Enter a Murderer (2 page)

The stage door-keeper of the Unicorn glanced up at the grimy face of the clock—7.10. All the artists were snug in their dressing-rooms now. All, that was, except old Susan Max, who played an insignificant part in the last act and was given a bit of licence by the stage manager. Susan usually came in about eight.

Footsteps sounded in the alley outside. Old Blair uttered a kind of groaning sigh peculiar to himself, got creakily off his stool, and peered out into the warmish air. In a moment two men in evening dress stepped into the pool of uncertain light cast by the stage door lamp. Blair moved into the doorway and looked at them in silence.

“Good evening,” said the shorter of the two men.

“ ‘Evening, sir,” said Blair, and waited.

“Can we see Mr. Gardener, do you think? He’s expecting us. Mr. Bathgate.” He opened a cigarette-case and produced a card. Old Blair took it and shifted his gaze to the taller of the two visitors. “Mr. Alleyn is with me,” said Nigel Bathgate.

“Will you wait a moment, please?” said Blair, and holding the card in the palm of his hand as if he were rather ashamed of it, he walked off down the passage.

“That old gentleman had a good look at you,” said Nigel Bathgate. He offered his cigarette-case.

“Perhaps he knew me,” said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn. “I’m as famous as anything, you know.”

“Are you, now? Too famous, perhaps, to be amused at this sort of thing?” Nigel waved his cigarette in the direction of the passage.

“Not a bit. I’m as simple as I am clever — a lovable trait in my character. An actor in his dressing-room will thrill me to mincemeat. I shall sit and goggle at him, I promise you.”

“Felix is more likely to goggle at you. When he gave me a couple of stalls for to-night I told him Angela couldn’t come and — I mean,” said Nigel hurriedly, “I said I’d ask you, and he was quite startled by the importance of me.”

“So he ought to be — all took aback. When your best girl’s away ask a policeman. Sensible man, Felix Gardener, as well as a damn’ good actor. And I do love a crook play, I do.”

“Oh,” said Nigel, “I never thought of that. Rather a busman’s holiday for you, I’m afraid.”

“Not it. Is it the sort where you have to guess the murderer?”

“It is. And you’ll look a bit silly if you can’t, won’t you, inspector?”

“Shut up. I shall bribe this old gentleman to tell me. Here he comes.” Old Blair appeared at the end of the passage.

“Will you come this way, please?” he said, without returning to the door.

Nigel and Alleyn stepped inside the stage door of the Unicorn, and at that precise moment Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, all unknowingly, walked into one of the toughest jobs of his career.

They at once sensed the indescribable flavour of the working half of a theatre when the nightly show is coming on. The stage door opens into a little realm, strange or familiar, but always apart and shut in. The passage led directly on to the stage, which was dimly lit and smelt of dead scene paint, of fresh grease paint, of glue-size, and of dusty darkness, time out of mind the incense of the playhouse. A pack of scene flats leaned against the wall and a fireman leaned against the outer flat, which was painted to represent a section of a bookcase. A man in shirt sleeves and rubber-soled shoes ran distractedly round the back of the set. A boy carrying a bouquet of sweet peas disappeared into a brightly-lit entry on the right. The flats of the “set” vanished up into an opalescent haze. Beyond them, lit by shaded lamps, the furniture of a library mutely faced the reverse side of the curtain. From behind the curtain came the disturbing and profoundly exciting murmur of the audience, and the immemorial squall of tuning fiddle-strings. Through the prompt entrance another man in shirt sleeves stared into the flies.

“What are you doing with those bloody blues?” he inquired. His voice was deadened by carpets and furniture. Someone far above answered. A switch clicked and the set was suddenly illuminated. A pair of feet appeared above Nigel’s face; he looked up and saw dimly the electricians’ platform, on which one man stood with his hand on the switch-board and another sat dangling his legs. Blair led them into the bright entry, which turned out to be another passage. Along this passage on the left were the dressing-room doors, the first marked with a tarnished star. From behind all the doors came the sound of muffled voices — cosy, busy, at home. It was very warm. A man with a worried expression hurried round an elbow in the passage. As he passed he looked at them inquisitively.

“That’s George Simpson, the stage manager,” whispered Nigel importantly. Old Blair knocked on the second door.

There was a pause and then a pleasant baritone voice called:

“Hullo, who is it?”

Blair opened the door two inches and said: “Your visitors, Mr. Gardener.”

“What? Oh, yes. Half a second,” called the voice. And then to someone inside: “I quite agree with you, old boy, but what can you do? No, don’t go.” A chair scraped and in a moment the door was opened. “Come in, come in,” said Felix Gardener.

They crossed the threshold and Inspector Alleyn found himself, for the first time in his life, in an actor’s dressing-room and shaking hands with the actor.

Felix Gardener was not a preposterously good-looking man; not, that is to say, so handsome that the male section of his audience longed at times to give him a kick in the pants. He had, however, the elusive quality of distinction. His straw-coloured hair was thick and lay sleekly on his neatly shaped head. His eyes, scarcely the width of an eye apart, were surprisingly blue, his nose straight and narrow; his mouth, generously large and curiously folded in at the corners, was a joy to newspaper cartoonists. His jaw-line was sharply marked, giving emphasis to a face otherwise rather fine-drawn. He was tall, carried himself beautifully, but not too much like a showman, and he had a really delightful speaking voice, light but resonant. He was said by women to have “It”; by men to be a very decent fellow; and by critics to be an actor of outstanding ability.

“I’m so glad you’ve come round,” he said to Alleyn. “Do sit down. Oh — may I introduce Mr. Barclay Crammer? Mr. Alleyn. Bathgate you’ve met.”

J. Barclay Crammer was a character actor. He was just sufficiently well known for people to say “Who
is
that man?” when he walked on to the stage, and not quite distinctive enough for them to bother to look him up in the programme. He was dark, full-faced, and a good character actor. He looked bad-tempered, thought Nigel, who had met him once before at Gardener’s first-night supper-party.

“Can you all find somewhere to sit?” asked Gardener. He seated himself in front of his dressing-table. Alleyn and Nigel found a couple of arm-chairs.

The room was a blaze of lights and extremely warm. A gas jet protected by an open cage bubbled above the dressing-table, on which stood a mirror and all the paraphernalia of make-up. The room smelt of grease paint. Near the mirror lay a revolver and a pipe. A full-length glass hung on the right-hand wall by a wash-basin. On the left-hand wall a looped-up sheet half covered a collection of suits. Through the wall came the sound of women’s voices in the star room.

“So glad you’ve both come, Nigel,” said Gardener. “I never see you nowadays. You journalists are devilish hard to get hold of.”

“Not more elusive than you actors,” rejoined Nigel, “and not half as slippery as the police. I may tell you it’s rather a feather in my cap producing Alleyn to-night.”

“I know,” agreed Gardener, turning to his mirror and dabbing his face with brown powder. “It makes me quite nervous. Do you realise, J. B., that Mr. Alleyn is a kingpin in the C.I.D.?”

“Really?” intoned Mr. Barclay Crammer deeply. He hesitated a moment and then added with rather ponderous gaiety: “Makes me even more nervous as I’m one of the villains of the piece. A very, very minor villain,” he added with unmistakable bitterness.

“Now, don’t tell me you’re the murderer,” said Alleyn. “It would ruin my evening.”

“Nothing so important,” said Barclay Crammer. “A little ‘cameo part,’ the management tells me. And that’s throwing roses at it.”

He uttered a short, scornful noise which Nigel recognized as part of his stock-in-trade.

A voice outside in the passage called:

“Half-hour, please. Half-hour, please.”

“I must be off,” said Mr. Crammer, sighing heavily. “I’m not made up yet and I begin this revolting piece. Pah!” He rose majestically and made a not unimpressive exit.

“Poor old J.B.’s very disgruntled,” said Gardener in an undertone. “He was to play the Beaver and then it was given to Arthur Surbonadier. Great heart-burning, I assure you.” He smiled charmingly. “It’s a rum life, Nigel,” he said.

“You mean they are rum people?” said Nigel.

“Yes — partly. Like children and terribly, terribly like actors. They run too true to type.”

“You were not so critical in our Trinity days.”

“Don’t remind me of my callow youth.”

“Youth!” said Alleyn. “You children amuse me. Twenty years ago next month I came down from Oxford. Ah me! Fie, fie! Out upon it!”

“All the same,” persisted Nigel, “you can’t persuade me, Felix, that you are out of conceit with your job.”

“That’s another matter,” said Felix Gardener.

There was a light tap on the door, which opened far enough to disclose a rather fat face, topped by a check cap and garnished with a red spotted handkerchief. It was accompanied by an unmistakable gust of alcohol, only partially disguised by violet cachous.

“Hullo — hullo, Arthur, come in,” said Gardener pleasantly, but without any great enthusiasm.

“So sorry,” said the face unctuously. “Thought you were alone, old man. Wouldn’t intrude for the world.”

“Rot!” said Gardener. “Do come in and shut the door. There’s a hellish draught in this room.”

“No, no, it’s not important. Just that little matter of — I’ll see you later.” The face withdrew and the door was shut, very gently.

“That’s Arthur Surbonadier,” Gardener explained to Alleyn. “He’s pinched J.B.’s part and thinks I’ve pinched his. Result, J.B. hates him and he hates me. That’s what I mean about actors.”

“Oh!” said Nigel, with youthful profundity. “Jealousy.”

“And whom do you hate?” asked Alleyn lightly.

“I?” Gardener said. “I’m at the top of this particular tree and can afford to be generous. I dare say I’ll get like it sooner or later.”

“Do you think Surbonadier a good actor?” asked Nigel.

Gardener lifted one shoulder.

“He’s Jacob Saint’s nephew.”

“I see. Or do I?”

“Jacob Saint owns six theatres, of which this is one. He gives good parts to Surbonadier. He never engages poor artists. Therefore Surbonadier must be a good actor. I refuse to be more catty than that. Do you know this play?” he said, turning to Alleyn.

“No,” said the inspector. “Not a word of it. I have been trying to discover from your make-up whether you are a hero, a racketeer, one of us police, or all three. The pipe on your dressing-table suggests a hero, the revolver a racketeer, and the excellent taste of the coat you are about to put on, a member of my own profession. I deduce, my dear Bathgate, that Mr. Gardener is a hero disguised as a gun-man, and a member of the C.I.D.”

“There!” said Nigel triumphantly. He turned proudly to Gardener. For once Alleyn was behaving nicely as a detective.

“Marvellous!” said Gardener.

“You don’t mean to tell me I’m right?” said Alleyn.

“Not far out. But I use the revolver as a policeman, the pipe as a gun-man, and don’t wear that suit in this piece at all.”

“Which only goes to show,” said Alleyn, grinning, “that intuition is as good as induction any day.” They lit cigarettes and Nigel and Gardener began a long reminiscent yarn about their Cambridge days.

The door opened again and a little dried-up man in an alpaca jacket came in.

“Ready, Mr. Gardener?” he asked, scarcely glancing at the others.

Gardener took off his wrap, and the dresser got a coat from under the sheet and helped him into it. “You need a touch more powder, sir, if I may say so,” he remarked. “It’s a warm night.”

“That gun business all right?” asked Gardener, turning back to the mirror.

“Props says so. Let me give you a brush, if you please, Mr. Gardener.”

“Oh, get along with you, Nannie,” rejoined Gardener. He submitted good-humouredly to the clothes brush.

“Handkerchief,” murmured the dresser, flicking one into the jacket. “Pouch in side pocket. Pipe. Are you right, sir?”

“Right as rain — run along.”

“Thank you, sir. Shall I take the weapon to Mr. Surbonadier, sir?”

“Yes. Go along to Mr. Surbonadier’s room. My compliments, and will he join these gentlemen as my guests for supper?” He took up the revolver.

“Certainly, sir,” said the dresser, and went out.

“Bit of a character, that,” said Gardener. “You will sup with me, won’t you? I’ve asked Surbonadier because he dislikes me. It will add piquancy to the dressed crab.”

“Quarter hour, please. Quarter hour, please,” said the voice outside.

“We’d better go round to the front,” said Nigel.

“Plenty of time. I want you to meet Stephanie Vaughan, Alleyn. She’s madly keen on criminology and would never forgive me if I hid you.” (Alleyn looked politely resigned.) “Stephanie!” Gardener shouted loudly. A muffled voice from beyond the wall sang:

“Hullo — oh?”

“Can I bring visitors in to see you?”

“Of
course
, darling,” trilled the voice, histrionically cordial.

“Marvellous woman!” said Gardener. “Let’s go.”

Behind the tarnished star they found Miss Stephanie Vaughan in a rather bigger room, with thicker carpets, larger chairs, a mass of flowers and an aproned dresser. She received them with much gaiety, gave them cigarettes and dealt out her charm lavishly, with perhaps an extra libation for Gardener and a hint, thought Nigel, of something more subtly challenging in her manner towards Inspector Alleyn. Even with blue grease on her eyelids and scarlet grease on her nostrils, she was a very lovely woman, with beautifully groomed hair, enormous eyes, and a heart-shaped face. Her three-cornered smile was famous. She began to talk shop — Alleyn’s shop — to the inspector, and asked him if he had read H. B. Irving’s book on famous criminals. He said he had, and thought it jolly good. She asked him if he had read other books on criminals and psychology; if he had read Freud, if he had read Ernest Jones. Mr. Alleyn said he thought them all jolly good. Nigel felt nervous.