Enter a Murderer

  Props turned smartly and did as he was told. In a moment, light flooded the back-stage harshly while, with the facial expression popularly attributed to a boot, Bailey climbed the ladder.

  "Now come back." Props returned.

  Alleyn had moved over to the desk which stood a little way out from the wings. Nigel, Fox, and the property master followed him. He drew out a pocket-knife and slipped the front of the blade under the top left-hand drawer and pulled it out.

  "That's where Surbonadier got the cartridges," he said. "It's empty. Bailey had better get to work on it, but he'll only find stage hands' prints and Surbonadier's, I expect. Now then."

  Using the very greatest care to avoid touching the surface, Alleyn next drew out the second drawer with the point of his blade.

  "And here we are," he said brightly.

  The others bent forward. Lying in the drawer were six cartridges.

  "By gum," said Fox, "you've got 'em."

  With one accord he and Nigel turned to look at the property master. He was standing in his ridiculous posture of attention, staring, as usual, above their heads. Alleyn, still bent over the drawer, addressed him mildly.

  "Look into that drawer. Don't touch anything. Are those the dummies you made?"

  Props craned his long neck and bent forward stiffly.

  "Well?"

  "Yessir."

  "Yes. And there—look—is the loose one. There is a grain or two of sand fallen out. You made a job of them. Why didn't you want me to find them?"

  Props gave another exhibition of masterly silence.

  "You bore me," said Alleyn. "And you behave oddly, and rather like an ass. You knew those dummies were in the drawer; you heard me say I was going to look for them. You were listening up there in the dark. So you cheerfully dropped half a ton of candelabrum on the stage, first warning us of its arrival, as apparently you weren't keen on staging another murder to-night. I suppose you hoped for a scene of general confusion, during which you would shin down the ladder and remove the dummies. It was a ridiculous manoeuvre. The obvious inference is that you dumped the darn' things there yourself, and took to the rigging when the murder came off."

  "That's right, sir," said Props surprisingly. "It looks that way, but I never."

  "You are, as I have said, an ass; and I'm not sure I oughtn't to arrest you as a something-or-other after the fact."

  "My Gawd, I never done it, sir!"

  "I'm delighted to hear you say so. Why, then, should you wish to shield the murderer? Oh, well, if you won't answer me, you won't; and I refuse to go on giving an imitation of a gentleman talking to himself. I shall have to detain you in a police station, Props."

  A kind of tremor seemed to shake the man. His arms twitched convulsively and his eyes widened. Nigel, who was not familiar with the after-effects of shell-shock, watched him with reluctant curiosity. Alleyn looked at him attentively.

  "Well?" he said.

  "I never done it," said Props in a breathless whisper. "I never done it. You don't want to lock me up. I was standing in the prompt box and if I thought I seen a bloke or it might have been a woman, moving round in the dark—" He stopped short.

  "You'd much better say so," said Alleyn.

  "I don't want to get nobody in for the job. He was a swine. Whoever done it, done no 'arm, to my way of thinking."

  "You didn't care for Mr. Surbonadier?"

  Props uttered a few well-chosen and highly illuminating words. "He was" were the only two of them that were printable.

  "Why do you say that?" asked Alleyn. "Has he ever done you any harm?"

  The man made as if to speak, hesitated, and then, to Nigel's horror and embarrassment, began to cry.

  "Fox," said Alleyn, "will you and Mr. Bathgate muster the rest of the stage staff, one by one, in a dressing-room or somewhere, and see if you can get any information from them? You know what we want. Unless anything crops up, you can let them go home. I'll sing out when I've finished."

  Nigel thankfully followed Inspector Fox down the dressing-room passage and, Fox having unlocked the door, into Felix Gardener's room. It seemed an age since they had sat there, listening to his friend's views on the characteristics of actors.

  "Well, sir," said Inspector Fox, "I reckon that's our man."

  "Do you really think so? Poor devil!"

  "He's just the type. Neurotic, highly-strung sort of bloke."

  "But," objected Nigel, "his alibi is supported by the stage manager."

  "Yes—but suppose the cartridges he gave to the stage manager were the real Mackay?"

  "What about the loose shell and the sand? That was true enough."

  "Might have been loose when he put them in that drawer earlier in the evening—long before the blackout. Looks pretty queer, you must admit, sir. He scuttles up there into the grid when we are rounding up everyone else, and then, when Chief Inspector Alleyn says he'll take a look in the desk, Master Props lets loose that glass affair, hoping to get down in the confusion and slip out the dummies."

  "Yes, but that chandelier business was so darn' silly," protested Nigel, "and if he did the murder, he's by no means silly. And why plant the dummies there, and then take such a clumsy and suspicious way of trying to divert your attention?"

  "We'll have to get you in the force, sir," said Inspector Fox good-humouredly. "But all the same I think he's our man. The chief will be getting something now, I don't doubt. Well, sir, I'll just get the rest of the staff along."

  The observations made by the rest of the staff of the Unicorn were singularly uninteresting. They were all in the property-room at the time of the black-out, preparing to enjoy a game of poker. In the words of their head, one Mr. Bert Willings: "They didn't know nuffing abaht it." Questioned about Props, Mr. Willings said: "Props was a funny bloke, very jumpy-like, and kep' hisself to hisself."

  "Married?" asked Inspector Fox.

  No, Props was not married, but he kep' company with Trixie Beadle, Miss Vaughan's dresser, wot was ole Bill Beadle's daughter. Ole Bill Beadle was Mr. Gardener's dresser.

  "Who dressed Mr. Surbonadier?"

  Old Bill also, it appeared. At this juncture one of the underlings remarked, unexpectedly and dramatically:

  "'E hated 'im."

  "Who hated who?"

  "Ole Bill 'e 'ated Mr. Sirbonbadier. For why? Because Mr. Sirbonbadier 'e was a-mucking arahnd Trixie."

  "Er—" said Mr. Willings uneasily.

  Fox pricked up his ears. "And how did Props like—er—the deceased—paying attention to his girl?"

  "'E 'ated 'im, too."

  "Did he now," said Fox.

  There was a short silence. Mr. Willings looked at his boots, stood uncertainly on one leg, grinned, and ran out of information. He and his myrmidons were told they might go home, having first left their names and addresses. They departed. Fox almost rubbed his hands together.

  "There you are!" he exclaimed. "Deceased was interfering with his girl. He's just the type to go off the deep end. I think before we go any further I'd better let the big noise know about this."

  They returned to the wings. Neither Alleyn nor Props were to be seen.

  "Well now," remarked Inspector Fox. "Where's he gone popping off to, I wonder?"

  "Here I am," said Alleyn's voice. Nigel and Fox started slightly and walked round the prompt wing.

  Alleyn and Bailey were on their knees by the prompt box. Bailey was busy with an insufflator and the chief inspector seemed to be peering at the floor through a magnifying glass. Beside him, opened, was the bag they had brought him from the Yard. Nigel looked into it and saw a neat collection of objects, among which he distinguished magnifying glasses, tape, scissors, soap, a towel, an electric torch, rubber gloves, sealing wax, and a pair of handcuffs.

  "What are you doing?" asked Nigel.

  "Being a detective. Can't you see?"

  "What are you looking for?"

  "Little signs of footprints, little grains of sand. Fox, my valued old one, my little b
rush is not in my case. Wing your way to Miss Vaughan's dressing-room and get the foot of my grandmother's hare which you will find on the dressing-table. Fetch me that foot and be thou here again 'ere the Leviathan can swim a league.' "

  Inspector Fox cast his eyes towards Heaven and did as he was bid, returning with a roughed hare's foot.

  "Thank you. Any luck with the hirelings?"

  "Quite a bit," said Fox. "Surbonadier had been fooling round with the property man's girl, and she's Miss Vaughan's dresser, and her old man's Mr. Gardener's dresser."

  "Oh, that."

  "What do you mean, 'Oh that'?" asked Fox.

  "I knew all that."

  "How?"

  "Props told me. Carry on with the rest of 'em except Miss Vaughan, and Mr. Gardener. See them one by one. Find out where they all were during the blackout."

  "Very good, sir," said Fox formally.

  "And don't be cross with me, my Foxkin. You're doing well—excellent well, i'faith."

  "Is that Shakespeare?"

  "What if it is? Away you go."

  "May I stay?" asked Nigel, as Fox went off.

  "Do!" Alleyn took a small bottle and a rag from his bag and thoroughly cleaned the hare's foot. He then began to use it as a tiny broom, sweeping up what appeared to be dust from the floor, into a little phial out of the bag. "What have you found, Bailey?" he asked.

  "Prints from Props's rubber shoes, and Simpson's evening ones. Nobody else has stood right inside the prompt box."

  "Well, I've got enough sand to be conclusive, if it tallies with what's in the blanks, and I think it will. Gosh, it's getting late!"

  "Why the sand?" asked Nigel.

  "Think. Think. Think."

  "Oh, I see. If it's sand out of the cartridge case, it means Props did bring the dummies to Simpson and they must have been changed during the black-out."

  "Stop laughing," said Alleyn to an imaginary audience. "The child's quite right. Now Bailey, will you get what you can in the way of prints from the revolver and the desk. Oh, lummie, what a muddle it all is! Let's have a look at the cartridges in the revolver."

  The revolver, held delicately by the extreme end of the barrel, was laid on a table. Bailey, using the insufflator, tested it for fingerprints and, referring to those he had already got, disclosed sufficiently clear evidence of Gardener, Surbonadier, and the dresser having handled it. They broke it open and Bailey turned his attention to the butt ends of the shells. The revolver was a Smith and Wesson and the cartridges ordinary.455. The ends yielded no prints, except Surbonadier's, neither did any other part of the cartridges nor the empty shell.

  "Blast!" said Bailey.

  "Couldn't expect anything else," said Alleyn philosophically. "Hullo—what's this?"

  He picked up one cartridge and held it under a stage lamp. Nigel followed him hopefully. He took out his magnifying glass and looked through it at the shell. He did this with all the other cartridges.

  "What is it?" asked Nigel.

  Alleyn handed him the glass and he in turn examined the cartridges.

  Alleyn waited.

  "There's—there's a kind of whitish look," ventured Nigel, "on all of them. It's very faint on most, but here's one where it looks clearer. It looks almost like paint."

  "Smell it."

  "I can smell nothing but brass."

  "Put your cigarette out. Blow your nose. Now smell."

  "There is something else. It reminds me of something. What is it?"

  "It looks like one person. It smells like another."

  "What on earth do you mean?"

  "It looks like cosmetic and it smells like Jacob Saint."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Felix Gardener

  "WHAT'S THE TIME?" said Alleyn, yawning.

  "Nearly two o'clock and a dirty night."

  "Oh, horror! I loathe late hours."

  "Two's not late."

  "Not for a journalist, perhaps. Hullo, here come the mummers."

  Voices and footsteps sounded in the passage and presently a little procession appeared. Miss Dulcie Deamer, Mr. Howard Melville, Mr. J. Barclay Crammer, Inspector Fox. Miss Dulcie Deamer had her street make-up on—that is to say she had aimed a blow at her cheeks with the rouge puff, and had painted a pair of lips somewhere underneath her nose. She still contrived to be jeune fille. J. Barclay Crammer's face showed signs of No. 5 grease paint lingering round the eyebrows and a hint of rather pathetic grey stubble on the chin. He wore a plaid muffler, with one end tossed over his shoulder, and he looked profoundly disgusted. Mr. Melville was pale and anxious.

  "Dulcie, how are you going home?" he asked querulously.

  "Oh, my God, in a taxi!" she answered drearily.

  "I live at Hampstead," Mr. Crammer intoned.

  "We are very sorry about all this," said Alleyn, "and will, of course, make ourselves responsible for getting all of you home. The constable at the door will fix it up. Fox, just look after them, will you? Good night."

  "Good night, everybody, good night," mimicked Mr. Crammer bitterly. Miss Deamer glanced timidly and confidingly at Alleyn, who bowed formally. Mr. Melville said: "Oh—ah—good night." Alleyn glanced at him and seemed to get an idea.

  "Half a minute, Mr. Melville," he said.

  Mr. Melville instantly became green in the face.

  "I'll only keep you a few moments," explained the inspector, "but we'll let the others go on, I think. Just wait for me in the wardrobe-room, will you?"

  The others turned alarmed glances on Mr. Melville, who looked rather piteously after them and then returned to the wardrobe-room. They filed out towards the stage door.

  "Fox," said Alleyn, "have they been searched?"

  "The men have thoroughly. I—I kind of patted the lady. She's wearing hardly anything."

  "Is there room for a glove there, do you think?"

  "Oh—a glove. That's different."

  "I know it is, and I've let two of 'em out without a complete search, benighted dolt that I am. Still, old Miss Max is really out of the picture, and there was nothing under those sequins except the Emerald. She doesn't wear stays."

  "Nor does Dulcie," said Inspector Fox gloomily.

  "Fox, we forget ourselves. If you're not sure, persuade her to go to the station and be searched there. If not, send 'em home in taxis and pay for them."

  "Right-oh, sir."

  "Where's Mr. Gardener?"

  "Waiting for you in the deceased's dressing-room."

  "Thank you. Are you coming, Bathgate, or do you yearn for your bed?"

  "I'll come," said Nigel.

  Felix Gardener stood in the middle of the doorway with his hands in his pockets. He started nervously when they came in and then gave a little laugh at himself.

  "Is it an arrest?" he said jerkily.

  "Not unless you are going to surprise me with a confession," said Alleyn cheerfully. "Let's sit down."

  "A confession. My God, it's clear enough without that! I shot him. No matter who planned this ghastly business, I shot him. I'll never get rid of that."

  "If you are innocent, Mr. Gardener, you are entirely innocent. You are no more to blame than Mr. Simpson, who put the dummies, or it might have been the cartridges"—Nigel glanced at him in surprise—"in the drawer of the desk. You are as much an instrument as the revolver—as Surbonadier was himself, in loading it."

  "I've been repeating that to myself over and over again, but it doesn't make much difference. Nigel, if you could have seen the way he looked at me—as if he knew—as if, in that tiniest fraction of time, he knew what had happened, and thought I'd done it. He looked so surprised. I didn't know myself at first. I got such a shock—you can't think—with the revolver going off. I just went on with the lines. It's Bill's revolver, you know. He said he never shot at a Hun with it. Good job he's dead and can't see all this. He fell just like he always did. Limp. Arthur played the part well. Didn't you think so? And you know I didn't like him. I said so, didn't I—this evening? Oh, God!"

&
nbsp; "Mr. Gardener, you can do no good by this," said Alleyn quietly. "Perhaps the truest of all our tiresome clichés is the one that says time cures all things. As a policeman, I should like to say 'time solves all things,' but that unfortunately is not always the case. As a policeman I must ask you certain questions."

  "You mean you want to find out if I did it on purpose?"

  "I want to prove that you didn't. Where were you at the beginning of the first scene in the last act?"

  "The first scene in the last act? You mean the scene when Arthur took the revolver and loaded it."

  "That scene—yes. Where were you?"

  "I was—where was I?—in my dressing-room."

  "When did you come out?"

  Gardener buried his face in his hands and then looked up helplessly.

  "I don't know. I suppose soon after I was called. Let me think—I can't think collectedly at all. I was called, and I came out into the passage."

  "When was this?"

  "During the front scene, I think."

  "Before or after the black-out, during which the first part of that scene is played?"

  "I can't remember. I've really no recollection of anything that happened just before—"

  "Some little thing may bring it back. Did you, for instance, walk out of the passage on to a pitch-black stage?"

  "Somebody trod on my foot," said Gardener suddenly.

  "Somebody trod on your foot—in the dark?"

  "Yes. A man."

  "Where was this?"

  "In the wings—I don't quite know where—it was pitch dark."

  "Any idea who it was?"

  Gardener looked with quick apprehension at Nigel. "Shall I implicate anyone by this?"

  "For Heaven's sake," said Nigel, "tell the truth."

  Gardener was silent for a moment. "No," he said at last. "If I had an idea, it was altogether too slight to be of use, and it would carry undue weight; you couldn't help yourself—you'd be influenced. I can see that. I've done enough harm for one night, haven't I?" He stared fiercely at Alleyn.

  Alleyn smiled.

  "I'm not terribly easily influenced," he said, "and I promise it won't carry one ounce overweight."

  "No," said Gardener obstinately. "I'm not even sure myself. The more I think the less sure I get."