Phantom Fingers (Mearson)/Chapter 1
Phantom Fingers
Chapter I
The Grand Theatre is one of the oldest in New York. It is peopled by the ghosts of thirty, forty and fifty years ago. This theater is a ramshackle and tremendous place with two balconies, as they used to build them then. It was opened by a play in which the great Constance Daly, now forgotten by everyone but the real old-timers, was starred. She was then at the height of her fame, and it was said that Ambrose Benedict had built this theater expressly for her. There was much more gossip at the time, of course, but it is well not to go too heavily into that at this time. It may come up again, however.
Occasionally a feature film goes into it now, but otherwise its seats are covered with dust and its stage is dark. In the far corners of the very large stage, against the exposed brick of the back walls, lean rickety sets, painted walls for hovels and gilded walls for living rooms, drops with street scenes painted on them in which the men wear tight pants and the women long skirts and hair, a canvas forest in which the tremendous numbers of William Shakespeare have resounded, some red plush furniture that no one has ever claimed; all dirty, all covered with the dust of years, and all forgotten.
Two or three years ago, however, the Humberts had a play called “The Leopard’s Spots” rehearsing there, preparatory to opening in that same theater. It was a good season in New York and every theater was occupied. There seemed no reason not to use the Grand, and indeed there was none. The acoustics were very nearly the best in New York, the lobby was spacious in the old manner, the house was very large and in case of a real success, would return much profit, and the only objection to it seemed to be that it was below Forty-second Street.
This lengthy preamble is necessary because I want you to have a pretty fair conception of the place where all this happened, that you may the better understand the subsequent events.
The rehearsals for “The Leopard’s Spots” went very well indeed. It was the first play in which Betty Sargent, a beautiful and talented young actress, was to be featured. The star was Augustin Arnold, one of the finest young romantic actors in the country, and the second act of the play was distinguished by as impassioned a love scene between the two as has ever been played on our stage. I know, because I saw it in rehearsal. The reason it was never given in full on the opening of the play, or thereafter, constitutes one of the jumping-off places for this curious chronicle.
Four days before the play was to open the management of the piece received a curious note. It was written on an ordinary sheet of typewriting paper, such as every stenographer is familiar with, and which is usually used for second sheets. The typewriting was a trifle inexpert, but otherwise undistinguished. It read:
Do not try to continue with your play, “The Leopard’s Spots,” or it will be the worse for you. It will be well if you heed this warning.
Pro Bono Publico.
No particular attention was paid to this message, of course, for every office that is much in the public eye is in receipt of crank letters. The next day, however, the office received another one from the same source, and in the same typewriting. This one read:
Cease rehearsals of “The Leopard’s Spots” on receipt of this friendly warning, if you wish to avert a tragedy. You will never be allowed to continue with the play. If you wish to save trouble, disband the cast and abandon the play.
Constant Reader.
It was puzzling, of course, but nothing particular was done about it, for they were busy with a thousand and one details and had no time to bother with a halfwit who was taking this safe way of amusing himself. The signature on the letters was peculiar, of course, but even that was explainable. The letters must have been written, some one in the office decided, by one of the cranks who writes anonymous letters to the newspapers, for he had retained even the usual signatures of the anonymous newspaper letter writers.
On the third day, the day of the dress rehearsal, they received another warning—or rather Augustin Arnold, the star, received it. It was obviously from the same source, being on the same kind of paper and in the same typewriting. He did not know about the two previous letters, and would have paid no attention to it, for a well-known star receives many anonymous communications, but he happened to mention the matter, quite casually, to Ike Humbert, and as Ike was in possession of the other two letters, he naturally put two and one together and got no answer. The note this time read:
Do not play in “The Leopard’s Spots” tomorrow night if you wish to continue in the land of the living. This is a serious warning, and it will be fatal to you to disregard it.
A Well-Wisher.
This is where I came into the thing. I am on the force. There is a little more to it, but let that come later. Let it be enough to say that, having a little more money than is quite good for me, I decided that the detective force of a large city was a good place to satisfy my lust for excitement and change, and that, with a little carefully placed influence, I managed to get myself appointed.
Well, anyway, Humbert called up the Chief and told him about it, and the Chief promised to send a man around at once. That was me. If I could have seen what I was going into, it might have given me pause, for the thing led me emotionally far afield from where I started, but you will hear more of that later, so we will let the matter rest at present.
I called on Humbert at his office, and Ike, whom I happened to know rather well, showed me the notes. I read them in silence, but there must have been an amused gleam in my eyes, for Ike said:
“So you think it’s funny, what?” He glared at me. “We invest fifty thousand dollars in a show and some damn fool tries to make us close even before we open, and you think it’s a funny joke, ain’t it so?”
I laughed. ‘Well, you have to admit that these notes are rather funny,” I said.
“I wish I had your sense of humor, Steve… or rather, thanks to God I haven't, because what a damn fool I’d be if I had, not so?”
“That’s a little involved,” I said, “but I know what you mean. You're reversing the usual procedure by thanking God for not having a sense of humor. However, if you don’t see anything funny about these notes—”
“Well, what’s so funny about them notes, then?” he demanded. “I didn’t see a single gag in them, and I got an eye for gags, as anybody in this business’ll tell you. Come on, make me laugh! What’s so funny there?”
“The signatures, for one thing. They’re signed: Pro Bono Publico, Constant Reader, and A Well-Wisher—”
“Well, how else would you sign them?” demanded Ike Humbert, looking at me a little belligerently. “Isn’t that the only way you're allowed to sign an anonymous letter, hey? Sense of humor! You got as much sense of humor as a stage doorkeeper. Now tell me another one.”
I looked at him a little uncertainly, for I couldn’t at the moment make out whether he was kidding me or really meant it.
“Well, never mind, Ike,” I said. “We won’t go any further into that. If you don’t think that’s funny, why, then, the other obvious expressions in these notes won't be funny, either. Just what do you want me to do about this, then?” I asked.
He looked at me in astonishment. “Why I want you to go see the feller that’s sending these notes and tell him that he has to stop it, because I’m too busy to bother with such nonsense now.”
“And will you tell me his name and address?” I asked with a heavy sarcasm which was entirely lost on Ike Humbert.
“How should I know it?” he yelled at me. He always yelled when he was beginning to lose his temper. They were used to it at his office, and no one any longer paid any attention to the agonized screams of rage and excitement that were constantly emanating from Ike Humbert’s private office.
“How should I know it?” he repeated. “Would I send for a detective if I knew it myself? You're supposed to be able to find out such things, not? Go ahead and find out.”
I was silent for a moment, for there was no use in engaging in this kind of a discussion with Ike. One got nowhere. Then I said:
“Have you any ideas in the matter at all? Have you the slightest inkling as to what might be the origin of these notes. Have you discharged anyone lately, or—”
“Not the slightest idea,” said Ike, changing his front disconcertingly. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think I'd pay a great deal of attention to them, if I were you. If you'll just have an extra man or two in the theater tomorrow night—I’ll get the tickets for you—and be back stage yourself, that'll reassure Augustin Arnold, and that’s all I want. If he feels at all nervous, it might affect his acting. These temperamental actors . . .” he sighed and gazed at me for sympathy.
“All right,” I said, rising, for he was already beginning to look at some of the papers on his desk, indicating that he was busy. “I’ll scout around and if I turn up anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Good. So long, Steve,” he said, shaking my hand. “And, Steve—"
“What?”
“I’ll leave a ticket for you at the box office. If he asks you to pay the war tax, tell him I said it would be O. K.” He smiled and waved me out.
I did scout around, making a few inquiries in the places that seemed most logical to me, but could get nowhere, and finally decided that Ike Humbert was right, and that they were the usual crank letters that were not worth bothering about. The time was very limited and the possibilities were endless, so there was little chance to do anything but the most obvious things.
I inquired from Humbert’s stenographer as to who had been discharged lately, and received a short list which was not very fruitful, though I looked into it faithfully, even going so far as to make a trip to the Bronx on a wild goose chase that netted me absolutely nothing. I also talked to the members of the cast, in the hope that perhaps one of them might have some idea as to just what was happening, and who was doing it, but there was no light there. I did not see Betty Sargent, who was out doing some last minute shopping, but I saw all the rest of them, and I thought it would be just as well if nothing was said that might disturb Miss Sargent just before her first night.