As the five men and Djuna swung toward the extreme left aisle, there was a concerted bobbing of heads from the left section of seats. It was apparent now that a small group of people were awaiting the arrival of the Inspector, who walked heavily down the aisle and took up a position in front of the left boxes, so that all the seated people faced him. Panzer, Neilson and Sampson stood at the head of the aisle with Djuna at one side, a feverish spectator.
The assembled party was placed peculiarly. From the row nearest the Inspector, who stood about halfway down the orchestra, and proceeding towards the rear the only seats occupied were those directly on the left aisle. The end two seats of the dozen rows were filled by a motley aggregation—men and women, old and young. They were the same people who had occupied these chairs on the night of the fatal performance and whom Inspector Queen had personally examined after the discovery of the body. In the section of eight seats—Monte Field’s and the empty ones which had surrounded it—were grouped William Pusak, Esther Jablow, Madge O’Connell, Jess Lynch and Parson Johnny—the Parson furtive-eyed, uneasy and whispering to the usherette behind nicotined fingers.
At the Inspector’s sudden gesture all became silent as the grave. Sampson, looking about him at the bright chandeliers and lights, the deserted theatre, the lowered curtain, could not help feeling that the stage was being set for dramatic revelations. He leaned forward interestedly. Panzer and Neilson were quiet and watchful. Djuna kept his eyes fixed on the old man.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Queen announced curtly, staring at the assembled company, “I’ve brought you here for a definite purpose. I will not keep you any longer than is absolutely necessary, but what is necessary and what is not necessary is entirely up to me. If I find that I do not receive what I consider truthful answers to my questions, everybody will stay here until I am satisfied. I want that thoroughly understood before we proceed.”
He paused and glared about. There was a ripple of apprehension, a sudden crackle of conversation which died as quickly as it was born.
“On Monday night,” continued the Inspector frostily, “you people attended the performance at this theatre and, with the exception of certain employees and others now seated at the rear, occupied the seats in which you now find yourselves.” Sampson grinned as he noticed the stiffening of backs at these words, as if each individual felt his seat grow suddenly warm and uncomfortable beneath him.
“I want you to imagine that this is Monday night. I want you to think back to that night and try to remember everything that happened. By everything I mean any occurrence, no matter how trivial or apparently unimportant, that might have left an impression on your memory. …”
As the Inspector warmed to his words, a number of people drifted into the orchestra at the rear. Sampson greeted them in whispers. The little party was composed of Eve Ellis, Hilda Orange, Stephen Barry, James Peale and three or four other members of the cast of Gunplay. They were dressed in their street-clothes. Peale whispered to Sampson that they had just come from their dressing-rooms and had dropped into the auditorium on hearing voices.
“Queen’s holding a little powwow,” whispered Sampson in return.
“Do you think the Inspector has any objections to our staying a while and listening?” asked Barry in a low tone, with an apprehensive glance toward the Inspector, who had stopped and was staring icily in their direction.
“Don’t see why—” began Sampson worriedly, when Eve Ellis murmured “Shhh!” and they all became silent.
“Now—” said the Inspector venomously, when the flurry had subsided, “this is the situation. Remember, you are now back in Monday evening. The curtain has gone up on the second act and the theatre is dark. There is a lot of noise from the stage and you are intent on the exciting sequences of the play. … Did any of you, especially those sitting in the aisle seats, notice anything peculiar, unusual or disturbing around or near you at that time?”
He paused expectantly. There were puzzled, fearful shakings of the head. No one answered.
“Think hard,” growled the Inspector. “You remember on Monday night I went down this aisle and questioned all of you in the same vein. Naturally I don’t want lies, and I can’t reasonably expect that you will tell me something startling now when you could remember nothing Monday night. But this is a desperate situation. A man was murdered here and we are frankly up against it. One of the most difficult cases we have ever encountered! In the light of such a condition, when we find ourselves against a blank wall with not the slightest idea where to turn—I am being honest with you as I expect you to be with me—I must turn to you as the only members of the audience five nights ago who were in a position to see something important, if anything important occurred. … It has been my experience that often, under stress of nervousness and excitement, a man or woman will forget a little detail that returns to memory after a few hours, days, weeks of normalcy. It is my hope that something of the sort has taken place with you. …”
As Inspector Queen spoke, the words dropping acidly from his lips, the company lost its nervousness in its fascinated interest. When he paused, people put their heads together and whispered excitedly, shaking their heads at times, arguing in fierce, low tones at others. The Inspector waited in a resigned patience.
“Raise your hands if you have something to tell me. …” he said.
A woman’s timid white hand fluttered aloft.
“Yes, madam?” commanded Queen, pointing his finger. “Do you recall anything unusual?”
A withered old lady rose embarrassedly to her feet and began to stammer in a
