He looked again towards Alleyn.

  “You told Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn of this impression?”

  “Yes. But I added that it really was not reliable.”

  “What name did you mention?”

  “None. Inspector Alleyn asked if I noticed a particular scent. I thought I had done so.”

  “You meant a perfume of sorts?”

  “Yes.”

  “With whom did you associate it?”

  “With Mr. Jacob Saint.”

  Mr. Phillip Phillips was on his feet, in righteous indignation. The coroner dealt with him, and turned to Gardener.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gardener.”

  Stephanie Vaughan appeared next. She was very composed and dignified, and gave her evidence lucidly. She confirmed everything that Alleyn had said as regards the stage-white and said that Surbonadier himself upset it after the others had gone. She believed it to be a case of suicide. The jury looked sympathetic and doubtful.

  The rest of the cast followed in turn. Barclay Crammer gave a good all-round performance of a heartbroken gentleman of the old school. Janet Emerald achieved the feat known to leading ladies as “running through the gamut of the emotions.” Asked to account for the striking discrepancies between her statement and those of Miss Max and the stage manager, she wept unfeignedly and said her heart was broken. The coroner stared at her coldly, and told her she was an unsatisfactory witness. Miss Deamer was youthfully sincere, and used a voice with an effective little broken gasp. Her evidence was supremely irrelevant. The stage manager and Miss Max were sensible and direct. Props looked and behaved so precisely like a murderer, that he left the box in a perfect gale of suspicion. Trixie Beadle struck the “I was an innocent girl” note, but was obviously frightened and was treated gently.

  “You say you knew deceased well. You mean you were on terms of great intimacy?”

  “I suppose you’d call it that,” said poor Trixie.

  Her father was sparse, respectful and rather pathetic. Howard Melville was earnest, sincere, and unhelpful. Old Blair gave his evidence rather mulishly. He was asked to give the names of the people who went in at the stage door, and did so, including those of Inspector Alleyn, Mr. Bathgate, and Mr. Jacob Saint. Had he noticed anybody wearing these gloves come in at the stage door?

  “Yes,” said old Blair, in a bored voice.

  “Who was this person?”

  “Mr. Saint.”

  “Mr. Jacob Saint? (If there is a repetition of this noise, I shall have the court cleared.) Are you certain of this?”

  “Yes,” said old Blair and withdrew.

  Mr. Jacob Saint stated that he was the proprietor of the theatre, that deceased was his nephew, and that he had seen him before the show. He identified the gloves as his, and said he had left them behind the scenes. He did not know where. He had visited Miss Emerald’s room, but did not think he was wearing them then. Probably he had put them down somewhere on the stage. To Nigel’s surprise no mention was made of the tension between Saint and Surbonadier. Mincing, the footman, was not called. Mr. Saint had not returned to the stage until after the tragedy.

  The coroner summed up at some length. He touched on the possibility of suicide, and rather belittled it. He directed the jury discreetly towards the verdict which, after an absence of twenty minutes, they ultimately returned — a verdict of murder against some person or persons unknown. As he left the court Nigel found himself walking behind Alleyn, and immediately in front of Janet Emerald and Saint. He was about to join the inspector when Miss Emerald pushed past him, and seized Alleyn by the arm.

  “Inspector Alleyn,” she said.

  Alleyn stopped and looked at her.

  “You were behind that.” She spoke quietly enough, but with a kind of suppressed violence. “You told that man to treat me as he did. Why was I singled out to be insulted and suspected? Why was Felix Gardener let off so lightly? Why isn’t he arrested? He shot Arthur. It’s infamous.” Her voice rose hysterically. Several people who had passed them stopped and looked back.

  “Janet,” said Saint hurriedly, “are you mad? Come away.”

  She turned and staged at him, burst into a passion of the most hair-raising sobs, and allowed herself to be led off.

  Alleyn looked after her thoughtfully.

  “Not mad, Mr. Saint,” he murmured. “No. I don’t think the Emerald is mad. Shall we say venomous to the point of foolhardiness?”

  He followed them out into the street, without noticing Nigel.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Shane Street to the Yard

  Nigel spent the afternoon in writing up his report of the inquest. He was greatly intrigued by the vast amount of information that had not come out. The coroner had skated nimbly over the Jacob Saint libel action, had made no comment at all on Surbonadier’s state of intoxication, and had walked like Aga in and out of Stephanie Vaughan’s dressing-room. The jury, an unusually docile one, had apparently felt no urge to ask independent questions. Their foreman, like the Elephant’s Child, had the air of saying “this is too buch for be.” Nigel imagined that, in their brief retirement, they had discussed the possibility of suicide, decided it wouldn’t wash, and agreed that the whole thing was too complex for any decision but the usual one, which they had given. He had sensed Alleyn’s extreme satisfaction; and now, once more, revised his own view of the case.

  He found that he had made up his mind that Saint was responsible for the murder. Yet Saint’s was the best of all the alibis. He had been alone in the audience, but Blair had sworn positively that he had not seen the proprietor of the Unicorn return to the stage between the acts. Saint had been in a box, and it was just possible that he could have slipped out during the black-out. At this point Nigel got his brain-wave. Suppose Jacob Saint had left his box under cover of the black-out and had gone through the door in the proscenium, on to the stage. This door had been locked when Stavely and Nigel went through, but Saint might easily have got hold of a key. There he would be, before the lights went out, in his box facing the audience, as large as life. Then complete darkness. Saint had left the box, slipped through the door, which he had perhaps previously unlocked, gone straight to the desk, colliding with Gardener on the way, pulled out the drawers and replaced the dummies with the cartridges. When the lights went up again — there was Mr. Saint sitting in his box at the Unicorn. Nigel was thrilled with himself and rang up Scotland Yard. Alleyn was out, but had made an appointment for four o’clock. Nigel said he would be there at 4.30.

  He felt fidgety and unable to settle down to anything. He was big with his theory. Presently he thought of Felix Gardener, and decided to walk round to Sloane Street and talk it over with him. He didn’t ring up. If Felix was out he would walk on down to Knightsbridge and take a bus to the Yard. He wanted exercise.

  Sloane Square, that full stop between Eatonia and Chelsea, had a look of sunny friendliness. Nigel bought a carnation for his coat, sent a silly telegram to his Angela, and walked lightly onwards. Sloane Street, with its air of quality and hint of boredom, was busier than usual. Nigel felt a sudden inclination to run, to whistle, to twirl his stick round. He glanced jauntily at a shabby-genteel man, who stood looking into the furniture shop next the flat. Gardener’s windows on the first floor were open. He spoke blithely to the commissionaire, refused the lift, and ran two steps at a time up the thickly-carpeted stairs to Gardener’s door.

  It was open and Nigel, without ringing, went into the little entrance hall that opened into the studio sitting-room. He was about to call out, cheerfully, and had actually drawn in his breath to do so, when he was brought up short by a woman’s voice coming from the studio room.

  “If I did it,” it cried urgently, “it was for you — for you, Felix. He was your worst enemy.”

  Nigel heard Gardener say slowly: “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”

  The woman began to laugh.

  “All for nothing!” she said, between paroxysms of choking. “Never mind — I don’t regret it. Do you hear that? But I don’t think you were worth it.”

  Scarcely aware of what he did, and conscious only of cataclysmic panic, Nigel banged the front door, and heard himself shout:

  “Hullo, Felix, are you at home?”

  Dead silence and then a sound of footsteps, and the studio door was thrown open.

  “Oh — it’s you, Nigel,” said Felix Gardener.

  Nigel didn’t look at him, but beyond, into the studio, where he saw Stephanie Vaughan, very attractive, in an arm-chair by the window. She held a handkerchief to her lips.

  “Why, it’s Nigel Bathgate,” she cried, with exactly the same inflexion as the one she used when she said: “Hullo, all you people,” in her first entrance in the play.

  “You’ve — you’ve met before,” said Gardener.

  Nigel managed to say something, even to take the hand she held out cordially towards him.

  “I only came in for a second,” he told Gardener.

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” said Miss Vaughan gaily. “You’ve come to have a boy friend chat — the sort that consists of drinks, cigarettes, long silences and a few risqué stories. I’m off, anyway, so you needn’t bother about me.”

  She rose to her feet in one lithe movement. She looked Nigel full in the face, and gave him the three-cornered smile.

  “Make Felix bring you to see me,” she commanded. “I rather like you, Nigel Bathgate. Felix — you hear? You’re to bring him to see me.”

  “Is this your purse?” asked Gardener. Nigel saw him put it on a table near her, and knew he didn’t want to touch her hand. He opened the door to her and she floated out, still talking. Gardener followed her, shut the door, and Nigel heard her voice, very low, outside. In another second the outer door slammed, and Gardener came back into the room.

  “It was decent of you to come, Nigel,” he said. “I’m all in.”

  He looked it. He sat down in front of the fire and held his hands to it. Nigel saw he was shaking:

  “I think you ought to see a doctor, Felix,” he ventured.

  “No, no. It’s only the after-effects of shock, I imagine. I’ll be all right. Think I’ll turn in presently and try for a little sleep. I haven’t been able to sleep much.”

  “Jolly sound idea. Why don’t you carry it out now? I’ll give you some aspirin and a stiff whisky, and leave you in peace.”

  “Oh, in a minute. Any news?”

  They had both managed to avoid speaking of Miss Vaughan. Nigel’s theory about Saint came into his mind. He smiled rather wryly to himself at the remembrance of his so recent enthusiasm. Did Gardener wonder if he had overheard anything? Nigel believed that idea had not entered his friend’s head. As Felix himself said, he was suffering from shock. Nigel forced himself to speak at random. It was hard to find anything to talk about. He who, hitherto, had barely impinged upon the edge of the theatrical world now found himself drawn into it. He felt, suddenly, as though he were surrounded by these people, as though, against his will, he was obliged to witness a play they had staged and as though he had been compelled to leave his seat in the auditorium and mingle confusedly with the action of the piece. The two men must have been silent for some time, for Nigel was startled to hear Gardener say suddenly:

  “She gave her evidence well, didn’t she?”

  “Who?”

  “Stephanie.”

  “Very well.”

  Some inflexion in Nigel’s voice arrested Gardener’s attention. He looked at his friend with a kind of agony in his eyes.

  “Nigel — you remember what I said. Neither of us is guilty. I gave you my word and you said you believed me.”

  “I know I did,” said Nigel miserably.

  “Are you beginning — to wonder?”

  “Are you sure you’re right, Felix? She— Oh, Lord!”

  Gardener laughed.

  “You are beginning to wonder. My God, if you only knew what a heroine she is!”

  “Can’t you come clean, Felix?”

  “I can’t — I can’t. Not about Stephanie. Oh, well, I suppose I can’t blame you. It looks pretty damning, for both of us. What does Alleyn say about the suicide theory?”

  “He tells me very little,” said Nigel.

  “The verdict of the inquest was wrong,” Gardener said urgently. “It was suicide. I’ll see Alleyn myself and try and make him—” He broke off short. “He must be made to accept that it was suicide.”

  “I must go. Do try and get some sleep, Felix.”

  “Sleep! ‘Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.’ Ugh! There goes the actor! Good-bye, Nigel.”

  “I’ll let myself out. Good-bye.”

  Nigel walked sombrely downstairs and out again into Sloane Street.

  He realized now that he had a terrible decision to make. Was he to tell Alleyn of the conversation he had overheard? A woman! He shied off the logical consequence of his statement, and then, despising himself, came back to it again. If he held his tongue what would happen? Would Felix, who loved her, let Saint be accused of the murder? He thought of Alleyn’s attitude towards his scruples, and suddenly realized that it was his own peace of mind that he was trying to salvage. He was in Knightsbridge, and walking down to Hyde Park Corner, when he made his decision. He had no right to withhold his knowledge. He would tell Alleyn. With a heavy heart he stopped a taxi.

  “Scotland Yard,” he said.

  It was not yet four o’clock when he got there, but the chief inspector was in and could see him. He went up at once.

  “Hullo, Bathgate,” Alleyn said. “What’s the matter with you? Found the murderer again?”

  “Please don’t rag me,” Nigel begged him. “It’s not a theory I’ve come to give you. It’s a statement”

  “Sit down. Now then, what is it?”

  “I suppose you won’t understand how awful this feels, Alleyn. To you, it’s all got to be completely impersonal. I can’t feel like that. It’s been rather an effort to come to you with this information. That sounds theatrical, I know, but you see — it’s a woman.”

  “What do you mean?” said Alleyn harshly. “What’s this information? You say you’ve got a statement to make — well, make it. I beg your pardon, Bathgate— I’m unbearable these days, aren’t I?”

  Nigel gulped.

  “I’ve overheard a confession,” he said.

  Alleyn waited a second, and then took up a pencil.

  “When?”

  “This afternoon about an hour ago.”

  “Where?”

  “At Felix’s flat.”

  “All right. Go ahead.”

  “It’s soon told. I went up into his little lobby, without knocking and I heard voices in the ‘studio’ as he calls it. A woman said: ‘If I did, it was for you, Felix. He was your worst enemy.’ Felix said: ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it,’ and she began to laugh, horribly, and said: ‘It was all for nothing. Never mind, I don’t regret it. Do you hear that? But I don’t think you were worth it.’ Then I shut the front door noisily and called out. Felix came and let me in. She was there.”

  “It was—?”

  “Stephanie Vaughan.”

  “Impossible,” said Alleyn fiercely.

  “You don’t think I could make a mistake over a thing like that, do you? I tell you I’ll never forget their voices for as long as I live.”

  Alleyn was silent for so long that Nigel stared at him in some discomfort. He looked as though he had made a shutter of his face. At last he said:

  “After all, Bathgate, this is not conclusive. ‘If I did, it was for you. He was your worst enemy.’ Suppose she had told Gardener that she had used some threat to Surbonadier, to choke him off, and that she believed she had driven him to suicide? Suppose they were not speaking of Surbonadier?”

  “If you had seen Felix you wouldn’t suggest that.”

  “Why — what do you mean?”

  “He’s a broken man,” said Nigel simply.

  “A broken man! A broken man! You’re getting as stagy as any of them. Barclay Crammer was a ‘broken man’ in the witness-box this morning, silly old ass.”

  Nigel got up.

  “Well, that’s all,” he said. “If you don’t think it’s conclusive, I’m damn’ thankful.”

  Alleyn leant over the desk and looked at him as though he were a museum piece.

  “If Diogenes had rolled up against you,” he observed, “he’d have got out of his barrel, filled it with booze and made whoopee.”

  “I suppose you mean to be nice,” said Nigel in a relieved voice.

  “I suppose I do. What happened afterwards?”

  “We made perfectly dreadful conversation. I must say she gave a marvellous performance.”

  “I believe you.”

  “She asked me to go and see her.” Nigel shuddered.

  “You’re not to go.”

  “Am I likely to?”

  “Listen to me. You’re to pay no more visits to these people. Understand?”

  “Yes — but what’s biting you?”

  “Unless I’m with you. Write your little articles, and mind your little business.”

  “This is what I get for doing the beastliest job of my life.”

  “My dear Bathgate, I do honestly appreciate your difficulty and am genuinely grateful,” said Inspector Alleyn, with one of his rather charming turns of formality. “But I do ask you to behave as I suggest. I can reward you with a very choice bit of copy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You may inform your public that Mr. Jacob Saint has been arrested, but that the nature of the charge is not known.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Arrest

  “As a matter of hard fact,” Alleyn continued, when he had noted, with satisfaction, Nigel’s dropped jaw, “Mr. Saint is still at large. I am just off now to do my stuff. Care to come?”

  “You bet I would. May I just ring up the office? I’ll catch the stop press for the last edition.”

  “Very well. Say no more than what I’ve told you. You’d better warn them to hold it back for another twenty minutes. If he’s not arrested, you can ring up. Aren’t I good to you?”

 

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