Night at the Vulcan (21 page)

“Tuesday?”

“Yes. On that morning I went to Mr. Bennington’s room to fetch Miss Hamilton’s cigarette case. He was rather strange in his manner, but at first I thought that was because — I thought he’d noticed my likeness to Mr. Poole. He couldn’t find the case and in hunting through the pockets of a jacket, he dropped a letter to the floor. I picked it up and he drew my attention to it in the oddest sort of way. I’d describe his manner almost as triumphant. He said something about autographs. I think he asked me if I collected autographs or autographed letters. He pointed to the envelope, which I still had in my hand, and said there was somebody who’d give a hell of a lot for that one. Those, I’m almost sure, were his exact words.”

“Did you look at the letter?”

“Yes, I did, because of what he said. It was addressed to him and it had a foreign stamp on it. The writing was very bold and it seemed to me foreign-looking. I put it on the shelf face downwards and he drew my attention to it again by stabbing at it with his finger. The name of the sender was written on the back.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Yes, I do, because of his insistence.”

“Good girl,” said Alleyn quietly.

“It was Otto Brod and the address was a theatre in Prague. I’m afraid I don’t remember the name of the theatre or the street. I
ought
to remember the theatre. It was a French name, Théâtre de — something.
Why
can’t I remember!”

“You haven’t done badly. Was there something in the envelope?”

“Yes. It wasn’t anything fat. One sheet of paper, I should think.”

“And his manner was triumphant?”

“I thought so. He was just rather odd about it. He’d been drinking — brandy, I thought — the tumbler was on the dressing-shelf and he made as if to put the flask behind his looking-glass.”

“Did you think he was at all the worse for wear?”

“I wondered if it accounted for his queer behaviour.”

“Can you tell me anything else he said? The whole conversation if you remember it.”

Martyn thought back, and it seemed she had journeyed half a lifetime in three days. There was the room. There was J.G. going out and leaving her with Bennington, and there was Bennington staring at her and talking about the cigarette case. There was also something else, buried away behind her thoughts, of which the memory now returned. She was made miserable by it.

“He said, I think, something about the cigarette case. That he himself hadn’t given it to Miss Hamilton.”

“Did he say who gave it to her?”

“No,” Martyn said, “I don’t think he said that. Just that
he
didn’t.”

“And was his manner of saying this strange?”

“I thought his manner throughout was — uncomfortable and odd. He seemed to me to be a very unhappy man.”

“Yet you used the word ‘triumphant’?”

“There can be unhappy victories.”

“True for you. There can, indeed. Tell me one thing more. Do you connect the two conversations? I mean, do you think what he said about the cigarette case had anything to do with what he said about the letter?”

“I should say nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Oh Lord!” Alleyn said resignedly and called out: “Have you got all that, Mike?”

“Coming up the straight, sir.”

“Put it into longhand, now, will you, and we’ll ask Miss Tarne to have a look at it and see if she’s been misrepresented. Do you mind waiting a minute or two, Miss Tarne? It’ll save you coming back.”

“No, of course not,” said Martyn, whose ideas of police investigation were undergoing a private revolution. Alleyn offered her a cigarette and lit it for her. The consultation, she felt, was over, and the famous surgeon was putting his patient at her ease.

“I gather from Lamprey’s far-reaching conversation that you are a New Zealander,” he said. “If I may say so, you seem to have dropped out of a clear sky into your own success-story. Have you been long at the Vulcan, Miss Tarne?”

“A little over three days.”

“Good Lord! And in that time you’ve migrated from dresser to what sounds like minor stardom. Success-story, indeed!”

“Yes, but—” Martyn hesitated. For the first time since she walked into the Vulcan she felt able to talk about herself. It didn’t occur to her that it was odd for her confidant to be a police officer.

“It’s all been very eccentric,” she said. “I only reached England a little over a fortnight ago and my money was stolen in the ship, so I had to get some sort of job rather quickly.”

“Did you report the theft to the police?”

“No. The purser said he didn’t think it would do any good.”

“So much,” said Alleyn with a wry look, “for the police!”

“I’m sorry—” Martyn began and he said: “Never mind. It’s not an uncommon attitude, I’m afraid. So you had a rather unhappy arrival. Lucky there was your cousin to come to your rescue.”

“But — no — I mean—” Martyn felt herself blushing and plunged on, “That’s just what I didn’t want to do. I mean I didn’t want to go to him at all. He didn’t know of my existance. You see—”

It was part of Alleyn’s professional equipment that something in his make-up invited confidence. Mr. Fox once said of his superior that he would be able to get himself worked up over the life-story of a mollusc, provided the narrative was obtained first-hand. He heard Martyn’s story with the liveliest interest up to the point where she entered the theatre. He didn’t seem to think it queer that she should have been anxious to conceal her relationship to Poole, or that she was stupid to avoid the Vulcan in her search for a job. She was describing her interview with Bob Grantley on Monday night when Sergeant Gibson’s voice sounded in the passage. He tapped on the door and came in.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but could you see the night-watchman? He seems to think it’s important.”

He’d got as far as this when he was elbowed aside by Fred Badger, who came angrily into the room.

“ ’Ere!” he said. “Are you the guv’nor of this ’owd’yerdo?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn.

“Well, look. You can lay orf this young lady, see? No call to get nosey on account of what she done, see? I don’t know nothink abaht the law, see, but I’m in charge ’ere of a night and what she done she done wiv my permission, Nah!”

“Just a moment—” Alleyn began and was roared down.

“Suppose it was an offence! What abaht it! She never done no ’arm. No offence taken where none was intended, that’s correct, ain’t it! Nah ven!”

“What,” Alleyn said turning to Martyn, “is this about?”

“I’m afraid it’s about me sleeping in the theatre that first night. I’d nowhere to go and it was very late. Mr. Badger very kindly — didn’t turn me out.”

“I see. Where did you sleep?”

“Here. In this chair.”

“Like a charld,” Fred Badger interposed. “Slep’ like a charld all night. I looked in on me rahnds and seen ’er laying safe in the arms of Morpus. Innercent. And if anyone tells you different you can refer ’im to me. Badger’s the name.”

“All right, Badger.”

“If you put me pot on with the management fer what I done, leaving ’er to lay — all right. Aht! Finish! There’s better jobs rahnd the corner.”

“Yes. All right. I don’t think we’ll take it up.”

“Awright. Fair enough.” He addressed himself to Martyn. “And what was mentioned between you and me in a friendly manner needn’t be mentioned no more. Let bygones be bygones.” He returned to Alleyn. “She’s as innercent as a babe. Arst ’is nibs.”

Alleyn waited for a moment and then said: “Thank you.” Gibson succeeded in removing Fred Badger, but not before he had directed at Martyn that peculiar clicking sound of approval which is accompanied by a significant jerk of the head.

When he had gone Alleyn said: “I think I’d better ask you to interpret. What was his exquisite meaning?”

Martyn felt a dryness in her mouth. “I think,” she said, “he’s afraid he’ll get into trouble for letting me sleep in here that night and I think he’s afraid I’ll get into trouble if I tell you that he showed me how the murder in the Jupiter case was accomplished.”

“That seems a little far-fetched.”

Martyn said rapidly: “I suppose it’s idiotic of me to say this, but I’d rather say it. Mr. Bennington very naturally resented my luck in this theatre. He tackled me about it and he was pretty truculent. I expect the stage-hands have gossiped to Badger and he thinks you might — might—”

“Smell a motive?”

“Yes,” said Martyn.

“Did Bennington threaten you?”

“I don’t remember exactly what he said. His manner was threatening. He frightened me.”

“Where did this happen?”

“Off-stage, during the first dress rehearsal.”

“Was anyone present when he tackled you?”

The image of Poole rose in Martyn’s memory. She saw him take Bennington by the arm and twist him away from her.

“There were people about,” she said. “They were changing the set. I should think it very likely — I mean it was a very public sort of encounter.”

He looked thoughtfully at her and she wondered if she had changed colour. “This,” he said, “was before it was decided you were to play the part?”

“Oh, yes. That was only decided half an hour before the show went on.”

“So it was. Did he do anything about this decision? Go for you again?”

“He didn’t come near me until I’d finished. And knowing how much he must mind, I was grateful for that.”

Alleyn said: “You’ve been very sensible to tell me this, Miss Tarne.”

Martyn swallowed hard. “I don’t know,” she said, “that I would have told you if it hadn’t been for Fred Badger.”

“Ah, well,” Alleyn said, “one mustn’t expect too much. How about that statement, Mike?”

“Here we are, sir. I hope you can read my writing, Miss Tarne.”

When she took the paper, Martyn found her hands were not steady. Alleyn moved away to the table with his subordinate. She sat down again and read the large schoolboyish writing. It was a short and accurate résumé of the incident of the letter from Prague.

“It’s quite right,” she said. “Am I to sign it?”

“If you please. There will be statements for most of the others to sign later on, but yours is so short I thought we might as well get it over now.”

He gave her his pen and she went to the table and signed. P. C. Lamprey smiled reassuringly at her and escorted her to the door.

Alleyn said: “Thank you so much, Miss Tarne. Do you live far from here?”

“Not very far. A quarter of an hour’s walk.”

“I wish I could let you go home now but I don’t quite like to do that. Something might crop up that we’d want to refer to you.”

“Might it?”

“You never know,” he said. “Anyway, you can change now.” Lamprey opened the door and she went to the dressing-room.

When she had gone, Alleyn said: “What did you make of her, Mike?”

“I thought she was rather a sweetie-pie, sir,” said P. C. Lamprey. Fox, in his disregarded corner, snorted loudly.

“That was all too obvious,” said Alleyn. “Sweetness apart, did you find her truthful?”

“I’d have said so, sir, yes.”

“What about you, Br’er Fox? Come out of cover and declare yourself.”

Fox rose, removed his spectacles and advanced upon them. “There was something,” he observed, “about that business of when deceased went for her.”

“There was indeed. Not exactly lying, wouldn’t you think, so much as leaving something out?”

“Particularly in respect of whether there was a witness.”

“She had her back to you but she looked at this portrait of Adam Poole. I’d make a long bet Poole found Bennington slanging that child and ordered him off.”

“Very possibly, Mr. Alleyn. He’s sweet on the young lady. That’s plain to see.
And
she on him.”

“Good Lord!” Mike Lamprey ejaculated. “He must be forty! I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Fox began a stately reproof but Alleyn said: “Go away, Mike. Go back to the stage. Wake Dr. Rutherford and ask him to come here. I want a change from actors.”

Dr. Rutherford, on his entry into the Greenroom, was a figure of high fantasy. For his greater ease in sleeping he had pulled his boiled shirt from its confinement and it dangled fore and aft like a crumpled tabard. Restrained only by his slackened braces, it formed a mask, Alleyn conjectured, for a free adjustment of the Doctor’s trouser buttoning. He had removed his jacket and assumed an overcoat. His collar was released and his tie dangled on his bosom. His head was tousled and his face blotched.

He paused in the doorway while Lamprey announced him and then, with a dismissive gesture, addressed himself to Alleyn and Fox.

“Calling my officers about me in my branched velvet gown,” he shouted, “having come from a day-bed where I left Miss Gainsford sleeping, I present myself as a brand for the constabular burning. What’s cooking, my hearties?”

He stood there, puffing and blowings and eyed them with an expression of extreme impertinence. If he had been an actor, Alleyn thought, he would have been cast, and cast ideally, for Falstaff. He fished under his shirt-tail, produced his snuff-box, and helped himself, with a parody of Regency deportment, to a generous pinch. “Speak!” he said “Pronounce! Propound! I am all ears.”

“I have nothing, I’m afraid, to propound,” Alleyn said cheerfully, “and am therefore unable to pronounce. As for speaking, I hope you’ll do most of that yourself, Dr. Rutherford. Will you sit down?”

Dr. Rutherford, with his usual precipitancy, hurled himself into the nearest armchair. As an afterthought he spread his shirt-tail with ridiculous finicking movements across his lap. “I am a thought down-gyved,” he observed. “My points are untrussed. Forgive me.”

“Tell me,” Alleyn said. “Do you think Bennington was murdered?”

The Doctor opened his eyes very wide, folded his hands on his stomach, revolved his thumbs and said “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“We do.”

“Why?”

“I’ll come to that when I’m quite sure you may be put into the impossible class.”

“Am I a suspect, by all that’s pettifogging?”

“Not if you can prove yourself otherwise.”

“By God,” said Dr. Rutherford deeply, “if I’d thought I could get away with it, be damned if I wouldn’t have had a shot. He was an unconscionable rogue, was Ben.”