Ngaio Marsh - Vintage Murder

“Sure none of you has it?” pursued Alleyn.

The men felt in their pockets.

“I remember handing it on to you,” said Brandon Vernon to Ackroyd.

“Somebody took it from me,” said Ackroyd. “You did, Frankie.”

“I?” said Liversidge. “Did I? I haven’t got it now. As a matter of fact, I think I gave it to—” he hesitated and glanced at Carolyn.

“Yes?” asked Alleyn.

“—to Mr. Meyer,” said Liversidge uncomfortably.

“Oh!” Carolyn drew in her breath swiftly. Old Susan looked directly at Alleyn with a curious expression that he could not read. Suddenly Valerie Gaynes cried out:

“It’s unlucky — I thought at the time it looked unlucky. Something seemed to tell me. I’ve got a queer intuition about things—”

“I am quite sure,” said Carolyn steadily, “that my tiki is not unlucky. And I know Alfie hadn’t got it when we sat down to supper.”

“How do you know that, Miss Dacres?” asked Alleyn.

“Because he asked me for it. He wanted to look at it again. And I hadn’t got it, either.”

“But I say—”

Alleyn turned swiftly. Young Gordon Palmer stood with his mouth half open and a curiously startled look on his face.

“Yes, Mr. Palmer?” asked Alleyn.

“Oh, nothing.” And at that moment Packer opened the door and said:

“Inspector Wade would like to speak to Mrs. Meyer, please.”

“I’m coming,” said Carolyn. Her long graceful stride took her quickly to the door. Hambledon got there before her.

“May I take Miss Dacres to the office?” he asked. “I’ll come straight back.”

“Well, sir—” said Packer uncomfortably. He looked for a fraction of a second at Alleyn, who gave him the ghost of a nod.

“I’ll just inquire,” said Packer. He went outside and closed the door. They could hear him talking to Sergeant Cass. He returned in a moment.

“If you would care to go along with Sergeant Cass and Mrs. Mey — beg pardon — Miss Dacres, sir, that’ll be all right. Sergeant Cass will come back with you.”

Alleyn strolled over to the door.

“I really cannot understand, officer,” he said, “why I should be kept hanging about here. I’ve nothing whatever to do with this miserable business.” He added swiftly, under his breath: “Keep Mr. Hambledon talking outside the door if he returns.” And to Hambledon: “Stay outside if you can.”

Hambledon stared, but Packer said loudly:

“Now that’ll be quite enough from you, Mr. Alleyn. We’re only doing our duty, as you ought to realise. You go back to your chair, if you please, sir. Everything will be quite all right.”

“Oh, excellent Packer!” thought Alleyn and returned churlishly to his upturned case.

Carolyn and Hambledon went out with Packer, who shut the door.

At once the others seemed to relax. There was a slight movement from all of them. Courtney Broadhead said.

“I simply can’t take it in. It’s so horrible. So horrible.”

“That’s how you feel about it, is it?” said Liversidge.

“I should think that’s how everybody feels about it,” said old Susan Max. “It’s been a terrible experience. I shan’t forget it in a hurry.”

“He looked so awful.” Valerie Gaynes’s voice rose hysterically. “I’ll see it all my life. I’ll be haunted by it. His head — all that mess!”

“My God!” choked George Mason suddenly, “I’ve got to get out of this. I’m going to be sick. Here — let me out.”

He rushed to the door, his handkerchief clapped to his mouth, and his eyes rolling lamentably. “Let me out!”

Packer opened the door, cast one glance at Mason’s face, and let him through. Unpleasant noises were followed by the bang of a door.

“He’s been slowly turning green ever since we came in here,” said Ackroyd. “Damned unpleasant sight, it was. Why the devil does he have to turn queasy.”

“It’s his stomach, dear,” said Susan. “George suffers from dyspepsia, Mr. Alleyn. Martyr to it.”

“You had to finish him off, Val,” Brandon Vernon pointed out, “by talking about the mess. Why did you have to bring that up?”

“Don’t talk about bringing things up, for God’s sake,” complained Liversidge.

“You look as if you were going on for Hamlet senior yourself, Frankie,” sneered Ackroyd.

“Oh, shut up,” said Liversidge violently.

“Well, nobody could feel iller than I do. I feel terrible,” said Valerie. “Do you know that? I feel terrible.”

Nobody paid the slightest attention.

“What’ll happen to the Firm?” asked Ackroyd of no one in particular. They all stirred uneasily. Gascoigne paused in his dissertation on counterweights and swung round.

“The Firm?” he said. “The Firm will go on.”

“Do you mean Incorporated Playhouses?” asked Gordon Palmer eagerly.

“No,” snapped Ackroyd rudely, “he means Wirth’s Circus.”

“We always call Incorporated Playhouses ‘the Firm,’ ” explained Susan good-naturedly.

“The great firm of Inky-R,” rumbled old Vernon.

“It was founded and built up by Mr. Meyer, wasn’t it?” asked Alleyn. “He was actually the only begetter?”

“He and George Mason,” said Gascoigne. “They made it together. George was a damn’ good actor in his day — character, you know — never played straight parts. The governor met him somewhere and they doubled up. Yes, they started forty years ago as Mason & Meyer’s Dramas, Ltd. A lot of omies the others were then, doing umpty-shows in the smalls.”

“That leaves me gaping,” said Alleyn apologetically. “What is an ‘omie,’ Miss Max, and how does one recognise an umpty-show?”

“Ted means they were bad actors doing worse shows in one-eyed towns up and down the provinces,” said Susan.

“Yes,” continued Gascoigne, “and to-day it’s the biggest theatre combine in Europe. Wonderful achievement.”

“It’ll be ‘George Mason’ only now,” said Liversidge suddenly.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Yes,” said little Ackroyd. He looked under his lashes at Gascoigne. “George will be a very wealthy man.”

At once Alleyn sensed a feeling of panic, of protest. Susan Max, who obviously disliked Ackroyd, planted her fat little hands on her knees and squared her shoulders.

“George Mason,” she said loudly, “would rather be back advancing ‘The Worst Woman in London’ than have this happen.”

“ Certainly .” Gascoigne backed her up emphatically. “I’ve stage-managed for the Firm for twenty-five years and it’s been a happy little family for every day of it. Every day of it. Big as they are, they’ve gone on taking a personal interest. They run their own shows. Of course, this is just a holiday — but look at the way they’ve kept with the crowd. Mr. Meyer was down in the office every morning and, make no mistake, he came down to work. He was honest , and by God, you can’t say that for many of ’em. He and George were the whitest men in management.”

“Ah!” said Susan, ruffling her plumage, and looking with approval at Gascoigne.

“Well,” rumbled old Vernon, “I’ve no quarrel with Inky-P., and I hope to God George keeps me with him.”

“All right, all right,” protested Ackroyd, “I’m not saying George isn’t the curly-headed boy, am I, even if he hasn’t always been quite quite?”

“What d’you mean by that?” demanded Vernon.

“I seem to remember hearing something- about a company left stranded in America in the good old days,” said Ackroyd. “Just one of those stories, you know, just one of those stories.”

“Then why repeat it?” snapped Vernon.

“Hear, hear,” said Gascoigne.