Ngaio Marsh - Vintage Murder

“We noticed this on the plan,” said Alleyn, “and discussed it as a possible entrance for — say Mason.”

“That’s right, sir. But it won’t wash as far as he is concerned. If Mason had gone through the audience, out at the front, and round the block, he’d have had to come in here. He would have to go aloft, do the job, come down, and sprint round the block again.”

“Ten minutes at the very least and the risk of being seen running like a madman by any number of people on the pavement outside,” said Alleyn. “No. That cat won’t jump. I saw the door last night when your P.C. was so suspicious of my movements. Have you got a torch? Let’s have a good look at it.”

By the light of both their torches they inspected the door.

“Yale lock, with the key inside,” said Alleyn.

“We noted this door last night, Mr. Alleyn. It wasn’t overlooked.”

“My dear chap, I’m sure it wasn’t. What did you make of it?”

“Well, seeing it was locked on the inside it doesn’t look as though anyone could have used it for an entrance. And seeing that there’s no exit from the dressing-rooms except to the stage, none of them could have used it for a getaway.”

“None of the cast, no.”

“You’re still thinking of Mason. It’s no go, sir. I wish to hell I could say otherwise, but it’s no go. We’ve thrashed it over — every minute of it — every second of it. He was in the office at the end of the show, and was seen there by the men from the box-office. He ran along to the stage-door and gave old Singleton — the doorkeeper — the message about not letting in uninvited people. Singleton watched him go back to the office and a minute or two later joined him there. Then Dr. Te Pokiha looked in. About two minutes later you overtook him yourself, on the way to the stage-door with the doctor.”

“Not with Dr. Te Pokiha. He was at the party when Mr. Mason and I got in.”

“Makes no odds, as far as Mason is concerned, sir.”

“That’s true. Have you tried this key for prints?”

“Can’t say we have.”

“It’s early days yet,” murmured Alleyn, “and you’ve had a lot of stuff to get through. I think if you don’t mind—”

He produced an insufflater and a packet of chalk from his overcoat pocket, and by the light of their torches, tested the key for prints.

“None. It’s as clean as a whistle.”

“That’s funny,” said Wade, reluctantly. “You’d have thought it would be used fairly frequently.”

“There’s no dust,” said Alleyn, “so presumably it has been wiped clean.”

Wade muttered something under his breath. Alleyn turned the key and opened the door. Outside was a dingy strip of yard, and a low tin fence with a rickety gate.

“This is where I came out on my chase after Master Palmer,” explained Alleyn. “I met the P.C. in the street there. This door moves very sweetly.”

He flashed his torch on the hinges.

“Nicely oiled. Commendable attention to detail on the part of the staff — what?”

“Look here, Mr. Alleyn, what are you getting at?”

“I think we should concentrate on this door, Wade. When we’ve done here, we’ll go and have a look at the plan in the office and I shall propound my unlikely theory.”

He squatted on his heels and peered at the threshold.

“Not much chance here. Fine night and all that. I think it might be profitable to find out who oiled the hinges. Could you try? And the doorkeeper — Singleton is it? I suppose none of the guests went in twice? No, not Mason — anyone else.”

“Went in twice? ”

“Yes. In at the stage-door. Out by this one. In again at the stage-door. Nothing in it, I dare say.”

“None of the guests has got a motive, though,” said Wade with a certain air of desperate reluctance.

“Not so far as we know. One might advance something rather fantastic. Young Palmer, mad for love, for instance. Far-fetched.”

“Well then—”

“And Gascoigne. He didn’t go to the dressing-rooms. He was on the stage. Have you dwelt on Gascoigne, Wade?”

“Thrashed him to death. We can’t get it down to what you might call a cast-iron alibi, sir, because he was mucking round on the stage here, but the hands say he never went off the set and we’ve found out he was there to welcome each of the guests as they came. No motive, far as we know.”

“And he would have no occasion to use this door.”

“This ‘in again, out again, gone again’ stuff with the door. Is it probable do you think, Mr. Alleyn? Is it possible?”

“Let’s consider. Take any one of the guests — young Palmer or Dr. Te Pokiha, for instance.”

“Go ahead, sir.”

“Young Palmer comes to the party, passes Singleton, gives his name, and instead of joining the party on the stage, slips round to the back and up the ladder. He takes off the weight, comes down, lets himself out by this door, shins round to the front, comes in again and joins the party.”

“I’m sure Singleton would have noticed it, Mr. Alleyn. You see, Mason had warned him about gatecrashing. He was on the look-out. He had the list of guests and he ticked each one off.”

“Yes, that’s the great objection,” agreed Alleyn. “Still, I’d ask him.”

“Certainly, we’ll ask him. The other objection is that the deceased was a stranger here, and most of the guests wouldn’t have the ghost of a motive. What about Mason, now? Could he have done this door business, after he went in with you?”

“Unfortunately, I know he couldn’t,” said Alleyn, “He came on to the stage with me and we were together until he went to fetch Miss Dacres.”

“Anyway, sir. Think of the risk a man would run, tearing round the block in his evening duds. It’d look pretty crook if anyone saw him, now, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t think he would tear round the block, Wade.”

“What’s that?”

“Why not follow the Palmer route, in reverse, and come out in the yard?”

“By cripey, yes. Yes, that’s so. But he’d have to know about the path behind the sheds, wouldn’t he? Which young Palmer seems to have done, seeing the way he took to it afterwards. Is there anything in this business of young Palmer, do you reckon?”

“Not a damn’ thing, I should say.”

“Aw Geeze!” said Wade disgustedly. “What a case! It’s all cockeyed. Did you ever hear anything like this business of Miss Dacres! Owning up she fixed that weight to protect a man that, as far as we can see, couldn’t have done it.”

“At least she’s saved us the trouble of accounting for everybody’s movements after the murder.”

“She’s in a nasty hole. Messing about on the scene of the crime,” muttered Wade. “She’s going to find herself in a very, very uncomfortable little pozzy, is Miss Caroline Dacres Meyer, widow of deceased.”

“I hope not,” said Alleyn. “I may even try to corrupt the New Zealand force on her behalf. You never know.”

Wade looked doubtfully at him, decided he was attempting to amuse, and broke out into a guffaw.

“Aw dikkon, Mr. Alleyn!” said Wade.

“What did you say?”

“Haven’t you heard that one, sir? I suppose it’s N.Z. digger slang. ‘Dikkon.’ It’s the same as if you’d say ‘Come off it.’ Hangover from the first world war, they reckon.”

“On Gallipoli? You were in the second show, were you, Wade?”

“Too right. Saw it through from start to finish.”

“What ages ago it seems. And is.”

Passing Sergeant Packer, who was on duty at the stage-door, they strolled back to the office, talking returned soldier’s shop.

“What do you think, Mr. Alleyn? If there’s another war will the young chaps come at it, same as we did, thinking it’s great? And get the same jolt? What do you reckon?”