“Miss Cissie Winter?” the sharp young man repeated. “I’ve heard of her, but she wasn’t on here in my time. Any idea of her dates or plays?”
“Twelve or more years since she left the stage, I’m told. She played in The Office Girl and The Duchess and Oh, Johnny!”
The young man whistled beneath his breath as he sat thinking.
“ ’Fraid I can’t help you about the lady,” he declared at last. “There are no records here of twelve years back. But I can put you on to Dowds all right, or at least I can give you his address when he left us.”
“Much obliged, I’m sure.”
The young man crossed the room, and taking a book out of a cupboard, turned over the pages rapidly.
“29 Babcock Street. It’s off Charing Cross Road, about halfway down on the left hand side going south. You’ll get him there if he hasn’t moved.”
French, having noted the address, turned to go.
“Wait a sec’,” said the young man. “I’m not certain, but I believe Richard Jacques put out those plays you mentioned. If so, he could probably help you better than anyone. He does business at that new place he has taken over, the Aladdin in Piccadilly. You should try him.”
French thanked his new friend, and after again traversing the endless corridors of the huge building, found himself once more in the street.
At 29 Babcock Street the door was opened to him by a respectable-looking woman, who said that her husband, Peter Dowds, was within. His health was poor, but if the gentleman would come in, he would make shift to come down to see him.
French sat down to wait in the tiny parlour. Presently a shuffling became audible in the hall, and the door, opening slowly, revealed a short but immensely stout man, whose small eyes blinked inquisitively at his visitor as the latter rose and wished him good day.
“Good day, good day,” the man wheezed, as he steered himself across the room and sank into one of the chairs. “It’s the asthma,” he went on in a husky voice. “It’s always bad this time of year.” He stopped and sat panting, then went on, “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes,” French admitted, “but I’m sorry to find your asthma so bad. What do you do for it?”
The Inspector had found from long experience that the time spent in discussing his illness with an invalid was not wasted. The pleasure he gave had the effect of creating a sympathy and good feeling which assisted him when he came to the second part of the interview, the favour he wanted for himself. He was not altogether a hypocrite in this. It was part of the technique of his business, and besides, he was a good-natured man who really did like giving pleasure. He therefore talked asthma and asthma cures for some minutes before turning to the subject of Miss Cissie Winter.
But in the present case the excellent impression which he undoubtedly produced brought him but little benefit. The stout old doorkeeper remembered Miss Winter well, and instantly recognised her photograph, but he knew nothing about her present whereabouts. She had gone off with some man, a man whom also he remembered well, as on many occasions they had chatted together while the former waited at the stage door for the lady’s appearance. He was tall and well built, well on in middle age, and with the air of a professional or business man. His name, Dowds believed, was Vane, but of this he was not positive. Asked how he knew that the lady had gone off with this or any other man, it transpired that he did not really know at all, but that this had been the generally accepted theory at the time. He had never learned the man’s address, but he seemed to have plenty of money and was liberal in his tips. Since that time, about thirteen years previously, Dowds had not heard or seen anything of either. Of Miss Winter he had but a poor opinion. She might be a good actress, but she was hard and mean and had a sharp tongue. What the man could have seen in her he, Dowds, did not know, but he had evidently been pretty completely bowled over.
When French had gleaned these particulars, he found he had reached the end of the old doorkeeper’s usefulness, and he was soon on his way to his next call, the Aladdin theatre in Piccadilly.
Mr. Jacques was in the building, but engaged, and French fretted and fumed for nearly two hours before being ushered into his presence. But then he felt himself completely compensated for his long wait. Like most others who came in contact with him, French soon fell a victim to the great producer’s winning personality and charm of manner. The old gentleman apologised courteously for his engagement, which, he explained, was a troublesome rehearsal, and then listened with close attention to what French had to say.
But he could not tell so very much after all. He remembered Miss Winter, and after a search through some old records was able to give some details of her life. He had first seen her in the Tivoli theatre in New York, some sixteen years previously, and had been struck by her acting. She had somehow learned of his presence, for she had followed him to his hotel, and explaining that she was anxious to get a footing on the English stage, had asked him for a part in one of the plays she had heard he was then bringing out. He had agreed, and when she had completed her New York engagement, she had followed him to England, and he had starred her in Oh, Johnny! and certain other plays of that period. In all she had appeared in seven productions, and Mr. Jacques had a high opinion of her capabilities.
Some three years
