Vintage Murder (9 page)

“Do you, sir? Any idea who?”

“Mr. Liversidge,” said Alleyn abstractedly, “was
so
helpful and kind. He suggested that no doubt Mr. Meyer had made a note of the loan and that this would clear the whole matter up.”

“Well, so it would, sir, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. Mr. Broadhead explained that the loan was a personal matter and was not recorded on the books.”

“Is that so?” said Wade. He regarded Alleyn solemnly. “Well now, sir, that’s very interesting. You might look at it this way. A young fellow who hasn’t got the cash to pay his debts suddenly pays them and when people get inquisitive he says he was given the money by someone who’s just been murdered.”

“Yes, that’s how Master Palmer put it,” said Alleyn.

“About the tiki,” said Wade after a pause. “I asked the Dacres wom — Mrs. Meyer where it was, and she said she gave it to someone before supper. Neither she nor Hambledon could remember anything about it according to themselves. Nor could Mr. Mason. Now there’s this Mason. I understand he comes in for the money. I suppose it’s a big estate, but you never know with theatricals. We’ll have to watch Mr. Mason.”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn. “I watched him go green in the face just now. He got out just in time — only just.”

“He said something about that. When did it happen?”

“Just after I asked my question about the tiki.”

“Get this down,” said Wade to Cass.

Alleyn described Mr. Mason’s dilemma.

“So he went out, did he,” grunted Wade. “I’ll have something to say to young Packer about that. Too right, I will. Letting him out just because he kidded he felt crook. These blasted youngsters. It may have been one big bluff. What if Mason was the one who had the tiki last and suddenly remembered it? Say he kidded he was crook so’s he could see if he had it in his pockets? I’ll talk to young Packer.”

“Er — yes. Quite so,” agreed Alleyn, diffidently. “But I assure you, Wade, the gentleman would most certainly have been ill where he stood if Packer had restrained him. Judging from the lamentable sounds that reached us, he got no farther than the passage. I don’t think he escaped Packer’s eye, you know.”

“You mean,” said Wade with scriptural accuracy, “he vomited?”

“I do,” said Alleyn, “and to some purpose.”

“Then he wasn’t kidding he was crook?”

“He
may
be a crook, but why should he—”

“No, no. I mean, he wasn’t making out he
felt
crook.”

“I–I beg your pardon. No. I should say definitely not.”

“Ugh!” grunted Wade.

“Of course,” said Alleyn mildly, “he may have palmed a piece of soap and eaten it on the sly in order to make himself sick. But no — he didn’t foam at the mouth.”

“I wonder what’s the strength of this Firm of theirs — Incorporated Playhouses, or whatever they call it. Any idea, sir?”

“When Mason went out they all began talking about it. One of them — Ackroyd, I think — remarked that Mr. Mason would be a very wealthy man.”

“Did he, though? Well — there’s motive, sir.”

“Oh, rather. Money. The first motive, I always say,” agreed Alleyn.

“He’s just gone — Mason, I mean. I asked him about this Incorporated Playhouses. He said, quite frank, that he’d be the whole works now Meyer was out of it. ’Course, he
would
be frank about that. We’d find out, anyway. He made no trouble about our looking at the books, either, though I must say he didn’t seem too pleased when I sat down here and started going through the drawers.”

“That was Mr. Meyer’s desk, wasn’t it?” asked Alleyn.

“Yes, that’s right. I said: ‘This was deceased’s private property, like, I suppose?’ and he just nodded, and I must say he did look a bit sick. Kind of annoyed, too, as if he might go crook at me, any moment.”

“What, oh what,” wondered Alleyn, “
is
the fine shade of meaning attached to this word ‘crook’?” Aloud he asked:

“Have you been through the desk?”

“Not yet, sir. There’s a whale of a lot of stuff. All very neat and business-like, though. He actually carted round the desk itself. Can you beat that? Couldn’t do without it, Mason said. It’s not much of an affair, either. Seems deceased had it for years and reckoned it brought him luck. Very superstitious gang, theatricals. It’s a rickety old show, too.”

Wade reached down to a lower drawer and pulled at the knob.

“A real old-timer,” he said and gave it a vigorous jerk. The drawer shot out suddenly. He looked down.

“Hul-lo!” said Wade. “What’s this! What’s this!”

“It looks rather like a will,” said Alleyn.

“By cripes, that’s just what it is,” said Wade with the liveliest satisfaction.

He opened out his find and laid it on the desk. “Quite short, too, it seems to be. Look here, sir.”

Alleyn read over his shoulder. Cass, with heavy nonchalance, moved a step or two nearer. A long silence followed, broken occasionally by a stertorous whispering noise made by Inspector Wade when he came upon a passage of involved legal phraseology. At last Alleyn straightened his long back and Wade brought his palm down with a slap on the open will.

“Money!” he said. “We’ve got it here all right. Yee-ers. Notice the date? Two years ago. And three months. Seems Mr. Mason is a principal legatee. Can you beat that? Meyer fixes the wife up with a whacking big lump sum and leaves the rest to his partner in — how does it go? — ‘in recognition of his lifelong devotion to the firm of Incorporated Playhouses and in memory of a friendship that only death can sever.’ ”

“Pleasantly Victorian,” remarked Alleyn, “and rather charming.”

“Well, they certainly hit the right note when they said Mason’d be a rich man,” said Wade.

“They did, didn’t they?”

“Sixty thousand to the wife — and look at the residue. Forty thousand. Forty thousand and his share in the business, all to Mason. By gosh! Well, I’d better get on with the job, I suppose. I think we’ll see this young Broadhead next. Looks to me as if there might be something in that, though it’s too early to speculate. I reckon you’d say it’s always too early to do that, wouldn’t you, sir?”

“I say so, Mr. Wade, but I do it just the same.”

Wade gave his great shout of laughter.

“It’s human nature,” he said. “Wondering! People spend half their time wondering about each other. That’s what sells this detective fiction, I reckon.”

“I think you’re right,” said Alleyn. “It’s what made policemen out of both of us, I wouldn’t mind betting. Are you keen on your job, Wade?”

“Well now, that’s a bit of a poser, that is.” And Wade stared solemnly at Alleyn. “Yes. Taking it all round, I’d say I was. Not but what it doesn’t give you a pain in the neck sometimes. Making the usual inquiries. Following up information received. And the first two or three years are enough to break your heart, they’re that slow. Police-constable duty, I mean. Of course, you didn’t have any of that, sir.”

“Did I not?” asked Alleyn grimly.

“Why, I reckoned you’d be kind of—” He hesitated. “You came at it from college, didn’t you, sir? I mean you were kind of—”

“I went into the force before the days of Lord Trenchard’s scheme. I came down from Oxford, and after three years soldiering, and a brief sojourn in the Foreign Office, signed on in the usual way and went on night duty in Poplar.”

“Is that so? Is that so?” Wade stared at Alleyn’s fastidiously ironical face and looked as if he was trying to picture it beneath a helmet.

“How about Mr. Broadhead?” asked Alleyn.

“That’s right. Get him, Cass.”

“Hadn’t I better disappear?” suggested Alleyn when Cass had gone. “It’ll look a little odd if I don’t.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, sir. Now, you say you don’t want this crowd to know you’re what you are. Well now, if you feel that way it’s up to us to respect your wishes. It’s just for you to say. And I’m very, very glad to have had your report on what you’ve heard. Still, it seems to me that with four of these theatricals knowing you’re a Chief Inspector from the Yard, it’s not going to be a secret for long.”

“You’re perfectly right,” groaned Alleyn.

“Well now, sir, what if I was to tell them who you are? Mind, if you want to keep out of it, you’ve only to say so and we’ll respect your wishes, but if you’re interested, we’d be only too pleased. I had a chat just now over the phone with the super, and I told him you were helping us anonymously, and he said he’d call on you in the morning, as maybe you’d be wanting to get home to bed shortly. He said we were to show, you every courtesy, sir, and I’m sure we want to, but if you feel like sitting in official-like, well—”

And here Inspector Wade, having wound himself up into a sort of struggling verbal cocoon, gave up the unequal contest and stared rather helplessly at Alleyn.

“My dear fellow,” said Alleyn quickly, “of course I’ll sit in if you’d like me to. It’s extraordinarily nice of you to ask me. Tell them I’m a busy, by all means, if you think it’ll serve any useful purpose. There comes your Broadhead now.”

Courtney Broadhead was ushered in by Cass. His face looked white and drawn in the harsh light shed by the office lamp. He stopped short just inside the door, stared unhappily at Wade, and then saw Alleyn.

“Hullo, Mr. Alleyn,” he said. “You still up?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “This is Inspector Wade — Mr. Courtney Broadhead.”

“Good evening, Mr. Broadhead,” said Wade, with a kind of official heartiness. “I’d just like a word with you, if you don’t mind. You may be able to help us with one or two points.”

“Oh,” said Broadhead, still staring at Alleyn.

Wade glanced at the notes before him on Alfred Meyer’s old desk.

“Now, Mr. Broadhead, there are a few details I’d like to have from you about your journey down from Auckland in the Limited on Friday night.”

“Oh,” said Broadhead again. His mouth shaped itself into a curious half-smile and still he looked at Alleyn.

“I understand,” continued Wade, “that up to a few minutes before the train reached Ohakune you were in the reserved carriage with the rest of the company. That is correct?”

“I think so. I really don’t remember. You were in our carriage that night, weren’t you, Mr. Alleyn?”

“I was, yes,” said Alleyn.

Broadhead laughed unpleasantly.

“Perhaps you remember where I was before the train got to wherever-it-was.”

“I think I do.”

“Did you go out on the platform before the train reached Ohakune, Mr. Broadhead?” asked Wade with rather unconvincing airiness.

“Believe I did. Ask Mr. Alleyn.”

Wade looked blandly at Alleyn.

“I believe he did,” said Alleyn.

“At what time,” pursued Wade.

“Ask Mr. Alleyn.”

“About two-thirty-five,” said Alleyn cheerfully.

“Wonderful memory, you’ve got,” remarked Broadhead. “Do they pay you for this?”

“Now, Mr. Broadhead,” said Wade. “Was Mr. Meyer on the opposite platform to the one on which you stood? The sleeper-platform?”

“Doesn’t Mr. Alleyn know that too?” asked Broadhead.

“Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn,” said Wade with a certain amount of relish, “has been kind enough to make his own statement.”

Courtney Broadhead looked bewildered, then flabbergasted and then, strangely enough, relieved. Unexpectedly he burst out laughing.

“Oh, no!” he said. “Not really. A genuine sleuth and in at the death! I got you wrong. I thought you were being the helpful little amateur. Sorry.” He examined Alleyn with interest. “Good Lord, you’re the man with the marvellous press. The
Daily Sun
ran you in the Gardener case, didn’t it?”

“Spare me,” said Alleyn.

“ ‘The Handsome Sleuth or the Man Who Never Gives Up.’ I thought your name was spelt—”

“It is,” said Alleyn. “The passenger list got it wrong.”

Broadhead was silent. He seemed to be turning over this new piece of information in his mind. Something of his former manner appeared when he spoke again.

“Are you interested professionally in this — this case?”

“We hope that the chief inspector,” said Wade, “will very kindly give us the benefit of his advice.”

“Do you!” said Broadhead.

“Now about Mr. Meyer on the sleeper-platform,” said Wade briskly. “Was he there?”

“No. Not while I was outside.”

“You’re sure about that?”

Cass glanced up from his notebook. Wade leant forward. Alleyn, who had an unlit cigarette between his lips, paused in the act of striking a match.

“Absolutely,” said Broadhead firmly.

Alleyn lit his cigarette.

“Yee-ers,” said Wade thoughtfully. He turned to Alleyn. “I don’t know if you’d care to put a question, sir?”

“Oh, thanks,” said Alleyn. “Do you know I would, rather. Mr. Broadhead, did you fall asleep in the carriage before we got to Ohakune?”

Broadhead stared.

“Yes. At least I dozed. Had a nightmare.”

“Any idea how long you were asleep?”

“No. Ten minutes perhaps. I don’t know.”

“I was sound asleep myself. I remember noticing, just before I dozed off, that you and Mr. Hambledon seemed to be the only other persons awake in the carriage.”

“I watched you fall asleep,” volunteered Broadhead. “I remember that. You just shut your eyes and went still. The others all had their mouths open. I wondered if you were foxing.”

“Why?” asked Alleyn sharply.

“I don’t know. I thought you might be bored with the great H.H.”

“With Hambledon? No. Did he go to sleep?”

“I don’t think so. Wait a moment. The last thing I remember before I shut my own eyes was — was looking along the carriage towards the door. I thought they all looked half dead, swaying in their seats with their mouths open. I saw Hailey pick up a paper and hold it sideways to catch the light. His back was towards me, you know. I could see his arm and half the back of his head. That’s the last thing I remember before I fell asleep.”

“And when you woke?”

“Nobody seemed to have moved. It was all rather unreal and smoky and noisy. Then you woke up and began to speak to Hambledon.”

“No one had moved,” murmured Alleyn to himself.

“At least—” Broadhead stopped short.

“Yes?”

“I’ve got a sort of hazy idea someone went down the corridor, past my chair. You know how one gets the impression of things when one dozes in a train. I might have dreamt it. No — I don’t think I did. Someone went past. I think it half-woke me.”

“Do you mean that this person walked back from the direction of the platform at the head of the carriage, or towards it from the rear of the carriage?”

“Back. He was facing me. Probably been to the lav. at the rear of the sleeper.”

“He?”

“Yes. I think so. He must have sat down in one of the seats behind me.”

“He may have gone right through.”

“No. I remember waiting for the door to slam. It didn’t. I went to sleep again.”

“Thank you,” said Alleyn. “I’ve no other questions, Inspector Wade.”

“Good-oh, sir.” Wade turned to Broadhead. “What did you do with Mrs. Meyer’s tiki?” he asked.

“What? Nothing. I never had it. Look here, what is all this about that damned little monster? You started it in the wardrobe-room, Mr. Alleyn. What’s the dazzling idea?”

“We simply want to trace the tiki, Mr. Broadhead,” said Wade. “Mrs. Meyer has lost it.”

“She’s also lost a husband,” said Broadhead tartly. “I thought you were looking for a murderer, not a thief.”

“That’s certainly—”

“What’s more, I don’t believe she cares tuppence whether the tiki’s lost or found. What the hell are you driving at? Am I supposed to have pinched the filthy little object? I’ve had about as much as I can stand. You think I stole Val Gaynes’s money, don’t you? You think it’s all a lie about Meyer lending me the cash. You think I’m a thief and a murderer—” His voice rose hysterically. Cass looked perturbed and moved a step or two nearer to Broadhead. Wade stood up hastily.

“Keep off,” shouted Broadhead; “you can’t arrest me — you can’t—”

“My good ass,” advised Alleyn, “don’t put ideas in our heads and don’t dramatise yourself. As you have suggested, this is a serious matter. Nobody’s trying to arrest you. Inspector Wade has asked you a perfectly reasonable question. Why not answer it?”

“There now, Mr. Broadhead,” said Wade, “that’s the. way to look at it.”

“I suppose,” said Broadhead more quietly, “you’ve heard all about the scene in the wardrobe-room. I suppose your distinguished colleague has told you what that little stinker Palmer said about me.”

“
And
all about your subsequent attempt upon the stinker,” murmured Alleyn. “Yes.”

“Don’t you think it was a pretty foul thing to sit there as if you were one of us, playing the spy, all agog to report to the police? Don’t you? Don’t you think it would have been the decent thing to say — to say—”

“To say,” suggested Alleyn helpfully: “ ‘I’m a detective, so if one of you killed this very honest little gentleman whom you all profess to admire so much, don’t do anything to give yourself away.’ No, Mr. Broadhead.”

“My God, I was as fond of him as any of them. He was a damn’ good friend to me.”

“Then,” said Alleyn, “see if you can help Inspector Wade to trace the little greenstone tiki.”

“Oh, hell!” said Broadhead. “All right! All right! Though what the suffering cats it’s got to do with the case — All right. Go ahead.”

“Well, now,” said Wade. “I understand you all took a look at this tiki before you sat down to supper. Did you handle it, Mr. Broadhead?”

“Yes. I had it in my hand for a moment. Someone took it from me.”

“Who?”

“I think it was Frankie Liversidge. I’m not sure. It was passed round.”

“Yes. Now, Mr. Broadhead, I want you to go back to the end of the performance, last night. Were you acting right up to the finish?”

“Acting!” said Broadhead distastefully. “No, I wasn’t ‘acting.’ I finished just before Miss Dacres’s big scene.”

“What did you do then?”

“Stood in the wings for the company call at the curtain.”

“Then you
were
acting, as you might say,” insisted Wade crossly.

“If you call hanging about off-stage—”

“Let it go. After the play was over, what did you do?”

“Bolted to the dressing-room and took off my make-up.”

“Anyone with you?”

“Yes. Vernon and Frankie Liversidge.”

“All the time?”

“Vernon and I went back together. Frankie came in a minute or two later, I think. And Ackroyd joined us before we went along to the party.”

“All right. Now after the accident I understand that at the suggestion of Dr. Te Pokiha and the chief inspector here, you all went to your dressing-rooms and later to the wardrobe-room. Did you go directly to the wardrobe-room, Mr. Broadhead?”