The Dead Are Blind E-Book

Max Afford

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 301

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The Dead Are Blind by Max Afford is a riveting mystery that will keep you guessing until the very end. When a renowned detective is called to investigate a series of chilling crimes where the victims appear to have been targeted by someone who knows their every move, he is drawn into a labyrinth of deceit and hidden motives. As the detective delves deeper, he discovers a sinister connection between the victims and a powerful, elusive figure who seems to be manipulating events from the shadows. With each revelation, the case becomes more tangled, and the line between hunter and hunted blurs. Will the detective uncover the truth before the killer strikes again, or will he become the next victim in this deadly game? Dive into this thrilling tale of suspense and uncover the secrets that lie behind the veil of blindness.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

The Dead Are Blind

I. GENERAL NEWS SESSION

II. APPOINTMENT WITH ECHO

III. THE RIDDLE OF THE WRONG BODY

IV. JIGSAW

V. VIA THE EAR!

VI. JOURNEY TO NOWHERE

VII. DARKNESS IS DANGER!

VIII. CURTAIN-CALL FOR CAIN

IX. CLOSE DOWN

Landmarks

Table of Contents

Cover

The Dead Are Blind

By: Max Afford

Edited by: Rafat Allam

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq Bookstore

Published 1946

No part of this publication may be reproduced whole or in part in any form without the prior written permission of the author

I. GENERAL NEWS SESSION

"What if it be a poison, which the friar

Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead?"

—Romeo and Juliet. Act IV.

* * *

To Jeffery Blackburn, it is the case.

Recalling the abrupt manner in which Blackburn was pitchforked into the murder of Judge Sheldon, and the foreboding events that preceded the raising of the curtain on the frightful business of the Dolls of Death, there is a certain irony in the fact that his chances of being connected with the case under discussion were, in the ordinary course of events, exceptionally remote. He stepped into the business merely as a spectator, a rather reluctant witness who paused momentarily to scoff and remained to ensnare his hands in a net of crime that was to enmesh innocent and guilty alike.

Spring came early to London that year. But the city was not caught unaware. There was entertainment and amusement for all classes in the varied programme of attractions that spread through a thawing muddy March and well into leafy June. Yet with these and a hundred other diversions to capture his wandering fancy, William Jamieson Read, Chief Detective-Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard, must turn his inquisitive mind to the business of broadcasting.

On this particular Monday night an early dinner had been served at the flat. The two men sat with coffee and cigarettes over the faint sternutation of the gas-fire. The conversation had turned to radio plays in general. A commercial station at Luxembourg had made a feature of the broadcasting of "dinner-hour thrillers," presented to the listening world by courtesy of the Widdis Wonder Wash-cloth, and, as far as the Chief Inspector was concerned, no evening meal was complete without this accompaniment of mystery and mayhem. Since Mr. Blackburn's appetite was stronger than his prejudices, he was forced to lend an unwilling ear to these presentations and so their postprandial conversation centred about the theme of the play heard on that evening.

"A very fair production," announced Read, pushing back his coffee-cup and reaching for his pipe. In the background, tuned down to a barely audible whisper, the radio hissed in a defeated monotone.

"A very stupid production," commented Jeffery. "Wash-cloths and obscure toxicology! O tempora! O mores!"

Read gave a dry chuckle. He was teasing the tobacco in his pipe with a match-end. "You can save your breath by addressing such constructive criticism to the fountain-head," he announced. As Jeffery stared at him, he continued: "D'you remember Nickerson, the young man who was programme director at the B.B.C.? He approached you a few months ago to do a series of talks over the air on the subject of criminology—"

"Which I refused," interrupted Blackburn. "Yes, I remember George Nickerson. What about him?"

"He's appointed manager of the new subsidiary station built near Portland Place—somewhere in Wigmore Street, I understand. It's the official opening tonight." Read paused and bent to fiddle with the tap of the gas-fire. "He's sent along an invitation for two," he concluded rather lamely.

"As a matter of fact," said Jeffery calmly, "I'd rather like to come with you. Since criminology has completely absorbed my time and talents, I have relinquished all ambitions regarding that epochal treatise on the binomial theorem." He sighed. "Consequently I find the evenings rather dull since all the super-criminals appear to have turned their nefarious attentions to dinner-hour radio thrillers. Yes, Chief, I'll come along with you."

The sudden buzz of the house telephone cut into Read's rejoinder. He heaved himself from the low chair and moved across to the instrument. Jeffery heard him bark a gruff "hello" into the mouthpiece and there were curious guttural sounds.

"It's Nickerson." His voice was controlled. "He's calling on his way to the studio—wants to know if we're going. He'll be up here in a moment. And," said the Chief Inspector heavily, "if you frighten him off with any of that Oxford-and-Cambridge stuff, I'll break your damn neck!" At that moment the door-bell shrilled, announcing the new arrival. Jeffery rose to meet the guest.

George Nickerson was not unlike an electrical impulse himself. He spoke in short staccato barks and such was his energy that he was rarely in the same position for more than a few minutes at a time. Jeffery, however, was interested and not a little amused by the attitude of Read. The Chief Inspector had pulled a third chair to the fire and was busy with the whisky tantalus. Blackburn, who knew from experience how rarely it was that his companion troubled to be even amiable to strangers, speculated wonderingly on the change. Having greeted the new-comer, he sat back to listen. The first remark, however, was addressed to him. Nickerson leaned over the back of his chair.

"About those talks, Mr. Blackburn—haven't changed your mind? Good opportunity! Wonderful publicity! Imagine it—your voice reaching tens of thousands of listeners!"

"I'd rather not imagine it, thanks," Jeffery said dryly. He smiled. "It's very good of you to offer, but honestly, I had enough publicity over the Mannikin Murders to last me for the rest of my life."

Nickerson shrugged his shoulders. "As you like." He turned to take a glass from the Chief Inspector. "I suppose we couldn't interest you sir?"

Read's expression was wistful. "Couldn't do it—official capacity—never allow it," he mumbled. "But, there's nothing to stop the young chap from doing it, except silly prejudice."

Jeffery looked hurt. "At least I've sunk my prejudices to the point of accompanying you to this opening tonight, Chief. You might give me credit—"

"Sssh—!" Read silenced him fiercely. He was standing with one ear cocked alertly, then his eyes dropped to his wrist-watch. Abruptly he turned. "The news session," he announced, jerking his head toward the radio. "We've already missed half of it! Never miss the general news session," he explained to Nickerson as he crossed and twisted the tuning dials.

A cheerful disinterested voice floated into the room, retailing tabloid descriptions of the outstanding news events. The three men listened in silence. There came a rustle of paper as the voice paused. A few moments later, the precise clipped tones were heard again:

"We are in receipt of the latest news concerning the condition of Miss Agatha Boycott-Smith, well-known philanthropist, who lies seriously ill at her home at Royston Towers, Hertfordshire. We are pleased to announce that her condition has improved slightly. She has been forbidden to see friends and her sole relative, a nephew, has been recalled to the Towers...

"That completes our first news bul—"

The voice was choked into silence as the Chief Inspector clicked the master-switch and returned to the fire-place. "Who is this woman?" he demanded. "They've been giving out bulletins regarding her illness over the past week! I've never heard of her."

Jeffery grinned. "Shows your laudable single-mindedness of purpose, Chief. Certainly the lady has never appeared in your Illustrated Circular or been featured in Informations. But if you took the trouble to emerge from your official shell occasionally, you couldn't help but encounter the name!"

Read was settling in his chair. He glanced up. "Why is that?"

"There's a Boycott-Smith wing in half a dozen country hospitals, a Boycott-Smith Free Library in the East End, and a Boycott-Smith scholarship in at least three of our universities. Only last year, the lady gave an immense sum to the unemployment relief." Jeffery smoked for a moment. "And they say she is still worth a cool million!"

The Chief Inspector grunted. "She must have bought a half-interest in the wireless stations by the way they keep harping on her condition!"

George Nickerson, who had been following this conversation with nervous bird-like movements, shook his head. He grinned. "I don't think you'll find Miss Boycott-Smith putting any more money into entertainment. Not since her disastrous venture with that film company!"

"What was that?" asked Jeffery.

"Didn't you hear about it?" asked Nickerson. "It happened about six months ago. Andrew Newland, her nephew, was partly to blame. He's a friend of mine and a good sort of chap—but a perfect bonehead when it comes to business—"

"Newland?" repeated the Chief Inspector. "There was an Andrew Newland played rugger for England against Australia—"

"That's the lad," their guest cut in. "It was following his success in that game this film company offered him a contract. Of course, his aunt's money was the attraction, but the novelty of the stunt appealed to Andrew. They were going to make a series of sporting films, wild and woolly adventures that would appeal to the kiddies, with Newland as a kind of sporting Buffalo Bill! Newland persuaded his aunt to sink a packet of money in the company and I believe they made about three films with Andy playing lead."

"And what happened?"

Nickerson grinned. "They were so bad that they were never shown. Then the aunt's attorney got to hear of the business and told her that she'd been stung. She stopped paying out money and the company went broke the following week. It seems that she hadn't been too favourably impressed with the business from the start. She'd only considered it for Newland's sake. Miss Boycott-Smith is rather proud of the family name and considers the public eye definitely infra dignitatum. There was the very deuce of a row about two years ago when Newland tried for the middle-weight championship of England. He did it on a bet and was, incidentally, battered to blazes! His aunt came to hear of it and almost disinherited him on the spot!"

"Mr. Newland must be a singularly foolish young man to quarrel with a million pounds," remarked Jeffery.

"Oh, the trouble soon blew over," the manager assured him. "They're terribly fond of each other, really. Newland's a decent, straight-shooting sort, not particularly brainy, perhaps, but thoroughly genuine. He realizes that Miss Boycott-Smith has been a mother to him since he was ten years old. I understand that his father was an invalid and died in a hospital. The shock of it killed his mother some months afterwards. His aunt adopted him and gave him everything. He thinks the world of her"—and here Mr. Nickerson's grin flashed out again—"that is, next to a certain young lady playing in the show tonight."

"Ah!" exclaimed Jeffery. "Romance in radio-land?"

The manager nodded. "I don't know much about the girl—her name's Marlowe. Mary Marlowe. But she seems a nice quiet type of young lady. It's generally understood that their engagement will be announced as soon as his aunt's illness clears one way or the other." Somewhat irrelevantly, Nickerson added: "I hope that girl makes good tonight. I put her in the cast at Newland's request."

"I suppose young Newland will be on board tonight to witness the debut of his lady—love?"

The manager shook his head. "I understand he's gone up to the Towers to be with his aunt in case the end comes. She was very low this morning. Of course, he'll listen in at the Towers. But I don't anticipate that the girl will flop. She's being produced by our best man—Karl von Bethke. He's a former talkie director who came to us from the Kinofilm people. Apart from that, Newland's attended some of the rehearsals with the girl and she's shown up quite well." He paused, and on his last words the clock on the mantel chimed seven-thirty. Nickerson glanced at his wrist-watch and rose with a quick movement. "I must fly," he announced. "By the way, I'd like to show you over the studio before the play commences, so it would be as well to be early on the scene."

Read knocked the ashes from his pipe into the tray. "Black or white tie?" he asked.

"Black," returned Nickerson. "It's a semi-formal turn-out. Don't trouble to come down," he added as the Chief Inspector straightened. "I can let myself out. I'll see you both at the studio." With a wave of his hand, he was gone.

The Chief Inspector glanced down at the recumbent Jeffery and rubbed his hands briskly. His brick-red face glowed. "Come along son! Stir yourself from that fire. Can't keep the B.B.C. waiting!"

Jeffery stretched himself and yawned prodigiously. "Vast pity we haven't perfected television," he murmured as he rose. "I always appear so extremely distingue in a black tie."

II. APPOINTMENT WITH ECHO

For the bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.

—Eccles. X, 20.

* * *

— 1 —

After the tumult of Piccadilly and the surging traffic about Oxford Circus, the hush of Wigmore Street gave the impression of to turning into some shuttered thoroughfare, long forgotten by clamorous crowds. To Jeffery, as he guided the long nose of the sports Bentley into the street, it was something of a paradox that this silent approach should harbour the Autolycusian ear that symbolized the modern radio station.

A uniformed attendant took charge of their car as they stepped out. A polite commissionaire ushered them into the foyer. As they moved through the heavy glass doors, the many-sided personality of an opening night swept down upon them.

With restrained use of shoulders and elbows, the two men moved slowly across the crowded foyer until their progress was halted by a tightly fitting double door bearing the notice in twisted glass letters, "Entrance to Studios." Here they were forced to pause. Read set a massive back against the door and peered over heads that grew more numerous with every passing minute. The air was filmed with richly aromatic smoke from perfumed cigarettes and fragrant cigars. The Chief Inspector, watching over the crowd, gave a sudden vicious grunt of surprise and Jeffery saw his eyes narrow in quick recognition. Without a word, the big man dived into the throng, to reappear a few moments later grasping a young man by the arm. A very slim, very sleek young man whose black eyes glittered like a cornered serpent's in his pale, powdered face. There was something very snake-like in his whole appearance as he twisted his black-coated body sinuously in the other's grip. The Chief Inspector glanced around. Directly opposite was a door marked "Cloak-rooms." Read, with a glance at Jeffery, jerked his head in this direction and began to pilot his unwilling companion toward the door. Arriving, he thrust it open, found it empty and almost dragged the slim young man inside. The captive jerked himself free with a convulsive movement.

"Take your damn' paws off me!" he hissed. "Who the devil are you, anyway?"

"Now then, Mr. Steinie Rodda—" began Read—when the young man's eyes blazed afresh. He snarled.

"That's not my name! You're making a mistake! Let me get out of here!"

The Chief Inspector, his back to the door, balanced himself firmly, feet apart. He measured the panting young man with cold grey eyes. "So—your name isn't Steinie Rodda and you don't know me, eh?" His tone was dangerously quiet. "Well, my lad, I don't know what alias you're working under now—but I'll warrant you've never forgotten the time I rounded you up with the Yashukichi Miyagawa dope gang back in 1932!" Under the grey moustache his lips twisted grimly. "Perhaps you can recall that morning in Old Bailey when Justice Travers Humphreys sentenced you—"

"All right, Mr. Read, all right!" A pink tongue flicked across the young man's lips and his eyes glistened with hatred. "I'll come clean! I am Steinie Rodda. But I'm going straight now—honest I am! I was invited here tonight—"

"By the Ancient and Associated Order of Pocket-Dippers and Snatchers, I suppose?" grated Read. "Certainly not by the B.B.C.!" He reached forward and grasped the other's arm. "Come on, Steinie—out with the truth! Why are you here?"

"I got an invite," hissed Steinie. "And take your hand off my arm. You don't know who might be looking at us!"

"People look at you every week in the Police Gazette," retorted the Chief Inspector grimly. "Oh yes—we're keeping our eye on you, Steinie! We've had your dabs out for inspection half a dozen times in the past couple of years, in connection with cases that seemed to bear your trade-mark." He released the trembling young man and stepped back. Steinie retreated a pace. He thrust a hand into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a small automatic. The Chief Inspector, under the impression that it was a weapon, tensed his big frame for a spring and even Jeffery was momentarily startled. Then the young man pressed the trigger and from the barrel a cigarette appeared. Steinie took it with one hand, with the other he returned the trick cigarette-case to his pocket. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying his companions' discomfiture. An evil leer hovered about his thin lips as he lit up.

Read's eyebrows were like a black bar across his forehead. "If you ever pull a trick like that on me again, Steinie," he said slowly. "I'll break you across my knee!" He stood aside from thy door and his voice quickened. "Now, get the hell out of here! And if you pull anything after this chance, God help you, my powdered beauty!"

The sleek Mr. Rodda needed no second bidding. He gave a swift twist to his body and slithered out of the door like a black streak. The Chief Inspector watched him go, then turned to Jeffery. "That's one of the nastiest pieces of work that ever suckled mothers' milk," he grunted. "You could no more expect Steinie to be honest than you could train a crab to walk straight!"

They were outside in the thronged foyer again. Blackburn shook his head. "After hearing you quote Aristophanes, albeit quite unconsciously, nothing in the world would surprise me," he said with suspicious gravity. "I am only waiting to be told that there is no such person as Mr. Nickerson and that this is all a very bad nightmare!" He glanced around. "And talking of Mr. Nickerson—where is he?"

"How should I know?" demanded Read. "You heard what he said—that he'd meet us at the studio."

Jeffery eyed the crowd with faint disfavour. "Isn't it about time we took the law into our own hands and did something, Chief? This is beginning to look like a Covent Garden opening!"

The Chief Inspector nodded. Turning, he surveyed the double doors barring entrance to the studios. Squaring his shoulders defiantly, he placed a massive hand upon the nearest and was about to push, when the door flew open and George Nickerson himself emerged. A changed Mr. Nickerson. Gone was his air of smooth self-confidence. Now his face was grey and worried, his manner nervously abstracted. He came face to face with the Chief Inspector and his companion, to pause abruptly in the entrance.

"Hello! So you got along all right?" His tone was polite but vague, that of a man whose mind runs on more important and urgent matters. He came forward and touched Read on the arm. "Look here, sir—I won't be able to show you around tonight. I'll have to turn you over to our studio director. All sorts of unforeseen things have occurred!"

"Anything seriously wrong?" inquired Read.

"Serious enough! We've had a break down between studios. It was discovered late this afternoon and our engineers have been working like niggers to get the line fixed in time for the play tonight." He twitched his head toward the electric clock on the wall. "They'll never do it—they haven't even found it yet!" The manager hunched despairing shoulders. "It would happen on the opening night, when everything should be at the highest point of efficiency!"

The Chief Inspector was perturbed. "Does that mean that the station is off the air?"

In spite of his anxiety, Nickerson was able to summon a feeble grin. "It's not as bad as that, fortunately. The break-down occurred between our effects rooms in the basement and the dramatic studio, where the radio plays are produced. It will mean that all the effects used in the play tonight will have to be worked over the one microphone—they'll have to be in the same studio as the artists. Just as it was in the early days of broadcasting before effects rooms were used. It will be a makeshift and a damned inconvenient one at that, but under the circumstances—" He broke off to signal to a young man who was pushing his way through the crowd. "Here is Charles Finlay now—he's our studio director."

Finlay was a tall, spectacled young man with a prematurely aged face. He came forward, and being button-holed by Nickerson acknowledged introductions with a grave bow. The manager, whose attention was distributed between the clock and the crowd, apologized for this deputizing and was about to hurry off when the studio director stopped him. Reaching in his pocket, Finlay brought out a telegram. "Came for you a few minutes ago, sir," he explained, proffering it. "That's why I was looking for you."

"More trouble, I suppose," Nickerson grunted. He slit the envelope, extracted the message, and as he read, his face twisted wryly. "All the way from Hertfordshire." he said with hitter amusement, "just packed full of irony!" He raised his eyes and held out the message. "Newland's wired his blessing on the opening and his regrets that he can't be among the delighted visitors! Personally, I should say he's very fortunate to be out of it all!" With this observation, the manager nodded, moved forward and was swallowed by the crowd.

"I'd no impression that Society gathered so eagerly at Echo's shrine," remarked Jeffery, watching the throng that thickened and swarmed between the glass and chromium walls. "Did you actually issue invitations to all these people?"

Finlay shrugged. "That's what I've been asking myself all the evening," he confessed. "Even Mr. Nickerson appears rather surprised at the crowd. Naturally, there's a good percentage of gate-crashers—it's impossible to keep them out! We've done everything we can to prevent it, but you can't walk up to every person and demand to see their invitation." He made a gesture as though dismissing the subject. "Anyhow, that's not my worry." He stepped forward and pushed open one of the doors. "Well make a start on the rounds, I think. Come this way."

— 2 —

Through another tight-fitting door, down dimly-lit, carpeted corridors they passed, following closely on the heels of their guide. "Through caverns measureless to Man," murmured the irrepressible Jeffery as they trod soundlessly. This time their tour ended at a door bearing the stern warning—"Absolutely No Admittance" beneath the twisted glass letters, "Studio Number Two. Production." Finlay thrust open the door and gestured his companions forward. Read, followed by Jeffery, entered and the studio director clicked the door shut behind them.

They looked about. The studio was smaller than the one they had previously seen, but infinitely less chilling. It resembled more than anything a pleasant and well-furnished sitting-room. There were three "windows." The largest of these was set in the far wall and looked out into the main studio almost in line with the announcer's desk. The other two were set in the same wall as the door by which they had entered. The nearest of these smaller panes gave visual communication with a small, cupboard-like room which Finlay explained was later to be used as a "talks" studio, while the farthest window pierced the wall of the control room.

Each of these apertures was fitted with valance and curtains, while a centre curtain of heavy velvet, suspended from rings, made it possible to block the window at a moment's notice. These window curtains harmonized in toning with the carpet and the wall shading. Concealed lighting bathed the studio in an amber glow and set off several excellent water-colours hung here and there. Amid an imitation fire-place, a radiator gleamed ruddily. There was an air of comfortable intimacy about the room which drew a delighted grunt from the Chief Inspector.

"Dashed if they shouldn't pay money to act in here," he commented. "I wouldn't mind having a shot at 'The Wreck of the Hesperus' myself under these conditions!" He glanced around.

"Where's the microphone?"

The studio director raised his eyes to the ceiling. Following his gaze the visitors saw a tubular object dangling from the end of a wire like a fat trout at the end of a fishing-line. Read looked at Finlay. "This is something new, isn't it?" he asked. "I had a vague notion that the players in radio work stood around a floor microphone and read their scripts. Isn't it only in the talkie studios that they hang the microphone over the players' heads?"

Finlay nodded. "Yes. That's because we're using talkie technique in this production tonight," he explained. "As you say, it is customary for the players to read their scripts before a floor microphone. In this play, however, they've had to learn their parts in the same manner as stage actors. And they're doing the movements of the play, just as if they were acting to a visible audience."

"What's the idea?" asked Jeffery.

"It's an innovation of Mr. von Bethke, our producer. He was connected with the talkie studios before he joined up with us. Bethke maintains that the great fault with radio drama is the unnatural delivery of dialogue and he puts this down to the fact that the players are always conscious of the microphone in front of them. He has trained these people to act the play and to forget, within limits, of course, that the microphone is there at all! He believes that only in this way can he get the freedom and naturalness he wants—consequently, he has had the microphone hung over the heads of the players, so that it will pick up every word and yet not be intrusive. It's certainly a new departure and we're awaiting the result with interest."

The Chief Inspector nodded. "You've kept this new technique pretty quiet, haven't you?"

"Yes," the studio director assented. "You see, we want to discover if the listeners can detect an added realism in the production by this new method. Consequently, the business is a close secret. We've asked the players to be discreet on this matter, and once the actual rehearsals in the studio began, we were careful whom we admitted." He turned and made a wide gesture about the room. "That is why you see the studio like this."

It was furnished with a table and six chairs of chromium steel. Finlay nodded to these. "The plot of Darkness is Danger takes place in the dining-room of a country lodge," he explained. "The guests are seated at table when the mysterious events occur. Thus the players will sit down and speak their dialogue just as they would on the stage."

"And just what," asked Mr. Blackburn, "is the reason for that extraordinary collection of objects?"

He jerked his head to the far side of the room. Against the wall stood a long, wooden bench covered with a bewildering assemblage of articles. There were boxes and cubes of all shapes and sizes, some with small coils of electric wire twisting from them, others with funnel-like mouths and studded with tiny push-buttons. There were megaphones like gargantuan fools' caps, two tiny but complicated machines resembling portable phonographs, an instrument like a blacksmith's blower and a small but perfect model door, complete with bolts, lock, and key. Jeffery crossed and stared down at this strange variety. Read was by his side. Without raising his eyes, the big man spoke.

"What's this? Holding a jumble sale after the opening?"

Finlay's grave face lit in a smile. "Rather looks like it, I suppose." He walked across to the table and moved behind it, facing them. "These are the sound effects for the play tonight. They look weird, I admit, but then they do weird things! Some of these gadgets cost close on fifty pounds to buy—in fact, you couldn't buy them! They're specially made for us." He waved a hand at the collection. "You might not believe it, but we can get every noise from a crying baby to an elephant stampede or an avalanche with these things. And the model door explains itself. It's used for the exit and entry of different characters. If you slammed an ordinary door, the detonation would blast the microphone. With this model, placed at a correctly rehearsed distance, you get just the right effect."

Jeffery was moving about the bench, peering down with inquisitive eyes. "And what in the name of fortune does this represent?" he asked.

The object of his curiosity was a long hairpin with a small ebonite knob at the blunted end. It was lying on a square of oiled silk stretched tightly across a wooden frame. Finlay glanced down. "That gives us an effect of dripping water," he explained. "The microphone is a queer contraption—it distorts natural sounds to an almost unrecognizable degree. Ordinary water dripping sounds like Niagara in flood time. But the gentle tapping of that ebonite knob on the oiled silk gives a most realistic effect."

The Chief Inspector was following his words closely. "It's rather unusual to work with the effects in the same studio as the players, I believe?"

A slight frown shadowed the studio director's face. He nodded. "Our effects studios are in the basement and there is a special staff of men to operate them. In those rooms, the larger and more elaborate effects are permanently installed, bath-tubs, gravel troughs, thunder-sheets, and a dozen and one queer contrivances. The effects studios are 'lined up' with the ground-floor studios. Usually the dialogue is spoken in this studio while the effects are worked below. The men follow their scripts and synchronization is made possible by 'flick-lights', tiny lights on the microphone which glow when an effect is needed. Thus, although players and effects men are invisible to each other, sound and dialogue work in perfectly."

Jeffery, one eye on that fascinating bench, asked quickly: "But wouldn't it be possible to work these effects from some other studio?"

Finlay shook his head. "Because of the rush of opening, our engineers have installed flick-lights only on the microphones in the effects rooms and in the main studio. Naturally we couldn't clutter up Number One with this collection on the opening night, so we've been forced to put them in here." He shrugged. "Anyhow we can only hope for the best. When it was realized this afternoon that the line could not be fixed in time, von Bethke called a late rehearsal in this studio and spent some time with Ted Martin, the head effects man, getting the distances right for tonight."

Blackburn had crossed to the window looking into the tiny "talks" studio. "What's to prevent the effects from being worked in there?" he queried. "You'd have perfect visual control of your players through this glass."

"But you'd have no microphone," returned Finlay. "We're really opening before the studio is properly equipped. Everything will be ready before the end of the week, but at the moment there's a speaker in that small room but no microphone." He shook his head. "No. We wouldn't have put the effects in here if we could have possibly avoided it! But it was either doing that—or calling off the play altogether!" Again that half-smile played about his lips. "So we took the lesser of the two evils."

A silence fell upon the trio. The Chief Inspector was moving about, his blue eyes taking in every detail. He paused by the large window which looked out into the main studio. "What's the idea of all the glassware? Is it just to make the place more homely?"

"By no means!" Finlay came across and drummed his fingers on the glass. "These windows give what we call 'visual control'. You have probably heard the announcements that precede and follow our main features—such as the reading of the scene of the play and the names of the players in the cast," he continued. And as they nodded—"These are put over by an announcer in a separate studio, which prevents any interference with the actual production. Customarily, the announcer sits in Number One studio directly opposite this window. He has perfect vision of the players in here, and they of him. Thus he can follow their movements and his voice comes to them through a loud speaker in the wall. In this way, both players and announcer are in actual communication with each other although separated by sound-proof walls."

Jeffery was peering through, so close to the glass that his breath fogged it as he spoke. "But won't that studio be jammed with people? Surely your announcer could never make himself heard above the din?"

"Naturally we can't use both studios tonight," Finlay returned. "The opening has made a certain amount of rearrangement necessary. Stewart—he's our feature announcer—will be in this studio with the players."

Read was swivelling his head from side to side. "And the other windows?"

"As you see, the window on your right looks into the control room. Vision of what's going on is absolutely necessary to the operators. And the window farther down in the wall communicates with the tiny 'talks' studio. I understand that Mr. Nickerson is putting you gentlemen in there to watch the play being produced tonight."

Read turned to Finlay. "Could we meet the cast? And this von Bethke?"

"Certainly. They're in the rehearsal room running through their—" The studio director broke off as a knock sounded at the door. As the three men wheeled, it swung open and a stranger walked in.

Or rather, he shambled inside. The new-comer was a loose-limbed, stoop-shouldered young man whose gangling frame seemed held together by the grey slacks and sweater that he wore. He had a yellow skin and his drooping mouth emphasized a puckered, receding chin. This quaint, goblin face was redeemed by two remarkable eyes—brown, clear, soft, and drenched in melancholy—the eyes of a whipped spaniel. The man paused awkwardly just inside the door and surveyed the group lugubriously. Then he nodded to Finlay and his pendulous jaw began to chew rhythmically. A nasal tone revealed his origin as he spoke.

"Say, Mister Finlay," he drawled his words. "Mr. Von wants t' see you right urgent. That there pole-cat's playing up again! She's lettin' loose hell an' high water in that there rehearsal room."

The studio director frowned. "Miss Lusinska?"

"Uh-ha!" The young man nodded gloomily and moved his loose frame into the room. "That dame mus' think she's Garbo or some-thin'. Now she says she won't act so long as th' noises are here!" Indignation momentarily washed the colour from his expression, and he waved a lanky arm at the effects table. "I almos' ups an' says my noises can't work too good while you're in th' room, either!"

Finlay turned to his companions, a half-smile on his face. "This is Ted Martin, chief of our effects department." He introduced Jeffery and the Chief Inspector. The lugubrious one nodded glumly as he grasped their hands.

"Call me Happy," invited Mr. Martin, a ghost of a grin on his slack lips. "That's what th' gang here call me. An' all because I got more worries than a one-armed paper-hanger with hives. Th' trouble with me," confided Ted with a slow drawl, "is that I tries to please all ah' finishes up pleasin' no one!"

"A truly Aesopian philosophy," murmured Jeffery, but Finlay cut in on his words: