Enter A Murderer

CHAPTER XVI The Inquest

About ten minutes after Alleyn got back to his own flat that night, Nigel’s call came through.

“Got you at last,” he said.

“Did you ring up at Surbonadier’s flat about twenty minutes after you left it?” asked Alleyn.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I heard you.”

“Well, why the deuce didn’t you answer?”

“I was under the bed.”

“What? This telephone’s very bad.”

“Never mind. What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been to see Felix. He asked me to. You were right.”

“Well, not over the telephone. Come to the Yard at nine to-morrow.”

“All right,” said Nigel. “Good night.”

“Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,” said Alleyn wearily, and went to bed.

Next morning Nigel arrived at Scotland Yard with his copy and his messenger boy.

“This is becoming a habit,” said Alleyn. He censored the story and the remains were dispatched to Fleet Street

“Now,” said Nigel, “listen!”

He told his story of Gardener’s confession, and of the anonymous letter, which he produced. Alleyn listened attentively and examined the paper very carefully.

“I’m glad he decided to tell you this,” he said. “Do you think he would repeat it and sign a statement to the same effect?”

“I think so. As far as I could gather, after he had got over the first shock of having killed Surbonadier, he began to think you’d suspect him of malice aforethought. Later on, after I’d heard Miss Vaughan ask him not to repeat whatever it was, he felt it was she who was in danger and that he must tell you everything he knew that would be likely to draw your suspicions away from her. He realizes that what he has said definitely implicates Saint, and may implicate himself. He’s not at all sure Saint did it. He’s inclined to think it’s suicide.”

“So is our Mr. Saint — very much inclined,” said Alleyn grimly. He pressed the bell on his desk.

“Ask Inspector Fox to come in,” he said to the constable who answered it.

He examined the paper again in silence, until the inspector arrived.

“Glad tidings, Fox,” said Alleyn. “Our little murderer has come all over literary. He’s writing letters. One begins to see a glim.”

“Does one?” asked Nigel.

“But certainly. Fox, this letter arrived at Mr. Gardener’s flat, by district messenger, at about eight-thirty last night. There’s the envelope. The district messenger offices will have to be combed out. Have it tested for prints. You’ll find Gardener and an ‘unknown.’ I’ve a pretty good idea who the unknown is.”

“May I ask who?” Fox ventured eagerly.

“A man who, in all honesty, I think I may say we have never, in the course of our speculation, suspected of this crime; a man who, by his apparent eagerness to help the police, by his frequent suggestions, as well as by his singular charm of manner, has succeeded so far in escaping even our casual attention. And that man’s name is—”

“You can search me, sir.”

“Nigel Bathgate.”

“You fatuous old bag of tripe!” shouted Nigel furiously. And then when he saw Fox’s scandalised face: “I beg your pardon, inspector. Like Mr. Saint, I don’t always appreciate your comedy. It is true, Inspector Fox,” he added with quiet dignity, “that my fingerprints will be on that paper; but not all over it. Only at one edge, and then I remembered not to.”

“You’ll escape us this time, I’m afraid, sir,” said Fox solemnly. He began to heave with subterranean chuckles. “Your face was a fair treat, Mr. Bathgate,” he added.

“Well,” said Alleyn, “having worked off my professional facetiousness, let’s get down to it. In your list of properties offstage is there a typewriter?”

“There is. A Remington used in the first and last act.”

“Where’s it kept?”

“In the property-room, between whiles. I think they re-set the first act after the show, as a rule, so it would be on the stage when they all got down to the theatre, and in the property-room after the last act. We tested it for prints first just in case it might be in the picture. It showed Mr. Gardener’s on the keys, and Props’s prints at the sides, where he had carried it on.”

“The fingerprint system’s too well advertised nowadays for the poorest criminal to fall directly foul of it. Who used the typewriter in the last act? Oh, I remember — Gardener. Just let me get a copy of the letter and then give it to Bailey, will you, Fox? And get him to test the typewriter again. No, I’m not dotty. And now I must get things in order for the inquest. Thank the Lord it’s a presentable coroner.”

“Ah,” agreed Fox heavily. “You may say that.”

“How do you mean?” Nigel asked.

“Some of them,” said Alleyn, “I positively believe, keep black caps in their hip pockets. Tiresome old creatures. However, this one is a sensible fellow, and we’ll be through in no time.”

“I’ll get back to Fleet Street,” said Nigel. “I’m meeting Felix and going to the inquest with him. His lawyer is going to be there.”

“I expect there’ll be a covey of ’em. My spies tell me St. Jacob has employed Phillip Phillips to watch the wheels go round. He’s a brother of Phillips, K. C., who did St. Jacob so proud in the libel action. Very big game afoot.”

“Well,” said Nigel at the door, “we meet—”

“At Phillipi, in fact. Au revoir, Bathgate.” Nigel spent a couple of hours in his office, writing up cameo portraits of the leading characters in the case. His chief expressed himself as being not displeased with the stories, and Nigel, at twenty to eleven, went underground to Sloane Square, and thence to Gardener’s flat. The lawyer, a young and preternaturally solemn one, was already there. They discussed a glass of sherry and Nigel attempted to enliven the occasion with a few facetiae, which did not go down particularly well. The lawyer, whose unsuitably Congrevian name was Mr. Reckless, eyed him owlishly, and Gardener was too nervous and upset to be amused. They finished their sherry, and sought a taxi.

The inquest proved, on the whole, a disappointment to the crowds of people who attended it. Very little information as regards police activity came out. Alleyn gave a concise account of the actual scene in the theatre, and was treated with marked respect by the coroner. Nigel watched his friend, and experienced something of the sensation that visited him as a small boy, when the chief god of Pop walked on to a dais and grasped the hand of Royalty. Alleyn described the revolver, and the cartridges—.455.

“Did you notice anything remarkable about either the weapon or the cartridges?” asked the coroner.

“They were the regulation.455, used in that type of Smith and Wesson. There were no fingerprints.”

“A glove had been used?”

“Probably.”

“What about the dummy cartridges?”

Alleyn described them, and said he had found traces of sand from the faulty cartridge in the prompt corner, and in both drawers.

“What do you deduce from that?”

“That the property master gave the dummies to the stage manager, who put them as usual in the top drawer.”

“You suggest that someone afterwards moved them to the second drawer, replacing them with genuine cartridges?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there anything else you noted as regards the cartridges?”

“I saw whitish stains on them.”

“Have you any explanation for this?”

“I believe them to be caused by a certain cosmetic used as a hand make-up by actresses.”

“Not by actors?”

“I imagine not. There was none in the actors’ dressing-rooms.”

“You found bottles of this cosmetic in the actresses’ dressing-rooms?”

“I did.”

“Are the contents of these bottles all alike?”

“Not precisely.”

“Could you distinguish from which, if any, of these bottles, the stains on the revolver had come?”

“An analysis shows that it came from the star dressing-room. A bottle of cosmetic had been spilt there, earlier in the evening.”

“The star dressing-room is used — by whom?”

“By Miss Stephanie Vaughan and her dresser. Miss Vaughan received visits from other members of the company during the evening. I myself called on Miss Vaughan, before the first act. The cosmetic was not spilt then. I met, in this room, the deceased, who appeared to be under the influence of alcohol.”

“Will you describe to the jury your investigations, immediately after the tragedy?”

Alleyn did so, at some length.

“You searched the stage. Did you find anything that threw any light on the matter?”

“I found a pair of gloves in a bag that had been used on the stage, and I found the dummy cartridges in a lower drawer of the desk.”

“What did you remark about the gloves?”

“One had a white stain which, on analysis, proved to be similar to that on the cartridges.”

This statement caused a stir among the onlookers. Alleyn’s evidence went on for some time. He described his interviews with the performers, and said they had all since signed the notes taken at the time of their statements. This was news to Nigel, who wondered how they had reacted to the evidence of his activities. Alleyn said little about the subsequent investigations by the police, and was not pressed to do so by the coroner, who left him a very free hand.

Felix Gardener was called. He was very pale, but gave his evidence clearly. He admitted ownership of the revolver, said it was his brother’s, and added that he gave the six cartridges to the property man, who converted them into dummies.

“Did you visit Miss Vaughan’s dressing-room before the fatality?”

“Yes. I was there with Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, who visited me with a friend, before the first act. I did not return after the first act.”

“Did you notice a bottle of white cosmetic upset on the dressing-table?”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Gardener, will you describe the actual scene when you fired the revolver?”

Gardener did so. His voice shook over this, and he was very pale.

“Did you realize at once what had happened?”

“Not at once, I think,” Gardener answered. “I was dazed with the report of the revolver. I think it flashed through my mind that one of the blanks, fired in the wings, had got into the chamber of the gun.”

“You continued in the character of your part?”

“Yes,” said Gardener in a low voice. “Quite automatically. Then I began to realize. But we went on.”

“We?”

Gardener hesitated.

“Miss Vaughan was also on, in that scene.”

A pair of grey suede gloves was produced, to the infinite satisfaction of the onlookers.

“Are those your property?”

“No.” Gardener looked both surprised and relieved.

“Have you seen them before?”

“ ‘No. Not to my knowledge.”

The anonymous letter was produced, and identified by Gardener, who described how it arrived and explained the reference to his “sore foot.”

“Did you get any impression of the identity of the person who trod on your foot?”

Gardener hesitated, and glanced at Alleyn.

“I received a vague impression, but afterwards decided it was not definite enough to count for anything.”

“Whom did this impression suggest?”

“Must I answer that?”

He looked again towards Alleyn.

“You told Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn of this impression?”

“Yes. But I added that it really was not reliable.”

“What name did you mention?”

“None. Inspector Alleyn asked if I noticed a particular scent. I thought I had done so.”

“You meant a perfume of sorts?”

“Yes.”

“With whom did you associate it?”

“With Mr. Jacob Saint.”

Mr. Phillip Phillips was on his feet, in righteous indignation. The coroner dealt with him, and turned to Gardener.

“Thank you, Mr. Gardener.”

Stephanie Vaughan appeared next. She was very composed and dignified, and gave her evidence lucidly. She confirmed everything that Alleyn had said as regards the stage-white and said that Surbonadier himself upset it after the others had gone. She believed it to be a case of suicide. The jury looked sympathetic and doubtful.

The rest of the cast followed in turn. Barclay Crammer gave a good all-round performance of a heartbroken gentleman of the old school. Janet Emerald achieved the feat known to leading ladies as “running through the gamut of the emotions.” Asked to account for the striking discrepancies between her statement and those of Miss Max and the stage manager, she wept unfeignedly and said her heart was broken. The coroner stared at her coldly, and told her she was an unsatisfactory witness. Miss Deamer was youthfully sincere, and used a voice with an effective little broken gasp. Her evidence was supremely irrelevant. The stage manager and Miss Max were sensible and direct. Props looked and behaved so precisely like a murderer, that he left the box in a perfect gale of suspicion. Trixie Beadle struck the “I was an innocent girl” note, but was obviously frightened and was treated gently.

“You say you knew deceased well. You mean you were on terms of great intimacy?”

“I suppose you’d call it that,” said poor Trixie.

Her father was sparse, respectful and rather pathetic. Howard Melville was earnest, sincere, and unhelpful. Old Blair gave his evidence rather mulishly. He was asked to give the names of the people who went in at the stage door, and did so, including those of Inspector Alleyn, Mr. Bathgate, and Mr. Jacob Saint. Had he noticed anybody wearing these gloves come in at the stage door?

“Yes,” said old Blair, in a bored voice.

“Who was this person?”

“Mr. Saint.”

“Mr. Jacob Saint? (If there is a repetition of this noise, I shall have the court cleared.) Are you certain of this?”

“Yes,” said old Blair and withdrew.

Mr. Jacob Saint stated that he was the proprietor of the theatre, that deceased was his nephew, and that he had seen him before the show. He identified the gloves as his, and said he had left them behind the scenes. He did not know where. He had visited Miss Emerald’s room, but did not think he was wearing them then. Probably he had put them down somewhere on the stage. To Nigel’s surprise no mention was made of the tension between Saint and Surbonadier. Mincing, the footman, was not called. Mr. Saint had not returned to the stage until after the tragedy.

The coroner summed up at some length. He touched on the possibility of suicide, and rather belittled it. He directed the jury discreetly towards the verdict which, after an absence of twenty minutes, they ultimately returned — a verdict of murder against some person or persons unknown. As he left the court Nigel found himself walking behind Alleyn, and immediately in front of Janet Emerald and Saint. He was about to join the inspector when Miss Emerald pushed past him, and seized Alleyn by the arm.

“Inspector Alleyn,” she said.

Alleyn stopped and looked at her.

“You were behind that.” She spoke quietly enough, but with a kind of suppressed violence. “You told that man to treat me as he did. Why was I singled out to be insulted and suspected? Why was Felix Gardener let off so lightly? Why isn’t he arrested? He shot Arthur. It’s infamous.” Her voice rose hysterically. Several people who had passed them stopped and looked back.

“Janet,” said Saint hurriedly, “are you mad? Come away.”

She turned and staged at him, burst into a passion of the most hair-raising sobs, and allowed herself to be led off.

Alleyn looked after her thoughtfully.

“Not mad, Mr. Saint,” he murmured. “No. I don’t think the Emerald is mad. Shall we say venomous to the point of foolhardiness?”

He followed them out into the street, without noticing Nigel.