Ngaio Marsh - Enter A Murderer

“I must say it does, sir. Now look at it this way. Suppose my lady Emerald takes Mr. Saint’s glove when he’s round behind. She’s sure to meet him, seeing how things are between them. She plants the gloves and the cartridges somewhere — likely enough in one of the unused drawers of the desk. She’s on the stage. She’s by the desk. She waits for the lights to be blacked out and then puts on the glove, changes over the cartridges, and drops the gloves in Miss Max’s bag. It would look too obvious to leave them near the desk. She knows all this stuff about bad blood between Saint and his nephew will come out. Saint gets rigged out with the hug-me-tight necktie, and she romps home with the dibs.”

“Could anything be better put? And I suppose she dips the thumb of the glove into Miss Vaughan’s wet-white just to make it more difficult.”

“That’s the catch in it,” admitted Bailey gloomily.

“Look here,” said Nigel loudly. “Listen!”

“Ssh!” whispered Alleyn excitedly.

“Don’t be silly, now. Listen to me. Miss Vaughan showed you how Surbonadier struck her on the shoulder. Suppose he got the stuff on his hand and — oh no. Sorry.”

“As we were, Bailey,” said Alleyn.

“We all of us make mistakes, sir,” said Detective Bailey kindly.

Nigel looked foolish.

“Well, anyway,” he said, “I bet Surbonadier upset the stuff.”

“More than likely,” agreed Alleyn.

At this juncture Inspector Fox walked in.

“Here’s the Props fancier,” said Alleyn.

“Good morning, Mr. Bathgate. Yes, that’s me. I don’t see how you can get past that funny business with the chandelier. And he knew the dummies were in the second drawer. There’s motive, behaviour and everything else.”

“And the gloves?” Alleyn asked.

“Left on the stage by Mr. Saint, and used by Props for the job.”

“And the stage-white of Miss Vaughan, on the glove of Mr. Saint, used by Props for the job?”

“Oh, it was hers, was it?” grumbled Inspector Fox. “Well, Saint must have gone into her room.”

“It’s ingenious, Fox,” said Alleyn, “but I don’t think it’s quite right. I take it, this stage-white dries like a particularly clinging powder. Now if Saint had got it on his glove, earlier in the evening, it would be dry when the glove was used for the cartridges, and if any came off, it would be powdery and not likely to stick to the brass. Through the lens those marks looked as if the stuff had been smeared on, wet.”

“The same thing applies to Felix,” ventured Nigel. “According to Miss Vaughan, he left her room soon after we did, and after that they only met in his room.”

Alleyn swung round slowly.

“That’s quite true,” he said; “leaving her room vacant, during the black-out.”

“I get you,” said Fox heavily.

“I don’t,” confessed Nigel.

“Don’t you? Well I’m jolly well going to be inscrutable. The next thing to do is to see Mr. Jacob Saint again. He said he might call in. Do you know, I believe I’ll ask the old darling. Run and do your job, Bathgate.”

“Oh, I say,” Nigel protested. “Can’t I wait and hear Uncle Jacob?”

“Away you go!”

Nigel attempted persuasion and was cheerfully invited to get out before he was thrown out. He departed, conscious of smiles on the faces of Inspector Fox and Detective-Sergeant Bailey. A hunt through the file in his own office rewarded him with a complete account of the Jacob Saint libel action, and the discovery of the reporter’s name. He was one Edward Wakeford, whom Nigel knew slightly and who was now literary editor on the staff of a weekly paper. Nigel rang him up and arranged a meeting in the bar of a Fleet Street tavern much patronized by Pressmen. They forgathered at eleven o’clock, and over enormous tankards of lager the subject of the trial was broached.

“You doing this Unicorn murder?” asked Wakeford.

“Yes, I am. I know Alleyn, of the Yard, and was with him at the show. It was a marvellous chance, but, of course, I have to play fair. He vets everything.”

“By George, he’s a marvel, that man,” said Wakeford; “I could tell you of a case”—and did.

“It was Alleyn who asked me to look you up,” Nigel told him. “He wants to know if you’ve any idea who wrote the article in the ‘Mex’ in the Saint libel action. The story that was supposed to be yours.”

Wakeford’s reply was startling. “I’ve always thought it was Arthur Surbonadier,” he said.

“Gosh, Wakeford — this — this is simply terrific, honestly it is! Why did you think so?”

“Oh, I’ve nothing much to go on, but I knew the blighter and I’d written to him, so he could have forged my signature. He was Saint’s nephew and likely enough to have inside information.”

“But why would he do it? Old Saint paid for his education, and gave him everything he had.”

“They never got on though. And Surbonadier was always in debt. By the way, he wasn’t ‘Surbonadier’ in those days. He was Arthur Simes. Saint’s name is Simes, you know. Arthur crashed heavily soon after that, and was sent down. It was a very unsavoury business. Then Uncle Jacob gave him a chance on the boards and he hurriedly changed to ‘Surbonadier. ’ ”

“And he wasn’t paid for the article?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then I don’t see why—”

“Nor can I, except that he was an extraordinarily vindictive sort of chap, and was drinking heavily, even then.”

“Didn’t Saint suspect him?”

“Saint always swore that forgery was a ramp and that the story was written by me. Legally it didn’t arise. The ‘Mex’ was responsible, whoever wrote the stuff, and, thank the Lord, they believed me. It wasn’t quite my style, but it wasn’t a bad imitation.”

“Have you ever met Felix Gardener?”

“No. Why?”

“He’s a friend of mine. It’s a ghastly situation for him.”

“Awful. But the police don’t suspect him, surely?”

“No, I’m sure they don’t. But, you see, he did actually shoot Surbonadier. It’s an unpleasant thought for him.”

“Oh, terrible, I quite agree. Well, that’s all I can do to help you. What do I get? It’s not my line or I’d pinch your story.”

Nigel gave him a friendly but rather absentminded punch.

“Felix must have been a freshman when it happened. I wonder if he could let any light in on it himself. He may have known Surbonadier.”

“Try him. I must push off.”

“I’m terribly obliged to you, Wakeford.”

“Not a bit. Bung-oh,” said Wakeford genially, and went his ways.

Nigel was in two minds whether to rush off to Alleyn with his booty, or to seek out Gardener with what, he could not help feeling, was a piece of heartening news. In the end he plumped for Gardener and, in the fury of his zest, took a taxi to the studio-flat in Sloane Street.

Gardener was in. Nigel found him looking wretchedly lost and miserable. He had apparently been staring out of his window, and turned from there with a terribly startled face as Nigel walked in.

“Nigel!” he said breathlessly. “It’s — it’s you!”

“Hullo, old thing,” said Nigel.

“Hullo. I’ve been thinking. Look here, I believe they’ll get me for this. Last night I couldn’t think of anything, except how he looked when he fell, and then later — when it was getting light, you know — I began to see what would happen. I’ll be arrested for murder. And I won’t be able to prove anything. It’ll mean— being hanged.”

“Oh, shut your silly face up,” implored Nigel. “Why the devil should they think you did it? Don’t be fatuous.”

“I know why he asked me all that stuff. He thinks I planted the cartridges.”