Enter A Murderer

CHAPTER IX Stephanie Vaughan’s Shoulder

“Yes, but look here,” Nigel began indignantly.

“Old Miss Max — I mean to say, that’s a bit too thick. She’s a nice old thing.”

Alleyn gave one of his rare laughs. “All right, all right,” he said. “Don’t bite my head off. I didn’t plant the things.”

“Well, somebody else did, then.”

“Quite possible. During the black-out. Oh, it’s a very nasty bit of goods, this is. And so clever, so filthily clever. Everything nice and simple. No fancy touches. I tell you one thing, all of you, for what it’s worth. I’ve been telling it to myself ever since this started. We’re up against good acting.”

“Yes,” said Nigel thoughtfully, “the very best.”

“As you say. It’s a West End production, bad luck to it.”

“Anything on the thumb of the right-hand glove?” asked Fox abruptly.

Alleyn picked it up by one finger.

“Oh, Mr. Fox, aren’t you wonderful?” he said. “Such a lovely quality, moddom, or, rather, sir. Yes, definitely, ‘sir.’ Have a sniff.” He held them out

“I’ve got it,” said Fox. “They smell of cigars, and scent, and — damn it — where did I smell that scent?”

“On Mr. Jacob Saint.”

“By gum, you’re right, sir.”

“It’s a very good scent. Something rather special. But how careless of Mr. Saint to lose his gloves, how rather surprisingly careless.” He handed the glove over to his colleague.

“When were they lost? He was wearing none when he came round,” Fox declared. “I know that because he shoved me aside at the door, and his ring dug into my hand.”

“His altogether too big signet ring,” murmured Alleyn. “It does dig in. Look!”

He held up the little finger of the left-hand glove. The base showed a distinct bulge.

“He was behind the scenes earlier in the evening, you know. Before the curtain went up. Then he was in front.”

“Could he have come round again, later?” asked Nigel.

“We must find out. By George, Fox, what happened to the old gentleman?”

“Who’s he?”

“The stage door keeper.”

“I never saw one. He must have gone home during the first few moments.”

“He was there when we came round. Not very good. He’ll have to be traced. Oh well, let’s have Miss Vaughan. I think I’ll see her alone, if you please, Fox. There’s nothing much else to be done here that I can think of. Have you looked closely at the thumb?”

“Yes,” said Fox carefully. “There’s a bit of whitish stain on it.”

“There is, indeed. We may want an analysis of that to compare with the cartridges.”

“What do you make it out to be?”

“Oh, cosmetic, Fox, cosmetic. While I’m talking to Miss Vaughan, see if you two can match it in any of the dressing-rooms. Take samples of any make-up that looks like it and note where from, and all that. And now would you take my compliments to Miss Vaughan and ask her if she would be kind enough to come out here?”

Fox and Bailey went off. Presently the constable who had been stationed outside the wardrobe-room came back and with a glance at Alleyn disappeared in the direction of the stage door. Alleyn followed him, said something that Nigel did not catch and returned.

“Any objection to noting this down for me?” asked Alleyn.

“No,” said Nigel. “If I had any, they are overruled by curiosity. I’ll go back to my cache-cache.”

“Thank you. Here she comes.”

Nigel slipped through the doorway in the set. He discovered that, by moving his seat, he could leave the door half open and get a fuller view of the stage without being visible. In this way he was able to see Stephanie Vaughan when she came on to the scene. She had changed her dress and was wearing a dark fur wrap. The stage make-up was gone, and she looked pale and rather tired. There was no hint of histrionics in her manner now. She was grave and dignified, and a little remote. “Why, it’s not the same woman,” thought Nigel.

“You sent for me,” she said quietly.

“I’m sorry if my message sounded peremptory,” answered Alleyn.

“Why not? You’re in charge.”

“Will you sit down?”

She sank into an arm-chair, and there was a little silence.

“What do you want to ask me?” she said at last

“Several questions. The first — where were you during the black-out at the beginning of the last act?”

“In my dressing-room, changing. Then I went in to see Felix.”

“Was anyone with you? In your own room, I mean?”

“My dresser.”

“All the time?”

“I’ve no idea. From my dressing-room I couldn’t see when the stage lights went on.”

“I should have thought you could hear the dialogue.”

“Possibly. I didn’t listen.”

“Was Mr. Gardener still in his room when you left it?”

“No. He went out first. He came on before I did.”

“When did you go out on to the stage?”

“When the scene was over.”

“Yes. Thank you. What happened after Bathgate and I left your dressing-room?”

The question must have taken her by surprise. Nigel heard her draw in her breath. When she spoke, however, her voice was quite even.

“After you left,” she said, “there was a scene.”

“There was the making of one while we were there. What happened?”

She leant back wearily, her wrap slipped down. She winced, as if something had hurt her, and sat forward again, pulling the fur collar over her shoulders.

“You are hurt?” said Alleyn. “Your shoulder. You put your hand up to it”

“Arthur hit me.”

“What!”

“Oh, yes.”

“Let me see it.”

She let her wrap fall, and pulled aside her dress, hunching up her shoulder. Nigel could see the bruise. Alleyn bent over her without touching her.

“What did Gardener do?”

“He wasn’t there. I’m beginning half-way, I suppose. The moment you had gone I made Felix leave me. He didn’t want to, of course, but I had to deal with Arthur alone, and I insisted. He didn’t like going, but he went.”

“And then?”

“And then there was a scene — a scene in a whisper. We had had them before. I was used to it. He was quite beside himself with jealousy, and threatened me with all sorts of things. Then he became maudlin and shed tears. I’d never seen him like that before.”

“With what did he threaten you?”

“He told me,” said Miss Vaughan gently, “that he would drag my name in the mud. He said he would stop Felix marrying me. Really, if Felix had been shot, I should not have wondered. Arthur looked murderous. I think he did it himself.”

“Do you? Had he that sort of rogue’s courage?”

“I think so. He hoped Felix would be accused.”

“Where was he?” asked Alleyn, “when he struck you?”

“How do you mean? I was sitting where you left me — on the small chair in my room. He was standing, I think, about as far off as you are now.”

“With his left hand, then?”

“No. I don’t know. I can’t remember, I’m afraid. Perhaps if you were to do it — but gently, please — I might remember.”

Alleyn moved his right arm and Nigel saw his hand against the left side of her throat.

“It would be there, on your face,” he said, “I think it must have been with his left hand, and even then it would be a strange sort of blow.”

“He was drunk.”

“So everyone keeps telling me. Could he not have been behind you? Like this.”

Alleyn stood behind her and laid his right hand on her right shoulder. Nigel was suddenly and vividly reminded of the scene in the dressing-room, when Gardener had stood, touching her in the same way, and laughing at Alleyn’s remark about Edgar Wallace.

“My hand falls exactly over the bruise,” said Alleyn. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.”

“Let me draw up your wrap. You are cold.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you think that could have been the way of it?”

“Perhaps. He was lurching about the room. I really don’t remember.”

“You must have been terrified.”

“No. He was not a terrifying man, but I was glad Felix had gone. I managed to get rid of Arthur and then I went to Felix’s room.”

“Next door?”

“Yes. I said nothing about the blow on my shoulder. Beadle was there but left as soon as I went in. Then I told Felix it had all petered out.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that Arthur was a drunken pig, but that in a way he was sorry for him. He said I must let him speak to Master Surbonadier and tell him to behave himself, and that he wouldn’t have me worried like that.”

“Quite temperate about it?”

“Yes. He knew that sort of thing didn’t really count and we both had a horror of more scenes. We only spoke a few words, and then Felix went out on to the stage. The lights were still out, I remember. Have you got a cigarette, Mr. Alleyn? I should like one.”

“I’m very sorry. I didn’t think.” She took one from his case and he lit it for her. She touched her fingers against the back of his hand, and they seemed to look full in each other’s face. Then she leant back again in her chair. They smoked in silence for a little time — Alleyn very composedly, Miss Vaughan not so composedly.

“Please tell me this,” she said at last, very earnestly, “do you suspect anyone?”

“You cannot expect me to answer that,” said Alleyn.

“Why not?”

“Everyone is under suspicion. Everyone is lying and acting.”

“Even me? Have I lied or played a part?”

“I don’t know,” said Alleyn sombrely. “How should I?”

“How you dislike me, Inspector Alleyn!”

“You think so?” said Alleyn swiftly, and then, after a pause: “Do you ever do jig-saw puzzles?”

“Sometimes.”

“And do you ever conceive an ardent distaste for a bit that won’t fit in?”

“Yes.”

“That is the only kind of personal prejudice a policeman can allow himself. I have that feeling for the pieces that don’t fit. For the ones that do, I develop a queer sort of affection.”

“And you can’t fit me into your puzzle?”

“On the contrary, I think I have you — just where you belong.”

“My cigarette is finished. Have you anything more to ask me? No, I don’t want another.”

“Only one more point. May I have your hand?”

She held out both her hands. Nigel was astonished to see him take them very lightly in his, and raise them to his face. He turned them over in his palms, and stood with his eyes closed, his lips almost touching them. She made no attempt to withdraw them, but she was less pale, and Nigel thought her hands trembled very slightly. Then he let them drop.

“Chanel No. 5,” he said. “Thank you very much, Miss Vaughan.”

She hid her hands swiftly in the fur sleeves of her coat. “I thought you were going to kiss them,” she said lightly.

“I trust I know my place,” said Alleyn, “Good night. Mr. Gardener is waiting for you.”

“Good night. Do you want my address?”

“Please.”

“Flat 10, The Nun’s House, Shepheard’s Market Will you write it down?”

“There is no need. Good night”

She looked at him an instant and then went down the passage to the stage door. Nigel heard her calling:

“There you are, Felix”—and in a moment her footsteps had died away.

“Have you got that address down, Bathgate?” asked Alleyn anxiously.

“You old devil,” said Nigel.

“Why?”

“Well. I don’t know. I thought you didn’t like her before, in the dressing-room.”

“So did she.”

“Now I’m not so sure.”

“Nor is she.”

“Are you being a cad, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Yes, Mr. Bathgate.”

“What were you driving at about that bruise?”

“Didn’t you guess? Can’t you see?”

“No, I can’t. Unless you wanted an excuse to dally with the lady.”

“Have it that way, if you like,” said Alleyn.

“I think you’re very silly,” said Nigel, grandly, “and I’m going home.”

“So am I. Thank you for giving me such a lovely evening.”

“Not a bit. So glad you were able to come. I must do a job of work before I go to bed.”

“What’s this — what’s this?”

“Story for my paper. It’s a scoop.”

“You’ll bring whatever gup you write to me in the morning, young fella.”

“Oh, I say, Alleyn!” Nigel protested.

“Yes, indeed. I’d forgotten your horrible evening shocker. The officer outside has turned away a collection of your boy friends already.”

“Well, let me do a bit. It’s a scoop — really it is.”

“Bring it to my study tomorrow morning, sir.”

“Oh, all right.”

Alleyn assembled his men and they filed out of the stage door. The lights were turned off.

“A final black-out,” said Alleyn’s voice in the dark.

The stage of the Unicorn was completely silent and quite given over to the memory of dead plays. Nigel was oppressed by the sense of uneasy expectation that visits all interlopers in deserted buildings. Now, he thought, was the time for the ghosts of old mummers to step out from behind the waiting doorways and mouth their way silently through forgotten scenes. Somewhere above their heads a rope creaked, and a little draught of air soughed among the hanging canvas.

“Let’s go,” said Nigel.

Alleyn switched on an electric torch and they found their way down the passage to the stage door. Nigel stepped out into the cool air. The others were talking to a night-watchman, and to two young men, whom Nigel recognized as journalists.

“Just a moment,” said Alleyn’s voice in the passage. “Look here!”

The others turned back. The light from the torch had penetrated a kind of dark cubby-hole on the left of the doorway. It shone on old Blair’s closed eyes.

“Good God!” exclaimed Nigel. “Is he dead?”

“No — only asleep,” said Alleyn. “What’s his name?”

“Blair,” said the night-watchman.

“Wake up, Blair,” said Alleyn. “It’s long past the final curtain, and they’ve all gone home to bed.”