Peregrine said with some acidity: “Theatrical practice doesn’t habitually cover the death by violence of one of its employees.”
“Quite.”
“But all the same,” Peregrine said, “there is a certain attitude—”
“Quite. Yes. The — er — ‘the show,’ ” quoted Mr. Greenslade self-consciously, “ ‘must go on.’ ”
“I think we should go on. The boy’s understudy’s all right. Tomorrow—no, today’s Sunday, which gives us a chance to collect ourselves.” Peregrine fetched up short and turned to Alleyn. “Unless,” he said, “the police have any objection.”
“It’s a bit difficult to say at this juncture, you know, but we should be well out of The Dolphin by Monday night. Tomorrow night, in fact. You want an answer long before that, of course. I think I may suggest that you carry on as if for performance. If anything crops up to change the situation we shall let you know at once.”
With an air of shocked discovery Peregrine said:
“There’s a great deal to be done. There’s that—that—that—dreadful state of affairs on the half-landing.”
“I’m afraid we shall have to take up a section of the carpet. My chaps will do that. Can you get it replaced in time?”
“I suppose so,” Peregrine said, rubbing his hand across his face. “Yes; Yes, we can do something about it.”
“We’ve removed the bronze dolphin.”
Peregrine told himself that he mustn’t think about that. He must keep in the right gear and, oh God, he mustn’t be sick.
He muttered: “Have you? I suppose so. Yes.”
Mr. Greenslade said. “If there’s nothing more one can do—” and stood up. “One has to inform Mr. Conducis,” he sighed, and was evidently struck by a deadly thought. “The press!” he cried. “My God, the press!”
“The press,” Alleyn rejoined, “is in full lurk outside the theatre. We have issued a statement to the effect that a night watchman at The Dolphin has met with a fatal accident but that there is no further indication at the moment of how this came about.”
“That won’t last long,” Mr. Greenslade grunted as he struggled into his overcoat. He gave Alleyn his telephone numbers, gloomily told Peregrine he supposed they would be in touch and took his leave.
“I shan’t keep you any longer,” Alleyn said to Peregrine. “But I shall want to talk to all the members of the cast and staff during the day. I see there’s a list of addresses and telephone numbers here. If none of them objects I shall ask them to come here to The Dolphin, rather than call on them severally. It will save time.”
“Shall I tell them?”
“That’s jolly helpful of you but I think it had better be official.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. Of course.”
“I expect you’ll want to tell them what’s happened and warn them they’ll be needed, but we’ll organize the actual interviews. Eleven o’clock this morning, perhaps.”
“I must be with them,” Peregrine said. “If you please.”
“Yes, of course,” Alleyn said. “Goodnight.”
Peregrine thought absently that he had never seen a face so transformed by a far from excessive smile. Quite heartened by this phenomenon he held out his hand.
“Goodnight,” he said. “There’s one saving grace at least in all this horror.”
“Yes?”
“Oh, yes,” Peregrine said warmly and looked at a small glove and two scraps of writing that lay before Alleyn on Winter Meyer’s desk. “You know,” he said, “if they had been lost I really think I might have gone completely bonkers. You — you will take care of them?”
“Great care,” Alleyn said.
When Peregrine had gone Alleyn sat motionless and silent for so long that Fox was moved to clear his throat.
Alleyn bent over the treasure. He took a jeweller’s eyeglass out of his pocket. He inserted a long index finger in the glove and turned back the gauntlet. He examined the letters H.S. and then the seams of the glove and then the work on the back.
“What’s up, Mr. Alleyn?” Fox asked. “Anything wrong?”
“Oh, my dear Br’er Fox, I’m afraid so. I’m afraid there’s no saving grace in this catastrophe, after all, for Peregrine Jay.”
SEVEN
Sunday Morning
“I didn’t knock you up when I came in,” Peregrine said. “There seemed no point. It was getting light. I just thought I’d leave the note to wake me at seven. And oddly enough I did sleep. Heavily.”
Jeremy stood with his back to Peregrine, looking out of the bedroom window. “Is that all?” he asked.
“All?”
“That happened?”
“I should have thought it was enough, my God!”
“I know,” Jeremy said without turning. “I only meant: did you look at the glove?”
“I saw it, I told you: the Sergeant brought it to Alleyn with the two documents and afterwards Alleyn laid them out on Winty’s desk.”
“I wondered if it was damaged.”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t examine it. I wouldn’t have been let. Fingerprints and all that. It seems they really do fuss away about fingerprints.”
“What’ll they do with the things?”
“I don’t know. Lock them up at the Yard, I imagine, until they’ve finished with them and then return them to Conducis.”
“To Conducis. Yes.”
“I must get up, Jer. I’ve got to ring Winty and the cast and the understudy and find out about the boy’s condition. Look, you know the man who did the carpets. Could you ring him up at wherever he lives and tell him he simply must send men in, first thing tomorrow or if necessary tonight, to replace about two or three square yards of carpet on the half-landing. We’ll pay overtime and time again and whatever.”
“The half-landing?”
Peregrine said very rapidly in a high-pitched voice: “Yes. The carpet. On the half-landing. It’s got Jobbins’s blood and brains all over it. The carpet.”
Jeremy turned gray and said: “I’m sorry. I’ll do that thing,” and walked out of the room.
When Peregrine had bathed and shaved he swallowed with loathing two raw eggs in Worcestershire sauce and addressed himself to the telephone. The time was now twenty past seven.
On the South Bank in the borough, of Southwark, Superintendent Alleyn, having left Inspector Fox to arrange the day’s business, drove over Blackfriars Bridge to St. Terence’s Hospital and was conducted to a ward where Trevor Vere, screened from general view and deeply sighing, lay absorbed in the enigma of unconsciousness. At his bedside sat a uniformed constable with his helmet under his chair and a notebook in his hand. Alleyn was escorted by the ward sister and a house-surgeon.
“As you see, he’s deeply concussed,” said the house-surgeon. “He fell on his feet and drove his spine into the base of his head and probably crashed the back of a seat. As far as we can tell there’s no profound injury internally. Right femur and two ribs broken. Extensive bruising. You may say he was bloody lucky. A twenty foot fall, I understand.”
“The bruise on his jaw?”
“That’s a bit of a puzzle. It doesn’t look like the back or arm of a seat. It’s got all the characteristics of a nice hook to the jaw. I wouldn’t care to say definitely, of course. Sir James has seen him.” (Sir James Curtis was the Home Office pathologist.) “He thinks it looks like a punch.”
“Ah. Yes, so he said. It’s no use my asking, of course, when the boy may recover consciousness? Or how much he will remember?”