The telephone rang.
“I say, do let me answer it,” Mike suggested and did so.
“Hullo?” he said winningly. He listened, smiling at his hostess.
“I’m afraid—,” he began. “Here, wait a bit — Yes, but—” His expression became blank and complacent. “May I,” he said presently, “repeat your order, sir? Can’t be too sure, can we? Call at 11 Harrow Gardens, Sloane Square, for one suitcase to be delivered immediately at the Jupiter Theatre to Mr. Anthony Gill. Very good, sir. Thank you, sir. Collect. Quite.”
He replaced the receiver and beamed at the Alleyns.
“What the devil have you been up to?” Alleyn said.
“He just simply wouldn’t listen to reason. I tried to tell him.”
“But it may be urgent,” Mrs. Alleyn ejaculated.
“It couldn’t be more urgent, really. It’s a suitcase for Tony Gill at the Jupiter.”
“Well, then—”
“I was at Eton with the chap,” said Mike reminiscently. “He’s four years older than I am so of course he was madly important while I was less than the dust. This’ll larn him.”
“I think you’d better put that order through at once,” said Alleyn firmly.
“I rather thought of executing it myself, do you know, sir. It’d be a frightfully neat way of gate-crashing the show, wouldn’t it? I did try to get a ticket but the house was sold out.”
“If you’re going to deliver this case you’d better get a bend on.”
“It’s clearly an occasion for dressing up though, isn’t it? I say,”
said Mike modestly, “would you think it most frightful cheek if I — well I’d promise to come back and return everything. I mean—”
“Are you suggesting that my clothes look more like a vanman’s than yours?”
“I thought you’d have things—”
“For Heaven’s sake, Rory,” said Mrs. Alleyn, “dress him up and let him go. The great thing is to get that wretched man’s suitcase to him.”
“I know,” said Mike earnestly. “It’s most frightfully sweet of you.
That’s how I feel about it.”
Alleyn took him away and shoved him into an old and begrimed raincoat, a cloth cap, and a muffler. “You wouldn’t deceive a village idiot in a total eclipse,” he said, “but out you go.”
He watched Mike drive away and returned to his wife.
“What’ll happen?” she asked.
“Knowing Mike, I should say he will end up in the front stalls and go on to supper with the leading lady. She, by the way, is Coralie Bourne. Very lovely and twenty years his senior so he’ll probably fall in love with her.” Alleyn reached for his tobacco jar and paused. “I wonder what’s happened to her husband,” he said.
“Who was he?”
“An extraordinary chap. Benjamin Vlasnoff. Violent temper.
Looked like a bandit. Wrote two very good plays and got run in three times for common assault. She tried to divorce him but it didn’t go through. I think he afterwards lit off to Russia.” Alleyn yawned.
“I believe she had a hell of a time with him,” he said.
“All Night Delivery,” said Mike in a hoarse voice, touching his cap.
“Suitcase. One.” “Here you are,” said the woman who had answered the door. “Carry it carefully, now, it’s not locked and the catch springs out.”
“Thanks,” said Mike. “Much obliged. Chilly, ain’t it?”
He took the suitcase out to the car.
It was a fresh spring night. Sloane Square was threaded with mist and all the lamps had halos round them. It was the kind of night when individual sounds separate themselves from the conglomerate voice of London; hollow sirens spoke imperatively down on the river and a bugle rang out over in Chelsea Barracks; a night, Mike thought, for adventure.
He opened the rear door of the car and heaved the case in. The catch flew open, the lid dropped back and the contents fell out.
“Damn!” said Mike and switched on the inside light.
Lying on the floor of the car was a false beard.
It was flaming red and bushy and was mounted on a chin-piece.
With it was incorporated a stiffened moustache. There were wire hooks to attach the whole thing behind the ears. Mike laid it carefully on the seat. Next he picked up a wide black hat, then a vast overcoat with a fur collar, finally a pair of black gloves.
Mike whistled meditatively and thrust his hands into the pockets of Alleyn’s mackintosh. His right-hand fingers closed on a card. He pulled it out. “Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn,” he read, “CID.
New Scotland Yard.”
“Honestly,” thought Mike exultantly, “this is a gift.”
Ten minutes later a car pulled into the curb at the nearest parking place to the Jupiter Theatre. From it emerged a figure carrying a suitcase. It strode rapidly along Hawke Street and turned into the stage-door alley. As it passed under the dirty lamp it paused, and thus murkily lit, resembled an illustration from some Edwardian spy story. The face was completely shadowed, a black cavern from which there projected a square of scarlet beard, which was the only note of color.
The doorkeeper who was taking the air with a member of stage staff, moved forward, peering at the stranger.
“Was you wanting something?”
“I’m taking this case in for Mr. Gill.”
“He’s in front. You can leave it with me.”
“I’m so sorry,” said the voice behind the beard, “but I promised I’d leave it backstage myself.”
“So you will be leaving it. Sorry, sir, but no one’s admitted be’ind without a card.”
“A card? Very well. Here is a card.”
He held it out in his black-gloved hand. The stage-doorkeeper, unwillingly removing his gaze from the beard, took the card and examined it under the light. “Coo!” he said, “what’s up, governor?”
“No matter. Say nothing of this.”
The figure waved its hand and passed through the door. “’Ere!”
said the doorkeeper excitedly to the stagehand, “take a slant at this.
That’s a plainclothes flattie, that was.”
“Plain clothes!” said the stagehand. “Them!”
“’E’s disguised,” said the doorkeeper. “That’s what it is. “E’s disguised ’isself.”
“’E’s bloody well lorst ’isself be’ind them whiskers if you arst me.”
Out on the stage someone was saying in a pitched and beautifully articulate voice: “I’ve always loathed the view from these windows.
However if that’s the sort of thing you admire. Turn off the lights, damn you. Look at it.”
“Watch it, now, watch it,” whispered a voice so close to Mike that he jumped. “OK,” said a second voice somewhere above his head. The lights on the set turned blue. “Kill that working light.”
“Working light gone.”
Curtains in the set were wrenched aside and a window flung open.
An actor appeared, leaning out quite close to Mike, seeming to look into his face and saying very distinctly: “God: it’s frightful!” Mike backed away towards a passage, lit only from an open door. A great volume of sound broke out beyond the stage. “House lights,” said the sharp voice. Mike turned into the passage. As he did so, someone came through the door. He found himself face to face with Coralie Bourne, beautifully dressed and heavily painted.
For a moment she stood quite still; then she made a curious gesture with her right hand, gave a small breathy sound and fell forward at his feet.
Anthony was tearing his program into long strips and dropping them on the floor of the OP box. On his right hand, above and below, was the audience; sometimes laughing, sometimes still, sometimes as one corporate being, raising its hands and striking them together.