Enter A Murderer

“I,” said Alleyn, “am putting on a show at the Unicorn.”

“What the devil do you mean?”

“The company is under notice to report at various police stations every day. They have all been asked to report at the Unicorn at eleven to-morrow. I intend to hold a reconstruction of the murder.”

“As you did in the Frantock case?”

“The conditions are very different. In this instance I am simply using the characters to prove my theory. In the Arthur Wilde case I forced his confession. This, unless these unspeakable mummers insist on dramatising themselves, will be less theatrical.”

“I shall be there, however.”

“I don’t want you there.”

“Why ever not?”

“It’s a very unpleasant business. I loathe homicide cases and the result of this investigation will be perfectly beastly.”

“If I could stand the Frantock case, when my own cousin was murdered, I can stand this.”

“You’d much better keep away.”

“I do think you’re bloody,” said Nigel fretfully.

Fox came in.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn. “Everything fixed up?”

“Yes. Saint’s tucked up in bed and the specialist’s been sent for.”

“I’ve just been telling Mr. Bathgate,” said Alleyn, “that I don’t want him at the theatre to-morrow, and he’s got the huff in consequence.”

“Inspector Alleyn’s quite right, sir,” said Fox. “You’d better keep clear of this business. After what you overheard this morning.”

“Do you suppose Miss Vaughan is going to ram an arsenic chocolate down my maw?”

The two detectives exchanged a look.

“Oh, well, I’m off,” said Nigel angrily.

“Good evening,” said Alleyn cheerfully.

Nigel allowed himself the doubtful luxury of slamming the door.

Once out in the street he began to feel rather foolish, and angrier than ever with Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn for causing this uncomfortable sensation. It was now seven o’clock and Nigel was hungry. He walked rapidly to Regent Street and went into the downstairs restaurant at the Hungaria, where he had a morose and extravagant di

“Damn it,” he said to Lower Regent Street. “I’m going there to-morrow whether he likes it or not.”

He took a taxi to his flat in Chester Terrace.

Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn also dined alone, at a restaurant near the Yard. He returned to his room soon after eight, opened the file of the Unicorn case and went over it very carefully with Inspector Fox. They were two hours at this business. Naseby came in and reported. He had seen Props and had brought off his conversation nicely. Props had seemed very much upset and when last seen was walking in the direction of the King’s Road. Naseby had seen him go into a telephone-box and had then left him to Detective Thompson, who preferred to carry on without being relieved.

Alleyn and Fox returned to the file. Bit by bit they strung together the events of the last three days, and Alleyn talked and Fox listened. At one stage he cast himself back in his chair and stared for fully ten seconds at his superior.

“Do you agree?” asked Alleyn.

“Oh, yes,” said Fox heavily, “I agree.”

He thought for a moment and then he said:

“I’ve been thinking that in difficult homicide cases you either get no motive or too many motives. In this instance there are too many. Jacob Saint had been blackmailed by the deceased; Stephanie Vaughan was pestered and threatened. Trixie Beadle was probably ruined by him; Props was what lawyers called ‘deeply wronged.’ So was the girl’s father. That Emerald woman gets Saint’s money by it. Well, I don’t mind owning I’ve had my eye on all of ’em in turn. There you are.”

“I know,” said Alleyn, “I’ve been through the same process myself. Now look here, Fox. It seems to me there are one or two key pieces in this puzzle. One is the, to me, inexplicable fact that Surbonadier kept that sheet of paper with the experimental signatures: Edward Wakeford, Edward Wakeford, Edward Wakeford. I say inexplicable, in the light of any theory that has been advanced. Another is the evidence of the prints on the typewriter. A third is the behaviour of Stephanie Vaughan last night in Surbonadier’s flat. Why did she pretend one of her letters was missing and get me hunting for it? I may tell you I left a folded piece of plain paper in the iron-bound box. While I was out of the room she took that paper. Why? Because she thought it was the document she was after.”

“The Mortlake letter or the signatures?”

“Not the Mortlake letter. Why should she risk all that to save Saint?”

“The signatures then?”

“I think so. Now put that together with the fragment of conversation Mr. Bathgate overheard this morning, and what do you get?”

“The fragment of conversation,” said Fox slowly.

“Exactly.”

“I believe you’re right, sir. But have you got enough to put before a jury?”

“I’ve got a man down at Cambridge now, ferreting about in past history. If he fails I’m still going for it. The reconstruction to-morrow morning will help.”

“But he won’t be there — Saint, I mean.”

“You are going to climb Jacob’s ladder for me tomorrow, my Foxkin.”

The telephone rang. Alleyn answered it.

“Hullo. Yes. Where? But what about our men at the doors? Simon’s Alley. I see. Well, get back to it and if he comes out detain him. I’ll be there. No, don’t go in alone. How long have you left the place? I see. Get back there quickly.”

Alleyn clapped the receiver down.

“Fox,” he said, “we’re going to the Unicorn.”

“Now?”

“Yes, and damn’ quick. I’ll tell you on the way.”

CHAPTER XX

Exit Props

“After Naseby left the King’s Road,” said Alleyn, when they were in the car, “Thompson watched Props in the telephone-box. He put two calls through. As soon as he had gone Thompson went in and asked for the numbers. The operator had lost them. Thompson darted out and managed to pick Props up again. He spent the time wandering about the streets, but always drawing nearer this part of the world. Just before Thompson rang up, Props had led him into the jumble of streets round the back of the Unicorn. He kept him in sight until he turned up a cul-de-sac called Simon’s Alley. Thompson followed and came to a gate leading into a yard. He looked round and decided that he was somewhere at the back of the theatre. He climbed the gate and found an open window that he believes gives into some part of the Unicorn. It was pitch-dark inside. Thompson was in a quandary. He decided to call me. First of all he managed to find one of our men and told him what he’d seen. That took some time. The man hailed a constable and left him in his place while he himself came round to the gate. That took longer. Thompson, whom Allah preserve, for I won’t, prowled round on a Cooks’ tour in search of a telephone and finally rang me up. Lord knows how long the gate was left unguarded. Quite five minutes, I should say, if not longer.”

“Well, sir, whatever Props was up to it would probably take longer than that.”

“Yes. Of course it was difficult for Thompson. He didn’t want to start blowing his whistle and the gaff at the same time. Now here’s where we get out and grope for Simon’s Alley. I’ll just see the others first.”

They left the car and went back a little way to where a second police car was drawn up. Alleyn gave instructions to the six constables who were in it. They were to split up singly, go to the several doors of the theatre, and enter it, leaving the men already on guard in their places.

“I don’t know what we’ll find,” said Alleyn, “but I expect it’ll be in the stage half of the theatre. You four come quietly through the stalls, from the several doors, and wait by the orchestra well. Don’t use your torches unless you’ve got to. You come in at the back entrance, and at the stage door. Don’t make a move until you get the word from Inspector Fox or myself. If you meet anything, grab it. Right?”