Felix Gardener came out of his room and walked softly on to the stage. Here he paused, started, bent down and rubbed his foot, whispered: “What the hell!” and limped on a few paces. The Beadles walked away down the passage towards the wardrobe-room. All this took a very short space of time. On the stage Simpson called: “Curtain up.” The actors began to speak the dialogue, muttering their lines and raising their voices loudly at the end of each speech. This dialogue continued for perhaps half a minute and then the stage manager said:
“Lights.”
Alleyn blew his whistle and called out:
“Everyone on the stage, please.”
Once more the company assembled.
“Thank you very much,” said Alleyn. “You have helped me. I am sure it has been difficult and unpleasant for all of you. I can now explain myself a little further. I think you are entitled to an explanation. This reconstruction has proved that no one, who was beyond the elbow in the passage, could have come out on to the stage without running into the two dressers, who did not go to the wardrobe-room until late in the black-out period. Mr. Gardener has stated that when he went on to the stage someone trod on his foot. There are only three men who could have been offstage at that time — Mr. Simpson, the property master — and Mr. Jacob Saint.”
Janet Emerald began some sort of demonstration. Alleyn glanced coldly at her and she subsided.
“Mr. Saint was in his box on the prompt side. One theory was that he came through the proscenium door, substituted the cartridges, and returned by the same route. Wilkins, will you go to that door, open it and walk to the desk?”
Sergeant Wilkins marched to the proscenium exit and opened the door. It gave tongue to an ear-splitting shriek.
“That disposes of that,” said Alleyn. “Mr. Simpson and Props are left. The theory as regards Props is this. Props was on the stage during the black-out. He substituted the cartridges, and then made himself scarce. No one remembered seeing him offstage when the lights went up. Where did he go? The theory suggests that he went up that ladder and disappeared above the ceiling-cloth. If you’ll be good enough to help me I’ll demonstrate that. Mr. Simpson is in the prompt box; Miss Max, Miss Emerald, and the deceased are on the stage. Mr. Gardener comes out of the passage and runs into Props, who has just planted the cartridges. He shies off Mr. Gardener and goes up that ladder. He is wearing rubber shoes and is not heard. He wears Mr. Saint’s gloves that were left on the stage. Now, Mr. Simpson, will you be good enough to play his part?”
Simpson wetted his lips.
“I–I—can’t stand going up those ladders. I’ve no head for heights. It would — make — I can’t.”
Alleyn looked doubtfully at the bulk of Crammer and the greenish face of Mr. Melville. He turned resignedly to Gardener.
“Be a good fellow,” he said.
“Certainly,” said Gardener quietly.
“If your nerves will allow you, Mr. Simpson, perhaps you will impersonate Mr. Gardener.”
Simpson did not speak.
“Surely you can do that?”
“I’ll do it,” said Melville.
“Thank you — I should prefer Mr. Simpson to play this little scene. Now, Mr. Simpson.”
Simpson turned and went into Gardener’s room.
“Away you go,” said Alleyn to Gardener, who nodded and went to the desk. He drew out the top drawer, mimed the business of taking something out, putting something else in. He opened the lower drawer and shut it again, hesitated, glanced interrogatively at Alleyn, and came back to the wings.
“Come out, Mr. Simpson,” called Alleyn.
The dressing-room door opened and Simpson came out He walked down the passage and on to the stage. Gardener bumped into him, stepped aside and began to climb the ladder.
“Right up?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
Gardener went on up the ladder. They watched him. Suddenly they were all aware of the sibilant whisper and of the moving indentation in the cloth. His steps rang on the iron rungs. His head disappeared above the cloth. Then a terrible cry rang out.
“My God, what’s that!” screamed Simpson.
Gardener’s body swung out from the ladder. It seemed as if he would fall. His feet slipped and for a moment he hung by his hands. Then he righted himself.
“Alleyn!” he cried in a terrible voice, “Alleyn!”
“What’s the matter?” shouted Alleyn.
“He’s here — he’s hanged himself — he’s here.”
“Who?”
“Props — it’s Props.”
His horrified face looked down at them.
“It’s Props!” he repeated.
Fox, Bailey, Wilkins and Thompson came and stood by the foot of the ladder.
“Come down,” said Alleyn.
Gardener came down. Within six rungs of the stage he turned and saw the men that awaited him. With an incoherent cry he stopped short. His lips were drawn back, showing his gums. A streak of saliva trickled down his chin. He squinted.
“And how do you know it is Props?” asked Alleyn.
Gardener kicked down savagely at his face.
“Not again,” said Alleyn. “The other time was once too often.”
Fox had to drag Gardener down by his ankles. This time Alleyn had remembered his handcuffs.
CHAPTER XXIII
Epilogue to a Play
If Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn was interested in the dramatic unities it may have given him some sort of satisfaction to note that the epilogue to the Unicorn murder was spoken on the stage of the theatre.
Gardener had been taken away. Miss Emerald had indulged in a fit of genuine hysterics and had departed. Barclay Crammer, George Simpson, Howard Melville and Dulcie Deamer, all strangely unreal in the harsh light of actual tragedy, had walked down the stage door alley-way and disappeared. The Beadles had gone with old Blair.
Only Alleyn, Stephanie Vaughan, and a very shaken Nigel remained. The ceiling-cloth had been removed and the weighted sack that had hung from the top gallery lay in a rubbishy heap on the floor. Alleyn picked it up, and threw it into the dock, and shut the doors. Nigel stood in the stage door passage. Alleyn looked at him.
“Well, Bathgate,” he said. “Never make friends with a policeman.”
“I don’t think I feel that way about it,” decided Nigel slowly.
“You are generous,” said Alleyn.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“If I had told you what would you have done?”
Nigel couldn’t answer that.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Neither did I know.”
“I see.”
“Did the thought of it never enter your head?” Alleyn asked him compassionately.
“At first I thought it was Saint and then—” He looked through the wings on to the stage.
Stephanie Vaughan sat there in the arm-chair she had occupied on the night of the murder when Alleyn had first questioned her. She seemed lost in a profound meditation.
“Wait for me,” said Alleyn, “somewhere else.”
Nigel walked out into the yard. Alleyn went on to the stage.
“Come back from wherever you are,” he said softly.
She raised her head and looked at him.
“I can’t feel anything at all,” she murmured.
He put his hand over hers for a second.
“Cold,” he said. “That’s the shock. Whenever I have touched your hands they have been cold. Small wonder. Shall I get you a taxi?”
“Not yet. I want to get my bearings.”
She looked frowningly at her fingers as though she tried to remember something.
“I suppose you knew what I was up to all along?” she said at last.
“Not quite. I began to wonder, when you said the bruise on your shoulder was made by Surbonadier. I remembered how Gardener had stood with his hand on your shoulder when Surbonadier insulted you. I noticed how he gripped you, ”