Ngaio Marsh - Vintage Murder

“Well then, old boy,” said Liversidge, “you’ve no need to worry. It’ll all be on the books, won’t it, Mr. Mason? I suppose Mr. Meyer told you about it?”

“I agree with Mr. Alleyn,” said Mason quietly, “that there is nothing to be gained by discussing this matter here.”

“It won’t be on the books,” said Courtney Broadhead. “It was a private loan.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“I don’t understand,” said Valerie Gaynes suddenly. “Of course, Court didn’t take my money. What’s my money got to do with it? It was stolen in the ship. Probably a steward took it.”

Her voice flattened. She looked at Liversidge and away again.

“I’m sure a steward took it, Frankie,” she said. It was almost as though she pleaded with him.

“I’ll bet it was a steward,” said Liversidge very heartily indeed. He flashed an intolerably brilliant smile at Courtney Broadhead.

“Well,” said Susan Max roundly, “it may have been a steward or it may have been the captain of the ship, but it wasn’t Courtney Broadhead, and only a fool or a rogue would suggest that it was.”

“Quite a champion of — ah — good causes to-night, aren’t you, Susie?” said Liversidge winningly.

“For God’s sake,” said George Mason, “can’t you cut out all this stuff about Miss Gaynes’s money and Courtney’s money. We’re up against a terrible tragedy and, my God, you all start selling a lot of cross-talk. What’s going to happen to the show? That’s what I’d like to know. What’s going to happen to the show?”

And as if he had indeed sounded the very bottom of their trouble they at once became silent and anxious.

“The show!” said Gordon Palmer shrilly. “You are an extraordinary crowd. The show doesn’t matter— what’s going to happen to us ?”

At this protest from outside they all seemed to draw together. They looked anxiously at each other, ignoring Gordon.

“You don’t seem to realise a man’s been murdered,” he went on. His voice, trying to be compelling and indignant, was boyishly lame.

“Shut up,” said Geoffrey Weston.

“I won’t. There’s poor Mr. Meyer—” The voice wobbled uncertainly.

“If Alfred Meyer can think at all where he’s gone,” said little George Mason surprisingly, “he’s thinking about the show. The Firm came first with Alfred — always.”

There was a short silence.

“I’m very sorry it happened, ladies and gentlemen,” added Mason, “very sorry for your sakes, I mean. We’ve brought you all this way. I–I can assure you you’ll be — looked after. My partner wouldn’t have wanted it otherwise. We’re old friends, all of us. I can’t just sort things out in my own mind but — if I’ve got anything to do with it there’ll be no difference.”

He looked solemnly at his company. There was a little stir among them as if they were touched by his sudden assumption of formality, and by the illusion of security that his words had given to them. And, as he watched them, it seemed to Alleyn that of all things security is most desired by actors since it is the one boon that is never granted them. Even when they are in great demand and command absurdly large salaries, he reflected, few of them contrive to save much money. It is almost as though they were under the compulsion of some ancient rule of their guild, never to know security but often to desire it. And he fell to thinking of their strange life and of the inglorious and pathetic old age to which so many of them drifted.

Packer came in, interrupting his thoughts.

The inspector, said Packer, would now speak to Mr. Mason, if the latter was feeling better. Mr. Mason turned pale, said he felt much better, and followed the sergeant out.

“I hope to God he meant what he said,” rumbled old Brandon Vernon. “I’ve been so long with the Firm I’ve forgotten what other managements are like.”

Gradually they settled down to the actor’s endless gossip about “shop.” It was obvious that they were all shocked — some of them deeply moved perhaps — by Meyer’s death. But they slipped into their habitual conversation quite unconsciously and soon were talking peaceably enough. Courtney Broadhead had gone to the far end of the room and stayed there, glowering, till old Vernon strolled across and tried to talk him into a better humour. They all completely ignored Gordon Palmer who sulked in a corner with his silent bear-leader.

Presently Packer returned.

“Inspector Wade would like to speak to you now, Mr. Alleyn,” said Packer.

Alleyn followed him into the dark passage.

“Mr. Wade was wondering if you’d be glad of the chance to get out of there, sir;” murmured Packer.

“I see. Very thoughtful of him.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Packer. I’ll see you again, I expect.”

“Good-oh, sir,” said Packer with enthusiasm.

Alleyn made his way to the office where he found Wade seated at Alfred Meyer’s desk with the colossal Cass in attendance.

“I thought perhaps you were getting a bit fed up in there, sir,” said Wade.

“It wasn’t dull,” said Alleyn. “The conversation took rather an interesting turn.”

“Yes?”

Alleyn related his experiences in the wardrobe-room.

“Oh,” said Wade, “that’s a bit of news, now, all that about Mr. Courtney Broadhead and the Gaynes woman. We’ll just get some notes on that, if we may, sir. Cass’ll take it down in shorthand. Now, how does it go?”

“Briefly,” said Alleyn, “like this. Liversidge, Miss Gaynes, young Gordon Palmer, his cousin, Geoffrey Weston, who seems to have strange ideas on the duties of a bear-leader, and Courtney Broadhead, all played poker for high stakes on the voyage out. Gordon Palmer and Liversidge were conspicuous winners, Broadhead a conspicuous loser. Some time between the last evening on board ship and the following evening on board the train, approximately a hundred pounds in notes was stolen from Miss Valerie Gaynes. The notes were in a leather writing-folder which she kept in a suit-case. In the train I noticed that Broadhead seemed greatly worried and I said so to Mr. Hambledon. I had a seat in the company’s carriage. Mr. Broadhead spent a good deal of time on the platform. I can give you a more detailed, though incomplete, record of his movements, if you wish.”

“If you please, sir.”

“Well, here goes. I’ve a shocking memory, but it has retained one or two small items. At midnight the company, with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Meyer — Miss Dacres you know — and Miss Gaynes, were in the carriage. The other three had gone to their sleepers. At about ten minutes past twelve, I went to sleep. I woke at two-ten. The company were as they had been before I dozed off. A few minutes later, Mr. Broadhead went out on the platform. He was visible through the glass door. At two-forty-five we reached Ohakune. Mr. Hambledon and I went out and got coffee. Miss Dacres called us into her sleeper. We were met on the way by Mr. Meyer who took us there. He said someone had tried to tip him overboard from the sleeper platform, about half an hour before we got to Ohakune. He was not certain of the time. It may have been forty minutes or longer. If so this attempt was made while I was asleep. While Mr. Meyer was relating his experience to us, Miss Gaynes came in and reported the loss of her money. When I offered to cast the eye at her ravished suit-case she was unflatteringly tepid and melted away.”

“Er,” said Cass.

“Yes?” asked Alleyn.

“That last sentence, sir — er—‘when I offered to look’—”

“I phrased it badly,” said Alleyn. “I offered to examine Miss Gaynes’s leather folder. She declined, and shortly afterwards withdrew.”