“Concussion,” Alleyn said, “can be extremely tricky. In the meantime, of course, we’ll have to find out about all the members of the company and the front-of-house staff and so on.”
“Find out?”
“Their movements for one thing. You may be able to help us here,” Alleyn said to Peregrine. “It seems that apart from the boy, you and Miss Dunne were the last to leave the theatre. Unless, of course, somebody lay doggo until you’d gone. Which may well be the case. Can you tell us anything about how and when and by what door the other members of the cast went out?”
“I think I can,” Peregrine said. He was now invested with the kind of haggard vivacity that follows emotional exhaustion: a febrile alertness such as he had often felt after some hideously protracted dress-rehearsal. He described the precautions taken at the close of every performance to insure that nobody was left on the premises. A thorough search of the house was made by backstage and front-of-house staff. He was certain it would have been quite impossible for anybody in the audience to hide anywhere in the theatre.
He related rapidly and accurately how the stage-crew left the theater in a bunch and how Gertrude Bracey and Marcus Knight went out together through the auditorium to escape the wet. They had been followed by Charles Random, who was alone and used the stage-door, and then by Emily, who stayed offstage with Peregrine.
“And then,” Peregrine said, “Destiny Meade and Harry Grove came out with a clutch of friends. They were evidently going on to a party. They went down the stage-door alley and I heard Harry call out that he’d fetch something or another and Destiny tell him not to be too long. And it was then—I’d come back from having a look at the weather—It was then that I fancied—” He stopped.
“Yes?”
“I thought that the pass-door from stage to front-of-house moved. It was out of the tail of my eye, sort of. If I’m right, and I think I am, it must have been that wretched kid, I suppose.”
“But you never saw him?”
“Never. No. Only heard him.” And Peregrine described how he had gone out to the front and his subsequent interview with Jobbins. Alleyn took him over this again because, so he said, he wanted to make sure he’d got it right “You shaped up to chasing the boy, did you? After you heard him catcall and slam the stage-door?”
“Yes. But Jobbins pointed out he’d be well on his way. So we said goodnight and—”
“Yes?”
“I’ve just remembered. Do you know what we said to each other? I said: ‘This is your last watch,’ and he said: ‘That’s right. Positively the last appearance.’ Because the treasure was to be taken away today, you see. And after that Jobbins wouldn’t have had to be glued to the half-landing.”
Greenslade and Fox made slight appropriate noises. Alleyn waited for a moment and then said: “And so you said goodnight and you and Miss Dunne left? By the stage-door?”
“Yes.”
“Was it locked? Before you left?”
“No. Wait a moment, though. I think the Yale lock was on but certainly not the bolts. Hawkins came in by the stage-door. He had a key. He’s a responsible man from a good firm, though you wouldn’t think it from his behaviour tonight. He let himself in and then shot the bolts.”
“Yes,” Alleyn said. “We got that much out of him. Nothing else you can tell us?”
Peregrine said: “Not as far as I can think. But all the same I’ve got a sort of notion that there’s some damn thing I’ve forgotten. Some detail.”
“To do with what? Any idea?”
“To do with — I don’t know. The boy, I think.”
The boy?”
“I fancy I was thinking about a production of The Cherry Orchard, but — no, it’s gone and I daresay it’s of no consequence.”
Mr. Greenslade said: “I know this is not your concern, Alleyn, but I hope you don’t mind my raising the point with Jay. I should like to know what happens to the play. Does the season continue? I am unfamiliar with theatrical practice.”
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?”