Enter A Murderer

Apparently Alleyn did not hear him. He walked across to the ladder by which Props had descended. He stood there, very still, for a moment. When he spoke his voice sounded oddly.

“I think,” he said, “we will begin with the grid.”

The two men returned from the front of the house. Alleyn walked over to the proscenium door, which was locked. The key hung on a nail beside it. He opened the door. It emitted a loud shriek.

“So much for Bathgate’s theory,” murmured Alleyn.

The men came through.

“Wait here,” said Alleyn. “I’m going into the grid.”

“Not on your own, sir,” chided Fox. “That chap may be sitting there ready to dong you one.”

“I think not. Follow me up if you like.”

He climbed the iron ladder that ran flat up the wall. Slowly the shadow of the ceiling-cloth enfolded him. Fox followed.

The other four men stood with their faces tipped back, watching. Alleyn’s stocking feet disappeared above the ceiling-cloth. The ladder vibrated slightly.

“Wait a moment, Fox.”

Alleyn’s voice sounded eerily above their heads. Fox paused.

Alleyn’s dulled footsteps thumped on the gallery overhead. The cloth quivered and sagged. He had unloosed the ropes that fastened it. Presently, with a sort of swishing sigh, the border fell away and the whole thing collapsed in a cloud of dust on to the tops of the wings.

When the dust had settled, the men who looked upwards saw the soles of a pair of rubber shoes. The shoes turned slowly to the right, stopped, turned slowly to the left. The canvas having been taken away they no longer fretted it with a sibilant whisper, but every time they swung, the rope round Props’s neck creaked on the wooden cleat above.

CHAPTER XXI

This Ineffable Effrontery

Inspector Fox was accustomed to what he termed unpleasantness, but for a moment he nearly lost his grip on the iron ladder.

“Props,” he said slowly. “So Props was the man, after all.”

“Come up here,” said Alleyn.

They stood together on the first gallery. Their faces were on a level with the shoulders of the swinging body. The rope that had hanged him was a slack end of the pulley that had suspended the chandelier. It was made fast to a cleat on the top gallery. Fox leant out and touched the hand.

“He’s still warm.”

“It happened,” said Alleyn, “just before Thompson rang up the Yard.”

He stood with his hands clenched to the rail of the gallery, gazing, as if against his will, at the body.

“I should have prevented this,” he said. “I should have made the arrest this afternoon.”

“I don’t see that,” said Fox in his ponderous way. “How could you have foretold—”

“This ineffable effrontery,” finished Alleyn. “Poor Props.”

“That sort’s very liable to suicide.”

“Suicide?” Alleyn turned to him. “This is not suicide.”

“Not—?”

“It’s murder. Come up to the gallery here.”

They climbed the upper length of ladder. Alleyn paused when his head and shoulders were above the top gallery and switched on his torch.

“Swept!” he said, with a kind of triumph. “Now, my beauty — I’ve got you!”

“What’s that, sir?” asked Fox from below.

“The gallery’s been swept. Do suicides tidy up the ground when they set about it? Thick dust farther along. The typewriter was too tidy and so’s this gallows. There’ll be no prints, but the mark of the criminal is all over it. We can take the body down now, Fox. I’ll stay here a moment. You go back.”

They had to draw the body in to the first gallery and then get it down the ladder — no easy job. At last Props lay on the stage in his accustomed surroundings. In answer to Fox’s whistle the others had come in from the doors. Thompson was white about the gills and couldn’t speak. Alleyn turned to him.

“We’ve had ill luck to-day, Thompson,” he said. “I should have made more sure of him.”

“It’s my fault, sir.”

“No,” said Alleyn; “the poor devil was too quick for you.”

“I still don’t see how it was worked.”

“Suppose I said I’d meet you here. Suppose I’d killed a man and you knew it. I get here first. I go up there to the platform, put a noose in that rope, and make the other end fast. Then I climb down again. You come in, very nervous. You’ve been followed, you say, but you’ve shaken them off. We start to talk. Then I say I can hear someone coming along that passage. ‘By God, they’re after us,’ I say. ‘Come on up this ladder. Quick.’ I go up first, past the lower landing. He follows. I get to the top landing and wait with the noose in my hands. As his head comes up, I drop it over. One fierce tug. He loosens his hands and claws his neck. Then a heavy thrust and — That’s how it worked.”

“My oath!” said Fox.

“Yes, but I’ve left a broom up there because I know my stockinged feet will leave prints in the dust — the thick dust. So while Props is jerking in the air I sweep away the dust. He’s hidden by the ceiling-cloth. He won’t be missed until to-morrow. It’s an old building — some more dust will have fallen then. They may not find him at once, and if they do it looks like suicide. So I take the broom down with me and leave it on the stage in its usual place. Then I run down those nightmare passages into the little store-room. Thompson is in the yard outside. I wait. Presently I hear him go off to get his man from the front of the theatre. That’s my chance. When he comes back — I’m not there.”

“I see,” said Fox heavily. “Yes. I see.”

“Now, look here.” Alleyn bent over the body. “The head and shoulders are covered in dust. It was there while he was still hanging. It was swept off the top gallery. Analysis will prove it. We’ve got to come all over scientific, Fox.”

“It can’t be Saint and it wasn’t Props. That’s two people cleared away in favour of your theory, sir.”

“It is.”

“What do we do now, then?”

“Get hold of the men who were watching the rest of the party.”

“I’ll ring up the Yard. Reports should have come through by now.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “Do that, Fox. I’m especially anxious for the report from Cambridge.”

“Yes.”

“And from — who’s that fellow? Oh, Detective-Sergeant Watkins. Find out if he’s been relieved, and if he has tell them to get hold of him and send him round here.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And ring up Bailey. He’ll be in bed now, poor creature, but we’ll have to beat him up. And the divisional surgeon. Oh, Lord — here we go again.”

Fox disappeared through the proscenium door. Alleyn went back along the stone passages. He turned up the lights and examined the floor and walls carefully. He walked, hugging the wall, all the way to the room with the broken window. Here he examined the floor, the walls, the window-sill and the yard outside. He turned his torch on the gate, climbed it, and scrutinized the top meticulously. Here he found a tiny scrap of black cloth which he preserved.

Then he returned to the stage.

He shook some of the dust from Props’s hair into an envelope, sealed it up, and, taking a fresh envelope, turned his attention to the shoulders of the coat. He climbed the ladder to the top gallery, where. he took a further sample of dust. Using his pocket-lens and his torch he examined the rope carefully, paying particular attention to the noose and the three or four feet above it. He also scrutinized the rail and floor of the gallery for some distance beyond the place where the ladder came up. He then measured the length of the drop. Returning to the stage he found a broom under the electrician’s gallery, and from this also he obtained a specimen of dust. He examined the body, paying particular attention to the hands. Bailey and the divisional surgeon arrived while he was still about this business.

“You’ll find no prints except his,” said Alleyn.

The surgeon made his examination.