Ngaio Marsh - Night at the Vulcan

Alleyn said: “You seem to have tackled this one like an old hand, at all events.”

“I’m damn glad you think so,” said Clem, and sounded it.

Alleyn looked at the Yale lock on the door. “This seems in good enough shape,” he said absently.

“It’s new,” Clem said. “There were pretty extensive renovations and a sort of general clean-up when Mr. Poole took the theatre over. It’s useful for the artists to be able to lock up valuables in their rooms and the old locks were clumsy and rusted up. In any case—” He stopped and then said uncomfortably: “The whole place has been repainted and modernized.”

“Including the gas installations?”

“Yes,” said Clem, not looking at Alleyn. “That’s all new, too.”

“Two of the old dressing-rooms have been knocked together to form the Greenroom?”

“Yes.”

“And there are new dividing walls? And ventilators, now, in the dressing-rooms?”

“Yes,” said Clem unhappily and added, “I suppose that’s why he used his coat.”

“It does look,” Alleyn said without stressing it, “as if the general idea was to speed things up, doesn’t it? All right, Mr. Smith, thank you. Would you explain to the people on the stage that I’ll come as soon as we’ve finished our job here? It won’t be very long. We’ll probably ask you to sign a statement of the actual discovery as you’ve described it to us. You’ll be glad to get away from this room, I expect.”

Inspector Fox had secreted his note-book and now ushered Clem Smith out. Clem appeared to go thankfully.

“Plain sailing, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Alleyn,” said Fox, looking along the passage. “Nobody about,” he added. “I’ll leave the door open.”

Alleyn cubbed his nose. “It looks like plain sailing, Fox, certainly. But in view of the other blasted affair we can’t take a damn thing for granted. You weren’t on the Jupiter case, were you, Gibson?”

“No, sir,” said Gibson, looking up from his notebook. “Homicide dressed up to look like suicide, wasn’t it?”

“It was, indeed. The place has been pretty extensively chopped up and rehashed, but the victim was on this side of the passage and in what must have been the room now taken in to make the Greenroom. Next door there was a gas fire backing on to his own. The job was done by blowing down the tube next door. This put out the fire in this room and left the gas on, of course. The one next door was then re-lit. The victim was pretty well dead-drunk and the trick worked. We got the bloke on the traces of crepe hair and greasepaint he left on the tube.”

“Very careless,” Fox said. “Silly chap, really.”

“The theatre,” Alleyn said, “was shut up for a long time. Three or four years at least. Then Adam Poole took it, renamed it the Vulcan and got a permit for renovation. I fancy this is only his second production here.”

“Perhaps,” Fox speculated, “the past history of the place played on deceased’s mind and led him to do away with himself after the same fashion.”

“Sort of superstitious?” Gibson ventured.

“Not precisely,” said Fox majestically. “And yet something after that style of thing. They’re a very superstitious mob, actors, Fred. Very. And if he had reason, in any case, to entertain the notion of suicide—”

“He must,” Alleyn interjected, “have also entertained the very very nasty notion of throwing suspicion of foul play on his fellow-actors. If there’s a gas fire back-to-back with this—”

“And there is,” Fox said.

“The devil there is! So what does Bennington do? He re-creates as far as possible the whole set-up, leaves no note, no indication, as far as we can see, of his intention to gas himself, and — who’s next door, Fox?”

“A Mr. Parry Percival.”

“All right. Bennington pushes off, leaving Mr. Parry Percival ostensibly in the position of the Jupiter murderer. Rotten sort of suicide that’d be, Br’er Fox.”

“We don’t know anything yet, of course,” said Fox.

“We don’t, and the crashing hellish bore about the whole business lies in the all-too-obvious fact that we’ll have to find out. What’s on your inventory, Gibson?”

Sergeant Gibson opened his note-book and adopted his official manner.

“Dressing-table or shelf,” he said. “One standing mirror. One cardboard box containing false hair, rouge, substance labelled ‘nose-paste,’ seven fragments of greasepaint and one unopened box of powder. Shelf. Towel spread out to serve as table-cloth. On towel, one tray containing six sticks of greasepaint. To right of tray, bottle of spirit-adhesive. Bottle containing what appears to be substance known as liquid powder. Open box of powder overturned. Behind box of powder, pile of six pieces of cotton-wool and a roll from which these pieces have been removed.” He looked up at Alleyn. “Intended to be used for powdering purposes, Mr. Alleyn.”

“That’s it,” Alleyn said. He was doubled up, peering at the floor under the dressing-shelf. “Nothing there,” he grunted. “Go on.”

“To left of tray, cigarette case with three cigarettes and open box of fifty. Box of matches. Ash-tray. Towel, stained with greasepaint. Behind mirror, flask — one-sixth full — and used tumbler smelling of spirits.”

Alleyn looked behind the standing glass. “Furtive sort of cache,” he said. “Go on.”

“Considerable quantity of powder spilt on shelf and on adjacent floor area. Considerable quantity of ash. Left wall, clothes. I haven’t been through the pockets yet, Mr. Alleyn. There’s nothing on the floor but powder and some paper ash, original form undistinguishable. Stain as of something burnt on hearth.”

“Go ahead with it then. I wanted,” Alleyn said with a discontented air, “to hear whether I was wrong.”

Fox and Gibson looked placidly at him. “All right,” he said, “don’t mind me. I’m broody.”

He squatted down by the overcoat. “It really is the most obscene smell, gas,” he muttered. “How anybody can always passes my comprehension.” He poked in a gingerly manner at the coat. “Powder over everything,” he grumbled. “Where had this coat been? On the empty hanger near the door, presumably. That’s damned rum. Check it with his dresser. We’ll have to get Bailey along, Fox. And Thompson. Blast!”

“I’ll ring the Yard,” said Fox and went out.

Alleyn squinted through a lens at the wing-taps of the gas fire. “I can see prints clearly enough,” he said, “on both. We can check with Bennington’s. There’s even a speck or two of powder settled on the taps.”

“In the air, sir, I dare say,” said Gibson.

“I dare say it was. Like the gas. We can’t go any further here until the dabs and flash party has done its stuff. Finished, Gibson?”

“Finished, Mr. Alleyn. Nothing much in the pockets. Bills. Old racing card. Cheque-book and so on. Nothing on the body, by the way, but a handkerchief.”

“Come on, then. I’ve had my belly-full of gas.” But he stood in the doorway eyeing the room and whistling softly.

“I wish I could believe in you,” he apostrophized it, “but split me and sink me if I can. No, by all that’s phoney, not for one credulous second. Come on, Gibson. Let’s talk to these experts.”

They all felt a little better for Jacko’s soup, which had been laced with something that, as J. G. Darcey said (and looked uncomfortable as soon as he’d said it), went straight to the spot marked X.

Whether it was this potent soup, or whether extreme emotional and physical fatigue had induced in Martyn its familiar complement, an uncanny sharpening of the mind, she began to consider for the first time the general reaction of the company to Bennington’s death. She thought: “I don’t believe there’s one of us who really minds very much. How lonely for him! Perhaps he guessed that was how it would be. Perhaps he felt the awful isolation of a child that knows itself unwanted and thought he’d put himself out of the way of caring.”