Vintage Murder

  “Has it been interfered with?” asked Te Pokiha.

  “We’re going to make a thorough examination by daylight, Doctor,” said Wade. “I’ll just see these other people now.”

  Te Pokiha’s dark eyes gleamed in his dark face.

  “I’ll wish you good night, then. Good night, Mr. Alleyn. You seemed to be interested in my people. If you would care to come and see me while you are here—”

  “I should be delighted,” said Alleyn cordially.

  “Dinner tomorrow? Splendid. It’s not far out. Twenty miles. I’ll call for you at six.”

  Alleyn shook the thin brown hand that Te Pokiha extended, and watched the Maori go out.

  “Very, very fine fellow, Rangi Te Pokiha,” said Wade. “Fine athlete, and brainy, too. Best type of Maori.”

  “I met him at the hotel,” said Alleyn, “and found him very interesting. There is no colour prejudice in this country, apparently.”

  “Well, not in the way there is in India, for instance. Mind, there are Maoris and Maoris. Te Pokiha’s high caste. His mother was a princess and his father a fine old chief. The doctor’s had an English college education—he’s ninety per cent civilised. All the same, sir, there’s the odd ten per cent. It’s there, no matter how civilised they are. See him when he goes into one of the back-country pas and you’ll find a difference. See him when he goes crook! By gee, I did once, when he gave evidence on a case of—well, it was an unsavoury case and the doctor felt strongly about it. His eyes fairly flashed. He looked as if he might go off at the deep end and dance a haka in court.”

  “A haka?”

  “War-dance. They pull faces and yell. Great affair, it is. Well now, what about this tiki, Mr. Alleyn?”

  “Ah, yes.” Alleyn lowered his voice. “Dr. Te Pokiha put me in the way of buying that tiki. I gave it to Miss Carolyn Dacres as a birthday present tonight.”

  “To the Dacres woman?” asked Wade, suddenly looking very sharp. “You did? Is that so?”

  “She is not ‘the Dacres woman’ so far, you know,” said Alleyn. “The tiki passed from hand to hand. It may be of interest to find out where it fetched up.”

  “Of interest! I should say so. I’ll see these people now. Cass!”

  Detective-Sergeant Cass opened the door in the set and looked in.

  “I’m going to the office, Cass. Send these people along one by one. You haven’t left them alone, I hope?”

  “No, sir. We’ve got them all together in one room now. Packer’s in there.”

  “All right.” He turned to Alleyn. “Are you sticking to it a while longer, Mr. Alleyn?”

  “I think I’ll wander in and join the party for a bit, if you’ve no objections.”

  “That’s quite all right, sir, that’s quite all right. You just please yourself,” said Wade in his heartiest voice. Alleyn knew that the inspector was at once relieved to think that he would be left alone for his examination of the others, and slightly disappointed at losing the chance of exhibiting his ability before the representative of Scotland Yard.

  “I suppose,” thought Alleyn, “I must give him an inferiority complex. He feels I’m criticising him all the time. If I don’t remember to be frightfully hearty and friendly, he’ll think I’m all English and superior. I know he will. I would myself, I suppose, in his shoes. He’s been damn’ pleasant and generous, too, and he’s a very decent fellow. Dear me, how difficult it all is.”

  He found his way along the dressing-room passage and, guided by the murmur of voices, knocked at the last door. It was opened by Detective-Sergeant Packer, who came half through the door. He was a fine specimen, was Packer; tall, magnificently built, with a good head on him. When he saw Alleyn he came to attention.

  “Sergeant Packer,” said Alleyn, “your inspector tells me I may come in here if I behave nicely. That all right?”

  “Certainly, Chief Inspector,” said Packer smartly. Alleyn looked at him.

  “We won’t bother about the ‘Chief Inspector,’” he murmured. “Can you come outside for a second?”

  Packer at once stepped out and closed the door.

  “Look here,” said Alleyn, “do those people in there realise I’m from the Yard?”

  “I don’t think they do, sir. I heard them mention your name, but they didn’t seem to know.”

  “Good. Leave ’em in outer darkness. Just any old Allen. I asked Inspector Wade to warn you, but I suppose he hasn’t had a chance. Miss Dacres, Miss Max, and Mr. Hambledon know, but they’ll keep quiet, I hope. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Splendid. Then just let me loose among ’em, Packer. I’ll do no harm, I promise you.”

  “Harm, sir? I should say not. If you’ll excuse me mentioning it, sir, I’ve just read—”

  “Have you? I’ll give you a copy for yourself. Now usher me in. And chidingly, Packer. Be severe with me.”

  Detective-Sergeant Packer was a young officer. He looked at the tall figure of Chief-Inspector Alleyn and developed instant and acute hero-worship. “He looks like one of those swells in the English flicks,” he afterwards confided to his girl, “and he talks with a corker sort of voice. Not queeny, but just corker. I reckon he’s all right. Gosh, I reckon he’s a humdinger.”

  Under a fearful oath of secrecy, long after there was any need for discretion, Packer described to his best girl the scene in the wardrobe-room.

  “He said to me, kind of laughing—and he’s got a corking sort of laugh—he said: ‘Be severe with me, Packer.’ So I opened the door and, as he walked through, I said: ‘Move along in there, if you please, sir. And kindly obey instructions.’ Very stiff. And he walked in and he said: ‘Frightfully sorry, officer,’ in a real dude voice. ‘Frightfullah sorrah, officah’—only it sounded decent the way he said it. Not unnatural. Just English. ‘Frightfulla sorra—’ I can’t seem to get it.”

  “And then what?” asked Packer’s best girl.

  “Well, and then he walked in. And I stayed on the outside of the door. He didn’t tell me to, but I reckoned if I stayed out he’d get them to talk. I left the door a crack open and I walked noisily away and then quiet back again. I dunno what old Sam Wade would ’uv said if he’d come along. He’d ’uv gone horribly crook at me for not staying inside. Well, as soon as the Chief walks in they all start in squealing. ‘Oh, Mr. Alleyn, what’s happening? Oh, Mr. Alleyn, what’s the matter?’ The girl Gaynes—Valerie Gaynes. You know—”

  “She’s the one that wore that corking dress in the play. I think she’s lovely.”

  “She makes me tired. She started squealing about the disgraceful way she’d been treated, and how she’d write to her old man and complain, and how they’d never dream of shutting her up like this in England, and how she reckoned the police in this country didn’t know the way to behave. Give you a pain in the neck, dinkum, she would. Well, as I was telling you.”

  Packer told his girl many times of this scene.

  The fact of the matter was that Alleyn got an unpleasant shock when he walked into the wardrobe-room. He suddenly remembered that, during that night in the train, Carolyn had told Valerie Gaynes he was a C.I.D. official, and here was Valerie Gaynes rushing at him with complaints about the New Zealand police, about the way she was being treated. Any moment she might give the show away. He glanced at Carolyn. She called Miss Gaynes, murmured something in her ear, and drew her down beside her.

  “Oh!” said Valerie Gaynes flatly. “Well, I think—”

  “Of course you do,” said Carolyn quickly, “but if you could manage not to talk quite so much, darling, it would be such a good idea.’

  “But, Miss Dacres—”

  “Yes, darling, but do you know, I think if I were you, I should. Just go all muted—like you did over your money, do you remember, when Mr. Alleyn offered to look at your note-case.”

  Valerie Gaynes suddenly sat down.

  “That’s right, darling,” said Carolyn jerkily. “Come and sit down, Mr. Alleyn. It seems we are al
l to be shut up in here while they find out whether my poor Pooh was—whether it was all an accident or not.”

  Her voice was pitched a note too high and her hands moved restlessly in her lap.

  “That’s the idea, I believe,” said Alleyn.

  “What are they doing out there?” asked little Ackroyd peevishly.

  “How much longer—”

  “Mr. Alleyn, can you tell us—”

  They all began again.

  “I know no more than you do,” said Alleyn, at last. “I believe they propose to interview us all, singly. I’ve just had my dose. I got ticked off for loitering.”

  “What did they ask you?” demanded young Palmer.

  “My name and address,” said Alleyn shortly. He dragged forward a small packing-case, sat on it, and surveyed the company.

  The wardrobe-room at the Royal was simply a very large dressing-room, occupied by the chorus when musical-comedy companies visited Middleton. The Dacres Company used it to store the wardrobes for their second and third productions. An ironing-table stood at one end, an odd length of stage-cloth carpeted the floor, and a number of chairs, covered with dust-cloths, were ranged round the walls. It served the company as a sort of common-room—an improvised version of the old-fashioned green-room. Carolyn tried to create something of the long-vanished atmosphere of the actor-manager’s touring company. She was old enough to have served her apprenticeship in one of the last of these schools and remembered well the homely, knit-together feeling of back-stage, the feeling that the troupe was a little world of its own, moving compactly about a larger world. With Meyer’s help she had tried, so far as she was able, to keep the same players about her for all her productions. She used to beg Meyer to look for what she called useful actors and actresses, by which she meant adaptable people who could pour themselves into the mould of a part and who did not depend upon individual tricks. “Give me actors, Pooh darling, not types.” Perhaps that was why, with the exception of Valerie Gaynes and Courtney Broadhead, none of her company was very young. Valerie she had suffered only after a struggle, and, she confided in Hambledon, because she was afraid they might all begin to think she was jealous of young and good-looking women. Courtney came of an old acting family and took his work seriously. The rest—Ackroyd, Gascoigne, Liversidge, Vernon, Hambledon, and Susan Max, were all over forty. They were, as Hambledon would have said, “old troupers,” used to each other’s ways, and to the sound of each other’s voices. There is a kind of fortuitous intimacy among the members of such companies. It would be difficult to say how well they really know each other, but they often speak of themselves as “a happy family.” As he looked from one face to another Alleyn was aware of this corporate feeling in the Dacres Company. “How are they taking it?” he wondered. He asked himself the inevitable question: “Which? Which of these?” And one by one he watched them.

  Hambledon had moved away from Carolyn and sat opposite her and beside George Mason. They were both very pale and silent. Mason’s indistinguished face was blotched, as if he had been crying. He looked apprehensive and miserable and rather ill. Hambledon’s magnificent head was bent forward. He held one long-fingered hand over his eyes, as though the light bothered him. Old Brandon Vernon sat with his arms folded and his heavy eyebrows drawn down. He had the peculiar raffish look of a certain type of elderly actor. His face was pale, as if it had taken on the texture of grease-paint, his mobile mouth seemed always about to widen into a sardonic grin; his eyes, lack-lustre, had an impertinent look. There were traces of No. 9 in the hair on his temples and his chin was blueish. He played polished old men-of-the-world with great skill. When Alleyn came in Vernon was deep in conversation with little Ackroyd, with whom he seemed to be annoyed. Ackroyd, whose amusing face was so untrustworthy a guide to his character, listened irritably. He grimaced and fidgeted, glancing under his eyelids at Carolyn.

  Next to Ackroyd sat Liversidge, with an empty chair beside him. Valerie Gaynes had moved out of it when Carolyn called her. Alleyn was a little surprised to see how shaken Liversidge seemed to be. His too full, too obviously handsome face was very white. He was unable to sit still, and when he lit one cigarette from the butt of another, his hands shook so much that he could scarcely control them.

  Young Courtney Broadhead, on the other hand, looked solemn, but much less unhappy than he had appeared to be that night in the train. “They have changed their roles,” thought Alleyn. For in the train Broadhead had stood huddled in his overcoat on the little iron platform, speaking to nobody; while Liversidge had shouted and shown himself off. Alleyn’s thoughts returned persistently to the night in the train.

  Ted Gascoigne had joined young Gordon Palmer and his cousin, Geoffrey Weston. The stage-manager was describing the mechanism of the pulley and the bottle. Gordon listened avidly, bit his nails, and asked innumerable questions. Weston said very little.

  The stage-hands stood in an awkward and silent group at the far end of the room.

  Alleyn had not been long in the room before he realised that the members of the company felt themselves constrained and embarrassed by the presence of Carolyn, and perhaps of Hambledon. Through their conversation ran a chain of side-long glances, of half-spoken phrases. This, he told himself, was natural enough, since they must assume that they were in the presence of grief, and there is nothing more embarrassing than other people’s sorrow. “But not to these people,” thought Alleyn, “since they have histrionic precedents for dealing with sorrow. They are embarrassed for some other reason.”

  Under cover of the general conversation he turned to Carolyn and said quietly: “I am plagued with a horrible feeling that you may think I have brought misfortune to you.”

  “You!” She looked at him in bewilderment. “How should I think that?”

  “By my gift.”

  “You mean—the green figurine—the tiki?”

  She glanced swiftly at Hambledon and away again.

  “I wish you would return it to me and let me replace it by another gift,” said Alleyn.

  Carolyn looked fixedly at him. Her hand went to her breast.

  “What do you mean, Mr. Alleyn?” she asked hurriedly.

  “Is it in your bag?”

  “I—yes. No.” She opened her bag and turned it out on her lap. “No. Of course it’s not. I haven’t had it since—since before supper. Somebody took it from me—they were all looking at it. I remember distinctly that I did not have it.”

  “May I ask who has it now?”

  “Of course—if you want to.”

  Alleyn raised his voice.

  “Who’s got Miss Dacres’s tiki, please? She would like to have it.”

  Dead silence. He looked from one figure to another. They all looked bewildered and a little scandalised, as though Carolyn, by asking for her little tiki, had stepped outside the correct rendering of her part of tragic wife.

  “It must be on the stage,” said Courtney Broadhead.

  “Sure none of you has it?” pursued Alleyn.

  The men felt in their pockets.

  “I remember handing it on to you,” said Brandon Vernon to Ackroyd.

  “Somebody took it from me,’ said Ackroyd. “You did, Frankie.”

  “I?” said Liversidge. “Did I? I haven’t got it now. As a matter of fact, I think I gave it to—” He hesitated and glanced at Carolyn.

  “Yes?” asked Alleyn.

  “—to Mr. Meyer,” said Liversidge uncomfortably.

  “Oh!” Carolyn drew in her breath swiftly. Old Susan looked directly at Alleyn with a curious expression that he could not read. Suddenly Valerie Gaynes cried out:

  “It’s unlucky—I thought at the time it looked unlucky. Something seemed to tell me. I’ve got a queer intuition about things—”

  “I am quite sure,” said Carolyn steadily, “that my tiki is not unlucky. And I know Alfie hadn’t got it when we sat down to supper.”

  “How do you know that, Miss Dacres?” asked Alleyn.

  “Because
he asked me for it. He wanted to look at it again. And I hadn’t got it, either.”

  “But I say—”

  Alleyn turned swiftly. Young Gordon Palmer stood with his mouth half open and a curiously startled look on his face.

  “Yes, Mr. Palmer?” asked Alleyn.

  “Oh, nothing.” And at that moment Packer opened the door and said:

  “Inspector Wade would like to speak to Mrs. Meyer, please.”

  “I’m coming,” said Carolyn. Her long graceful stride took her quickly to the door. Hambledon got there before her.

  “May I take Miss Dacres to the office?” he asked. “I’ll come straight back.”

  “Well, sir—” said Packer uncomfortably. He looked for a fraction of a second at Alleyn, who gave him the ghost of a nod.

  “I’ll just inquire,” said Packer. He went outside and closed the door. They could hear him talking to Sergeant Cass. He returned in a moment.

  “If you would care to go along with Sergeant Cass and Mrs. Mey—beg pardon—Miss Dacres, sir, that’ll be all right. Sergeant Cass will come back with you.”

  Alleyn strolled over to the door.

  “I really cannot understand, officer,” he said, “why I should be kept hanging about here. I’ve nothing whatever to do with this miserable business.” He added swiftly, under his breath: “Keep Mr. Hambledon talking outside the door if he returns.” And to Hambledon: “Stay outside if you can.”

  Hambledon stared, but Packer said loudly:

  “Now that’ll be quite enough from you, Mr. Alleyn. We’re only doing our duty, as you ought to realise. You go back to your chair, if you please, sir. Everything will be quite all right.”

  “Oh, excellent Packer!” thought Alleyn and returned churlishly to his upturned case.

  Carolyn and Hambledon went out with Packer, who shut the door.

  At once the others seemed to relax. There was a slight movement from all of them. Courtney Broadhead said:

  “I simply can’t take it in. It’s so horrible. So horrible.”

  “That’s how you feel about it, is it?” said Liversidge.