Ngaio Marsh - Enter A Murderer

“She gave her evidence well, didn’t she?”

“Who?”

“Stephanie.”

“Very well.”

Some inflexion in Nigel’s voice arrested Gardener’s attention. He looked at his friend with a kind of agony in his eyes.

“Nigel — you remember what I said. Neither of us is guilty. I gave you my word and you said you believed me.”

“I know I did,” said Nigel miserably.

“Are you beginning — to wonder?”

“Are you sure you’re right, Felix? She— Oh, Lord!”

Gardener laughed.

“You are beginning to wonder. My God, if you only knew what a heroine she is!”

“Can’t you come clean, Felix?”

“I can’t — I can’t. Not about Stephanie. Oh, well, I suppose I can’t blame you. It looks pretty damning, for both of us. What does Alleyn say about the suicide theory?”

“He tells me very little,” said Nigel.

“The verdict of the inquest was wrong,” Gardener said urgently. “It was suicide. I’ll see Alleyn myself and try and make him—” He broke off short. “He must be made to accept that it was suicide.”

“I must go. Do try and get some sleep, Felix.”

“Sleep! ‘Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.’ Ugh! There goes the actor! Good-bye, Nigel.”

“I’ll let myself out. Good-bye.”

Nigel walked sombrely downstairs and out again into Sloane Street.

He realized now that he had a terrible decision to make. Was he to tell Alleyn of the conversation he had overheard? A woman! He shied off the logical consequence of his statement, and then, despising himself, came back to it again. If he held his tongue what would happen? Would Felix, who loved her, let Saint be accused of the murder? He thought of Alleyn’s attitude towards his scruples, and suddenly realized that it was his own peace of mind that he was trying to salvage. He was in Knightsbridge, and walking down to Hyde Park Corner, when he made his decision. He had no right to withhold his knowledge. He would tell Alleyn. With a heavy heart he stopped a taxi.

“Scotland Yard,” he said.

It was not yet four o’clock when he got there, but the chief inspector was in and could see him. He went up at once.

“Hullo, Bathgate,” Alleyn said. “What’s the matter with you? Found the murderer again?”

“Please don’t rag me,” Nigel begged him. “It’s not a theory I’ve come to give you. It’s a statement”

“Sit down. Now then, what is it?”

“I suppose you won’t understand how awful this feels, Alleyn. To you, it’s all got to be completely impersonal. I can’t feel like that. It’s been rather an effort to come to you with this information. That sounds theatrical, I know, but you see — it’s a woman.”

“What do you mean?” said Alleyn harshly. “What’s this information? You say you’ve got a statement to make — well, make it. I beg your pardon, Bathgate— I’m unbearable these days, aren’t I?”

Nigel gulped.

“I’ve overheard a confession,” he said.

Alleyn waited a second, and then took up a pencil.

“When?”

“This afternoon about an hour ago.”

“Where?”

“At Felix’s flat.”

“All right. Go ahead.”

“It’s soon told. I went up into his little lobby, without knocking and I heard voices in the ‘studio’ as he calls it. A woman said: ‘If I did, it was for you, Felix. He was your worst enemy.’ Felix said: ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it,’ and she began to laugh, horribly, and said: ‘It was all for nothing. Never mind, I don’t regret it. Do you hear that? But I don’t think you were worth it.’ Then I shut the front door noisily and called out. Felix came and let me in. She was there.”

“It was—?”

“Stephanie Vaughan.”

“Impossible,” said Alleyn fiercely.

“You don’t think I could make a mistake over a thing like that, do you? I tell you I’ll never forget their voices for as long as I live.”

Alleyn was silent for so long that Nigel stared at him in some discomfort. He looked as though he had made a shutter of his face. At last he said:

“After all, Bathgate, this is not conclusive. ‘If I did, it was for you. He was your worst enemy.’ Suppose she had told Gardener that she had used some threat to Surbonadier, to choke him off, and that she believed she had driven him to suicide? Suppose they were not speaking of Surbonadier?”

“If you had seen Felix you wouldn’t suggest that.”

“Why — what do you mean?”

“He’s a broken man,” said Nigel simply.

“A broken man! A broken man! You’re getting as stagy as any of them. Barclay Crammer was a ‘broken man’ in the witness-box this morning, silly old ass.”

Nigel got up.

“Well, that’s all,” he said. “If you don’t think it’s conclusive, I’m damn’ thankful.”

Alleyn leant over the desk and looked at him as though he were a museum piece.

“If Diogenes had rolled up against you,” he observed, “he’d have got out of his barrel, filled it with booze and made whoopee.”

“I suppose you mean to be nice,” said Nigel in a relieved voice.

“I suppose I do. What happened afterwards?”

“We made perfectly dreadful conversation. I must say she gave a marvellous performance.”

“I believe you.”

“She asked me to go and see her.” Nigel shuddered.

“You’re not to go.”

“Am I likely to?”

“Listen to me. You’re to pay no more visits to these people. Understand?”

“Yes — but what’s biting you?”

“Unless I’m with you. Write your little articles, and mind your little business.”

“This is what I get for doing the beastliest job of my life.”

“My dear Bathgate, I do honestly appreciate your difficulty and am genuinely grateful,” said Inspector Alleyn, with one of his rather charming turns of formality. “But I do ask you to behave as I suggest. I can reward you with a very choice bit of copy.”

“What’s that?”

“You may inform your public that Mr. Jacob Saint has been arrested, but that the nature of the charge is not known.”

“As a matter of hard fact,” Alleyn continued, when he had noted, with satisfaction, Nigel’s dropped jaw, “Mr. Saint is still at large. I am just off now to do my stuff. Care to come?”

“You bet I would. May I just ring up the office? I’ll catch the stop press for the last edition.”

“Very well. Say no more than what I’ve told you. You’d better warn them to hold it back for another twenty minutes. If he’s not arrested, you can ring up. Aren’t I good to you?”

“Very,” said Nigel fervently. He rang up and was well received. “That’s that,” he said.

“Well, we must hustle along as soon as I get the word from my myrmidon. Don’t let me forget my handcuffs. Dear me, I’m quite excited!”

“Five minutes ago,” observed Nigel, “you looked as though I’d punched you between the eyes. What’s come over you?”

“I’ve taken thought, or rose leaves, or something, and am ‘no longer a Golden Ass’.”

“Are you arresting Saint for the murder?”

“ Wouldn’t you like to know?”

A single knock on the door heralded the entrance of Inspector Fox.

“Our man’s just rung up,” he said. “The gentleman is in the office of the Unicorn. ’Evening, Mr. Bathgate.”

“Away we go then,” cried Alleyn.

“Handcuffs,” said Nigel.

“What would I do without you! Handcuffs, Fox?”

“Have got. You’d better put your top coat on, Chief. It’s a cold evening.”

“Here’s the warrant,” murmured Alleyn. He struggled into his overcoat and pulled on his felt hat at a jaunty angle.