Vintage Murder

  “Did Mr. Ackroyd come out some time before the party?”

  “Ackroyd, Ackroyd, Ackroyd. Let me see, let me see, let me see. Ackroyd. The comedian. Yes! Ackroyd came out.”

  “You did not mention this to Mr. Wade.”

  “I take my stand on that document!” said Mr. Singleton magnificently.

  “Quite so. How long was Mr. Ackroyd away?”

  “He returned in the twinkling of an eye.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “I am constant as the northern star,” said Mr. Singleton, stifling a slight hiccough. “Ackroyd eggzited and re-entered immediately. He went to the door of the office. He appeared to address those within. He returned.”

  “You watched him?”

  “With the very comment of my soul. Would it astonish you to learn that I played the Dane before—”

  “Did you really? Mr. George Mason came out of the office some time before that, I believe?”

  “George Mason, George! The manager. He did. I have already made a statement to this effect, I believe, Mr. Wade?”

  “That’s right, Joe, but Mr. Alleyn just wants to check up.”

  Mr. Singleton inclined his head.

  “Quite so. The manager, George Mason, came to the stage-door and repeated, gratuitously, and un-nesh—unessessraly, my instructions. I was to be sure to ask of each guest his local habitation and his name.

  “Mr. Mason returned to the office?”

  “I swear it.”

  “You may have to,” said Alleyn. “How long was Mr. Mason away from the office?”

  “Let me see. Let me see. While one with moderate haste might tell an hundred. I showed him my list. I convinced him of my incorruptible purpose. I called to mind, I recollect, the coincidence that I had played the part of the porter in Macbeth, and of the sentry, Bernardo, in the Dane—that was in my green and salad days, Commissioner. I had scarce embarked on this trifling reminiscence when Mason turned up the collar of his dinner-jacket and observing that the air was chilly, turned and ran back to the office.”

  Alleyn uttered a slight exclamation, glanced at Wade, and asked Singleton to repeat this statement, which he did at great length but to the same effect.

  “Do you remember, now,” said Alleyn, “if the office door was open on to the yard as it is now?”

  “It was open.”

  “Ah yes. You know Dr. Te Pokiha by sight?”

  “The native? Dark-visaged, like the Moor? The Moor was perhaps my greatest role. My favourite role. ‘Most potent grave—’”

  “Wonderful play, that,” interrupted Alleyn. “Dr. Te Pokiha was among the last guests to arrive, I think?”

  “True.”

  “Did you notice him coming?”

  “I marked him come, yes. He too emerged from the office, carrying his mantle. He darted back and reappeared. He approached me and I admitted him, striking out his name as I did so.”

  “Now, Mr. Singleton, I take it from what you have told me that you would be prepared to make a sworn statement that once Mr. Ackroyd, or Mr. Mason, or Dr. Te Pokiha had gone in at the stage-door they did not return to the office, and once they had gone to the office, did not return to the stage without your knowledge?”

  “I have sworn it, indeed. In common parlance, sir, you can bet your boots and put your shirt on it.”

  “Well now, Mr. Singleton, I’m going to ask you to help me in a little experiment. Will you do this?”

  “Impart! Proceed!”

  “I want you to stand here by the stage-door and treat me as though I was Mr. Ackroyd, Dr. Te Pokiha, or Mr. Mason. As soon as I have gone, I want you to wait for five minutes and then walk along to the office. Will you do this?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Watch the office door,” said Alleyn, “and Mr. Wade will keep the time.” He glanced at Packer and Cass who had listened to the entire conversation with the liveliest interest. “You look steadily down the alley, you two. Are you keen on conjuring tricks?”

  “I remember—” began Mr. Singleton; but Alleyn interrupted him.

  “Will any gentleman in the audience provide me with a handkerchief? Sergeant Packer? Thank you. You are perfectly certain this is your handkerchief? You see me place it in the right-hand pocket of my jacket? I thank you. Now, Mr. Singleton, I am one of those three gentlemen aforesaid. You see me here in the yard. You are standing by the stage-door. I walk along the yard into the office. Got your watch out, Wade? Off we go.”

  Singleton and the three officers stood in a group at the stage-door. Alleyn walked briskly down the yard and into the office, leaving the door open.

  “What’s the idea, Mr. Wade?” asked Cass. “He’s a bit of a hard case, isn’t he?”

  “He’ll do me,” said Packer. “He’s a corker.”

  “Watch that door into the office,” snapped Wade. “And the yard.”

  The door remained open on the yard. Nobody spoke. The sound of traffic in the street, and footsteps on the pavement outside, broke the silence. One or two people walked past at the end of the yard.

  “He hasn’t come out, anyway,” said Cass.

  “Time,” said Wade. “Come on, Singleton. Come on, you two.”

  They all walked down the yard and into the office. Alleyn was sitting at the desk.

  “Well!” said Alleyn brightly. “Still here, you see.”

  “I thought, Superintendent,” said Mr. Singleton, ‘that you said we were to receive a surprise.”

  “And you are disappointed?” He looked from one dubious face to the other. Wade was staring expectantly at him.

  “I expect you’d like to know where the laugh and round of applause comes in,” said Alleyn. “If Sergeant Packer will look at the bottom rung of the back-stage ladder into the grid he will learn something to his advantage.”

  “Go on, Packer,” said Wade.

  Packer hurried off through the stage-door. There was a short pause and then he came thundering back.

  “By cripey, Mr. Wade, it’s a corker! By gosh, Mr. Wade, it’s a humdinger!”

  He was waving the handkerchief. Cass’s eyes opened very wide. Mr. Singleton moistened his lips once or twice but, for a marvel, he had nothing to say.

  “Tied to the bottom rung it was,” declared Packer. “Tied to the bottom rung. By gum, it’s a beaut!”

  “You see it can be done, Wade,” said Alleyn.

  “It’s good enough,” said Wade delightedly, “it’s good enough.”

  “Ah—um—very neat,” said Mr. Singleton. He drew the palm of his hand across his mouth. “I recollect seeing the Great Houdini—”

  “Mr. Singleton,” said Alleyn, ‘I’m afraid I’ve taken up far too much of your time. We mustn’t keep you any longer. Will you allow me to quote your favourite author?—‘Spend this for me.’”

  Mr. Singleton broke into a loud laugh as his fingers closed on the tip.

  “Ah ha, sir, I can have at you again. ‘I’ll be your purse-bearer and leave you for an hour.’” He removed his hat, bowed, said “Good morning, gentlemen,” and hurried away.

  “What a fabulous bit of wreckage,” said Alleyn. “Poor old devil, I wonder if he—Oh, well! I suppose you’d like an explanation of all this.” He turned to Cass and Packer.

  “Too right, sir,” said Packer. “You’ve got us beat.”

  “What I did was this. I came into this office, as you saw. I came out again as you apparently didn’t see, and I went round to the back by what I feel should be called Cass’s Alley.”

  “But look here, sir, we were watching the yard.”

  “I know. I left the door open and I sidled along to the street end keeping against the wall. I was hidden so far by the open door. If you go along to the stage-door you will see what I mean. I was just able to keep out of sight.”

  “But the entrance at the end! You had to cross there, and I swear I never took my eyes off it,” burst out Cass.

  “You saw me walk across, Cass.”

  “I never!
Pardon me, sir.”

  “You didn’t recognise your own overcoat and hat? You left them in here.”

  Alleyn pointed to where they lay across the desk.

  “I ventured to borrow them. As soon as I got in here I slipped them on, and, as I have said, sidled out under cover of the door, turned off to the right when I got out to the pavement, and then walked briskly back across the open end of the yard. You did not recognise me. Now, as soon as I got across the entrance to the yard I was hidden by the projecting bicycle shed. I repeated the sidling game on the other side and came back to Cass’s Alley. Once in there, I bolted round to the back door, having borrowed the key. All this took less than two minutes. Another half-minute going up the ladder. I allowed a minute to unhook the weight and came down in less than half. I put the key back in the door and returned by Cass’s Alley, reversing the process. I just had time to get your hat and coat off, before you came along. D’you see?”

  “I don’t know that I do, sir, altogether,” confessed Cass, “but you did it, I reckon it’s right.”

  “Come and look at the plan here, and you’ll see how it fits in.”

  Wade, Packer, and Cass all stared solemnly at the plan.

  “It’s a funny thing,” said Wade, “how easy it is to miss the obvious thing. That alleyway now. You’d have thought we’d have picked it for something straight away.”

  “You’d have thought I would,” grunted Cass, “seeing I’m still sore from where I stuck.”

  “It widens out as soon as you’re round the corner,” said Alleyn.

  “It’d need to,” said Cass.

  Wade looked at his watch.

  “It’s time,” he said to Alleyn.

  “Ah, yes,” said Alleyn.

  They all stood listening. From the street outside came the irregular sound of mid-morning traffic, the whining clamour of trams, the roar of cars in low gear, punctured by intermittent horn notes, and behind it all the patter of feet on asphalt. One pair of feet seemed to separate and come closer.

  Someone had turned into the yard.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Dr. Te Pokiha Plays to Type.

  Warn Curtain

  BUT IT WAS only Mr. St. John Ackroyd. Cass, who had moved into the yard, stopped him. The others could see him through the half open door. Beside the gigantic Cass, Ackroyd looked a pygmy of a man. He stood there in his rather loud check overcoat and jaunty hat, staring cockily up at Cass.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Cass, “but were you wanting to go into the theatre?”

  “Yes, I was. I want to get to my wardrobe. Haven’t a clean shirt to my back.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you in this morning, sir.”

  “Oh, God! Why the devil not? Look here, you can come in with me and see I don’t muck up the half-chewed cigar at the point marked X. Come on now, old boy, be a sport.”

  “Very sorry, sir. I’m under orders and it can’t be done.”

  “Yes, but look, old boy. Here—”

  Mr. Ackroyd appeared to make an attempt to place his tiny hand confidingly in Cass’s. Cass stepped back a pace.

  “No, no, sir. We don’t do things that way. Quite out of the question, thank you all the same.”

  “Oh, blast! Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? Buy new shirts?”

  “If you’ll wait a little, sir, I’ll inquire—”

  “Here, Cass!” called Wade.

  “Sir?”

  “Just a minute. Come in, Mr. Ackroyd, come in.”

  The comic face was thrust round the door and distorted into a diverting grimace.

  “Hullo, hullo! All the stars in one piece, including the Great Noise from the Yard. Any room for a little one?”

  He came in, followed by Cass, and perched on the edge of Alfred Meyer’s desk, cocking his hat jauntily over his left eye.

  “Well. How’s things?” he inquired.

  “I’m glad you looked in, Mr. Ackroyd,” said Wade. “There’s just one little matter I wanted to see you about.”

  “Is there, by gum! Well, there’s another little matter I’d like to see you about. I want to get at my wardrobe.”

  “In the statement you gave us on the night of the fatality,” continued Wade in a monotonous chant, “you said that you went from the dressing-rooms to the party.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Remaining on the stage until after the fatality?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong with that?” demanded Ackroyd.

  “You didn’t come out into the yard, at all?”

  “Eh?—I—how d’you mean?”

  “Just that, Mr. Ackroyd. You didn’t leave the stage before the party and walk along to the office?”

  “Oh, God! Look here, old boy, I—I believe I did.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. It was only for a minute. Just to tell George people were beginning to come in.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this before, Mr. Ackroyd?”

  “Damn’ it all, I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “But now you state definitely that you did come here?”

  “Yes,” said Ackroyd uncomfortably.

  “We’ll have to get a new statement to that effect,” said Wade. “Will you tell us exactly what happened, Mr. Ackroyd?”

  “Just what I said. I came along and stood in the doorway there. I said: ‘The party’s started, George,’ and George said: ‘Right you are. I’ve got a job here and then I’ll be along,’ or something. The job he had seemed to be a perfectly good drink. Well, I passed a remark or two and went back to the party.”

  “Was Mr. Mason alone?”

  “What? No, I rather fancy the black quack was there.”

  “Pardon?” asked Wade, genteelly. “Who did you say?”

  “The black quack.”

  “Can Mr. Ackroyd possibly mean Dr. Te Pokiha?” asked Alleyn of nobody in particular.

  “You’d hardly think so, would you?” said Wade.

  “Oh, no offence,” said Ackroyd. “I forgot there was no colour bar in this country. The light-brown medico was on-stage. That better?”

  “You want to be very very careful when you make statements, Mr. Ackroyd,” said Wade austerely. “We’ll have to get you to sign a new one. Seems funny, you forgetting you came along here.”

  “Why the hell!” shouted Ackroyd hotly. “What’s funny about it? Why should I remember? Don’t be silly.”

  “Did you go straight back to the stage?”

  “Yes, I did go straight back, I—hullo, George!”

  George Mason’s unhappy face had appeared round the door.

  “Hullo,” he mumbled. “Can I come in?”

  “Come in, Mr. Mason,” said Wade. “Take a seat. You’re just the man we wanted to see. Do you remember Mr. Ackroyd, here, coming along to the office before the party?”

  Mason passed his hand wearily over his forehead and slumped into a chair.

  “Do I remember—? Yes, I do. Didn’t I tell you that? I’m sorry.”

  “Quite all right. We just have to check up these little points. I don’t think I asked you, definitely. Cass, take Mr. Ackroyd along to his dressing-room and let him get anything he wants. Will you call in at the station between two and three this afternoon, Mr. Ackroyd? Thank you. Good morning.”

  “And that,” said Ackroyd bitterly, “takes me right off. Good morning.”

  When he had gone, Mason turned to Wade.

  “Is there any mail here for me?” he asked.

  “I think there is, Mr. Mason. We’ll let you have it.”

  Mason groaned. “I suppose you’ve nothing definite to tell me, Mr. Wade? I’ve got our advance going nearly crazy in Wellington, not knowing whether he’s representing a repertory company or a murder gang.”

  “It won’t be much longer.” Wade fell back on his stock opening gambit. “I’m sorry to give you the trouble of coming down this morning but there’s just one little matter I’d like to see you about, Mr. Mason. We’ve been talking to
old Singleton, the doorkeeper, about the people that were outside, as you might say, before the party.”

  “Boozy old devil. Was an actor once. Makes you think, doesn’t it? There but for the wrath of God, or whatever it is!”

  Alleyn chuckled.

  “He’s a bit too boozy for our liking,” continued Wade. “He’s given us one bit of information, and Dr. Te Pokiha’s given us another that contradicts it point-blank. It’s only a silly little thing—”

  “Don’t talk to me about silly little things,” interjected Mason peevishly. “I’m sick of the phrase. There’s that Gaynes kid making a scene in fifteen different positions every five minutes, and demanding to be sent home to Daddy because she’s ‘a silly little thing’ and so, so upset. And I ate some of this native crayfish for dinner last night and it kept me awake till dawn—silly little thing! Ugh!”

  “Mr. Alleyn knows more about this than I do. He spoke about it to Dr. Te Pokiha.”

  “Te Pokiha’s coming here, by the way. He looked in at the pub and said you wanted him.”

  “If Mr. Alleyn—?” said Wade with a glance into the corner of the room where Alleyn sat peacefully smoking.

  “It’s just this,” said Alleyn. “The old gentleman tells us that when you went out to the stage-door to warn him about asking the guests’ names, you were bareheaded and in your dinner-jacket.”

  “Oh lor’,” groaned Mason, “what of it? So I was.”

  “And Dr. Te Pokiha says that he came in here just as you returned from the stage-door and you were wearing an overcoat and hat.”

  “It’s a case of the drunk being right and the sober man wrong, as far as I can remember. I don’t think I put on my coat to go out. No, I’m sure I didn’t. I recollect old Singleton started one of his interminable reminiscences and I said it was too cold to stand about and made that the excuse to run away. I believe I did slip my coat on after I got back. Probably had it on when the doctor came in.”

  “That explains that,” said Alleyn. “It sounds idiotic, but we have to fiddle about with these things.”

  “Well, if it’s any help, that’s what I think happened. Look here, Alleyn, are you any further on with this case. I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself but this game is literally costing the Firm hundreds. It’s driving me silly, honestly it is. What about the affair on the train, can’t you get a lead from that?”