“Latterly. We did most of the rehearsing up in the study in Pen Cuckoo. It was too cold here until they got extra heaters in. We had our dress rehearsal here on Thursday night. Yesterday afternoon at five, Friday I mean, we went up to Pen Cuckoo and had what Dinah calls a run-through for words.”
“What about this afternoon before the performance?”
“It was shut up during the afternoon. I called in at about three o’clock to drop some of my gear. The place was closed then and the key hung up between the wall of the outside place and the main building. We’d arranged that with Dinah.”
“Did you notice the piano?”
“Now, did I? Yes. Yes, I did. It was where it is now, with bunting all over the top and a row of pot plants. They’d fixed it up like that in the morning.”
“Did anybody else look in at three o’clock while you were here?”
“Let me think. Yes, Mrs. Ross was there with some foodstuff. She left it in the supper-room at the back of the stage.”
“How long were you both in the place?”
“Oh, not long. We — talked for a minute or two and then came away.”
“Together?”
“No. I left Mrs. Ross arranging sandwiches on plates. By the way, if you want anything to eat, do help yourselves. And there’s some beer under the table. I provided it, so don’t hesitate.”
“Very kind of you,” said Alleyn.
“Not a bit. Be delighted. Where were we? Oh, yes. I had a case over near Moorton and I wanted to look in at the cottage hospital. I wasn’t here long.”
“Nobody else came in?”
“Not then.”
“Who was the first to arrive in the evening?”
“I don’t know. I was the last. Had an emergency case at six. When I got home I found my wife not so well again. We didn’t get here till half-past seven. Dinah Copeland thought I wasn’t going to turn up and had worked herself into a frightful stew. She’d be able to tell you all about times of arrival. I bet she got here long before the rest of the cast. Dinah Copeland. That’s the parson’s daughter. She produced the play.”
“Yes. Thank you”
“Well, I suppose you don’t want me any longer. Good Lord, it’s nearly two o’clock!”
“Awful, isn’t it? We shall be here all night, I expect. No, we won’t bother you any more, Dr. Templett.”
“What about moving the body? Shall I fix up for the mortuary van to come along as early as possible?”
“I wish you would.”
“I’ll have to do the P.M., I suppose?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Pretty plain sailing, it’ll be, poor old girl. Well, good-night or good-morning, er — I don’t know your name, do I?”
“Alleyn.”
“What, Roderick Alleyn?”
“Yes.”
“By George, I’ve read your book of criminal investigation. Damned good. Fascinating subject, isn’t it?”
“Enthralling.”
“For the layman, what? Not such fun for the expert.”
“Not quite such fun.”
Dr. Templett shook hands, turned to go, and then paused.
“I tell you what,” he said. “I’d like to see how this booby-trap worked.”
“Yes, of course. Come and have a look.”
Bailey was at the piano with an insufflator and a strong lamp.
Thompson stood by with his cameras.
“How’s it going, Bailey?” asked Alleyn.
“Finished the case, sir. Not much doing. Somebody must have dusted the whole show. We may get some latent prints but I don’t think there’s a chance, myself. Same with the Colt. We’re ready to take it down.”
“All right. Go warily, we don’t want to lose any prints if they’re there. I’ll move the front of the piano off and you hold the gun.”
Bailey reached a gloved hand inside the top.
“I’ll take off the pulley on the front panel, sir.”
“Yes. That’ll give us a better picture than if you dismantled the twine altogether.”
Fox undid the side catches and Alleyn lifted away the front of the piano and put it on one side.
“Hullo,” he said, “this silk panelling seems as though it’s had water spilt on it. It’s still dampish. Round the central hole.”
“Blood?” suggested Dr. Templett.
“No. There’s a little blood. This was water. A circular patch of it. Now, I wonder. Well, let’s have a look at the works.”
The Colt, supported at the end of the barrel by Bailey’s thumb and forefinger, was revealed with its green twine attachments. The butt was still jammed against the pegs at the back. Alleyn picked up the detached pulley and held it in position.
“Good God!” said Dr. Templett.
“Ingenious, isn’t it?” Alleyn said. “I think we’ll have a shot of it like this, Thompson. It’ll look nice and clear for the twelve good men and true.”
“Is the safety catch on?” demanded Dr. Templett, suddenly stepping aside.
“It is. You’ve dealt with the soft pedal, haven’t you, Bailey?” He stooped and pressed the left pedal down with his hand. The batten with its row of hammers moved towards the string. The green twine tightened in the minute pulleys.
“That’s how it worked. You can see where the pressure comes on the trigger.”
“A very neat-fingered person, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Alleyn?” said Fox.
“Yes,” said Alleyn. “Neat and sure fingers.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Templett. “It’s amazingly simple really. The only tricky bit would be passing the twine through the trigger guard, round the butt, and through the top pulley. That could be done before the gun was jammed in position. No, it’s simpler than it looks.”
“It’s like one of these affairs in books,” said Bailëy disgustedly. “Someone trying to think up a new way to murder. Silly, I call it.”
“What do you say, Roper?” said Alleyn.
“To my way of thinking, sir,” said Sergeant Roper, “these thrillers are ruining our criminal classes.”
Dr. Templett gave a shout of laughter. Roper turned scarlet and stared doggedly at the wall.
“What d’you mean by that, my lad?” asked Fox, who was on his knees, staring into the piano.
Thompson, grinning to himself, touched off his flashlight.
“What I mean to say, Mr. Fox,” said Roper. “It puts ideas in their foolish heads. And the talkies, too: Especially the young chaps. They get round the place talking down their noses and making believe they’re gangsters. Look at this affair! I bet the chap that did this got the idea of it out of print.”
“That’s right, Roper, stick to it,” said Dr. Templett. Roper disregarded him. Templett repeated his good-nights and went away.
“Go on, Roper. It’s an idea,” said Alleyn when the door had slammed. “What sort of print do you imagine would inspire this thing?”
“One of those funny drawings with bits of string and cogs and umbrellas and so forth?” suggested Thonnv son.
“Heath Robinson? Yes.”
“Or more likely, sir,” said Roper, “one of they four-penny boys’ yarns in paper covers like you buy at the store in Chipping. I used to buy them myself as a youngster. There’s always a fat lad and a comic lad and the comical chap plays off the fat one. Puts lighted crackers in his pants and all that. I recollect trying the cracker dodge under the rector’s seat at Bible class, and he gave me a proper tanning for it, too, did rector.”
“The practical joke idea again, you see, Fox,” said Alleyn.
“Well,” said Fox, stolidly. “Do we start off reading the back numbers of a boys’ paper, or what?”
“You never know, Brer Fox. Have you noticed the back of the piano where the bunting’s pinned down? There are four holes in the centre drawing pin and three to each of the others. Will you take the Colt out now, and all the rest of the paraphernalia? I’m going to take a look round the premises. We’ll have to start seeing these people in the morning. Who the devil’s that?”