Enter A Murderer ra-2, page 3
part #2 of Roderick Alleyn Series
“I suppose old Felix has cut that bounder out?” he ventured.
“Yes,” said Alleyn. “Oh, yes — that, of course.” The warning bell set up its intolerable racket. “Come on,” said Alleyn. “Don’t let’s miss any of it.” He fidgeted while Nigel finished his drink, and led the way back to their stalls.
“The supper-party won’t be much fun, I’m afraid,” said Nigel.
“Oh — the supper-party. Perhaps it’ll be off.”
“Perhaps. What’ll we do if it’s on? Apologize and get out?”
“Wait and see.”
“Helpful suggestion!”
“I don’t think the supper-party will happen.”
“Here she goes,” remarked Nigel, as the lights slowly died away, leaving the auditorium in thick-populated darkness.
At the bottom of the blackness in front of them a line of light appeared. It widened, and in a silence so complete that the sound of the pulleys could be heard, the curtain rose on the last act of The Rat and the Beaver.
It opened with a scene between the Beaver (Surbonadier), his cast-off mistress (Janet Emerald), and her mother (Susan Max). They were all involved in the opium trade. One of their number had been murdered. They had suspected him of being a stool-pigeon in the employ of Carruthers, alias the Rat (Felix Gardener). Miss Emerald threatened, Miss Max snivelled, Surbonadier snarled. He took a revolver from his pocket and loaded it while they watched him significantly.
“What are you going to do?” whispered Janet Emerald.
“Pay a little visit to Mister Carruthers.”
The stage was blacked out for a quick change.
Carruthers (Felix Gardener) was discovered in his library among the leather chairs that Nigel and Alleyn had seen from the wings. It was still uncertain, to all but the wariest playgoer, whether he was the infamous Rat, organizer of illicit drug traffic, agent of the Nazis, enemy of the people, or the heroic servant of the British Secret Service. He sat at his desk and rapped out a letter on the typewriter, the keyboard of which was not visible.
“He pounds away at the letter Q,” whispered Nigel, full of inside knowledge.
To Gardener came Jennifer (Stephanie Vaughan), passionately in love with him, believing him false, fascinated in spite of her nobler self, by the famous Felix charm. Miss Vaughan did this sort of thing remarkably well, the audience was enchanted, especially as at any moment the bookcase might slide back revealing the Butler (J. Barclay Crammer), whom they knew to be a gun-man of gun-men. It was, as Nigel had remarked in reviewing the play, a generous helping out of the old stock-pot, but Felix Gardener and Stephanie Vaughan played it with subtlety and restraint. The lines were sophisticated if the matter was melodramatic, and “it went.” Even when the sliding bookcase slid and the gun-man did seize Miss Vaughan by her lovely elbows and pinion her, he did it, as it were, on the turn of an epigram, since as well as being a butler and a gun-man he was also an Etonian.
Miss Vaughan was borne off registering a multitude of conflicting emotions and Felix Gardener remained wrapped in the closest inscrutability. He took out his pipe, filled and lit it, gave a little audible sigh and sank into one of the leather chairs. “Isn’t he marvellous!” breathed a woman’s voice from behind Nigel. Nigel smiled a superior but tolerant smile and glanced at Alleyn. The inspector’s dark eyes were fixed on the stage.
“Positively,” thought Nigel, more tolerant than ever, “positively old Alleyn’s all het up.” Then he saw Alleyn’s eyebrow jerk up and his lips tighten and he himself turned to the stage and experienced an emotional shock.
Surbonadier, in his character of the Beaver, was standing in the upstage entrance facing the audience. With one hand he held on to the door and with the other he fumbled with his spotted neckerchief below his scrubby beard. His mouth was half open and he seemed to be short of breath.
At last he spoke. So complete was the duplication of the scene in the dressing-room that Nigel expected to hear him repeat: “Quite a jolly little party,” and got another shock when he said very softly:
“So the Rat’s in his hole at last!”
“Beaver!” whispered Felix Gardener. It was a line that most actors would have played for a laugh. Few actors could have played it otherwise, but Felix Gardener did. He made it sound horrible.
The Beaver came downstage. His right hand now held a revolver. “You’re not a killer, Rat,” he said. “I am. Put ’em up.”
Gardener’s hands went slowly above his head. Surbonadier patted him all over, still covering him with the gun. Then he backed away. He began to arraign Gardener. The intensity of his fury, repressed and controlled apparently by the most stringent effort, touched the audience like venom. The emotional contact between the players and the house was tightened to an almost unendurable tension. Nigel felt profoundly uncomfortable. It seemed to him that this was no fustian scene between the Rat and the Beaver, but a development of the antagonism of two men, indecently played out in public. “Carruthers, the Rat” was his friend Felix Gardener, and the “Beaver” was Arthur Surbonadier, who hated him. The whole business was beastly and he would have liked to look away from it, but for the life of him he couldn’t do so.
“Round every corner, Rat, you’ve waited for me,” Surbonadier was saying now. “Every job I’ve done this last year you’ve bitched for me, Rat — Rat. You’ve mucked round my girl.” His voice rose hysterically. “I’ve had enough. I’m through — I’ve come to finish it and, by God, I’ve come to finish you!”
“Not this evening, Beaver. It’s a lovely little plan and I hate to spoil your party, but you see we’re not alone.”
“What are you saying?”
“We’re not alone.” Gardener spoke with the exasperating facetiousness of the popular hero. “There’s a good angel watching over you, Beaver. You’re covered, my Beaver.”
“Do I look easy?”
“You look lovely, my Beaver, but if you don’t believe me take a step to your right and glance in the mirror behind me, and I think you’ll see the image of the angel that’s watching you.”
Surbonadier moved upstage. His right hand still held the revolver levelled at Gardener, but for a second he shifted his gaze to the mirror above Gardener’s head. Then slowly he turned and stared at the upstage entrance. A moment, and Stephanie Vaughan stood in the doorway. She too held a revolver, pointed at Surbonadier.
“Jenny!” whispered Surbonadier. He dropped his hand and the barrel of the gun shone blue. It hung limply from his fingers and as though in a dream he let Gardener take it from him.
“Thank you, Jennifer, ” said Gardener. Miss Vaughan, with a little laugh, lowered her gun.
“You don’t have any luck, do you, Beaver?” she said.
Surbonadier uttered a curious little whinnying sound, turned, and clawed at Gardener’s neck, forcing up his chin. Gardener’s hand jerked up. The report of the revolver, anticipated by every nerve in the audience, was deafeningly loud. Surbonadier crumpled up and, turning a face that was blank of every expression but that of profound astonishment, fell in a heap at Gardener’s feet. So far the acting honours in the scene had been even, but now Felix Gardener surpassed anything that had gone before. His face reflected, horribly, the surprise on Surbonadier’s. He stood looking foolishly at the gun in his hand and then let it fall to the floor. He turned, bewildered, and peering at the audience as though asking a question. He looked at the stage exits as if he meditated an escape. Then he gazed at Stephanie Vaughan, who, in her turn, was looking with horror from him to what he had done. When at last he spoke — and his lips moved once or twice before any words were heard — it was with the voice of an automaton. Miss Vaughan replied like an echo. They spoke as though they were talking machines. Gardener kept his gaze fixed on the revolver. Once he made as if he would pick it up, but drew his hand back as though it were untouchable.
“God, that man can act!” said a voice behind Nigel. He woke up to feel Alleyn’s hand on his knee.
“Is this the end?” the inspector whispered.
“Yes,” said Nigel. “The curtain comes down in a moment.”
“Then let’s get out.”
“What!”
“Let’s get out,” repeated Alleyn; and then, with a change of voice: “Are you looking for me?”
Their seats were on the aisle. Glancing up, Nigel saw that an usher was bending over his friend.
“Are you Inspector Alleyn, sir?”
“Yes. You want me. I’ll come. Get up, Bathgate.”
Completely at a loss, Nigel rose and followed Alleyn and the usher up the aisle, into the foyer, and out by a sort of office to the stage door alley. No one spoke until then, when the usher said:
“It’s terrible, sir — it’s terrible.”
“Quite,” said Alleyn coldly. “I know.”
“Did you guess, sir? Have they all guessed?”
“I don’t think so. Is someone going to ask for a doctor? Not that there’s any hurry for that.”
“My Gawd, sir, is he dead?”
“Of course he’s dead.”
As they approached the stage door old Blair came running out, wringing his hands.
Alleyn walked past him, followed by Nigel. A man in a dinner jacket, his face very white, came down the passage.
“Inspector Alleyn?” he said.
“Here,” said Alleyn. “Is the curtain down?”
“I don’t think so. Shall I go out in front and ask for a doctor? We didn’t realize. I didn’t stop the show. Nobody realized — they don’t know in front — I don’t think they know in front. He said we ought to send for you,” the man gabbled on madly. They reached the wings just as the curtain came down; Stephanie Vaughan and Gardener were still on the stage. The applause from the auditorium broke like a storm of hail. Simpson, the stage manager, darted out of the prompt corner. As soon as the fringe of the curtain touched the stage Miss Vaughan screamed and hurled her arms round Gardener’s neck. Simpson held back the curtain, looking with horror at Surbonadier, who lay close to his feet. The man in evening dress, who was the business manager, stepped through. The orchestra blared out the first note of the National Anthem, but the man must have held up his hand or spoken to them, because the noise of the one note petered out foolishly. On the stage they heard the business manager speaking to the audience.
“If there is a doctor in front, will he kindly come round to the stage door? Thank you.”
The orchestra again struck up the National Anthem. Behind the curtain Alleyn spoke to Simpson.
“Go to the street door and stop anyone from leaving. No one is to go out. You understand? Bathgate, find a telephone and get the Yard. Tell them from me what has happened and ask them to send the usual people. Say I’ll want constables.” He turned to the business manager, who had come through the curtain. “Show Mr. Bathgate the way to the nearest telephone and then come back here.” He knelt down by Surbonadier.
The business manager glanced at Nigel.
“Where’s a telephone?” asked Nigel.
“Yes, of course,” said the business manager. “I’ll show you.”
They went together through a door in the proscenium that led to the auditorium, almost colliding with a tall man in a tail coat
“I’m the doctor,” he said. “What’s it all about?”
“On the stage,” said Nigel, “if you’ll go through.” The doctor glanced at him and went on to the stage.
In the auditorium the last stragglers were still finding their way out. Some women with their heads together stood with bundles of dust sheets in their arms.
“Get on with your work,” said the business manager savagely. “My name’s Stavely, Mr. — Mr. —”
“Bathgate,” said Nigel.
“Yes, of course. This is a terrible business, Mr. Bathgate.”
“No one,” thought Nigel, “seems to be able to say anything but this.”
They crossed the foyer into an office. People were still standing about the entrance and a woman said:
“You’re not very clever about taxis, are you, darling?”
Nigel, at the telephone, remembered the Yard number. A man’s voice answered him very quickly.
“I’m speaking for Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn,” said Nigel. “There’s been an accident at the Unicorn — a—a fatal accident. He wants you to send the usual people and constables at once.”
“Very good,” said the voice. “Did you say fatal accident?”
“Yes,” said Nigel, “I think so, and I think—” He stopped, gulped, and then his voice seemed to add of its own accord: “I think it looks like murder.”
CHAPTER IV
Alleyn Takes Over
When Nigel got back to the stage he was surprised to find little alteration in the scene he had left. He did not realize how short a time he had been away. The doctor had finished his examination of Surbonadier’s body and stood looking down at him.
Miss Vaughan was still on the stage. She was sobbing in the arms of old Susan Max. Felix Gardener was near her, but he seemed unaware of anyone but Alleyn and the doctor. He looked from one to the other, distractedly moving his head like someone in pain. When he saw Nigel he walked over to him swiftly and stood beside him. Nigel took hold of his arm and squeezed it. In the wings, masked in shadows, were groups of people.
“I haven’t moved him,” said the doctor. “It’s a very superficial examination, but quite enough for your purpose. He was shot through the heart and died instantly.”
“I shot him,” said Gardener suddenly. “I’ve killed him. I’ve killed Arthur.”
The doctor glanced at him uneasily.
“Shut up, Felix,” Nigel murmured. He looked at Alleyn. The inspector was standing talking to George Simpson. They walked to the prompt box. Simpson was showing Alleyn something. It was the gun he used for the faked report.
“I never knew,” he kept saying. “They went off at the same time. I never knew. This was a blank. I never even pointed it. It couldn’t have done anything, could it?”
Alleyn came back on to the stage. He spoke to all the people in the wings and on the set. “Will you all go to the wardrobe-room, please? I shall take statements later. You will, of course, want to change and take off your war paint. I am afraid I must forbid any access to the dressing-rooms until I have been through them, but I understand there is a wash-basin and a mirror in the wardrobe-room and I shall have your things sent in to you there. Just a moment, please. Don’t go yet.”
Six men were making their way through the crowd in the wings. Three of the newcomers were uniformed constables. The others were plain clothes men. They were given place and walked on to the stage.
“Well, Bailey,” said Alleyn.
“Well, sir,” said one of the plain clothes men. “What’s the trouble?”
“As you see.” Alleyn turned towards the body. The men pulled off their hats. One of them put a handbag down by Alleyn, who nodded. Detective-Sergeant Bailey, a fingerprint official, bent down and looked at the body.
“You men,” said Alleyn to the constables, “take everyone to the wardrobe-room. One of you stay outside and one at the stage door. Nobody to come out or go in. Mr. Simpson will show you. He goes in too. Please, Mr. Simpson.”
The stage manager started forward and looked wanly round the stage.
“Everybody in the wardrobe-room, please,” he said, as though he was calling a rehearsal. He turned to the constables. “This way, please,” he added.
He walked off the stage, a policeman following him. A second man waited a moment and then said:
“Just move along, please, ladies and gentlemen.” Old Susan Max, roundabout, sensible, said: “Come along, dear,” to Miss Vaughan. Miss Vaughan stretched out her hands dumbly to Gardener, who did not look at her. She turned towards Alleyn, who watched her curiously, and then, with a very touching dignity, she let herself be led off by Susan Max. At the doorway she turned and looked again at the dead man, shuddered, and disappeared into the wings.
“Lovely exit, wasn’t it?” said the inspector.
“Alleyn!” exclaimed Nigel, really shocked.
Miss Janet Emerald, the “heavy” woman, said: “Bounder!” from behind a piece of scenery.
“Let us go,” replied the voice of J. Barclay Crammer. “We are in these people’s hands.” He appeared on the stage, crossed it, and gripped Gardener’s hand. “Come, old man,” he said. “With me. Together.”
“Oh, get along, the whole lot of you,” exclaimed Alleyn with the utmost impatience. Mr. Crammer looked at him, more in sorrow than in anger, and did as he suggested. Gardener straightened his back and managed the veriest ghost of a smile. “You agree with me about actors, I see,” he said.
Alleyn responded instantly: “They are a bit thick, aren’t they?”
“I want to say,” said Gardener, “that I know I’ve killed him; but, before God, Mr. Alleyn, I didn’t load that revolver.”
“Don’t talk,” said Nigel. “They’ll find out everything — they’ll clear you. Don’t worry more than you can help, you know.”
Gardener waited a moment. He looked like a man coming round from concussion to realize gradually his abominable surroundings.
“Look here,” he said suddenly. “Somebody must have—” He stopped short. A terrified look came into his eyes. Nigel took him by the elbow again and gently urged him forward. “You’re a decent old sausage, Nigel,” he said uncertainly. “Oh, well—”
“Now!” said Alleyn with relief.
They all turned to him.
“Can we have the whole story?” asked the older of the two C.I.D. men.
“You can. Here it is—”
Alleyn was interrupted by a shrill scream that seemed to come from the dressing-room passage. A woman’s voice raised in hideous falsetto was mingled with an exasperated baritone. “Let me alone, let me alone, let me alone!”
