"What are you doing with those bloody blues?" he inquired. His voice was deadened by carpets and furniture. Someone far above answered. A switch clicked and the set was suddenly illuminated. A pair of feet appeared above Nigel's face; he looked up and saw dimly the electricians' platform, on which one man stood with his hand on the switch-board and another sat dangling his legs. Blair led them into the bright entry, which turned out to be another passage. Along this passage on the left were the dressing-room doors, the first marked with a tarnished star. From behind all the doors came the sound of muffled voices—cosy, busy, at home. It was very warm. A man with a worried expression hurried round an elbow in the passage. As he passed he looked at them inquisitively.
"That's George Simpson, the stage manager," whispered Nigel importantly. Old Blair knocked on the second door.
There was a pause and then a pleasant baritone voice called:
"Hullo, who is it?"
Blair opened the door two inches and said: "Your visitors, Mr. Gardener."
"What? Oh, yes. Half a second," called the voice. And then to someone inside: "I quite agree with you, old boy, but what can you do? No, don't go." A chair scraped and in a moment the door was opened. "Come in, come in," said Felix Gardener.
They crossed the threshold and Inspector Alleyn found himself, for the first time in his life, in an actor's dressing-room and shaking hands with the actor.
Felix Gardener was not a preposterously good-looking man; not, that is to say, so handsome that the male section of his audience longed at times to give him a kick in the pants. He had, however, the elusive quality of distinction. His straw-coloured hair was thick and lay sleekly on his neatly shaped head. His eyes, scarcely the width of an eye apart, were surprisingly blue, his nose straight and narrow; his mouth, generously large and curiously folded in at the corners, was a joy to newspaper cartoonists. His jaw-line was sharply marked, giving emphasis to a face otherwise rather fine-drawn. He was tall, carried himself beautifully, but not too much like a showman, and he had a really delightful speaking voice, light but resonant. He was said by women to have "It"; by men to be a very decent fellow; and by critics to be an actor of outstanding ability.
"I'm so glad you've come round," he said to Alleyn. "Do sit down. Oh—may I introduce Mr. Barclay Crammer? Mr. Alleyn. Bathgate you've met."
J. Barclay Crammer was a character actor. He was just sufficiently well known for people to say "Who is that man?" when he walked on to the stage, and not quite distinctive enough for them to bother to look him up in the programme. He was dark, full-faced, and a good character actor. He looked bad-tempered, thought Nigel, who had met him once before at Gardener's first-night supper-party.
"Can you all find somewhere to sit?" asked Gardener. He seated himself in front of his dressing-table. Alleyn and Nigel found a couple of arm-chairs.
The room was a blaze of lights and extremely warm. A gas jet protected by an open cage bubbled above the dressing-table, on which stood a mirror and all the paraphernalia of make-up. The room smelt of grease paint. Near the mirror lay a revolver and a pipe. A full-length glass hung on the right-hand wall by a wash-basin. On the left-hand wall a looped-up sheet half covered a collection of suits. Through the wall came the sound of women's voices in the star room.
"So glad you've both come, Nigel," said Gardener. "I never see you nowadays. You journalists are devilish hard to get hold of."
"Not more elusive than you actors," rejoined Nigel, "and not half as slippery as the police. I may tell you it's rather a feather in my cap producing Alleyn to-night."
"I know," agreed Gardener, turning to his mirror and dabbing his face with brown powder. "It makes me quite nervous. Do you realise, J. B., that Mr. Alleyn is a kingpin in the C.I.D.?"
"Really?" intoned Mr. Barclay Crammer deeply. He hesitated a moment and then added with rather ponderous gaiety: "Makes me even more nervous as I'm one of the villains of the piece. A very, very minor villain," he added with unmistakable bitterness.
"Now, don't tell me you're the murderer," said Alleyn. "It would ruin my evening."
"Nothing so important," said Barclay Crammer. "A little 'cameo part,' the management tells me. And that's throwing roses at it."
He uttered a short, scornful noise which Nigel recognised as part of his stock-in-trade.
A voice outside in the passage called:
"Half-hour, please. Half-hour, please."
"I must be off," said Mr. Crammer, sighing heavily. "I'm not made up yet and I begin this revolting piece. Pah!" He rose majestically and made a not unimpressive exit.
"Poor old J. B.'s very disgruntled," said Gardener in an undertone. "He was to play the Beaver and then it was given to Arthur Surbonadier. Great heart-burning, I assure you." He smiled charmingly. "It's a rum life, Nigel," he said.
"You mean they are rum people?" said Nigel.
"Yes—partly. Like children and terribly, terribly like actors. They run too true to type."
"You were not so critical in our Trinity days."
"Don't remind me of my callow youth."
"Youth!" said Alleyn. "You children amuse me. Twenty years ago next month I came down from Oxford. Ah me! Fie, fie! Out upon it!"
"All the same," persisted Nigel, "you can't persuade me, Felix, that you are out of conceit with your job."
"That's another matter," said Felix Gardener.
There was a light tap on the door, which opened far enough to disclose a rather fat face, topped by a check cap and garnished with a red spotted handkerchief. It was accompanied by an unmistakable gust of alcohol, only partially disguised by violet cachous.
"Hullo—hullo, Arthur, come in," said Gardener pleasantly, but without any great enthusiasm.
"So sorry," said the face unctuously. "Thought you were alone, old man. Wouldn't intrude for the world."
"Rot!" said Gardener. "Do come in and shut the door. There's a hellish draught in this room."
"No, no, it's not important. Just that little matter of—I'll see you later." The face withdrew and the door was shut, very gently.
"That's Arthur Surbonadier," Gardener explained to Alleyn. "He's pinched J. B.'s part and thinks I've pinched his. Result, J. B. hates him and he hates me. That's what I mean about actors."
"Oh!" said Nigel, with youthful profundity. "Jealousy."
"And whom do you hate?" asked Alleyn lightly.
"I?" Gardener said. "I'm at the top of this particular tree and can afford to be generous. I dare say I'll get like it sooner or later."
"Do you think Surbonadier a good actor?" asked Nigel.
Gardener lifted one shoulder.
"He's Jacob Saint's nephew."
"I see. Or do I?"
"Jacob Saint owns six theatres, of which this is one. He gives good parts to Surbonadier. He never engages poor artists. Therefore Surbonadier must be a good actor. I refuse to be more catty than that. Do you know this play?" he said, turning to Alleyn.
"No," said the inspector. "Not a word of it. I have been trying to discover from your make-up whether you are a hero, a racketeer, one of us police, or all three. The pipe on your dressing table suggests a hero, the revolver a racketeer, and the excellent taste of the coat you are about to put on, a member of my own profession. I deduce, my dear Bathgate, that Mr. Gardener is a hero disguised as a gun-man, and a member of the C.I.D."
"There!" said Nigel triumphantly. He turned proudly to Gardener. For once Alleyn was behaving nicely as a detective.
"Marvellous!" said Gardener.
"You don't mean to tell me I'm right?" said Alleyn.
"Not far out. But I use the revolver as a policeman, the pipe as a gun-man, and don't wear that suit in this piece at all."
"Which only goes to show," said Alleyn, grinning, "that intuition is as good as induction any day." They lit cigarettes and Nigel and Gardener began a long reminiscent yarn about their Cambridge days.
The door opened again and a little dried-up man in an alpaca jacket came in.
&nb
sp; "Ready, Mr. Gardener?" he asked, scarcely glancing at the others.
Gardener took off his wrap, and the dresser got a coat from under the sheet and helped him into it. "You need a touch more powder, sir, if I may say so," he remarked. "It's a warm night."
"That gun business all right?" asked Gardener, turning back to the mirror.
"Props says so. Let me give you a brush, if you please, Mr. Gardener."
"Oh, get along with you, Nannie," rejoined Gardener. He submitted good-humouredly to the clothes brush.
"Handkerchief," murmured the dresser, flicking one into the jacket. "Pouch in side pocket. Pipe. Are you right, sir?"
"Right as rain—run along."
"Thank you, sir. Shall I take the weapon to Mr. Surbonadier, sir?"
"Yes. Go along to Mr. Surbonadier's room. My compliments, and will he join these gentlemen as my guests for supper?" He took up the revolver.
"Certainly, sir," said the dresser, and went out.
"Bit of a character, that," said Gardener. "You will sup with me, won't you? I've asked Surbonadier because he dislikes me. It will add piquancy to the dressed crab."
"Quarter hour, please. Quarter hour, please," said the voice outside.
"We'd better go round to the front," said Nigel.
"Plenty of time. I want you to meet Stephanie Vaughan, Alleyn. She's madly keen on criminology and would never forgive me if I hid you." (Alleyn looked politely resigned.) "Stephanie!" Gardener shouted loudly. A muffled voice from beyond the wall sang:
"Hullo—oh?"
"Can I bring visitors in to see you?"
"Of course, darling," trilled the voice, histrionically cordial.
"Marvellous woman!" said Gardener. "Let's go."
Behind the tarnished star they found Miss Stephanie Vaughan in a rather bigger room, with thicker carpets, larger chairs, a mass of flowers and an aproned dresser. She received them with much gaiety, gave them cigarettes and dealt out her charm lavishly, with perhaps an extra libation for Gardener and a hint, thought Nigel, of something more subtly challenging in her manner towards Inspector Alleyn. Even with blue grease on her eyelids and scarlet grease on her nostrils, she was a very lovely woman, with beautifully groomed hair, enormous eyes, and a heart-shaped face. Her three-cornered smile was famous. She began to talk shop—Alleyn's shop—to the inspector, and asked him if he had read H. B. Irving's book on famous criminals. He said he had, and thought it jolly good. She asked him if he had read other books on criminals and psychology; if he had read Freud, if he had read Ernest Jones. Mr. Alleyn said he thought them all jolly good. Nigel felt nervous.
"I've saturated myself in the literature of crime," said Miss Vaughan. "I've tried to understand, deep down, the psychology of the criminal. I'm greedy for more. Tell me of more books to read, Mr. Alleyn."
"Have you read Edgar Wallace?" asked Alleyn. "He's jolly good."
There was a nasty silence, and then Miss Vaughan decided to let loose her lovely laugh. It rang out—a glorious, bubbling cascade of joyousness. Gardener and Nigel joined in, the latter unconvincingly. Gardener flung his head back and shouted. He put his hand lightly on Stephanie Vaughan's shoulder.
Then quite suddenly they were aware that the door had been flung open and that Arthur Surbonadier was standing in the room. With one hand he held on to the door—with the other he fumbled at the spotted neckerchief below his scrubby beard. His mouth was half open and he seemed to be short of breath. At last he spoke.
"Quite a jolly little party," he said. His voice was thick and they saw how his lips trembled. They stopped short in their laughter, Gardener still with his hand on that lovely shoulder, Stephanie Vaughan open-mouthed and frozen into immobility—rather as though they were posing for a theatrical photograph. There was a quite appalling little silence.
"Charming picture," said Surbonadier. "All loving and bright. Mayn't I know the joke?"
"The joke," said Alleyn quickly, "was a bad one—of mine."
"The cream of the jest," said Surbonadier, "is on me. Stephanie will explain it to you. You're the detective, aren't you?"
Gardener and Nigel both started talking. Nigel heard himself introduce Alleyn. Gardener was saying something about his supper-party. Alleyn had got to his feet and was offering Miss Vaughan a cigarette. She took it without moving her gaze off Surbonadier, and Alleyn lit it for her.
"I'm sure we ought to go round to the front," he said. "Don't let's miss the first scene, Nigel—I can't bear to be late."
He took Nigel by the arm, said something courteous to Miss Vaughan, shook Gardener's hand, and propelled Nigel towards the door.
"Don't let me drive you away," said Surbonadier, without moving from the doorway. "I've come to see the fun. Came to see Gardener really, and found him—having his fun."
"Arthur!" Stephanie Vaughan spoke for the first time.
"Well," said Surbonadier loudly, "I've made up m' mind to stop the fun—see? No reason why you shouldn't hear"—he turned slightly towards Nigel. "You're a journalist. Literary man. Here's a surprise—Gardener's a literary man, too."
"Arthur, you're tight," said Gardener. He moved towards Surbonadier, who took a step towards him. Alleyn seized his chance and shoved Nigel through the door.
"Good-bye for the moment," he called. "See you after the show"—and in a second or two they were back on the stage staring at one another.
"That was pretty beastly," said Nigel.
"Yes," said Alleyn. "Come on."
"The brute's drunk," said Nigel.
"Yes," said Alleyn. "This way."
They crossed the stage and made for the exit door, standing aside to let an elderly woman come in; they heard old Blair say: "'Evening, Miss Max." As they went out a voice in the passage behind them called:
"Overture and beginners, please. Overture and beginners, please."
CHAPTER THREE
Death of the Beaver
"IT'S AMAZING TO ME," said Nigel, in the second interval, "how that fellow Surbonadier can play a part in the state he's in. You'd never guess he was tight now, would you?"
"I think I would have known," said Alleyn. "From where we are you can see his eyes—they don't quite focus."
"I call it a damn' good performance," said Nigel.
"Yes," murmured Alleyn. "Yes. You've seen the piece before, haven't you?"
"Reviewed it," said Nigel, rather grandly.
"Has Surbonadier's reading of the part altered at all?"
Nigel turned and stared at his friend. "Well," he said slowly, "now I come to think of it I believe it has. It's—it's sort of more intense. I mean in that last scene with Felix, when they were alone on the stage. What is it he says to Felix? Something about getting him?"
"'I'll get you, Carruthers,' " quoted Alleyn, with an uncannily just rendering of Surbonadier's thick voice. "'I'll get you, and just when you least expect it!' "
"Good Lord, Alleyn, what a memory you've got!" said Nigel, very startled.
"I've never before seen anything on the stage that impressed me so deeply."
"All carried away like," jibed Nigel, but Alleyn refused to laugh.
"It was uncanny," he said. "The atmosphere of the dressing-room intensified on the stage. Intensified and bigger than life, like emotion in a nightmare. And then he said: 'You think I'm bluffing, playing a part, don't you?' And 'Carruthers'—Gardener, you know—said: 'I think you're bluffing, Beaver—yes. But if you're not—look out!' "
"You're a damn' good mimic, inspector."
"Clap-trap stuff it is really," said Alleyn uneasily.
"What's the matter with you?"
"I don't know. Got the ooble-boobles. Let's have a drink."
They went to the bar. The inspector was very silent and read his programme. Nigel looked at him curiously. He felt apologetic about the horribly uncomfortable scene in the dressing-room and wondered very much what was brewing between Gardener, Surbonadier and Miss Vaughan.
"I suppose old Felix has cut that bounder out?" he vent
ured.
"Yes," said Alleyn. "Oh, yes—that, of course." The warning bell set up its intolerable racket. "Come on," said Alleyn. "Don't let's miss any of it." He fidgeted while Nigel finished his drink, and led the way back to their stalls.
"The supper-party won't be much fun, I'm afraid," said Nigel.
"Oh—the supper-party. Perhaps it'll be off."
"Perhaps. What'll we do if it's on? Apologise and get out?"
"Wait and see."
"Helpful suggestion!"
"I don't think the supper-party will happen."
"Here she goes," remarked Nigel, as the lights slowly died away, leaving the auditorium in thick-populated darkness.
At the bottom of the blackness in front of them a line of light appeared. It widened, and in a silence so complete that the sound of the pulleys could be heard, the curtain rose on the last act of The Rat and the Beaver.
It opened with a scene between the Beaver (Surbonadier), his cast-off mistress (Janet Emerald), and her mother (Susan Max). They were all involved in the opium trade. One of their number had been murdered. They had suspected him of being a stool-pigeon in the employ of Carruthers, alias the Rat (Felix Gardener). Miss Emerald threatened, Miss Max snivelled, Surbonadier snarled. He took a revolver from his pocket and loaded it while they watched him significantly.
"What are you going to do?" whispered Janet Emerald.
"Pay a little visit to Mister Carruthers."
The stage was blacked out for a quick change.