Enter A Murderer

CHAPTER XIV Gardener Looks Backwards

“If you don’t mind, Nigel,” said Gardener, “I’m going to get this off my chest, right away. It’ll clear the air. There’s a drink. Sit down.” He looked less jumpy and nightmare ridden, thought Nigel, and had the air of a man who has come to a decision and is glad of it.

“It’s this,” he began. “When you came this morning, I was properly under the weather. Hadn’t slept a wink and the — the awfulness of having killed Arthur Surbonadier had given place to the terror of being suspected by your friend, Alleyn. You simply can’t imagine what that sort of fear is like. Perhaps, if a man’s guilty, he is less panic-stricken than I was. It seemed to me I couldn’t prove I was not guilty, and that, in spite of everything you said, I was the man they really suspected.”

“You were quite wrong.”

“I hope so. Then, I was sure I was right. Well, I couldn’t think of anything coherently, but when you started asking me about the libel case and if I knew Surbonadier at Cambridge I thought: ‘He’s been sent to ask that. Alleyn thinks I’ll be off my guard with Nigel.’ I can’t tell you how awful I felt. No — let me go on. So I half lied. I said I didn’t know Arthur well in those days. It wasn’t true — I did know him pretty well for a short time — before I realized quite how unpleasant he was. I was younger than he, and perhaps even more of an ass than most youths. I thought it thrillingly daring and sort of ‘draining life to the dregs’ kind of thing, when he asked me to a heroin party.”

“Good Lord!” apostrophized Nigel.

“Yes. I only went once and it was quite beastly. I didn’t take nearly as much as the others, and it didn’t have a great effect. I probably offered more resistance. Next morning I felt I’d made a fool of myself, and I thought I’d make a clean break. So I called on Surbonadier to tell him so. I wanted to put it straight. He was still pretty dopey, and inclined to be maudlin. He began to confide in me. He told me things about his uncle and — and he talked about Stephanie Vaughan.” Gardener stopped speaking, hesitated, and then said:

“I’d seen her. She’d come up for a production of Othello. If I said I loved her from then onwards, I suppose you’d think it very highfalutin. It’s true, though. And when Surbonadier began to tell me how friendly they were, I hated him. Then he said his uncle was going to give her leading parts and he began to tell me how he hated his uncle, and what a lot he knew about him. He told me how Saint was mixed up in the drug trade. He told me about his mistresses. Stephanie seemed so innocent, and when I thought of her in that galère it had a terrible effect on me. I was dreadfully young. Saint seemed like the embodiment of all evil. It was nightmarish. I don’t understand psychology, and I expect the heroin had something to do with it. We were neither of us normal. Anyway, when Surbonadier told me, in a dopey sort of way, that he could, if he chose, deal his uncle a pretty shrewd blow, I encouraged him feverishly. He said that Saint was refusing to pay his bills, but that he knew too much and could make him. He then suggested writing that article, and I urged him to do it and egged him on. Then I suddenly remembered what I’d come for, and tried to tell him I wouldn’t go to any more of his parties. He didn’t seem to pay much attention. He was engrossed with the idea of the article. I left him and, from that time on, I had nothing to do with him. When the article came out I guessed who had done it, and once, when we met, he tried to pump me. I told him, shortly enough, that he’d nothing to fear from me and, until to-night, I’ve never spoken of it”

“What made you decide to tell me?” Nigel asked.

Gardener did not answer immediately. Then he said slowly: “I thought the police would start ferreting round in Surbonadier’s past, and would find out I had known him.”

“That’s not it,” said Nigel compassionately. “You thought they were — on another trail altogether. I’m right, aren’t I? You realised that unless they knew Surbonadier had been blackmailing Saint, they might suspect someone else altogether. Isn’t that it?”

“Then they are—?”

“I don’t think so. Anyhow, this will clinch it. Surely she doesn’t think you are guilty?”

“Each of us was afraid — And then this morning when she came in — My God, they couldn’t suspect her.”

“You needn’t worry about that now, and as for you—”

“Yes — as for me?” Gardener looked at him.

“Nigel,” he said. “Do you mind telling me this? Do you in your heart of hearts hide a sort of doubt about me? Do you?”

“No. On my word of honour.”

“Then, on my word of honour, I’m not guilty of Surbonadier’s death and neither is she. There’s something I can’t tell you, but — we’re not guilty.”

“I believe you, old thing.”

“I feel better,” said Felix Gardener. “Let’s dine.”

The dinner was an excellent one, and the wine extremely good. They talked about many things, sometimes harking back to the case, but now with less sense of restraint. Once Gardener said suddenly:

“It’s pretty gruesome to think of the immediate future of — of the Simes family.”

“Then don’t think of it. What’s happening at the Unicorn?”

“You mean about production? Would you believe it, he actually thought of going on with The Rat and the Beaver.”

“What!”

“Yes, he did. As soon as the police were out of it. Of course I refused to carry on, and so did Stephanie. The others didn’t like it, but didn’t actually refuse. Then he began to wonder if after all it would be a big attraction — with other people playing the leads. The papers might comment unfavourably. So a new piece goes into rehearsal next week.”

“What’ll you do?”

“Oh, I’ll wait. There are other managements.” He grimaced wryly. “They tell me I’m a sort of popular figure, and it’s helped my publicity. Maudlin sympathy coupled with morbid curiosity, I suppose. Come into the studio room.”

They sat down in front of the fire. The front door bell of the flat rang, and Gardener’s servant came through with a letter.

“This has just come by special messenger, sir,” he said. “There’s no answer.”

Gardener slit the envelope and drew out a sheet of paper. Nigel lit a cigarette and wandered round the room. He had paused in front of a photograph of Gardener’s brother when he was recalled by an exclamation from his host.

“For Heaven’s sake,” murmured Gardener, “what’s all this in aid of?”

He held out the sheet of paper.

It contained a solitary typewritten paragraph, which Nigel read with bewilderment:

Nigel and Gardener stared at one another in utter bewilderment.

“Coo lumme!” said Nigel at last.

“Not ’alf,” agreed Gardener with emphasis.

“Have you got a sore foot?” Nigel inquired.

“Yes, I have. I told you somebody trod on it.”

“Somebody who smelt like Jacob Saint?”

“I only thought so. I wasn’t sure.”

“Look here,” said Nigel, “this is no joke. Alleyn ought to know about it.”

“Oh, help.”

“Well, he ought to, anyway. I’ll ring him up, if I may.”

“Where will you find him?”

Nigel paused and considered. Possibly Alleyn might not want him to disclose his whereabouts. Nigel did not even know if he would still be at Surbonadier’s flat. He looked up the number in the directory and dialled it.

“He may not be at home,” he said deceitfully. Again, he could hear the bell pealing in the flat in Gerald’s Row. Again there was no answer. He felt vaguely uneasy.

“Nobody there?” said Gardener.

“I could try the Yard,” mumbled Nigel. “But I’ll leave it for the moment. Let’s have another squint at that paper.”

He and Gardener spent the next hour in speculation on the authorship of the letter. Gardener said he didn’t think Saint would do it. Nigel said if he was rattled, there was no knowing what he would do.

“If he’s a murderer—” he began.

“I’m not sure that he is. Another view is that he’s scared I may know something of what Surbonadier found out about him, and thinks I may do exactly what I have done — come clean.”

“Did he know you were friendly with Surbonadier?”

“Yes, Arthur introduced us in those days. Afterwards, when I took to the boards, he saw me in the first decent part I played, and remembered me. That’s partly how I got my first shop under his management. Not nice to think of now. Arthur resented it very much. He used to tell people I’d got in on his family ticket. God, what a dirty game it is! Do you remember what I said about actors?”

“I do.”

“Look at the way they behaved last night, with Surbonadier lying dead on the stage. All of them acting their socks off — except Stephanie.”

Nigel looked at him curiously. He seemed to hear Alleyn’s sardonic “Lovely exit, wasn’t it?” after Miss Vaughan had left the stage. He remembered the curiously seductive note she struck afterwards, in her interview with the inspector. Even he, Alleyn, had stood longer than was necessary with his hand on her bruised shoulder. Nigel thought virtuously of his Angela and felt a little superior.

“I wonder what she’s doing?” Gardener said presently. “I wanted to go and see her to-night, but she said she’d ring up.”

“What’s she so frightened about?” Nigel blurted out. Gardener’s face whitened. The look that had been there that morning returned.

“Of course she’s frightened,” he said at last. “She thinks Alleyn realised Surbonadier was pestering her and threatening her. It wasn’t hard last night to see how the land lay. She always made nothing of it to me. Until this morning I didn’t realise myself what he was up to. This morning she showed me her shoulder, and told me that after I left her he struck her — the swine! My God, if I’d known that!”

“It’s damn’ lucky for you that you didn’t,” said Nigel. “And he’s dead now, Felix.”

“She told me Alleyn had seen the bruise. She thought Alleyn suspected her. She’s terribly highly strung and the shock has been almost overwhelming.”

“And you were afraid for her, too?”

“Yes — after this morning. Until then, selfish imbecile that I was, I thought only of myself. That they should even think of her! It’s monstrous.”

“Well, don’t worry. I haven’t heard one of them ever hint it. I tell you they are off on different tacks. I’d be breaking confidence if I said more than that And now, if you don’t mind, Felix, I’ll be off. It was a devilish late night last night and you look as if you wanted sleep too. Take a couple of aspirins and a peg and leave off worrying. Good night.”

“Good night, Nigel. We’ve never known each other particularly well, but I hope we may from now on. I’m rather grateful to you.”

“Bosh. Goodnight.”

It was half-past ten when Nigel got back to Chester Terrace, and he was, he discovered, dead tired. He had, however, a story to write for to-morrow, and he didn’t want to leave it till the morning.

Very wearily he sat down to his typewriter and ran in a sheet of paper. He thought for a moment and then began to tap at the keys:

As he worked his thoughts kept turning to Alleyn. The inspector ought to know about Felix. At last he reached out his hand and took up the telephone. Surely by this time Alleyn would be home. He dialled the number of his flat, rested his head on his hand and waited.