“Very well, Watkins. If anybody comes away from the building, man or woman, stop them, speak to them, get their names and addresses and make sure they are what they seem. Thompson, you can go too if you like. Don’t look so injured, both of you. We’ve all gone wrong over this.”
A pause, and then Thompson addressed the lining of his hat with some feeling.
“We’d both go back on P.C. night-duty before we’d let you down, if you know what I mean, sir.”
“That’s right,” said Watkins fervently.
“Well, push off, you couple of boobies,” said Alleyn. He turned to Fox. “I’m going to the telephone. The statement from Peterhouse ought to be here any moment. If Allison comes before I’m back, get a report on those lines from him.”
“Are you going for a warrant-to-arrest tonight?” asked Fox.
“I don’t think so. I’ll still stage my performance tomorrow morning.”
Alleyn went through the front of the house and sought out the telephone in the box-office. Enlargements of actresses smiled or stared soulfully at him from the walls. “All the best,” “To dear Robert,” “Ever yours,” he read. In the centre was a magnificent picture of a woman standing in an open window. Written firmly across the mount were two words only: “Stephanie Vaughan.” When he had dialled his number Alleyn turned and gazed steadfastly at this picture.
“Hullo!” said a sleepy voice in the receiver.
“Hullo. I thought I said there were to be no more little visits.”
“Oh — it’s you.”
“It is,” said Alleyn grimly.
“I had an idea. You needn’t get all hot and bothered, I didn’t see anybody. I rang for five minutes and then came away. Even the servant was out.”
“You rang for five minutes, did you?”
“Yes. I say, is everything all right?”
“Perfectly splendid. There’s been another murder at the Unicorn.”
“What!!”
“Go to bed and stay there,” advised Alleyn and hung up the receiver.
He crossed over and looked more closely at the photograph on the opposite wall.
“Oh, hell!” he said and went back to the stage of the Unicorn.
CHAPTER XXII
Final Curtain
On the morning of June 17th, at a quarter to eleven, old Blair hung his dilapidated bowler above the tall stool in his cubby-hole behind the stage door. He glanced at the grimy clock and clicked disapproval when he saw that it had been allowed to run down. He inspected the letter rack which was garnished with a solitary postcard, addressed to Miss Susan Max. Blair advanced his nose to within four inches of its surface and read it:
“Susan darling, how terrible this all is dear my heart goes out to you in this terrible time it must be quite dreadful for you dear, our show goes big in this place and we are doing wonderful business dear. All the best, Daisy.”
Blair sucked his teeth, but whether in scorn or appreciation it would be impossible to say.
Footsteps sounded in the alley outside. Old Blair groaned slightly and returned to the stage door. The constable at the stalls entrance saluted. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn and Inspector Fox followed by Detective-Sergeant Bailey and three plain clothes men walked up to the entrance.
“Good morning, Blair,” said Alleyn.
“ ’Morning, sir.”
The party went in at the stage door and down the long passage past the wall of the dock. On the stage they were met by two more plain clothes men— Thompson and Watkins.
“Everything fixed up?” asked Alleyn.
“Yes, sir.”
Alleyn looked up towards the flies. A ceiling-cloth had been stretched across and tied back to the first of the grid galleries.
“If you’ll just listen, sir,” said Thompson.
They all stood still. A sibilant whisper came from above the canvas cloth. It alternated with a faint creak. At a place near its border, the cloth bulged slightly as if some small object was touching it on the upper surface. The impress made by this object appeared and disappeared regularly, synchronising with the sibilant whisper.
“That will do very well,” said Alleyn. “Have you unlocked the dressing-room doors?”
Apparently this had been done. Alleyn went on to the stage and glanced round. It was still set for the scene when Surbonadier loaded the revolver. The curtain was up and the shrouded seats looked very faint in the dark. A lance of sunlight slanted through a crevice in a blind above the gallery. Footsteps sounded in the passage and Mr. George Simpson appeared. He looked nervously round the wings, saw Alleyn, and uttered a little apologetic noise.
“Oh, there you are, Mr. Simpson,” said Alleyn.
“I’ve been trying to pretend I’m a stage manager. Any fault to find with the scene?”
Simpson walked down to the float and surveyed the stage. Something of his professional manner seemed to return to the little man.
“It’s quite in order, I think,” he said.
“Perhaps I’d better wait until the company appears before I explain my motive in calling you all this morning.”
“Some of them are outside now.”
“Right. Will you treat Detective-Sergeant Wilkins as your call-boy? As soon as everybody’s here we’ll have them on the stage and I’ll speak to them.”
Sergeant Wilkins was produced. He and Simpson eyed each other doubtfully.
“What’s that you’ve got in your hand, Wilkins?” asked Alleyn suddenly.
“It’s one of your cards, sir. The young gentleman I saw yesterday, if you remember, sir, came along. He just wanted to sit in the stalls.”
“Let me see it.”
Alleyn surveyed, rather grimly, his own visiting-card with: “Admit bearer to theatre. R. A.” scribbled across it in his own writing. It was the one he had given Nigel before they arrested Saint. With remarkable forethought Mr. Bathgate had clung to the bit of pasteboard and had produced it again when occasion arose.
With a slightly accentuated jaw-line, Inspector Alleyn advanced to the footlights ana gazed into the swimming darkness of the stalls.
“Mr. Bathgate,” he said.
Silence.
“Mr. Bathgate,” lied Alleyn, “I can see you.”
“You’re not looking in my direction at all,” declared an indignant voice.
“Come here,” Alleyn said.
“I won’t.”
“If you please.”
There was a mulish silence and then Alleyn said mildly:
“House lights, Mr. Simpson, if you please.”
Simpson scuttled up the iron ladder and in a moment the stalls were revealed in all their shrouded grimness.
In the centre of Row F, a lonely little figure among the dust sheets, sat Nigel. Alleyn beckoned. Nigel rose sheepishly and processed down the centre aisle.
“Now,” said Alleyn, when the culprit reached the curtain of the well. “Now, my enterprising Pressman.”
Nigel smirked but did not reply.
“I’ve a good mind to have you turfed out at the end of a boot,” continued Alleyn. He looked seriously at Nigel. “However, I won’t do that. I will merely return my card with an additional memorandum. If you still want to stay here you may.”
He wrote something on the back of the card and flipped it across the orchestra well.
Nigel caught it and held it to the light. Inspector Alleyn wrote in tiny but exceedingly clear characters, yet, though there were only seven words on the card, Nigel appeared to take an unconscionable time deciphering them. At last he raised his head and he and Alleyn looked at each other.
“It’s a mistake,” said Nigel.
“No.”
“But—” He stopped short and wetted his lips.
“No motive,” said Nigel at last
“Every motive.”
“I stay,” said Nigel.
“Very well. House lights, please, Mr. Simpson.”