Free Abracadaver by Peter Lovesey Page A

shortened trapezes; then Bellotti’s tumble from the greasy barrel; the shameful alterations to Sam Fagan’s song-sheet; the accident to the sword-swallower; the unspeakable calamity suffered by Miss Tring; and the sword through the leg of Woolston’s assistant. And now Albert’s attack by a fraudulent bulldog. What do they have in common, would you say?’ He handed the list to Thackeray and returned to his cocoa.
    ‘I’ve given this a lot of thought, Sarge, because I expected you to ask me sooner or later.’
    ‘Good. What conclusions d’you draw, then?’
    Thackeray drew a deep breath. ‘I haven’t been able to conclude anything, Sarge. The more I think about it, the more ridiculous it all seems.’
    To his amazement Cribb pitched forward, laughing. ‘Thackeray, you’re incomparable! I knew you wouldn’t fail me. Of course it seems ridiculous, man! That’s the point of it all!’
    ‘The point?’
    ‘Damn my eyes, you still don’t see it! The common element, Thackeray, is ridicule. Absurdity. There’s no better way to ruin a serious performance on the stage. Imagine your precious Irving falling through the stage-trap in the last act of The Bells. He’d be finished! Just as Albert was finished when the bulldog bit him tonight. Can you see a music hall audience ever taking him seriously again? Of course they won’t. As soon as he appears anywhere you’ll hear barking and growling all over the theatre. Ridicule, Thackeray—it’s a devastating weapon.’
    Thackeray agreed, drawing comfort from the private thought that a man of Cribb’s stamp ought to know more about the offensive use of ridicule than he did. ‘So somebody plans to make laughing-stocks of all these performers, Sarge. Then we’re looking for someone with a grudge against each one of them. Shouldn’t we interview ’em all to find out who they’ve fallen out with in recent months?’
    ‘And find one common name? That’s what I thought until I tried tracing them. Do you know, Thackeray, they’ve all quit their lodgings and disappeared except Woolston? At least he won’t find it easy to do a flit from Newgate.’
    ‘Why should they all do that, Sarge?’
    ‘Could be they can’t afford the rent any more, being out of work,’ said Cribb. ‘It’s cheaper in a common lodging- house. That’s where half the missing persons in London are, in my opinion. It’s no use asking the keepers who they’ve got under their roofs, when their only obligation is to report infectious diseases and limewash the walls and ceilings twice a year. Yes, that’s where they could very well be. For all the spangles and champagne, your music-hall artiste is just a step from the poor-house.’
    ‘Didn’t they leave forwarding-addresses?’ suggested Thackeray, on an inspiration.
    ‘I had the same thought,’ said Cribb, ‘but it seems you don’t do that in the theatre. You move around so much that you use your agent’s office as your official address, and collect your letters from him periodically. Inquiries were made this morning at five different agents in York Road—just up the street from here—“Poverty Corner” they call it in the halls. Well, none of our accident-prone friends have visited their agents. There’s a pile of letters as tall as your hat waiting for the Pinkus sisters, and they weren’t badly hurt, by Sergeant Woodwright’s account. It’s a rum business, Constable.’
    ‘We could list them among the missing persons in the Police Gazette.’
    ‘Already arranged. But the fact remains that six people have come to grief on the stage, lost their jobs and disappeared in the space of four weeks. With Woolston it could have been seven. D’you see now why I want to keep a watch on Albert?’
    Thackeray was on his feet. ‘Blimey yes, Sarge! We can’t leave a job like this to that young cub who brought in the cocoa. I’ll get round there straight away!’
    Cribb raised his hand. ‘And a precious fine plain clothes man you’ll