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else’s, a man’s.”
    â€œThose would be Manson’s. He used this room all week. No woman’s prints?”
    â€œNo, sir. But about this knife. There are some queer marks on the handle.”
    â€œMarks?” Newby picked up the knife by the tip of the blade and scrutinized the haft. He seemed puzzled.
    â€œThere’s some on the other side, too.”
    The chief turned the knife over. “Any notion what made these, Bill?”
    â€œWell, no, sir.”
    Newby studied the marks again. Without looking around he said, “Mr. Queen, did you happen to notice these marks?”
    â€œYes,” Ellery said.
    The chief waited, as if for Ellery to go on. But Ellery did not go on. Newby’s ears slowly reddened.
    â€œWe could send the knife up to the big lab in Conn-haven,” the young technician suggested.
    â€œI know that, Bill! But suppose first we try to identify them on our own. Right?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Newby stalked out to the stage. Meekly, Ellery followed.
    The little police chief’s interrogation of the company was surgical. In short order he established that between the lowering of the curtain and the discovery of the dying man, every member of the cast except Joan Truslow had either been in view of someone else or could otherwise prove an alibi. With equal economy he disposed of the stagehands.
    He had long since released the audience. Now he sent the cast and the crew home.
    On the emptying of the theater the curtain had been raised and the house lights turned off. Scutney Bluefield and Archer Dullman sat in gloom and silence, too. Each man an island, Ellery thought; and he wondered how good an explorer Anselm Newby really was. For the first time he sensed an impatience, almost an eagerness, in Newby.
    â€œWell, gentlemen, it’s getting late—”
    â€œChief.” Scutney was lying back on the set couch, thighs and lips parted, gazing up into the flies and managing to resemble an old lady after an exhausting day. “Are you intending to close me down?”
    â€œNo call for that, Mr. Bluefield. We’ll just seal off that dressing room.”
    â€œThen I can go ahead with, say, rehearsals?”
    â€œBetter figure on day after tomorrow. The Prosecutor’s office will be all over the place till then.”
    Scutney struggled off the couch.
    â€œOh, one thing before you go, Mr. Bluefield. Did you see or hear anything tonight that might help us out?”
    Scutney said, “I wasn’t here,” and trudged off the stage.
    â€œYou, Mr. Dullman?”
    â€œI told you all I know, Chief.” Dullman shifted the remains of his cigar to the other side of his mouth. “Is it all right with you if I go see what’s with my client before somebody does a carving job on him?”
    â€œJust don’t leave town. And, Mr. Dullman.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDon’t talk about what Benedict said.” When Dullman was gone, Newby said, “Well.” He got up and made for the stage steps.
    â€œChief,” Ellery said.
    Newby paused.
    â€œYou don’t have much of a case, you know.”
    The little policeman trotted down into the orchestra. He selected the aisle seat in the third row center and settled himself. Like a critic, Ellery thought. A critic who’s already made up his mind.
    â€œGotch,” Chief Newby called.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œGet Miss Truslow.”

ACT II. Scene 4.
    Joan sailed out of the wings chin up, braced. But all she saw was Ellery straddling a chair far upstage, and she began to look around uncertainly.
    Roger yelled, “You down there—Newby!” and ran over to the footlights. “What’s the idea keeping Miss Truslow a prisoner in her dressing room all this time?”
    â€œRoger,” Joan said.
    â€œIf you think you’ve got something on her, spit it out and I’ll have a lawyer down here before it hits the floor!”
    â€œSit