Ngaio Marsh - Enter A Murderer

“In my dressing-room, changing. Then I went in to see Felix.”

“Was anyone with you? In your own room, I mean?”

“My dresser.”

“All the time?”

“I’ve no idea. From my dressing-room I couldn’t see when the stage lights went on.”

“I should have thought you could hear the dialogue.”

“Possibly. I didn’t listen.”

“Was Mr. Gardener still in his room when you left it?”

“No. He went out first. He came on before I did.”

“When did you go out on to the stage?”

“When the scene was over.”

“Yes. Thank you. What happened after Bathgate and I left your dressing-room?”

The question must have taken her by surprise. Nigel heard her draw in her breath. When she spoke, however, her voice was quite even.

“After you left,” she said, “there was a scene.”

“There was the making of one while we were there. What happened?”

She leant back wearily, her wrap slipped down. She winced, as if something had hurt her, and sat forward again, pulling the fur collar over her shoulders.

“You are hurt?” said Alleyn. “Your shoulder. You put your hand up to it”

“Arthur hit me.”

“What!”

“Oh, yes.”

“Let me see it.”

She let her wrap fall, and pulled aside her dress, hunching up her shoulder. Nigel could see the bruise. Alleyn bent over her without touching her.

“What did Gardener do?”

“He wasn’t there. I’m beginning half-way, I suppose. The moment you had gone I made Felix leave me. He didn’t want to, of course, but I had to deal with Arthur alone, and I insisted. He didn’t like going, but he went.”

“And then?”

“And then there was a scene — a scene in a whisper. We had had them before. I was used to it. He was quite beside himself with jealousy, and threatened me with all sorts of things. Then he became maudlin and shed tears. I’d never seen him like that before.”

“With what did he threaten you?”

“He told me,” said Miss Vaughan gently, “that he would drag my name in the mud. He said he would stop Felix marrying me. Really, if Felix had been shot, I should not have wondered. Arthur looked murderous. I think he did it himself.”

“Do you? Had he that sort of rogue’s courage?”

“I think so. He hoped Felix would be accused.”

“Where was he?” asked Alleyn, “when he struck you?”

“How do you mean? I was sitting where you left me — on the small chair in my room. He was standing, I think, about as far off as you are now.”

“With his left hand, then?”

“No. I don’t know. I can’t remember, I’m afraid. Perhaps if you were to do it — but gently, please — I might remember.”

Alleyn moved his right arm and Nigel saw his hand against the left side of her throat.

“It would be there, on your face,” he said, “I think it must have been with his left hand, and even then it would be a strange sort of blow.”

“He was drunk.”

“So everyone keeps telling me. Could he not have been behind you? Like this.”

Alleyn stood behind her and laid his right hand on her right shoulder. Nigel was suddenly and vividly reminded of the scene in the dressing-room, when Gardener had stood, touching her in the same way, and laughing at Alleyn’s remark about Edgar Wallace.

“My hand falls exactly over the bruise,” said Alleyn. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.”

“Let me draw up your wrap. You are cold.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you think that could have been the way of it?”

“Perhaps. He was lurching about the room. I really don’t remember.”

“You must have been terrified.”

“No. He was not a terrifying man, but I was glad Felix had gone. I managed to get rid of Arthur and then I went to Felix’s room.”

“Next door?”

“Yes. I said nothing about the blow on my shoulder. Beadle was there but left as soon as I went in. Then I told Felix it had all petered out.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that Arthur was a drunken pig, but that in a way he was sorry for him. He said I must let him speak to Master Surbonadier and tell him to behave himself, and that he wouldn’t have me worried like that.”

“Quite temperate about it?”

“Yes. He knew that sort of thing didn’t really count and we both had a horror of more scenes. We only spoke a few words, and then Felix went out on to the stage. The lights were still out, I remember. Have you got a cigarette, Mr. Alleyn? I should like one.”

“I’m very sorry. I didn’t think.” She took one from his case and he lit it for her. She touched her fingers against the back of his hand, and they seemed to look full in each other’s face. Then she leant back again in her chair. They smoked in silence for a little time — Alleyn very composedly, Miss Vaughan not so composedly.

“Please tell me this,” she said at last, very earnestly, “do you suspect anyone?”

“You cannot expect me to answer that,” said Alleyn.

“Why not?”

“Everyone is under suspicion. Everyone is lying and acting.”

“Even me? Have I lied or played a part?”

“I don’t know,” said Alleyn sombrely. “How should I?”

“How you dislike me, Inspector Alleyn!”

“You think so?” said Alleyn swiftly, and then, after a pause: “Do you ever do jig-saw puzzles?”

“Sometimes.”

“And do you ever conceive an ardent distaste for a bit that won’t fit in?”

“Yes.”

“That is the only kind of personal prejudice a policeman can allow himself. I have that feeling for the pieces that don’t fit. For the ones that do, I develop a queer sort of affection.”

“And you can’t fit me into your puzzle?”

“On the contrary, I think I have you — just where you belong.”

“My cigarette is finished. Have you anything more to ask me? No, I don’t want another.”

“Only one more point. May I have your hand?”

She held out both her hands. Nigel was astonished to see him take them very lightly in his, and raise them to his face. He turned them over in his palms, and stood with his eyes closed, his lips almost touching them. She made no attempt to withdraw them, but she was less pale, and Nigel thought her hands trembled very slightly. Then he let them drop.

“Chanel No. 5,” he said. “Thank you very much, Miss Vaughan.”

She hid her hands swiftly in the fur sleeves of her coat. “I thought you were going to kiss them,” she said lightly.

“I trust I know my place,” said Alleyn, “Good night. Mr. Gardener is waiting for you.”

“Good night. Do you want my address?”

“Please.”

“Flat 10, The Nun’s House, Shepheard’s Market Will you write it down?”

“There is no need. Good night”

She looked at him an instant and then went down the passage to the stage door. Nigel heard her calling:

“There you are, Felix”—and in a moment her footsteps had died away.

“Have you got that address down, Bathgate?” asked Alleyn anxiously.

“You old devil,” said Nigel.

“Why?”

“Well. I don’t know. I thought you didn’t like her before, in the dressing-room.”

“So did she.”

“Now I’m not so sure.”

“Nor is she.”

“Are you being a cad, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Yes, Mr. Bathgate.”

“What were you driving at about that bruise?”

“Didn’t you guess? Can’t you see?”

“No, I can’t. Unless you wanted an excuse to dally with the lady.”

“Have it that way, if you like,” said Alleyn.

“I think you’re very silly,” said Nigel, grandly, “and I’m going home.”

“So am I. Thank you for giving me such a lovely evening.”