The Fourth Wall by Barbara Paul

were you?”
    â€œI was right here, Mr. Ramsay, at four o’clock,” said the guard. “The same time I always come in. The damage had already been done. You didn’t contract for round-the-clock protection. Somebody got in before I got here.”
    â€œDid you check all the doors when you left last night?”
    â€œOf course. Every one of them was locked.”
    â€œYou overlooked something.”
    â€œNo sir, I did not,” said the guard firmly. “The police are trying to find out right now how he got in, and if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go help them.” The guard walked away and spoke to Sergeant Piperson, whom I now saw for the first time.
    The stage and backstage areas were swarming with people, writing things in notebooks, taking pictures. Leo Gunn was poking at a broken chair with the toe of his sneaker. Carla Banner was there, popeyed and open-mouthed. First she’d walk from stage right across the front of the apron to stage left, where she’d stand gawking for a few moments. Then she’d make her way back across the apron to stage right and gawk from that angle for a while. Then she’d repeat the whole process. Carla was feeling stupid and helpless, the way a big shock often leaves you.
    â€œWhat I don’t understand,” I said to Leo Gunn, “is how all this could have been done without anyone hearing it. The regular watchman was on duty, wasn’t he? And somebody was in the box office during the day.”
    Leo nodded toward the wings. “There’s the watchman.” An older man I hadn’t noticed before was sitting on a wooden chair; he was thin and trembly, and his face had an off-color cast to it. “He was chloroformed,” said Leo. “The people up front heard nothing, never looked into the auditorium. The doors were closed.”
    The doors at the entrance to each aisle separated the seating area from the lobby; they were specially built to deaden sound. Deaden it—but shut it out completely? I didn’t think so.
    Sergeant Piperson came over to where we were standing. Leo and I looked at him expectantly, wondering what he had to say.
    â€œI paid for your drinks.” That was what he had to say.
    â€œHuh?” said Leo.
    I must have looked blank, for the Sergeant went on to explain, “Last Saturday, at the bar. You walked out without paying for your drinks.”
    I slumped against Leo. “All right, Sergeant. I owe you for two drinks. I am grateful. Now will you tell me why we’re standing here talking about my bar bill? What about this set?”
    Sergeant Piperson grinned. “He went too far this time. Nobody can do a job this big without leaving a calling card of some kind. We’ll get him now.”
    â€œSure you will,” said Leo, deadpan.
    The watchman suddenly began to moan. “I feel sick.”
    â€œYou’re lucky you’re alive,” Sergeant Piperson told him bluntly. “Most people don’t know chloroform can be lethal. Be thankful you got a safe dose.”
    The old man moaned again, and Carla Banner went over to help him. She half-walked, half-carried him to the men’s room, where we could hear him throwing up.
    Piperson turned back to Leo and me.
    â€œWe’ve already picked up a couple of things that might give us a lead, and we’re just getting started. Whoever this guy is, he’s told us something we didn’t know before.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” asked Leo.
    The Sergeant looked directly at me. “This nut isn’t carrying on a personal vendetta against Sylvia Markey or Ian Cavanaugh. They were targets only because they were acting in Foxfire , It’s you he’s after, Abby. Somebody’s out to close your play.”
    A television camera crew had been waiting outside the theater, so I had the dubious pleasure of seeing myself on the late news. Wooden-faced, I answered questions into the mike stuck under