“And that’s what happened to-night?”
“Yes.”
“Did you examine them before you put them in the drawer?”
“I don’t think so — I–I don’t know.”
“Would you have known if they were genuine ammunition?”
“I don’t know — yes, I’m sure I would.”
“In spite of the property master’s art?”
“I don’t know, I tell you.”
“All right, all right, keep your hair on. If the property man was worried about the loose cartridge—”
“Yes. Yes, of course. They must have been dummies.”
“Q.E.D. Now, Mr. Simpson, that’s all for the moment. I see Inspector Fox is waiting out there. Just give him your address, will you, and get him to take you to your dressing-room? Show him which clothes you want to change into — no, wait a second; you’re in a dinner jacket, and I imagine won’t need to change. Fox!”
“Hullo!”
“Has the van come?”
“Outside now.”
“Oh. Well, see if Mr. Simpson wants anything from his dressing-room. And, Mr. Simpson, will you let Inspector Fox just have a look at you? Pure formality and whatnot. You needn’t if you don’t want to. Don’t get all het up over it.”
Simpson’s reply to this speech was indistinguishable.
Nigel, by dint of widening his peephole, could see Fox going rapidly and thoroughly through the stage manager’s pockets.
“Cigarette-case, two pounds in notes and cash, pocketbook, handkerchief, matches, no written matter at all. Want to see anything, sir?” he asked cheerfully.
“Not a thing. One last question. Would Gardener be certain to pull the trigger when he pretended to fire the shot into the Beaver?”
“Definitely certain. It was rehearsed most carefully. He always closed his left hand a fraction of a second before he pulled the trigger. That gave me the cue for the blank shot.”
“I see, yes. Thank you so much. Good night, Mr. Simpson.”
Fox and the stage manager walked away. Nigel was wondering if he might speak when Alleyn’s face suddenly appeared close to the door. The inspector laid his finger on his nose and made a face at Nigel, who was rather shocked at this display. Alleyn opened the door and came out. Nigel saw men with a stretcher on the stage and suddenly shut the door to. Alleyn looked curiously, but not unsympathetically, at him.
“Exit an actor, eh?” he said.
“You’re a callous old pig,” said Nigel.
“Did you get all that down?”
“I did.”
“Good boy. Hullo, who’s this? Stay where you are and stand by.”
Voices, noisy in argument, could be heard from somewhere near the stage door.
“What the hell d’yer mean?” someone inquired loudly. “It’s my theatre. Get out of my light.”
Nigel returned to his peephole. The body of Surbonadier had gone. Inspector Fox appeared in hot pursuit of a monster of a man in tails, with a gardenia in his coat. He advanced truculently upon Alleyn, uttering a sort of roaring noise.
“Mr. Jacob Saint, I believe,” said the inspector politely.
“And who the devil are you?”
“From the Yard, Mr. Saint, and in charge of this unhappy business. I am sorry you should have to meet such shocking news — I see you have heard of the tragedy. Mr. Surbonadier was your nephew, wasn’t he? May I offer my sympathy?”
“Who’s the swine that did him in?”
“At present we don’t know.”
“Was he drunk?”
“Since you ask me — yes.”
Jacob Saint eyed the inspector and suddenly threw his bulk into an arm-chair. Nigel was seized with an idea and began taking notes again.
“I was in front to-night,” said Saint.
“I saw you,” said Alleyn brightly.
“I didn’t know he was dead, but I knew he was drunk. He did it himself.”
“You think so?” Alleyn seemed quite unmoved by this announcement.
“Stavely rang me up at the Savoy. I was behind, earlier in the evening, and saw Arthur. He was tight then. I told him he’d have to get out at the end of the week. Couldn’t face the music and killed himself.”
“It would take extraordinary fortitude to load a revolver, play a part, and wait for another man to shoot you, I should have thought,” remarked Alleyn mildly.
“He was drunk.”
“So we agreed. He had provided himself with live cartridges before he was drunk perhaps.”
“What d’yer mean? Oh. Wouldn’t put it past him. Where’s Janet?”
“Who?”
“Miss Emerald.”
“The artists are all in the wardrobe-room.”
“I’ll go and see her.”
“Please don’t move, Mr. Saint. I’ll let her know. Miss Emerald, please, Fox.”
Inspector Fox went. Saint glared after him, appeared to hesitate and then produced a cigar-case. “Smoke?” he said.
“No, thank you so much,” said Alleyn. “I’m for a pipe.”
Saint lit a cigar.
“Understand this,” he said. “I’m no hypocrite and I don’t spill any sob stuff over Arthur. He was a rotten failure. When one of my shows crashes I forget about it — a dud speculation. So was Arthur. Rotten all through, and a coward, but enough of an actor to see himself in a star part at last — and play it. He was crazy to play a big part, and when I wouldn’t give him ‘Carruthers’ he — he actually threatened me — me!”
“Where did you see him to-night?”
“In his dressing-room. I had business in the office here and went behind.”
“Would you care to tell me what happened?”
“Told you already. He was drunk and I fired him.”
“What did he say?”
“Didn’t wait to listen. I had an appointment in the office for seven-fifteen. Janet!” Saint’s voice changed. He got to his feet. Nigel moved a little and saw that Janet Emerald had appeared in the prompt doorway. She gave a loud cry, rushed across the stage and threw herself into Saint’s arms.
“Jacco! Jacco!” she sobbed.
“Poor baby — poor baby,” Saint murmured, and Nigel marvelled at the kindness in his voice as he soothed the somewhat large and overwhelming Miss Emerald.
“It wasn’t you,” she said suddenly. “They can’t say it was you!” She threw her head back distractedly and her face, cleaned now of its make-up, looked ghastly. Saint had his back to Nigel, but it was sufficiently eloquent of the shock her words had given him. Still holding her, he was frozen into immobility. When he spoke his voice was controlled but no longer tender.
“Poor kid,” he said, in the best theatre-magnate manner. “You’re all hysterical. Me! Do I seem like a murderer, baby?”
“No, no — I’m mad. It was so awful, Jacco. Jacco, it was so awful.”
“M-m — m-m — m-m,” growled Mr. Saint soothingly.
“Quite,” Alleyn’s voice cut in. “Most unpleasant. I am sure you must be longing to get away from it all, Miss Emerald.”
“I’ll drive you home,” offered Jacob Saint. He and Miss Emerald stood side by side now and Nigel could see how pale they both were.
“An excellent idea.” Alleyn’s voice sounded close to the door. “But first of all may I just put a few questions to Miss Emerald?”
“You may not,” said Saint. “If you want anything you can come and see her to-morrow. Get that?”
“Oh, yes, rather. Full in the teeth. Afraid, however, it makes no difference. There’s a murder charge hovering round waiting for somebody, Mr. Saint, and shall we say a drama is being produced which you do not control and in which you play a part that may or may not be significant? To carry my flight of fancy a bit farther, I may add that the flat-footed old Law is stage manager, producer, and critic. And I, Mr. Saint, in the words of an old box-office success, ‘I, my Lords, embody the law.’ Sit down if you want to and please keep quiet. Now then, Miss Emerald.”