Ngaio Marsh - Overture to Death

“Not quite such fun.”

Dr. Templett shook hands, turned to go, and then paused.

“I tell you what,” he said. “I’d like to see how this booby-trap worked.”

“Yes, of course. Come and have a look.”

Bailey was at the piano with an insufflator and a strong lamp.

Thompson stood by with his cameras.

“How’s it going, Bailey?” asked Alleyn.

“Finished the case, sir. Not much doing. Somebody must have dusted the whole show. We may get some latent prints but I don’t think there’s a chance, myself. Same with the Colt. We’re ready to take it down.”

“All right. Go warily, we don’t want to lose any prints if they’re there. I’ll move the front of the piano off and you hold the gun.”

Bailey reached a gloved hand inside the top.

“I’ll take off the pulley on the front panel, sir.”

“Yes. That’ll give us a better picture than if you dismantled the twine altogether.”

Fox undid the side catches and Alleyn lifted away the front of the piano and put it on one side.

“Hullo,” he said, “this silk panelling seems as though it’s had water spilt on it. It’s still dampish. Round the central hole.”

“Blood?” suggested Dr. Templett.

“No. There’s a little blood. This was water. A circular patch of it. Now, I wonder. Well, let’s have a look at the works.”

The Colt, supported at the end of the barrel by Bailey’s thumb and forefinger, was revealed with its green twine attachments. The butt was still jammed against the pegs at the back. Alleyn picked up the detached pulley and held it in position.

“Good God!” said Dr. Templett.

“Ingenious, isn’t it?” Alleyn said. “I think we’ll have a shot of it like this, Thompson. It’ll look nice and clear for the twelve good men and true.”

“Is the safety catch on?” demanded Dr. Templett, suddenly stepping aside.

“It is. You’ve dealt with the soft pedal, haven’t you, Bailey?” He stooped and pressed the left pedal down with his hand. The batten with its row of hammers moved towards the string. The green twine tightened in the minute pulleys.

“That’s how it worked. You can see where the pressure comes on the trigger.”

“A very neat-fingered person, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Alleyn?” said Fox.

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “Neat and sure fingers.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Templett. “It’s amazingly simple really. The only tricky bit would be passing the twine through the trigger guard, round the butt, and through the top pulley. That could be done before the gun was jammed in position. No, it’s simpler than it looks.”

“It’s like one of these affairs in books,” said Bailëy disgustedly. “Someone trying to think up a new way to murder. Silly, I call it.”

“What do you say, Roper?” said Alleyn.

“To my way of thinking, sir,” said Sergeant Roper, “these thrillers are ruining our criminal classes.”

Dr. Templett gave a shout of laughter. Roper turned scarlet and stared doggedly at the wall.

“What d’you mean by that, my lad?” asked Fox, who was on his knees, staring into the piano.

Thompson, grinning to himself, touched off his flashlight.

“What I mean to say, Mr. Fox,” said Roper. “It puts ideas in their foolish heads. And the talkies, too: Especially the young chaps. They get round the place talking down their noses and making believe they’re gangsters. Look at this affair! I bet the chap that did this got the idea of it out of print.”

“That’s right, Roper, stick to it,” said Dr. Templett. Roper disregarded him. Templett repeated his good-nights and went away.

“Go on, Roper. It’s an idea,” said Alleyn when the door had slammed. “What sort of print do you imagine would inspire this thing?”

“One of those funny drawings with bits of string and cogs and umbrellas and so forth?” suggested Thonnv son.

“Heath Robinson? Yes.”

“Or more likely, sir,” said Roper, “one of they four-penny boys’ yarns in paper covers like you buy at the store in Chipping. I used to buy them myself as a youngster. There’s always a fat lad and a comic lad and the comical chap plays off the fat one. Puts lighted crackers in his pants and all that. I recollect trying the cracker dodge under the rector’s seat at Bible class, and he gave me a proper tanning for it, too, did rector.”

“The practical joke idea again, you see, Fox,” said Alleyn.

“Well,” said Fox, stolidly. “Do we start off reading the back numbers of a boys’ paper, or what?”

“You never know, Brer Fox. Have you noticed the back of the piano where the bunting’s pinned down? There are four holes in the centre drawing pin and three to each of the others. Will you take the Colt out now, and all the rest of the paraphernalia? I’m going to take a look round the premises. We’ll have to start seeing these people in the morning. Who the devil’s that?”

There was a loud knock at the front entrance.

“Will I see?” asked Sergeant Roper.

“Do.”

Roper tramped off down the centre aisle and threw open the doors.

“Good-morning,” said a man’s voice outside. “I wonder if I can come in for a moment. It’s raining like Noah’s half-holiday and I’d like to have a word with — ”

“Afraid not, sir,” said Roper.

“But I assure you I want to see the representative from Scotland Yard. I’ve come all the way from London,” continued the voice plaintively. “I have, indeed. I represent the Evening Mirror . He’ll be delighted to see me. Is it by any chance — ”

“Yes, it is,” said Alleyn loudly and ungraciously. “You can let him in, Roper.”

A figure in a dripping mackintosh and streaming hat made a quick rush past Roper, gave a loud exclamation expressive of delight, and hurried forward with outstretched hand.

“I am not pleased to see you,” said Alleyn.

“Good-morning, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox. “Fancy it being you.”

“Yes, just fancy!” agreed Nigel Bathgate. “Well, well, well! I never expected to find the old gang. Bailey, too, and Thompson. It’s like the chiming of old bellses to see you all happily employed together.”

“How the blue hell did you get wind of this?” inquired Alleyn.

“The gentleman who does market and social notes for the Chipping Courier was in the audience to-night and like a bright young pressman he rang up the Central News. I was in the office when it came through and you couldn’t see my rudder for the foam. Down here in four hours with one puncture. God bless my soul, now, what’s it all about?”

“Sergeant Roger will perhaps spare a moment to throw you a bone or two. I’m busy. How are you?”

“Grand. Angela would send her love if she knew I was here, and your godson wants you to put him down for Hendon. He’s three on Monday. Is it too late?”

“I’ll inquire. Roper, you will allow Mr. Bathgate to sit quietly in a corner somewhere. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Coming, Fox?”

Alleyn and Fox went up on the stage, looked round the box-set, and explored the wings.

“We’ll have to go over this with a tooth-comb,” Alleyn said, “looking for Lord knows what, as usual. Miss Dinah Copeland seems to have gone to a lot of trouble. The scenery’s been patched up. Improvised footlights, you see, and I should think the two big overheads are introduced.”

He went into the prompt corner.

“Here’s the play. Shop Window , by Hunt. Rather a good comedy. Very professional, with all the calls marked and so on. A bicycle bell. Probably an adjunct of the telephone of the stage. Let’s have a look behind.”

A short flight of steps on each side of the back wall led down into a narrow room that ran the length of the stage.