Enter A Murderer

CHAPTER XIX Nigel Warned Off

“Now, don’t start badgering me with questions,” begged Alleyn. “If you must stay, stay quiet. I’ve got work to do.” He pressed his bell, hung up his hat, and lit a cigarette. Then he took off the receiver of his telephone.

“Give me Inspector Boys. Hullo, is that you, Boys? Who’s shadowing that fellow Hickson? Oh, Thompson, is it? When is he relieved? That’s in about a quarter of an hour. Has he rung up? He has! Where is he? I see. Thank you very much.”

To the constable who answered the bell he said: “Ask the man who saw Hickson to come and speak to me.”

The man in question appeared in remarkably short time. He stood to attention like a private soldier. Nigel was reminded of Props.

“What’s your name?” Alleyn asked.

“Naseby, sir.”

“Well, Naseby, I’ve got a job for you. You know Thompson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s shadowing Hickson — the man you saw this afternoon. At the moment they are both in an eating-house at the corner of Westbourne Street and the Pimlico Road. Go there in a taxi. Wait till Hickson comes out, and then run across him casually in the street. Recognize him and say you’re going off duty. Get into conversation, if you can, but don’t let him suspect you. Tell him you gave me his note and you don’t think it’s much use his coming back here. Say you overheard me remark to Mr. Bathgate here that I thought he was a bit touched and that we’ve got the right man. Say I told you to tell him I couldn’t see him if he came back. I want him to think I’m quite uninterested in him and his information. He’s only just gone in there — you may be in time to sit down by him and stand him a drink. Say, in your opinion, Saint will hang. Don’t try and pump him — treat the matter as settled. Then let him go. The detective who relieves Thompson must carry on, and tell him from me if he loses his man I’ll murder him. He’s not to come away until he’s certain Hickson is bedded down for the night. Then he can ring up, and we’ll relieve him. He is to note down most particularly the number of every house Props — I mean Hickson — goes to. The more information he can get the better I’ll be pleased. Now, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll just go over it if I may, sir.”

“Right.”

Naseby repeated his instructions; quickly and accurately.

“That’s it,” said Alleyn. “Now, away you go. Come here when you return. He’s a smart fellow, that,” he added when Naseby had gone.

He next asked for a report from the district messenger offices that had been combed through that afternoon.

The anonymous letter to Gardener was traced to an office in Piccadilly. They had been particularly busy when the gentleman called and hadn’t much noticed him. He had worn an overcoat, a muffler, a soft hat, and gloves. He had put the letter on the counter and said: “See that’s delivered at once. The boy can keep the change. I’m in a hurry,” and had gone out. Height? Medium. Voice? Couldn’t really say. Clean-shaven? They thought so. Figure? Perhaps on the stout side. “Ugh?” said Alleyn. “Our old pal, the man in the street. Might be anybody.”

He sent for Detective-Sergeant Bailey, who came in looking puzzled.

“About that typewriter,” he said at once. “It’s a rum thing. There’s no doubt about it; the anonymous letter was written on the machine in the theatre. We tested that machine on the night of the affair, and found only Mr. Gardener’s and Prop’s prints. Mr. Gardener used it in the play, so that was all right. Well, according to your instructions, sir, we’ve tested it again, and it’s got no prints on the keyboard at all now, except on the letter Q, which still has Mr. Gardener’s. I couldn’t make it out at all, at first, but I reckon I’ve got an idea now.”

“Yes? What is it, Bailey?”

“Well, sir — after we’d tested the machine it was put into the property-room. All the actors, as you know, were in the wardrobe-room. But Jacob Saint wasn’t. He came in afterwards. Now, suppose he went into the property-room and rattled that off? The doors were shut. We wouldn’t hear him on the stage, and it would only take a second or two. The paper was in the machine. He could put it in his pocket — you’d already searched him — and go off comfortably. The letter Q is out at the side, and he’d miss it when he wiped his prints off the keys.”

“Where is the property-room?” asked Nigel.

“All down that passage to the stage door. It’s a dock really. Big double doors open on to the stage, and, beyond old Blair’s perch, there are other doors opening into the yard. See what I mean, sir? When Saint goes off with Miss Emerald he passes our man at the stage door, goes out into the yard, and slips into the dock by the pilot door that’s cut in the big ones. The double doors on to the stage are shut. He turns on one light, types his letter, wipes over the keys, and slips out. And that dame knows what he’s doing and keeps a look out.”

“Still after the Emerald, I see,” said Alleyn.

Nigel remembered his theory about Saint and the proscenium door. He advanced it modestly and was listened to by Detective Bailey with a kind of grudging respect peculiar to that official.

“Well,” said Alleyn, “it’s possible, Bailey. But any of the others could have done the typewriter business — or, at any rate, some of them could. Simpson could, for instance. Think a moment. Who was nearest to the stage door and most able to slip out unnoticed?”

Bailey stared at him.

“Gosh!” he said at last.

“You mean — old Blair?” Nigel said slowly.

“Who was asleep,” added Alleyn placidly. The other two gaped at him.

“Well,” said Alleyn, “nothing’s conclusive, but everything is healthier. It all begins to come together very nicely.”

“Glad you’re pleased, sir,” said Bailey with unexpected sarcasm.

“What about prints on the letter?”

“Only Mr. Gardener and Mr. Bathgate.”

“And the paper from Surbonadier’s flat? The one with the forged signature?”

“Plenty of Mr. Surbonadier’s, sir, and something else that’s very indistinct and old. I’m having an enlarged photograph taken and can’t give an opinion till I’ve got it. It may turn out to be the deceased, too.”

“Let me know at once if it is, Bailey. I’d like to see the photograph.”

“Very good, sir.”

Bailey was at the door when Alleyn stopped him.

“By the way, Bailey,” he said, “I suppose you’ve heard that we couldn’t get any forrader with the cartridges. Inspector Fox tells me every gunsmith’s and sports shop in the country has been probed.”

“That’s right, sir. Very unsatisfactory,” said Bailey, and withdrew.

“Alleyn,” said Nigel, after a pause, “can’t you force Props to say whom he saw moving round in the dark?”

“I could try, but he can so easily say he doesn’t know who it was. His words were: ‘If I thought I saw a bloke, or it might have been a woman, moving round in the dark… ’ Not very conclusive.”

“But surely he now thinks you’ve got the wrong man, and will tell you who it was, to save Saint.”

“He’s very anxious,” said Alleyn, “to save — the murderer.”

“Who is probably Saint,” said Nigel. “I see. But what about Stephanie Vaughan? Alleyn, if you’d heard her as I did — Oh, my God, I believe she did it! I believe she did.”

“Look here, Bathgate. Could you take a day off tomorrow and go into the country on a job for me?”

“Not possible,” said the astonished Nigel. “What sort of job? I’ve got my own job, you might remember.”

“I want you to go to High Wycombe and see if you can trace a man called Septimus Carewe.”

“You want to get rid of me,” said Nigel indignantly. “Septimus Carewe, my foot!” he added with conviction.

“I mean it.”

“What on earth for!”

“I’m uneasy about you.”

“Bosh!”

“Have it your own way.”

“What are you doing to-morrow, may I ask?”

“I,” said Alleyn, “am putting on a show at the Unicorn.”

“What the devil do you mean?”

“The company is under notice to report at various police stations every day. They have all been asked to report at the Unicorn at eleven to-morrow. I intend to hold a reconstruction of the murder.”

“As you did in the Frantock case?”

“The conditions are very different. In this instance I am simply using the characters to prove my theory. In the Arthur Wilde case I forced his confession. This, unless these unspeakable mummers insist on dramatising themselves, will be less theatrical.”

“I shall be there, however.”

“I don’t want you there.”

“Why ever not?”

“It’s a very unpleasant business. I loathe homicide cases and the result of this investigation will be perfectly beastly.”

“If I could stand the Frantock case, when my own cousin was murdered, I can stand this.”

“You’d much better keep away.”

“I do think you’re bloody,” said Nigel fretfully.

Fox came in.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn. “Everything fixed up?”

“Yes. Saint’s tucked up in bed and the specialist’s been sent for.”

“I’ve just been telling Mr. Bathgate,” said Alleyn, “that I don’t want him at the theatre to-morrow, and he’s got the huff in consequence.”

“Inspector Alleyn’s quite right, sir,” said Fox. “You’d better keep clear of this business. After what you overheard this morning.”

“Do you suppose Miss Vaughan is going to ram an arsenic chocolate down my maw?”

The two detectives exchanged a look.

“Oh, well, I’m off,” said Nigel angrily.

“Good evening,” said Alleyn cheerfully.

Nigel allowed himself the doubtful luxury of slamming the door.

Once out in the street he began to feel rather foolish, and angrier than ever with Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn for causing this uncomfortable sensation. It was now seven o’clock and Nigel was hungry. He walked rapidly to Regent Street and went into the downstairs restaurant at the Hungaria, where he had a morose and extravagant dinner. He ordered himself brandy, and a cigar which he did not want and did not enjoy. When these were exhausted Nigel called for his bill, tipped his waiter, and marched out of the restaurant.

“Damn it,” he said to Lower Regent Street. “I’m going there to-morrow whether he likes it or not.”

He took a taxi to his flat in Chester Terrace.

Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn also dined alone, at a restaurant near the Yard. He returned to his room soon after eight, opened the file of the Unicorn case and went over it very carefully with Inspector Fox. They were two hours at this business. Naseby came in and reported. He had seen Props and had brought off his conversation nicely. Props had seemed very much upset and when last seen was walking in the direction of the King’s Road. Naseby had seen him go into a telephone-box and had then left him to Detective Thompson, who preferred to carry on without being relieved.

Alleyn and Fox returned to the file. Bit by bit they strung together the events of the last three days, and Alleyn talked and Fox listened. At one stage he cast himself back in his chair and stared for fully ten seconds at his superior.

“Do you agree?” asked Alleyn.

“Oh, yes,” said Fox heavily, “I agree.”

He thought for a moment and then he said:

“I’ve been thinking that in difficult homicide cases you either get no motive or too many motives. In this instance there are too many. Jacob Saint had been blackmailed by the deceased; Stephanie Vaughan was pestered and threatened. Trixie Beadle was probably ruined by him; Props was what lawyers called ‘deeply wronged.’ So was the girl’s father. That Emerald woman gets Saint’s money by it. Well, I don’t mind owning I’ve had my eye on all of ’em in turn. There you are.”

“I know,” said Alleyn, “I’ve been through the same process myself. Now look here, Fox. It seems to me there are one or two key pieces in this puzzle. One is the, to me, inexplicable fact that Surbonadier kept that sheet of paper with the experimental signatures: Edward Wakeford, Edward Wakeford, Edward Wakeford. I say inexplicable, in the light of any theory that has been advanced. Another is the evidence of the prints on the typewriter. A third is the behaviour of Stephanie Vaughan last night in Surbonadier’s flat. Why did she pretend one of her letters was missing and get me hunting for it? I may tell you I left a folded piece of plain paper in the iron-bound box. While I was out of the room she took that paper. Why? Because she thought it was the document she was after.”

“The Mortlake letter or the signatures?”

“Not the Mortlake letter. Why should she risk all that to save Saint?”

“The signatures then?”

“I think so. Now put that together with the fragment of conversation Mr. Bathgate overheard this morning, and what do you get?”

“The fragment of conversation,” said Fox slowly.

“Exactly.”

“I believe you’re right, sir. But have you got enough to put before a jury?”

“I’ve got a man down at Cambridge now, ferreting about in past history. If he fails I’m still going for it. The reconstruction to-morrow morning will help.”

“But he won’t be there — Saint, I mean.”

“You are going to climb Jacob’s ladder for me tomorrow, my Foxkin.”

The telephone rang. Alleyn answered it.

“Hullo. Yes. Where? But what about our men at the doors? Simon’s Alley. I see. Well, get back to it and if he comes out detain him. I’ll be there. No, don’t go in alone. How long have you left the place? I see. Get back there quickly.”

Alleyn clapped the receiver down.

“Fox,” he said, “we’re going to the Unicorn.”

“Now?”

“Yes, and damn’ quick. I’ll tell you on the way.”