“But I think he knew more about her than that,” Alleyn went on. “She was a guest of Mr. Conducis’s six years ago in the Kalliope, when the yacht was wrecked off Cape St. Vincent. At that time, six years ago, Grove was going through a bad patch and taking any jobs he could get. Lorry-driving. Waiter in a strip-joint. And steward.”
He turned to Mr. Conducis. “I was about to ask you yesterday when Grove himself interrupted us: was he a steward on board the Kalliope?”
Nobody looked at Mr. Conducis.
“Yes,” he said.
“How did that come about?”
“He brought himself to my notice. His father was a distant and unsatisfactory connection of mine. I considered this to be no reason for employing him but he satisfied me of his usefulness.”
“And he sold you the glove and documents?”
“Yes.”
“For thirty pounds?”
“I have already said so.”
Marcus Knight, whose manner towards Mr. Conducis had been an extraordinary blend of hauteur and embarrassment, now said loudly: “I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t believe what, Mr. Knight?” Alleyn asked.
“That he was aboard that—vessel.”
“You were scarcely there long enough to notice,” Mr. Conducis said coldly.
“I was there long enough—” Marcus began on a high note, and dried. “But no matter,” he said. “No matter.”
Alleyn stood up and so did everybody else except Mr. Conducis.
“I won’t keep you any longer,” Alleyn said. “I would like to say how sorry I am that this has happened and how much I hope your play and your theatre will ride out the storm. I’m sure they will. I’m taking an unorthodox line when I tell you that Grove has said he will not contest the accusations of assault. He will, he states, admit to taking the treasure, overturning the bronze dolphin and struggling with the boy. He will plead that these were instinctive, self-protective actions committed without intention to kill. This defense, if adhered to, will mean a short trial with little evidence being called and, I think, not a great deal of publicity.”
Little Meyer said: “Why’s he taking that line? Why isn’t he going all out for an acquittal?”
“I asked him that. He said he was suddenly sick of the whole thing. And he added,” Alleyn said with a curious twist in his voice, “that he thought it would work out better that way for William Shakespeare, Mr. Peregrine Jay and The Dolphin.”
He saw then the eyes of all the company had filled with tears.
When they had gone he turned back to Mr. Conducis. “You said, sir, that you had something you wished to tell me.”
“I have something I wish to ask you. Has he said anything about me?”
“A little. He said you owed each other nothing.”
“I will pay for his defense. Let him know that.”
“Very well.”
“Anything else?”
“He said that as far as he is concerned — this was his phrase — he would keep the glove over his knuckles and I could tell you so. He asked me to give you this.”
Alleyn gave Mr. Conducis an envelope. He was about to put it in his pocket but changed his mind opened it and read the short message it contained. He held out the paper to Alleyn.
“It seems,” Alleyn read, “that we are both the victims of irresistible impulse. Which leads me to the ludicrous notion that you will, as they say, ‘understand.’ You needn’t worry. I’m bored with it all and intend to drop it.”
Down below someone whistled, crossed the foyer and slammed the front doors. The Dolphin was very quiet.
“He clung to the raft,” said Mr. Conducis, “and tried to climb aboard it. He would have overturned it. I smashed his knuckles with the writing-desk and thought I’d drowned him. His hands were gloved. They curled and opened and slid away in their own blood. Nobody saw. He has blackmailed me ever since.”
“They are not cancelling,” said Winter Meyer, giving the box-office plans a smart slap. “And there’s very little publicity. I can’t understand it.”
“Could it be the hand of Conducis?”
“Could be, dear boy. Could be. Power,” said little Meyer, “corrupts, didn’t somebody say? It may do: but it comes in handy, dear boy, it comes in handy.”
He ran upstairs to his office and could be heard singing.
“All the same,” Peregrine said to Emily, “I hope it’s not the hand of Conducis. I hope it’s The Dolphin. And us. You know,” he went on, “I’m sure he stayed behind to unburden himself to Alleyn.”
“What of?”
“Who can tell! I’ve got a feeling it was something to do with his yacht. He’s behaved so very oddly whenever it came up.”
“Perhaps,” Emily speculated idly, “you reminded him of it. That morning.”
“I? How?”
“Oh,” she said vaguely, “people drowning, you know, or nearly drowning, or hanging on to bits of wreckage. Perhaps he was glad he rescued you. Or something.”
“You never know,” Peregrine said.
He put his arm round her and she leaned against him. They had become engaged and were happy.
They looked round them at the upsidedown cupids, the caryatids, the portrait of Mr. Adolphus Ruby, now prominently displayed, and the graceful double flight of stairs. The bronze dolphins were gone and where the safe had been was a montage of the Grafton portrait overlaid by Kean, Garrick, Siddons, Irving and the present great Shakespeareans, all very excitingly treated by Jeremy Jones.
“If you belong to the theatre,” Peregrine said, “you belong utterly.”
They went out to the portico.
Here they found an enormous Daimler and a chauffeur. It was like a recurrent symbol in a time play and for a moment Peregrine felt as if Mr. Conducis had called again to take him to Drury Place.
“Is that Dessy’s car?” Emily said.
But it wasn’t Destiny Meade in the back seat. It was an enormous and definitively hideous lady flashing with diamonds, lapped in mink and topped with feathers.
She tapped on the glass and beckoned.
When Peregrine approached, she let down the window and, in a deep voice, addressed him.
“You can perhaps assizt me. I have this morning arrived from America. I vish to inquire about the Shakespearean Religs. I am Mrs. Constantia Guzmann.”
The End