Enter a Murderer (7 page)

In it was a pair of grey suede gloves. “Eureka!” said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.

“Yes, but look here,” Nigel began indignantly.

“Old Miss Max — I mean to say, that’s a bit too thick. She’s a nice old thing.”

Alleyn gave one of his rare laughs. “All right, all right,” he said. “Don’t bite my head off. I didn’t plant the things.”

“Well, somebody else did, then.”

“Quite possible. During the black-out. Oh, it’s a very nasty bit of goods, this is. And so clever, so filthily clever. Everything nice and simple. No fancy touches. I tell you one thing, all of you, for what it’s worth. I’ve been telling it to myself ever since this started. We’re up against good acting.”

“Yes,” said Nigel thoughtfully, “the very best.”

“As you say. It’s a West End production, bad luck to it.”

“Anything on the thumb of the right-hand glove?” asked Fox abruptly.

Alleyn picked it up by one finger.

“Oh, Mr. Fox, aren’t you wonderful?” he said. “Such a lovely quality, moddom, or, rather, sir. Yes, definitely, ‘sir.’ Have a sniff.” He held them out

“I’ve got it,” said Fox. “They smell of cigars, and scent, and — damn it — where did I smell that scent?”

“On Mr. Jacob Saint.”

“By gum, you’re right, sir.”

“It’s a very good scent. Something rather special. But how careless of Mr. Saint to lose his gloves, how rather surprisingly careless.” He handed the glove over to his colleague.

“When were they lost? He was wearing none when he came round,” Fox declared. “I know that because he shoved me aside at the door, and his ring dug into my hand.”

“His altogether too big signet ring,” murmured Alleyn. “It does dig in. Look!”

He held up the little finger of the left-hand glove. The base showed a distinct bulge.

“He was behind the scenes earlier in the evening, you know. Before the curtain went up. Then he was in front.”

“Could he have come round again, later?” asked Nigel.

“We must find out. By George, Fox, what happened to the old gentleman?”

“Who’s he?”

“The stage door keeper.”

“I never saw one. He must have gone home during the first few moments.”

“He was there when we came round. Not very good. He’ll have to be traced. Oh well, let’s have Miss Vaughan. I think I’ll see her alone, if you please, Fox. There’s nothing much else to be done here that I can think of. Have you looked closely at the thumb?”

“Yes,” said Fox carefully. “There’s a bit of whitish stain on it.”

“There is, indeed. We may want an analysis of that to compare with the cartridges.”

“What do you make it out to be?”

“Oh, cosmetic, Fox, cosmetic. While I’m talking to Miss Vaughan, see if you two can match it in any of the dressing-rooms. Take samples of any make-up that looks like it and note where from, and all that. And now would you take my compliments to Miss Vaughan and ask her if she would be kind enough to come out here?”

Fox and Bailey went off. Presently the constable who had been stationed outside the wardrobe-room came back and with a glance at Alleyn disappeared in the direction of the stage door. Alleyn followed him, said something that Nigel did not catch and returned.

“Any objection to noting this down for me?” asked Alleyn.

“No,” said Nigel. “If I had any, they are overruled by curiosity. I’ll go back to my cache-cache.”

“Thank you. Here she comes.”

Nigel slipped through the doorway in the set. He discovered that, by moving his seat, he could leave the door half open and get a fuller view of the stage without being visible. In this way he was able to see Stephanie Vaughan when she came on to the scene. She had changed her dress and was wearing a dark fur wrap. The stage make-up was gone, and she looked pale and rather tired. There was no hint of histrionics in her manner now. She was grave and dignified, and a little remote. “Why, it’s not the same woman,” thought Nigel.

“You sent for me,” she said quietly.

“I’m sorry if my message sounded peremptory,” answered Alleyn.

“Why not? You’re in charge.”

“Will you sit down?”

She sank into an arm-chair, and there was a little silence.

“What do you want to ask me?” she said at last

“Several questions. The first — where were you during the black-out at the beginning of the last act?”

“In my dressing-room, changing. Then I went in to see Felix.”

“Was anyone with you? In your own room, I mean?”

“My dresser.”

“All the time?”

“I’ve no idea. From my dressing-room I couldn’t see when the stage lights went on.”

“I should have thought you could hear the dialogue.”

“Possibly. I didn’t listen.”

“Was Mr. Gardener still in his room when you left it?”

“No. He went out first. He came on before I did.”

“When did you go out on to the stage?”

“When the scene was over.”

“Yes. Thank you. What happened after Bathgate and I left your dressing-room?”

The question must have taken her by surprise. Nigel heard her draw in her breath. When she spoke, however, her voice was quite even.

“After you left,” she said, “there was a scene.”

“There was the making of one while we were there. What happened?”

She leant back wearily, her wrap slipped down. She winced, as if something had hurt her, and sat forward again, pulling the fur collar over her shoulders.

“You are hurt?” said Alleyn. “Your shoulder. You put your hand up to it”

“Arthur hit me.”

“What!”

“Oh, yes.”

“Let me see it.”

She let her wrap fall, and pulled aside her dress, hunching up her shoulder. Nigel could see the bruise. Alleyn bent over her without touching her.

“What did Gardener do?”

“He wasn’t there. I’m beginning half-way, I suppose. The moment you had gone I made Felix leave me. He didn’t want to, of course, but I had to deal with Arthur alone, and I insisted. He didn’t like going, but he went.”

“And then?”

“And then there was a scene — a scene in a whisper. We had had them before. I was used to it. He was quite beside himself with jealousy, and threatened me with all sorts of things. Then he became maudlin and shed tears. I’d never seen him like that before.”

“With what did he threaten you?”

“He told me,” said Miss Vaughan gently, “that he would drag my name in the mud. He said he would stop Felix marrying me. Really, if Felix had been shot, I should not have wondered. Arthur looked murderous. I think he did it himself.”

“Do you? Had he that sort of rogue’s courage?”

“I think so. He hoped Felix would be accused.”

“Where was he?” asked Alleyn, “when he struck you?”

“How do you mean? I was sitting where you left me — on the small chair in my room. He was standing, I think, about as far off as you are now.”

“With his left hand, then?”

“No. I don’t know. I can’t remember, I’m afraid. Perhaps if you were to do it — but gently, please — I might remember.”

Alleyn moved his right arm and Nigel saw his hand against the left side of her throat.

“It would be there, on your face,” he said, “I think it must have been with his left hand, and even then it would be a strange sort of blow.”

“He was drunk.”

“So everyone keeps telling me. Could he not have been behind you? Like this.”

Alleyn stood behind her and laid his right hand on her right shoulder. Nigel was suddenly and vividly reminded of the scene in the dressing-room, when Gardener had stood, touching her in the same way, and laughing at Alleyn’s remark about Edgar Wallace.

“My hand falls exactly over the bruise,” said Alleyn. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.”

“Let me draw up your wrap. You are cold.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you think that could have been the way of it?”

“Perhaps. He was lurching about the room. I really don’t remember.”

“You must have been terrified.”

“No. He was not a terrifying man, but I was glad Felix had gone. I managed to get rid of Arthur and then I went to Felix’s room.”

“Next door?”

“Yes. I said nothing about the blow on my shoulder. Beadle was there but left as soon as I went in. Then I told Felix it had all petered out.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that Arthur was a drunken pig, but that in a way he was sorry for him. He said I must let him speak to Master Surbonadier and tell him to behave himself, and that he wouldn’t have me worried like that.”

“Quite temperate about it?”

“Yes. He knew that sort of thing didn’t really count and we both had a horror of more scenes. We only spoke a few words, and then Felix went out on to the stage. The lights were still out, I remember. Have you got a cigarette, Mr. Alleyn? I should like one.”

“I’m very sorry. I didn’t think.” She took one from his case and he lit it for her. She touched her fingers against the back of his hand, and they seemed to look full in each other’s face. Then she leant back again in her chair. They smoked in silence for a little time — Alleyn very composedly, Miss Vaughan not so composedly.

“Please tell me this,” she said at last, very earnestly, “do you suspect anyone?”

“You cannot expect me to answer that,” said Alleyn.

“Why not?”

“Everyone is under suspicion. Everyone is lying and acting.”

“Even me? Have I lied or played a part?”

“I don’t know,” said Alleyn sombrely. “How should I?”

“How you dislike me, Inspector Alleyn!”

“You think so?” said Alleyn swiftly, and then, after a pause: “Do you ever do jig-saw puzzles?”

“Sometimes.”

“And do you ever conceive an ardent distaste for a bit that won’t fit in?”

“Yes.”

“That is the only kind of personal prejudice a policeman can allow himself. I have that feeling for the pieces that don’t fit. For the ones that do, I develop a queer sort of affection.”

“And you can’t fit me into your puzzle?”

“On the contrary, I think I have you — just where you belong.”

“My cigarette is finished. Have you anything more to ask me? No, I don’t want another.”

“Only one more point. May I have your hand?”

She held out both her hands. Nigel was astonished to see him take them very lightly in his, and raise them to his face. He turned them over in his palms, and stood with his eyes closed, his lips almost touching them. She made no attempt to withdraw them, but she was less pale, and Nigel thought her hands trembled very slightly. Then he let them drop.

“Chanel No. 5,” he said. “Thank you very much, Miss Vaughan.”

She hid her hands swiftly in the fur sleeves of her coat. “I thought you were going to kiss them,” she said lightly.

“I trust I know my place,” said Alleyn, “Good night. Mr. Gardener is waiting for you.”

“Good night. Do you want my address?”

“Please.”

“Flat 10, The Nun’s House, Shepheard’s Market Will you write it down?”

“There is no need. Good night”

She looked at him an instant and then went down the passage to the stage door. Nigel heard her calling:

“There you are, Felix”—and in a moment her footsteps had died away.

“Have you got that address down, Bathgate?” asked Alleyn anxiously.

“You old devil,” said Nigel.

“Why?”

“Well. I don’t know. I thought you didn’t like her before, in the dressing-room.”

“So did she.”

“Now I’m not so sure.”

“Nor is she.”

“Are you being a cad, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Yes, Mr. Bathgate.”

“What were you driving at about that bruise?”

“Didn’t you guess? Can’t you see?”

“No, I can’t. Unless you wanted an excuse to dally with the lady.”

“Have it that way, if you like,” said Alleyn.

“I think you’re very silly,” said Nigel, grandly, “and I’m going home.”

“So am I. Thank you for giving me such a lovely evening.”

“Not a bit. So glad you were able to come. I must do a job of work before I go to bed.”

“What’s this — what’s this?”

“Story for my paper. It’s a scoop.”

“You’ll bring whatever gup you write to me in the morning, young fella.”

“Oh, I say, Alleyn!” Nigel protested.

“Yes, indeed. I’d forgotten your horrible evening shocker. The officer outside has turned away a collection of your boy friends already.”

“Well, let me do a bit. It’s a scoop — really it is.”

“Bring it to my study tomorrow morning, sir.”

“Oh, all right.”

Alleyn assembled his men and they filed out of the stage door. The lights were turned off.

“A final black-out,” said Alleyn’s voice in the dark.

The stage of the Unicorn was completely silent and quite given over to the memory of dead plays. Nigel was oppressed by the sense of uneasy expectation that visits all interlopers in deserted buildings. Now, he thought, was the time for the ghosts of old mummers to step out from behind the waiting doorways and mouth their way silently through forgotten scenes. Somewhere above their heads a rope creaked, and a little draught of air soughed among the hanging canvas.

“Let’s go,” said Nigel.

Alleyn switched on an electric torch and they found their way down the passage to the stage door. Nigel stepped out into the cool air. The others were talking to a night-watchman, and to two young men, whom Nigel recognized as journalists.

“Just a moment,” said Alleyn’s voice in the passage. “Look here!”

The others turned back. The light from the torch had penetrated a kind of dark cubby-hole on the left of the doorway. It shone on old Blair’s closed eyes.

“Good God!” exclaimed Nigel. “Is he dead?”

“No — only asleep,” said Alleyn. “What’s his name?”

“Blair,” said the night-watchman.

“Wake up, Blair,” said Alleyn. “It’s long past the final curtain, and they’ve all gone home to bed.”

By nine o’clock on the following morning Nigel had got his story ready to go to press. He warned his sub-editors of his activities and they agreed, with a certain display of irritated enthusiasm, to hold back the front page while he submitted his copy to Alleyn. The morning papers were blazing with effective headlines, supported by exceedingly meagre information. Nigel sought out his friend at Scotland Yard and found him more amenable to persuasion than he had anticipated. The article laid great emphasis on the view that Gardener’s part in the tragedy, painful though it had been for himself, did not point in any way to his complicity in the murder. Alleyn did not dispute this, or censor a word of it. Nigel had made little of the personal relationships of Surbonadier, Gardener and Miss Vaughan, beyond using the romantic appeal of the engagement between the last two. He made a lot of his first-hand impression of the tragedy, and of the subsequent scenes behind the curtain.

“Less culpable than I anticipated,” said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn. “With the few deletions I’ve pencilled it can go through. Are you returning to your office?”

“Not if you’ll have me here,” said Nigel promptly. “I’ve got a boy to take back the copy.”

“Aren’t you a one? All right — come back. I’ve come to the stage when I can do with a Boswell.”

“Throwing bouquets at yourself, I see,” said Nigel. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Having sent the boy off to Fleet Street, he returned to find Alleyn at the telephone.

“Very well,” he said into the instrument as he glanced round at Nigel, “I’ll see you in twenty minutes”—and hung up the receiver.

“A very unpleasant gentleman,” he grunted.

“How — unpleasant?”

“An informer, or hopes to be.”

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Saint’s footman. Wait and see.”

“I will,” said Nigel enthusiastically. “How are you getting on, inspector?”

“Oh, it’s a devil of a job,” Alleyn complained.

“I’ve been trying to get it straight in my mind,” ventured Nigel, “as far as I know it. I made a sort of amateur dossier.”

“I don’t suppose you know what a dossier is,” said Alleyn. “However, let’s see your effort.”

Nigel produced several sheets of typewritten paper.

“Here are the notes I took for you.”

“Thank you so much, Bathgate. Now do show me your summary. It may be very useful. I’m bad at summarizing.”

Nigel glanced suspiciously at him, but Alleyn seemed to be quite serious. He lit his pipe and applied himself to the sheet of foolscap, at the top of which Nigel had typed in capital letters:

“There was also sand in the top drawer,” said Alleyn, glancing up.

“Was there? That’s pretty conclusive, then.” Alleyn read on:

Alleyn looked up.

“Didn’t you hear? Melville and Crammer were together in Crammer’s room during the black-out. Before that Melville had been on the stage. Miss Deamer was next door and heard their voices. I’ll write it in for you.”

He went on with the summary.

Here Nigel’s document ended abruptly. Alleyn laid it down on his desk.

“It’s all quite correct,” he approved. “It’s even rather suggestive. If you were a policeman, what would you do next?”

“I haven’t any idea.”

“Really? Well, I’ll tell you what we have done. We’ve been delving in the murky past of Mr. Jacob Saint.”

“Jimini!”

“Yes. Rather a chequered career. You can help me.”

“I say — can I really?”

“How long have you been a Pressman?”

“Ever since I came down from Cambridge.”

“Almost the G.O.M. of Fleet Street. It’s a matter of a year, isn’t it?”

“And three months.”

“Then you don’t remember the illicit drug scandal of some six years ago, and an article in the
Morning Express
that resulted in a libel action in which Jacob Saint featured as plaintiff, and triumphed to the tune of five thousand pounds?”

Nigel whistled shrilly and then became thoughtful. “I do remember vaguely,” he said.

“The case was spectacular. The article hinted pretty broadly that Saint’s fortune had been amassed through the rather wholesale supply of proscribed drugs. Ladies and gentlemen with unattractive portmanteaux under their yellow eyeballs were, said the writer, constantly being obliged with opium and cocaine by some agency controlled by a ‘well-known theatre magnate whose recent successes in a playhouse not a thousand yards from Piccadilly… ’ and so on. As I have said, Saint took it to court, won hands down, and emerged a little tarnished but triumphant. One very curious fact came out. The identity of the author was unknown. A leading reporter on the
Morning Express
was away on holiday. The article arrived at the office purporting to have come from him. A typewritten note was signed with a clever forgery of his name. He denied any knowledge of the business and made his case good. For once in its cocksure career, the
Morning Express
had been had. The address on the notepaper was ‘Mossburn,’ a village near Cambridge, and the postmark, noticed by the secretary, bore this out. A half-hearted attempt was made to trace the authorship, but in any case the ‘Mex,’ as I believe your journalists call it, was responsible. Mr. Saint was dreadfully annoyed, and, oh, so virtuous.”

“What’s all this leading to?”

“The postmark was of a village near Cambridge.”

“Are you thinking of Felix?” said Nigel hotly.

“Of Gardener? Where was he this time six years ago?”

Nigel paused. He eyed Alleyn uncomfortably. “Well, since you must know,” he said at last, “he had just gone up to Cambridge. He was two years ahead of me.”

“I see.”

“Look here — what are you thinking?”

“I’m only wondering. That article reads like undergraduate stuff. There’s an unmistakable flavour.”

“Suppose there is? What are you driving at?”

“Literally only this. Gardener may possibly be able to throw some light on the matter.”

“Oh, if that’s all—” Nigel looked relieved. “I thought you meant he might have written it”

Alleyn looked curiously at him.

“That particular year,” he said, “Surbonadier was sent down from Cambridge.”

“
Surbonadier
?” said Nigel slowly.

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “Now do you see?”

“You mean — you mean Surbonadier may have written the article and, therefore, knew too much about his uncle.”

“That is possible.”

“Yes.”

“The catch in it is that all this happened six years ago.”

“Surbonadier may have blackmailed Saint for six years.”

“He may.”

The telephone rang. Alleyn took off the receiver. “Yes. Who? Oh, send him up, will you?” He turned to Nigel. “This may help,” he said.

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Jacob Saint’s footman.”

“The informer.”

“Yes. I hate this sort of thing. He’s going to make me feel ashamed.”

“Really? You don’t want me to go?”

“Stay where you are. Have a cigarette, and look as if you belonged. Have you seen Gardener this morning?”

“No, I’m going to ring him up. I’m afraid he’s not going to forget this business in a hurry.”

“I don’t suppose so. Would you, in his place?”

“Never. But I think I’d worry a bit more about whether the police thought me guilty. It’s the shock of having fired the revolver that seems to have got him down.”

“Isn’t that what you’d expect in an innocent man?”

“I’m glad to hear you call him that,” said Nigel warmly.

“I talk a great deal too much,” declared Alleyn. “Come in!”

The door opened to admit a tall, thin, and rather objectionably good-looking man. His face was a little too pale, his eyes were a little too large, and his mouth a little too soft. He closed the door tenderly, and stood quietly inside it.

“Good morning,” said Alleyn.

“Good morning, sir.”

“You wanted to see me in reference to the murder of Mr. Arthur Surbonadier.”

“I thought you might wish to see me, sir.”

“Why?”

The footman glanced at Nigel. Alleyn paid no attention to this indication of caution.

“Well?” he said.

“If I might inquire, sir, whether a little inside information about the late Mr. Surbonadier’s relationships with my employer—”

“Oh,” Alleyn cut him short, “you want to make a statement.”

“Oh, no, sir. I only wanted to inquire. I don’t want to mix myself up in anything unpleasant, sir. On the other hand, there was an incident that might be worth the police’s while.”

“If you are withholding any evidence that may be of value to the police, you will get into quite serious trouble. If you are expecting a bribe, however—”

“Oh, please, sir.”

“You won’t get one. Should your information be relevant you’ll be called as a witness, and you’ll be paid for that.”

“Well, sir,” said the man, with an angry smirk, “I must say you’re very outspoken.”

“I should advise you to follow my example.”

The footman thought for a moment, and shot a rather apprehensive glance at the inspector.

“It’s merely an incident,” he said at last.