‘A ridiculous implication, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Inspector Cockrill, readily. ‘If, which I suppose was her proposition, the pounce had been a pounce of love, followed by an extinction of the lights, it seemed hardly likely that the gentleman concerned would immediately leave the lady and bound out of the nearest window—since she was reputedly complacent. But supposing that he had, supposing that the infuriated husband, rushing in and finding her thus deserted, had bent over and impulsively strangled her where, disappointed, she reclined—it is even less likely that his own father would have been the first to draw your attention to the fact. Why mention, “he was bending over her”?’
‘Precisely, excellent,’ said the old man: kindly patronization was the only card left in the conjurer’s hand.
‘Her story had the desired effect, however?’
‘It created further delay, before I demanded that they remove their make-up. It was beyond their dreams that I should create even more, myself, by taking James Dragon to the police station.’
‘You were justified,’ said Cockie, indulging in a little kindly patronization on his own account. ‘Believing what you did. And having received that broad hint—which they certainly had never intended to give you—when Leila Dragon lost her head and slapped Bianca’s face…’
‘And then sat unconsciously holding her stinging hand.’
‘So you’d almost decided to have him charged. But it would be most convenient to do the whole thing tidily down at the station, cleaning him up and all…’
‘We weren’t a set of actor-fellows down there,’ said the old man defensively, though no one had accused him of anything. ‘We cleaned away the greasepaint enough to see that there was no mark of the blow. But I dare say we left him to do the rest—and I dare say he saw to it that a lot remained about the forehead and eyes… I remember thinking that he looked old and haggard, but under the circumstances that would not be surprising. And when at last I got back to the theatre, no doubt the same thing went on with “Arthur” Dragon; perhaps I registered that he looked young for his years—but I have forgotten that.’ He sighed. ‘By then, of course, anyway, it was too late. The mark was gone.’ He sighed again. ‘A man of thirty with a red mark to conceal: and a man of fifty. The family likeness, the famous voice, both actors, both familiar with Othello, since the father had produced it: and both with perhaps the most effective disguises that fate could possibly have designed for them…’
‘The Moor of Venice,’ said Inspector Cockrill.
‘And—a Clown,’ said the Great Detective. The white rabbit leapt out of the hat and bowed right and left to the audience.
‘Whether, as I say, he continued to play his son’s part—on the stage as well as off,’ said the Great Detective, ‘I shall never know. But I think he did. I think they would hardly dare to change back before my very eyes. I think that, backed up by a loyal company, they played Cox and Box with me. I said to you earlier that while his audiences believed their Othello to be in fact a murderer—he was: and he was not. I think that Othello was a murderer; but I think that the wrong man was playing Othello’s part.’
‘And you,’ said Inspector Cockrill, in a voice hushed with what doubtless was reverence, ‘went to see him play?’
‘And heard someone say that he seemed to have aged twenty years… And so,’ said the Great Detective, ‘we brought him to trial, as you know. We had a case all right: the business about the prison sentence, of course, came to light; we did much to discredit the existence of any lover; we had the evidence of the stage door-keeper, the evidence of the company was not disinterested. But alas!—the one tangible clue, the mark of that slap, had long since gone: and there we were. I unmasked him; I built up a case against him: I brought him to trial. The jury failed to convict.’
‘And quite right too,’ said Inspector Cockrill.
‘And quite right too,’ agreed the great man graciously. ‘A British jury is always right. Lack of concrete evidence, lack of unbiased witnesses, lack of demonstrable proof…’
‘Lack of a murderer,’ said Inspector Cockrill.
‘Are you suggesting,’ said the old man, after a little while, ‘that Arthur Dragon did not impersonate his son? And if so—will you permit me to ask, my dear fellow, who then impersonated who? Leila Dragon, perhaps, took her brother’s place? She had personal grudges against Glenda Croy. And she was tall and well-built (the perfect Rosalind—a clue, my dear Inspector, after your own heart!) and he was slight, for a man. And of course she had the famous Dragon voice.’