Ngaio Marsh - Vintage Murder

“Bless me, Inspector, if you’re not better up in my cases than I am myself. Stop a moment.”

They had moved out of the area of light, and switched on their torches. Alleyn swung his towards the rail.

“Here, you see, we are opposite the pulley. Now when I came up here before, a piece of cord had been passed round the batten on which the pulley is rigged. That beam, there. The rope to the beam stopped it from slipping and it was made fast to this cleat on the rail here. The effect was to drag the pulley eighteen inches or so this way.”

“What for, though?” asked Wade.

“In order that the jeroboam of fizz should fall, not into the nest of ferns and fairy lights, but on to the naked pate of poor Alfred Meyer.”

“Geeze!”

“And here, I think, I very much suspect, is the piece of cord. Neatly rolled round the cleat. Clever fellow, this. Keeps his head. What? Shall we move on?”

“I’ll collect that cord on the way back,” grunted Wade. “On you go, sir. After you.”

“There are any number of footprints in these damn’ slats. The stage hands have been all over the place, of course.”

“Not much chance of anything there,” agreed Wade, “but we’ll have to see. If you’re right, sir, the suspect’s prints will be on top.”

“So they will. Here’s the back wall. Another ladder here, you notice. I daren’t look down, I’m terrified of heights. Round we go. This, no doubt, is where he crouched with blazing eyes and bared molars while I climbed the ladder. Dramatic, ain’t it? Also remarkably grubby. Bang goes the old boiled shirt. Hullo! Another ladder going down to the back of the stage. That’ll be the one he used, I should think. Turn the corner gently. Now we’re on the last lap.”

“And there’s the pulley again.”

They had worked round to the O.P. gallery and were close by the pulley which hung within easy reach from its batten.

“Yes,” said Alleyn, “and there hangs the counterweight on the hook. I understand the weight is one of the sort that is used in the second act, to lead the ship’s funnel down to the right spot. They’ve got several of them. Look. There is the funnel with the weight on it, just above our heads. And here, along the side, are several spare weights. Different sizes. You’ll notice that the ring at the top of the hook would serve as a chock and prevent the rope whizzing through the pulley when the weight was removed. The weight hung exactly half-way, so there would be no slack rope on the table.”

“And you say there was no weight on this rope when you looked up here before?”

“There was no weight. The rope with the cut end of red cord simply hung in the pulley.

He flashed his light on the beam. “You’ll notice the whole thing is within arm’s length of the gallery. The table was placed well over to the side for that reason.”

“Well, I’ll test the batten for prints,” said Wade, “but it’s a bit hopeless. Anyway he’d use gloves. Don’t you reckon it’s a mistake, sir, the way they’ve advertised the finger-print system? Any fool-crook knows better than to forget his gloves, these days.”

“There are times,” said Alleyn, “when I could wish the penny Press-lords in the nethermost hell. Yet they have their uses, they have their uses. Nay, I can gleek on occasion.” Sensing Wade’s bewilderment he added hurriedly: “You’re right, Inspector, but of course they have to come out in evidence. Prints, I mean. I grow confused. It must be the smell of fizz.”

“It was certainly a high-class way of murdering anybody,” said Wade dryly. “Dong him one with a gallon of champagne. Good-oh!”

“I doubt if I shall enjoy even the soundest vintage years for some time to come,” said Alleyn. “The whole place reeks of it. You can even smell it up here. Great hopping fleas!”

“What’s wrong, sir!”

Alleyn was staring from the counterweight on the rope to those on the platform.

“My dear Wade, we have come within an ace of making the most frightful fools of ourselves. Look at that weight.”

“I am,” said Wade.

“Well, my dear chap, what’s keeping it there?”

“The weight of the— Cripey, sir, the cork blew out and half the champagne with it. That weight ought to be on the stage. It ought to be heavier than the half-empty bottle.”

“Exactly. Therefore it is very much lighter than the full bottle. Therefore it is not the weight they rehearsed with. And what’s more, the original weight must have hung hard by the lower gallery, half-way down to the stage, within easy reach. He didn’t come up here for the first visit He did his stuff from the lower gallery.”

“You’re right, sir. And if you hadn’t come up the first time, it would have looked more like an accident and less like homicide.”

Alleyn pulled in the rope and rasped it above the weight.

“Nothing like heavy enough,” he said. “It must have been one of the big ones. Well — that’s that. Are we staying aloft, Inspector?”

“I think we’ll go down now, sir. I’ll send Cass up to collect the stuff here. It’ll need careful handling, and I think had better be done by daylight. I’ll leave a man here, of course. Ye-ees.”

Footsteps sounded on the stage below, and voices. They looked down and had a bird’s-eye view of a little procession. The police constable, whom Wade had left mounting guard over Meyer’s body, opened the door in the box set. Through it came Dr. Tancred, Dr. Te Pokiha, and two men with a stretcher. The stretcher was laid on the stage. Tancred looked up into the grid, his hand over his eyes.

“You up there, Inspector?” he called.

“Here I am, doctor.”

“All right if we move the body?”

“Has Cass got his photos O.K.?”

“Yes.”

“Good-oh, then, doctor.”

They lifted the terrible head. Tancred and Te Pokiha examined it again. It lolled back and seemed to stare up to where the two men watched from above. Pieces of fern were stuck on the face, and it was cut with glass from the broken lights. Te Pokiha brushed the fern away. They hauled the body up from the chair. It seemed to be very heavy. At last they got it on the stretcher and covered it

“All right,” said Tancred.

They carried Meyer away, the policeman holding the door open. Te Pokiha remained behind,

“Well, we may as well go down,” said Wade.

Alleyn did not answer. Wade turned to look at him. He was in the act of stooping. His long fingers reached for something that lay between two of the steel slats at his feet. His fingers edged at this little object, coaxed it up, and grasped it. He straightened, glanced down beneath him to where Te Pokiha stood, and then made a slight gesture of warning.

“What’s up?” asked Wade softly.

Alleyn stretched out his hand into the light. On the palm lay a small green object of a singular shape. Its head lolled over to one side and it seemed to be grinning.

“Are you coming down?” called Te Pokiha from the stage.

“It’s a tiki,” said Wade.

“Yes. May be of some importance. Wait a moment.”

Alleyn pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dropped the tiki on it and folded it over carefully.

“There you are, Inspector. I’ll give you the history when we get down. In the meantime, if I may make a suggestion, keep it under your hat.”

They climbed down the O.P. ladder to the stage. Te Pokiha waited for them.

“If you’ve no further use for me, Mr. Wade, I think I’ll clear out,” he said. “It’s one o’clock.

“Right-oh, then, doctor,” agreed Wade. “Well want you for the inquest.”

“I suppose so.” He turned to Alleyn. “I had no idea you were the famous Roderick Alleyn,” he said in his warm voice. “It’s strange that this should be your introduction to New Zealand. I have read—”