The Inspector’s eyes flashed at Ellery’s question. He muttered approvingly to himself and listened intently as the boy answered.
“Well, I wanted to take the stand right away, sir, but Elinor and me—we got to talking there—and Elinor said why not stay in the alley till the next intermission. … I figured that was a good idea. I’d wait till a few minutes before 10:05, when the act ends, and I’d duck down for some more orangeade, and then when the doors opened for the second intermission I’d be all ready. So we stayed there, sir. … It wasn’t wrong, sir. I didn’t mean anything wrong.”
Ellery straightened and fixed the boy with his eyes. “Jess, I want you to be very careful now. At exactly what time did you and your Elinor get to the alley?”
“Well. …” Jess scratched his head. “It was about 9:25 when I gave that man the ginger ale. I went across for Elinor, stayed a few minutes and then came over to the alley. Musta been just about 9:35—just about—when I went back for my orangeade stand.”
“Very good. And what time exactly did you leave the alley?”
“It was just ten o’clock, sir. Elinor looked at her wristwatch when I asked her if it was time to go in for my orangeade refills.”
“You didn’t hear anything going on in the theatre?”
“No, sir. We were too busy talking, I guess. … I didn’t know anything had happened inside until we walked out of the alley and I met Johnny Chase, one of the ushers, standing there, like he was on guard. He told me there was an accident inside and Mr. Panzer had sent him to stand outside the left alley.”
“I see. …” Ellery removed his pince-nez in some agitation and flourished it before the boy’s nose. “Carefully now, Jess. Did anyone go in or out of the alley all the time you were there with Elinor?”
The boy’s answer was immediate and emphatic. “No, sir. Not a soul.”
“Right, my lad.” The Inspector gave the boy a spanking slap on the back and sent him off grinning. Queen looked around sharply, spied Panzer, who had made his announcement on the stage with ineffectual results, and beckoned with an imperative finger.
“Mr. Panzer,” he said abruptly, “I want some information about the time-schedule of the play. … At what time does the curtain go up on the second act?”
“The second act begins at 9:15 sharp and ends at 10:05 sharp,” said Panzer instantly.
“Was tonight’s performance run according to this schedule?”
“Certainly. We must be on the dot because of cues, lights, and so on,” responded the manager.
The Inspector muttered some calculations to himself. “That makes it 9:25 the boy saw Field alive,” he mused. “He was found dead at. …”
He swung about and called for Officer Doyle. The man came running.
“Doyle,” asked the Inspector, “Doyle, do you remember exactly at what time this fellow Pusak approached you with his story of the murder?”
The policeman scratched his head. “Why, I don’t remember exactly, Inspector,” he said. “All I do know is that the second act was almost over when it happened.”
“Not definite enough, Doyle,” said Queen irritably. “Where are the actors now?”
“Got ’em herded right over there back of the center section, sir,” said Doyle. “We didn’t know what to do with ’em except that.”
“Get one of them for me!” snapped the Inspector.
Doyle ran off. Queen beckoned to Detective Piggott, who was standing a few feet to the rear between a man and a woman.
“Got the doorman there, Piggott?” asked Queen. Piggott nodded and a tall, corpulent old man, cap trembling in his hand, uniform shrunken on his flabby body, stumbled forward.
“Are you the man who stands outside the theatre—the regular doorman?” asked the Inspector.
“Yes, sir,” the doorman answered, twisting the cap in his hands.
“Very well. Now think hard. Did anyone—anyone, mind you—leave the theatre by the front entrance during the second act?” The Inspector was leaning forward, like a small greyhound.
The man took a moment before replying. Then he said slowly, but with conviction, “No, sir. Nobody went out of the theatre. Nobody, I mean, but the orangeade boy.”
“Were you there all the time?” barked the Inspector.
“Yes, sir.”
“Now then. Do you remember anybody coming in during the second act?”
“We‑e‑ll. … Jessie Lynch, the orangeade boy, came in right after the act started.”
“Anybody else?”
There was silence as the old man made a frenzied effort at concentration. After a moment he looked helplessly from one face to another, eyes despairing. Then he mumbled, “I don’t remember, sir.”
The Inspector regarded him irritably. The old man seemed sincere in his nervous way. He was perspiring and frequently looked sidewise at Panzer, as if he sensed that his defection of memory would cost him his position.
“I’m awfully sorry, sir,” the doorman repeated. “Awfully sorry. There might’ve been someone, but my memory ain’t as good as it used to be when I was younger. I—I just can’t seem to recall.”
Ellery’s cool voice cut in on the old man’s thick accents.
“How long have you been a doorman?”
The old man’s bewildered eyes shifted to this new inquisitor. “Nigh onto ten years, sir. I wasn’t always a doorman. Only when I got old and couldn’t do nothin’ else—”
“I understand,” said Ellery kindly. He hesitated a moment, then added inflexibly, “A man who has been a doorman for as many years as you have might forget something about the first act. But people do not often come into a theatre during the second act. Surely if you think hard enough you can answer positively, one way or the other?”
The response came painfully. “I—I don’t remember, sir. I could say no one did, but that mightn’t be the truth. I just can’t answer.”
“All right.” The Inspector put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Forget it. Perhaps we’re asking too much. That’s all for the time being.” The doorman shuffled away with the pitiful alacrity of old age.
Doyle clumped toward the group, a tall handsome man dressed in rough tweeds in his wake, traces of stage makeup streaking
