Gibson blew out a long breath and wiped his forehead.
P. C. Lamprey looked as if he would like to speak but knew his place too well. Alleyn caught his eye. “That, Mike,” he said, “was an almost flawless example of how an investigating officer is not meant to behave. You will be good enough to forget it.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“What do you reckon, Mr. Alleyn?” Fox asked. “A confession? Brazen it out? Attempt to escape? Or what?”
“There’ll be no escape, Mr. Fox,” Gibson said. “We’ve got the place plastered outside. No cars without supervision within a quarter of a mile and a full description.”
“I said ‘attempt,’ Fred,” Mr. Fox pointed out majestically.
“If I’ve bungled,” Alleyn muttered, “I’ve at least bungled in a big way. A monumental mess.”
They looked uneasily at him. Bailey astonished everybody by saying to his boots, with all his customary moroseness: “That’ll be the day.”
“Don’t talk Australian,” Mr. Fox chided immediately, but he looked upon Bailey with approval.
A door in the passage opened and shut.
“Here we go,” said Alleyn.
A moment later there was a tap at the Greenroom door and Parry Percival came in. He wore a dark overcoat, a brilliant scarf, yellow gloves and a green hat.
“If I’m still under suspicion,” he said, “I’d like to know but I suppose no one will tell me.”
Fox said heartily: “I shouldn’t worry about that if I were you, sir. If you’d just give me your address and ’phone number. Purely as a reference.”
Parry gave them and Lamprey wrote them down.
“Thank you, Mr. Percival,” Alleyn said. “Good night.” Parry walked to the door. “They all seem to be going home in twos except me,” he said. “Which is rather dreary, I hope no one gets coshed for his pains. Considering one of them seems to be a murderer it’s not too fantastic a notion, though I suppose you know your own business. Oh well. Good night.”
Evidently he collided with Gay Gainsford in the passage. They heard her ejaculation and his fretful apology. She came in followed by Darcey.
“I couldn’t face this alone,” she said and looked genuinely frightened. “So George brought me.”
“Perfectly in order, Miss Gainsford,” Fox assured her.
Darcey, whose face was drawn and white, stood near the door. She looked appealingly at him and he came forward and gave their addresses and telephone numbers. His voice sounded old. “I should like to see this lady home,” he said and was at once given leave to do so. Alleyn opened the door for them and they went out, arm in arm.
Poole came next. He gave a quick look round the room and addressed, himself to Alleyn. “I don’t understand all this,” he said, “but if any member of my company is to be arrested, I’d rather stay here. I’d like to see Martyn Tarne home — she lives only a few minutes away — but if it’s all right with you, I’ll come back.” He hesitated and then said quickly: ”I’ve spoken to Jacques Doré.”
Alleyn waited for a moment “Yes,” he said at last, “I’d be glad if you’d come back.”
“Will you see Helena now? She’s had about all she can take.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll get her,” Poole said and crossed the passage. They heard him calclass="underline" “Helena?” and in a moment he reopened the door for her.
She had put a velvet beret on her head and had pulled the fullness forward so that her eyes were shadowed. Her mouth drooped with fatigue but it had been carefully painted. Fox took her address and number.
“Is the car here?” she asked, and Fox said: “Yes, madam, in the yard. The constable will show you out.”
“I’ll take you, Helena,” Poole said. “Or would you rather be alone?”
She turned to Alleyn. “I thought,” she said, “that if I’m allowed, I’d rather like to take Jacko. If he’s still about. Would you mind telling him? I’ll wait in the car.”
“There’s no one,” Alleyn asked, “that you’d like us to send for? Or ring up?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’d just rather like to have old Jacko.”
She gave him her hand. “I believe,” she said, “that when I can think at all sensibly about all this, I’ll know you’ve been kind and considerate.”
Poole went out with her and Lamprey followed them.
A moment later, Martyn came in.
As she stood at the table and watched Fox write out her address she felt how little she believed in herself here, in this quietly fantastic setting. Fox and his two silent and soberly dressed associates were so incredibly what she had always pictured plain-clothes detectives to be, and Alleyn, on the contrary, so completely unlike. She was much occupied with this notion and almost forgot to give him her message.
“Jacko,” she said, “asked me to say his address is the same as mine. I have a room in the house where he lodges.” She felt there might be some ambiguity in this statement and was about to amend it when Alleyn asked: “Has Mr. Doré gone?”
“I think he’s waiting for Miss Hamilton in her car.”
“I see,” Alleyn said. “And I believe Mr. Poole is waiting for you. Good-bye, Miss Tarne, and good luck.”
Her face broke into a smile. “Thank you very much,” said Martyn.
Poole’s voice called in the passage: “Where are you, Kate?”
She said good night and went out.
Their steps died away down the passage and across the stage. A door slammed and the theatre was silent.
“Come on,” said Alleyn.
He led the way round the back of Jacko’s set to the Prompt corner.
Only the off-stage working-lights were alive. The stage itself was almost as shadowy as it was when Martyn first set foot on it. A dust-begrimed lamp above the letter-rack cast a yellow light over its surface.
In the centre, conspicuous in its fresh whiteness, was an envelope that had not been there before.
It was addressed in a spidery hand to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.
He took it from the rack. “So he did it this way,” he said, and without another word led them onto the stage.
Jacko’s twisted stairway rose out of the shadows like a crazy ejaculation. At its base, untenanted chairs faced each other in silent communion. The sofa was in the darkest place of all.
Young Lamprey began to climb the iron steps to the switch-board. The rest used their flash-lamps. Five pencils of light interlaced, hovered and met at their tips on a crumpled newspaper. They advanced upon the sofa as if it housed an enemy, but when Alleyn lifted the newspaper and the five lights enlarged themselves on Dr. Rutherford’s face, it was clearly to be seen that he was dead.
The little group of men stood together in the now fully lit stage while Alleyn read the letter. It was written on official theatre paper and headed: “The Office. 1:45 A.M.”
DEAR ALLEYN,
I cry you patience if this letter is but disjointedly patched together. Time presses and I seem to hear the clink of constabular bracelets.
Otto Brod wrote a play which he asked Clark Bennington to read and help him improve. Ben showed it to the two persons of his acquaintance who could read German and had some judgement. I refer to Doré and myself. The play we presented last night was my own free adaptation of Brod’s piece made without his consent or knowledge. Base is the slave that pays. In every way mine is an improvement. Was it George Moore who said that the difference between his quotations and those of the next man was that he left out the inverted commas? I am in full agreement with this attitude and so, by the way, was Will Shakespeare. Doré, however, is a bourgeois where the arts are in question. He recognized the source, disapproved, but had the grace to remain mum. The British critics, like Doré, would take the uncivilized view and Ben knew it. He suspected the original authorship, wrote to Brod and three days ago got an answer confirming his suspicions. This letter he proposed to use as an instrument of blackmail. I told Ben, which was no more than the truth, that I intended to make things right with Brod, who, if he’s not a popinjay, would be well content with the honour done him and the arrangement proposed.