Some days even the simplest thing could go wrong, even in the hands of a maître chef. It was symptomatic of the theatre itself. Currents of unease ran through the corridors of the Galaxy – in and out of the dressing rooms, the green room, the carpenter’s shop, the painting room – like sand in an egg timer. A heightened awareness of something not quite right. The leason failed. He frowned. Two Galaxy Girls dead and Miss Lytton threatened, perhaps the next to fall victim to the strangler. A policeman could not guard her all the time. Against the sudden attack by a stranger, yes, but what of those nearest to her, her friends, her fellow actors – her husband? He thought of Rose’s parting words: ‘I think we have to look for our joker inside the Galaxy. That rope came from Props’ room – he don’t deny that, Mr Didier. And those dolls, not much doubt they must be linked. But how – well, I reckon that’s your job to find out. You know these people, Mr Didier.’ Yes, he knew them.
