“That’s all, Mr. Gardener,” he said. “I’ll keep you no longer.”
“I’ll wait if I may,” said Gardener, “for Stephanie. She wanted me to see you first.”
“Certainly. Wait on the stage, will you?”
“Shall I come?” asked Nigel diffidently.
“No thanks, old thing. If you don’t mind I’d rather be alone.”
He went out
“Well?” asked Nigel anxiously.
“Well, Bathgate, we don’t progress very fast What’s happened to your shorthand notes?”
“I–I couldn’t report old Felix for you.”
“I’m not quite a machine,” said Alleyn gently. He raised his voice. “Got everything, Fox?”
“Everything O. K.,” answered Inspector Fox from the next room. In a moment he appeared.
“He’s been taking it down outside the door,” said Alleyn. “I really can’t trust my filthy memory.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“Like to go home?” asked Alleyn.
“Not unless you want to get rid of me,” said Nigel.
“Stay put then. Fox, you saw the dressers, Mr. and Miss Beadle?”
“Yes. The girl howled, and said she never done no harm to anybody, and that Mr. Surbonadier was always trying on his funny business, and that Props was her boy. Old Beadle said much the same. He’d warned the girl to look out for Mr. Surbonadier. They were both in the wardrobe-room during the black-out. Alone there together, they said. They met in the elbow of the passage, and went along together. She’s a flighty bit of goods, I should say. Deceased was evidently”—Inspector Fox stopped and grimaced—“a nasty kind of chap. You might like to see the girl yourself, some time. The old father’s a decent old bird and seems very fond of her.”
“All right, I’ll remember them. And now I’ll have to see Miss Vaughan. I should have done so earlier and let her go home.”
“She wanted the others to go first,” said Fox. “I— took her clothes into the wardrobe-room and she said she’d change. She’s not quite ready.”
It was obvious from Inspector Fox’s manner that he put Miss Vaughan in a superior catalogue to the rest of the cast Alleyn looked at him and grinned.
“What’s the joke?” inquired Fox suspiciously.
“No offence in the world. Have you carried on with routine work?”
“Mr. Melville helped Bailey re-set the scene in which the revolver was loaded. Haven’t found the gloves.”
“I’ll just take a look at it while she’s changing.” They returned to the stage. Felix Gardener was walking up and down the passage to the outside exit, and paid little attention to them. Nigel went and spoke to Gardener, but he answered at random and looked at him as though they were strangers.
“It’ll be all right, Felix,” ventured Nigel lamely.
“What’ll be all right?”
“Alleyn will find out who did it. Innocent people are never accused nowadays.”
“Do you think I’m worrying about that?” asked Gardener, and fell to walking up and down again. Nigel left him alone.
On the stage Alleyn looked critically at the reconstruction of the penultimate scene. The desk was in position. Miss Max’s arm-chair was on the O.P. side, and the window-seat in position, near which Janet Emerald had had her last conversation with Arthur Surbonadier.
“We’ve had all the chair-seats out, and so on,” said Bailey, who was in shirt sleeves. The two constables, who had been helping him, stared solemnly at the furniture. Melville had gone.
“There’s something missing,” said Alleyn.
“Mr. Melville said not, sir,” said Bailey.
“Yes, there is. A spot of colour. What is it?” He turned to Nigel. “There was a spot of colour somewhere in that scene. Something red.”
“I know,” said Nigel suddenly. “Miss Max’s bag for her knitting. It hung on that chair arm.”
“Good man,” exclaimed Alleyn. “Let’s find it.” They hunted about. One of the constables disappeared in the direction of the property room.
“Damn the thing, where is it?” murmured Alleyn. “It hung on the chair throughout the scene, and at the end she stuffed her knitting into it and left it there.” He hunted round offstage and muttered to himself.
“Does it matter much?” Nigel asked wearily.
“What?”
“Does it matter much?”
“No. I just want to make the stage look pretty.”
Nigel was silent.
“Is this the affair, sir?” said the constable, reappearing. In his paw he held a large red bag. Alleyn strode over and took it.
“That’s it.”
He drew out a long and loud strip of knitting, and then thrust his hand deeper into the bag. A singularly blank look stole over his face, and the others, who knew him, pricked up their ears.
“Has any gentleman in the audience missed an article of clothing?” asked Alleyn. He made a face at Nigel, and looked round, most provokingly. Then so suddenly that they all jumped, he whisked out his hand and held it high above his head.
In it was a pair of grey suede gloves. “Eureka!” said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.
CHAPTER IX
Stephanie Vaughan’s Shoulder
“Yes, but look here,” Nigel began indignantly.
“Old Miss Max — I mean to say, that’s a bit too thick. She’s a nice old thing.”
Alleyn gave one of his rare laughs. “All right, all right,” he said. “Don’t bite my head off. I didn’t plant the things.”
“Well, somebody else did, then.”
“Quite possible. During the black-out. Oh, it’s a very nasty bit of goods, this is. And so clever, so filthily clever. Everything nice and simple. No fancy touches. I tell you one thing, all of you, for what it’s worth. I’ve been telling it to myself ever since this started. We’re up against good acting.”
“Yes,” said Nigel thoughtfully, “the very best.”
“As you say. It’s a West End production, bad luck to it.”
“Anything on the thumb of the right-hand glove?” asked Fox abruptly.
Alleyn picked it up by one finger.
“Oh, Mr. Fox, aren’t you wonderful?” he said. “Such a lovely quality, moddom, or, rather, sir. Yes, definitely, ‘sir.’ Have a sniff.” He held them out
“I’ve got it,” said Fox. “They smell of cigars, and scent, and — damn it — where did I smell that scent?”
“On Mr. Jacob Saint.”
“By gum, you’re right, sir.”
“It’s a very good scent. Something rather special. But how careless of Mr. Saint to lose his gloves, how rather surprisingly careless.” He handed the glove over to his colleague.
“When were they lost? He was wearing none when he came round,” Fox declared. “I know that because he shoved me aside at the door, and his ring dug into my hand.”
“His altogether too big signet ring,” murmured Alleyn. “It does dig in. Look!”
He held up the little finger of the left-hand glove. The base showed a distinct bulge.
“He was behind the scenes earlier in the evening, you know. Before the curtain went up. Then he was in front.”
“Could he have come round again, later?” asked Nigel.
“We must find out. By George, Fox, what happened to the old gentleman?”
“Who’s he?”
“The stage door keeper.”
“I never saw one. He must have gone home during the first few moments.”
“He was there when we came round. Not very good. He’ll have to be traced. Oh well, let’s have Miss Vaughan. I think I’ll see her alone, if you please, Fox. There’s nothing much else to be done here that I can think of. Have you looked closely at the thumb?”
“Yes,” said Fox carefully. “There’s a bit of whitish stain on it.”