Behind That Curtain · Chapter 7 (2/2)

“What became of Marie Lantelme? It is now eleven years since that moonlit June night when a company under English management played The Dollar Princess on the stage of the Theatre de la Jetée-Promenade, in the city of Nice. It was a memorable evening for all concerned. The house was sold out, packed with soldiers on leave, and the manager was frantic. At the last moment word had come that his leading lady was seriously ill and with many misgivings he sent for the understudy, a pretty, inconspicuous little chorus girl named Marie Lantelme. It was her big chance at last. She stepped out on the blazing stage and became a woman transformed. The performance she gave will never be forgotten by anyone who was in that audience⁠—an audience that went wild, that was on its feet cheering for her when the curtain fell.

“After the performance the manager rushed in high glee to Marie Lantelme’s dressing-room. She was a discovery, and she was his. He would star her in London, in New York. She listened to him in silence. Then she put on her simple little frock and stepped from the stage door out upon the jetty. Fame and riches were waiting for her, if she chose to take them. Whether she chose or not will never be known. All that is known is that when she left the theater she walked off into nothingness. Eleven years have passed, and from that day to this no one has ever heard from Marie Lantelme.”

Miss Morrow stopped reading, her countenance again in great need of ironing out. Captain Flannery stood with open mouth. Only Chan seemed to have retained his cheerful composure.

“Marie Lantelme was your friend?” he said to Miss Garland.

“She was,” replied the actress, “and somehow Sir Frederic knew it. I was appearing in that same company. I must say the clipping exaggerates a bit⁠—I suppose they have to do it to make things interesting. It was an adequate performance⁠—that’s what I would have called it. I don’t remember any cheering. But there isn’t any doubt about her making good. She could have had other parts⁠—better ones than she had ever had before. Yet it’s true enough⁠—she left the theater, and that was the last of her.”

“You had final view of her?” Chan suggested.

“Yes. On my way home, I saw her standing talking to some man on the Promenade des Anglais, at the entrance to the jetty. I went on, thinking nothing of it at the time. Afterward, of course⁠—”

“And it was this girl Sir Frederic asked you about?” Miss Morrow inquired.

“It was. He showed me that clipping, and asked me if I wasn’t in the same company. I said I was. He wanted to know if I thought I could identify Marie Lantelme if I met her again, and I said I was quite sure I could. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘I may call upon you for that service before the evening is over. Please do not leave tonight until we have had another talk.’ I told him I wouldn’t, but of course, at the end⁠—well, he wasn’t talking to anyone any more.”

They sat for a moment in silence. Then Miss Morrow spoke.

“I think that is all,” she said. “Unless Captain Flannery⁠—”

She glanced at the Captain. An expression of complete bewilderment decorated that great red face. “Me? No⁠—no, I guess not. Nothing more from me, now,” he stammered.

“Thank you very much, Miss Garland,” the girl continued. “You are going to be in the city for some time?”

“Yes. I’ve been promised a part at the Alcazar.”

“Well, don’t leave town without letting me know. You may go now. So good of you to come.”

Miss Garland nodded toward the desk. “May I have the pearl?”

“Oh⁠—certainly.”

“Thanks. When an actress has been out of a shop for some time, even the imitation jewels are precious. You understand?”

Miss Morrow let her out, and returned to the silent little group in the inner room. “Well?” she remarked.

“It’s incredible,” cried Barry Kirk. “Another lost lady. Good lord, Eve Durand and Marie Lantelme can’t both be hanging out around here. Unless this is the Port of Missing Women. What do you say, Sergeant?”

Chan shrugged. “All time we get in deeper,” he admitted. “Free to announce I find myself sunk in bafflement.”

“I’ll get to the bottom of it,” Flannery cried. “You leave it to me. I’ll stir things up.”

Chan’s eyes narrowed. “My race has old saying, Captain,” he remarked gently. “ ‘Muddy water, unwisely stirred, grows darker still. Left alone, it clears itself.’ ”

Flannery glared at him and without a word strode from the room, slamming the outer door behind him.