Enter A Murderer

“That will do very well,” said Alleyn. “Have you unlocked the dressing-room doors?”

Apparently this had been done. Alleyn went on to the stage and glanced round. It was still set for the scene when Surbonadier loaded the revolver. The curtain was up and the shrouded seats looked very faint in the dark. A lance of sunlight slanted through a crevice in a blind above the gallery. Footsteps sounded in the passage and Mr. George Simpson appeared. He looked nervously round the wings, saw Alleyn, and uttered a little apologetic noise.

“Oh, there you are, Mr. Simpson,” said Alleyn.

“I’ve been trying to pretend I’m a stage manager. Any fault to find with the scene?”

Simpson walked down to the float and surveyed the stage. Something of his professional ma

“It’s quite in order, I think,” he said.

“Perhaps I’d better wait until the company appears before I explain my motive in calling you all this morning.”

“Some of them are outside now.”

“Right. Will you treat Detective-Sergeant Wilkins as your call-boy? As soon as everybody’s here we’ll have them on the stage and I’ll speak to them.”

Sergeant Wilkins was produced. He and Simpson eyed each other doubtfully.

“What’s that you’ve got in your hand, Wilkins?” asked Alleyn suddenly.

“It’s one of your cards, sir. The young gentleman I saw yesterday, if you remember, sir, came along. He just wanted to sit in the stalls.”

“Let me see it.”

Alleyn surveyed, rather grimly, his own visiting-card with: “Admit bearer to theatre. R. A.” scribbled across it in his own writing. It was the one he had given Nigel before they arrested Saint. With remarkable forethought Mr. Bathgate had clung to the bit of pasteboard and had produced it again when occasion arose.

With a slightly accentuated jaw-line, Inspector Alleyn advanced to the footlights ana gazed into the swimming darkness of the stalls.

“Mr. Bathgate,” he said.

Silence.

“Mr. Bathgate,” lied Alleyn, “I can see you.”

“You’re not looking in my direction at all,” declared an indignant voice.

“Come here,” Alleyn said.

“I won’t.”

“If you please.”

There was a mulish silence and then Alleyn said mildly:

“House lights, Mr. Simpson, if you please.”

Simpson scuttled up the iron ladder and in a moment the stalls were revealed in all their shrouded grimness.

In the centre of Row F, a lonely little figure among the dust sheets, sat Nigel. Alleyn beckoned. Nigel rose sheepishly and processed down the centre aisle.

“Now,” said Alleyn, when the culprit reached the curtain of the well. “Now, my enterprising Pressman.”

Nigel smirked but did not reply.

“I’ve a good mind to have you turfed out at the end of a boot,” continued Alleyn. He looked seriously at Nigel. “However, I won’t do that. I will merely return my card with an additional memorandum. If you still want to stay here you may.”

He wrote something on the back of the card and flipped it across the orchestra well.

Nigel caught it and held it to the light. Inspector Alleyn wrote in tiny but exceedingly clear characters, yet, though there were only seven words on the card, Nigel appeared to take an unconscionable time deciphering them. At last he raised his head and he and Alleyn looked at each other.

“It’s a mistake,” said Nigel.

“No.”

“But—” He stopped short and wetted his lips.

“No motive,” said Nigel at last

“Every motive.”

“I stay,” said Nigel.

“Very well. House lights, please, Mr. Simpson.”

Once again the front of the house was dark.

“I think they are all here now, Inspector Alleyn,” said Simpson nervously.

“Ask them to come here, will you, Wilkins?” said Alleyn.

The company of The Rat and the Beaver reassembled for the last time on the stage of the Unicorn. They came down the passage in single file. Susan Max and Stephanie Vaughan appeared first. Then came Janet Emerald walking with the gait she used in the provinces for the last act of Madam X. Dulcie Deamer followed, expressing tragic bewilderment. Next came Felix Gardener, very white-faced and alone. Howard Melville and J. Barclay Crammer delayed their entrance and made it arm-in-arm with heads held high, like French aristocrats approaching the tumbrels.

“Everybody on the stage, please,” said George Simpson.

The players walked through the wings and stood quietly in a semi-circle. They looked attentive and businesslike. It was almost as though they had needed the stage and the lights to give them full solidity. They no longer seemed preposterous or even artificial. They were in their right environment and had become real.

Alleyn stood down by the float, facing the stage. From the auditorium, with the full stage lighting behind him, it was he who now looked a strange shadow, but for the actors there was no suggestion of this; to them he was in the accustomed place of the producer, and they watched him attentively.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Alleyn, “I have asked you to come here this morning in order that we may stage a reconstruction of the first scene in the last act of The Rat and the Beaver. In that scene, as you know, the deceased man, Mr. Arthur Surbonadier, loaded the revolver by which he was subsequently shot. You are all aware that Mr. Jacob Saint is under arrest He will not be present. Otherwise, with the exception of the deceased, whose part will be read by Mr. Simpson, we are all here.”

He paused for a moment. The stage manager looked as though he wanted to say something.

“Yes, Mr. Simpson?”

“Er — I don’t know if it matters. The property master has not turned up. As he gave me the dummies I thought perhaps—?”

“We shall have to do without him,” said Alleyn. “Are the dressers here?”

Simpson glanced offstage. Beadle and Trixie Beadle came through the wings and stood awkwardly at the end of the semi-circle.

“First I must tell you, all of you, that the police have formed a definite theory as regards this crime. It is in order to substantiate this theory that the reconstruction is necessary. I want to impress upon you that, apart from its distressing associations, there is nothing to worry about in the business. I merely ask the i

He waited for a moment and then Barclay Crammer cleared his throat portentously. He advanced two paces and gazed into the auditorium.

“I do not know if Miss Vaughan or Mr. Gardener have anything to say—” he began.

“Nothing,” said Stephanie Vaughan quickly. “I’m quite ready to do it.”

“I too,” said Gardener.

“In that case,” continued Mr. Crammer deeply, “I may say at once that I am prepared to play out this horrible farce — to the end.” He let his voice break slightly. “God grant we may be the instruments to avenge poor Arthur.” He made a slight gesture expressive of noble resignation and very nearly bowed to the empty auditorium. The hidden Nigel refrained, with something of an effort, from giving him a heartfelt clap. Alleyn caught Gardener’s eye. Gardener looked as though he wanted to wink.

“That’s all settled, then,” said Alleyn. “Now the only difference between this and the real show is that I am not going to black-out the lights. I will ask those of you who were in your dressing-rooms at the end of the interval to go to them now. Any movement that you made from one room to another you will repeat. You will see that I have stationed officers along the passages. Please behave exactly as if they were not there. The conversation on the stage between Miss Max, Mr. Surbonadier, Miss Emerald, and Mr. Simpson before the curtain went up, we will reproduce as closely as possible. I will blow this whistle at the point when you are to imagine the black-out takes place, and again when the lights would go on. Now will you all go to your dressing-rooms?”