“But you can’t blame yourself, Michael,” Phyllis wailed.
He looked down at her and some of the grimness went out of his face. “You’re not a cop, angel. You don’t know the feeling of being just too late to prevent murder.”
The vanguard of first-nighters was filing from the opera house. Shayne turned toward the side of the building again. He said, “I’m going to see her if I have to break that damned gate down.”
As they crossed over the flume he noticed that the tremendous rushing sound of water had receded. The wooden gate leading backstage was standing open.
They found a door leading into the shadowy region of props and sliding scenery behind the lowered curtain. The stage was a riot of confusion, with members of the cast receiving congratulations from those of the audience who were fortunate enough to find standing room.
Shayne and Phyllis wormed their way through to find Frank Carson in the midst of a bevy of bare backs and flowing skirts. The young actor saw the detective and signaled to him urgently, thrusting aside feminine admirers to make his way to Shayne.
When they met, Shayne said, “I was worried about your wife. How is she holding up?”
Carson’s face darkened under his heavy make-up. “Isn’t Nora with you? You promised to look after things.”
Shayne’s gray eyes narrowed. “Why should your wife be with me?”
“I thought she’d gone back — up there.”