THE PALACE THEATRE, HAMMERSMITH
The man who fled from that house was Julian Little! He had escaped in
secret because of the return of his friend Stonor. I had no doubt about
that, because he had not closed the front door after him.
My motor clothes were sufficient disguise, and as he passed the car he
did not recognise me.
He disappeared round the corner of the Hotel Russell, leaving me
puzzled and uncertain. Would he return to our chambers? Should I go
there and wait?
After a few minutes I took the car along to Theobald's Road, and,
descending, paid the man the sum agreed upon, together with a tip, and
dismissed him. Utterly fagged out, I ascended the stairs in Gray's Inn,
entered with my latchkey, and switched on the light.
At a single glance I could see that Little had not been there in
my absence. All was untouched, even to his latchkey still upon the
mantelshelf. Where, I wondered, were his headquarters in London? Why
had he fled from Woburn Square on the arrival of the man who was so
entirely in his confidence?
I longed to obtain a peep within that house which, on that
well-remembered night, I had searched with Whitlock--the house wherein
we found the first clue to the truth. During my absence on the
Bosphorus my mind had ever been full of the strange nocturnal tragedy
at Barnes, and now, at the first moment of my return on English soil, I
found myself again watching the progress of an amazing drama.
Utterly done up I snatched a few hours' sleep, and next morning rang
up Whitlock on the telephone. At eleven o'clock I sat with him at his
office at Scotland Yard relating my adventure in Paris, but, of course,
omitting the fact that I had spoken with Daisy Marvin.
My friend was sorely puzzled. What I told him did not, it seemed, tally
with the result of his secret inquiries during my absence in Turkey.
Later that day I went down to the office, and from Wakeley gathered
that Little had suddenly turned up about a fortnight ago and asked
"the Chief" for a month's leave. Things being unusually quiet, he was
at once granted it, and had given an address in county Galway where a
telegram would reach him in case of necessity. Then he had walked out
of the news-room and had not since been seen.
Through several corridors I walked, and up two flights of stairs until
I gained the news-room of the _Evening Herald_, where old Marvin was
seated at his table in his shirt-sleeves.
"Halloa, Murder-Monger! Back again! Well, how did you get on in the
Land of Turkish Delight?" he grunted, without taking his eyes off the
pile of "flimsy" before him.
I briefly related some of my experiences, whereupon he said--
"I wish you'd been back again with us the other day, Keene. That Barnes
affair is a devilish good story, and has never been sufficiently worked
up."
"I'm off crime now," I answered, though rather surprised at his sudden
reference to the matter that was so near my heart.
"Ah! I know! As special you haven't any further interest in
murder mysteries and domestic tragedies. We've got to get another
Murder-Monger, I suppose? One thing, however, is quite certain: we
shan't get as good a man as you were."
"You're jolly flattering," I said. "But I've had enough of crime to
last me my lifetime. By the way, how's your daughter getting on? Any
fresh engagements?"
"Well, yes. Let's see. She starts at the Holborn Empire and the
Hammersmith Palace on Monday next. Two shows at the first house and one
at the second."
"'The Motor-Maid,' I suppose?"
"Oh, of course. It's her most popular song. The week after next she's
at the Pavilion for four weeks, and then starts on a provincial
tour--Manchester, Glasgow, Newcastle--the Moss Empires."
The Palace of Varieties at Hammersmith! I happened to know all
connected with that very popular place of entertainment--the pleasant
and very gentlemanly proprietor, the genial manager, and the tall,
thin and active, if sharp-tongued, stage-manager behind. It had been
my habit to go there often, for at no suburban hall was there such an
excellent entertainment provided. Mr Rowe, the proprietor, believed
in giving a thoroughly amusing but thoroughly sound programme. He
spared no expense, and consequently the house was crowded nightly by an
orderly and interested audience.
It was my intention to again see Daisy and speak with her. Therefore
I waited until Monday night, and then took the "tube" to Hammersmith.
By reason of the fact that I sometimes wrote notices of the variety
performances for the _Evening Herald_ I had free _entrée_ to more than
one music-hall in London, including the one in question. Therefore,
after being warmly welcomed by Mr Rowe and his smartly-dressed,
clean-shaven manager, Mr Lewis--who, by the way, was one of the
shrewdest and most genial among music-hall managers in all London--I
went round to "the back" and, passing the fireman at the stage-door,
found myself shaking hands with Mr Dickinson, the stage-manager. He
had just shouted "Lights up!" for a popular female artiste was on the
stage, singing a song with a swinging chorus--a song about love, money,
and green fields--and one or two people were idling in the wings. In
a suit of blue serge, and wearing a yachting cap, he bade me as warm
a welcome as his principals "in front" had done. Tall, thin-faced,
with a slight black moustache, he was at heart a refined, generous,
sympathetic man, with a penchant for photography, but close and nightly
contact with the variety world and its vulgar tastes had rendered him
somewhat callous and hard towards the artistes who came there to fulfil
their engagements.
He was scrupulously just to the very letter. Once he had confided to me
that "these artistes would simply wipe their shoes on you if you were
not master. So I have very often to be a bit hard on them." But, be it
said, I have never heard a single complaint by an artiste against any
injustice practised by the management of the Hammersmith Palace.
To those unaccustomed to the little world behind the stage at a London
music-hall, all would appear strange. Nobody is allowed there except
those actually engaged, and, in rare cases, representatives of the
Press, of which I was one. Mr Rowe, the proprietor, was most strict in
this respect, and in every part of the house the most strict decorum
was always displayed. Indeed, the house in all its appointments, in its
entertainment, and its general management, was quite equal to any in
the West End, for Mr Rowe knew what the public wanted and he gave it to
them.
Though they were in Hammersmith he tolerated no vulgarity upon the
stage, and woe betide the artiste who attempted it. "Behind" was as
decorous as any West End drawing-room, and, perhaps, more so; and the
whole theatre was, indeed, a credit to its merry, round-faced, and
prosperous proprietor, who always had a cheery word for all of his
friends who gathered nightly about him.
I walked along the stage with my friend Dickinson, to where, against
the corner of the proscenium, was the clock dial which worked the
curtain and the electric numbers corresponding with the programme. The
stage-manager had a seat there, at that moment occupied by a rather
pretty dancing girl, who in her gay skirts and spangled bodice was
awaiting her turn.
"I saw in the _Herald_ that you've been in Turkey lately, Mr Keene,"
my friend was saying, as we stood together watching the girl at that
moment occupying the stage.
I explained that I was only just back, and wanting an evening's
entertainment I had come down to look him up. Beside him upon a desk
was a ledger, where, in an almost microscopically neat caligraphy, he
booked the time of each artiste, "on" and "off."
"You've Daisy Marvin this week," I remarked. "What time is she on?"
He consulted the programme tacked upon the wall, and replied--
"Oh, about 10.18. She has to come from the Holborn. An excellent turn,
isn't she? By Jove! she's making a lot of money nowadays, and a jolly
good girl into the bargain. Know her?"
"Oh, yes. Quite well. Her father's at our office, you know."
"Of course. I quite forgot. You'll stay and see her--eh?" And, unable
to wait for my reply, he dashed away, shouting some orders to the
scene-shifters, whom his keen eye had detected setting the next scene
wrongly. It was the scene for a sketch, and not being properly done he
gave vent to some forcible language, threw his coat aside, and, nipping
about nimbly, set it himself to show how it should be done.
A young man with a waxed moustache--his assistant--came to ask a
question about the "limes," and received a quick, decisive answer; and
then came the female dresser, a short, rather thin girl with a merry
face, with a message from one of the artistes who had that moment
arrived and was in her dressing-room.
By this time the curtain had fallen and "the house" was thundering
applause. Dickinson was shouting and running about, giving an order
here and bestowing condemnation there. Not an instant did he lose,
until at last a young woman in evening dress took up her place upon a
couch in the drawing-room that had been so rapidly built up.
Then, with a swift glance to see all was right, Dickinson shouted up
to the flies, "Lights up." And next instant the curtain rose, the
orchestra ceased, and the great house was silent in expectation as the
tall, fair girl in the pale blue dinner-gown spoke her opening lines.
"We can go out now," Dickinson remarked to me with a sigh of relief,
wiping the perspiration off his brow and putting on his coat. "This
plays for twenty minutes."
And so we emerged from the stage-door and walked up the by-road into
King Street, where, at the private bar at the corner, we had a friendly
glass together, as was our habit whenever I visited the theatre.
I was standing on the stage with Dickinson watching a pair of humorous
acrobats who were making the audience laugh heartily by their antics
when the musical voice I knew so well exclaimed, "Good-evening, Mr
Dickinson!" and, turning, I found myself face to face with Daisy,
dressed ready to go on. Indeed, she had come along in the brougham from
Holborn just as she was in her short, spangled skirt of pansy velvet,
shaded from the palest tint to the darkest, and its bodice glittering
with golden sequins.
She started back at discovering me there, but next moment recovered
herself, saying--
"Only fancy, Victor--you here! I thought you were still in Paris."
"No," I laughed. "I'm back home again," and together we strolled to the
farther end of the stage, where no one could overhear. "Is Annie here?"
I asked quickly.
"No. She's not well, so I'm alone to-night."
"And we can have a chat after you've finished your business--eh?" I
suggested.
She hesitated, but only for a second.
"If you wish. Will you wait till I've dressed? Excuse me a moment," she
added, "I've left my fan in the brougham." And she bustled away to send
the stage-door keeper for it.
I saw that she evinced but little pleasure at meeting me. Six months
ago her face would have been illuminated by real pleasure had we met
unexpectedly like that. To-night, however, there seemed just a slight
shadow of annoyance upon her countenance. And yet how fondly I loved
her--and how I hated that fellow Drayton with all my heart!
Where was he, I wondered? Was it because of him that she had hesitated
to spend an hour with me after the show?
How neat and dainty she looked as she tripped back towards me, fan in
hand! I preferred her in her ordinary clothes and without the make-up
which, against her will, she was compelled to use. Yet from the
auditorium, with the white lights upon her, she looked very charming to
the public, who applauded her dancing so vociferously.
Would I ever be able to take her from that life of glitter and
artificiality and make her my wife? Would she, used as she had now
become to the nightly excitement and the plaudits of the crowd, ever
be able to live without it? Aye, that was the question which often
occurred to me.
The curtain fell, and the acrobats, perspiring and panting, brushed
past us, one of them asking Dickinson: "How's that, boss? Got a double
encore, you see!"
"A very good act," responded the stage-manager, laughing. "You're
improving."
"Thanks," replied the man with the powdered face, red nose, and a
smashed silk hat. "Good-night, old chap," and he passed away into the
dressing-room.
"Miss Marvin--ready?" shouted Dickinson, touching one electric button
to give the orchestra the cue, and another which caused the heavy
velvet curtains to part, and draw up on either side of the proscenium.
And next second, Daisy, waiting until the orchestra had played the
opening bars of the song, tripped lightly on to the stage.
A perfect thunder of applause greeted her from "stalls" to "gods." She
was one of the popular favourites whose portraits looked out upon you
from the window of every post-card shop, and whose catchy songs were
played upon every street-piano.
With a piquant air and a merry, devil-may-care manner, she sang a
new and somewhat sarcastic song that I had not before heard, called
"Love--Love--Latter-day Love." In it, face-fakers and medicated sleeps
at ten guineas each were referred to, while it was declared that love
was slowly dying--dying of popularity. A tuneful song, with many
references to the humorous side of affection, and yet it somehow jarred
upon me, owing, most probably, to my frame of mind at that juncture.
But it received a loud and enthusiastic encore, and she dressed swiftly
and went on again to sing "The Motor-Maid," that song which had secured
for her popularity throughout the whole country.
The gods clapped again and again when she appeared a second time, and
the band struck up the overture. They shouted their rough but hearty
salutations to her, and she, in return, smiled up to them and waved her
hand merrily.
The song went with a swing and the whole house joined in the chorus,
as it always did, whether at the Oxford, the Tivoli, the Holborn, or
elsewhere. It was the song the words of which had been written by Tommy
Newton of the Savage, and had taken all London. "Tuck up your veil!
Tuck up your veil!" was one of the lines in the second verse, and this
had become a popular saying. "Now, tuck up your veil!" one heard on
every side, the advice being generally given by men to the opposite sex.
At last she sang the final verse, there was a thunder of applause, and
the great velvet curtains swung to. But the clapping did not cease,
and she was bound to go to the centre of the stage again and bow her
acknowledgments from between the parted curtains.
Yes. The wild plaudits she received for that song were surely
sufficient to turn the head of any girl.
She skipped away to the dressing-room, hot and excited after the strain
of singing and dancing, but a quarter of an hour later rejoined me,
neat in a black skirt, close-fitting tailor-made jacket, and black
toque--modist, sweet-faced, and devoid of every artificiality of the
stage. That fifteen minutes had transformed her into an entirely
different being.
She was the modest, soft-voiced, soft-haired girl I loved so well--the
girl whose bright eyes held me beneath the spell of her wondrous
beauty, and whose voice filled me with enchantment.
"Well?" she asked, as she came up to me, looking straight into my face.
"Are you angry, Victor? You don't seem yourself to-night!"
"Let's get away from here," I whispered. "I want to speak to you;"
and together we wished Dickinson--who was busy "booking-in" another
turn--"Good-night."