In keeping with the fine traditions of the Opera Association, the French tragedy A Bras Ouverts had been chosen as the vehicle for a distinguished company of Broadway artists.
The chandelier lights dimmed as Shayne ran a finger down the names of the cast listed in the order of their appearance on stage. Playing the juvenile lead, Frank Carson was among those opening the play. He pointed the name out to Phyllis, whispering:
“He is Nora Carson’s husband. He’ll be a trouper if he makes his appearance. Not more than fifteen minutes ago he was standing over the murdered body of his father-in-law.”
The house darkened and the curtain went up. For a moment, Shayne didn’t recognize the young actor in his costume and make-up, but when he spoke his first lines, the strong timbre of his voice was unmistakable. As the first act continued, Shayne admitted that his dramatic artistry was undeniably perfect.
Nora Carson did not appear immediately, and his impatience grew as he waited for her to come on. He knew that it would be vastly more difficult for her, but Shayne had faith in his snap judgment of her character as observed under trying conditions, and he waited eagerly for her to justify that faith.
The first scene ended and she did not appear. The lights came on for a brief interval while the scenery was shifted, and Shayne studied his program again. He discovered that Nora was not due on stage until the middle of the second scene and he settled himself to wait.
The two minutes apportioned to the change of scene stretched to ten before the second curtain went up. Sweat was standing on Shayne’s forehead as the time for Nora’s first cue neared. For some obscure reason it was important to him that she appear and play her part well. It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t matter a tinker’s damn to him, but it did matter terribly.
Something was wrong on-stage. A cue line was spoken and there was no response. The line was repeated.
A slender girl came on hurriedly and the voice Shayne heard was not Nora Carson’s. She wore a blond wig, but her eyes were dark, and her heart-shaped face and pointed chin in no way resembled Nora’s features.
A white-haired patroness of the theater sitting next to Shayne gasped, “That’s not Nora Carson. It’s Christine Forbes, Nora’s understudy. I wonder what has happened to Nora.”