Vintage Murder

‘The wire was loosened a bit before it came down,’ said Gascoigne. ‘He – the governor himself – he went aloft after the show specially to do it. He didn’t want a stage-wait after it came down. He said the wire would still hold the cork.’

‘And it did till the jolt – yes. What about the counterweight, Mr Gascoigne? That would have to be detached before the champagne was poured out.’

‘Bert was to go up at once and take it off.’

‘I orfered to stay up there, like,’ said Bert. ‘But ’e says “No,”, ’e says, “you can see the show and then go up. I’ll watch it.” Gawd, Mr Gascoigne—’

Alleyn slipped away through the wings. Off-stage it was very dark and smelt of theatre. He walked along the wall until he came to the foot of an iron ladder. He was reminded most vividly of his only other experience behind the scenes. ‘Is my mere presence in the stalls,’ he thought crossly, ‘a cue for homicide? May I not visit the antipodes without elderly theatre magnates having their heads bashed in by jeroboams of champagne before my very eyes? And the answer being “No” to each of these questions, can I not get away quickly without nosing into the why and wherefore?’

He put on his gloves and began to climb the ladder. ‘Again the answer is “No.” The truth of the matter is I’m an incurable nosy parker. Detect I must, if I can.’ He reached the first gallery, and peered about him, using his electric torch, and then went on up the ladder. ‘I wonder how she’s taking it? And Hambledon. Will they marry each other in due course, provided – After all, she may not be in love with Hambledon. Ah, here we are.’

He paused at the top gallery and switched on his torch.

Close beside him a batten, slung on ropes, ran across from his gallery to the opposite one. Across the batten hung a pulley and over the pulley was a rope. Looking down the far length of the rope, he saw it run away in sharp perspective from dark into light. He had a bird’s-eye view of the lamplit set, the tops of the wings, the flat white strip of table; and there, at the end of the rope in the middle of the table, a flattened object, rather like a beetle with a white head and paws. That was Alfred Meyer. The other end of the rope, terminating in an iron hook, was against the pulley. The hook had been secured to a ring in the end of the rope, and the red cord which Carolyn had cut was also tied to the ring. The cut end of the cord dangled in mid-air. On the hook he should have found the counterweight.

But there was no counterweight.

He looked again at the pulley. It was as he had thought. A loop of thin cord had been passed round the near end of the batten and tied to the gallery. It had served to pull the batten eighteen inches to one side. So that when the bottle dropped it was slightly to the right of the centre of the table.

‘Stap me and sink me!’ said Alleyn and returned to the stage. He found Ted Gascoigne by the stage-door. With him were two large dark men, wearing overcoats, scarves, and black felt hats; a police officer, and a short pink-faced person who was obviously the divisional surgeon. ‘Do they call them divisional surgeons in this country?’ wondered Alleyn.

They were some time at the stage-door. Gascoigne talked very fast and most confusedly. At last he took them on to the stage, where they were joined by Te Pokiha. From the wings Alleyn watched them make their examination. It gave him a curious feeling to look on while other men did his own job. They examined the end of the rope which was still knotted into the net enclosing the bottle, and the piece of red-bound wire cord that lay on the table. Gascoigne explained the mechanism of the descending jeroboam. They peered up into the grid. Gascoigne pointed out the other end of the red cord.

‘When Miss Dacres cut it, it shot up,’ he explained.

‘Yes,’ said the detective. ‘Ye-ees. That’s right. Ye-ees.’

‘Out comes the old notebook,’ said Alleyn to himself.

‘Hullo,’ said a voice at his elbow. It was Hambledon.

‘Carolyn wants to see you,’ he whispered. ‘What’s happening out there?’

‘Police doing their stuff. Wants to see me, does she?’

‘Yes, come on.’

He led the way into the usual dark wooden passage. The star dressing-room was the first on the left. Hambledon knocked on the door, opened it, and led the way in. Carolyn sat at her dressing-table. She still wore the black lace dress she had put on for the party. Her hair was pushed back from her face as though she had sat with her head in her hands. Old Susan Max was with her. Susan sat comfortably in an arm-chair, radiating solid sense, but her eyes were anxious. They brightened when she saw Alleyn.

‘Here he is, dear,’ she said.

Carolyn turned her head slowly.

‘Hullo,’ she said.

‘Hullo,’ said Alleyn. ‘Hambledon says you want me.’

‘Yes, I do.’ Her hands were trembling violently. She pressed them together between her knees.

‘I just thought I’d like you here,’ said Carolyn. ‘I’ve killed him, haven’t I?’

‘No!’ said Hambledon violently.

‘My dear!’ said Susan.

‘Well, I have. I cut the cord. That was what did it, wasn’t it?’ She still looked at Alleyn.

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn in a very matter-of-fact voice, ‘that was what set the thing off. But you didn’t rig the apparatus, did you?’

‘No. I didn’t know anything about it. It was a surprise.’

She caught her breath and a strange sound, something like laughter, came from her lips. Susan and Hambledon looked panicky.

‘Oh!’ cried Carolyn. ‘Oh! Oh!’

‘Don’t!’ said Alleyn. ‘Hysterics are a bad way of letting things go. You feel awful afterwards.’

She raised one of her hands and bit on it. Alleyn picked up a bottle of smelling-salts from the dressing-table and held it under her nose.

‘Sniff hard,’ he said.

Carolyn sniffed and gasped. Tears poured out of her eyes.

‘That’s better. You’re crying black tears. I thought that stuff was waterproof. Look at yourself.’

She gazed helplessly at him and then turned to the glass. Susan gently wiped away the black tears.

‘You’re a queer one,’ sobbed Carolyn.

‘I know I am,’ agreed Alleyn. ‘It’s a pose, really. Would you drink a little brandy if Hambledon got it for you?’

‘No.’

‘Yes, you would.’ He looked good-humouredly at Hambledon, who was standing by her chair. ‘Can you?’ asked Alleyn.

‘Yes – yes, I’ll get it.’ He hurried away.

Alleyn sat on one of the wicker baskets and spoke to old Susan.

‘Well, Miss Max, our meetings are to be fraught with drama, it seems.’

‘Ah,’ said Susan with a sort of grunt.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Carolyn. She turned to the mirror and, very shakily, dabbed at her face with a powder-puff.

‘Mr Alleyn and I have met before, dear,’ explained Susan. ‘Over that dreadful business with Felix Gardener, you know.’

‘Yes. We spoke about it that night on the train.’ Carolyn paused, and then she began to speak rapidly, urgently and with more command over her voice.