The Empty Chair

The cab tracks still steamed on the wet stone. Holmes did not chase far. He only crouched by the side door and felt the ground—a prompter's glove lay there, its fingertips wet with red lead, the same colour as the pin on the dummy's breast.

"Marlowe has only just gone," he told the constables. "Dummy, red lead, obituary—all three. There is no body left to dredge from the river. Crane is alive. What was meant to drown tonight was a play."

Watson turned the morning-paper slip over. On the reverse, in pencil and not Marlowe's hand: "Scene Five. Deliver at the price." No signature.

The prompt-lamp swayed of itself. From the seam of the empty chair's back fell half a torn ticket—its tear matching exactly the unfinished stub still in Mrs Crane's hand. Holmes looked into the fog. "Marlowe only prompts. The man who paid for Scene Five is still sitting in the house."

❦ To be continued.