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Reilly glanced at Fettle. “Could it still be here?”
“Probably. No one came to pick it up.”
“Any idea where?” Gardener asked Fettle.
Fettle chewed on his sandwich, gulped more tea. “Could be anywhere.”
“Where do you store the props and the scenery you’re not using?” asked Gardener.
“We have a couple of different rooms.”
“The sort of place that someone would only know if they had worked here?” pressed Gardener.
“I suppose so. As I’ve said. I’ve been here forty years. Whoever this bloke was, I didn’t r
ecognise him.”
“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” said Reilly. “He was disguised.”
“But no one’s that good. I don’t care how good you are, you can’t imitate someone so perfectly. You’d have to slip up somewhere.”
“I think you’ll find you’re wrong,” said Gardener. “We might all be in for a surprise with this one. Can you show us the rooms?”
“If you think it’ll help.”
The detectives followed Fettle into the labyrinth of the theatre. For a man with a limp, he could walk at a fair pace. The two storage rooms he showed them were located either side of the stage, down a flight of steps. Though the rooms were full of dust-encrusted furniture, neither one contained the trunk they wanted.
“Are there any more?” asked Gardener.
Fettle stood and thought. “Well there is, but they’re way down in the basements. I don’t think anyone’s been down there in ages.”
“I’ll bet you’re wrong about that as well,” replied Reilly.
Each man trooped down to the very bottom of the theatre. It was cold, and Gardener could see his own breath. The first room they came across was at the end of a corridor. There were no physical signs that it had been used recently.
Fettle pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and tried a few before selecting the correct one. The door opened with a loud crack, and a dank smell penetrated their nostrils. The room was small, and other than posters from previous productions, there was nothing of any interest.
Fettle locked the door and took them back down one corridor and into another. He reached the door, produced the keys, and tried all of them. He stood back and scratched his head, puzzled. “Surely one of the keys has to be here.”
“Maybe it’s not locked,” said Reilly. He used a pair of gloves and tried the handle.
To Fettle’s amazement, but not Gardener’s, the door opened. Standing in the middle of the room was the big black trunk. Leonard White’s name was stencilled on the side – no padlock.
Gardener also produced gloves from his pocket as he moved to the chest, and lifted the lid. Inside the trunk was a long coil of rope. On the inside of the lid a piece of paper had been attached. Judging by the texture, it was a little thicker than normal paper, and had an elaborately designed scroll top and bottom. The outer edges of the paper were blue, but the scroll was beige and flecked with brown spots, the finish resembling a cup of cappuccino.
As Gardener had figured, a message had been left:
I imagine you’re used to this now
And you’re probably wondering, just how?
Perhaps you should focus in order to be true
And more to the point, ask who?
I’ve invited you in, but beware, my world is big
Not long now, before the next gig.
