Enter a Murderer Read online

  "You still heard them, however?"

  "Not everything. Mr. Saint seemed to promise Mr. Surbonadier a leading part in the next production, saying he couldn't alter this one. They argued a bit, and then it was settled. I heard Mr. Saint say he'd left his money to Mr. Surbonadier, sir. 'Not all of it,' he says, 'Janet gets some, and if you go first she gets the lot.' They looked at the will, sir."

  "How do you know?"

  "Mr. Saint came out with Mr. Surbonadier later on, and I saw it on the desk."

  "And read it?"

  "Just glanced, as you might say, sir. I was familiar with it, in a manner of speaking. The butler and me had witnessed it the week before. It was quite short and on those lines—two thousand pounds a year to Miss Emerald, and the rest to Mr. Surbonadier, and a few legacies. The fortune was to go to Miss Emerald if Mr. Surbonadier was no more."

  "Anything else?"

  "They seemed to get quieter after that. Mr. Surbonadier said something about sending back a letter when the next piece was cast. Soon after that he left."

  "Were you with Mr. Saint six years ago?"

  "Yes, sir. As knife boy."

  "Used Mr. Mortlake to call on him then?"

  The man looked surprised. "Yes, sir."

  "But not recently?"

  "Very occasionally."

  "Why did you get the sack?"

  "I—I beg pardon, sir?"

  "I think you heard what I said."

  "Through no fault of my own," said Mincing sullenly.

  "I see. Then you bear him a grudge?"

  "No wonder if I do."

  "Who is Mr. Jacob Saint's doctor?"

  "His doctor, sir?"

  "Yes."

  "Er—it's Sir Everard Sim, sir."

  "Has he been called in lately?"

  "He comes in, quite regular."

  "I see. No other information or incidents? Then you may go. Wait outside for half an hour. There will be a statement for you to sign."

  "Thank you, sir."

  The man opened the door quietly. He hesitated a moment and then said softly:

  "Mr. Saint—he fair hated Mr. Surbonadier."

  He went out, closing the door very gently after him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Nigel Turns Sleuth

  "THAT'S A PRETTY LITTLE PET," said Alleyn. "There's a typewriter over there. Do you mind putting those squiggles into language?"

  "Of course I will. Who's Mortlake?"

  "He's a most elusive gentleman whom we have been brooding over for some years. At the time of the libel case his name wasn't even mentioned, but it fairly hummed between the lines. He's a Yank, and his pet names are 'Snow' and 'Dopey.' "

  "Golly! It looks rum for Saint, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, doesn't it? Get on with your typing."

  "If he did it," announced Nigel, above the rattle of the machine, "he must have come round a second time, behind the scenes."

  "And old Blair swears he didn't. I spoke to him last night while you were hunting up the taxi."

  "May have been asleep."

  "Says he wasn't. Says he retired to his cubby-hole, after we had gone through, and waited there. The bluebottle at the door thought he was with the others on the stage."

  "Funny. Blair didn't speak to the bluebottle."

  "I thought so too. He said he believed in keeping himself to himself, and such a thing had never happened before at the Unicorn."

  "Why did you ask about Saint's doctor?"

  "I wanted to know if the dear old gentleman was enjoying bonny health."

  "Oh, rats!"

  "I did. He looks like a heart subject. Such rosy cheeks."

  Nigel returned, in exasperation, to his typing.

  "There," he said presently. "That's done."

  Alleyn touched a bell and brought forth a constable. "Is Mincing out there? The man I saw just now?"

  "He is, sir."

  "Read this through to him and get him to sign it. Then let him go. He's a horrid man."

  "Very good, sir." The constable grinned and withdrew.

  "Now, Bathgate," began Alleyn. "If you really want to be a help, there's something you can do for me. You can find out who the journalist was whose name was taken in vain over that article. Seek him out and do a bit of ferreting. Discover, if you can, any connection between him and the characters in our cast. See if he knew Surbonadier or Gardener—wait a moment; don't be so touchy—and if either of them is likely to have introduced him to the other. Got that?"

  "Yes. I suppose I'll find his name in the files."

  "The report of the case will give it. Hullo! Come in!"

  Detective-Sergeant Bailey put his head round the door.

  "Busy, inspector?" he inquired.

  "Not if it's the Unicorn case."

  "It is," announced Bailey. He came in and, at Alleyn's invitation, sat down. Nigel kept quiet and hoped to hear something.

  "It's the report on the cartridges," began Bailey. "The white stain was stuff used by Miss Vaughan. It's in a bottle labelled 'Stage-White'! It has been upset, but there was plenty left, and quite enough for the analyst on the glove. All the ladies used some sort of stuff, but hers was different. Specially made up for her. I've seen the chemist."

  "And the same on the thumb of the glove?"

  "Yes. It beats me, sir. What would she want to dong him off for? I reckoned it was the other lady."

  "Your exquisite reason, Bailey?"

  "Well, look how she carried on," said Bailey disgustedly. "Making a break for her dressing-room and lying away like a good 'un. Now I've seen the statements it looks still more like it."

  "And she's one step nearer Mr. Saint's fortune by this—she was his heir after the deceased. And Mr. Saint consults a heart specialist regularly and, no doubt, does not obey his orders. That makes your eyes bulge, doesn't it?"

  "I must say it does, sir. Now look at it this way. Suppose my lady Emerald takes Mr. Saint's glove when he's round behind. She's sure to meet him, seeing how things are between them. She plants the gloves and the cartridges somewhere—likely enough in one of the unused drawers of the desk. She's on the stage. She's by the desk. She waits for the lights to be blacked out and then puts on the glove, changes over the cartridges, and drops the gloves in Miss Max's bag. It would look too obvious to leave them near the desk. She knows all this stuff about bad blood between Saint and his nephew will come out. Saint gets rigged out with the hug-me-tight necktie, and she romps home with the dibs."

  "Could anything be better put? And I suppose she dips the thumb of the glove into Miss Vaughan's wet-white just to make it more difficult."

  "That's the catch in it," admitted Bailey gloomily.

  "Look here," said Nigel loudly. "Listen!"

  "Ssh!" whispered Alleyn excitedly.

  "Don't be silly, now. Listen to me. Miss Vaughan showed you how Surbonadier struck her on the shoulder. Suppose he got the stuff on his hand and—oh no. Sorry."

  "As we were, Bailey," said Alleyn.

  "We all of us make mistakes, sir," said Detective Bailey kindly.

  Nigel looked foolish.

  "Well, anyway," he said, "I bet Surbonadier upset the stuff."

  "More than likely," agreed Alleyn.

  At this juncture Inspector Fox walked in.

  "Here's the Props fancier," said Alleyn.

  "Good morning, Mr. Bathgate. Yes, that's me. I don't see how you can get past that funny business with the chandelier. And he knew the dummies were in the second drawer. There's motive, behaviour and everything else."

  "And the gloves?" Alleyn asked.

  "Left on the stage by Mr. Saint, and used by Props for the job."

  "And the stage-white of Miss Vaughan, on the glove of Mr. Saint, used by Props for the job?"

  "Oh, it was hers, was it?" grumbled Inspector Fox. "Well, Saint must have gone into her room."

  "It's ingenious, Fox," said Alleyn, "but I don't think it's quite right. I take it, this stage-white dries like a particularly clinging
powder. Now if Saint had got it on his glove, earlier in the evening, it would be dry when the glove was used for the cartridges, and if any came off, it would be powdery and not likely to stick to the brass. Through the lens those marks looked as if the stuff had been smeared on, wet."

  "The same thing applies to Felix," ventured Nigel. "According to Miss Vaughan, he left her room soon after we did, and after that they only met in his room."

  Alleyn swung round slowly.

  "That's quite true," he said; "leaving her room vacant, during the black-out."

  "I get you," said Fox heavily.

  "I don't," confessed Nigel.

  "Don't you? Well. I'm jolly well going to be inscrutable. The next thing to do is to see Mr. Jacob Saint again. He said he might call in. Do you know, I believe I'll ask the old darling. Run and do your job, Bathgate."

  "Oh, I say," Nigel protested. "Can't I wait and hear Uncle Jacob?"

  "Away you go!"

  Nigel attempted persuasion and was cheerfully invited to get out before he was thrown out. He departed, conscious of smiles on the faces of Inspector Fox and Detective-Sergeant Bailey. A hunt through the file in his own office rewarded him with a complete account of the Jacob Saint libel action, and the discovery of the reporter's name. He was one Edward Wakeford, whom Nigel knew slightly and who was now literary editor on the staff of a weekly paper. Nigel rang him up and arranged a meeting in the bar of a Fleet Street tavern much patronised by Pressmen. They forgathered at eleven o'clock, and over enormous tankards of lager the subject of the trial was broached.

  "You doing this Unicorn murder?" asked Wakeford.

  "Yes, I am. I know Alleyn, of the Yard, and was with him at the show. It was a marvellous chance, but, of course, I have to play fair. He vets everything."

  "By George, he's a marvel, that man," said Wakeford; "I could tell you of a case"—and did.

  "It was Alleyn who asked me to look you up," Nigel told him. "He wants to know if you've any idea who wrote the article in the 'Mex' in the Saint libel action. The story that was supposed to be yours."

  Wakeford's reply was startling. "I've always thought it was Arthur Surbonadier," he said.

  "Gosh, Wakeford—this—this is simply terrific, honestly it is! Why did you think so?"

  "Oh, I've nothing much to go on, but I knew the blighter and I'd written to him, so he could have forged my signature. He was Saint's nephew and likely enough to have inside information."

  "But why would he do it? Old Saint paid for his education, and gave him everything he had."

  "They never got on though. And Surbonadier was always in debt. By the way, he wasn't 'Surbonadier' in those days. He was Arthur Simes. Saint's name is Simes, you know. Arthur crashed heavily soon after that, and was sent down. It was a very unsavoury business. Then Uncle Jacob gave him a chance on the boards and he hurriedly changed to 'Surbonadier.' "

  "And he wasn't paid for the article?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Then I don't see why—"

  "Nor can I, except that he was an extraordinarily vindictive sort of chap, and was drinking heavily, even then."

  "Didn't Saint suspect him?"

  "Saint always swore that forgery was a ramp and that the story was written by me. Legally it didn't arise. The 'Mex' was responsible, whoever wrote the stuff, and, thank the Lord, they believed me. It wasn't quite my style, but it wasn't a bad imitation."

  "Have you ever met Felix Gardener?"

  "No. Why?"

  "He's a friend of mine. It's a ghastly situation for him."

  "Awful. But the police don't suspect him, surely?"

  "No, I'm sure they don't. But, you see, he did actually shoot Surbonadier. It's an unpleasant thought for him."

  "Oh, terrible, I quite agree. Well, that's all I can do to help you. What do I get? It's not my line or I'd pinch your story."

  Nigel gave him a friendly but rather absentminded punch.

  "Felix must have been a freshman when it happened. I wonder if he could let any light in on it himself. He may have known Surbonadier."

  "Try him. I must push off."

  "I'm terribly obliged to you, Wakeford."

  "Not a bit. Bung-oh," said Wakeford genially, and went his ways.

  Nigel was in two minds whether to rush off to Alleyn with his booty, or to seek out Gardener with what, he could not help feeling, was a piece of heartening news. In the end he plumped for Gardener and, in the fury of his zest, took a taxi to the studio-flat in Sloane Street.

  Gardener was in. Nigel found him looking wretchedly lost and miserable. He had apparently been staring out of his window, and turned from there with a terribly startled face as Nigel walked in.

  "Nigel!" he said breathlessly. "It's—it's you!"

  "Hullo, old thing," said Nigel.

  "Hullo. I've been thinking. Look here, I believe they'll get me for this. Last night I couldn't think of anything, except how he looked when he fell, and then later—when it was getting light, you know—I began to see what would happen. I'll be arrested for murder. And I won't be able to prove anything. It'll mean—being hanged."

  "Oh, shut your silly face up," implored Nigel. "Why the devil should they think you did it? Don't be fatuous."

  "I know why he asked me all that stuff. He thinks I planted the cartridges."

  "He damn' well doesn't. He's on an entirely different tack, and it's about that I've come to see you."

  "I'm sorry." Gardener dropped into a chair and pressed his hand over his eyes. "I'm making an ass of myself. Fire away."

  "Do you remember the Jacob Saint libel case?" Gardener stared.

  "It's funny you should ask that. I suddenly thought of it a little while ago."

  "That's good. Think again. Did you know Surbonadier then?"

  "He was sent down soon after I went to Cambridge, and we were at different colleges. His real name was Simes. Yes, I'd met him."

  "Did you ever think he wrote the article in the Morning Express that Saint brought the case about?"

  "I'm afraid I'm rather vague about it now, but I remember hearing third-year men talk about it at the time."

  "Well, the article was sent in by an unknown writer purporting to be one of the 'Mex' staff. It came from Mossburn, near Cambridge."

  "I remember, now." Gardener paused for a moment. "I should think it most unlikely Surbonadier wrote it. He'd hardly want to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs."

  "He was supposed to be on bad terms with his uncle."

  "Yes, that's true. I remember hearing it. He was a most unaccountable chap, and subject to fits of the vilest sort of temper."

  "Why was he sent down?"

  "On several accounts. A woman. And then he was mixed up with a drug-taking set. Fearful scandal."

  "Drugs, eh?"

  "Yes. When Saint found out, he threatened to cut him off altogether. He survived that, and went down for good over some affair with a farmer's daughter, I imagine. Oh, Lord, what's the good of all this?"

  "Can't you see? If he wrote that article it's quite possible he's been blackmailing Saint for years."

  "You mean Saint—oh no."

  "Somebody did it."

  "I'm half inclined to think he did it himself. He'd have loved to send me to the gallows." Gardener looked as though he forced himself to say this for the sheer horror of hearing the words. He reminded Nigel of a child opening the pages of a book that he knew would terrify him.

  "Do get that idea out of your head, Felix. You're the last man they're thinking of," he declared, and hoped he spoke the truth. "Can you remember the names of any men who were friendly with Surbonadier then?"

  "There was a fearful swine called—what was his name?—oh, Gaynor. I can't think of anyone else. He was killed in an aeroplane accident, I believe."

  "Not much good. If you remember anything more let me know. I'll go now, and do, for the love of Mike, pull yourself together, old thing."

  "I'll try. Good-bye, Nigel."

  "Good-bye.
Don't ring, I'll let myself out."

  Gardener walked to the door and opened it. Nigel paused to collect his cigarette-case, which had slipped into a crevice of his chair. That was why Stephanie Vaughan didn't see him as she came to the door.

  "Felix," she said, "I had to see you. You must help me. If they ask you about—"

  "Do you remember Nigel Bathgate?" said Gardener.

  She saw Nigel then, and couldn't speak. He walked past her and downstairs without uttering another word.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Surbonadier's Flat

  BIG BEN struck twelve noon as Nigel made his way back to Scotland Yard. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn was engaged, but Nigel was invited to take a seat in the passage outside his room. Presently the door opened and a roaring noise informed him of the presence of Mr. Jacob Saint.

  "That's all I know. You can ferret round till you're blue in the face, but you won't find anything else. I'm a plain man, inspector—"

  "Oh, I don't think so at all, Mr. Saint," Alleyn said politely.

  "And your comedy stuff makes me tired. It's a suicide case. When's the inquest?"

  "To-morrow at eleven."

  Mr. Saint uttered a rumbling sound and walked out into the passage. He stared at Nigel, failed to recognise him, and made off in the direction of the stairs.

  "Hullo, Bathgate," said Alleyn from the doorway. "Come in."

  Nigel, by dint of terrific self-suppression, managed to report Wakeford with a certain air of nonchalance. Alleyn listened attentively.

  "Wakeford's theory is possible," he said. "Surbonadier was a peculiar individual. He may have written the article, fathered it on to Wakeford, and hugged himself with the thought that he was dealing a sly blow at Uncle Jacob. We know he tried to blackmail him a week or so ago. It's not as inconsistent as it seems."

  "Saint himself swore he didn't do it—at the time of the trial, I mean."

  "Of course he did. If his nephew had proved to be the author, he would have seemed a better authority than a reporter eager for sensational copy. No—in a way it's a reasonable theory."