“Are you sure the man is your father, dear? Sure you haven’t let your long search and your desire to find him influence your recognition? After all, he’s not — well, it’s rather difficult to tell much about how he looks now.”
“It is Father,” Nora insisted fiercely. “You see, I saw him, Frank — before he was like this. Just a few minutes ago. Through the window at the Teller House. And he recognized me, too. But he ran away.” A convulsive tremor shook her body. “He ran away before I could reach him. Oh, why did he have to die just when I’d found him again!”
While her passionate words lingered in the air, the clangor of a bell from Eureka Street came up through the night stillness to the group gathered in the presence of death on the steep hillside. An eerie sound, echoing upward from the stone walls of buildings housing a thousand ghostly memories of the past.
Below, in the glare of street lights, a tall man dressed in somber black, with a batwing collar and stiff shirt, was moving solemnly down the center of the crowded street ringing the old bell that had announced the opening of the opera house since the days when Modjeska and Edwin Booth had trod that historic stage.
The doors were flung open as the bell clanged, and those fortunate enough to hold first-night tickets began to file inside while thousands stood outside watching the colorful spectacle. There was the glare of spotlights, the blare of the radio announcer’s voice through the loudspeaker, and laughter and gay voices from those below, unconscious of the tragedy a hundred feet away.
Slowly and silently the group around the body dissolved downward, drawn by the warning bell. As Shayne dragged his gaze and his thoughts back to the reality of the murder, he heard Frank Carson urging his wife:
“We must hurry, dear. The curtain goes up in fifteen minutes. You have to change — and make up…” He was gently drawing her away, but Nora hung back, her sorrow-haunted eyes clinging to the crumpled figure on the ground.
“We’ve got to do something,” she cried. “We just can’t leave him lying there.”
“The police will take care of everything,” Frank reminded her. “You have to think of the play — the rest of the cast. All the important Eastern critics are here.” His voice was soft and persuasive.
Nora shuddered and lifted her chin valiantly. “Of course, Frank. The play must go on.” She turned to Shayne who was standing a little aside, and said impulsively: