Enter A Murderer

CHAPTER VIII Felix Gardener

“What’s the time?” said Alleyn, yawning.

“Nearly two o’clock and a dirty night.”

“Oh, horror! I loathe late hours.”

“Two’s not late.”

“Not for a journalist, perhaps. Hullo, here come the mummers.”

Voices and footsteps sounded in the passage and presently a little procession appeared. Miss Dulcie Deamer, Mr. Howard Melville, Mr. J. Barclay Crammer, Inspector Fox. Miss Dulcie Deamer had her street make-up on — that is to say she had aimed a blow at her cheeks with the rouge puff, and had painted a pair of lips somewhere underneath her nose. She still contrived to be jeune fille. J. Barclay Crammer’s face showed signs of No. 5 grease paint lingering round the eyebrows and a hint of rather pathetic grey stubble on the chin. He wore a plaid muffler, with one end tossed over his shoulder, and he looked profoundly disgusted. Mr. Melville was pale and anxious.

“Dulcie, how are you going home?” he asked querulously.

“Oh, my God, in a taxi!” she answered drearily.

“I live at Hampstead,” Mr. Crammer intoned.

“We are very sorry about all this,” said Alleyn, “and will, of course, make ourselves responsible for getting all of you home. The constable at the door will fix it up. Fox, just look after them, will you? Good night.”

“Good night, everybody, good night,” mimicked Mr. Crammer bitterly. Miss Deamer glanced timidly and confidingly at Alleyn, who bowed formally. Mr. Melville said: “Oh — ah — good night.” Alleyn glanced at him and seemed to get an idea.

“Half a minute, Mr. Melville,” he said.

Mr. Melville instantly became green in the face.

“I’ll only keep you a few moments,” explained the inspector, “but we’ll let the others go on, I think. Just wait for me in the wardrobe-room, will you?”

The others turned alarmed glances on Mr. Melville, who looked rather piteously after them and then returned to the wardrobe-room. They filed out towards the stage door.

“Fox,” said Alleyn, “have they been searched?”

“The men have thoroughly. I–I kind of patted the lady. She’s wearing hardly anything.”

“Is there room for a glove there, do you think?”

“Oh — a glove. That’s different.”

“I know it is, and I’ve let two of ’em out without a complete search, benighted dolt that I am. Still, old Miss Max is really out of the picture, and there was nothing under those sequins except the Emerald. She doesn’t wear stays.”

“Nor does Dulcie,” said Inspector Fox gloomily.

“Fox, we forget ourselves. If you’re not sure, persuade her to go to the station and be searched there. If not, send ’em home in taxis and pay for them.”

“Right-oh, sir.”

“Where’s Mr. Gardener?”

“Waiting for you in the deceased’s dressing-room.”

“Thank you. Are you coming, Bathgate, or do you yearn for your bed?”

“I’ll come,” said Nigel.

Felix Gardener stood in the middle of the doorway with his hands in his pockets. He started nervously when they came in and then gave a little laugh at himself.

“Is it an arrest?” he said jerkily.

“Not unless you are going to surprise me with a confession,” said Alleyn cheerfully. “Let’s sit down.”

“A confession. My God, it’s clear enough without that! I shot him. No matter who planned this ghastly business, I shot him. I’ll never get rid of that.”

“If you are innocent, Mr. Gardener, you are entirely innocent. You are no more to blame than Mr. Simpson, who put the dummies, or it might have been the cartridges”—Nigel glanced at him in surprise—“in the drawer of the desk. You are as much an instrument as the revolver — as Surbonadier was himself, in loading it.”

“I’ve been repeating that to myself over and over again, but it doesn’t make much difference. Nigel, if you could have seen the way he looked at me — as if he knew — as if, in that tiniest fraction of time, he knew what had happened, and thought I’d done it. He looked so surprised. I didn’t know myself at first. I got such a shock — you can’t think — with the revolver going off. I just went on with the lines. It’s Bill’s revolver, you know. He said he never shot at a Hun with it. Good job he’s dead and can’t see all this. He fell just like he always did. Limp. Arthur played the part well. Didn’t you think so? And you know I didn’t like him. I said so, didn’t I — this evening? Oh, God!”

“Mr. Gardener, you can do no good by this,” said Alleyn quietly. “Perhaps the truest of all our tiresome clichés is the one that says time cures all things. As a policeman, I should like to say ‘time solves all things,’ but that unfortunately is not always the case. As a policeman I must ask you certain questions.”

“You mean you want to find out if I did it on purpose?”

“I want to prove that you didn’t. Where were you at the beginning of the first scene in the last act?”

“The first scene in the last act? You mean the scene when Arthur took the revolver and loaded it.”

“That scene — yes. Where were you?”

“I was — where was I? — in my dressing-room.”

“When did you come out?”

Gardener buried his face in his hands and then looked up helplessly.

“I don’t know. I suppose soon after I was called. Let me think — I can’t think collectedly at all. I was called, and I came out into the passage.”

“When was this?”

“During the front scene, I think.”

“Before or after the black-out, during which the first part of that scene is played?”

“I can’t remember. I’ve really no recollection of anything that happened just before—”

“Some little thing may bring it back. Did you, for instance, walk out of the passage on to a pitch-black stage?”

“Somebody trod on my foot,” said Gardener suddenly.

“Somebody trod on your foot — in the dark?”

“Yes. A man.”

“Where was this?”

“In the wings — I don’t quite know where — it was pitch dark.”

“Any idea who it was?”

Gardener looked with quick apprehension at Nigel. “Shall I implicate anyone by this?”

“For Heaven’s sake,” said Nigel, “tell the truth.”

Gardener was silent for a moment. “No,” he said at last. “If I had an idea, it was altogether too slight to be of use, and it would carry undue weight; you couldn’t help yourself — you’d be influenced. I can see that. I’ve done enough harm for one night, haven’t I?” He stared fiercely at Alleyn.

Alleyn smiled.

“I’m not terribly easily influenced,” he said, “and I promise it won’t carry one ounce overweight.”

“No,” said Gardener obstinately. “I’m not even sure myself. The more I think the less sure I get.”

“Was it something to do with your sense of smell?”

“My God!” whispered Gardener.

“Thank you,” said Alleyn.

Gardener and Nigel stared at him. Gardener began to laugh hysterically.

“Proper detective stuff. ‘This man is clever.’ Actor-proof part.”

“Be quiet,” said Alleyn. “I don’t want any more histrionics. I’m sick of scenes, Mr. Gardener.”

“Sorry.”

“So I should hope. Now this revolver. I understand it belonged to your brother. How long have you had it, please?”

“Ever since he died.”

“Had you any ammunition?”

“I gave Props the cartridges he turned into dummies.”

“Any more at home?”

“No, couldn’t find any more. Just the six that were in it. Oh, I supplied everything.”

“What did you do after you ran into the man in the dark offstage?”

“Swore and rubbed my foot It was still hurting when the lights went up.”

“Did you go anywhere near the desk that was standing on the stage-almost in the wings?”

“I’ve no idea. I suppose I must have done so. You mean, the desk that — the cartridges were in. It must have been close by.”

“About that scene we all witnessed in Miss Vaughan’s dressing-room. Why did Surbonadier make that very unpleasant to-do?”

“He was tight.”

“Nothing else behind it?”

“He disliked me. I told you that.”

“So you did,” agreed Alleyn. “But it seemed to me that he disliked you for more reason than that of professional jealousy.”

“Yes. You must have seen how it was.”

“Miss Vaughan?”

“At least, let us keep Stephanie out of this.”

“She is in it. She must take her place in the jig-saw puzzle. I’m sorry. The nicer delicacies do not enter into murder cases. I take it you are engaged to Miss Vaughan and that Surbonadier was the unsuccessful suitor.”

“We are not publicly engaged. We’re not. I’ve no doubt killed my chances along with my only serious rival. The engagement was to be announced at our supper-party.”

“Yes, I see. Mr. Gardener, have you a pair of gloves here in your dressing-room?”

Gardener turned very white.

“Yes,” he said, “I have.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Probably in my overcoat pocket. I don’t wear any in the piece.”

Alleyn felt in the pockets of an overcoat that hung under the sheet. He found a pair of white wash-leather gloves which he examined very carefully. He smelt them, held them under the light, looked at each finger, and then threw them to Gardener.

“A perfectly innocent pair of gloves,” he said. “Thank you, Mr. Gardener, I appreciate your frankness. Now, if you agree, I’m going to search you, as I have searched all the others.”

Nigel watched this proceeding with the liveliest anxiety. He did not know what Alleyn expected to find, or, indeed, if he expected to find anything. He found nothing.

“That’s all, Mr. Gardener,” he said. “I’ll keep you no longer.”

“I’ll wait if I may,” said Gardener, “for Stephanie. She wanted me to see you first.”

“Certainly. Wait on the stage, will you?”

“Shall I come?” asked Nigel diffidently.

“No thanks, old thing. If you don’t mind I’d rather be alone.”

He went out

“Well?” asked Nigel anxiously.

“Well, Bathgate, we don’t progress very fast What’s happened to your shorthand notes?”

“I–I couldn’t report old Felix for you.”

“I’m not quite a machine,” said Alleyn gently. He raised his voice. “Got everything, Fox?”

“Everything O. K.,” answered Inspector Fox from the next room. In a moment he appeared.

“He’s been taking it down outside the door,” said Alleyn. “I really can’t trust my filthy memory.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“Like to go home?” asked Alleyn.

“Not unless you want to get rid of me,” said Nigel.

“Stay put then. Fox, you saw the dressers, Mr. and Miss Beadle?”

“Yes. The girl howled, and said she never done no harm to anybody, and that Mr. Surbonadier was always trying on his funny business, and that Props was her boy. Old Beadle said much the same. He’d warned the girl to look out for Mr. Surbonadier. They were both in the wardrobe-room during the black-out. Alone there together, they said. They met in the elbow of the passage, and went along together. She’s a flighty bit of goods, I should say. Deceased was evidently”—Inspector Fox stopped and grimaced—“a nasty kind of chap. You might like to see the girl yourself, some time. The old father’s a decent old bird and seems very fond of her.”

“All right, I’ll remember them. And now I’ll have to see Miss Vaughan. I should have done so earlier and let her go home.”

“She wanted the others to go first,” said Fox. “I— took her clothes into the wardrobe-room and she said she’d change. She’s not quite ready.”

It was obvious from Inspector Fox’s manner that he put Miss Vaughan in a superior catalogue to the rest of the cast Alleyn looked at him and grinned.

“What’s the joke?” inquired Fox suspiciously.

“No offence in the world. Have you carried on with routine work?”

“Mr. Melville helped Bailey re-set the scene in which the revolver was loaded. Haven’t found the gloves.”

“I’ll just take a look at it while she’s changing.” They returned to the stage. Felix Gardener was walking up and down the passage to the outside exit, and paid little attention to them. Nigel went and spoke to Gardener, but he answered at random and looked at him as though they were strangers.

“It’ll be all right, Felix,” ventured Nigel lamely.

“What’ll be all right?”

“Alleyn will find out who did it. Innocent people are never accused nowadays.”

“Do you think I’m worrying about that?” asked Gardener, and fell to walking up and down again. Nigel left him alone.

On the stage Alleyn looked critically at the reconstruction of the penultimate scene. The desk was in position. Miss Max’s arm-chair was on the O.P. side, and the window-seat in position, near which Janet Emerald had had her last conversation with Arthur Surbonadier.

“We’ve had all the chair-seats out, and so on,” said Bailey, who was in shirt sleeves. The two constables, who had been helping him, stared solemnly at the furniture. Melville had gone.

“There’s something missing,” said Alleyn.

“Mr. Melville said not, sir,” said Bailey.

“Yes, there is. A spot of colour. What is it?” He turned to Nigel. “There was a spot of colour somewhere in that scene. Something red.”

“I know,” said Nigel suddenly. “Miss Max’s bag for her knitting. It hung on that chair arm.”

“Good man,” exclaimed Alleyn. “Let’s find it.” They hunted about. One of the constables disappeared in the direction of the property room.

“Damn the thing, where is it?” murmured Alleyn. “It hung on the chair throughout the scene, and at the end she stuffed her knitting into it and left it there.” He hunted round offstage and muttered to himself.

“Does it matter much?” Nigel asked wearily.

“What?”

“Does it matter much?”

“No. I just want to make the stage look pretty.”

Nigel was silent.

“Is this the affair, sir?” said the constable, reappearing. In his paw he held a large red bag. Alleyn strode over and took it.

“That’s it.”

He drew out a long and loud strip of knitting, and then thrust his hand deeper into the bag. A singularly blank look stole over his face, and the others, who knew him, pricked up their ears.

“Has any gentleman in the audience missed an article of clothing?” asked Alleyn. He made a face at Nigel, and looked round, most provokingly. Then so suddenly that they all jumped, he whisked out his hand and held it high above his head.

In it was a pair of grey suede gloves. “Eureka!” said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.