Enter a Murderer Read online

  "Didn't wait to listen. I had an appointment in the office for seven-fifteen. Janet!" Saint's voice changed. He got to his feet. Nigel moved a little and saw that Janet Emerald had appeared in the prompt doorway. She gave a loud cry, rushed across the stage and threw herself into Saint's arms.

  "Jacco! Jacco!" she sobbed.

  "Poor baby—poor baby," Saint murmured, and Nigel marvelled at the kindness in his voice as he soothed the somewhat large and overwhelming Miss Emerald.

  "It wasn't you," she said suddenly. "They can't say it was you!" She threw her head back distractedly and her face, cleaned now of its make-up, looked ghastly. Saint had his back to Nigel, but it was sufficiently eloquent of the shock her words had given him. Still holding her, he was frozen into immobility. When he spoke his voice was controlled but no longer tender.

  "Poor kid," he said, in the best theatre-magnate manner. "You're all hysterical. Me! Do I seem like a murderer, baby?"

  "No, no—I'm mad. It was so awful, Jacco. Jacco, it was so awful."

  "M-m—m-m—m-m," growled Mr. Saint soothingly.

  "Quite," Alleyn's voice cut in. "Most unpleasant. I am sure you must be longing to get away from it all, Miss Emerald."

  "I'll drive you home," offered Jacob Saint. He and Miss Emerald stood side by side now and Nigel could see how pale they both were.

  "An excellent idea." Alleyn's voice sounded close to the door. "But first of all may I just put a few questions to Miss Emerald?"

  "You may not," said Saint. "If you want anything you can come and see her to-morrow. Get that?"

  "Oh, yes, rather. Full in the teeth. Afraid, however, it makes no difference. There's a murder charge hovering round waiting for somebody, Mr. Saint, and shall we say a drama is being produced which you do not control and in which you play a part that may or may not be significant? To carry my flight of fancy a bit farther, I may add that the flat-footed old Law is stage manager, producer, and critic. And I, Mr. Saint, in the words of an old box-office success, 'I, my Lords, embody the law.' Sit down if you want to and please keep quiet. Now then, Miss Emerald."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Into the Small Hours

  NIGEL TOOK DOWN every word of Alleyn's little speech with the liveliest enthusiasm. At the conclusion he wrote in brackets: "Noise of theatre magnate sitting down." In a moment he was busy again. Alleyn had concentrated on Miss Janet Emerald.

  "Do you mind if I light my pipe, Miss Emerald? Thank you. Oh—cigarette? Those are Turks and those are—but I expect you know that one."

  "No, thank you."

  A match scraped, and Alleyn spoke between sucks at his pipe.

  "Well, now. Will you tell me, as far as you know, how the business of loading the revolver was managed?" ("But he knows all that," thought Nigel impatiently.)

  "I—I know nothing about it—I had nothing to do with it," said Janet Emerald.

  "Of course not. But perhaps you noticed who put the blank cartridges in the drawer, and when."

  "I didn't notice at all—anything about the cartridges."

  "Did you never see them put in the drawer?"

  "I didn't notice."

  "Really? You didn't concern yourself about whether they were there, or say to Mr. Simpson that you were terrified he would forget them?"

  "I couldn't have done so. What makes you think I said anything of the sort? Jacco! I don't know what I'm saying. Please—please, can't I go?"

  "Don't move, Mr. Saint, I shall soon be done. Now, Miss Emerald, please answer my questions as best you can and as simply as you can. Believe me, an innocent person has nothing to fear and everything to gain in telling the truth. You are not the silly, bewildered little thing you pretend to be. You are a large and, I should say, very intelligent woman."

  "Jacco!"

  "And I suggest that you behave like one. Now, please—did you or did you not notice Mr. Simpson placing the cartridges to-night, and did you, or did you not, remark that you were afraid he'd forget to do so?"

  "No, no, no—it's all a lie."

  "And did you afterwards go and stand with your hands on the desk?"

  "Never—I was talking to Arthur—I didn't notice what George Simpson was doing—he's telling lies. If that's what he says, he's lying."

  "What were you saying to Mr. Surbonadier? It must have been of some interest to absorb all your attention."

  "I don't remember."

  "Really?"

  "I don't remember. I don't remember."

  "Thank you. Fox, ask Miss Susan Max if she'll be good enough to come here."

  "That mean we can go?" Saint's voice made Nigel jump—he had forgotten the proprietor of the Unicorn.

  "In a minute. The night is young. How impatient you are, to be sure."

  "What sort of a breed are you?" asked Saint suddenly. "Gentleman 'tec, or the comedian of the Yard, or what?"

  "My dear Mr. Saint, you make me feel quite shy."

  "Ow yow—yow—yow," Saint echoed the inspector's pleasant voice with the exasperated facetiousness of a street urchin. "All Oxford and Cambridge and hot air," he added savagely.

  "Only Oxford, and that's nothing nowadays," said Alleyn apologetically. "Oh, here you are, Miss Max." His voice was cordial. "I can't tell you how bad I feel about giving you all this trouble." Miss Max had waddled into Nigel's line of sight.

  "Never you mind," she said comfortably. "You're only doing your job, I suppose."

  "Miss Max, if only everyone felt like that a policeman's lot would be a happier one."

  "I played Ruth in Pirates on the Australian circuit," said Miss Max, letting herself down into the chair the inspector had pushed forward.

  "Did you really? Do you remember the trio about the paradox? Frederick, Ruth, and Pirate King?"

  "Indeed I do.

  "'A paradox,

  A paradox,

  A most ingenious paradox,' "

  sang Miss Max, in a jolly wheeze.

  "Susan!" wailed Miss Emerald. "How can you?"

  "Why not, dear? It's a lovely number."

  "There's something of a paradox here," said Alleyn, "that you can solve for us."

  "And you're the policeman."

  "Yes—would you call me 'Frederick' and may I call you 'Ruth'?"

  "Get along with you!" said old Susan Max.

  "Well, here it is. Perhaps I won't tell you the paradox but ask you a question and hope that your answer will explain it. Can you tell me just what happened on the stage before the curtain went up on the last act?"

  "Susan," began Janet Emerald. "You remember——"

  "Please!" (Alleyn made Nigel jump.) "Now, Miss Max."

  "Well, let me think. I was sitting on the O.P. knitting my scarf and scolding George Simpson about that mat. 'George,' I said, 'do you want me to break my neck?' So he fixed it. Little things like that look so bad from the front, and it quite spoilt my eggzit at the end of that scene."

  "I enjoyed your reading of the part enormously."

  "Well, dear, I made it a type, you know."

  "Is this a cosy chat or a statement?" inquired Saint.

  "It's a dialogue between two people only," answered Alleyn. "It's a great thing to be able to study types, Miss Max—I have to do a bit of that myself."

  "It's all observation," said Miss Max in a gratified tone.

  "Of course it is. You've learnt to observe. You can be of the greatest help to me. Now, can you tell me, Miss Max, exactly what happened after Mr. Simpson put the mat straight?"

  "Now, let me think," said Susan Max. There was a dead silence. Miss Emerald gave a sob.

  "Yes," said Susan suddenly. "Janet was upset and talking to poor Arthur, who was a little pizzicato."

  "Pizzicato?"

  "A little too much wine taken. Pity. Well, they whispered together and then he said to her—No. I'm telling stories. She said to him: 'Are you all right?'; and he said to her: 'No, I'm all blanky wrong,' using language as he did so. I didn't hear the next bit, but presently he said in an extremely disa
greeable manner: 'You can't talk about influence, Janet. You wouldn't be where you are without it.' More whispers. I didn't listen. I measured my scarf round George Simpson's neck. Then when he went off to the prompt corner——No, I've left out a bit. Wait. Before that, when George put the cartridges in the drawer, Janet said she was always afraid he'd forget them—do you remember, dear? And then after all the other bit about poor Arthur being drunk and influence and so forth, you followed over to the prompt corner and I recollect that you had another whisper with him—with George Simpson, I mean, of course. There you are!" Miss Max ended with a sort of triumphant gaiety.

  "Bravo!" cried Alleyn. "Top marks. We shall have to get you into the force."

  "Oh, yes, I dare say. Well, now. Is that all? Can I go?"

  "I shall be sorry to lose you."

  Nigel had waited for an outburst from Miss Emerald—a denial, an explanation, another bout of hysteria. Instead there was dead silence. He wished he could see Janet Emerald and Jacob Saint.

  "It's a shocking thing," said Susan Max abruptly. "It's a very shocking thing for a young man to die as Arthur Surbonadier died. Not himself. Angry. For he was angry, you know."

  "What about?"

  "All sorts of things. Not satisfied with the casting. Unhappy over other matters too, I believe. I suppose it's murder?"

  "It looks like it."

  "And poor Felix. You're not running away with the idea Felix had anything to do with it, I hope? Except pulling the trigger, poor fellow. Um?"

  "Why not?" Janet Emerald demanded. "Why not Felix Gardener? He shot him. It was his revolver. Why is everybody so sure he knew nothing about it? Stephanie doing brave heroine stuff all over him. Everybody treating him like an invalid. While I—I—am treated like a criminal. It's infamous."

  "There's only one thing more," said Alleyn, exactly as if she had not spoken. "It's unavoidable or I wouldn't press it. I should like everyone behind the scenes to-night to be searched before they leave. I can't insist, but it will save a lot of bother if you consent. Miss Max, I expect you know what we are looking for?"

  "I don't, then."

  "For the dummy cartridges."

  "Oh."

  "They will be fairly bulky. Miss Emerald, will you take off your wrap?"

  "Here!" said Jacob Saint. "Whaddeyer going to do?"

  "Oh, hold your tongue, Jacco!"

  A slithery noise. Nigel craned his neck and saw Janet Emerald move forward. She was clad in a sequinned sheath that fitted her like a skin.

  "Miss Emerald, will you let me make a very superficial examination or would you prefer to go to a police station, where there will be a wardress?"

  "Don't let him touch you, Janet."

  "Oh, Jacco, don't be a fool." There was no touch of hysteria here, only a harsh and wearied contempt. "Do whatever you like," said Janet Emerald. She held up her magnificent arms and closed her eyes. Alleyn passed his delicate hands lightly over the surface of her dress. He too had closed his eyes. He looked as though his brain was in his fingertips. There was something uncannily remote about him. Lightly the hands swept down the sides and front of the sequinned dress, down the flanks, pausing at the knees and then dropping disinterestedly away. He picked up the fallen wrap, felt it all over, shook it and held it out politely by the collar. "You would like to put it on again," he said.

  Janet Emerald breathed unevenly and a curious, distorted smile visited her lips. She slid into the wrap.

  "And what about you, Miss Max?" said Alleyn.

  "I'm more bulky—you'll have to prod," said Susan Max cheerfully. She took off her overcoat and stood, a round, and somehow pathetic, figure in blouse and skirt.

  "You are very courteous," said Alleyn gravely. "And very wise."

  He searched her and then Jacob Saint, who stood up for it without protest or comment. Alleyn looked carefully at the papers in his pocket-book, but appeared to find nothing that interested him.

  "That is all," he said at last. "I'll keep you no longer. How will you get home, Miss Max?"

  "I live in South Kensington—I suppose I've missed the last bus."

  "Fox. Be a good fellow and tell the constable at the door to get a taxi. My party, Miss Max."

  "You are kind," said Susan Max.

  "Good night—'Ruth.' Good night, Miss Emerald. Mr. Saint. Inspector Fox will take your addresses."

  "Here!" said Saint suddenly. "Maybe I've been short with you, inspector. This thing's upset me. You're doing your duty, and I respect that. I'd like to see you to-morrow."

  "I shall be at the Yard at eleven, should you wish to make a statement, Mr. Saint."

  "Statement be damned."

  "By all means. Good night."

  Footsteps and then silence.

  "Still awake, Bathgate?" asked Alleyn.

  "Just," said Nigel. "Let me come out there for a minute. I'm all pins and needles."

  "Come out, come out, my dearest dear. What did you think of little Janet? And Uncle Jacob?"

  "Not much." Nigel emerged and stood blinking. "By Jove, she told some stinking big whoppers."

  "She did rather."

  "I say—do you think——"

  "Only very confusedly. It's all so muddly."

  "I distrust you intensely," said Nigel, "when you go on like that."

  "Get back to your corner. Who shall we have next?"

  "Don't ask me. It's beastly cold on this stage."

  "Shall we adjourn to a dressing-room?"

  "Good idea—whose?"

  "Bailey has been searching them while you were in your cosy corner. I rather fancy Arthur Surbonadier's."

  "You old ghoul. May I ask if you intend to search all the ladies?"

  "Don't you think it quate nayce?"

  "No, I don't."

  "P'r'aps you're right. Hullo, Bailey."

  The fingerprint expert reappeared.

  "I've been through the rooms," he said in a bored voice. "No sign of the blanks. Got all their prints."

  "Really—how?"

  "Oh, asked for them." Bailey grinned sardonically. "You weren't there, sir."

  "That's all right." Alleyn disliked asking directly for fingerprints and preferred to pick them up without the owners' knowledge. "Well," he said, "we'd better get on with the good work."

  "We could do with those dummies," Bailey remarked. "Inspector Fox is searching the other men now, sir. Thought it would save you the trouble."

  "Intelligent as well as kind. But he won't find them."

  "The dummies?" Bailey eyed his surprise.

  "The dummies. Unless our murderer is particularly vindictive."

  "What's this?" demanded Nigel suspiciously. "Isn't a murderer usually rather vindictive?"

  "You don't understand, I'm afraid," said Alleyn kindly. "I think—" he added, turning to Bailey—"I think the cartridges will be in the obvious place."

  "Obvious!" repeated Bailey. "You've got me beat, sir. Is there an obvious place?"

  "You'll never make a murderer, Bailey. Before we move away let us have a look at that desk. It's in the wings, there. Give me a hand."

  Nigel stood near the centre of the stage. He had moved forward towards the wings, when a voice, raucous and detached, yelled above their heads.

  "Look out!"

  An instant later, Inspector Alleyn hurled himself full at Nigel, driving him backwards. He fell, sprawling across a chair, and at the same moment was aware of something else that fell from above, and crashed down deafeningly on to the stage. Something that raised a cloud of dust.

  He got to his feet shaken and bewildered. Lying on the stage was a shattered heap of broken glass. Alleyn stood near it, looking up into the flies.

  "Come down out of that," he shouted.

  "Yessir. Coming, sir."

  "Who the devil are you?" bawled Bailey suddenly.

  "Only the props, sir. I'm coming."

  They stumbled into the wings, where they were all met by Inspector Fox who had run agitatedly from the wardrobe-room. They all p
eered up the wall of the stage. An iron ladder ran aloft into the shadows. Soft footsteps padded up there in the dark, and presently among the shadows a darker shape could be seen. The iron ladder vibrated very faintly. Somebody was coming down.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Props

  THE SHADOWY FIGURE came very deliberately down the ladder. Nigel, Alleyn and Bailey did not speak, but fell back a little. Nigel was still shaken by his escape from the chandelier. He felt bewildered, and watched, without thinking, the rubber soles of a pair of dilapidated tennis shoes come down, rung by rung. The man did not turn his face away from the wall until he had completed his descent. Then he swung round slowly.

  Bailey moved forward and seized his arm.

  "Now then—you," he said.

  "Don't you act old-fashioned at me," snarled the man.

  "Just a minute, Bailey," said Alleyn. Bailey stared indignantly round.

  "You're the property master," said Alleyn. The man stood with his heels together and his hands held tidily at the seams of his trousers. His face was long, thin, and white; with eyebrows that grew together. He looked fixedly at a spot on the scenery above the inspector's head.

  "Yessir," he said.

  "Been at this job long?"

  "Ever since I was demobbed."

  "In the Brigade of Guards, weren't you?"

  "Yessir. Grenadiers, sir. King's Company."

  "You made the dummy cartridges for this show?"

  "Yessir."

  "Where are they?"

  "I gave them to Mr. Simpson."

  "The dummy cartridges. Are you sure of that?"

  "Yessir."

  "How are you so sure? They might have been the real thing."

  "No, sir." The man swallowed. "I was looking at them. I dropped a cartridge, and the bullet was loose, sir."

  "Where are they now?"

  "I dunno, sir."

  "How did you come to drop that chandelier?

  Silence.

  "How is it fixed up there?"

  "On a pulley."

  "And the rope turned round a piece of wood or something, to make it fast?"

  "Yessir."

  "Did the rope break or did you unwind it?"

  "I can't say, sir."

  "Very well. Sergeant Bailey, go up and have a look at the rope there, will you? Now, Props, you go up to the switchboard and give us some light behind the scenes."