“Who dressed Mr. Surbonadier?”
Old Bill also, it appeared. At this juncture one of the underlings remarked, unexpectedly and dramatically:
“ ’E ’ated ’im.”
“Who hated who?”
“Ole Bill ’e ’ated Mr. Sirbonbadier. For why? Because Mr. Sirbonbadier ’e was a-mucking arahnd Trixie.”
“Er—” said Mr. Willings uneasily.
Fox pricked up his ears. “And how did Props like— er — the deceased — paying attention to his girl?
“ ’E ’ated ’im, too.”
“Did he now,” said Fox.
There was a short silence. Mr. Willings looked at his boots, stood uncertainly on one leg, grinned, and ran out of information. He and his myrmidons were told they might go home, having first left their names and addresses. They departed. Fox almost rubbed his hands together.
“There you are!” he exclaimed. “Deceased was interfering with his girl. He’s just the type to go off the deep end. I think before we go any further I’d better let the big noise know about this.”
They returned to the wings. Neither Alleyn or Props were to be seen.
“Well now,” remarked Inspector Fox. “Where’s he gone popping off to, I wonder?”
“Here I am,” said Alleyn’s voice. Nigel and Fox started slightly and walked round the prompt wing.
Alleyn and Bailey were on their knees by the prompt box. Bailey was busy with an insufflator and the chief inspector seemed to be peering at the floor through a magnifying glass. Beside him, opened, was the bag they had brought him from the Yard. Nigel looked into it and saw a neat collection of objects, among which he distinguished magnifying glasses, tape, scissors, soap, a towel, an electric torch, rubber gloves, sealing wax, and a pair of handcuffs.
“What are you doing?” asked Nigel.
“Being a detective. Can’t you see?”
“What are you looking for?”
“Little signs of footprints, little grains of sand. Fox, my valued old one, my little brush is not in my case. Wing your way to Miss Vaughan’s dressing-room and get the foot of my grandmother’s hare which you will find on the dressing-table. Fetch me that foot and be thou here again ‘ere the Leviathan can swim a league’.”
Inspector Fox cast his eyes towards heaven and did as he was bid, returning with a roughed hare’s foot.
“Thank you. Any luck with the hirelings?”
“Quite a bit,” said Fox. “Surbonadier had been fooling round with the property man’s girl, and she’s Miss Vaughan’s dresser, and her old man’s Mr. Gardener’s dresser.”
“Oh, that”
“What do you mean, ‘Oh that’?” asked Fox.
“I knew all that.”
“How?”
“Props told me. Carry on with the rest of ’em except Miss Vaughan, and Mr. Gardener. See them one by one. Find out where they all were during the black-out.”
“Very good, sir,” said Fox formally.
“And don’t be cross with me, my Foxkin. You’re doing well — excellent well, i’faith.”
“Is that Shakespeare?”
“What if it is? Away you go.”
“May I stay?” asked Nigel, as Fox went off.
“Do!” Alleyn took a small bottle and a rag from his bag and thoroughly cleaned the hare’s foot. He then began to use it as a tiny broom, sweeping up what appeared to be dust from the floor, into a little phial out of the bag. “What have you found, Bailey?” he asked.
“Prints from Prop’s rubber shoes, and Simpson’s evening ones. Nobody else has stood right inside the prompt box.”
“Well, I’ve got enough sand to be conclusive, if it tallies with what’s in the blanks, and I think it will. Gosh, it’s getting late!”
“Why the sand?” asked Nigel.
“Think. Think. Think, ”
“Oh, I see. If it’s sand out of the cartridge case, it means Props did bring the dummies to Simpson and they must have been changed during the black-out.”
“Stop laughing,” said Alleyn to an imaginary audience. “The child’s quite right. Now Bailey, will you get what you can in the way of prints from the revolver and the desk. Oh, lummie, what a muddle it all is! Let’s have a look at the cartridges in the revolver.”
The revolver, held delicately by the extreme end of the barrel, was laid on a table. Bailey, using the insufflator, tested it for fingerprints and, referring to those he had already got, disclosed sufficiently clear evidence of Gardener, Surbonadier, and the dresser having handled it. They broke it open and Bailey turned his attention to the butt ends of the shells; The revolver was a Smith and Wesson and the cartridges ordinary.455. The ends yielded no prints, except Surbonadier’s, neither did any other part of the cartridges nor the empty shell.
“Blast!” said Bailey.
“Couldn’t expect anything else,” said Alleyn philosophically. “Hullo — what’s this?”
He picked up one cartridge and held it under a stage lamp. Nigel followed him hopefully. He took out his magnifying glass and looked through it at the shell. He did this with all the other cartridges.
“What is it?” asked Nigel.
Alleyn handed him the glass and he in turn examined the cartridges.
Alleyn waited.
“There’s — there’s a kind of whitish look,” ventured Nigel, “on all of them. It’s very faint on most, but here’s one where it looks clearer. It looks almost like paint.”
“Smell it”
“I can smell nothing but brass.”
“Put your cigarette out. Blow your nose. Now smell.”
“There is something else. It reminds me of something. What is it?”
“It looks like one person. It smells like another.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“It looks like cosmetic and it smells like Jacob Saint.”
CHAPTER VIII
Felix Gardener
“What’s the time?” said Alleyn, yawning.
“Nearly two o’clock and a dirty night.”
“Oh, horror! I loathe late hours.”
“Two’s not late.”
“Not for a journalist, perhaps. Hullo, here come the mummers.”
Voices and footsteps sounded in the passage and presently a little procession appeared. Miss Dulcie Deamer, Mr. Howard Melville, Mr. J. Barclay Crammer, Inspector Fox. Miss Dulcie Deamer had her street make-up on — that is to say she had aimed a blow at her cheeks with the rouge puff, and had painted a pair of lips somewhere underneath her nose. She still contrived to be jeune fille. J. Barclay Crammer’s face showed signs of No. 5 grease paint lingering round the eyebrows and a hint of rather pathetic grey stubble on the chin. He wore a plaid muffler, with one end tossed over his shoulder, and he looked profoundly disgusted. Mr. Melville was pale and anxious.
“Dulcie, how are you going home?” he asked querulously.
“Oh, my God, in a taxi!” she answered drearily.
“I live at Hampstead,” Mr. Crammer intoned.
“We are very sorry about all this,” said Alleyn, “and will, of course, make ourselves responsible for getting all of you home. The constable at the door will fix it up. Fox, just look after them, will you? Good night.”
“Good night, everybody, good night,” mimicked Mr. Crammer bitterly. Miss Deamer glanced timidly and confidingly at Alleyn, who bowed formally. Mr. Melville said: “Oh — ah — good night.” Alleyn glanced at him and seemed to get an idea.
“Half a minute, Mr. Melville,” he said.
Mr. Melville instantly became green in the face.
“I’ll only keep you a few moments,” explained the inspector, “but we’ll let the others go on, I think. Just wait for me in the wardrobe-room, will you?”
The others turned alarmed glances on Mr. Melville, who looked rather piteously after them and then returned to the wardrobe-room. They filed out towards the stage door.