Ngaio Marsh - Enter A Murderer

“I did,” said George Simpson.

Nigel experienced a slight thrill in taking down Simpson’s last statement — a thrill that was at once tempered by the reflection that the placing of the dummy cartridges was of little importance in tracing the deadly ones. Alleyn went on easily:

“You did. Splendid. Now, when exactly did you put the dummies in that drawer?”

“During the second act wait, just before the curtain went up.”

“The desk was then on the stage, or should I say on the set?”

“Only if you’re a talkie actor. The scene was set and the desk was in position.”

“I wish there had been no further change of scene. Where exactly was the desk? As I remember, it was about here.”

Nigel heard Alleyn walk across the stage. By dint of squinting through the crack in the doorway he saw that the inspector was standing in the prompt first entrance, that is to say, in the doorway on the audience’s right of the stage.

“It was just upstage of there,” said Simpson.

“And the face of the desk towards the door, wasn’t it?” asked Alleyn.

“That is so.”

“Now, when you put the dummies in the drawer who was on the stage?”

“The beginners for the third act Miss Max, Miss Emerald, and Mr. Surbonadier.”

“Did they see you put them there?”

“Oh, yes. Janet said: ‘I’m always terrified you’ll forget those things, George. You leave it so late!’ ”

“The drawer was empty when you pulled it out?”

“I think so. I don’t know that I’d swear it was — I may not have looked at the back of it.”

“Do you remember if any of the others afterwards came near the desk? Perhaps sat down at it while waiting for the curtain to go up?”

“I don’t remember,” said Simpson in a great hurry.

“Mr. Simpson — try to remember.” There was a pause.

“I can’t remember,” said Simpson querulously.

“Let me try and help. Did you speak to any of them, now?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. I spoke to Miss Max, who was over on the O. P. She said the rug on that side was in the way of the door opening, and I moved it for her. Then she sat down in the chair over there and took out her knitting. The knitting is ‘business’ in the part.”

“Yes. She had it in a red bag.”

“That’s right.” Simpson began to speak very rapidly. “And she didn’t move again before the curtain went up. I remember that because she laughed about her knitting and said she was trying to get it finished before we had run three weeks. It’s a scarf. She put it round my neck to measure it.”

“Now, didn’t she sit in that chair for some time after the curtain went up? Wasn’t she still sitting there when Surbonadier loaded the revolver?”

Through the crack in the door Nigel saw Simpson’s surprised glance at the inspector.

“You’ve got a good memory,” he said. “That’s perfectly true.”

“I’ve got a rotten memory really,” said Alleyn, “but the scene impressed me, you know. If you think back it’s a great help. Now, what did you do after you had straightened the mat and had your merry jape with the knitting?”

“I think I had a look round the stage to see everything was in place.”

“And then—?”

“Then I went to the prompt box. I remember now that Surbonadier and Miss Emerald were standing upstage by the window and—” He stopped short.

“Yes?”

“That’s all.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Simpson. What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

“I can’t force you to speak, but do — do let me urge you to consider the seriousness of your position. It’s no good my pretending or trying to bluff. I’m no actor, Mr. Simpson. You put the cartridges in the drawer. It’s of first importance from your point of view to prove that they were dummy cartridges.”

“It’s not for myself—” began Simpson hotly.

“Then don’t for the love of Mike start some fool game of shielding another person. That sort of thing is either damn’ dangerous or just plain silly. However, it’s as you please, ”

Simpson moved away from the range of Nigel’s vision and when he did speak his voice sounded remote.

“You’re quite right, I suppose,” he said. “As for myself, I think I can clear up the cartridge business.”

“All to the good. Now what were you going to say about Miss Janet Emerald?”

“Honestly, it’s nothing really. Arthur Surbonadier seemed a bit upset. He — well, it’s my job as stage manager to look after that sort of thing — he was not himself.”

“You mean he was drunk — I know he was.”

“Oh — well — yes, that and something else. Sort of dangerous drunk. Well, when I went back to the prompt box Janet Emerald came after me and she said: ‘Arthur’s tight, George, and I’m nervous,’ and I said: ‘He’s giving a damn’ good show, anyway.’ (He was, you know.) Then she said: ‘That may be right, but he’s a beast, a filthy beast.’ And I heard her whisper — Oh, lord, it meant nothing—”

“Well?”

“She whispered to herself: ‘I could kill him’; and then she turned her back to me and stood with her hands on the desk. She talks that way. It meant nothing. I didn’t look at her again. I glanced at the book and said: ‘All clear, please,’ and they took up positions.”

“And then?”

“Then I said: ‘House lights’ to the switchboard man and flicked on the orchestra warning and the black-out warning. That scene opens on a black-out.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then I said: ‘Stand by please,’ and we blacked out and the scene went up.”

“How long did the black-out last?”

“For the first few speeches of the dialogue. About four minutes altogether, because we black out for a little before the curtain goes up. Then Surbonadier switched on the stage lamp.”

“Who was on the stage, behind the scenes, all that time?”

“Oh, the staff were up at the back. The property master and others. Props was standing beside me in the prompt box, I remember. He stayed there after he had given me the dummies and was there all the time until after the black-out. I know that because he kept whispering something about one of the dummies being loose. He seemed scared it might come to bits when Surbonadier loaded the gun.”

“I see. And the others?”

“I think young Howard Melville was somewhere round — he’s assistant S.M. I was on the book. It’s a short scene, but the beginners in the next bit aren’t called until half-way through.”

“One more point and then I’m done. Where did you get the dummies?”

“Props made them. He’s a positive genius at anything like that. Takes a pride in it. He got empty shells and filled them with sand, and then shoved the bullets in.”

“Rather unnecessarily thorough, one would think.”

“Lord, yes!” Simpson sounded much more at ease now. “But that’s Props all over. He was shell-shocked during the war, poor devil, and he’s — not exactly queer — but kind of intensely concentrated. He was as proud as Punch when he showed them to me, and said no one could tell they weren’t the goods.”

“Where were they kept?”

“Props always picked up the revolver at the end of the show and took them out. Then he used to take the gun to Felix Gardener. It was his brother’s gun and Felix sets great store by it and always takes it home. Props used to put the dummies into the property-room and bring them to me before that scene. I made him do that because I wanted to be quite certain they were in the right drawer.”

“And that’s what happened to-night?”

“Yes.”

“Did you examine them before you put them in the drawer?”