Vintage Murder

Chapter VIII MONEY

“The sooner you get down-stage and find yourself the better, young lady,” said Mason, when the staff had gone. “What’s the idea of all this tragedy stuff?”

“Oh, I can’t help it,” wailed Valerie. “I can’t help it. I can’t help it.”

“Nonsense,” said old Susan very loudly. “Carolyn and Hailey arrestedl The very idea!”

“I’m sorry. It was just him saying they’d gone. And it flashed through my mind — my poor tormented mind — how fond he is of her. I mean, we all know, and it was just—”

“Never mind, now,” interrupted Liversidge. “Think of something else.”

“That’s a suggestion,” said Alleyn cheerfully. “Think of all the money you lost, Miss Gaynes. It’s never turned up, I suppose?”

This had a salutary effect. Valerie stopped sobbing and caught her breath.

“No — I—no, it hasn’t. But Mr. Meyer was — was awfully sweet. He — he advanced it to me — the same amount. And to think—”

“Really! Very kind of him.”

“Yes. He said he felt responsible, as I was under his wing. He said the Firm wouldn’t let its people be out of pocket. And to think he’s d—”

“D’you mean he gave it to you?” asked Ackroyd.

“Well — yes. He made me take it. I said it didn’t matter — but he made me. And now he’s lying there— mur—”

“That’s just like him,” said Courtney Broadhead. “He was wonderfully generous.”

“You’ve experienced his generosity, have you, Court?” asked Liversidge.

“Yes.” Broadhead looked straight at him. “I have indeed.”

“Tell us about it, Court,” invited Gordon Palmer.

“Shut up, Gordon,” said Mr. Weston, speaking for the first time since Alleyn had been in the room. “Don’t nosy-park.”

“Well,” said Liversidge, who seemed to have recovered a good deal of his composure. “Well. It’s nice to have an extra quid or two in your pocket. Thanks to you, Court, old boy, I’ve got one or two. I’ll take you on again at Two’s Wild whenever you like.”

“You were lucky at poker, were you, Mr. Liversidge?” asked Alleyn lightly.

“I was. And poor old Court couldn’t hold a court card.” He laughed.

“Must you?” said little Ackroyd. “Oh, must you?”

“I think it’s awful to make jokes,” began Valerie, “when you think—”

“We’re making epitaphs,” said Gordon Palmer. “Or Court is, at any rate.” He glanced defiantly at Weston, and then turned to Broadhead. “I’ve got a question to ask you, Courtney. I’ve got a particular reason for asking it.”

“What is it?” said Broadhead.

“It’s this. Where did you get the money to pay your poker debts?”

In the shocked silence that followed this amazing sentence Alleyn watched Liversidge. Liversidge himself watched Courtney Broadhead.

“I haven’t the smallest objection to telling you,” said Broadhead. His face was scarlet, but he faced young Palmer collectedly. “Mr. Meyer lent it to me.”

“Oh,” said Gordon. He glanced sheepishly at Liversidge.

“Gordon!” Geoffrey Weston remarked dispassionately. “You’re a bounder.”

“ ‘Carruthers, you cad, you have disgraced the old school tie,’ ” jeered Gordon. “Really, Geoff, you’re too superb.”

“You’re asking for a hiding,” continued Mr. Weston, “and I’ve a damn’ good mind to give it you.”

“I shall run away. I run faster than you. Don’t be a ninny, Geoff. I said I had reason for asking my question. I had. A damn’ good reason. The day we left the ship Courtney asked me if I’d mind waiting for my winnings till he began to draw his money. I said no, that was all right. He said he’d been a fool and was in the soup. That night, in the train, Val found she’d been robbed of a hundred quid. The next day Courtney paid Frankie Liversidge and me every penny he owed us. He said afterwards he’d had a windfall. Now he says Mr. Meyer lent him the cash. Well, that’s very charming. Pity, in a way, that Mr. Meyer isn’t here to—”

“You damned little tripe-hound,” bawled Courtney Broadhead and made for him.

“Broadhead!” Alleyn made them all jump. Courtney swung round angrily.

“I shouldn’t, really,” said Alleyn.

“By God, no one’s going to talk to me like—”

“If there’s an explanation,” said Gordon Palmer, who looked frightened but obstinate, “why don’t you give it? You seem to be out for blood this evening, don’t you?”

Courtney Broadhead made a wild swipe at him. Alleyn caught his arm, did something neat and quick with it, and held him.

“Do you want the sergeant outside to referee, you unspeakable donkey?” inquired Alleyn. “Go back to your seat.”

To the intense astonishment of everybody Courtney went.

“Now,” said Alleyn to Gordon Palmer, “you will listen to me, if you please. If you have any information that is relevant to this business, you will give it to the police.”

“I’m at liberty to say what I choose,” said Gordon, backing away.

“Shut up,” said Weston.

“If you go about making statements that may be criminally libellous, you won’t be at liberty to do anything at all for some considerable time,” Alleyn told him. “Sit down and attend to your elders and betters, and don’t be rude. You are a thoroughly tiresome and stupid young cub, and I see small hope of your growing up into anything that remotely resembles a human being.”

“Look here, who the hell—”

“Shut up,” said Weston.

Gordon retired, muttering.

“I think,” said Liversidge, “that if I were in your place, Court, old boy, I’d just explain quietly. You owe it to yourself, you know.”

“There’s nothing more to say,” began Broadhead. “I lost at poker and couldn’t pay my debts. I went to Mr. Meyer the morning we got here and told him about it. He was extraordinarily decent and advanced me the money. I was to pay it back out of my salary.”

“Well then, old boy,” said Liversidge, “you’ve no need to worry. It’ll all be on the books, won’t it, Mr. Mason? I suppose Mr. Meyer told you about it?”

“I agree with Mr. Alleyn,” said Mason quietly, “that there is nothing to be gained by discussing this matter here.”

“It won’t be on the books,” said Courtney Broadhead. “It was a private loan.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“I don’t understand,” said Valerie Gaynes suddenly. “Of course, Court didn’t take my money. What’s my money got to do with it? It was stolen in the ship. Probably a steward took it.”

Her voice flattened. She looked at Liversidge and away again.

“I’m sure a steward took it, Frankie,” she said. It was almost as though she pleaded with him.

“I’ll bet it was a steward,” said Liversidge very heartily indeed. He flashed an intolerably brilliant smile at Courtney Broadhead.

“Well,” said Susan Max roundly, “it may have been a steward or it may have been the captain of the ship, but it wasn’t Courtney Broadhead, and only a fool or a rogue would suggest that it was.”

“Quite a champion of — ah — good causes to-night, aren’t you, Susie?” said Liversidge winningly.

“For God’s sake,” said George Mason, “can’t you cut out all this stuff about Miss Gaynes’s money and Courtney’s money. We’re up against a terrible tragedy and, my God, you all start selling a lot of cross-talk. What’s going to happen to the show? That’s what I’d like to know. What’s going to happen to the show?”

And as if he had indeed sounded the very bottom of their trouble they at once became silent and anxious.

“The show!” said Gordon Palmer shrilly. “You are an extraordinary crowd. The show doesn’t matter— what’s going to happen to us?”

At this protest from outside they all seemed to draw together. They looked anxiously at each other, ignoring Gordon.

“You don’t seem to realise a man’s been murdered,” he went on. His voice, trying to be compelling and indignant, was boyishly lame.

“Shut up,” said Geoffrey Weston.

“I won’t. There’s poor Mr. Meyer—” The voice wobbled uncertainly.

“If Alfred Meyer can think at all where he’s gone,” said little George Mason surprisingly, “he’s thinking about the show. The Firm came first with Alfred — always.”

There was a short silence.

“I’m very sorry it happened, ladies and gentlemen,” added Mason, “very sorry for your sakes, I mean. We’ve brought you all this way. I–I can assure you you’ll be — looked after. My partner wouldn’t have wanted it otherwise. We’re old friends, all of us. I can’t just sort things out in my own mind but — if I’ve got anything to do with it there’ll be no difference.”

He looked solemnly at his company. There was a little stir among them as if they were touched by his sudden assumption of formality, and by the illusion of security that his words had given to them. And, as he watched them, it seemed to Alleyn that of all things security is most desired by actors since it is the one boon that is never granted them. Even when they are in great demand and command absurdly large salaries, he reflected, few of them contrive to save much money. It is almost as though they were under the compulsion of some ancient rule of their guild, never to know security but often to desire it. And he fell to thinking of their strange life and of the inglorious and pathetic old age to which so many of them drifted.

Packer came in, interrupting his thoughts.

The inspector, said Packer, would now speak to Mr. Mason, if the latter was feeling better. Mr. Mason turned pale, said he felt much better, and followed the sergeant out.

“I hope to God he meant what he said,” rumbled old Brandon Vernon. “I’ve been so long with the Firm I’ve forgotten what other managements are like.”

Gradually they settled down to the actor’s endless gossip about “shop.” It was obvious that they were all shocked — some of them deeply moved perhaps — by Meyer’s death. But they slipped into their habitual conversation quite unconsciously and soon were talking peaceably enough. Courtney Broadhead had gone to the far end of the room and stayed there, glowering, till old Vernon strolled across and tried to talk him into a better humour. They all completely ignored Gordon Palmer who sulked in a corner with his silent bear-leader.

Presently Packer returned.

“Inspector Wade would like to speak to you now, Mr. Alleyn,” said Packer.

Alleyn followed him into the dark passage.

“Mr. Wade was wondering if you’d be glad of the chance to get out of there, sir;” murmured Packer.

“I see. Very thoughtful of him.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Packer. I’ll see you again, I expect.”

“Good-oh, sir,” said Packer with enthusiasm.

Alleyn made his way to the office where he found Wade seated at Alfred Meyer’s desk with the colossal Cass in attendance.

“I thought perhaps you were getting a bit fed up in there, sir,” said Wade.

“It wasn’t dull,” said Alleyn. “The conversation took rather an interesting turn.”

“Yes?”

Alleyn related his experiences in the wardrobe-room.

“Oh,” said Wade, “that’s a bit of news, now, all that about Mr. Courtney Broadhead and the Gaynes woman. We’ll just get some notes on that, if we may, sir. Cass’ll take it down in shorthand. Now, how does it go?”

“Briefly,” said Alleyn, “like this. Liversidge, Miss Gaynes, young Gordon Palmer, his cousin, Geoffrey Weston, who seems to have strange ideas on the duties of a bear-leader, and Courtney Broadhead, all played poker for high stakes on the voyage out. Gordon Palmer and Liversidge were conspicuous winners, Broadhead a conspicuous loser. Some time between the last evening on board ship and the following evening on board the train, approximately a hundred pounds in notes was stolen from Miss Valerie Gaynes. The notes were in a leather writing-folder which she kept in a suit-case. In the train I noticed that Broadhead seemed greatly worried and I said so to Mr. Hambledon. I had a seat in the company’s carriage. Mr. Broadhead spent a good deal of time on the platform. I can give you a more detailed, though incomplete, record of his movements, if you wish.”

“If you please, sir.”

“Well, here goes. I’ve a shocking memory, but it has retained one or two small items. At midnight the company, with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Meyer — Miss Dacres you know — and Miss Gaynes, were in the carriage. The other three had gone to their sleepers. At about ten minutes past twelve, I went to sleep. I woke at two-ten. The company were as they had been before I dozed off. A few minutes later, Mr. Broadhead went out on the platform. He was visible through the glass door. At two-forty-five we reached Ohakune. Mr. Hambledon and I went out and got coffee. Miss Dacres called us into her sleeper. We were met on the way by Mr. Meyer who took us there. He said someone had tried to tip him overboard from the sleeper platform, about half an hour before we got to Ohakune. He was not certain of the time. It may have been forty minutes or longer. If so this attempt was made while I was asleep. While Mr. Meyer was relating his experience to us, Miss Gaynes came in and reported the loss of her money. When I offered to cast the eye at her ravished suit-case she was unflatteringly tepid and melted away.”

“Er,” said Cass.

“Yes?” asked Alleyn.

“That last sentence, sir — er—‘when I offered to look’—”

“I phrased it badly,” said Alleyn. “I offered to examine Miss Gaynes’s leather folder. She declined, and shortly afterwards withdrew.”

“Thanks,” said Cass.

“Returning to the wardrobe-room. While I was there Mr. Gordon Palmer remarked that Mr. Courtney Broadhead had paid his poker debts the morning after our train journey. Mr. Palmer told us that Mr. Broadhead had previously asked for time in the settlement of these debts. Mr. Palmer asked Mr. Broadhead where he had raised the wind.”

“Obtained the requisite sum,” murmured Cass.

“Certainly, Cass. Mr. Broadhead showed signs of the liveliest indignation and offered violence.”

“Did he strike Palmer?” asked Wade.

“No. I ventured to apply a back-arm bend. Mr. Broadhead informed us that he had confided in the deceased, who had advanced him the money. Mr. Palmer then remarked that it was unfortunate that Mr. Meyer could not substantiate this statement. It was at this stage that the attempt at violence occurred. How’s that for official language?”

“Pardon?”

“No matter. Now, look here, Inspector. I had the impression that young Palmer was not doing his nasty stuff quite off his own bat. I rather fancy someone had egged him on to bate Courtney Broadhead.”

“Do you, sir? Any idea who?”

“Mr. Liversidge,” said Alleyn abstractedly, “was so helpful and kind. He suggested that no doubt Mr. Meyer had made a note of the loan and that this would clear the whole matter up.”

“Well, so it would, sir, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. Mr. Broadhead explained that the loan was a personal matter and was not recorded on the books.”

“Is that so?” said Wade. He regarded Alleyn solemnly. “Well now, sir, that’s very interesting. You might look at it this way. A young fellow who hasn’t got the cash to pay his debts suddenly pays them and when people get inquisitive he says he was given the money by someone who’s just been murdered.”

“Yes, that’s how Master Palmer put it,” said Alleyn.

“About the tiki,” said Wade after a pause. “I asked the Dacres wom — Mrs. Meyer where it was, and she said she gave it to someone before supper. Neither she nor Hambledon could remember anything about it according to themselves. Nor could Mr. Mason. Now there’s this Mason. I understand he comes in for the money. I suppose it’s a big estate, but you never know with theatricals. We’ll have to watch Mr. Mason.”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn. “I watched him go green in the face just now. He got out just in time — only just.”

“He said something about that. When did it happen?”

“Just after I asked my question about the tiki.”

“Get this down,” said Wade to Cass.

Alleyn described Mr. Mason’s dilemma.

“So he went out, did he,” grunted Wade. “I’ll have something to say to young Packer about that. Too right, I will. Letting him out just because he kidded he felt crook. These blasted youngsters. It may have been one big bluff. What if Mason was the one who had the tiki last and suddenly remembered it? Say he kidded he was crook so’s he could see if he had it in his pockets? I’ll talk to young Packer.”

“Er — yes. Quite so,” agreed Alleyn, diffidently. “But I assure you, Wade, the gentleman would most certainly have been ill where he stood if Packer had restrained him. Judging from the lamentable sounds that reached us, he got no farther than the passage. I don’t think he escaped Packer’s eye, you know.”

“You mean,” said Wade with scriptural accuracy, “he vomited?”

“I do,” said Alleyn, “and to some purpose.”

“Then he wasn’t kidding he was crook?”

“He may be a crook, but why should he—”

“No, no. I mean, he wasn’t making out he felt crook.”

“I–I beg your pardon. No. I should say definitely not.”

“Ugh!” grunted Wade.

“Of course,” said Alleyn mildly, “he may have palmed a piece of soap and eaten it on the sly in order to make himself sick. But no — he didn’t foam at the mouth.”

“I wonder what’s the strength of this Firm of theirs — Incorporated Playhouses, or whatever they call it. Any idea, sir?”

“When Mason went out they all began talking about it. One of them — Ackroyd, I think — remarked that Mr. Mason would be a very wealthy man.”

“Did he, though? Well — there’s motive, sir.”

“Oh, rather. Money. The first motive, I always say,” agreed Alleyn.

“He’s just gone — Mason, I mean. I asked him about this Incorporated Playhouses. He said, quite frank, that he’d be the whole works now Meyer was out of it. ’Course, he would be frank about that. We’d find out, anyway. He made no trouble about our looking at the books, either, though I must say he didn’t seem too pleased when I sat down here and started going through the drawers.”

“That was Mr. Meyer’s desk, wasn’t it?” asked Alleyn.

“Yes, that’s right. I said: ‘This was deceased’s private property, like, I suppose?’ and he just nodded, and I must say he did look a bit sick. Kind of annoyed, too, as if he might go crook at me, any moment.”

“What, oh what,” wondered Alleyn, “is the fine shade of meaning attached to this word ‘crook’?” Aloud he asked:

“Have you been through the desk?”

“Not yet, sir. There’s a whale of a lot of stuff. All very neat and business-like, though. He actually carted round the desk itself. Can you beat that? Couldn’t do without it, Mason said. It’s not much of an affair, either. Seems deceased had it for years and reckoned it brought him luck. Very superstitious gang, theatricals. It’s a rickety old show, too.”

Wade reached down to a lower drawer and pulled at the knob.

“A real old-timer,” he said and gave it a vigorous jerk. The drawer shot out suddenly. He looked down.

“Hul-lo!” said Wade. “What’s this! What’s this!”

“It looks rather like a will,” said Alleyn.