Enter a Murderer (3 page)

“I’ve saturated myself in the literature of crime,” said Miss Vaughan. “I’ve tried to understand, deep down, the psychology of the criminal. I’m greedy for more. Tell me of more books to read, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Have you read Edgar Wallace?” asked Alleyn. “He’s jolly good.”

There was a nasty silence, and then Miss Vaughan decided to let loose her lovely laugh. It rang out — a glorious, bubbling cascade of joyousness. Gardener and Nigel joined in, the latter unconvincingly. Gardener flung his head back and shouted. He put his hand lightly on Stephanie Vaughan’s shoulder.

Then quite suddenly they were aware that the door had been flung open and that Arthur Surbonadier was standing in the room. With one hand he held on to the door — with the other he fumbled at the spotted neckerchief below his scrubby beard. His mouth was half open and he seemed to be short of breath. At last he spoke.

“Quite a jolly little party,” he said. His voice was thick and they saw how his lips trembled. They stopped short in their laughter, Gardener still with his hand on that lovely shoulder, Stephanie Vaughan open-mouthed and frozen into immobility — rather as though they were posing for a theatrical photograph. There was a quite appalling little silence.

“Charming picture,” said Surbonadier. “All loving and bright. Mayn’t I know the joke?”

“The joke,” said Alleyn quickly, “was a bad one — of mine.”

“The cream of the jest,” said Surbonadier, “is on me. Stephanie will explain it to you. You’re the detective, aren’t you?”

Gardener and Nigel both started talking. Nigel heard himself introduce Alleyn. Gardener was saying something about his supper-party. Alleyn had got to his feet and was offering Miss Vaughan a cigarette. She took it without moving her gaze off Surbonadier, and Alleyn lit it for her.

“I’m sure we ought to go round to the front,” he said. “Don’t let’s miss the first scene, Nigel — I can’t bear to be late.”

He took Nigel by the arm, said something courteous to Miss Vaughan, shook Gardener’s hand, and propelled Nigel towards the door.

“Don’t let me drive you away,” said Surbonadier, without moving from the doorway. “I’ve come to see the fun. Came to see Gardener really, and found him — having his fun.”

“Arthur!” Stephanie Vaughan spoke for the first time.

“Well,” said Surbonadier loudly, “I’ve made up my mind to stop the fun — see? No reason why you shouldn’t hear”— he turned slightly towards Nigel. “You’re a journalist. Literary man. Here’s a surprise — Gardener’s a literary man, too.”

“Arthur, you’re tight,” said Gardener. He moved towards Surbonadier, who took a step towards him. Alleyn seized his chance and shoved Nigel through the door.

“Good-bye for the moment,” he called. “See you after the show”: — and in a second or two they were back on the stage staring at one another.

“That was pretty beastly,” said Nigel.

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “Come on.”

“The brute’s drunk,” said Nigel.

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “This way.”

They crossed the stage and made for the exit door, standing aside to let an elderly woman come in; they heard old Blair say: “ ’Evening, Miss Max.” As they went out a voice in the passage behind them called:

“Overture and beginners, please. Overture and beginners, please.”

It’s amazing to me,” said Nigel, in the second interval, “how that fellow Surbonadier can play a part in the state he’s in. You’d never guess he was tight now, would you?”

“I
think
I would have known,” said Alleyn. “From where we are you can see his eyes — they don’t quite focus.”

“I call it a damn’ good performance,” said Nigel.

“Yes,” murmured Alleyn. “Yes. You’ve seen the piece before, haven’t you?”

“Reviewed it,” said Nigel, rather grandly.

“Has Surbonadier’s reading of the part altered at all?”

Nigel turned and stared at his friend. “Well,” he said slowly, “now I come to think of it I believe it has. It’s — it’s sort of more intense. I mean in that last scene with Felix, when they were alone on the stage. What is it he says to Felix? Something about getting him?”

“ ‘I’ll get you, Carruthers,’ ” quoted Alleyn, with an uncannily just rendering of Surbonadier’s thick voice. “ ‘I’ll get you, and just when you least expect it!’ ”

“Good Lord, Alleyn, what a memory you’ve got!” said Nigel, very startled.

“I’ve never before seen anything on the stage that impressed me so deeply.”

“All carried away like,” jibed Nigel, but Alleyn refused to laugh.

“It was uncanny,” he said. “The atmosphere of the dressing-room intensified on the stage. Intensified and bigger than life, like emotion in a nightmare. And then he said: ‘You think I’m bluffing, playing a part, don’t you?’ And ‘Carruthers’—Gardener, you know — said: ‘I think you’re bluffing, Beaver — yes. But if you’re not — lookout!’ ”

“You’re a damn’ good mimic, inspector.”

“Clap-trap stuff it is really,” said Alleyn uneasily.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know. Got the ooble-boobles. Let’s have a drink.”

They went to the bar. The inspector was very silent and read his programme. Nigel looked at his curiously. He felt apologetic about the horribly uncomfortable scene in the dressing-room and wondered very much what was brewing between Gardener, Surbonadier and Miss Vaughan.

“I suppose old Felix has cut that bounder out?” he ventured.

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “Oh, yes — that, of course.” The warning bell set up its intolerable racket. “Come on,” said Alleyn. “Don’t let’s miss any of it.” He fidgeted while Nigel finished his drink, and led the way back to their stalls.

“The supper-party won’t be much fun, I’m afraid,” said Nigel.

“Oh — the supper-party. Perhaps it’ll be off.”

“Perhaps. What’ll we do if it’s on? Apologize and get out?”

“Wait and see.”

“Helpful suggestion!”

“I don’t think the supper-party will happen.”

“Here she goes,” remarked Nigel, as the lights slowly died away, leaving the auditorium in thick-populated darkness.

At the bottom of the blackness in front of them a line of light appeared. It widened, and in a silence so complete that the sound of the pulleys could be heard, the curtain rose on the last act of
The Rat and the Beaver
.

It opened with a scene between the Beaver (Surbonadier), his cast-off mistress (Janet Emerald), and her mother (Susan Max). They were all involved in the opium trade. One of their number had been murdered. They had suspected him of being a stool-pigeon in the employ of Carruthers,
alias
the Rat (Felix Gardener). Miss Emerald threatened, Miss Max snivelled, Surbonadier snarled. He took a revolver from his pocket and loaded it while they watched him significantly.

“
What are you going to do
?” whispered Janet Emerald.

“
Pay a little visit to Mister Carruthers.
”

The stage was blacked out for a quick change.

Carruthers (Felix Gardener) was discovered in his library among the leather chairs that Nigel and Alleyn had seen from the wings. It was still uncertain, to all but the wariest playgoer, whether he was the infamous Rat, organizer of illicit drug traffic, agent of the Nazis, enemy of the people, or the heroic servant of the British Secret Service. He sat at his desk and rapped out a letter on the typewriter, the keyboard of which was not visible.

“He pounds away at the letter Q,” whispered Nigel, full of inside knowledge.

To Gardener came Jennifer (Stephanie Vaughan), passionately in love with him, believing him false, fascinated in spite of her nobler self, by the famous Felix charm. Miss Vaughan did this sort of thing remarkably well, the audience was enchanted, especially as at any moment the bookcase might slide back revealing the Butler (J. Barclay Crammer), whom they knew to be a gun-man of gun-men. It was, as Nigel had remarked in reviewing the play, a generous helping out of the old stock-pot, but Felix Gardener and Stephanie Vaughan played it with subtlety and restraint. The lines were sophisticated if the matter was melodramatic, and “it went.” Even when the sliding bookcase slid and the gun-man did seize Miss Vaughan by her lovely elbows and pinion her, he did it, as it were, on the turn of an epigram, since as well as being a butler and a gun-man he was also an Etonian.

Miss Vaughan was borne off registering a multitude of conflicting emotions and Felix Gardener remained wrapped in the closest inscrutability. He took out his pipe, filled and lit it, gave a little audible sigh and sank into one of the leather chairs. “Isn’t he marvellous!” breathed a woman’s voice from behind Nigel. Nigel smiled a superior but tolerant smile and glanced at Alleyn. The inspector’s dark eyes were fixed on the stage.

“Positively,” thought Nigel, more tolerant than ever, “positively old Alleyn’s all het up.” Then he saw Alleyn’s eyebrow jerk up and his lips tighten and he himself turned to the stage and experienced an emotional shock.

Surbonadier, in his character of the Beaver, was standing in the upstage entrance facing the audience. With one hand he held on to the door and with the other he fumbled with his spotted neckerchief below his scrubby beard. His mouth was half open and he seemed to be short of breath.

At last he spoke. So complete was the duplication of the scene in the dressing-room that Nigel expected to hear him repeat: “Quite a jolly little party,” and got another shock when he said very softly:

“
So the Rat’s in his hole at last!
”

“
Beaver
!” whispered Felix Gardener. It was a line that most actors would have played for a laugh. Few actors could have played it otherwise, but Felix Gardener did. He made it sound horrible.

The Beaver came downstage. His right hand now held a revolver. “
You’re not a killer, Rat,
” he said. “
I am. Put ’em up.
”

Gardener’s hands went slowly above his head. Surbonadier patted him all over, still covering him with the gun. Then he backed away. He began to arraign Gardener. The intensity of his fury, repressed and controlled apparently by the most stringent effort, touched the audience like venom. The emotional contact between the players and the house was tightened to an almost unendurable tension. Nigel felt profoundly uncomfortable. It seemed to him that this was no fustian scene between the Rat and the Beaver, but a development of the antagonism of two men, indecently played out in public. “Carruthers, the Rat” was his friend Felix Gardener, and the “Beaver” was Arthur Surbonadier, who hated him. The whole business was beastly and he would have liked to look away from it, but for the life of him he couldn’t do so.

“
Round every corner, Rat, you’ve waited for me,
” Surbonadier was saying now. “
Every job I’ve done this last year you’ve bitched for me, Rat — Rat. You’ve mucked round my girl.
” His voice rose hysterically. “
I’ve had enough. I’m through — I’ve come to finish it and, by God, I’ve come to finish you
!”

“
Not this evening, Beaver. It’s a lovely little plan and I hate to spoil your party, but you see we’re not alone.
”

“
What are you saying?
”

“
We’re not alone.
” Gardener spoke with the exasperating facetiousness of the popular hero. “
There’s a good angel watching over you, Beaver. You’re covered, my Beaver.
”

“
Do I look easy?
”

“
You look lovely, my Beaver, but if you don’t believe me take a step to your right and glance in the mirror behind me, and I think you’ll see the image of the angel that’s watching you.
”

Surbonadier moved upstage. His right hand still held the revolver levelled at Gardener, but for a second he shifted his gaze to the mirror above Gardener’s head. Then slowly he turned and stared at the upstage entrance. A moment, and Stephanie Vaughan stood in the doorway. She too held a revolver, pointed at Surbonadier.

“
Jenny
!” whispered Surbonadier. He dropped his hand and the barrel of the gun shone blue. It hung limply from his fingers and as though in a dream he let Gardener take it from him.

“
Thank you, Jennifer,
” said Gardener. Miss Vaughan, with a little laugh, lowered her gun.

“
You don’t have any luck, do you, Beaver
?” she said.

Surbonadier uttered a curious little whinnying sound, turned, and clawed at Gardener’s neck, forcing up his chin. Gardener’s hand jerked up. The report of the revolver, anticipated by every nerve in the audience, was deafeningly loud. Surbonadier crumpled up and, turning a face that was blank of every expression but that of profound astonishment, fell in a heap at Gardener’s feet. So far the acting honours in the scene had been even, but now Felix Gardener surpassed anything that had gone before. His face reflected, horribly, the surprise on Surbonadier’s. He stood looking foolishly at the gun in his hand and then let it fall to the floor. He turned, bewildered, and peering at the audience as though asking a question. He looked at the stage exits as if he meditated an escape. Then he gazed at Stephanie Vaughan, who, in her turn, was looking with horror from him to what he had done. When at last he spoke — and his lips moved once or twice before any words were heard — it was with the voice of an automaton. Miss Vaughan replied like an echo. They spoke as though they were talking machines. Gardener kept his gaze fixed on the revolver. Once he made as if he would pick it up, but drew his hand back as though it were untouchable.

“God, that man can act!” said a voice behind Nigel. He woke up to feel Alleyn’s hand on his knee.

“Is this the end?” the inspector whispered.

“Yes,” said Nigel. “The curtain comes down in a moment.”

“Then let’s get out.”

“What!”

“Let’s get out,” repeated Alleyn; and then, with a change of voice: “Are you looking for me?”

Their seats were on the aisle. Glancing up, Nigel saw that an usher was bending over his friend.

“Are you Inspector Alleyn, sir?”

“Yes. You want me. I’ll come. Get up, Bathgate.”

Completely at a loss, Nigel rose and followed Alleyn and the usher up the aisle, into the foyer, and out by a sort of office to the stage door alley. No one spoke until then, when the usher said:

“It’s terrible, sir — it’s terrible.”

“Quite,” said Alleyn coldly. “I know.”

“Did you guess, sir? Have they all guessed?”

“I don’t think so. Is someone going to ask for a doctor? Not that there’s any hurry for that.”

“My Gawd, sir, is he dead?”

“Of course he’s dead.”

As they approached the stage door old Blair came running out, wringing his hands.

Alleyn walked past him, followed by Nigel. A man in a dinner jacket, his face very white, came down the passage.

“Inspector Alleyn?” he said.

“Here,” said Alleyn. “Is the curtain down?”

“I don’t think so. Shall I go out in front and ask for a doctor? We didn’t realize. I didn’t stop the show. Nobody realized — they don’t know in front — I don’t think they know in front. He said we ought to send for you,” the man gabbled on madly. They reached the wings just as the curtain came down; Stephanie Vaughan and Gardener were still on the stage. The applause from the auditorium broke like a storm of hail. Simpson, the stage manager, darted out of the prompt corner. As soon as the fringe of the curtain touched the stage Miss Vaughan screamed and hurled her arms round Gardener’s neck. Simpson held back the curtain, looking with horror at Surbonadier, who lay close to his feet. The man in evening dress, who was the business manager, stepped through. The orchestra blared out the first note of the National Anthem, but the man must have held up his hand or spoken to them, because the noise of the one note petered out foolishly. On the stage they heard the business manager speaking to the audience.

“If there is a doctor in front, will he kindly come round to the stage door? Thank you.”

The orchestra again struck up the National Anthem. Behind the curtain Alleyn spoke to Simpson.

“Go to the street door and stop anyone from leaving. No one is to go out. You understand? Bathgate, find a telephone and get the Yard. Tell them from me what has happened and ask them to send the usual people. Say I’ll want constables.” He turned to the business manager, who had come through the curtain. “Show Mr. Bathgate the way to the nearest telephone and then come back here.” He knelt down by Surbonadier.

The business manager glanced at Nigel.

“Where’s a telephone?” asked Nigel.

“Yes, of course,” said the business manager. “I’ll show you.”

They went together through a door in the proscenium that led to the auditorium, almost colliding with a tall man in a tail coat

“I’m the doctor,” he said. “What’s it all about?”

“On the stage,” said Nigel, “if you’ll go through.” The doctor glanced at him and went on to the stage.

In the auditorium the last stragglers were still finding their way out. Some women with their heads together stood with bundles of dust sheets in their arms.

“Get on with your work,” said the business manager savagely. “My name’s Stavely, Mr. — Mr. —”

“Bathgate,” said Nigel.

“Yes, of course. This is a terrible business, Mr. Bathgate.”

“No one,” thought Nigel, “seems to be able to say anything but this.”

They crossed the foyer into an office. People were still standing about the entrance and a woman said: