Enter A Murderer ra-2, page 16
part #2 of Roderick Alleyn Series
“Where is the property-room?” asked Nigel.
“All down that passage to the stage door. It’s a dock really. Big double doors open on to the stage, and, beyond old Blair’s perch, there are other doors opening into the yard. See what I mean, sir? When Saint goes off with Miss Emerald he passes our man at the stage door, goes out into the yard, and slips into the dock by the pilot door that’s cut in the big ones. The double doors on to the stage are shut. He turns on one light, types his letter, wipes over the keys, and slips out. And that dame knows what he’s doing and keeps a look out.”
“Still after the Emerald, I see,” said Alleyn.
Nigel remembered his theory about Saint and the proscenium door. He advanced it modestly and was listened to by Detective Bailey with a kind of grudging respect peculiar to that official.
“Well,” said Alleyn, “it’s possible, Bailey. But any of the others could have done the typewriter business — or, at any rate, some of them could. Simpson could, for instance. Think a moment. Who was nearest to the stage door and most able to slip out unnoticed?”
Bailey stared at him.
“Gosh!” he said at last.
“You mean — old Blair?” Nigel said slowly.
“Who was asleep,” added Alleyn placidly. The other two gaped at him.
“Well,” said Alleyn, “nothing’s conclusive, but everything is healthier. It all begins to come together very nicely.”
“Glad you’re pleased, sir,” said Bailey with unexpected sarcasm.
“What about prints on the letter?”
“Only Mr. Gardener and Mr. Bathgate.”
“And the paper from Surbonadier’s flat? The one with the forged signature?”
“Plenty of Mr. Surbonadier’s, sir, and something else that’s very indistinct and old. I’m having an enlarged photograph taken and can’t give an opinion till I’ve got it. It may turn out to be the deceased, too.”
“Let me know at once if it is, Bailey. I’d like to see the photograph.”
“Very good, sir.”
Bailey was at the door when Alleyn stopped him.
“By the way, Bailey,” he said, “I suppose you’ve heard that we couldn’t get any forrader with the cartridges. Inspector Fox tells me every gunsmith’s and sports shop in the country has been probed.”
“That’s right, sir. Very unsatisfactory,” said Bailey, and withdrew.
“Alleyn,” said Nigel, after a pause, “can’t you force Props to say whom he saw moving round in the dark?”
“I could try, but he can so easily say he doesn’t know who it was. His words were: ‘If I thought I saw a bloke, or it might have been a woman, moving round in the dark… ’ Not very conclusive.”
“But surely he now thinks you’ve got the wrong man, and will tell you who it was, to save Saint.”
“He’s very anxious,” said Alleyn, “to save — the murderer.”
“Who is probably Saint,” said Nigel. “I see. But what about Stephanie Vaughan? Alleyn, if you’d heard her as I did — Oh, my God, I believe she did it! I believe she did.”
“Look here, Bathgate. Could you take a day off tomorrow and go into the country on a job for me?”
“Not possible,” said the astonished Nigel. “What sort of job? I’ve got my own job, you might remember.”
“I want you to go to High Wycombe and see if you can trace a man called Septimus Carewe.”
“You want to get rid of me,” said Nigel indignantly. “Septimus Carewe, my foot!” he added with conviction.
“I mean it.”
“What on earth for!”
“I’m uneasy about you.”
“Bosh!”
“Have it your own way.”
“What are you doing to-morrow, may I ask?”
“I,” said Alleyn, “am putting on a show at the Unicorn.”
“What the devil do you mean?”
“The company is under notice to report at various police stations every day. They have all been asked to report at the Unicorn at eleven to-morrow. I intend to hold a reconstruction of the murder.”
“As you did in the Frantock case?”
“The conditions are very different. In this instance I am simply using the characters to prove my theory. In the Arthur Wilde case I forced his confession. This, unless these unspeakable mummers insist on dramatising themselves, will be less theatrical.”
“I shall be there, however.”
“I don’t want you there.”
“Why ever not?”
“It’s a very unpleasant business. I loathe homicide cases and the result of this investigation will be perfectly beastly.”
“If I could stand the Frantock case, when my own cousin was murdered, I can stand this.”
“You’d much better keep away.”
“I do think you’re bloody,” said Nigel fretfully.
Fox came in.
“Hullo,” said Alleyn. “Everything fixed up?”
“Yes. Saint’s tucked up in bed and the specialist’s been sent for.”
“I’ve just been telling Mr. Bathgate,” said Alleyn, “that I don’t want him at the theatre to-morrow, and he’s got the huff in consequence.”
“Inspector Alleyn’s quite right, sir,” said Fox. “You’d better keep clear of this business. After what you overheard this morning.”
“Do you suppose Miss Vaughan is going to ram an arsenic chocolate down my maw?”
The two detectives exchanged a look.
“Oh, well, I’m off,” said Nigel angrily.
“Good evening,” said Alleyn cheerfully.
Nigel allowed himself the doubtful luxury of slamming the door.
Once out in the street he began to feel rather foolish, and angrier than ever with Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn for causing this uncomfortable sensation. It was now seven o’clock and Nigel was hungry. He walked rapidly to Regent Street and went into the downstairs restaurant at the Hungaria, where he had a morose and extravagant dinner. He ordered himself brandy, and a cigar which he did not want and did not enjoy. When these were exhausted Nigel called for his bill, tipped his waiter, and marched out of the restaurant.
“Damn it,” he said to Lower Regent Street. “I’m going there to-morrow whether he likes it or not.”
He took a taxi to his flat in Chester Terrace.
Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn also dined alone, at a restaurant near the Yard. He returned to his room soon after eight, opened the file of the Unicorn case and went over it very carefully with Inspector Fox. They were two hours at this business. Naseby came in and reported. He had seen Props and had brought off his conversation nicely. Props had seemed very much upset and when last seen was walking in the direction of the King’s Road. Naseby had seen him go into a telephone-box and had then left him to Detective Thompson, who preferred to carry on without being relieved.
Alleyn and Fox returned to the file. Bit by bit they strung together the events of the last three days, and Alleyn talked and Fox listened. At one stage he cast himself back in his chair and stared for fully ten seconds at his superior.
“Do you agree?” asked Alleyn.
“Oh, yes,” said Fox heavily, “I agree.”
He thought for a moment and then he said:
“I’ve been thinking that in difficult homicide cases you either get no motive or too many motives. In this instance there are too many. Jacob Saint had been blackmailed by the deceased; Stephanie Vaughan was pestered and threatened. Trixie Beadle was probably ruined by him; Props was what lawyers called ‘deeply wronged.’ So was the girl’s father. That Emerald woman gets Saint’s money by it. Well, I don’t mind owning I’ve had my eye on all of ’em in turn. There you are.”
“I know,” said Alleyn, “I’ve been through the same process myself. Now look here, Fox. It seems to me there are one or two key pieces in this puzzle. One is the, to me, inexplicable fact that Surbonadier kept that sheet of paper with the experimental signatures: Edward Wakeford, Edward Wakeford, Edward Wakeford. I say inexplicable, in the light of any theory that has been advanced. Another is the evidence of the prints on the typewriter. A third is the behaviour of Stephanie Vaughan last night in Surbonadier’s flat. Why did she pretend one of her letters was missing and get me hunting for it? I may tell you I left a folded piece of plain paper in the iron-bound box. While I was out of the room she took that paper. Why? Because she thought it was the document she was after.”
“The Mortlake letter or the signatures?”
“Not the Mortlake letter. Why should she risk all that to save Saint?”
“The signatures then?”
“I think so. Now put that together with the fragment of conversation Mr. Bathgate overheard this morning, and what do you get?”
“The fragment of conversation,” said Fox slowly.
“Exactly.”
“I believe you’re right, sir. But have you got enough to put before a jury?”
“I’ve got a man down at Cambridge now, ferreting about in past history. If he fails I’m still going for it. The reconstruction to-morrow morning will help.”
“But he won’t be there — Saint, I mean.”
“You are going to climb Jacob’s ladder for me tomorrow, my Foxkin.”
The telephone rang. Alleyn answered it.
“Hullo. Yes. Where? But what about our men at the doors? Simon’s Alley. I see. Well, get back to it and if he comes out detain him. I’ll be there. No, don’t go in alone. How long have you left the place? I see. Get back there quickly.”
Alleyn clapped the receiver down.
“Fox,” he said, “we’re going to the Unicorn.”
“Now?”
“Yes, and damn’ quick. I’ll tell you on the way.”
CHAPTER XX
Exit Props
“After Naseby left the King’s Road,” said Alleyn, when they were in the car, “Thompson watched Props in the telephone-box. He put two calls through. As soon as he had gone Thompson went in and asked for the numbers. The operator had lost them. Thompson darted out and managed to pick Props up again. He spent the time wandering about the streets, but always drawing nearer this part of the world. Just before Thompson rang up, Props had led him into the jumble of streets round the back of the Unicorn. He kept him in sight until he turned up a cul-de-sac called Simon’s Alley. Thompson followed and came to a gate leading into a yard. He looked round and decided that he was somewhere at the back of the theatre. He climbed the gate and found an open window that he believes gives into some part of the Unicorn. It was pitch-dark inside. Thompson was in a quandary. He decided to call me. First of all he managed to find one of our men and told him what he’d seen. That took some time. The man hailed a constable and left him in his place while he himself came round to the gate. That took longer. Thompson, whom Allah preserve, for I won’t, prowled round on a Cooks’ tour in search of a telephone and finally rang me up. Lord knows how long the gate was left unguarded. Quite five minutes, I should say, if not longer.”
“Well, sir, whatever Props was up to it would probably take longer than that.”
“Yes. Of course it was difficult for Thompson. He didn’t want to start blowing his whistle and the gaff at the same time. Now here’s where we get out and grope for Simon’s Alley. I’ll just see the others first.”
They left the car and went back a little way to where a second police car was drawn up. Alleyn gave instructions to the six constables who were in it. They were to split up singly, go to the several doors of the theatre, and enter it, leaving the men already on guard in their places.
“I don’t know what we’ll find,” said Alleyn, “but I expect it’ll be in the stage half of the theatre. You four come quietly through the stalls, from the several doors, and wait by the orchestra well. Don’t use your torches unless you’ve got to. You come in at the back entrance, and at the stage door. Don’t make a move until you get the word from Inspector Fox or myself. If you meet anything, grab it. Right?”
“Right, sir.”
“Away you go then. Come on, Fox.”
They had pulled up some little way from the back of the Unicorn. Alleyn led the way through a confused jumble of by-streets into the dingy thoroughfare behind the theatre. At last they came into a very narrow, blind street. Alleyn pointed up at the corner building and Fox read the notice: “Simon’s Alley.”
They walked quietly along the left-hand pavement. The roof of the Unicorn, looking gigantic, cut across the night-blue sky. No one was abroad in Simon’s Alley and the traffic of Piccadilly and Trafalgar Square sounded remote. They heard Big Ben strike eleven. In a little while they saw the figure of a man standing very still in the shadows. Alleyn waited until he had come up with him.
“Is that you, Thompson?” he said very quietly.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry if I’ve gone wrong over this.”
“Not altogether your fault, but it would have been better if you’d kept your relief with you. Sure Hickson went in here?”
“Yes, sir. I had to leave this gate unwatched while I got the constable to come round. It’s a long way round, too, but it wasn’t more than eight minutes. I hope Hickson’s still inside.”
“Stay here. Don’t move unless you hear my whistle. Come on, Fox.”
He put his foot on the gate handle and climbed up. For a moment his silhouette showed dark against the sky. Then he disappeared. Fox followed him. The yard was strewn with indistinguishable rubbish. They picked their way cautiously towards the wall in front of them, and turned a corner, where the yard narrowed into an alley-way behind a low building. Here they found the open window. Alleyn noticed the old and broken shutter and the hole in the pane that would allow access to the catch. With a mental shrug at the watchman’s idea of a burglar-proof theatre, Alleyn put his hands on the sill, wriggled through, and waited for Fox, who soon stood beside him. They took off their shoes and stayed there in the dark, listening.
Alleyn’s eyes became accustomed to the murk; he saw that they were in a small lumber-room of sorts, that its only door stood open, and that there was a wall beyond. The place smelt disused and dank. He switched on his torch for a moment. From the room they went into a narrow stone passage, up half a dozen steps, and through another door. They took a right-angled turn and passed a row of doors, all of them locked. The passage turned again and grew lighter. Alleyn touched Fox on the hand and pointed to the side and then forward. Fox nodded. They were in country they knew. These were the dressing-rooms. They moved now with the utmost caution and came to the elbow in the passage where Alleyn and Nigel had met Simpson on the night of the murder. There was Gardener’s dressing-room and there on the door beyond it hung the tarnished star. A thin flood of light met them. Props had turned on a lamp, somewhere beyond, where the stage was. Alleyn crept forward hugging the wall. He held up his hand. From somewhere out on the stage came a curious sound. It was a kind of faint sibilation as of two surfaces that brushed together, parted, brushed together again. They stayed very still, listening to this whisper, and presently thought it was accompanied by the echo of a creak.
“Scenery,” breathed Fox. “Hanging.”
“Perhaps.”
Alleyn edged down the passage until he could see part of the stage. Nothing stirred. It was very ill-lit out there. He thought what light there was must come from the pilot-lamp above the book in the prompt corner. They waited again for some minutes. Alleyn could see through one of the stage entrances that the curtain was up. Beyond, in the darkness, two of his men must be waiting. Round on his left in the stage door passage, yet another man stood and listened, and a fourth had come in at the back door and was motionless, somewhere in the shadows across the stage. He knew they must all be there, as silent as himself and as silent as Props.
At last he went out on to the stage. He went to the stage door passage and stood there, knowing his man must see him against the light. Presently a hand touched his arm.
“Nobody here or in the dock, sir.”
Fox was out on the stage and had crossed through the wings. Alleyn gave him a few minutes longer, and then made his way to the prompt corner. He went out by the footlights, where he knew the men in the stalls would see him. He pointed his torch out into the house and switched it on. A face leapt out of the dark and blinked. One of his own men. He hunted round the stage which was set as he had left it. His stocking foot trod on a piece of glass that must have been left there from the broken chandelier. All this time the faint, sibilant noise and the intermittent creak persisted. He now realised that they came from above his head.
Perhaps Props was back in his perch up there in the grid. Perhaps he waited with a rope in his hands ready to loose another bulk of dead weight. But why should Props let that noise go on up there? There was no draught of air.
From the centre of the stage Alleyn spoke aloud. He was conscious of a dread to hear his own voice. When it came it sounded strange.
“Fox!” he said. “Where are you?”
“Here, sir.” Fox was over near the prompt corner.
“Get up that little iron ladder to the switchboard. If he’s here he’s lying low. Give us all the light in the house. I refuse to play sardines with Mr. Hickson.”
Fox climbed the ladder slowly. From down in front one of the constables gave a deprecatory cough.
Click. Click.
The circle came into view, then the stalls. The constables were standing in the two aisles.
Click.
The footlights sprang up in a white glare. Then the proscenium was cinctured with warmth. The lamp on the stage suddenly came alive. The passages glowed. A blaze of light sprang up above the stage. The theatre was awake.
In the centre of the stage Alleyn stood with his eyes screwed up, blinded by light. The two constables came through the wings, their hands arched over their faces. From the switchboard Fox said:
“That’s light enough to see an invisible man.”
Alleyn, still peering, bent over the footlights. “You two in front,” he said, “search the place thoroughly— offices upstairs — cloak-rooms — everything. We’ll deal with this department.”
