Ngaio Marsh - Enter A Murderer

“Is it on the chain?”

He pulled at the chain round her neck, found the key, which had been hidden under her dress, and slipped it off. This brought them close together, and he saw she was trembling.

“You are quite done up,” he said. “Shan’t I come with you? Give me that pleasure.”

“No, please. Good night again.”

He touched her hand.

“Goodnight.”

She took a step towards him, looked into his eyes, and smiled. In a moment he had her close-held in his arms.

“What’s this?” he said roughly. “I know you’re everything I most deplore — and yet — look at this. Shall I kiss you?”

“Why not?”

“Every reason why not.”

“How strangely you look at me. As if you were examining my face inch by inch.”

He released her suddenly.

“Please go,” he said.

In a moment she had gone. He leaned from the window and watched her come out on to the pavement below. She turned towards South Eaton Place. A few seconds later, a man came out of an alley-way by the flat, paused to light a cigarette, and then strolled off in the same direction.

Alleyn closed the window carefully and put out the light. In walking to the door he stubbed his toe on the little iron-bound box which was still lying where she had dropped it. He stooped down and opened it. A look of intense relief lightened his face. He picked it up and went out of the flat.

Left to itself the telephone rang again, insistently.

About ten minutes after Alleyn got back to his own flat that night, Nigel’s call came through.

“Got you at last,” he said.

“Did you ring up at Surbonadier’s flat about twenty minutes after you left it?” asked Alleyn.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I heard you.”

“Well, why the deuce didn’t you answer?”

“I was under the bed.”

“What? This telephone’s very bad.”

“Never mind. What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been to see Felix. He asked me to. You were right.”

“Well, not over the telephone. Come to the Yard at nine to-morrow.”

“All right,” said Nigel. “Good night.”

“Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,” said Alleyn wearily, and went to bed.

Next morning Nigel arrived at Scotland Yard with his copy and his messenger boy.

“This is becoming a habit,” said Alleyn. He censored the story and the remains were dispatched to Fleet Street

“Now,” said Nigel, “listen!”

He told his story of Gardener’s confession, and of the anonymous letter, which he produced. Alleyn listened attentively and examined the paper very carefully.

“I’m glad he decided to tell you this,” he said. “Do you think he would repeat it and sign a statement to the same effect?”

“I think so. As far as I could gather, after he had got over the first shock of having killed Surbonadier, he began to think you’d suspect him of malice aforethought. Later on, after I’d heard Miss Vaughan ask him not to repeat whatever it was, he felt it was she who was in danger and that he must tell you everything he knew that would be likely to draw your suspicions away from her. He realizes that what he has said definitely implicates Saint, and may implicate himself. He’s not at all sure Saint did it. He’s inclined to think it’s suicide.”

“So is our Mr. Saint — very much inclined,” said Alleyn grimly. He pressed the bell on his desk.

“Ask Inspector Fox to come in,” he said to the constable who answered it.

He examined the paper again in silence, until the inspector arrived.

“Glad tidings, Fox,” said Alleyn. “Our little murderer has come all over literary. He’s writing letters. One begins to see a glim.”

“Does one?” asked Nigel.

“But certainly. Fox, this letter arrived at Mr. Gardener’s flat, by district messenger, at about eight-thirty last night. There’s the envelope. The district messenger offices will have to be combed out. Have it tested for prints. You’ll find Gardener and an ‘unknown.’ I’ve a pretty good idea who the unknown is.”

“May I ask who?” Fox ventured eagerly.

“A man who, in all honesty, I think I may say we have never, in the course of our speculation, suspected of this crime; a man who, by his apparent eagerness to help the police, by his frequent suggestions, as well as by his singular charm of manner, has succeeded so far in escaping even our casual attention. And that man’s name is—”

“You can search me, sir.”

“Nigel Bathgate.”

“You fatuous old bag of tripe!” shouted Nigel furiously. And then when he saw Fox’s scandalised face: “I beg your pardon, inspector. Like Mr. Saint, I don’t always appreciate your comedy. It is true, Inspector Fox,” he added with quiet dignity, “that my fingerprints will be on that paper; but not all over it. Only at one edge, and then I remembered not to.”

“You’ll escape us this time, I’m afraid, sir,” said Fox solemnly. He began to heave with subterranean chuckles. “Your face was a fair treat, Mr. Bathgate,” he added.

“Well,” said Alleyn, “having worked off my professional facetiousness, let’s get down to it. In your list of properties offstage is there a typewriter?”

“There is. A Remington used in the first and last act.”

“Where’s it kept?”

“In the property-room, between whiles. I think they re-set the first act after the show, as a rule, so it would be on the stage when they all got down to the theatre, and in the property-room after the last act. We tested it for prints first just in case it might be in the picture. It showed Mr. Gardener’s on the keys, and Props’s prints at the sides, where he had carried it on.”

“The fingerprint system’s too well advertised nowadays for the poorest criminal to fall directly foul of it. Who used the typewriter in the last act? Oh, I remember — Gardener. Just let me get a copy of the letter and then give it to Bailey, will you, Fox? And get him to test the typewriter again. No, I’m not dotty. And now I must get things in order for the inquest. Thank the Lord it’s a presentable coroner.”

“Ah,” agreed Fox heavily. “You may say that.”

“How do you mean?” Nigel asked.

“Some of them,” said Alleyn, “I positively believe, keep black caps in their hip pockets. Tiresome old creatures. However, this one is a sensible fellow, and we’ll be through in no time.”

“I’ll get back to Fleet Street,” said Nigel. “I’m meeting Felix and going to the inquest with him. His lawyer is going to be there.”

“I expect there’ll be a covey of ’em. My spies tell me St. Jacob has employed Phillip Phillips to watch the wheels go round. He’s a brother of Phillips, K. C., who did St. Jacob so proud in the libel action. Very big game afoot.”

“Well,” said Nigel at the door, “we meet—”

“At Phillipi, in fact. Au revoir , Bathgate.” Nigel spent a couple of hours in his office, writing up cameo portraits of the leading characters in the case. His chief expressed himself as being not displeased with the stories, and Nigel, at twenty to eleven, went underground to Sloane Square, and thence to Gardener’s flat. The lawyer, a young and preternaturally solemn one, was already there. They discussed a glass of sherry and Nigel attempted to enliven the occasion with a few facetiae , which did not go down particularly well. The lawyer, whose unsuitably Congrevian name was Mr. Reckless, eyed him owlishly, and Gardener was too nervous and upset to be amused. They finished their sherry, and sought a taxi.

The inquest proved, on the whole, a disappointment to the crowds of people who attended it. Very little information as regards police activity came out. Alleyn gave a concise account of the actual scene in the theatre, and was treated with marked respect by the coroner. Nigel watched his friend, and experienced something of the sensation that visited him as a small boy, when the chief god of Pop walked on to a dais and grasped the hand of Royalty. Alleyn described the revolver, and the cartridges—.455.