Johnston smiled thinly. “Air-conditioning wasn’t in vogue when this opera house was built.” He gestured toward an opening in the corridor. “There’s an old furnace in the cellar there, but we don’t use it during these summer revivals.”
Shayne stepped to the doorway and muttered, “This would be a swell place to store an unwanted corpse if it stays this cold in here all summer.”
“It does.” Johnston hesitated, then came back with a harried look on his face. “You’re not expecting to find any more bodies?” he ejaculated.
Shayne hesitated. There was a groping look on his gaunt features; as though he was tantalized by an elusive perception just beyond his reach.
He asked, “Is there a light inside?”
Johnston’s teeth chattered and the blood left his face. “There’s a switch just inside the door.” He reached past the detective, fumbled for it, and the big unfloored basement room was flooded with light.
The hard-packed dirt was damp underfoot. The cellar was littered with discarded pieces of furniture and sets that must have been accumulating for decades. Shayne walked forward, saying grimly:
“I’m nuts, of course, but there is one character missing from last night’s murder charade. And we’re short one corpse according to an old theatrical superstition.”
The producer followed him hesitantly. The top of the wooden flume was flush with the dirt floor, running through the middle of the cellar. Just beyond it was a squat iron furnace, big enough, as Shayne pointed out, to conceal a dozen bodies. He was not satisfied until he had opened the big iron door of the firebox and peered inside, then carefully poked around in all the likely-looking shadows without finding anything.
He grinned ruefully as they emerged from the cellar.