Vintage Murder Page 5

  “Take her away, take her away.”

  And Hambledon: “Come away. Carolyn, come away.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Intermezzo

  “NO, DON’T MOVE him,” said Alleyn.

  He laid a hand on Hambledon’s arm. Dr. Te Pohika, his bronze fingers still touching the top of Meyer’s head, looked fixedly at Alleyn.

  “Why not?” asked Hambledon.

  George Mason raised his head. Ever since they had got rid of the others Mason had sat at the end of the long table with his face buried in his arms. Ted Gascoigne stood beside Mason. He repeated over and over again:

  “It was as safe as houses. Someone’s monkeyed with it. We rehearsed it twelve times this morning. I tell you there’s been some funny business, George. My God, George, there’s been some funny business.”

  “Why not?” repeated Hambledon. “Why not move him?”

  “Because,” said Alleyn, “Mr. Gascoigne may be right.”

  George Mason spoke for the first time.

  “But who’d want to hurt him? Old Alf! He hasn’t an enemy in the world.” He turned a woebegone face to Te Pokiha.

  “You’re sure, Doctor, he’s—he’s—gone?”

  “You can see for yourself, Mr. Mason,” said Te Pokiha; “the neck is broken.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Mason, looking sick.

  “What ought we to do?” asked Gascoigne. They all turned to Alleyn. “Do I exude C.I.D.?” wondered Alleyn to himself, “or has Hambledon blown the gaff?”

  “I’m afraid you must ring up the nearest police station,” he said aloud. There was an instant outcry from Gascoigne and Mason.

  “Good God, the police!”

  “What the hell!”

  “…but it was an accident!”

  “That’d be finish!”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Alleyn’s right,” said Te Pokiha; “it is a matter for the police. If you like I’ll ring up. I know the superintendent in Middleton.”

  “While you’re about it,” said Mason with desperate irony, “you might ring up a shipping office. As far as this tour’s concerned—”

  “Finish!” said Gascoigne.

  “We’ve got to do something about it, Ted,” said Hambledon quietly.

  “We built it up between us,” said Mason suddenly. “When I first met Alf he was advancing a No. 4 company in St. Helens. I was selling tickets for the worst show in England. We never looked back. We’ve never had a nasty word, never. And look at the business we’ve built up.” His lips trembled. “By God, if someone’s killed him—you’re right, Hailey. I’m—I’m all anyhow—you fix it, Ted. I’m all anyhow.”

  Dr. Te Pokiha looked at him.

  “How about joining the others, Mr. Mason? Perhaps a whisky would be a good idea. Your office—?”

  Mason got to his feet and came down to the centre of the table. He looked at what was left of Alfred Meyer’s head, buried among the fern and broken fairy lights, wet with champagne and with blood. The two fat white hands still grasped the edges of the nest.

  “God!” said Mason. “Do we have to leave him like that?”

  “It will only be for a little while,” said Alleyn gently. “I should let Dr. Te Pokiha take you to the office.”

  “Alf,” murmured Mason. “Old Alf!” He stood there, his lips shaking, his face ugly with suppressed emotion. Alleyn, who was accustomed to scenes of this sort, was conscious of his familiar demon which took little at face value, and observed much. The demon prompted him to notice how unembarrassed Gascoigne and Hambledon were by Mason’s emotion, how they had assumed so easily a mood of sorrowful correctness, almost as if they had rehearsed the damn’ scene, said the demon.

  They got Mason away. Te Pokiha went with him and said he would ring up the police. The unfortunate Bert, the stage-hand who had rigged the tackle under Meyer’s and Gascoigne’s directions, was hanging about in the wings and now came on the stage. He began to explain the mechanics of the champagne stunt to Alleyn.

  “It was like this ’ere. We fixed the rope over the pulley, see, and on one end we fixed the bloody bottle and on the other end we hooked the bloody weight. The weight was one of them corner weights we used for the bloody funnels.”

  “Ease up on the language, Bert,” suggested Gascoigne moodily.

  “Good-oh, Mr. Gascoigne. And the weight was not so heavy as the bottle, see. And we took a lead with that red cord from just above the weight, see, and fixed it to the table. So when the cord was cut she came down gradual like, seeing she was that much heavier than the weight. The weight and the bottle hung half-way between the pulley and the table, see, so when she came down, the weight went up to the pulley. It was hooked into a ring in the rope. We cut out the lights and used candles so’s nothing would be noticed. We tried her out till he was sick and tired of her and she worked corker every time. She worked good-oh, didn’t she, Mr. Gascoigne?”

  “Yes,” said Gascoigne. “That’s what I say. There’s been some funny business.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Bert heavily. “There bloody well must of.”

  “I’m going up aloft to take a look,” said Gascoigne.

  “Just a moment,” interrupted Alleyn. He took a notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Don’t you think perhaps we had better not go up just yet, Mr. Gascoigne? If there has been any interference, the police ought to be the first on the spot, oughtn’t they?”

  “My God, the police!” said Gascoigne.

  “I think I’ll go and see how Carolyn is,” said Hambledon suddenly.

  “They’re all in their dressing-rooms,” said Gascoigne.

  Hambledon went away. Alleyn completed a little sketch in his notebook and showed it to Gascoigne and Bert.

  “Was it like that?”

  “That’s right, mister,” said Bert, “you got it. That’s how it was. And when she cut the bloody cord, see…” he rambled on.

  Alleyn looked at the jeroboam. It had been cased in a sort of net which closed in at the neck, and was securely wired to the rope.

  “Wonder why the cork blew out,” murmured Alleyn.

  “The wire was loosened a bit before it came down,” said Gascoigne. “He—the governor himself—he went aloft after the show specially to do it. He didn’t want a stage-wait after it came down. He said the wire would still hold the cork.”

  “And it did till the jolt—yes. What about the counter-weight, Mr. Gascoigne? That would have to be detached before the champagne was poured out.”

  “Bert was to go up at once and take it off.”

  “I orfered to stay up there, like,” said Bert. “But ’e says ‘No,’ ’e says, ‘you can see the show and then go up. I’ll watch it.’ Gawd, Mr. Gascoigne—”

  Alleyn slipped away through the wings. Off-stage it was very dark and smelt of theatre. He walked along the wall until he came to the foot of an iron ladder. He was reminded most vividly of his only other experience behind the scenes. “Is my mere presence in the stalls,” he thought crossly, “a cue for homicide? May I not visit the antipodes without elderly theatre magnates having their heads bashed in by jeroboams of champagne before my very eyes? And the answer being ‘No’ to each of these questions, can I not get away quickly without nosing into the why and wherefore?”

  He put on his gloves and began to climb the ladder. “Again the answer is ‘No.’ The truth of the matter is I’m an incurable nosey parker. Detect I must, if I can.” He reached the first gallery, and peered about him, using his electric torch, and then went on up the ladder. “I wonder how she’s taking it? And Hambledon. Will they marry each other in due course, provided—After all, she may not be in love with Hambledon. Ah, here we are.”

  He paused at the top gallery and switched on his torch.

  Close beside him a batten, slung on ropes, ran across from his gallery to the opposite one. Across the batten hung a pulley and over the pulley was a rope. Looking down the far length of the rope, he saw it run away in sharp perspective from dark into light
. He had a bird’s-eye view of the lamp-lit set, the tops of the wings, the flat white strip of table; and there, at the end of the rope in the middle of the table, a flattened object, rather like a beetle with a white head and paws. That was Alfred Meyer. The other end of the rope, terminating in an iron hook, was against the pulley. The hook had been secured to a ring in the end of the rope, and the red cord which Carolyn had cut was also tied to the ring. The cut end of the cord dangled in mid-air. On the hook he should have found the counterweight.

  But there was no counterweight.

  He looked again at the pulley. It was as he had thought. A loop of thin cord had been passed round the near end of the batten and tied to the gallery. It had served to pull the batten eighteen inches to one side. So that when the bottle dropped it was slightly to the right of the centre of the table.

  “Slap me and sink me!” said Alleyn and returned to the stage. He found Ted Gascoigne by the stage-door. With him were two large dark men, wearing overcoats, scarves, and black felt hats; a police officer, a short pink-faced person who was obviously the divisional surgeon. “Do they call them divisional surgeons in this country?” wondered Alleyn.

  They were some time at the stage-door. Gascoigne talked very fast and most confusedly. At last he took them on to the stage, where they were joined by Te Pokiha. From the wings Alleyn watched them make their examination. It gave him a curious feeling to look on while other men did his own job. They examined the end of the rope which was still knotted into the net enclosing the bottle, and the piece of red-bound wire cord that lay on the table. Gascoigne explained the mechanism of the descending jeroboam. They peered up into the grid. Gascoigne pointed out the other end of the red cord.

  “When Miss Dacres cut it, it shot up,” he explained.

  “Yes,” said the detective. “Ye-ees. That’s right. Yeees.”

  “Out comes the old notebook,” said Alleyn to himself.

  “Hullo,” said a voice at his elbow. It was Hambledon.

  “Carolyn wants to see you,” he whispered. “What’s happening out there?”

  “Police doing their stuff. Wants to see me, does she?”

  “Yes. Come on.”

  He led the way into the usual dark wooden passage. The star dressing-room was the first on the left. Hambledon knocked on the door, opened it, and led the way in. Carolyn sat at her dressing-table. She still wore the black lace dress she had put on for the party. Her hair was pushed back from her face as though she had sat with her head in her hands. Old Susan Max was with her. Susan sat comfortably in an arm-chair, radiating solid sense, but her eyes were anxious. They brightened when she saw Alleyn.

  “Here he is, dear,” she said.

  Carolyn turned her head slowly.

  “Hullo,” she said.

  “Hullo,” said Alleyn. “Hambledon says you want me.”

  “Yes, I do.” Her hands were trembling violently. She pressed them together between her knees.

  “I just thought I’d like you here,” said Carolyn. “I’ve killed him, haven’t I?”

  “No!” said Hambledon violently.

  “My dear!” said Susan.

  “Well, I have. I cut the cord. That was what did it, wasn’t it?” She still looked at Alleyn.

  “Yes,” said Alleyn in a very matter-of-fact voice, “that was what set the thing off. But you didn’t rig the apparatus, did you?”

  “No. I didn’t know anything about it. It was a surprise.”

  She caught her breath and a strange sound, something like laughter, came from her lips. Susan and Hambledon looked panicky.

  “Oh!” cried Carolyn. “Oh! Oh!”

  “Don’t!” said Alleyn. “Hysterics are a bad way of letting things go. You feel awful afterwards.”

  She raised one of her hands and bit on it. Alleyn picked up a bottle of smelling-salts from the dressing-table and held it under her nose.

  “Sniff hard,” he said.

  Carolyn sniffed and gasped. Tears poured out of her eyes.

  “That’s better. You’re crying black tears. I thought that stuff was waterproof. Look at yourself.”

  She gazed helplessly at him and then turned to the glass. Susan gently wiped away the black tears.

  “You are a queer one,” sobbed Carolyn.

  “I know I am,” agreed Alleyn. “It’s a pose, really. Would you drink a little brandy if Hambledon got it for you?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you would.” He looked good-humouredly at Hambledon, who was standing miserably by her chair. “Can you?” asked Alleyn.

  “Yes—yes I’ll get it.” He hurried away.

  Alleyn sat on one of the wicker baskets and spoke to old Susan.

  “Well, Miss Max, our meetings are to be fraught with drama, it seems.”

  “Ah,” said Susan with a sort of grunt.

  “What do you mean?” asked Carolyn. She turned to the mirror and, very shakily, dabbed at her face with a powderpuff.

  “Mr. Alleyn and I have met before, dear,” explained Susan. “Over that dreadful business with Felix Gardener, you know.”

  “Yes. We spoke about it that night on the train.” Carolyn paused, and then she began to speak rapidly, urgently and with more command over her voice.

  “That’s why I wanted to see you. That night on the train. You remember what—he—said. Someone had tried to kill him. Have you thought of that?”

  “I have,” said Alleyn.

  “Well then—I want you to tell me, please, is this anything to do with it? Has someone—the same someone—done tonight what they failed to do on the train? Mr. Alleyn—has someone murdered my husband?”

  Alleyn was silent.

  “Please answer me.”

  “That’s a question for the police, you know.”

  “But I want you to tell me what you think. I must know what you think,” She leant towards him. “You’re not on duty. You’re in a strange country, like all of us, and far away from your job. Don’t be official, please don’t. Tell me what you think!”

  “Very well,” said Alleyn after a pause. “I think someone has interfered with the tackle that was rigged up for—for the stunt with the champagne, you know.”

  “And that means murder?”

  “If I am right—yes. It looks like it.”

  “Shall you speak to the police? They are there now, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. They are out there.”

  “Well?”

  “I regard myself as a layman, Miss Dacres. I shall certainly not butt in.” His voice was not final. He seemed to have left something unsaid. Carolyn looked fixedly at him and then turned to old Susan.

  “Susie, darling, I want to talk to Mr. Alleyn. Do you mind? You’ve been an angel. Thank you so much. Come back soon.”

  When Susan had gone Carolyn leant forward and touched Alleyn’s hand.

  “Listen,” she said, “do you feel friendly towards me? You do, don’t you?”

  “Quite friendly.”

  “I want you for my friend. You don’t believe I could do anything very bad, do you? Or let anything very bad be done without making some effort to stop it?”

  “What is in your mind?” he asked. “What are you trying to say?”

  “If I should want your help—yes, that’s it—would you give it me?”

  Her hand was still on his. She had patched up the stains made by her tears and her face looked beautiful again. He had seen her lean forward like that on the stage, it was a very characteristic gesture. Her eyes seemed to cry out to him.

  “If I can be of any help,” said Alleyn very formally, “of course I shall be only too glad—”

  “No, no, no. That’s not a bit of good. Sticking out all your prickles like that,” said Carolyn, with something of her old vigour. “I want a real answer.”

  “But, don’t you see, you say too much and too little. What sort of help do you want from me?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  “Come,” said Alleyn, “I
’ll promise to stay in Middleton a little longer. When do you go on to Wellington?”

  “When? We were to open there next week, but now—I don’t know.”

  “Listen to me. I give you one piece of advice. Don’t try and keep anything in the dark, no matter what it is. Those fellows out there will want to talk to you. They’ll have to ask you all sorts of questions. Answer them truthfully, no matter what it means, no matter how painful it may be, no matter where you think their questions are leading you. Promise me that and I’ll pledge you my help, for what it’s worth.”

  Carolyn still leant towards him, still looked straight at him. But he felt her withdrawal as certainly as though it had been physical.

  “Well?” he asked. “Is it a bargain?”

  But before she could answer him Hailey Hambledon came back with the brandy.

  “The detectives want us all to wait in the wardrobe-room,” he said. “I don’t know about you, Alleyn.”

  “You haven’t given me away to anyone, have you?” asked Alleyn.

  “No, no. Only we three realise you’re a detective.”

  “Please let it stay like that, will you?” asked Alleyn. “I’m most anxious that it should be so.”

  “I promise you that,” said Carolyn.

  Their eyes met.

  “Thank you,” said Alleyn quietly. “I’ll join you later.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Second Appearance of the Tiki

  “WHO’S THAT?” DEMANDED the largest of the three detectives. “Just a minute there, please.” He was on the stage and had caught sight of Alleyn through the open door on the prompt entrance.

  “It’s me,” said Alleyn in a mild voice and walked through. The detective, Te Pokiha, and the police doctor, were all standing by the table.

  “Who’s this gentleman, Mr. Gascoigne?” continued the detective.

  “Er—it’s—er—Mr. Alleyn, Inspector.’

  “Member of the company?”

  “No,” said Alleyn, “just a friend.”