Страница 6 из 42
“Round every corner, Rat, you’ve waited for me,” Surbonadier was saying now. “Every job I’ve done this last year you’ve bitched for me, Rat — Rat. You’ve mucked round my girl.” His voice rose hysterically. “I’ve had enough. I’m through — I’ve come to finish it and, by God, I’ve come to finish you!”
“Not this evening, Beaver. It’s a lovely little plan and I hate to spoil your party, but you see we’re not alone.”
“What are you saying?”
“We’re not alone.” Gardener spoke with the exasperating facetiousness of the popular hero. “There’s a good angel watching over you, Beaver. You’re covered, my Beaver.”
“Do I look easy?”
“You look lovely, my Beaver, but if you don’t believe me take a step to your right and glance in the mirror behind me, and I think you’ll see the image of the angel that’s watching you.”
Surbonadier moved upstage. His right hand still held the revolver levelled at Gardener, but for a second he shifted his gaze to the mirror above Gardener’s head. Then slowly he turned and stared at the upstage entrance. A moment, and Stephanie Vaughan stood in the doorway. She too held a revolver, pointed at Surbonadier.
“Je
“Thank you, Je
“You don’t have any luck, do you, Beaver?” she said.
Surbonadier uttered a curious little whi
“God, that man can act!” said a voice behind Nigel. He woke up to feel Alleyn’s hand on his knee.
“Is this the end?” the inspector whispered.
“Yes,” said Nigel. “The curtain comes down in a moment.”
“Then let’s get out.”
“What!”
“Let’s get out,” repeated Alleyn; and then, with a change of voice: “Are you looking for me?”
Their seats were on the aisle. Glancing up, Nigel saw that an usher was bending over his friend.
“Are you Inspector Alleyn, sir?”
“Yes. You want me. I’ll come. Get up, Bathgate.”
Completely at a loss, Nigel rose and followed Alleyn and the usher up the aisle, into the foyer, and out by a sort of office to the stage door alley. No one spoke until then, when the usher said:
“It’s terrible, sir — it’s terrible.”
“Quite,” said Alleyn coldly. “I know.”
“Did you guess, sir? Have they all guessed?”
“I don’t think so. Is someone going to ask for a doctor? Not that there’s any hurry for that.”
“My Gawd, sir, is he dead?”
“Of course he’s dead.”
As they approached the stage door old Blair came ru
Alleyn walked past him, followed by Nigel. A man in a di
“Inspector Alleyn?” he said.
“Here,” said Alleyn. “Is the curtain down?”
“I don’t think so. Shall I go out in front and ask for a doctor? We didn’t realize. I didn’t stop the show. Nobody realized — they don’t know in front — I don’t think they know in front. He said we ought to send for you,” the man gabbled on madly. They reached the wings just as the curtain came down; Stephanie Vaughan and Gardener were still on the stage. The applause from the auditorium broke like a storm of hail. Simpson, the stage manager, darted out of the prompt corner. As soon as the fringe of the curtain touched the stage Miss Vaughan screamed and hurled her arms round Gardener’s neck. Simpson held back the curtain, looking with horror at Surbonadier, who lay close to his feet. The man in evening dress, who was the business manager, stepped through. The orchestra blared out the first note of the National Anthem, but the man must have held up his hand or spoken to them, because the noise of the one note petered out foolishly. On the stage they heard the business manager speaking to the audience.
“If there is a doctor in front, will he kindly come round to the stage door? Thank you.”
The orchestra again struck up the National Anthem. Behind the curtain Alleyn spoke to Simpson.
“Go to the street door and stop anyone from leaving. No one is to go out. You understand? Bathgate, find a telephone and get the Yard. Tell them from me what has happened and ask them to send the usual people. Say I’ll want constables.” He turned to the business manager, who had come through the curtain. “Show Mr. Bathgate the way to the nearest telephone and then come back here.” He knelt down by Surbonadier.
The business manager glanced at Nigel.
“Where’s a telephone?” asked Nigel.
“Yes, of course,” said the business manager. “I’ll show you.”
They went together through a door in the proscenium that led to the auditorium, almost colliding with a tall man in a tail coat
“I’m the doctor,” he said. “What’s it all about?”
“On the stage,” said Nigel, “if you’ll go through.” The doctor glanced at him and went on to the stage.
In the auditorium the last stragglers were still finding their way out. Some women with their heads together stood with bundles of dust sheets in their arms.
“Get on with your work,” said the business manager savagely. “My name’s Stavely, Mr. — Mr. —”
“Bathgate,” said Nigel.
“Yes, of course. This is a terrible business, Mr. Bathgate.”
“No one,” thought Nigel, “seems to be able to say anything but this.”
They crossed the foyer into an office. People were still standing about the entrance and a woman said:
“You’re not very clever about taxis, are you, darling?”
Nigel, at the telephone, remembered the Yard number. A man’s voice answered him very quickly.
“I’m speaking for Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn,” said Nigel. “There’s been an accident at the Unicorn — a—a fatal accident. He wants you to send the usual people and constables at once.”
“Very good,” said the voice. “Did you say fatal accident?”
“Yes,” said Nigel, “I think so, and I think—” He stopped, gulped, and then his voice seemed to add of its own accord: “I think it looks like murder.”