“What are you up to?” they asked him suspiciously. “You with your pals in the force.”
“Watch me, and see.”
He walked airily down the stage door alley-way, till he came to a side door into the front of the house. A uniformed constable was on duty here. He assumed a patiently reproachful air as Nigel drew near him, but when he read Alleyn’s card he grinned and opened the door.
“Straight up those stairs, sir,” he said.
Nigel cocked a snook at his friends and walked in.
The stairs, which were heavily carpeted, ran up to the dress circle foyer. Here Nigel found Alleyn, Fox, and the two plain clothes detectives, talking to a fifth man whom he had not seen before.
“He came along about a quarter of an hour ago,” this man said quietly. “I was up here, but I told the P.C. downstairs to let him in. He looked sideways at me, and asked me when the police were going to clear out and let him have the run of his own property. He said there were letters waiting for him which he must attend to. I made difficulties and held him here. My man downstairs was instructed to ring the Yard as soon as Saint walked into the trap. He’s just gone along now, sir, into the office at the end of that passage.”
“Well done,” said Alleyn. “Come along.”
“You got a gun, sir?” asked Fox.
“No. I knew you’d have one, you old blood-thirster. Bathgate, you follow last, will you?”
They walked in silence down the long passage. Nigel was acutely aware of the odour of officialdom. Suddenly, these men whom he knew and liked had become simply policemen. “They are walking in step, I do believe,” thought Nigel.
They stopped outside a steel-framed door. He could hear somebody moving about on the other side.
Alleyn knocked once, turned the handle, and walked in. The others followed, Fox with his hand in his jacket pocket
Between their shoulders Nigel saw Jacob Saint. He had his bowler hat on, and a cigar in his mouth. He seemed to have swung round from a heap of papers on an opened desk.
“What’s this?” he said.
The other officers moved apart. Alleyn walked up to him.
“Mr. Saint,” he said quietly, “I have a warrant for your arrest—”.
Saint made some sort of incoherent sound. Alleyn paused.
“You’re mad,” said Saint thickly. “I didn’t do it. I wasn’t there. I was in front.”
“Before you go any further, you had better hear the charge.”
Saint dropped into the swivel chair. He looked quickly from one man to another. His hand fumbled at the side of the desk.
“You’re covered, Mr. Saint,” Fox remarked suddenly. With something like a sneer, the proprietor of the Unicorn let his hands drop on to the arms of his chair.
“What’s the charge?” he asked.
“You are charged with being concerned with traffic in illicit drugs. Read it out, please Fox. I get the language wrong.”
Thus urged, Inspector Fox broke instantly into a monotonous sing-song to which Saint listened closely, feasting unattractively the while on his little fingernail.
“It’s infamous,” he said, when Fox had stopped as abruptly as he began. “It’s infamous. You — Alleyn. You’ll make a laughing-stock of yourself over this. You’ll lose your job.”
“And that’ll learn me,” said Alleyn. “Come along, Mr. Saint.”
Saint took his hand from his lips and let it fall to the lapel of his coat. He rose ponderously, and half turned aside.
The next second Alleyn had him by the wrist. The thick fingers held a piece of paper.
“Please, Mr. Saint,” said Alleyn. “We can’t have you eating paper, you know.”
The next second they were struggling bitterly. Saint seemed to have gone mad. In a moment the chair was overturned. The two men had crashed across the desk. An inkpot fell to the floor, splashing Saint’s light check trousers. The other men had got hold of him. Alleyn still held his wrist. It was now strained across his back, making the rolls of fat and muscle on his arm and shoulder bulge. He stopped struggling abruptly.
“Pick up that chair,” Alleyn ordered sharply. Nigel, who had hovered impotently on the outskirts of the battle, set the heavy swivel chair on its feet
“Let him down gently. You’ll be all right, Mr. Saint. Open those windows, one of you.”
Saint lay back in the chair. His face was purple and his breathing terribly distressed. Alleyn took off his tie, and unfastened his collar. The pulse in his neck throbbed laboriously. Alleyn loosened his clothes and stood looking at him. Then he turned to the desk telephone and dialled a number.
“Yard? Chief Inspector Alleyn. Get the divisional surgeon to come round to the Unicorn Theatre at once. Heart attack, tell him. Got that? Upstairs. The constable at the door will show him. At once. Thank you.” He put the receiver down.
“You’d better go outside, I think,” said Alleyn. “He wants to be quiet. Fox, will you wait here?”
The three detectives filed out quietly. Fox stood still. Nigel walked over to the darkest corner and sat down, hoping to remain unnoticed.
“Heart attack?” asked Fox quietly.
“Evidently. He’ll do though, I fancy.” They looked in silence at the empurpled face. Alleyn switched on an electric fan and moved it across the desk. Saint’s thin hair was blown sideways. He opened his eyes. They were terribly bloodshot.
“Don’t try to talk,” said Alleyn. “A doctor will be here in a moment”
He pulled forward another chair, put Saint’s feet on it, and then moved him a little, until he was almost lying flat. He did all this very quickly and efficiently, lifting the huge bulk without apparent effort. Then he moved across to the window. Nigel saw that he held the piece of paper. Alleyn leant out of the window, looked at it, and then put it in his pocket.
The room was very silent. Saint was breathing more easily. Presently he gave a deep sigh and closed his eyes again. Fox walked over to Alleyn, who spoke to him in a low voice. The electric fan made a high, thrumming noise and blandly turned from side to side. Saint’s hair blew out in fine strands, fell, and blew out again, regularly. Nigel stared at Saint’s heavy face, and wondered if it was the face of a murderer.
Before long they heard voices in the passage outside. The door opened and the divisional surgeon came in. He walked over to Saint and bent down to make an examination. He took the pulse, holding up the fat, white wrist and looking placidly at his watch. Then he injected something. Saint’s lips parted and came together again clumsily.
“Better,” he whispered breathlessly.
“I think so,” said the doctor. “We’ll keep you quiet a little longer and then take you away, where you’ll be more comfortable.”
He looked at Alleyn and the others.
“We’ll leave him for a moment, I think,” he said. They went out of the room. Nigel followed, leaving Fox, who shut the door. They walked along the passage a little way.
“Yes, it’s his heart,” said the doctor. “It’s pretty nasty. He’s a sick man. Who’s his doctor?”
“Sir Everard Sim,” said Alleyn.
“Oh, yes. Well, he’d better see him. Is he under arrest?”
“He is.”
“H’m. Nuisance. I’ll get an ambulance and wait for him. Leave me a couple of men. I’ll ring up Sir Everard. Saint’s pretty dickey, but he’ll pull round.”
“Right,” said Alleyn. “You’ll fix up here then, will you? I’ll leave Fox to see to it.”
“Oh,” said the doctor, “while I think of it. There’s a message for you at the Yard. They asked me to tell you. Someone called Albert Hickson is very anxious to see you. It’s about this case. He wouldn’t talk to anyone else.”
“Albert Hickson,” Nigel exclaimed. “Why, that’s Props!”