The Grub-and-Stakers Pinch a Poke Read online

  In fact, Roger hadn’t had to wangle hard, even though the .38 had allegedly been carried in Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West show and had certainly been used by Jenson himself when he’d made his big hit as Jack Rance in The Girl of the Golden West during his little theater days. Jenson was only too pleased, he’d assured Roger, to put another notch in the six-shooter’s barrel by letting the man in the title role tote it during the premiere of Dangerous Dan McGrew.

  There’d been four blank cartridges left in the gun when Roger got hold of it. Jenson Thorbisher-Freep had not only donated these to the Traveling Thespians but volunteered his technical expertise in teaching Andy how to shoot them. They’d used three of the four getting the range and making sure Andy and Carolus could shoot each other with no risk to themselves or anybody else.

  That was easy enough. The only conceivable danger might be from the thin cardboard wads that covered the powder, and these wouldn’t do any damage unless one happened to strike somebody in the eye. The simple solution was for the men to stand only about five feet apart, aim point-blank at the adversary’s chest, and fire with their eyes shut. Dot Coskoff’s grandfather’s second wife had made them pads of quilt batting to wear under their shirts. These had proved in dress rehearsal to be a needless precaution but Andy and Carolus were going to wear them anyway so Mrs. Coskoff’s feelings wouldn’t be hurt.

  The first three blank cartridges in the .38 had gone off with satisfactory bangs. If the last one didn’t, that was the working of fate and no fault of Roger Munson’s. If some smart aleck got hold of the loaded revolver and wasted that sole remaining bang by an unauthorized pull of the trigger, that would be a far, far different matter.

  Carolus Bledsoe had so far assumed full responsibility for the .32 Colt; Roger hadn’t had to worry about that. Until today, Jenson Thorbisher-Freep had likewise kept the Smith & Wesson in his possession. He’d meant to drop it off at the Scottsbeck opera house an hour or so before curtain time, then go home and gargle to prime his throat for the curtain speech he expected to make later on. But the opera house was five minutes from his home, and Lobelia Falls a good half hour away. He couldn’t be expected to make that run twice in one evening, so he’d brought the gun with him on his earlier visit and given it then into Roger’s keeping.

  Jenson might as well have slung an albatross around Roger’s neck and been done with it. Roger could probably have coped better with an albatross.

  He did know better than to leave a loaded gun around unguarded, especially one loaded with the only blank .38 cartridge in Lobelia Falls. Roger’s first impulse was to take it home with him when he went to supper. However, Canada has a strict and firmly enforced firearms control law. Should Roger Munson, hitherto a model citizen, get caught in possession of a handgun not licensed to him, Sergeant MacVicar, the law in Lobelia Falls, would have no alternative but to exact the due penalty.

  Roger had almost decided not to go home at all, but Hazel put a damper on that notion. He’d been working hard all day, she’d pointed out. He must be hungrier than a she-bear in cubbing time, and he’d be a darn sight hungrier, eh, if he had to stay here till eleven o’clock or maybe even midnight with nothing but lemonade and Girl Guide cookies to sustain him.

  After much soul-searching and some frantic thought, Roger had unscrewed the cover to one of the gym’s ventilating ducts. He’d unloaded the gun, laid it inside the duct, and screwed the cover back on. He’d wrapped the blank .38 cartridge in tissues, opened the stranger’s poke, and pushed the cartridge down into the rock salt that was supposed to be gold dust. And he’d laid the poke right here on the prop table next to the feedbag, and where the heck was it now?

  That was the trouble with having an organized mind. While Roger stood there clutching the gun, which he’d retrieved from the ventilator duct with little effort, Dittany picked up the feedbag and shook out the poke, complete with unexploded blank cartridge.

  “There you are, Roger. You just hid the poke better than you thought you did.”

  “Ungh,” was Roger’s ungrateful reply. “I wonder if I ought to load the gun now or wait till during the intermission? Of course I’ll have to help set up the barroom scene then and make sure Bill has his bar rags, but if I got the gun ready now, somebody might get to playing with it and then where’d we be?”

  “You do know how to load it, I suppose?” Dittany asked him.

  “Oh yes, I think so. You push this little thing here. Or do you spin that other thing first? Or—”

  Carolus Bledsoe had been standing near, looking a bit strained, as well he might, but taking no part in the discussion. Now he reached over and grabbed the gun.

  “Do me a favor, Roger. Since I’m the one this gun’s going to be pointed at, let me load it myself, will you? I’d just as soon not have the damned thing blow up in my face.”

  Seeing the force of Carolus’s argument, Roger handed him the blank cartridge. Carolus slapped it into the chamber, made sure the safety catch was on, and laid the Smith & Wesson on the prop table.

  “Now for the love of heaven leave it alone, will you? Nobody’s going to mess around with the props at this stage of the game. Here’s my .32, all loaded and ready to use, if it makes you feel any better.”

  He dragged the smaller gun from his pocket with a hand that shook slightly, laid it on the table beside the larger, and went to get dressed as the feedbag man. It was high time Dittany got dressed, too. Being a tiny tot took longer to achieve these days than when she’d been six years old.

  At the opera house, they’d had proper dressing rooms. Here in the high school gym, arrangements were communal, to use no more pejorative term. Women changed in the girls’ locker room, men in the boys’. Folding tables to hold the greasepaint, benches dragged up to them, and a few illuminated mirrors borrowed under protest from teenage daughters were the amenities. There was one full-length mirror for the women, unscrewed by Zilla Trott from the back of her own bathroom door and transported in the Monks’ new ranch wagon. Privacy was obtainable only in the lavatory stalls.

  The whole setup was a nuisance. Nobody had anywhere to put anything. Early arrivers who had nothing whatever to do with the play kept wandering backstage out of curiosity. There was no way to keep them out; nothing separated the stage and wings from the part of the gym where the audience would sit except a row of green curtains hung clothesline fashion across the room. Anybody who wasn’t limber enough or insouciant enough to duck under the curtains could easily find an opening to slip through, or else walk down the corridor and in the back way.

  Most of the interlopers were locals who felt that the school was as much theirs as anybody’s anyway. Everybody had a relative or a neighbor in the cast. That the relative or neighbor might not care much for being burst in on while clad in half a costume and a basic coat of greasepaint had not occurred to them. Nor did most of the uninvited visitors realize that the relative or neighbor could only be found in a locker room full of other people’s relatives and neighbors in similar states of undress. There were a lot of “Oops, excuse me’s” floating around.

  One such stammered apology came from a tallish woman in a padded storm coat who claimed to be looking for the ladies’ room. She had her hood drawn down over her forehead, which might have meant that she preferred not to show her hair in public before she’d had a chance to comb it in private. The dark glasses could have indicated an eye ailment and the scarf pulled up around her chin a toothache. Taken all together, they presented a small puzzle to the inquiring mind, particularly as Desdemona Portley’s husband, in his zeal to cooperate, had jacked up the gym thermostat to a degree where most people were shedding their outer wraps as fast as they could find places to park them.

  Dittany, who happened to be sitting at one of the makeup mirrors, caught the woman’s reflection in the glass and paused in the act of tying her blue hair ribbon. There was something familiar in the woman’s gait as she walked quickly away. Dittany gave a final tweak to her bow, slipped out of the locker
room, and watched the intruder go not toward the ladies’ room but out through the curtain into the audience. If that wasn’t Carolus Bledsoe’s ex-wife, she’d be a ring-tailed monkey with the chicken pox. What had happened to that policeman who was supposed to be standing guard?

  Dittany tiptoed over to the curtains and peeked through a slit. The Thespians were well on the way to a full house, she noted with momentary elation. Sergeant MacVicar was there, eighth row center, out of uniform and looking even more Presbyterian than usual in his Sunday suit. Mrs. MacVicar had on that lovely cherry-colored wool dress she’d bought a year ago at the January sales. Mrs. MacVicar always dressed well, though never extravagantly. She knew what was due her husband’s position.

  It couldn’t possibly have been Sergeant MacVicar who’d accepted an off-duty assignment. It probably wasn’t Bob or Ray, they’d be minding the station. That left only—yes, there he was. A rotund, elderly man also in mufti—blue trousers, green shirt, and yellow cardigan—was standing up by the main entrance with a cup of lemonade, a handful of Girl Guide cookies, and an expression of gentle bemusement. She might have known.

  One of the volunteer stagehands happened to wander by, bent on nothing in particular that Dittany could think of. She beckoned him over.

  “Sammy, see that woman with the hood and scarf over her face, and the sunglasses? She’s just sitting down, third row from the front on the left, beside the fire exit.”

  “In the brown coat?”

  Dittany would have called the coat burgundy, but she let it pass. There wasn’t another woman in the audience wearing a hood, a scarf, and sunglasses anyway. “Yes, that’s the one. And do you see Ormerod Burlson up by the back door? With the yellow sweater.”

  “Yup.”

  “Could you go very quietly and casually up to Ormerod and tell him that’s the woman he’s supposed to be keeping an eye on?”

  “Huh? What for?”

  “Because she’s the one who threw the tomato at Carolus Bledsoe last night. Ormerod’s been hired to keep her from pulling any tricks tonight and he’s asleep at the switch as usual. Tell him to come down front and sit in that empty seat just behind her.”

  “Too late. Some other woman’s taking it.”

  “Wouldn’t you know! Then tell Ormerod to lurk just outside the exit door.”

  “He won’t be able to see the stage from there.”

  “Who cares? He’s not getting paid to watch the show. Go ahead, Sammy, quick. I have to start the overture in a minute.”

  She probably ought to be at the piano already, waiting for Osbert to give her the signal. Still, Dittany lingered at the slit in the curtain. She saw Sammy approach Ormerod. She saw Ormerod look annoyed and make a gesture toward the lemonade stand. She saw Sammy grab Ormerod by the sweater and speak in a forceful manner. She saw Sammy walk Ormerod down the side aisle and park him at the fire exit. There was more to that kid than met the eye, by gum.

  She absolutely must get to her post. Still, Dittany turned back for one more peek. The ex-Mrs. Bledsoe was unbuttoning her storm coat. The person who’d taken that seat behind her was leaning forward, perhaps asking her to drop her hood and quit blocking the view.

  It was not a woman, it was a man, almost handsome in a cadaverous sort of way. Sammy must have been deceived by the flowing black cloak and the silky white shirt. What role was Leander Hellespont playing now?

  Chapter 9

  ALMOST BEFORE THE CURTAIN went up, the Traveling Thespians had the audience in their collective pocket. The people out front, and particularly those in the bleachers, applauded Dittany’s overture. They applauded the makeshift set, they applauded the feedbag man, they went crazy over Dan McGrew in his top hat and waxed mustache. They even applauded the somewhat long-winded speech Jenson Thorbisher-Freep insisted on making during the intermission, though it might have been better for the gym floor if they’d all put down their lemonade before they started to clap.

  If the first act was a triumph, the second was what Joshua Burberry’s father the distinguished scientist would unhesitatingly have classified as a lalapalooza. The miners’ singing started the spectators whistling, the cancan girls set them stamping their feet, and the hoedown snatched them out into the aisles. Dittany had to play “Sit Down, You’re Rocking the Boat” twice to get them back to their seats so the play could go on.

  With so much audience participation, it wasn’t easy for her to keep an eye on the two potential saboteurs sitting next to the fire exit. Dittany had no faith whatever in Ormerod Burlson. Nobody from Lobelia Falls would have trusted him to guard a jam jar full of pollywogs, but of course an outlander like Carolus Bledsoe would have had no way of knowing. All Dittany could do was pin her hopes on Sammy and keep playing. She finished her sentimental medley, cutting it short because they’d already spent too much time on the hoedown, and swung into “The Maple Leaf Rag.”

  The miner made his entrance. The audience applauded Joshua’s blizzard, but not for long. The suspense was building, the atmosphere growing tense enough to cut with a knife. People strained forward in their seats as the miner tilted his poke of dust on the bar and the lady known as Lou registered perplexed perturbation. Dittany went to get her sarsaparilla, the miner took her seat, the tape began to play. It was all going like clockwork. The Architrave had the Thorbisher-Freep collection sewn up tighter than a shrunk sock.

  Now the miner was staggering to his feet. Dittany parked her sarsaparilla on the piano and stepped behind it to be out of the way. By the dim red glow of the exit light she could see Sammy nudging Ormerod over to where Leander Hellespont and the ex-Mrs. Bledsoe were sitting. For the first time that day, she relaxed. It was all over but the shooting.

  Now the miner was delivering his bitter taunt, drawing his .32 Colt. Dangerous Dan McGrew was hurling his cards to the floor, reaching for his .38 Smith & Wesson. Face to face the rivals stood, guns pointed straight at each other’s chest. For a second or two they held the pose while not one member of the audience either inhaled or exhaled. Then two shots tore the air apart and two men dropped.

  It was a truly horrendous moment. The cartridges exploding together made far more noise than they had in the high-ceilinged old opera house. Stunned and deafened, few except Dittany could have noticed that at the moment of truth, Andy McNaster had dropped the muzzle of his gun and shot at the floor instead of at Carolus.

  Now the lady known as Lou was clasping Carolus to her bosom. It was more a clutch than a clasp, actually. Dittany could hear Arethusa hiss, “Quit squirming, varlet,” as with perfect sangfroid she pinched the poke, flourished it around a bit so nobody could mistake what she was up to, and stowed it away among the ruffles in her décolletage.

  The curtain closed. The applause went on. Under its cover, the actors scrambled to assemble for curtain calls. Tradition among the Traveling Thespians decreed that the entire cast must appear together so that nobody’s feelings would be hurt. It was a job packing them in and Carolus Bledsoe wasn’t making things any easier by remaining prone where Arethusa had dumped him.

  “All right, Carolus,” said Osbert, who was shoving actors into place like toy soldiers, “the curtain’s closed. You can get up now.”

  “The hell I can,” groaned Bledsoe. “That bastard shot me!”

  “The hell I did!” Andy retorted in a kind of whispered roar. “I shot at the floor. And it was only a blank anyway.”

  “The hell it was! You shot off my foot.”

  “The hell I—oh, my God!”

  The hole in the toe of Carolus Bledsoe’s boot offered no room for further argument.

  “Curtain calls, Carolus,” Arethusa commanded. “You can bleed later.”

  “Here.” Roger Munson had rushed onstage to kneel beside the wounded man with an ampule of ammonia and a flask of brandy. “Sniff this. Drink this. I’ll get the stretcher ready offstage. The show must go on.”

  And on it went. Carolus was helped into a straight chair center stage. Arethusa sat beside him, holding his
hand to give him courage. Ethel the faithful friend was brought to flop at his feet, hiding the bullet-torn boot and the blood that was beginning to ooze out of it. Andrew McNaster stood behind Arethusa and Desdemona Portley behind Carolus, ready to prop him up if he fainted. Bill Coskoff, with a bar rag at the ready, squeezed in back of Dessie, who wasn’t very tall. The rest of the cast clustered around as best they could without hiding anybody.

  The curtain parted again. Dittany tripped in from the wings, handed Carolus back his feedbag with a pretty curtsey, and sat down on the stage floor beside Ethel. The applause went on and on. The stagehands had to draw the curtain and open it again ten times in rapid succession. The cast could easily have taken ten more calls, but Carolus was beginning to look white around the beard. Osbert murmured, “Thanks, everybody. Go get dressed. Roger, take Carolus to the hospital, quick. I’ll try to keep the hordes away from backstage.”

  He stepped out in front of the curtain and raised his hands for silence.

  “That’s it, folks. Thank you all, you’ve been the greatest audience any company could ask for. We also want Mr. Portley to know how grateful we are to him for letting us take over the gym on such short notice, and to thank the Girl Guides and Mr. Thorbisher-Freep and the scene painters and the stagehands and the wardrobe crew and if I’ve left anybody out it’s not because I don’t appreciate what you’ve done, it’s just that I’m too dad-blanged beat to think straight. And now I’d like to ask you all for one more really important favor. Would everybody here, with the single exception of Sergeant MacVicar, please not try to come backstage?”

  There were a few indignant murmurs, but Osbert explained them away. “You all know why we couldn’t use the opera house as we’d planned. We couldn’t even get our scenery out. We’ve been breaking our backs ever since we got the word this morning so that we wouldn’t have to disappoint you of tonight’s performance and forfeit our chance to win the Thorbisher-Freep collection for the Architrave Museum. So now it’s late and the whole gang back there’s plumb tuckered out. There’s not much room for them to change in even without a lot of extra people milling around. We also have to dismantle our set and lug all our stuff out of here tonight. That bargain varnish the painter used on those pews over at the Presbyterian Church still hasn’t dried and doesn’t look as if it will, so the minister wants to hold services here tomorrow morning and I’m sure none of you want to stand in his way. Your folks will come out here as soon as they’re ready. If you’ll all cooperate by leaving through the main exit as quickly as possible, the Traveling Thespians will sponsor a full evening of reels and hoedowns as soon as Mr. Portley will let us use the gym again.”