Night at the Vulcan (24 page)

“On the other hand, it’s possible that he was drugged.”

He waited for a moment. Helena Hamilton said: “I don’t believe in all this. I don’t mean, Mr. Alleyn, that I think you’re wrong: I mean it just sounds unreal and rather commonplace like a case reported in a newspaper. One knows that probably it’s all happened but one doesn’t actively believe it. I’m sorry. I interrupted.”

“I hope,” Alleyn said, “you will all feel perfectly free to interrupt at any point. About this possibility of drugging. If the brandy was drugged, then of course we shall find out. Moreover, it must have been tinkered with after he went on for his final scene. Indeed, any use of a drug, and one cannot disregard the possibility of even the most fantastic methods, must surely have been prepared while he was on the stage during the last act. We shall, of course, have a chemical analysis made of everything he used — the brandy, his tumbler, his cigarettes, his make-ups and even the greasepaint on his face. I tell you, quite frankly, that I’ve no idea at all whether this will get us any further.”

Fox cleared his throat. This modest sound drew the attention of the company upon him but he merely looked gravely preoccupied and they turned back to Alleyn.

“Following out this line of thought, it seems clear,” he said, “that two visits would have to be made to the dressing-room. The first, during his scene in the last act, and the second, after he had come off and before the smell of gas was first noticed — by Mr. Parry Percival.”

Percival said in a high voice: “I knew this was coming.” Gay Gainsford turned and looked at him with an expression of the liveliest horror. He caught her eye and said: “Oh, don’t be fantastic, Gay darling.
Honestly
!

“Mr. Percival,” Alleyn said, “whose room is next to Mr. Bennington’s and whose fire backs on his, noticed a smell of gas when he was about to go out for the curtain-call. He tells us he is particularly sensitive to the smell because of its associations in this theatre and that he turned his own fire off and went out. Thus his fingerprints were found on the tap.”

“Well, naturally they were,” Parry said angrily. “Really, Gay!”

“This, of course,” Alleyn went on, “was reminiscent of the Jupiter case, but in that case the tube was not disconnected because the murderer never entered the room. He blew down the next-door tube and the fire went out. In that instance the victim was comatose from alcohol. Now, it seems quite clear to us that while this thing was planned with one eye on the Jupiter case, there was no intention to throw the blame upon anyone else and that Mr. Percival’s reaction to the smell was not foreseen by the planner. What the planner hoped to emphasize was Mr, Bennington’s absorption in the former case. We were to suppose that when he decided to take his own life he used the method by which he was obsessed. Suppose this to have been so. Wouldn’t we, remembering the former case, suspect that it was not suicide at all and look for what my colleague likes to call funny business? On the other hand…” Alleyn paused. Percival, who was obviously lost in his sense of release, and Gay Gainsford, who equally obviously was in a high state of confusion, both seemed to pull themselves together.

“On the other hand,” Alleyn repeated, “suppose this hypothetical planner was none other than Bennington himself?”

Their response to this statement had a delayed action. They behaved as actors do when they make what is technically known as a “double take.” There were a few seconds of blank witlessness followed by a sudden and violent reaction, Darcey and Percival shouted together that it would be exactly like Ben, Helena cried out inarticulately and Poole gave a violent ejaculation. The Doctor crackled his newspaper and Martyn’s thoughts tumbled about in her head like dice. Jacko alone stared incredulously at Alleyn.

“Do you mean,” Jacko asked, “that we are to understand that Ben killed himself in such a way as to throw suspicion of murder upon one of us? Is that your meaning?”

“No. For a time we wondered if this might be so, but the state of the dressing-room, as I’d hoped I’d made clear, flatly contradicts any such theory. No. I believe the planner based the method on Bennington’s preoccupation with the other case and hoped we would be led to some such conclusion. If powder had not been spilt on the overcoat we might well have done so.”

“So we are still — in the dark,” Helena said, and gave the commonplace phrase a most sombre colour.

“Not altogether. I needn’t go over the collection of near-motives that have cropped up in the course of our interviews. Some of them sound far-fetched, others at least possible. It’s not generally recognized that, given a certain temperament, the motive for homicide can be astonishingly unconvincing. Men have been killed from petty covetousness, out of fright, vanity, jealousy, boredom or sheer hatred. One or other of these motives lies at the back of this case. You all, I think, had cause to dislike this man. In one of you the cause was wedded to that particular kink which distinguishes murderers from the rest of mankind. With such beings there is usually some, shall I say, explosive agency — a sort of fuse — which, if it is touched off, sets them going as murder-machines. In this case I believe the fuse to have been a letter written by Otto Brod to Clark Bennington. This letter has disappeared and was probably burnt in his dressing-room. As the powder-pad may have been burnt By his murderer.”

Poole said: “I can’t begin to see the sense of all this,” and Helena said drearily: “Dark. In the dark.”

Alleyn seemed to be lost in thought. Martyn, alone of all the company, looked at him. She thought she had never seen a face as withdrawn and — incongruously the word flashed up again — compassionate. She wondered if he had come to some crucial point and she watched anxiously for the sign of a decision. But at this moment she felt Poole’s eyes upon her, and when she looked at him they exchanged the delighted smiles of lovers. “How
can
we,” she thought, and tried to feel guilty. But she hadn’t heard Alleyn speak and he was half-way through his first sentence before she gave him her attention.

“—so far about opportunity,” he was saying. “If there were two visits to the dressing-room during the last act I think probably all of you except Miss Hamilton could have made the earlier one. But for the second visit there is a more restricted field. Shall I take you in the order in which you are sitting? Miss Tarne, in that case, comes first.”

Martyn thought: “I ought to feel frightened again.”

“Miss Tarne has told us that after she left the stage, and she was the first to leave it, she stood at the entry to the dressing-room passage. She was in a rather bemused state of mind and doesn’t remember much about it until Mr. Percival, Mr. Darcey and Mr. Bennington himself came past. All three spoke to her in turn and went on down the passage. It is now that the crucial period begins. Mr. Doré was near by, and after directing the gun-shot took her to her dressing-room. On the way he looked in for a few seconds on Mr. Bennington, who had just gone to his own room. After Miss Tarne and Mr. Doré had both heard Mr. Darcey and Mr. Perdval return to the stage, they followed them out. They give each other near-alibis up to this point and the stagehands extend Miss Tarne’s alibi to beyond the crucial time. She is, I think, out of the picture.”

Gay Gainsford stared at Martyn. “That,” she said, “must be quite a change for you.”

“Miss Gainsford comes next,” Alleyn said as if he had not heard her. “She was in the Greenroom throughout the crucial period and tells us she was asleep. There is no witness to this.”

“George!” said Gay Gainsford wildly and turned to Darcey, thus revealing for the first time his Christian name. “It’s all right, dear,” he said. “Don’t be frightened. It’s all right.”

“Mr. Darcey and Mr. Percival are also in the list of persons without alibis. They left the stage and returned to it, together, or nearly so. But they went of course to separate rooms. Mr. Percival is the only one who noticed the smell of gas. Dr. Rutherford,” Alleyn went on, moving slightly in order to see the Doctor, “could certainly have visited the room during this period, as at any other stage of the performance. He could have come down from his box, passed unobserved round the back of the scenery, taken cover and gone in after these four persons were in their own rooms.”

He waited politely, but the Doctor’s newspaper rose and fell rhythmically. Alleyn raised his voice slightly. “He could have returned to his O.P. stairs when the rest of you were collected on the Prompt side and he could have made an official entry in the character of Author.” He waited for a moment. The others looked in a scandalized manner at the recumbent Doctor but said nothing.

“Mr. Poole has himself pointed out that he could have darted to the room during his brief period offstage. He could not, in my opinion, have effected all that had to be done, and if he had missed his re-entry he would have drawn immediate attention to himself.

“Mr. Doré is in a somewhat different category from the rest,” Alleyn continued. “We know he came away from her dressing-room with Miss Tarne, but although he was seen with the others on the Prompt side, he was at the back of the group and in the shadows. Everyone’s attention at this period was riveted on the stage. The call-boy checked over the players for the curtain-call and noticed Mr. Bennington had not yet appeared. Neither he nor anyone else had reason to check Mr. Doré‘s movements.”

Jacko said: “I remind you that Parry said he smelt gas while I was still with Miss Tarne in her room.”

“I have remembered,” Alleyn answered, “what Mr. Percival said.” He looked at Helena Hamilton. “And while all this was happening,” he concluded, “Miss Hamilton was on the stage holding the attention of a great cloud of witnesses in what I think must have been a most remarkable play.” There was a long silence.

“That’s all I have to say.” Alleyn’s voice changed its colour a little. “I’m going to ask you to return to your rooms. You’ll want to do so in any case to collect your coats and so on. If you would like to talk things over among yourselves you are quite free to do so. We shall be in the Greenroom. If each of you will come in and leave us an address and telephone number I’ll be grateful.” He looked round them for a moment. Perhaps deliberately he repeated the stage-manager’s customary dismissal: “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That will be all.”

Alleyn stood in front of Adam Poole’s portrait and looked at his little group of fellow-policemen.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve done it.”

“Very unusual,” said Fox.

Bailey and Thompson stared at the floor.

Gibson blew out a long breath and wiped his forehead.

P. C. Lamprey looked as if he would like to speak but knew his place too well. Alleyn caught his eye. “That, Mike,” he said, “was an almost flawless example of how an investigating officer is not meant to behave. You will be good enough to forget it.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“What do you reckon, Mr. Alleyn?” Fox asked. “A confession? Brazen it out? Attempt to escape? Or what?”

“There’ll be no escape, Mr. Fox,” Gibson said. “We’ve got the place plastered outside. No cars without supervision within a quarter of a mile and a full description.”

“I said ‘attempt,’ Fred,” Mr. Fox pointed out majestically.

“If I’ve bungled,” Alleyn muttered, “I’ve at least bungled in a big way. A monumental mess.”

They looked uneasily at him. Bailey astonished everybody by saying to his boots, with all his customary moroseness: “That’ll be the day.”

“Don’t talk Australian,” Mr. Fox chided immediately, but he looked upon Bailey with approval.

A door in the passage opened and shut.

“Here we go,” said Alleyn.

A moment later there was a tap at the Greenroom door and Parry Percival came in. He wore a dark overcoat, a brilliant scarf, yellow gloves and a green hat.

“If I’m still under suspicion,” he said, “I’d like to know but I suppose no one will tell me.”

Fox said heartily: “I shouldn’t worry about that if I were you, sir. If you’d just give me your address and ’phone number. Purely as a reference.”

Parry gave them and Lamprey wrote them down.

“Thank you, Mr. Percival,” Alleyn said. “Good night.” Parry walked to the door. “They all seem to be going home in twos except me,” he said. “Which is rather dreary, I hope no one gets coshed for his pains. Considering one of them seems to be a murderer it’s not too fantastic a notion, though I suppose you know your own business. Oh well. Good night.”

Evidently he collided with Gay Gainsford in the passage. They heard her ejaculation and his fretful apology. She came in followed by Darcey.

“I couldn’t face this alone,” she said and looked genuinely frightened. “So George brought me.”

“Perfectly in order, Miss Gainsford,” Fox assured her.

Darcey, whose face was drawn and white, stood near the door. She looked appealingly at him and he came forward and gave their addresses and telephone numbers. His voice sounded old. “I should like to see this lady home,” he said and was at once given leave to do so. Alleyn opened the door for them and they went out, arm in arm.

Poole came next. He gave a quick look round the room and addressed, himself to Alleyn. “I don’t understand all this,” he said, “but if any member of my company is to be arrested, I’d rather stay here. I’d like to see Martyn Tarne home — she lives only a few minutes away — but if it’s all right with you, I’ll come back.” He hesitated and then said quickly: ”I’ve spoken to Jacques Doré.”

Alleyn waited for a moment “Yes,” he said at last, “I’d be glad if you’d come back.”

“Will you see Helena now? She’s had about all she can take.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ll get her,” Poole said and crossed the passage. They heard him call: “Helena?” and in a moment he reopened the door for her.

She had put a velvet beret on her head and had pulled the fullness forward so that her eyes were shadowed. Her mouth drooped with fatigue but it had been carefully painted. Fox took her address and number.

“Is the car here?” she asked, and Fox said: “Yes, madam, in the yard. The constable will show you out.”

“I’ll take you, Helena,” Poole said. “Or would you rather be alone?”

She turned to Alleyn. “I thought,” she said, “that if I’m allowed, I’d rather like to take Jacko. If he’s still about. Would you mind telling him? I’ll wait in the car.”

“There’s no one,” Alleyn asked, “that you’d like us to send for? Or ring up?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I’d just rather like to have old Jacko.”

She gave him her hand. “I believe,” she said, “that when I can think at all sensibly about all this, I’ll know you’ve been kind and considerate.”

Poole went out with her and Lamprey followed them.

A moment later, Martyn came in.

As she stood at the table and watched Fox write out her address she felt how little she believed in herself here, in this quietly fantastic setting. Fox and his two silent and soberly dressed associates were so incredibly what she had always pictured plain-clothes detectives to be, and Alleyn, on the contrary, so completely unlike. She was much occupied with this notion and almost forgot to give him her message.

“Jacko,” she said, “asked me to say his address is the same as mine. I have a room in the house where he lodges.” She felt there might be some ambiguity in this statement and was about to amend it when Alleyn asked: “Has Mr. Doré gone?”

“I think he’s waiting for Miss Hamilton in her car.”

“I see,” Alleyn said. “And I believe Mr. Poole is waiting for you. Good-bye, Miss Tarne, and good luck.”

Her face broke into a smile. “Thank you
very
much,” said Martyn.

Poole’s voice called in the passage: “Where are you, Kate?”

She said good night and went out.

Their steps died away down the passage and across the stage. A door slammed and the theatre was silent.

“Come on,” said Alleyn.

He led the way round the back of Jacko’s set to the Prompt corner.

Only the off-stage working-lights were alive. The stage itself was almost as shadowy as it was when Martyn first set foot on it. A dust-begrimed lamp above the letter-rack cast a yellow light over its surface.

In the centre, conspicuous in its fresh whiteness, was an envelope that had not been there before.

It was addressed in a spidery hand to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.

He took it from the rack. “So he did it this way,” he said, and without another word led them onto the stage.

Jacko’s twisted stairway rose out of the shadows like a crazy ejaculation. At its base, untenanted chairs faced each other in silent communion. The sofa was in the darkest place of all.

Young Lamprey began to climb the iron steps to the switch-board. The rest used their flash-lamps. Five pencils of light interlaced, hovered and met at their tips on a crumpled newspaper. They advanced upon the sofa as if it housed an enemy, but when Alleyn lifted the newspaper and the five lights enlarged themselves on Dr. Rutherford’s face, it was clearly to be seen that he was dead.

The little group of men stood together in the now fully lit stage while Alleyn read the letter. It was written on official theatre paper and headed: “The Office. 1:45 A.M.”

Alleyn folded the letter and gave it to Fox. He walked back to the sofa and stood looking down at its burden for some time.

“Well, Fox,” he said at last, “he diddled us in the end, didn’t he?”

“Did he, Mr. Alleyn?” asked Fox woodenly.

Bailey and Thompson moved tactfully off-stage. Young Lamprey came on with a sheet from one of the dressing-rooms. Fox took it and dismissed him with a jerk of his head. When the sheet was decently bestowed, Alleyn and Fox looked at each other.

“Oh, let us yet be merciful!” Alleyn said, and it is uncertain whether this quotation from the Doctor’s favourite source was intended as an epitaph or an observation upon police procedure.

Poole switched off his engine outside Jacko’s house. Martyn stirred and he said: “Do you want to go in at once? We haven’t said a word to each other. Are you deadly tired?”

“No more than everybody else but — yes. Aren’t you? You must,” she said drowsily, “be so dreadfully puzzled and worried.”

“I suppose so. No. Not really. Not now. But you must sleep, Martyn. Martyn. There, now I’ve used your Christian name again. Do you know that I called you Kate because I felt it wasn’t time yet, for the other? That astonished me. In the theatre we be-darling and be-Christian-name each other at the drop of a hat. But it wouldn’t do with you.”

He looked down at her. She thought: “I really must rouse myself,” but bodily inertia, linked with a sort of purification of the spirit, flooded through her and she was still.

“It isn’t fair,” Poole said, “when your eyelids are so heavy, to ask you if I’ve made a mistake. Perhaps tomorrow you will think you dreamed this, but Martyn, before many more days are out, I shall ask you to marry me. I do love you so very much.”

To Martyn his voice seemed to come from an immensely long way away but it brought her a feeling of great content and refreshment. It was as if her spirit burgeoned and flowered into complete happiness. She tried to express something of this but her voice stumbled over a few disjointed words and she gave it up. She heard him laugh and felt him move away. In a moment he was standing with the door open. He took her keys from her hand.

“Shall I carry you in? I must go back to the theatre.”

The cold night air joined with this reminder of their ordeal to awaken her completely. She got out and waited anxiously beside him while he opened the house door.

“Is it awful to feel so happy?” she asked. “With such a terror waiting? Why must you go to the theatre?” And after a moment “Do you
know
?”

“It’s not awful. The terrors are over. Alleyn said I might return. And I think I do know. There. Good night. Quickly, quickly, my darling heart, good night and good morning.”

He waited until the door shut behind her and then drove back to the theatre.