Enter A Murderer

Alleyn leant over the desk and looked at him as though he were a museum piece.

“If Diogenes had rolled up against you,” he observed, “he’d have got out of his barrel, filled it with booze and made whoopee.”

“I suppose you mean to be nice,” said Nigel in a relieved voice.

“I suppose I do. What happened afterwards?”

“We made perfectly dreadful conversation. I must say she gave a marvellous performance.”

“I believe you.”

“She asked me to go and see her.” Nigel shuddered.

“You’re not to go.”

“Am I likely to?”

“Listen to me. You’re to pay no more visits to these people. Understand?”

“Yes — but what’s biting you?”

“Unless I’m with you. Write your little articles, and mind your little business.”

“This is what I get for doing the beastliest job of my life.”

“My dear Bathgate, I do honestly appreciate your difficulty and am genuinely grateful,” said Inspector Alleyn, with one of his rather charming turns of formality. “But I do ask you to behave as I suggest. I can reward you with a very choice bit of copy.”

“What’s that?”

“You may inform your public that Mr. Jacob Saint has been arrested, but that the nature of the charge is not known.”

CHAPTER XVIII

Arrest

“As a matter of hard fact,” Alleyn continued, when he had noted, with satisfaction, Nigel’s dropped jaw, “Mr. Saint is still at large. I am just off now to do my stuff. Care to come?”

“You bet I would. May I just ring up the office? I’ll catch the stop press for the last edition.”

“Very well. Say no more than what I’ve told you. You’d better warn them to hold it back for another twenty minutes. If he’s not arrested, you can ring up. Aren’t I good to you?”

“Very,” said Nigel fervently. He rang up and was well received. “That’s that,” he said.

“Well, we must hustle along as soon as I get the word from my myrmidon. Don’t let me forget my handcuffs. Dear me, I’m quite excited!”

“Five minutes ago,” observed Nigel, “you looked as though I’d punched you between the eyes. What’s come over you?”

“I’ve taken thought, or rose leaves, or something, and am ‘no longer a Golden Ass’.”

“Are you arresting Saint for the murder?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

A single knock on the door heralded the entrance of Inspector Fox.

“Our man’s just rung up,” he said. “The gentleman is in the office of the Unicorn. ’Evening, Mr. Bathgate.”

“Away we go then,” cried Alleyn.

“Handcuffs,” said Nigel.

“What would I do without you! Handcuffs, Fox?”

“Have got. You’d better put your top coat on, Chief. It’s a cold evening.”

“Here’s the warrant,” murmured Alleyn. He struggled into his overcoat and pulled on his felt hat at a jaunty angle.

“Am I tidy?” he asked. “It looks so bad not to be tidy for an arrest.”

Nigel thought dispassionately, that he looked remarkably handsome, and wondered if the chief inspector had “It”.

“I must ask Angela,” thought Nigel.

Alleyn led the way into the passage. Inspector Fox took the opportunity to say, in a hoarse whisper:

“He’s very worried over this case, Mr. Bathgate. You always know. All this fu

A policeman and two plain clothes men awaited them. “Unicorn Theatre,” said Alleyn.

“There’s a couple of those blasted Pressmen outside,” said Fox as they started. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Bathgate.”

“Oh,” said Alleyn, “we’ll go in at the little street behind the theatre. It co

“Watch me!” said Nigel enthusiastically.

Alleyn gave Fox an account of Nigel’s experience in the Sloane Street flat. Fox stared at Nigel as though he was an adventurous child.

The car threaded its way through a maze of narrow streets. Presently Fox tapped on the window, and they stopped.

“This is the back of the Unicorn,” said Alleyn. “Out you get, Bathgate. Up there, and round to the left, will bring you out in front. I’ll give you a start.”

Nigel was conscious that his heart beat thickly as he ran up the side street. He dropped into a walk as he turned towards the impressive modern front of the theatre, with its bas-relief, in black glass and steel, of a star-spotted unicorn. There, sure enough, were two brother-journalists, both of whom he knew slightly.

“Nosing round?” asked Nigel cheerfully.

“And you?” answered one politely.

“I’ve got a date with the comedie

“What are you up to?” they asked him suspiciously. “You with your pals in the force.”

“Watch me, and see.”

He walked airily down the stage door alley-way, till he came to a side door into the front of the house. A uniformed constable was on duty here. He assumed a patiently reproachful air as Nigel drew near him, but when he read Alleyn’s card he gri

“Straight up those stairs, sir,” he said.

Nigel cocked a snook at his friends and walked in.

The stairs, which were heavily carpeted, ran up to the dress circle foyer. Here Nigel found Alleyn, Fox, and the two plain clothes detectives, talking to a fifth man whom he had not seen before.

“He came along about a quarter of an hour ago,” this man said quietly. “I was up here, but I told the P.C. downstairs to let him in. He looked sideways at me, and asked me when the police were going to clear out and let him have the run of his own property. He said there were letters waiting for him which he must attend to. I made difficulties and held him here. My man downstairs was instructed to ring the Yard as soon as Saint walked into the trap. He’s just gone along now, sir, into the office at the end of that passage.”

“Well done,” said Alleyn. “Come along.”

“You got a gun, sir?” asked Fox.

“No. I knew you’d have one, you old blood-thirster. Bathgate, you follow last, will you?”

They walked in silence down the long passage. Nigel was acutely aware of the odour of officialdom. Suddenly, these men whom he knew and liked had become simply policemen. “They are walking in step, I do believe,” thought Nigel.

They stopped outside a steel-framed door. He could hear somebody moving about on the other side.

Alleyn knocked once, turned the handle, and walked in. The others followed, Fox with his hand in his jacket pocket

Between their shoulders Nigel saw Jacob Saint. He had his bowler hat on, and a cigar in his mouth. He seemed to have swung round from a heap of papers on an opened desk.

“What’s this?” he said.

The other officers moved apart. Alleyn walked up to him.

“Mr. Saint,” he said quietly, “I have a warrant for your arrest—”.

Saint made some sort of incoherent sound. Alleyn paused.

“You’re mad,” said Saint thickly. “I didn’t do it. I wasn’t there. I was in front.”

“Before you go any further, you had better hear the charge.”

Saint dropped into the swivel chair. He looked quickly from one man to another. His hand fumbled at the side of the desk.

“You’re covered, Mr. Saint,” Fox remarked suddenly. With something like a sneer, the proprietor of the Unicorn let his hands drop on to the arms of his chair.

“What’s the charge?” he asked.

“You are charged with being concerned with traffic in illicit drugs. Read it out, please Fox. I get the language wrong.”

Thus urged, Inspector Fox broke instantly into a monotonous sing-song to which Saint listened closely, feasting unattractively the while on his little fingernail.