“He’s gone.” The surgeon walked across to a practical basin and began to wash his hands as a drop curtain, emblazoned with an enormous question-mark, was drawn down like a blind over the scene.
“So that’s why we came?” said Angela, and remained very quiet until the end of the show.
They had supper at Alleyn’s flat, where Angela was made a fuss of by Vassily.
“Curious coincidence, that little play, didn’t you think?” asked Alleyn.
“Very rum,” agreed Nigel. “When did you hear about it?”
“Thoms told me that he and Phillips discussed it before the operation. Thoms seemed so anxious not to talk about it I thought it might be worth seeing. I can’t help wondering if he meant to convey precisely that suggestion.”
“Had Sir John seen it?” inquired Angela.
“No. Thoms told him about it?”
“I say,” said Nigel. “Do you think that could have given Phillips the big idea?”
“It might be that.”
“Or it might be — something quite different,” added Angela, watching him.
“I congratulate you, Miss Angela,” said Alleyn.
“Did Mr. Thoms tell you quite frankly about their conversation?”
“No, child, he didn’t. He flustered like an old hen.”
“And what did you deduce from that?” asked Angela innocently.
“Perhaps he was afraid of incriminating his distinguished colleague and senior.”
“Oh,” she said flatly. “What’s he like in other ways?”
“Besides being a bit of a buffoon? Well, I should say either rather forgetful or a bit of a liar. He says he came out of the theatre with Phillips after the latter had prepared the hyoscine injection. Phillips, matron and Banks say he didn’t.”
“Oh,” said Angela, “they do, do they.”
“I haven’t the least idea what you’re driving at, Angela,” complained Nigel. “I should like to hear more about the funny little man. Didn’t he behave at all queerly?”
“He behaved very queerly indeed,” said Alleyn. “He was as scary as a rabbit whenever the murder was mentioned. He’s obviously very frightened whenever he thinks of it. And yet I don’t think his alarm is purely selfish. He said it was, I believe. Thoms, in that asinine way of his, made very merry over Roberts’s alarm when he rang up.”
Alleyn looked steadily at Angela.
“Roberts is the man, depend upon it,” pronounced Nigel. “I’ll back him with you for a quid.”
“I won’t,” said Angela. “I’ll back— ”
“I’m afraid the official conscience won’t allow me to join in this cold-bloomed gamble,” said Alleyn. He looked at them both curiously. “The attitude of the intelligent layman is very rum,” he observed.
“I lay you two to one the field, bar Roberts, Angela,” said Nigel.
“Done,” said Angela. “In guineas,” she added grandly. “And what were you saying, inspector?”
“I was only reflecting. Does the decision rest with the judge?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well — if it does, you are betting on a man or woman who, if you’re right, will presumably be hanged. I can’t imagine you doing this over any other form of death. That’s what I mean about the attitude of the layman.”
Angela turned red.
“That’s the second time in our acquaintanceship you’ve made me feel a pig,” she said. “The first was because I was too sensitive. The bet’s off, Nigel.”
“You can be pretty cold-blooded yourself, Alleyn,” said Nigel indignantly.
“Oh, yes,” said Alleyn, “but I’m an official.”
“Anyway,” argued Angela, “I was betting on Dr. Roberts’s innocence.”
“So you were.”
“And, anyway,” said Nigel, “I think he did it”
“How?”
“Er — well — somehow. With an injection.”
“He gave no injections.”
“Who could have done it?” asked Angela. “I mean who had the opportunity?”
“Phillips, who prepared and gave an injection. The special, who was alone with the patient. Ruth, ditto. Banks, who prepared and gave an injection. Thoms gave an injection, but did not prepare it. He was alone in the theatre for a few minutes if Phillips and the matron are telling the truth. He used the big syringe, and as he quite frankly pointed out, he could hardly have palmed another. Jane Harden had time to empty it and refill with hyoscine.”
“Which of them do you say were alone in the theatre before the operation?”
“All the nurses, Thoms and Phillips had the chance to be there, I suppose.”
“Not Roberts?” asked Nigel.
“I think not. He went straight to the anæsthetic-room, where he was joined by the special with the patient.”
“Bad luck, darling,” said Angela. “It really looks as though he’s the only man who couldn’t have murdered Sir Derek.”
“Then he’s a certainty,” declared Nigel. “Isn’t it true that when there’s a cast-iron alibi the police always prick up their ears?”
“Personally, I let mine flop with a thankful purr,” said Alleyn. “But you may be right. This is scarcely an alibi. Roberts was there; he merely had no hypodermic to give and no syringe to use.”
“And no motive,” added Angela.
“Look for the motive,” said Nigel.
“I will,” said Alleyn. “There’s precious little else to look for. Has it occurred to you, if the lethal injection was given during the operation, how extraordinarily favourable the mise en scène was for the murderer? As soon as a patient is wheeled away they set to work, and as far as I can see, they literally scour out the theatre. Nothing is left — everything is washed, sterilised, polished. The syringes — the dishes — the instruments— the floor — the tables. Even the ampoules that held the injections are cast into outer darkness. If you wanted to think of a perfect place to get rid of your tracks, you couldn’t choose a likelier spot.” He got up and looked at his watch.
“He wants us to go,” remarked Angela calmly.
“It’s only eleven o’clock,” murmured Alleyn. “I wondered if you’d both care to do a job of work for me?”
“What sort of job?” they asked.
“Attend a Bolshevik meeting at midnight.”
“To-night?”
“To-night.”
“I’d adore to,” said Angela quickly. “Where is it? What’s the time? What do we do?”
“It’ll be a bit of copy for you, Bathgate,” said Alleyn. “Mr. Nicholas Kakaroff, agent of a certain advanced section of Soviet propagandists, is holding a meeting at Lenin Hall, Saltarrow Street, Blackfriars. Lenin Hall is a converted warehouse. Mr. Kakaroff is a converted minor official, originally from Krakov. I feel sure Kakaroff is a made-up name. ‘Kakaroff of Krakov’—it’s too good to be really true, don’t you feel? There’s an air of unreality about his whole gang. As far as we know, they are not officially recognised by Russia or any other self-respecting country. Your genuine Soviet citizen is an honest-to-God sort of chap in his own way, once you get past his prejudices. But these fellows are grotesques — illegitimate offsprings of the I.W.W. You’ll see. Nurse Banks attends the meeting. So do we. Myself disguised and feeling silly. Banks might penetrate my disguise, which would not be in the great tradition, so you sit next to her and get her confidence. You have been given your tickets by one Mr. Marcus Barker, who will not be there. He’s an English sympathiser at present in custody for selling prohibited literature. He has a bookshop in Long Acre. Don’t talk about him; you’d get into a mess if you did. I want you to pump the lady. You are enthusiastic converts. Let her hear that from your conversation together and leave it to her to make friends. If you can do it artistically, rejoice over O’Callaghan’s death. Now wait a moment — I want to ring Fox up. Here, read this pamphlet and see if you can get down some of the line of chat.”