by Ngaio Marsh
“Plenty of time,” said Alleyn sadly, “but he didn’t do it. I remember perfectly well that he was on the stage all the time. He stood near me and I talked to him and to Hambledon.”
“That’s what Hambledon said,” agreed Wade gloomily. “It’s a blooming nark, dinkum it is. Still, there’s better alibis than that have gone west before now, and I’m not going to forget this will. Mason’s a whole lot better off by this murder.”
“Was he badly off before?” asked Alleyn lightly.
“That’s what I reckon we’ll have to find out, sir. Do you think the Yard—?”
“Oh, yes. They’ll do it for you if it can be done. We call it making tactful inquiries. Aren’t I glad I’m not there.”
“You’re here, though,” said Wade, “and I suppose they know it.”
“I don’t like the way you said that, Inspector,” said Alleyn with a wry smile. “And I know jolly well what you’re thinking.”
Wade grinned sheepishly.
“Well, sir,” he said, “it looks as if it’s an English case more than a New Zillund one, now, doesn’t it?”
“Wait and see,” said Alleyn. “What about your tiki? And talking about the tiki, did you ask Mr. Mason where he went with Dr. Te Pokiha after the event? He was very much shaken and Te Pokiha took him off somewhere to give him a drink.”
“The doctor brought him here. There’s a bottle of whisky and a couple of glasses in that cupboard there. I put ’em away to get Mason’s prints. They seem to have taken it neat.”
“So Dr. Te Pokiha felt a bit groggy, too,” said Alleyn. “He seemed so very sedate and professional at the time. What happened when they’d had their neat whiskies?”
“The doctor rang us up and left Mason here with his grog, when we arrived. Mason says he was still here when we went past. I remember noticing that door was open on the alleyway and the lights in here were up. I fancy I caught sight of him. Anyway, the doorkeeper says he mooched along the yard after we’d come in, saw Mason in the office and talked to him. He says he went along as soon as he’d let us in and stayed until Mason went to the wardrobe-room. They walked along together.”
“That’s right, too, sir,” said the silent Cass unexpectedly. “I was just inside the stage-door when he came through. I sent him along. He was looking horribly crook.”
“Ill?” asked Alleyn cautiously.
“Too right, sir.”
“Crook or not,” said Wade, “I’m not taking anything for gospel where Mr. George Mason’s concerned, by cripey I’m not. Now the D—Miss Dacres hasn’t got even half an alibi for the first stunt—fixing the gear before the murder. She says she went to her dressing-room and was alone there till she came to the party.”
“What about her dresser?”
“Says she sent her off to doll herself up for the party. Now Miss Dacres could have slipped round to the ladder at the back, fixed the gear, and then gone to her room. When did she come in to the party, sir?”
“She came in last,” said Alleyn, and up through his mind welled the memory of Carolyn hooting melodiously as she came down the passage, of Ackroyd opening the door on to the stage, of Carolyn making her entrance, of himself going to meet her.
“Last!” exclaimed Wade. “Last of the lot, and alone.”
“No. Not alone. Hailey Hambledon, Mr. Mason, and Mr. Meyer went and fetched her.”
“That makes no odds,” said Wade.
“What about Mr. Hambledon?” asked Alleyn.
“He says he left the stage with the others after the final curtain and went to his dressing-room. His dresser was there but he didn’t want him and sent him away.”
“Yes. He was wearing a dinner-jacket. He’d only need to take his make-up off.”
“He could have gone up the first time, sir. As soon as the dresser had gone he could have slipped back to the stage and round to the ladder at the rear. It would have been after Mr. Meyer and Bert okayed the gear.”
“How does he stand for the second visit? He stayed behind with us—and the body—and left the stage while Gascoigne, Bert, and I were still there. Said he was going to Miss Dacres’s room. He was there when I arrived later on. He went out, at my suggestion, to get some brandy. I don’t think he was away long enough to go up to the grid and get the brandy as well. Might have had time, I suppose, but it would have been damn’ quick work.”
“As far as Mr. Hambledon is concerned we haven’t got a motive, sir, have we?”
Alleyn raised an eyebrow.
“I suppose you may say we haven’t,” he said slowly.
“Is there anything—” began Wade.
“No, no. Nothing.”
A knock on the outside door heralded the entrance of Packer.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but are you ready for another?”
“Yes—all right—all right,” said Wade impatiently. “Send—”
“Beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Ackroyd says could you see him next? He says there’s something he’d like to tell you, particular.”
“Ackroyd? Which is he?”
“The comedian,” said Alleyn.
“Good-oh, then, Packer. Send him along.”
Packer went away with Cass.
“What’s biting Mr. Ackroyd, I wonder?” said Wade.
“I wonder,” murmured Alleyn.
“Is he one of their swell turns, sir? The funny man, is he?”
“Dreadfully funny,” said Alleyn.
“I haven’t seen the show. I like a good laugh, but these stage plays seem kind of feeble-minded after the flicks, I reckon. Nothing but talk. I don’t mind a bit of vordervil. Still, if it’s funny—”
“Mr. Ackroyd is a good comedian on the stage. I find him less entertaining when he’s off it.”
“He looks a scream,” said Wade.
The scream appeared, ushered in by Cass.
Ackroyd was a dot of a man; beside the gigantic Cass he looked like a dwarf. “And his face is funny,” thought Alleyn. “That button of a nose was made to be painted red. He ought to be in pantomime rather than polite comedy. No, that’s not fair—he’s a really good actor. There are brains behind his work and that kind of humour that comes from inside—the Chaplin brand. But I don’t think he’s a very nice little man. Waspish.”
Ackroyd walked across to Inspector Wade with neat assurance. His stage mannerisms were faintly imposed on his everyday behaviour. One expected him to say something excruciatingly funny.
“I hope I don’t intrude,” said Ackroyd.
“That’s all right, sir,” said Wade heartily. “Take a seat. You wanted to see me about something?”
“That’s right. Mind, I don’t want you to take too much notice of it. It’s probably of no account. Still, I feel you ought to know about it. It’s dead against the grain with me to butt in on other people’s business, you know.”
“Lie,” thought Alleyn.
“We quite understand that, Mr. Ackroyd,” said Wade.
“It’s a confidential matter.” Ackroyd turned to Alleyn. “No offence, you know, old boy.”
“None in the world,” said Alleyn cheerfully.
“—so if you wouldn’t mind—”
“Mr. Alleyn is a detective,” said Wade. “He’s in this case with us.”
“A detective?” shouted Ackroyd. “By George, Meyer knew about it all the time, did he! Working for Meyer, were you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Mr. Ackroyd. I am a policeman,” said Alleyn, “not a private detective.”
“A Yard man?”
“Yes.”
“Then it couldn’t have been him you were after.”
“Who d’you mean?” asked Wade.
“Why, Hambledon, of course,” said Ackroyd.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
St. John Ackroyd and Susan Max
“HAMBLEDON?” SAID ALLEYN sharply. “What the—I beg your pardon, Wade,” he added instantly. “This is your show.”
“Go right ahead, sir.”
&n
bsp; “Thank you so much.” Alleyn turned to Ackroyd. “I must confess I’m curious to know why you thought I was interested in Mr. Hambledon.”
“Don’t mind me, old boy,” said Ackroyd easily. “When the inspector here said you were a ’tec, I thought Alf Meyer had put you on to follow Hailey and the fair Carolyn. That’s all. Quite natural, you know, under the circs.”
“I see,” said Alleyn, and was silent.
“It’s like that, is it?” said Wade.
Ackroyd pulled a serio-comic face, thrusting his lower lip sideways with the tip of his tongue. “Very much like it,” he said.
“Common little stinker,” thought Alleyn.
“D’you mean,” asked Wade, “that she gave him cause for divorce?”
“That’s my idea. No business of mine, mind.”
“Was it this you were wanting to tell me, Mr. Ackroyd?” pursued Wade.
“Oh God, no. At least, it’s something to do with it. I was going to keep it under my hat, but Alf Meyer was a white man, and if he’s been murdered—” He paused.
“That’s right,” encouraged Wade. Alleyn was conscious of an illogical distaste for both of them.
“Well, it’s like this,” said Ackroyd. “The morning we got here I came down to the theatre. We had a call at ten-thirty. I got here early and went to my dressing-room. It’s round the corner of the passage and up a right-angled one, so that actually it backs on to the star dressing-room. Well in these wooden buildings of yours you can hear each other thinking. The walls are only thin partitions in this show. I was getting my stuff out when I heard Hailey and the Great Actress talking in the star-room.”
“Mr. Hambledon and Miss Dacres?”
“None other. Hailey was in the devil of a temper, trying to get her to say she’d leave with him at the end of this tour. Fact! And she said she wouldn’t because she’s a Catholic and doesn’t believe in divorce. She was doing her ‘little devil’ stuff. Seemed to go big with Hailey—he got all he-man and violent. Ttff! Then he said something like: ‘Would you marry me if Alf was dead?’ And the Great Actress said she would. That took her off. She went out on the stage, and a minute later I heard her give her opening line.”
“Yes,” said Wade after a moment “Thanks, Mr. Ackroyd. Doesn’t sound exactly as if she was Hambledon’s mistress, though, do you reckon?”
“God knows what she is. She’ll be his wife before long, I don’t mind betting you. Well, that’s that. Probably nothing in it. I’ll be off.”
“If you don’t mind waiting a minute longer, sir, there are one or two formal questions.”
Wade asked Ackroyd what he did after the final curtain. He went straight to his dressing-room, it seemed. He was alone there until he came out for the party. He looked in at Liversidge’s room and they then joined Vernon and Broadhead and went along to the party. After the catastrophe he left the stage with the others, went to his dressing-room, had a stiff nip and then joined the rest of the company in the wardrobe-room. On both these occasions he had repeatedly called out to the others from his own room. Asked about the train journey he said he slept solidly for at least an hour before they got to Ohakune, and had not the remotest idea who entered or left the carriage.
Cass took notes of this, as of all the former interviews. Ackroyd took it all very easily and gave some of his replies with an air of mock solemnity that the sergeant and Wade found extremely diverting. When it was all over Ackroyd turned to Alleyn.
“And what, may one ask,” he said, “is Scotland Yard’s part in the proceedings?”
“Noises off, Mr. Ackroyd,” replied Alleyn good-humouredly. “I’m here by accident and the courtesy of Inspector Wade.”
“Funny me thinking you were a private sleuth. I say, old boy, you’ll keep it under your hat won’t you—about Hailey and the Dacres, you know. You’re rather pally with them, I’ve noticed. That’s what made me think you were watching them. Don’t give me away, now, will you?”
“To Miss Dacres and Mr. Hambledon? No,” said Alleyn bleakly.
Ackroyd walked over to the door.
“Of course,” he said, “that fascinating blah stuff of hers goes down with the nit-wits. I’ve worked with her for six years and I know the lady. She’s as hard as nails underneath. That’s only my opinion, you know, for what it’s worth. It’s based on observation.”
“Was your suggestion about Mr. Mason’s past also based on observation?” asked Alleyn pleasantly.
“What’s that, old boy? Oh, George! No, I wasn’t in the company he stranded in the States. I don’t go out with bad shows.”
“But it’s a true story?”
“Don’t ask me. I was told it for gospel. You never know. But I get fed up with all this kow-towing to the Firm. Alf and George are not better than anybody else in management. Now Alf’s gone I suppose all the spare spotlights will be trained on George. ‘Our Mr. Mason.’ And of course on the Great Actress. By the way what’s all the fuss about the little green whatsit you gave her?”
“Merely that it is lost and we should like to recover it.”
“Well if it’s lost, she did the losing. She had it last.”
“Is that so!” exclaimed Wade.
“Certainly. Branny put it down on the table and she picked it up and slipped it inside her dress. I’ll swear to that in six different positions. Cheerio!”
And, like a good actor, on this effective line he made his exit.
“He’s a hard case, that one,” said Wade appreciatively. “I reckon he’s a real shrewdy.”
“Yes,” agreed Alleyn, “he’s shrewd.”
“I’d like to know how much there is in that stuff about Hambledon. ‘Would you marry me if Alf was dead.’ And she said she would. I’d like to know just how he said it. And, by gum, I’d like to know if there’s a free passage from the top of Miss Dacres’s dress downwards.”
“And I,” said Alleyn, “would like to know when Miss Dacres found occasion to snub Mr. Ackroyd, and why?”
“Hullo!” said Wade. “Where d’you get that notion, sir?”
“From the funny gentleman’s behaviour. He radiated a peculiar malevolence that I associate with snubs from the opposite sex.”
“Still, sir, he’d hardly want to involve her in a murder charge, now, would he? And that statement about the tiki—well.”
“It is Hambledon, I fancy, whom he would like to involve.”
Wade chewed this over, eyeing Alleyn with a sort of guarded curiosity.
“Well,” he said at last, ‘we’d better get on. Let’s see: there’s that old lady, Miss Max, and Miss Gaynes, Mr. Liversidge, Mr. Weston, who’s not a member of the company, his cousin, young Palmer (ditto), and Mr. Brandon Vernon. Suppose we see the old girl first, Cass.”
Cass went off.
“Miss Max is an old acquaintance of mine,” said Alleyn; “she was in the Felix Gardener show.”
“Is that so, sir? Well, now, perhaps you would talk to her. I’d like to listen to your methods, sir. We’ve got our own little ideas here about interviews and it’d be very interesting to compare them.”
“Bless me, Wade, I’m afraid you won’t find much to analyse in my remarks, especially to Miss Max. I’ll talk to her if you like, only don’t, for the Lord’s sake, expect fire-works. Here she comes.”
In came old Susan Max. Her roundabout figure was neat in its velveteen evening dress. Her faded blond hair had been carefully dressed for the party, her round honest face with its peculiar pallor, induced by years of grease-paint, had been delicately powdered but not made-up. She looked what she was, an actress of the old school. She waddled forward, her face lighting as she saw Alleyn.
“Well, Miss Max,” said Alleyn, pushing a chair up to the fire, “I’m afraid you’ve had a long wait in the wardrobe-room. Sit down by the fire and cheer us up.”
“Me cheer you up,” said Susan. “I like that.”
She gave a cackle of laughter, but when she looked up at him her faded blue eyes were anxious.
“I know,” said Alleyn. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”
“They’ll be calling me a Jonah,” she said. The pudgy old hands moved restlessly in her lap.
“You a Jonah! Not a bit of it. You’ve met Inspector Wade, haven’t you?”
Susan gave Wade a grand nod.
“He’s asked me to have a talk with you about this beastly affair. Do the others still think I’m a harmless civilian?”
“Would you credit it, dear,” said Susan indignantly, “that just before I came along here that girl blurted it all out!”
“Miss Valerie Gaynes?”
“Little idiot. I’ve no patience. Doing her emotional act all over the room. What business is it of hers?”
“None at all, I should have thought,” said Alleyn comfortably. “Have a cigarette and tell me some scandal. How did she get her job?”
“Who? Gaynes? My dear, through influence, like everybody else nowadays. Her father’s a lessor of our theatre in Town. The girl knows nothing about the business. No poise. No charm. No personality. You were in front, weren’t you? Well! What a naughty performance.”
“I wonder Miss Dacres puts up with it.”
“My dear, she has to. Some leading women don’t mind poor supports, of course. Selfish. But Carolyn Dacres is an artist. Different type altogether,” said Susan, settling her chins.
“Anything between Liversidge and Valerie Gaynes?” asked Alleyn.
“Somebody ought to tell that girl to look after herself,” said Susan darkly. “Not that they’d get any thanks for it. I’ve known Frankie Liversidge a good many years and I wouldn’t care for any daughter of mine to be on those terms with him.”
“Anything in particular wrong with him?” asked Alleyn.
“Well, dear, he’s not—not quite straight, shall we say, especially where women are concerned. But I mustn’t sit here gossiping. It’s all hours of the night as it is. What can I tell you?”
Alleyn asked her about her movements before and after the catastrophe. Like everyone else, she had spent the two significant periods in her dressing-room. At the end of the play she had gone straight there, removed her make-up and changed her dress. Miss Dacres’s dresser had, at old Susan’s invitation, also used the room to smarten herself up for the party.
