Chapter XXXVII: 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."