Vintage Murder

  “She’s a nice woman—been with Miss Dacres for years, and she helped me with my change. The dress I wear in the last act is a beast to get out of. I was only just ready when the last of the guests arrived.”

  After the catastrophe Susan had gone to the door of the star-room with Carolyn Dacres and had offered to go in with her.

  “She said she’d rather be by herself, so I went on to my own room, dear. Minna—the dresser, you know—came in a little later. Miss Dacres had sent her away too. After a little while Minna said she couldn’t bear to think of her there alone so she went back, and in a minute or two she came for me. The poor child—I mean Miss Dacres, dear, for to me she seems a child—had thought she would like my company. She was sitting there quite quietly, staring in front of her. Shock. Couldn’t talk about it or weep or do anything to ease her mind. Then she suddenly said she’d like to see you. Hailey Hambledon had come in and went to fetch you.”

  “How long had he been there, Miss Max?”

  “Let me see. He came in soon after I did. About ten minutes, I should say.”

  “Ah,” said Alleyn with a sort of satisfied grunt. After a moment he leant forward.

  “What sort of a fellow was Alfred Meyer?” he asked.

  “One of the very best,” said Susan energetically. “The right type of manager, and there aren’t many of them left in the business. Always the same to everybody. Devoted to her.”

  Alleyn remembered the pale commonplace little man, who had been so quiet in the ship and so frightened on the train.

  “And she to him?” he asked.

  Old Susan glanced at Cass and Wade.

  “Very,” she said dryly.

  “We’ve got to learn the truth, you know,” said Alleyn gently. “We’ll have to pry and pry. It’s one of the most revolting aspects of a murder-case, and the victim is sometimes the greatest sufferer.”

  “Then it is murder?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Well,” said old Susan at last, “it’s no good making mysteries where there are none. She was very fond of Meyer. Not perhaps in a romantic fashion, exactly. He wasn’t a figure for romance. But she was fond of him. You might say she felt safe with him.”

  “And Hambledon?” asked Alleyn quietly.

  Susan squared her fat shoulders and stared straight in front of her.

  “If you mean anything scandalous, my dear, there’s not a word of truth in it. Not a morsel. Mind, I don’t say Hailey isn’t devoted to her. He is, and has been for years, and he makes no bones about it. I’ve been with the Firm off and on for a long time and I know. But there’s been no funny business between them, and don’t let anybody tell you there has.”

  “They’ve been trying,” said Alleyn. Susan suddenly slapped her hands on her lap.

  “Ackroyd!” she cried.

  “It was, but don’t say so.”

  “I’ll be bound. Little beast. He’s never forgiven her—never.”

  “For what?”

  “It was when he rejoined us for the revival of Our Best Intentions—a year ago it was. He’s the type that always hangs round the leading woman and tries to go big with the management. You can smell ’em a mile off. Well, he tried it on with Carolyn Dacres and believe me it took him right off,” said Susan, becoming technical. “As soon as the funny business started she was well up-stage and Mr. Ackroyd made a quiet exit with no rounds of applause. He’s a spiteful little beast and he’s never forgiven her or Hailey. Hailey actually spoke to him about it, you know. I believe George Mason did, too. He’s never forgotten it. You heard how he spoke about George tonight. Dragging in that American business.”

  “Nothing in it?”

  “My dear,” said Susan resignedly, “I dare say something did happen. I rather think it did, but if we knew all the circumstances I’ve no doubt we’d find faults on both sides. George Mason started in a small way and he’s not the only one, by a long chalk, that’s got an incident of that sort to live down. My advice to you is, forget all about it. Whatever happened in the early days, he’s an honest man now. I’ve worked for him for a good many years and you can take my word for it. And what’s more, I wouldn’t say the same for Ackroyd.”

  “I see,” said Alleyn.

  “Anything more?” asked Susan.

  “I don’t think so. Thank you so much. Perhaps Inspector Wade—”

  “No thanks, sir, no thanks,” said Wade, getting up from the desk where he had sat in silence. “Unless—the train—?”

  “Miss Max sat opposite me. She slept all the time, I fancy.”

  “The train!” ejaculated Susan.

  Alleyn explained.

  “Yes,” said Susan, “I was asleep. Do you mean you think that business on the train had something to do with this?”

  “Who can tell?” murmured Alleyn vaguely. “You’re longing to get home to your bed, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I am.”

  She hitched herself off the chair and waddled to the door. Alleyn opened it. She stood, a roundabout and lonely little figure, looking up at him very earnestly.

  “In that other case in London someone nearly killed you by dropping a chandelier from the grid, didn’t they?”

  “So they did.”

  “You don’t think it’s—it’s given anyone an idea?” Alleyn stared at her.

  “I wonder,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Liversidge Fluffs His Lines

  “WHAT WAS SHE driving at?” asked Wade when Susan had gone.

  “Oh—the Gardener case. A neurotic property-man dumped half a ton of candelabra on the stage in a childish attempt to distract my attention. Later on he became victim No. 2, poor booby. Knew too much. It all came out in the evidence. I imagine they take a lot of trouble when men are working aloft. I remember the stage-manager told me the hands always have their tools tied to their wrists, in case of accidents.”

  “Well, sir, you got some nice little bits out of the old lady. Of course her being a friend made a difference.”

  “Of course,” agreed Alleyn cordially.

  “Do you reckon there’s anything in this story of Ackroyd’s about Mason stranding a company in America?”

  “I am inclined to agree with Miss Max’s opinion of Ackroyd as a witness, but we’d better look into Mr. Mason’s history, of course. I’ll get them to do that at the Yard.”

  “Ackroyd means Mason walked out and left his company cold?”

  “Yes. Not an unusual proceeding with small companies, I fancy, in the old days. A dirty trick, of course.”

  “Too right—and if he’s that sort—still, it doesn’t mean every manager that strands a company would do in his partner.”

  “Indeed not. The routes of touring companies would have been strewn with managerial corpses, I’m afraid.”

  “There’s the motive, though. You can’t get away from that, sir,” persisted Wade.

  “Oh, rather not. There’s also the perfectly good alibi.”

  “Don’t I know it? Oh, well, Miss Max seems O.K. as far as the two important times are concerned.”

  “What’s happened to the dresser?” asked Alleyn.

  “Oh, I saw her and the two Australians in the company and most of the staff soon after we got here. We just took statements and let them go. We’ve got their addresses. They’re out of the picture as you might say. The Australians have only just joined the company and the stage-hands are local men with good characters.”

  “I know,” said Alleyn.

  “How about having a pop at Mr. Liversidge, sir?”

  “Who, me?”

  “That’s right. Will you, sir?”

  “At your service, Inspector.”

  So Cass was dispatched to the wardrobe-room and returned with Mr. Frank Liversidge, who came in looking very beautiful. His black hair was varnished down to his head and resembled an American leather cap. His dinner-jacket, a thought too waisted, his boiled shirt, his rather lar
ge tie, were all in perfect order and so was Mr. Liversidge. As soon as he saw Alleyn he uttered a musical laugh and advanced with manly frankness.

  “Well, well, well,” said Mr. Liversidge, in a dreadfully synthetic language that was so very nearly the right thing. “Who’d have thought it of you? I’ve maintained that you were an ambassador incog., and Val was all for the Secret Service.”

  “Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid,” murmured Alleyn. “This is Inspector Wade, Mr. Liversidge. He has asked me to talk to you about one or two features of this business. Will you sit down?”

  “Thanks,” said Liversidge gracefully. “So the Yard is coming into the show, is it?”

  “By courtesy. Now, will you please give us an account of your movements after the final curtain tonight?”

  “My movements?” He raised his eyebrows and took out his cigarette-case. All his actions were a little larger than life. Alleyn found himself thinking of them in terms of stage-craft. “Bus.—L. taps cigarette. Takes lighter from pocket. Lights cigarette with deliberation.”

  “My movements,” repeated Liversidge, wafting smoke rings in Alleyn’s direction. “Let me see. Oh, I went to my dressing-room and demolished the war-paint.”

  “Immediately after the final curtain?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “You found Mr. Vernon and Mr. Broadhead there?”

  “Did I? Yes, I believe I did. It’s a big room. We share it.”

  “They were on at the final curtain, of course?”

  “We all take the call.”

  “But they reached the dressing-room before you did?”

  “Marvellous deduction, Inspector! Now I think of it, I was a little late getting there. I stayed off-stage for a minute or two.”

  “Why did you do this?”

  “Oh, I was talking.”

  “To whom?”

  “My dear old boy, I don’t know. Who was it now! Oh, Valerie Gaynes.”

  “I’m sure,” said Alleyn formally, “you will understand that these questions are not prompted by idle curiosity.”

  “My dear old boy!” repeated Liversidge. Alleyn restrained a wince.

  “Then perhaps you will not object to telling us what you and Miss Gaynes talked about?”

  Liversidge looked from Wade to Cass and back again at Alleyn.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I don’t remember.”

  “Please try to remember. It’s only a couple of hours ago. Where were you standing?”

  “Oh, just off-stage somewhere.”

  “On the prompt side.”

  “Er—yes.”

  “Then perhaps Mr. Gascoigne will remember. He was there.”

  “He was nowhere near us.”

  “You remember that,” said Alleyn vaguely.

  Liversidge lost a little of his colour.

  “As a matter of fact, Alleyn,” he said after a moment, “our conversation was about a personal matter. I’m afraid I can’t repeat it. Nothing that could have the remotest interest to anyone but ourselves. You do understand.”

  “Oh, rather. How long did it last?”

  “Two or three minutes, perhaps.”

  “If you were near the prompt entrance you were not far from the steel ladder that goes up into the grid. Did anyone come down that ladder while you were there?”

  “Yes,” answered Liversidge readily enough. “Just as I turned away to go down the dressing-room passage, Alfred Meyer and the head mechanist came down.”

  “Did you stay on the stage after that?”

  “No. I went on down the passage.”

  “Thank you so much,” said Alleyn. ‘That, really, was the point we wanted to get at. Now, after the tragedy, when we cleared the stage—where did you go?”

  “I stood with all the others by the entrance to the passage. That was while Hailey was shepherding the guests out. Then I went to the dressing-room.”

  “Anyone else there when you arrived?”

  “Yes. Branny and poor old Court. He felt very shaken. Branny was giving him a nip.”

  “Were you among the last to leave the stage?”

  “I suppose I was. I think we were the last.”

  “Who was with you?”

  “Oh—Val Gaynes.”

  “Did you have a second conversation?”

  “Just about the tragedy,” said Liversidge. “I left her at her dressing-room door. She went on to the wardrobe-room, I think.”

  “Now, Mr. Liversidge, can you tell me if anyone remained on the stage after you left it?”

  “Hailey Hambledon went back to—to where you were after the guests had gone.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I don’t mean the actual stage within the scenery but the area, off-stage. Did anyone stay behind, off-stage?”

  “I didn’t notice anyone do so,” said Liversidge.

  “Right. Now about this scene in the wardrobe-room. Had Master Gordon Palmer spoken to you about his curious theories?”

  Liversidge passed his rather coarse and very white hand over his gleaming head.

  “He—well, he did say something about it. Sort of mentioned it, don’t you know. I was astounded. I simply can’t believe it of dear old Court. Simply can not credit it.” Mr. Liversidge added that Courtney Broadhead was a white man, a phrase that Alleyn had never cared for and of which he was heartily tired.

  “I wish,” he said, “that you would repeat as much of the conversation as you can remember. How did it begin?”

  Liversidge hesitated for some time.

  “Never mind,” said Alleyn, “about getting it quite correct. We can get Gordon Palmer’s version too, you know.”

  This was far from having a reassuring effect on Mr. Liversidge. He darted a glance full of the liveliest distaste at Alleyn, made several false starts, and finally bent forward with an air of taking them into his confidence.

  “Now look, Inspector,” he said earnestly, “this is damned awkward for me. You see someone had said something about Val’s money to both Gordon and me, and Gordon afterwards asked me what I thought was the true story. That was just after poor old Court had paid up. Well, I said—not meaning Gordon to take it up seriously—just as a joke—I mean I never dreamt he’d think for a moment—” Mr. Liversidge waved his hands.

  “Yes?” said Alleyn.

  “Gad, I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world. I said—laughing—something about—‘Well—Court’s suddenly flush—p’raps he’s the dirty-dog.’ Something like that. I mean, never dreaming—”

  “Did you pursue this joke?” asked Alleyn.

  “Well, don’t you know, chaffingly,” explained Liversidge. “What!”

  “My God,” thought Alleyn, “it’s supposed to be Oxford, that language.” Aloud he said: “Did you also talk about the attempt on Mr. Meyer in the train?”

  “In point of fact—yes. It was all meant for comedy, you know. I just said, all laughingly, that perhaps Alfred Meyer had caught him at it, and he’d tried to tip him overboard. Well, I mean to say! When I heard Gordon tonight! Well, of course! I was flabbergasted!”

  “Did you have any further joking references tonight—after the fatality?” inquired Alleyn, evenly.

  “My dear Mr. Alleyn!” expostulated Liversidge, greatly shocked.

  “No reference of any sort?”

  “Actually, do you know, Gordon did say something to me in the passage. I don’t remember what it was. I was too shocked and grieved to pay attention. I think he just said something about, did I remember what we had talked about.”

  “I see,” said Alleyn. “Mr. Liversidge, do you know at what time during our train journey the attempt on Mr. Meyer was made?”

  “Er? Let me see, let me see. Do I remember? Yes—it was sometime before we got to that place where we stopped for refreshments. Isn’t that right? I remember the dear old governor telling us about it. Poor old governor! It’s hard to realise—”

  “Frightfully hard, isn’t it! Now before we reached that station—Ohakune—the guar
d came through the train chanting an announcement.”

  “So he did.”

  “Were you awake or did he wake you?”

  “He woke me.”

  “Had you been asleep for long?”

  “Ages. I dropped off soon after Val went along to her sleeper.”

  “Do you remember that you were disturbed by anyone getting up and leaving the carriage before the guard went through?”

  “Didn’t Court Broadhead go out to the platform? I seem to remember—good God, old man, I don’t mean—you can’t mean—”

  “I don’t mean anything at all, Mr. Liversidge,” said Alleyn. “Nobody else?”

  “I don’t think so. No.”

  “Thank you. Now about the greenstone tiki. We are anxious to trace it if possible. Miss Dacres has lost it.”

  “Is it valuable?”

  “It is rather, I imagine.”

  “Well, you ought to know,” said Liversidge.

  “Quite so. Do you remember handling it?”

  “Certainly,” said Liversidge with huffy dignity. “I also remember returning it.”

  “To whom?”

  “To—to Branny, I think. Yes, it was to Branny. And he gave it to Carolyn and she put it on the table. I remember that quite well.”

  “Whereabouts on the table?”

  “At the end on the O.P. side. It was before we sat down. Funny me remembering.”

  “Do you remember anyone picking it up from the table?”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “Have you any theory,” asked Alleyn abruptly, “about the disappearance of Miss Gaynes’s money?”

  “I? Lord, no! I should think very likely a steward pinched it.”

  “It’s happened before,” agreed Alleyn. “She seems to have been pretty casual about her cash.”

  “Casual! God, she’s hopeless. Fancy leaving a packet of tenners in an open suit-case. Well, of course!”

  “All in tenners, was it?” asked Alleyn absently.

  “I think so. She told me so.”

  Wade cleared his throat.

  “I seem to remember,” continued Alleyn vaguely, “that she said something about paying you a tenner she’d lost at poker. When did she do that?”