“If there is a doctor in front, will he kindly come round to the stage door? Thank you.”
The orchestra again struck up the National Anthem. Behind the curtain Alleyn spoke to Simpson.
“Go to the street door and stop anyone from leaving. No one is to go out. You understand? Bathgate, find a telephone and get the Yard. Tell them from me what has happened and ask them to send the usual people. Say I’ll want constables.” He turned to the business manager, who had come through the curtain. “Show Mr. Bathgate the way to the nearest telephone and then come back here.” He knelt down by Surbonadier.
The business manager glanced at Nigel.
“Where’s a telephone?” asked Nigel.
“Yes, of course,” said the business manager. “I’ll show you.”
They went together through a door in the proscenium that led to the auditorium, almost colliding with a tall man in a tail coat
“I’m the doctor,” he said. “What’s it all about?”
“On the stage,” said Nigel, “if you’ll go through.” The doctor glanced at him and went on to the stage.
In the auditorium the last stragglers were still finding their way out. Some women with their heads together stood with bundles of dust sheets in their arms.
“Get on with your work,” said the business manager savagely. “My name’s Stavely, Mr. — Mr. —”
“Bathgate,” said Nigel.
“Yes, of course. This is a terrible business, Mr. Bathgate.”
“No one,” thought Nigel, “seems to be able to say anything but this.”
They crossed the foyer into an office. People were still standing about the entrance and a woman said:
“You’re not very clever about taxis, are you, darling?”
Nigel, at the telephone, remembered the Yard number. A man’s voice answered him very quickly.
“I’m speaking for Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn,” said Nigel. “There’s been an accident at the Unicorn — a—a fatal accident. He wants you to send the usual people and constables at once.”
“Very good,” said the voice. “Did you say fatal accident?”
“Yes,” said Nigel, “I think so, and I think—” He stopped, gulped, and then his voice seemed to add of its own accord: “I think it looks like murder.”
CHAPTER IV
Alleyn Takes Over
When Nigel got back to the stage he was surprised to find little alteration in the scene he had left. He did not realize how short a time he had been away. The doctor had finished his examination of Surbonadier’s body and stood looking down at him.
Miss Vaughan was still on the stage. She was sobbing in the arms of old Susan Max. Felix Gardener was near her, but he seemed unaware of anyone but Alleyn and the doctor. He looked from one to the other, distractedly moving his head like someone in pain. When he saw Nigel he walked over to him swiftly and stood beside him. Nigel took hold of his arm and squeezed it. In the wings, masked in shadows, were groups of people.
“I haven’t moved him,” said the doctor. “It’s a very superficial examination, but quite enough for your purpose. He was shot through the heart and died instantly.”
“I shot him,” said Gardener suddenly. “I’ve killed him. I’ve killed Arthur.”
The doctor glanced at him uneasily.
“Shut up, Felix,” Nigel murmured. He looked at Alleyn. The inspector was standing talking to George Simpson. They walked to the prompt box. Simpson was showing Alleyn something. It was the gun he used for the faked report.
“I never knew,” he kept saying. “They went off at the same time. I never knew. This was a blank. I never even pointed it. It couldn’t have done anything, could it?”
Alleyn came back on to the stage. He spoke to all the people in the wings and on the set. “Will you all go to the wardrobe-room, please? I shall take statements later. You will, of course, want to change and take off your war paint. I am afraid I must forbid any access to the dressing-rooms until I have been through them, but I understand there is a wash-basin and a mirror in the wardrobe-room and I shall have your things sent in to you there. Just a moment, please. Don’t go yet.”
Six men were making their way through the crowd in the wings. Three of the newcomers were uniformed constables. The others were plain clothes men. They were given place and walked on to the stage.
“Well, Bailey,” said Alleyn.
“Well, sir,” said one of the plain clothes men. “What’s the trouble?”
“As you see.” Alleyn turned towards the body. The men pulled off their hats. One of them put a handbag down by Alleyn, who nodded. Detective-Sergeant Bailey, a fingerprint official, bent down and looked at the body.
“You men,” said Alleyn to the constables, “take everyone to the wardrobe-room. One of you stay outside and one at the stage door. Nobody to come out or go in. Mr. Simpson will show you. He goes in too. Please, Mr. Simpson.”
The stage manager started forward and looked wanly round the stage.
“Everybody in the wardrobe-room, please,” he said, as though he was calling a rehearsal. He turned to the constables. “This way, please,” he added.
He walked off the stage, a policeman following him. A second man waited a moment and then said:
“Just move along, please, ladies and gentlemen.” Old Susan Max, roundabout, sensible, said: “Come along, dear,” to Miss Vaughan. Miss Vaughan stretched out her hands dumbly to Gardener, who did not look at her. She turned towards Alleyn, who watched her curiously, and then, with a very touching dignity, she let herself be led off by Susan Max. At the doorway she turned and looked again at the dead man, shuddered, and disappeared into the wings.
“Lovely exit, wasn’t it?” said the inspector.
“Alleyn!” exclaimed Nigel, really shocked.
Miss Janet Emerald, the “heavy” woman, said: “Bounder!” from behind a piece of scenery.
“Let us go,” replied the voice of J. Barclay Crammer. “We are in these people’s hands.” He appeared on the stage, crossed it, and gripped Gardener’s hand. “Come, old man,” he said. “With me. Together.”
“Oh, get along, the whole lot of you,” exclaimed Alleyn with the utmost impatience. Mr. Crammer looked at him, more in sorrow than in anger, and did as he suggested. Gardener straightened his back and managed the veriest ghost of a smile. “You agree with me about actors, I see,” he said.
Alleyn responded instantly: “They are a bit thick, aren’t they?”
“I want to say,” said Gardener, “that I know I’ve killed him; but, before God, Mr. Alleyn, I didn’t load that revolver.”
“Don’t talk,” said Nigel. “They’ll find out everything — they’ll clear you. Don’t worry more than you can help, you know.”
Gardener waited a moment. He looked like a man coming round from concussion to realize gradually his abominable surroundings.
“Look here,” he said suddenly. “Somebody must have—” He stopped short. A terrified look came into his eyes. Nigel took him by the elbow again and gently urged him forward. “You’re a decent old sausage, Nigel,” he said uncertainly. “Oh, well—”
“Now!” said Alleyn with relief.
They all turned to him.
“Can we have the whole story?” asked the older of the two C.I.D. men.
“You can. Here it is—”
Alleyn was interrupted by a shrill scream that seemed to come from the dressing-room passage. A woman’s voice raised in hideous falsetto was mingled with an exasperated baritone. “Let me alone, let me alone, let me alone!”