Vintage Murder Page 8

  “I should think that’s how everybody feels about it,” said old Susan Max. “It’s been a terrible experience. I shan’t forget it in a hurry.”

  “He looked so awful.” Valerie Gaynes’s voice rose hysterically. “I’ll see it all my life. I’ll be haunted by it. His head—all that mess!”

  “My God!” choked George Mason suddenly, “I’ve got to get out of this. I’m going to be sick. Here—let me out.”

  He rushed to the door, his handkerchief clapped to his mouth, and his eyes rolling lamentably. “Let me out!”

  Packer opened the door, cast one glance at Mason’s face, and let him through. Unpleasant noises were followed by the bang of a door.

  “He’s been slowly turning green ever since we came in here,” said Ackroyd. “Damned unpleasant sight, it was. Why the devil does he have to turn queasy.”

  “It’s his stomach, dear,” said Susan. “George suffers from dyspepsia, Mr. Alleyn. Martyr to it.”

  “You had to finish him off, Val,” Brandon Vernon pointed out, “by talking about the mess. Why did you have to bring that up?”

  “Don’t talk about bringing things up, for God’s sake,” complained Liversidge.

  “You look as if you were going on for Hamlet senior yourself, Frankie,” sneered Ackroyd.

  “Oh, shut up,” said Liversidge violently.

  “Well, nobody could feel iller than I do. I feel terrible,” said Valerie. “Do you know that? I feel terrible.” Nobody paid the slightest attention.

  “What’ll happen to the Firm?” asked Ackroyd of no one in particular. They all stirred uneasily. Gascoigne paused in his dissertation on counterweights and swung round.

  “The Firm?” he said. “The Firm will go on.”

  “Do you mean Incorporated Playhouses?” asked Gordon Palmer eagerly.

  “No,” snapped Ackroyd rudely, “he means Wirth’s Circus.”

  “We always call Incorporated Playhouses ‘the Firm,’” explained Susan good-naturedly.

  “The great firm of Inky-P.,” rumbled old Vernon.

  “It was founded and built up by Mr. Meyer, wasn’t it?” asked Alleyn. “He was actually the only begetter?”

  “He and George Mason,” said Gascoigne. ‘They made it together. George was a damn’ good actor in his day—character, you know—never played straight parts. The governor met him somewhere and they doubled up. Yes, they started forty years ago as Mason & Meyer’s Dramas, Ltd. A lot of omies the others were then, doing umpty-shows in the smalls.”

  “That leaves me gaping,” said Alleyn apologetically. “What is an ‘omie,’ Miss Max, and how does one recognise an umpty-show?”

  “Ted means they were bad actors doing worse shows in one-eyed towns up and down the provinces,” said Susan.

  “Yes,” continued Gascoigne, “and today it’s the biggest theatre combine in Europe. Wonderful achievement.”

  “It’ll be ‘George Mason’ only now,” said Liversidge suddenly.

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “Yes,” said little Ackroyd. He looked under his lashes at Gascoigne. “George will be a very wealthy man.”

  At once Alleyn sensed a feeling of panic, of protest. Susan Max, who obviously disliked Ackroyd, planted her fat little hands on her knees and squared her shoulders.

  “George Mason,” she said loudly, “would rather be back advancing The Worst Woman in London than have this happen.”

  “Certainly.” Gascoigne backed her up emphatically. “I’ve stage-managed for the Firm for twenty-five years and it’s been a happy little family for every day of it. Every day of it. Big as they are, they’ve gone on taking a personal interest. They run their own shows. Of course, this is just a holiday—but look at the way they’ve kept with the crowd. Mr. Meyer was down in the office every morning and, make no mistake, he came down to work. He was honest, and by God, you can’t say that for many of ’em. He and George were the whitest men in management.”

  “Ah!” said Susan, ruffling her plumage, and looking with approval at Gascoigne.

  “Well,” rumbled old Vernon, ‘I’ve no quarrel with Inky-P., and I hope to God George keeps nice with him.”

  “All right, all right,” protested Ackroyd, “I’m not saying George isn’t the curly-headed boy, am I, even if he hasn’t always been quite quite?”

  “What d’you mean by that?” demanded Vernon.

  “I seem to remember hearing something about a company left stranded in America in the good old days,” said Ackroyd. “Just one of those stories, you know, just one of those stories.”

  “Then why repeat it?” snapped Vernon.

  “Hear, hear,” said Gascoigne.

  “Oh, dear, dear, how I do get myself in wrong, don’t I?” cooed Ackroyd. He turned to Gascoigne. “You keep on yammering about this bloody champagne stunt, Ted. You say it was fool-proof, accident-proof, all the rest of it. Well—if it was, somebody’s murdered Alfred Meyer. Now!”

  Valerie Gaynes screamed and rushed across the room to the empty chair by Liversidge.

  “Frankie!” she sobbed. “Frankie! Not that! It’s not true what they’re saying—not true.”

  “There, kiddy, there, there!” crooned Mr. Liversidge, stroking her arm and looking unpleasantly protective.

  The door opened and George Mason returned. His round face was still very white.

  “I’m sorry, everyone,” he said simply, and returned to his seat.

  “Better, Mr. Mason?” asked Susan.

  “Yes, thanks, Susie. Ashamed of myself. Where’s Carolyn and Hailey?”

  “Still out there.”

  “While we’re all together,” said Mason quietly, “I’d just like to say that whatever happens I think I’d better call the company for midday tomorrow. I’ll try and work out what’s best to be done. Everyone on stage at twelve, please, Mr. Gascoigne.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Mason,” said Ted Gascoigne. “Twelve o’clock tomorrow morning, please, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Packer came in.

  “The chief would like to see the stage staff.”

  The little group at the far end of the room came forward and filed out through the door.

  “Just a moment,” said Mason suddenly. “Where are Miss Dacres and Mr. Hambledon?”

  “I think they’ve gone, sir.”

  “Gone?”

  “They’ve arrested them!” screamed Valerie Gaynes. “My God, they’ve arrested them!”

  “C-st!” said Mason savagely. “Can no one keep that girl quiet!”

  “They’ve just gone home, miss,” said Packer.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Money

  “THE SOONER YOU get down-stage and find yourself the better, young lady,” said Mason, when the staff had gone. “What’s the idea of all this tragedy stuff?”

  “Oh, I can’t help it,” wailed Valerie. “I can’t help it. I can’t help it.”

  “Nonsense,” said old Susan very loudly. “Carolyn and Hailey arrested! The very idea!”

  “I’m sorry. It was just him saying they’d gone. And it flashed through my mind—my poor tormented mind—how fond he is of her. I mean, we all know, and it was just—”

  “Never mind, now,” interrupted Liversidge. “Think of something else.”

  “That’s a suggestion,” said Alleyn cheerfully. “Think of all the money you lost, Miss Gaynes. It’s never turned up, I suppose?”

  This had a salutary effect. Valerie stopped sobbing and caught her breath.

  “No—I—no, it hasn’t. But Mr. Meyer was—was awfully sweet. He—he advanced it to me—the same amount. And to think—”

  “Really! Very kind of him.”

  “Yes. He said he felt responsible, as I was under his wing. He said the Firm wouldn’t let its people be out of pocket. And to think he’s d—”

  “D’you mean he gave it to you?” asked Ackroyd.

  “Well—yes. He made me take it. I said it didn’t matter—but he made me. And now he’s lying there—m
ur—”

  “That’s just like him,” said Courtney Broadhead. “He was wonderfully generous.”

  “You’ve experienced his generosity, have you, Court?” asked Liversidge.

  “Yes.” Broadhead looked straight at him. “I have indeed.”

  “Tell us about it, Court,” invited Gordon Palmer.

  “Shut up, Gordon,” said Mr. Weston, speaking for the first time since Alleyn had been in the room. “Don’t nosy-park.”

  “Well,” said Liversidge, who seemed to have recovered a good deal of his composure. “Well. It’s nice to have an extra quid or two in your pocket. Thanks to you, Court, old boy, I’ve got one or two. I’ll take you on again at Two’s Wild whenever you like.”

  “You were lucky at poker, were you, Mr. Liversidge?” asked Alleyn lightly.

  “I was. And poor old Court couldn’t hold a court card.” He laughed.

  “Must you?” said little Ackroyd. “Oh, must you?”

  “I think it’s awful to make jokes,” began Valerie, “when you think—”

  “We’re making epitaphs,” said Gordon Palmer. “Or Court is, at any rate.” He glanced defiantly at Weston, and then turned to Broadhead. “I’ve got a question to ask you, Courtney. I’ve got a particular reason for asking it.”

  “What is it?” said Broadhead.

  “It’s this. Where did you get the money to pay your poker debts?”

  In the shocked silence that followed this amazing sentence Alleyn watched Liversidge. Liversidge himself watched Courtney Broadhead.

  “I haven’t the smallest objection to telling you,” said Broadhead. His face was scarlet, but he faced young Palmer collectedly. “Mr. Meyer lent it to me.”

  “Oh,” said Gordon. He glanced sheepishly at Liversidge.

  “Gordon!” Geoffrey Weston remarked dispassionately. “You’re a bounder.”

  “‘Carruthers, you cad, you have disgraced the old school tie,’” jeered Gordon. “Really, Geoff, you’re too superb.”

  “You’re asking for a hiding,” continued Mr. Weston, “and I’ve a damn’ good mind to give it you.”

  “I shall run away. I run faster than you. Don’t be a ninny, Geoff. I said I had reason for asking my question. I had. A damn’ good reason. The day we left the ship Courtney asked me if I’d mind waiting for my winnings till he began to draw his money. I said no, that was all right. He said he’d been a fool and was in the soup. That night, in the train, Val found she’d been robbed of a hundred quid. Next day Courtney paid Frankie Liversidge and me every penny he owed us. He said afterwards he’d had a windfall. Now he says Mr. Meyer lent him the cash. Well, that’s very charming. Pity, in a way, that Mr. Meyer isn’t here to—”

  “You damned little tripe-hound,” bawled Courtney Broadhead, and made for him.

  “Broadhead!” Alleyn made them all jump. Courtney swung round angrily.

  “I shouldn’t, really,” said Alleyn.

  “By God, no one’s going to talk to me like—”

  “If there’s an explanation,” said Gordon Palmer, who looked frightened but obstinate, “why don’t you give it? You seem to be out for blood this evening, don’t you?”

  Courtney Broadhead made a wild swipe at him. Alleyn caught his arm, did something neat and quick with it, and held him.

  “Do you want the sergeant outside to referee, you unspeakable donkey?” inquired Alleyn. “Go back to your seat.”

  To the intense astonishment of everybody Courtney went.

  “Now,” said Alleyn to Gordon Palmer, “you will listen to me, if you please. If you have any information that is relevant to this business, you will give it to the police.”

  “I’m at liberty to say what I choose,” said Gordon, backing away.

  “Shut up,” said Weston.

  “If you go about making statements that may be criminally slanderous, you won’t be at liberty to do anything at all for some considerable time,” Alleyn told him. “Sit down and attend to your elders and betters, and don’t be rude. You are a thoroughly tiresome and stupid young cub, and I see small hope of your growing up into anything that remotely resembles a human being.”

  “Look here, who the hell—?”

  “Shut up,” said Weston.

  Gordon retired, muttering.

  “I think,” said Liversidge, “that if I were in your place, Court, old boy, I’d just explain quietly. You owe it to yourself, you know.”

  “There’s nothing more to say,” began Broadhead. “I lost at poker and couldn’t pay my debts. I went to Mr. Meyer the morning we got here and told him about it. He was extraordinarily decent and advanced me the money. I was to pay it back out of my salary.”

  “Well then, old boy,” said Liversidge, “you’ve no need to worry. It’ll all be on the books, won’t it, Mr. Mason? I suppose Mr. Meyer told you about it?”

  “I agree with Mr. Alleyn,” said Mason quietly, “that there is nothing to be gained by discussing this matter here.”

  “It won’t be on the books,” said Courtney Broadhead. “It was a private loan.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

  “I don’t understand,” said Valerie Gaynes suddenly. “Of course, Court didn’t take my money. What’s my money got to do with it? It was stolen in the ship. Probably a steward took it.”

  Her voice flattened. She looked at Liversidge and away again.

  “I’m sure a steward took it, Frankie,” she said. It was almost as though she pleaded with him.

  “I’ll bet it was a steward,” said Liversidge very heartily indeed. He flashed an intolerably brilliant smile at Courtney Broadhead.

  “Well,” said Susan Max roundly, “it may have been a steward or it may have been the captain of the ship, but it wasn’t Courtney Broadhead, and only a fool or a rogue would suggest that it was.”

  “Quite a champion of—ah—good causes tonight, aren’t you, Susie?” said Liversidge winningly.

  “For God’s sake,” said George Mason, “can’t you cut out all this stuff about Miss Gaynes’s money and Courtney’s money. We’re up against a terrible tragedy and, my God, you all start selling a lot of cross-talk. What’s going to happen to the show? That’s what I’d like to know. What’s going to happen to the show?”

  And as if he had indeed sounded the very bottom of their trouble they at once became silent and anxious.

  “The show!” said Gordon Palmer shrilly. “You are an extraordinary crowd. The show doesn’t matter—what’s going to happen to us?”

  At this protest from outside they all seemed to draw together. They looked anxiously at each other, ignoring Gordon.

  “You don’t seem to realise a man’s been murdered,” he went on. His voice, trying to be compelling and indignant, was boyishly lame.

  “Shut up,” said Geoffrey Weston.

  “I won’t. There’s poor Mr. Meyer—” The voice wobbled uncertainly.

  “If Alfred Meyer can think at all where he’s gone,” said little George Mason surprisingly, “he’s thinking about the show. The Firm came first with Alfred—always.”

  There was a short silence.

  “I’m very sorry it happened, ladies and gentlemen,” added Mason, “very sorry for your sakes, I mean. We’ve brought you all this way. I—I can assure you you’ll be—looked after. My partner wouldn’t have wanted it otherwise. We’re old friends, all of us. I can’t just sort things out in my own mind but—if I’ve got anything to do with it there’ll be no difference.”

  He looked solemnly at his company. There was a little stir among them as if they were touched by his sudden assumption of formality, and by the illusion of security that his words had given to them. And, as he watched them, it seemed to Alleyn that of all things security is most desired by actors since it is the one boon that is never granted them. Even when they are in great demand and command absurdly large salaries, he reflected, few of them contrive to save much money. It is almost as though they were under the compulsion of some ancient rule of t
heir guild, never to know security but often to desire it. And he fell to thinking of their strange life and of the inglorious and pathetic old age to which so many of them drifted.

  Packer came in, interrupting his thoughts.

  The inspector, said Packer, would now speak to Mr. Mason, if the latter was feeling better. Mr. Mason turned pale, said he felt much better, and followed the sergeant out.

  “I hope to God he meant what he said,” rumbled old Brandon Vernon. “I’ve been so long with the Firm I’ve forgotten what other managements are like.”

  Gradually they settled down to the actor’s endless gossip about “shop.” It was obvious that they were all shocked—some of them deeply moved perhaps—by Meyer’s death. But they slipped into their habitual conversation quite unconsciously and soon were talking peaceably enough. Courtney Broadhead had gone to the far end of the room and stayed there, glowering, till old Vernon strolled across and tried to talk him into a better humour. They all completely ignored Gordon Palmer who sulked in a corner with his silent bear-leader.

  Presently Packer returned.

  “Inspector Wade would like to speak to you now, Mr. Alleyn,” said Packer.

  Alleyn followed him into the dark passage.

  “Mr. Wade was wondering if you’d be glad of the chance to get out of there, sir,” murmured Packer.

  “I see. Very thoughtful of him.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Packer. I’ll see you again, I expect.”

  “Good-oh, sir,” said Packer with enthusiasm.

  Alleyn made his way to the office where he found Wade seated at Alfred Meyer’s desk with the colossal Cass in attendance.

  “I thought perhaps you were getting a bit fed up in there, sir,” said Wade.

  “It wasn’t dull,” said Alleyn. “The conversation took rather an interesting turn.”

  “Yes?”

  Alleyn related his experiences in the wardrobe-room.

  “Oh,” said Wade, “that’s a bit of news, now, all that about Mr. Courtney Broadhead and the Gaynes woman. We’ll just get some notes on that, if we may, sir. Cass’ll take it down in shorthand. Now, how does it go?”

  “Briefly,” said Alleyn, “like this. Liversidge, Miss Gaynes, young Gordon Palmer, his cousin, Geoffrey Weston, who seems to have strange ideas on the duties of a bear-leader, and Courtney Broadhead, all played poker for high stakes on the voyage out. Gordon Palmer and Liversidge were conspicuous winners, Broadhead a conspicuous loser. Some time between the last evening on board ship and the following evening on board the train, approximately a hundred pounds in notes was stolen from Miss Valerie Gaynes. The notes were in a leather writing-folder which she kept in a suit-case. In the train I noticed that Broadhead seemed greatly worried and I said so to Mr. Hambledon. I had a seat in the company’s carriage. Mr. Broadhead spent a good deal of time on the platform. I can give you a more detailed, though incomplete, record of his movements, if you wish.”