Shayne made no attempt to hide his disappointment. He hesitated a moment, tugging at his ear, then asked Johnston, “Does Carson have an understudy?”
“No. We can’t provide understudies for every member of the cast.”
“But there must be someone,” Shayne insisted, “capable of taking his place in case of sickness or something like that.”
“Well, there is, of course,” Johnston admitted reluctantly. “One of the bit players who could substitute for most any of the others in a pinch. Philip Steele. He’s an ambitious youngster and quite talented.”
Shayne’s eyes began to glow. “With a great gift for make-up?” he questioned. “He’d have to be if he’s able to assume the different parts well enough to fool an audience.”
“It happens that he is particularly good at make-up,” Johnston assented. “In fact, he’s a wizard at it. But if you’re thinking that Carson might have arranged for Steele to substitute for him on the stage while he slipped out and murdered his wife, the idea is absurd.”
“I was thinking something like that,” Shayne admitted. “It would give Carson a swell alibi. How can you be sure Steele didn’t fool you last night? With his extraordinary gift for making himself up to resemble—”
“See here, Mr. Shayne. I’m the producer. I was right here in the wings every moment. I’d have to be either drunk or crazy for such a substitution to go unnoticed two minutes. I was neither drunk nor crazy last night.”
Shayne said, “All right. But this is murder and I can’t afford guesswork.”
“I’ll take my oath on it,” Johnston said. “You’d better look outside the theater for your murderer.”