial powder, she set in motion a chain of events that yielded a clue—a clue as transparent as that of a weaver's tooth or a compositor's thumb—and one that made it patently obvious who took the missing stone.”

“Gillette!” cried Mr. Frohman. “No more theatrics! Who took Miss Fenton's sapphire?”

“The thief is here among us,” he declared, his voice rising to a vibrant timbre. “And the traces of Satinette facial powder are clearly visible upon—Wait! Stop him!”

All at once, the theater erupted into pandemonium as young Henry Quinn, who had been watching from his accustomed place in the wings, suddenly darted forward and raced toward the rear exit.

“Stop him!” Gillette called to a pair of burly stagehands. “Hendricks! O'Donnell! Don't let him pass!”

The fleeing boy veered away from the stagehands, upsetting a flimsy side table in his flight, and made headlong for the forward edge of the stage. Gathering speed, he attempted to vault over the orchestra pit, and would very likely have cleared the chasm but for the fact that his ill-fitting trousers suddenly slipped to his ankles, entangling his legs and causing him to land in an awkward heap at the base of the pit.

“He's out cold, Mr. Gillette,” came a voice from the pit. “Nasty bruise on his head.”

“Very good, Hendricks. If you would be so good as to carry him into the lobby, we shall decide what to do with him later.”

Miss Fenton pressed a linen handkerchief to her face as the unconscious figure was carried past. “I don't understand, Mr. Gillette. Henry
took my sapphire? He's just a boy! I can't believe he would do such a thing!”

“Strange to say, I believe Quinn's intentions were relatively benign,” said Gillette. “He presumed, when he came across the stone on your dressing table, that it was nothing more than a piece of costume jewelry. It was only later, after the alarm had been raised, that he realized its value. At that point, he became frightened and could not think of a means to return it without confessing his guilt.”

“But what would a boy do with such a valuable stone?” Frohman asked.

“I have no idea,” said Gillette. “Indeed, I do not believe that he had any interest whatsoever in the sapphire.”

“No interest?” I said. “What other reason could he have had for taking it?”

“For the pin.”

“What?”

Gillette gave a rueful smile. “You are all wearing costumes that are several sizes too large. Our rehearsals have been slowed for want of sewing pins to hold up the men's trousers and pin back the ladies' frocks. I myself dispatched Quinn to find a fastener for Mr. Lyndal.”

“The essence of theater,” I said, shaking my head with wonder.

“Pardon me, Lyndal?”

“As you were saying earlier. An actor must consider even the smallest object from every possible angle. We all assumed that the brooch had been taken for its valuable stone. Only you would have thought to consider it from the back as well as the front.” I paused. “Well done, Gillette.”

The actor gave a slight bow as the company burst into spontaneous applause. “That is most kind,” he said, “but now, ladies and gentlemen, if there are no further distractions, I should like to continue with our rehearsal. Act one, scene four, I believe…”

It was several hours later when I knocked at the door to Gillette's dressing room. He bade me enter and made me welcome with a glass of excellent port. We settled ourselves on a pair of makeup stools and sat for a few moments in a companionable silence.

“I understand that Miss Fenton has elected not to pursue the matter of Quinn's theft with the authorities,” I said after a time.

“I thought not,” Gillette said. “I doubt if her gentleman friend would appreciate seeing the matter aired in the press. However, we will not be able to keep young Quinn with the company. He has been dismissed. Frohman has been in touch with another young man I once considered for the role. Charles Chapman.”

“Chaplin, I believe.”

“That's it. I'm sure he'll pick it up soon enough.”

“No doubt.”

I took a sip of port. “Gillette,” I said, “there is something about the affair that troubles me.”

He smiled and reached for a pipe. “I thought there might be,” he said.

“You claimed to have spotted Quinn's guilt by the traces of face powder on his costume.”

“Indeed.”

I lifted my arm. “There are traces of Miss Fenton's powder here on my sleeve as well. No doubt I acquired them when I was searching for the missing stone in the dressing area—after the theft had been discovered.”

“No doubt,” said Gillette.

“The others undoubtedly picked up traces of powder as well.”

“That is likely.”

“So Quinn himself might well have acquired his telltale dusting of powder
after
the theft had occurred, in which case it would not have been incriminating at all.”