Enter a Murderer

  "The fingerprint system's too well advertised nowadays for the poorest criminal to fall directly foul of it. Who used the typewriter in the last act? Oh, I remember—Gardener. Just let me get a copy of the letter and then give it to Bailey, will you, Fox? And get him to test the typewriter again. No, I'm not dotty. And now I must get things in order for the inquest. Thank the Lord it's a presentable coroner."

  "Ah," agreed Fox heavily. "You may say that."

  "How do you mean?" Nigel asked.

  "Some of them," said Alleyn, "I positively believe, keep black caps in their hip pockets. Tiresome old creatures. However, this one is a sensible fellow, and we'll be through in no time."

  "I'll get back to Fleet Street," said Nigel. "I'm meeting Felix and going to the inquest with him. His lawyer is going to be there."

  "I expect there'll be a covey of 'em. My spies tell me St. Jacob has employed Phillip Phillips to watch the wheels go round. He's a brother of Phillips, K. C., who did St. Jacob so proud in the libel action. Very big game afoot."

  "Well," said Nigel at the door, "we meet—"

  "At Phillipi, in fact. Au revoir, Bathgate."

  Nigel spent a couple of hours in his office, writing up cameo portraits of the leading characters in the case. His chief expressed himself as being not displeased with the stories, and Nigel, at twenty to eleven, went underground to Sloane Square, and thence to Gardener's flat. The lawyer, a young and preter-naturally solemn one, was already there. They discussed a glass of sherry and Nigel attempted to enliven the occasion with a few facetiæ, which did not go down particularly well. The lawyer, whose unsuitably Congrevian name was Mr. Reckless, eyed him owlishly, and Gardener was too nervous and upset to be amused. They finished their sherry, and sought a taxi.

  The inquest proved, on the whole, a disappointment to the crowds of people who attended it. Very little information as regards police activity came out. Alleyn gave a concise account of the actual scene in the theatre, and was treated with marked respect by the coroner. Nigel watched his friend, and experienced something of the sensation that visited him as a small boy, when the chief god of Pop walked on to a dais and grasped the hand of Royalty. Alleyn described the revolver, and the cartridges—.455.

  "Did you notice anything remarkable about either the weapon or the cartridges?" asked the coroner.

  "They were the regulation.455, used in that type of Smith and Wesson. There were no fingerprints."

  "A glove had been used?"

  "Probably."

  "What about the dummy cartridges?"

  Alleyn described them, and said he had found traces of sand from the faulty cartridge in the prompt corner, and in both drawers.

  "What do you deduce from that?"

  "That the property master gave the dummies to the stage manager, who put them as usual in the top drawer."

  "You suggest that someone afterwards moved them to the second drawer, replacing them with genuine cartridges?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Is there anything else you noted as regards the cartridges?"

  "I saw whitish stains on them."

  "Have you any explanation for this?"

  "I believe them to be caused by a certain cosmetic used as a hand make-up by actresses."

  "Not by actors?"

  "I imagine not. There was none in the actors' dressing-rooms."

  "You found bottles of this cosmetic in the actresses' dressing-rooms?"

  "I did."

  "Are the contents of these bottles all alike?

  "Not precisely."

  "Could you distinguish from which, if any, of these bottles, the stains on the revolver had come?"

  "An analysis shows that it came from the star dressing-room. A bottle of cosmetic had been spilt there, earlier in the evening."

  "The star dressing-room is used—by whom?"

  "By Miss Stephanie Vaughan and her dresser. Miss Vaughan received visits from other members of the company during the evening. I myself called on Miss Vaughan, before the first act. The cosmetic was not spilt then. I met, in this room, the deceased, who appeared to be under the influence of alcohol."

  "Will you describe to the jury your investigations, immediately after the tragedy?"

  Alleyn did so, at some length.

  "You searched the stage. Did you find anything that threw any light on the matter?"

  "I found a pair of gloves in a bag that had been used on the stage, and I found the dummy cartridges in a lower drawer of the desk."

  "What did you remark about the gloves?"

  "One had a white stain which, on analysis, proved to be similar to that on the cartridges."

  This statement caused a stir among the onlookers. Alleyn's evidence went on for some time. He described his interviews with the performers, and said they had all since signed the notes taken at the time of their statements. This was news to Nigel, who wondered how they had reacted to the evidence of his activities. Alleyn said little about the subsequent investigations by the police, and was not pressed to do so by the coroner, who left him a very free hand.

  Felix Gardener was called. He was very pale, but gave his evidence clearly. He admitted ownership of the revolver, said it was his brother's, and that he gave the six cartridges to the property man, who converted them into dummies.

  "Did you visit Miss Vaughan's dressing-room before the fatality?"

  "Yes. I was there with Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, who visited me with a friend, before the first act. I did not return after the first act."

  "Did you notice a bottle of white cosmetic upset on the dressing-table?"

  "No, sir."

  "Mr. Gardener, will you describe the actual scene when you fired the revolver?"

  Gardener did so. His voice shook over this, and he was very pale.

  "Did you realise at once what had happened?"

  "Not at once, I think," Gardener answered. "I was dazed with the report of the revolver. I think it flashed through my mind that one of the blanks, fired in the wings, had got into the chamber of the gun."

  "You continued in the character of your part?"

  "Yes," said Gardener in a low voice. "Quite automatically. Then I began to realise. But we went on."

  "We?"

  Gardener hesitated.

  "Miss Vaughan was also on, in that scene."

  A pair of grey suede gloves was produced, to the infinite satisfaction of the onlookers.

  "Are those your property?"

  "No." Gardener looked both surprised and relieved.

  "Have you seen them before?"

  "No. Not to my knowledge."

  The anonymous letter was produced, and identified by Gardener, who described how it arrived and explained the reference to his "sore foot."

  "Did you get any impression of the identity of the person who trod on your foot?"

  Gardener hesitated, and glanced at Alleyn.

  "I received a vague impression, but afterwards decided it was not definite enough to count for anything."

  "Whom did this impression suggest?"

  "Must I answer that?"

  He looked again towards Alleyn.

  "You told Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn of this impression?"

  "Yes. But I added that it really was not reliable."

  "What name did you mention?"

  "None. Inspector Alleyn asked if I noticed a particular scent. I thought I had done so."

  "You meant a perfume of sorts?"

  "Yes."

  "With whom did you associate it?"

  "With Mr. Jacob Saint."

  Mr. Phillip Phillips was on his feet, in righteous indignation. The coroner dealt with him, and turned to Gardener.

  "Thank you, Mr. Gardener."

  Stephanie Vaughan appeared next. She was very composed and dignified, and gave her evidence lucidly. She confirmed everything that Alleyn had said as regards the stage-white and said that Surbonadier himself upset it after the others had gone. She believed it to be a case of suicide. The jury l
ooked sympathetic and doubtful.

  The rest of the cast followed in turn. Barclay Crammer gave a good all-round performance of a heartbroken gentleman of the old school. Janet Emerald achieved the feat known to leading ladies as "running through the gamut of the emotions." Asked to account for the striking discrepancies between her statement and those of Miss Max and the stage manager, she wept unfeignedly and said her heart was broken. The coroner stared at her coldly, and told her she was an unsatisfactory witness. Miss Deamer was youthfully sincere, and used a voice with an effective little broken gasp. Her evidence was supremely irrelevant. The stage manager and Miss Max were sensible and direct. Props looked and behaved so precisely like a murderer, that he left the box in a perfect gale of suspicion. Trixie Beadle struck the "I was an innocent girl" note, but was obviously frightened and was treated gently.

  "You say you knew deceased well. You mean you were on terms of great intimacy?"

  "I suppose you'd call it that," said poor Trixie.

  Her father was sparse, respectful and rather pathetic. Howard Melville was earnest, sincere, and unhelpful. Old Blair gave his evidence rather mulishly. He was asked to give the names of the people who went in at the stage door, and did so, including those of Inspector Alleyn, Mr. Bathgate, and Mr. Jacob Saint. Had he noticed anybody wearing these gloves come in at the stage door?

  "Yes," said old Blair, in a bored voice.

  "Who was this person?"

  "Mr. Saint."

  "Mr. Jacob Saint? (If there is a repetition of this noise, I shall have the court cleared.) Are you certain of this?"

  "Yes," said old Blair and withdrew.

  Mr. Jacob Saint stated that he was the proprietor of the theatre, that deceased was his nephew, and that he had seen him before the show. He identified the gloves as his, and said he had left them behind the scenes. He did not know where. He had visited Miss Emerald's room, but did not think he was wearing them then. Probably he had put them down somewhere on the stage. To Nigel's surprise no mention was made of the tension between Saint and Surbonadier. Mincing, the footman, was not called. Mr. Saint had not returned to the stage until after the tragedy.

  The coroner summed up at some length. He touched on the possibility of suicide, and rather belittled it. He directed the jury discreetly towards the verdict which, after an absence of twenty minutes, they ultimately returned—a verdict of murder against some person or persons unknown. As he left the court Nigel found himself walking behind Alleyn, and immediately in front of Janet Emerald and Saint. He was about to join the inspector when Miss Emerald pushed past him, and seized Alleyn by the arm.

  "Inspector Alleyn," she said.

  Alleyn stopped and looked at her.

  "You were behind that." She spoke quietly enough, but with a kind of suppressed violence. "You told that man to treat me as he did. Why was I singled out to be insulted and suspected? Why was Felix Gardener let off so lightly? Why isn't he arrested? He shot Arthur. It's infamous." Her voice rose hysterically. Several people who had passed them stopped and looked back.

  "Janet," said Saint hurriedly, "are you mad? Come away."

  She turned and stared at him, burst into a passion of the most hair-raising sobs, and allowed herself to be led off.

  Alleyn looked after her thoughtfully.

  "Not mad, Mr. Saint," he murmured. "No. I don't think the Emerald is mad. Shall we say venomous to the point of foolhardiness?"

  He followed them out into the street, without noticing Nigel.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sloane Street to the Yard

  NIGEL SPENT THE AFTERNOON in writing up his report of the inquest. He was greatly intrigued by the vast amount of information that had not come out. The coroner had skated nimbly over the Jacob Saint libel action, had made no comment at all on Surbonadier's state of intoxication, and had walked like Aga in and out of Stephanie Vaughan's dressing-room. The jury, an unusually docile one, had apparently felt no urge to ask independent questions. Their foreman, like the Elephant's Child, had the air of saying "this is too buch for be." Nigel imagined that, in their brief retirement, they had discussed the possibility of suicide, decided it wouldn't wash, and agreed that the whole thing was too complex for any decision but the usual one, which they had given. He had sensed Alleyn's extreme satisfaction; and now, once more, revised his own view of the case.

  He found that he had made up his mind that Saint was responsible for the murder. Yet Saint's was the best of all the alibis. He had been alone in the audience, but Blair had sworn positively that he had not seen the proprietor of the Unicorn return to the stage between the acts. Saint had been in a box, and it was just possible that he could have slipped out during the black-out. At this point Nigel got his brain-wave. Suppose Jacob Saint had left his box under cover of the black-out and had gone through the door in the proscenium, on to the stage. This door had been locked when Stavely and Nigel went through, but Saint might easily have got hold of a key. There he would be, before the lights went out, in his box facing the audience, as large as life. Then complete darkness. Saint had left the box, slipped through the door, which he had perhaps previously unlocked, gone straight to the desk, colliding with Gardener on the way, pulled out the drawers and replaced the dummies with the cartridges. When the lights went up again—there was Mr. Saint sitting in his box at the Unicorn. Nigel was thrilled with himself and rang up Scotland Yard. Alleyn was out, but had made an appointment for four o'clock. Nigel said he would be there at 4.30.

  He felt fidgety and unable to settle down to anything. He was big with his theory. Presently he thought of Felix Gardener, and decided to walk round to Sloane Street and talk it over with him. He didn't ring up. If Felix was out he would walk on down to Knightsbridge and take a bus to the Yard. He wanted exercise.

  Sloane Square, that full stop between Eatonia and Chelsea, had a look of sunny friendliness. Nigel bought a carnation for his coat, sent a silly telegram to his Angela, and walked lightly onwards. Sloane Street, with its air of quality and hint of boredom, was busier than usual. Nigel felt a sudden inclination to run, to whistle, to twirl his stick round. He glanced jauntily at a shabby-genteel man, who stood looking into the furniture shop next the flat. Gardener's windows on the first floor were open. He spoke blithely to the commissionaire, refused the lift, and ran two steps at a time up the thickly-carpeted stairs to Gardener's door.

  It was open and Nigel, without ringing, went into the little entrance hall that opened into the studio sitting-room. He was about to call out, cheerfully, and had actually drawn in his breath to do so, when he was brought up short by a woman's voice coming from the studio room.

  "If I did it," it cried urgently, "it was for you—for you, Felix. He was your worst enemy."

  Nigel heard Gardener say slowly: "I can't believe it. I can't believe it."

  The woman began to laugh.

  "All for nothing!" she said, between paroxysms of choking. "Never mind—I don't regret it. Do you hear that? But I don't think you were worth it."

  Scarcely aware of what he did, and conscious only of cataclysmic panic, Nigel banged the front door, and heard himself shout:

  "Hullo, Felix, are you at home?"

  Dead silence and then a sound of footsteps, and the studio door was thrown open.

  "Oh—it's you, Nigel," said Felix Gardener.

  Nigel didn't look at him, but beyond, into the studio, where he saw Stephanie Vaughan, very attractive, in an armchair by the window. She held a handkerchief to her lips.

  "Why, it's Nigel Bathgate," she cried, with exactly the same inflexion as the one she used when she said: "Hullo, all you people," in her first entrance in the play.

  "You've—you've met before," said Gardener.

  Nigel managed to say something, even to take the hand she held out cordially towards him.

  "I only came in for a second," he told Gardener.

  "I'm sure you didn't," said Miss Vaughan gaily. "You've come to have a boy friend chat—the sort that consists o
f drinks, cigarettes, long silences and a few risqué stories. I'm off, anyway, so you needn't bother about me."

  She rose to her feet in one lithe movement. She looked Nigel full in the face, and gave him the three-cornered smile.

  "Make Felix bring you to see me," she commanded. "I rather like you, Nigel Bathgate. Felix—you hear? You're to bring him to see me."

  "Is this your purse?" asked Gardener. Nigel saw him put it on a table near her, and knew he didn't want to touch her hand. He opened the door to her and she floated out, still talking. Gardener followed her, shut the door, and Nigel heard her voice, very low, outside. In another second the outer door slammed, and Gardener came back into the room.

  "It was decent of you to come, Nigel," he said. "I'm all in."

  He looked it. He sat down in front of the fire and held his hands to it. Nigel saw he was shaking:

  "I think you ought to see a doctor, Felix," he ventured.

  "No, no. It's only the after-effects of shock, I imagine. I'll be all right. Think I'll turn in presently and try for a little sleep. I haven't been able to sleep much."

  "Jolly sound idea. Why don't you carry it out now? I'll give you some aspirin and a stiff whisky, and leave you in peace."

  "Oh, in a minute. Any news?"

  They had both managed to avoid speaking of Miss Vaughan. Nigel's theory about Saint came into his mind. He smiled rather wryly to himself at the remembrance of his so recent enthusiasm. Did Gardener wonder if he had overheard anything? Nigel believed that idea had not entered his friend's head. As Felix himself said, he was suffering from shock. Nigel forced himself to speak at random. It was hard to find anything to talk about. He who, hitherto, had barely impinged upon the edge of the theatrical world now found himself drawn into it. He felt, suddenly, as though he were surrounded by these people, as though, against his will, he was obliged to witness a play they had staged and as though he had been compelled to leave his seat in the auditorium and mingle confusedly with the action of the piece. The two men must have been silent for some time, for Nigel was startled to hear Gardener say suddenly: