"When at length he ran out of breath, he stopped. There were three hollow knocks. Captain Valvick, despite all that could be done to stop him, played an overture consisting of 'La Marseillaise.' The curtain flew up a bit prematurely, I fear. Among eighty-odd others, Mr. Perrigord saw the gauze screen glowing luminous against darkness, and full of rich colour. He saw the venerable Charlemagne. He also saw his wife. The position was — er — full of subtle groupings and baffling harmonies of fine. Yes. That was the moment at which the chain mail split and the sofa-pillows flew out as though they had been fired from a gun. I was Charlemagne… Now, maybe you understand why I do not care to incorporate it into the body of the story. I have no doubt that the audience received a refreshing shock as they watched enthralled this drama in which every gesture recorded an aspiration of the human soul."
Morgan took a deep drink of beer.
Dr. Fell turned his face towards the window. Morgan observed that his shouders were quivering as though with shock and outrage.
"In any event, it saved us, and it saved Uncle Jules for ever. The roar of applause which went up pleased everybody except possibly Mr. Perrigord. Such an instantaneous success was never achieved in any theatre by a performance which lasted only long enough for somebody to drop the curtain. Uncle Jules's marionette theatre in Soho will be crowded to the end of his days whether he's drunk or sober. And rest solemnly assured that, whatever he happens to feel about it, Mr. Leslie Perrigord will never write in the newspapers a word to condemn him."
The declining sun drew lower across the carpet, resting on the brown-wrapped parcel in the middle of the table. After a time, Dr. Fell turned back.)
"So—" he observed, his face gradually becoming less red as quiet settled down—"so it all ends happily, eh? Except perhaps for Mr. Perrigord and — the Blind Barber."
He opened a penknife and weighed it in his hand.
"Yes," said Morgan. "Yes, except in one sense. After all, the fact remains that — whatever little game you're playing — we still don't know a blasted thing that's important. We don't know what happened on that ship, although, in spite of all the foolery, we know there was a murder. And a murder isn't especially funny. Nor is, actually, the fact that Curt hasn't recovered his film, and, however ridiculous that looks, to him and to others it's as desperately serious a matter as any."
"Oh?" grunted Dr. Fell. "Well, well!" he said, deprecatingly, and winked one eye, "if that's all you want… "
Suddenly he reached across the table and cut the strings of the parcel with his knife.