Queens Full Read Free Page B

first-act set either sipping from coffee containers that might have been poisoned or staring into the gloom of the theater in emotional rapport. A pretty blond girl he recognized as Joan Truslow was stretched out tensely on the set couch where, Ellery surmised, Don Juan Benedict was shortly to seduce her in the service of art. Roger Fowler, in coveralls, was stroking her temples.
    Ellery slipped down the last aisle on his right and through the stage door. He found himself in a cramped triangle of space, the stage to his left. To his right a single door displayed a painted star and a placard hastily lettered MR. BENEDICT. A narrow iron ladder led to a tiny railed landing above and another dressing room.
    Curious, Ellery opened the starred door and looked in. Scutney had outdone himself here. Brilliant lighting switched on in the windowless room at the opening of the door. Air-conditioning hummed softly. The driftwood-paneled walls were hung with theatrical prints. Costumes lay thrown about and the handsome tri-mirrored dressing table was a clutter of wigs, hand props, and pots and boxes of theatrical make-up, evidently as Manson had left them before his accident.
    Impressed, Ellery backed out. He edged around an open metal chest marked Tools and made his way behind the upstage flat to the other side of the theater. Here there was ample space for the property room, the stage entrance, the lighting board, and a spiral of iron steps leading up to half a dozen additional dressing rooms. Beneath them, at stage level, a door announced Mr. Bluefield. Keep Out .
    Ellery knocked.
    Scutney’s voice screamed, “I said nobody! ”
    â€œIt’s Ellery Queen.”
    â€œOh. Come in.”
    The office was a little symphony in stainless steel. Scutney sat at his desk, left elbow anchored to blotter, left fist supporting cheek, eyes fixed on telephone. All Ellery could think of was Napoleon after the Battle of Waterloo contemplating what might have been.
    Arch Dullman stood at the one window, chewing on a dead cigar. He did not turn around.
    Ellery dropped into a chair. “Storm trouble?”
    The bunny-nose twitched. “Benedict phoned from the airfield in Boston. All planes grounded.”
    The window lit up as if an atom bomb had gone off. Dullman jumped back and Scutney shot to his feet. A crash jarred the theatrical photographs on the walls out of alignment. Immediately the heavens opened and the alley below the window became a river.
    â€œThis whole damn production is jinxed,” Dullman said, glancing at his watch. “They’ll be starting to come in soon, Bluefield. We’ll have to postpone.”
    â€œAnd give them another chance to laugh at me?” The little Bluefield jaw enlarged. “We’re holding that curtain.”
    â€œHow long do you think we can hold it? Benedict’s plane mightn’t be able to take off for hours.”
    â€œThe storm is traveling northwestward, Archer. Boston should clear any minute. It’s only a half-hour flight.”
    Dullman went out. Ellery heard him order the house lights switched on and the curtain closed. He did not come back.
    The phone came to life at 8:25. Scutney pounced on it. “What did I tell you? He’s on his way!”
    Foster Benedict got to the Playhouse at eighteen minutes past nine. The rain had stopped, but the alley leading to the stage entrance was dotted with puddles and the actor had to hop and sidestep to avoid them. From his scowl, he took the puddles as a personal affront. Scutney and Dullman hopped and sidestepped along with him, both talking at once.
    The company waiting expectantly in the stage entrance pressed back as Benedict approached. He strode past them without a glance, leaving an aroma of whisky and eau de cologne behind him. If he was drunk, Ellery could detect no evidence of it.
    Rodge Fowler was stern-jawed. And Joan Truslow, Ellery noticed, looked as if she had just been slapped.
    Foster Benedict