called the Hungarian Madame Curie. She was engaged for some years in medical research, in the field of anesthesiology. I’ve read several of her papers. Apparently she treated Habsburg soldiers who had been wounded in the Great War and was greatly moved by their suffering. Hence the direction of her experiments. She ended her life a suicide. A tragic loss.”
“Ach, Major, Major, you know everything, don’t you?” Captain Baxter exclaimed.
“Not quite,” Chase demurred. Then, “Under what circumstances, Quince, was the Hunyadi marriage dissolved?”
The theatre manager reddened, indicating with a minute nod of his head toward Claire Delacroix that he was reluctant to speak of the matter in the presence of a female.
“Really,” Claire Delacroix said, “I know something of the world, Mr Quince. Speak freely, please.”
“Very well.” The manager took a moment to compose himself. Then he said, “Some years before the Great War, Mr Hunyadi travelled to America as a member of a theatrical troupe.
“They had one of those glittering Hollywood weddings,” he added.
“With no thought of a wife still in Hungary?” Claire Delacroix inquired.
Quince shook his head. “None. Count Hunyadi made several successful silents, but when talkies came in, well, his accent, you see… There are just so many roles for European noblemen. Word within our community was that he had become a dope fiend for a time. He was hospitalized, then released, and was hoping to revive his career with a successful stage tour.”
“Yes, there were rumours of his drug habit,” Captain Baxter put in. “We were alerted down at the Hall of Justice.”
Abel Chase looked around. “What of-” He named the actress who had been Imre Hunyadi’s second wife.
“When her earnings exceeded his own, Count Hunyadi spent her fortune on high living, fast companions and powerful motor cars. When she cut him off and demanded that he look for other work, he brought a lawsuit against her, which failed, but which led to a nasty divorce.”
“Tell me about the other members of the cast.”
“You’re thinking that his understudy might have done him in?” Baxter asked. “That Winkle fellow?”
“Entirely possible,” Chase admitted. “But a premature inference, Clel. Who are the others?”
“Timothy Rodgers, Philo Jenkins,” Quince supplied. “Estelle Miller and Jeanette Stallings, the two female leads – Lucy and Mina. And of course Samuel Pollard – Van Helsing.”
“Yes.” Abel Chase stroked his moustache thoughtfully as he examined the printed programme. “Captain Baxter, I noticed that Sergeant Costello is here tonight. A good man. Have him conduct a search of this room. And have Officer Murray assist him. And see to it that the rest of the theatre is searched as well. I shall require a thorough examination of the premises. While your men perform those tasks I shall question the male cast members. Miss Delacroix will examine the females.”
Baxter said, “Yes, Major. And – is it all right to phone for the dead wagon? Count Hunyadi has to get to the morgue, don’t you know, sir.”
“Not yet, Clel. Miss Delacroix is the possessor of a medical education. Although she seldom uses the honourific, she is entitled to be called doctor. I wish her to examine the remains before they are removed.”
“As you wish, Major.”
Chase nodded, pursing his lips. “Delacroix, have a look before you question the women of the cast, will you. And, Quince, gather these persons, Rodgers, Pollard, Winkle, and Jennings for me. And you’d better include the director, as well, Garrison.”
Claire Delacroix conscientiously checked Hunyadi for tell-tale signs, seeking to determine the cause of the Hungarian’s death. She conducted herself with a professional calm. At length she looked up from the remains and nodded. “It is clear that the immediate cause of Count Hunyadi’s death is heart failure.” She looked from one to another of the men in the dressing room. “The puzzle is, for what reason did his heart fail? I can find no overt cause. The death might have been natural, of course. But I will wish to examine the marks on his neck. Definitely, I will wish to examine those marks.”
“I think they’re a mere theatrical affectation,” Walter Quince offered.
“That may be the case,” Claire Delacroix conceded, “but I would not take that for granted. Then -” she addressed herself to Captain Baxter “- I would urge you to summon the coroner’s ambulance and have the remains removed for an autopsy at the earliest possible moment.”
“You can rest assured of that,” Captain Baxter promised. “Nolan Young, the county coroner, is an old comrade of mine.”
Shortly the men Chase had named found themselves back on the stage of the Salamanca Theatre. The setting held ever the ominous, musty gloom of a darkened Transylvanian crypt. All had changed from their costumes to street outfits, their dark suits blending with the dull grey of canvas flats painted to simulate funereal stone.
A further macabre note was struck by their posture, as they were seated on the prop caskets that added atmosphere to the sepulchral stage setting.
Rather than a dearth, Abel Chase found that he was confronted by a surfeit of suspects. Each actor had spent part of the evening on-stage; that was not unexpected. As the hapless Jonathan Harker, Timothy Rodgers had won the sympathy of the audience, and Abel Chase found him a pleasant enough young man, albeit shaken and withdrawn as a result of this night’s tragedy.
Joseph Winkle, accustomed to playing the depraved madman Renfield, tonight had transformed himself into the elegant monster for the play’s final act. Philo Jenkins, the shuffling, blustering orderly, had stepped into Winkle’s shoes as Renfield. It had been a promotion for each.
Yet, Abel Chase meditated, despite Captain Baxter’s earlier suggestion that Winkle might be a suspect, he would in all likelihood be too clever to place himself under suspicion by committing so obvious a crime. Philo Jenkins was the more interesting possibility. He would have known that by murdering Hunyadi he would set in motion the sequence of events that led to his own advancement into Winkle’s part as Renfield. At the bottom of the evening’s billing, he had the most to gain by his promotion.
And Rodgers, it was revealed, was a local youth, an aspiring thespian in his first significant role. It appeared unlikely that he would imperil the production with no discernible advantage to himself.
The director, Garrison, would have had the best opportunity to commit the crime. Unlike the other cast members, who would be in their own dressing rooms – or, for such lesser lights as Rodgers, Winkle and Jenkins, a common dressing room – between the acts of the play, Garrison might well be anywhere, conferring with cast members or the theatre staff, giving performance notes, keeping tabs, in particular, on a star known to have had a problem with drugs.
“Garrison.” Abel Chase whirled on the director. “Had Hunyadi relapsed into his old ways?”
The director, sandy-haired and tanned, wearing a brown suit and hand-painted necktie, moaned. “I was trying to keep him off the dope, but he always managed to find something. But I think he was off it tonight. I’ve seen plenty of dope fiends in my time. Too many, Doctor Chase. Haven’t you come across them in your own practice?”
“My degree is not in medicine,” Chase informed him. “While Miss Delacroix holds such a degree, my own fields of expertise are by nature far more esoteric than the mundane study of organs and bones.”
