“It looks like it.”
“And poor Felix. You’re not running away with the idea Felix had anything to do with it, I hope? Except pulling the trigger, poor fellow. Um?”
“Why not?” Janet Emerald demanded. “Why not Felix Gardener? He shot him. It was his revolver. Why is everybody so sure he knew nothing about it? Stephanie doing brave heroine stuff all over him. Everybody treating him like an invalid. While I–I—am treated like a criminal. It’s infamous.”
“There’s only one thing more,” said Alleyn, exactly as if she had not spoken. “It’s unavoidable or I wouldn’t press it. I should like everyone behind the scenes to-night to be searched before they leave. I can’t insist, but it will save a lot of bother if you consent. Miss Max, I expect you know what we are looking for?”
“I don’t, then.”
“For the dummy cartridges.”
“Oh.”
“They will be fairly bulky. Miss Emerald, will you take off your wrap?”
“Here!” said Jacob Saint. “Whaddeyer going to do?”
“Oh, hold your tongue, Jacco!”
A slithery noise. Nigel craned his neck and saw Janet Emerald move forward. She was clad in a sequinned sheath that fitted her like a skin.
“Miss Emerald, will you let me make a very superficial examination or would you prefer to go to a police station, where there will be a wardress?”
“Don’t let him touch you, Janet.”
“Oh, Jacco, don’t be a fool.” There was no touch of hysteria here, only a harsh and wearied contempt. “Do whatever you like,” said Janet Emerald. She held up her magnificent arms and closed her eyes. Alleyn passed his delicate hands lightly over the surface of her dress. He too had closed his eyes. He looked as though his brain was in his fingertips. There was something uncannily remote about him. Lightly the hands swept down the sides and front of the sequinned dress, down the flanks, pausing at the knees and then dropping disinterestedly away. He picked up the fallen wrap, felt it all over, shook it and held it out politely by the collar. “You would like to put it on again,” he said.
Janet Emerald breathed unevenly and a curious, distorted smile visited her lips. She slid into the wrap.
“And what about you, Miss Max?” said Alleyn.
“I’m more bulky — you’ll have to prod,” said Susan Max cheerfully. She took off her overcoat and stood, a round, and somehow pathetic, figure in blouse and skirt.
“You are very courteous,” said Alleyn gravely. “And very wise.”
He searched her and then Jacob Saint, who stood up for it without protest or comment. Alleyn looked carefully at the papers in his pocket-book, but appeared to find nothing that interested him.
“That is all,” he said at last. “I’ll keep you no longer. How will you get home, Miss Max?”
“I live in South Kensington — I suppose I’ve missed the last bus.”
“Fox. Be a good fellow and tell the constable at the door to get a taxi. My party, Miss Max.”
“You are kind,” said Susan Max.
“Good night—‘Ruth.’ Good night, Miss Emerald. Mr. Saint. Inspector Fox will take your addresses.”
“Here!” said Saint suddenly. “Maybe I’ve been short with you, inspector. This thing’s upset me. You’re doing your duty and I respect that. I’d like to see you to-morrow.”
“I shall be at the Yard at eleven, should you wish to make a statement, Mr. Saint.”
“Statement be damned.”
“By all means. Good night.”
Footsteps and then silence.
“Still awake, Bathgate?” asked Alleyn.
“Just,” said Nigel. “Let me come out there for a minute. I’m all pins and needles.”
“Come out, come out, my dearest dear. What did you think of little Janet? And Uncle Jacob?”
“Not much.” Nigel emerged and stood blinking. “By Jove, she told some stinking big whoppers.”
“She did rather.”
“I say — do you think—”
“Only very confusedly. It’s all so muddly.”
“I distrust you intensely,” said Nigel, “when you go on like that.”
“Get back to your corner. Who shall we have next?”
“Don’t ask me. It’s beastly cold on this stage.”
“Shall we adjourn to a dressing-room?”
“Good idea — whose?”
“Bailey has been searching them while you were in your cosy corner. I rather fancy Arthur Surbonadier’s.”
“You old ghoul. May I ask if you intend to search all the ladies?”
“Don’t you think it quate nayce?”
“No, I don’t.”
“P’r’aps you’re right. Hullo, Bailey.”
The fingerprint expert reappeared.
“I’ve been through the rooms,” he said in a bored voice. “No sign of the blanks. Got all their prints.”
“Really — how?”
“Oh, asked for them.” Bailey grinned sardonically. “You weren’t there, sir.”
“That’s all right.” Alleyn disliked asking directly for fingerprints and preferred to pick them up without the owners’ knowledge. “Well,” he said, “we’d better get on with the good work.”
“We could do with those dummies,” Bailey remarked. “Inspector Fox is searching the other men now, sir. Thought it would save you the trouble.”
“Intelligent as well as kind. But he won’t find them.”
“The dummies?” Bailey eyed his surprise.
“The dummies. Unless our murderer is particularly vindictive.”
“What’s this?” demanded Nigel suspiciously. “Isn’t a murderer usually rather vindictive?”
“You don’t understand, I’m afraid,” said Alleyn kindly. “I think—” he added, turning to Bailey—“I think the cartridges will be in the obvious place.”
“Obvious!” repeated Bailey. “You’ve got me beat, sir. Is there an obvious place?”
“You’ll never make a murderer, Bailey. Before we move away let us have a look at that desk. It’s in the wings, there. Give me a hand.”
Nigel stood near the centre of the stage. He had moved forward towards the wings, when a voice, raucous and detached, yelled above their heads.
“Look out!”
An instant later, Inspector Alleyn hurled himself full at Nigel, driving him backwards. He fell, sprawling across a chair, and at the same moment was aware of something else that fell from above, and crashed down deafeningly on to the stage. Something that raised a cloud of dust.
He got to his feet shaken and bewildered. Lying on the stage was a shattered heap of broken glass. Alleyn stood near it, looking up into the flies.
“Come down out of that,” he shouted.
“Yessir. Coming, sir.”
“Who the devil are you?” bawled Bailey suddenly.
“Only the props, sir. I’m coming.”
They stumbled into the wings, where they were all met by Inspector Fox who had run agitatedly from the wardrobe-room. They all peered up the wall of the stage. An iron ladder ran aloft into the shadows. Soft footsteps padded up there in the dark, and presently among the shadows a darker shape could be seen. The iron ladder vibrated very faintly. Somebody was coming down.
CHAPTER VII
Props
The shadowy figure came very deliberately down the ladder. Nigel, Alleyn and Bailey did not speak, but fell back a little. Nigel was still shaken by his escape from the chandelier. He felt bewildered, and watched, without thinking, the rubber soles of a pair of dilapidated tennis shoes come down, rung by rung. The man did not turn his face away from the wall until he had completed his descent. Then he swung round slowly.
Bailey moved forward and seized his arm.
“Now then — you,” he said.
“Don’t you act old-fashioned at me,” snarled the man.