Enter A Murderer

“Who’s the swine that did him in?”

“At present we don’t know.”

“Was he drunk?”

“Since you ask me — yes.”

Jacob Saint eyed the inspector and suddenly threw his bulk into an arm-chair. Nigel was seized with an idea and began taking notes again.

“I was in front to-night,” said Saint.

“I saw you,” said Alleyn brightly.

“I didn’t know he was dead, but I knew he was drunk. He did it himself.”

“You think so?” Alleyn seemed quite unmoved by this a

“Stavely rang me up at the Savoy. I was behind, earlier in the evening, and saw Arthur. He was tight then. I told him he’d have to get out at the end of the week. Couldn’t face the music and killed himself.”

“It would take extraordinary fortitude to load a revolver, play a part, and wait for another man to shoot you, I should have thought,” remarked Alleyn mildly.

“He was drunk.”

“So we agreed. He had provided himself with live cartridges before he was drunk perhaps.”

“What d’yer mean? Oh. Wouldn’t put it past him. Where’s Janet?”

“Who?”

“Miss Emerald.”

“The artists are all in the wardrobe-room.”

“I’ll go and see her.”

“Please don’t move, Mr. Saint. I’ll let her know. Miss Emerald, please, Fox.”

Inspector Fox went. Saint glared after him, appeared to hesitate and then produced a cigar-case. “Smoke?” he said.

“No, thank you so much,” said Alleyn. “I’m for a pipe.”

Saint lit a cigar.

“Understand this,” he said. “I’m no hypocrite and I don’t spill any sob stuff over Arthur. He was a rotten failure. When one of my shows crashes I forget about it — a dud speculation. So was Arthur. Rotten all through, and a coward, but enough of an actor to see himself in a star part at last — and play it. He was crazy to play a big part, and when I wouldn’t give him ‘Carruthers’ he — he actually threatened me — me!”

“Where did you see him to-night?”

“In his dressing-room. I had business in the office here and went behind.”

“Would you care to tell me what happened?”

“Told you already. He was drunk and I fired him.”

“What did he say?”

“Didn’t wait to listen. I had an appointment in the office for seven-fifteen. Janet!” Saint’s voice changed. He got to his feet. Nigel moved a little and saw that Janet Emerald had appeared in the prompt doorway. She gave a loud cry, rushed across the stage and threw herself into Saint’s arms.

“Jacco! Jacco!” she sobbed.

“Poor baby — poor baby,” Saint murmured, and Nigel marvelled at the kindness in his voice as he soothed the somewhat large and overwhelming Miss Emerald.

“It wasn’t you,” she said suddenly. “They can’t say it was you!” She threw her head back distractedly and her face, cleaned now of its make-up, looked ghastly. Saint had his back to Nigel, but it was sufficiently eloquent of the shock her words had given him. Still holding her, he was frozen into immobility. When he spoke his voice was controlled but no longer tender.

“Poor kid,” he said, in the best theatre-magnate ma

“No, no — I’m mad. It was so awful, Jacco. Jacco, it was so awful.”

“M-m — m-m — m-m,” growled Mr. Saint soothingly.

“Quite,” Alleyn’s voice cut in. “Most unpleasant. I am sure you must be longing to get away from it all, Miss Emerald.”

“I’ll drive you home,” offered Jacob Saint. He and Miss Emerald stood side by side now and Nigel could see how pale they both were.

“An excellent idea.” Alleyn’s voice sounded close to the door. “But first of all may I just put a few questions to Miss Emerald?”

“You may not,” said Saint. “If you want anything you can come and see her to-morrow. Get that?”

“Oh, yes, rather. Full in the teeth. Afraid, however, it makes no difference. There’s a murder charge hovering round waiting for somebody, Mr. Saint, and shall we say a drama is being produced which you do not control and in which you play a part that may or may not be significant? To carry my flight of fancy a bit farther, I may add that the flat-footed old Law is stage manager, producer, and critic. And I, Mr. Saint, in the words of an old box-office success, ‘I, my Lords, embody the law.’ Sit down if you want to and please keep quiet. Now then, Miss Emerald.”

CHAPTER VI

Into the Small Hours

Nigel took down every word of Alleyn’s little speech with the liveliest enthusiasm. At the conclusion he wrote in brackets: “Noise of theatre magnate sitting down.” In a moment he was busy again. Alleyn had concentrated on Miss Janet Emerald.

“Do you mind if I light my pipe, Miss Emerald? Thank you. Oh — cigarette? Those are Turks and those are — but I expect you know that one.”

“No, thank you.”

A match scraped, and Alleyn spoke between sucks at his pipe.

“Well, now. Will you tell me, as far as you know, how the business of loading the revolver was managed?” (“But he knows all that,” thought Nigel impatiently.)

“I–I know nothing about it — I had nothing to do with it,” said Janet Emerald.

“Of course not. But perhaps you noticed who put the blank cartridges in the drawer, and when.”

“I didn’t notice at all — anything about the cartridges.”

“Did you never see them put in the drawer?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Really? You didn’t concern yourself about whether they were there, or say to Mr. Simpson that you were terrified he would forget them?”

“I couldn’t have done so. What makes you think I said anything of the sort? Jacco! I don’t know what I’m saying. Please — please, can’t I go?”

“Don’t move, Mr. Saint, I shall soon be done. Now, Miss Emerald, please answer my questions as best you can and as simply as you can. Believe me, an i

“Jacco!”

“And I suggest that you behave like one. Now, please — did you or did you not notice Mr. Simpson placing the cartridges to-night, and did you, or did you not, remark that you were afraid he’d forget to do so?”

“No, no, no — it’s all a lie.”

“And did you afterwards go and stand with your hands on the desk?”

“Never — I was talking to Arthur — I didn’t notice what George Simpson was doing — he’s telling lies. If that’s what he says, he’s lying.”

“What were you saying to Mr. Surbonadier? It must have been of some interest to absorb all your attention.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Really?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember.”

“Thank you. Fox, ask Miss Susan Max if she’ll be good enough to come here.”

“That mean we can go?” Saint’s voice made Nigel jump — he had forgotten the proprietor of the Unicorn.

“In a minute. The night is young. How impatient you are, to be sure.”

“What sort of a breed are you?” asked Saint suddenly. “Gentleman ’tec, or the comedian of the Yard, or what?”

“My dear Mr. Saint, you make me feel quite shy.”

“Ow yow — yow — yow,” Saint echoed the inspector’s pleasant voice with the exasperated facetiousness of a street urchin. “All Oxford and Cambridge and hot air,” he added savagely.

“Only Oxford, and that’s nothing nowadays,” said Alleyn apologetically. “Oh, here you are, Miss Max.” His voice was cordial, “I can’t tell you how bad I feel about giving you all this trouble.” Miss Max had waddled into Nigel’s line of sight.

“Never you mind,” she said comfortably. “You’re only doing your job, I suppose.”

“Miss Max, if only everyone felt like that a policeman’s lot would be a happier one.”

“I played Ruth in Pirates on the Australian circuit,” said Miss Max, letting herself down into the chair the inspector had pushed forward.