Queens Full Read Online Free PDF

you seen this knife before?”
    Dullman said reluctantly, “I don’t even know if it’s the same one.”
    â€œGranted. But where did you see one like it?”
    â€œIn that metal tool chest just outside. It was a big-bladed knife with a black-taped handle. From the look of this one I’d say they’re the same, but I can’t swear to it.”
    â€œWhen did you see it last?”
    â€œI didn’t see it ‘last,’ I saw it once. It was after the first-act curtain. Benedict had weakened one of the legs of the set couch with his damn-fool gymnastics during that scene with the Truslow girl, and even the stage crew was demoralized. So I decided to fix the leg myself. I went for tools, and that’s when I spotted the knife. It was lying on the top tray of the chest in plain sight.”
    â€œDid you notice any peculiar-looking indentations in the tape?”
    â€œIndentations?”
    â€œImpressions. Come here, Dullman. But don’t touch it.”
    Dullman looked and shook his head. “I didn’t see anything like that. I’m sure I’d have noticed. I remember thinking how shiny and new-looking the tape was.”
    â€œHow soon after the curtain came down was this?”
    â€œWas what?”
    â€œWhen you saw the knife in the chest.”
    â€œRight after. Benedict was just coming offstage. He went into the dressing room here while I was poking around in the tools.”
    â€œHe was alone?”
    â€œHe was alone.”
    â€œDid you talk to him?”
    Dullman examined the pulpy end of his cigar. “You might say he talked to me.”
    â€œWhat did he say?”
    â€œWhy, he explained—with one of those famous stage leers of his—exactly what his plans were for after the performance. Spelled it out,” Dullman said, jamming the cigar back in his mouth, “in four-letter words.”
    â€œAnd you said to him—?”
    â€œNothing. Look, Queen, if I went after every bum and slob I’ve had to deal with in show business I’d have more notches to my account than Dan’l Boone.” Dullman grinned. “Anyway, you and the doctor here say you heard who Benedict put the finger on. So what the hell.”
    â€œWho occupies the dressing room just above this one?”
    â€œJoan Truslow.”
    Ellery went out.
    The lid of the chest marked Tools was open, as he had seen it on his backstage tour early in the evening. There was no knife in the tray, or anywhere else in the chest. If Dullman was telling the truth, the knife in Foster Benedict’s back almost certainly had come from this tool chest.
    Ellery heard two sirens coming on fast outside.
    He glanced up at the narrow landing. The upper dressing room door was halfway open.
    He sprang to the iron ladder.

ACT II. Scene 3.
    He knocked and stepped into Joan Truslow’s tiny dressing room at once, shutting the door behind him.
    Joan and Roger jumped apart. Tears had left a clownish design in the girl’s make-up.
    Ellery set his back against the door.
    â€œDo you make a habit of barging into ladies’ dressing rooms?” Roger said truculently.
    â€œNo one seems to approve of me tonight,” Ellery complained. “Rodge, there’s not much time.”
    â€œFor what?”
    But Joan put her hand on Roger’s arm. “How is he, Mr. Queen?”
    â€œBenedict? Oh, he died.”
    He studied her reaction carefully. It told nothing.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “Even though he was beastly.”
    â€œI saw his lips moving during your speeches in that couch scene. What was he saying to you, Joan?”
    â€œVile things. I can’t repeat them.”
    â€œThe police just got here.”
    She betrayed herself by the manner in which she turned away and sat down at her dressing table to begin repairing her make-up. The trivial routine was like a skillful bit of stage business, in which the effect of naturalness was