CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Death of an UnderstudyMitchell, confused and impatient, repeated sharply: “Why can’t some of you say who it is?”
Gamadge glanced at him as if in surprise. “It’s Atwood.”
“Atwood!”
“Yes. He gave a fine performance, Mrs. Atwood. It was a new reading of the part, though, wasn’t it? Did he get it from Adrienne Lake?”
Far from resenting this unemotional question, Mrs. Atwood seemed to welcome the chance thus given to discuss her husband impersonally. “It was his,” she said. “He was always trying to get her to do it that way.”
Mitchell, after a stupefied look at Gamadge, knelt down on one knee, removed the scarlet head shawl, and stripped off the grey wig. Atwood’s reptilian head sprang into view, unmistakable in spite of a mask of paint and wrinkles. He looked at the hand
