“What is it—gat?” asked the newcomer of Doyle, his eyes roving.
“No, sir—don’t seem to be,” said the policeman. “Had a doctor from the audience look him over the very first thing—thinks it’s poison.”
The Sergeant grunted. “Who’s this?” he rapped, indicating the trembling figure of Pusak by Doyle’s side.
“Chap who found the body,” returned Doyle. “He hasn’t moved from the spot since.”
“Good enough.” The detective turned toward a compact group huddled a few feet behind them and asked, generally: “Who’s the manager here?”
Panzer stepped forward.
“I’m Velie, detective-sergeant from headquarters,” said the plainclothes man abruptly. “Haven’t you done anything to keep this yelling pack of idiots quiet?”
“I’ve done my best, Sergeant,” mumbled the manager, wringing his hands. “But they all seem incensed at the way this officer”—he indicated Doyle apologetically—“has been storming at them. I don’t know how I can reasonably expect them to keep sitting in their seats as if nothing had happened.”
“Well, we’ll take care of that,” snapped Velie. He gave a rapid order to a uniformed man nearby. “Now”—he turned back to Doyle—“how about the doors, the exits? Done anything yet in that direction?”
“Sure thing, Sergeant,” grinned the policeman. “I had Mr. Panzer here station ushers at every door. They’ve been there all night, anyway. But I just wanted to make sure.”
“You were right. Nobody try to get out?”
“I think I can vouch for that, Sergeant,” put in Panzer meekly. “The action of the play necessitates having ushers posted near every exit, for atmosphere. This is a crook-play, with a good deal of shooting and screaming and that sort of thing going on, and the presence of guards around the doors heightens the general effect of mystery. I can very easily find out for you if. …”
“We’ll attend to that ourselves,” said Velie. “Doyle, who’d you send for?”
“Inspector Queen,” answered Doyle. “I had the publicity man, Neilson, phone him at headquarters.”
Velie allowed a smile to crease his wintry face. “Thought of everything, didn’t you? Now how about the body? Has it been touched at all since this fellow found it?”
The cowering man held in Doyle’s hard grasp broke out, half-crying. “I—I only found him, officer—honest to God, I—”
“All right, all right,” said Velie coldly. “You’ll keep, won’t you? What are you blubbering about? Well, Doyle?”
“Not a finger was laid on the body since I came over,” replied Doyle, with a trace of pride in his voice. “Except, of course, for a Dr. Stuttgard. I got him out of the audience to make sure the man was dead. He was, and nobody else came near.”
“You’ve been busy, haven’t you, Doyle? I’ll see you won’t suffer by it,” said Velie. He wheeled on Panzer, who shrank back. “Better trot up to the stage and make an announcement, Mr. Manager. The whole crew of ’em are to stay right where they are until Inspector Queen lets them go home—understand? Tell them it won’t do any good to kick—and the more they kick the longer they’ll be here. Make it plain, too, that they’re to stick to their seats, and any suspicious move on anybody’s part is going to make trouble.”
“Yes. Yes. Good Lord, what a catastrophe!” groaned Panzer as he made his way down the aisle toward the stage.
At the same moment a little knot of people pushed open the big door at the rear of the theatre and stepped across the carpet in a body.
II
In Which One Queen Works and Another Queen Watches
There was nothing remarkable in either the physique or the manner of Inspector Richard Queen. He was a small, withered, rather mild-appearing old gentleman. He walked with a little stoop and an air of deliberation that somehow accorded perfectly with his thick grey hair and mustaches, veiled grey eyes and slender hands.
As he crossed the carpet with short, quick steps Inspector Queen was far from impressive to the milling eyes that observed his approach from every side. And yet, so unusual was the gentle dignity of his appearance, so harmless and benevolent the smile that illumined his lined old face, that an audible rustle swept over the auditorium, preceding him in a strangely fitting manner.
In his own men the change was appreciable. Doyle retreated into a corner near the left exits. Detective-Sergeant Velie, poised over the body—sardonic, cold, untouched by the near-hysteria about him—relaxed a trifle, as if he were satisfied to relinquish his place in the sun. The bluecoats guarding the aisles saluted with alacrity. The nervous, muttering, angry audience sank back with an unreasoning relief.
Inspector Queen stepped forward and shook hands with Velie.
“Too bad, Thomas, my boy. I hear you were going home when this happened,” he murmured. To Doyle he smiled in a fatherly fashion. Then, in a mild pity, he peered down at the man on the floor. “Thomas,” he asked, “are all the exits covered?” Velie nodded.
The old man turned back and let his eyes travel interestedly about the scene. He asked a low-voiced question of Velie, who nodded his head in assent; then he crooked his finger at Doyle.
“Doyle, where are the people who were sitting in these seats?” He pointed to three chairs adjoining the dead man’s and four directly to the front of them in the preceding row.
The policeman appeared puzzled. “Didn’t see anybody there, Inspector. …”
Queen stood silent for a moment, then waved Doyle back with the low remark to Velie, “In a crowded house, too. … Remember that.” Velie raised his eyebrows gravely. “I’m cold on this whole business,” continued the Inspector genially. “All I can see right now are a dead man and a lot of perspiring people making noise. Have Hesse and Piggott direct traffic for a while, eh, son?”
Velie spoke sharply to two of the plainclothes men who had entered the theatre with the Inspector. They wriggled their way toward the rear and the people who had been crowding around found themselves pushed
