Vintage Murder (11 page)

“What about Mr. Hambledon?” asked Alleyn.

“He says he left the stage with the others after the final curtain and went to his dressing-room. His dresser was there but he didn’t want him and sent him away.”

“Yes. He was wearing a dinner-jacket. He’d only need to take his make-up off.”

“He could have gone up the first time, sir. As soon as the dresser had gone he could have slipped back to the stage and round to the ladder at the rear. It would have been after Mr. Meyer and Bert okayed the gear.”

“How does he stand for the second visit? He stayed behind with us — and the body — and left the stage while Gascoigne, Bert and I were still there. Said he was going to Miss Dacres’s room. He was there when I arrived later on. He went out, at my suggestion, to get some brandy. I don’t think he was away long enough to go up to the grid and get the brandy as well.
Might
have had time, I suppose, but it would have been damn’ quick work.”

“As far as Mr. Hambledon is concerned we haven’t got a motive, sir, have we?”

Alleyn raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose you may say we haven’t,” he said slowly.

“Is there anything—” began Wade.

“No, no. Nothing.”

A knock on the outside door heralded the entrance of Packer.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but are you ready for another?”

“Yes — all right — all right,” said Wade impatiently. “Send—”

“Beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Ackroyd says could you see him next? He says there’s something he’d like to tell you, particular.”

“Ackroyd? Which is he?”

“The comedian,” said Alleyn.

“Good-oh, then, Packer. Send him along.”

Packer went away with Cass.

“What’s biting Mr. Ackroyd, I wonder?” said Wade.

“I wonder,” murmured Alleyn.

“Is he one of their swell turns, sir? The funny man, is he?”

“Dreadfully funny,” said Alleyn.

“I haven’t seen the show. I like a good laugh, but these stage plays seem kind of feeble-minded after the flicks, I reckon. Nothing but talk. I don’t mind a bit of vordervil. Still, if it’s funny—”

“Mr. Ackroyd is a good comedian on the stage. I find him less entertaining when he’s off it.”

“He looks a scream,” said Wade.

The scream appeared, ushered in by Cass.

Ackroyd was a dot of a man; beside the gigantic Cass he looked like a dwarf. “And his face
is
funny,” thought Alleyn. “That button of a nose was made to be painted red. He ought to be in pantomime rather than polite comedy. No, that’s not fair — he’s a really good actor. There are brains behind his work and that kind of humour that comes from inside — the Chaplin brand. But I don’t think he’s a very nice little man. Waspish.”

Ackroyd walked across to Inspector Wade with neat assurance. His stage mannerisms were faintly imposed on his everyday behaviour. One expected him to say something excruciatingly funny.

“I hope I don’t intrude,” said Ackroyd.

“That’s all right, sir,” said Wade heartily. “Take a seat. You wanted to see me about something?”

“That’s right. Mind, I don’t want you to take too much notice of it. It’s probably of no account. Still, I feel you ought to know about it. It’s dead against the grain with me to butt in on other people’s business, you know.”

“Lie,” thought Alleyn.

“We quite understand that, Mr. Ackroyd,” said Wade.

“It’s a confidential matter.” Ackroyd turned to Alleyn. “No offence, you know, old boy.”

“None in the world,” said Alleyn cheerfully.

“—so if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Mr. Alleyn is a detective,” said Wade. “He’s in this case with us.”

“A detective?” shouted Ackroyd. “By George, Meyer knew about it all the time, did he! Working for Meyer, were you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Mr. Ackroyd. I am a policeman,” said Alleyn, “not a private detective.”

“A Yard man?”

“Yes.”

“Then it couldn’t have been him you were after.”

“Who d’you mean?” asked Wade.

“Why, Hambledon, of course,” said Ackroyd.

“Hambledon!” said Alleyn sharply. “What the— I beg your pardon, Wade,” he added instantly. “This is your show.”

“Go right ahead, sir.”

“Thank you so much.” Alleyn turned to Ackroyd. “I must confess I’m curious to know why you thought I was interested in Mr. Hambledon.”

“Don’t mind me, old boy,” said Ackroyd easily. “When the inspector here said you were a ’tec, I thought Alf Meyer had put you on to follow Hailey and the fair Carolyn. That’s all. Quite natural, you know, under the circs.”

“I see,” said Alleyn, and was silent.

“It’s like that, is it?” said Wade.

Ackroyd pulled a serio-comic face, thrusting his lower lip sideways with the tip of his tongue. “Very much like it,” he said.

“Common little stinker,” thought Alleyn.

“D’you mean,” asked Wade, “that she gave him cause for divorce?”

“That’s my idea. No business of mine, mind.”

“Was it this you were wanting to tell me, Mr. Ackroyd?” pursued Wade.

“Oh God, no. At least, it’s something to do with it. I was going to keep it under my hat, but Alf Meyer was a white man, and if he’s been murdered—” He paused.

“That’s right,” encouraged Wade. Alleyn was conscious of an illogical distaste for both of them.

“Well, it’s like this,” said Ackroyd. “The morning we got here I came down to the theatre. We had a call at ten-thirty. I got here early and went to my dressing-room. It’s round the corner of the passage and up a right-angled one, so that actually it backs on to the star dressing-room. Well in these wooden buildings of yours you can hear each other thinking. The walls are only thin partitions in this show. I was getting my stuff out when I heard Hailey and the Great Actress talking in the star-room.”

“Mr. Hambledon and Miss Dacres?”

“None other. Hailey was in the devil of a temper, trying to get her to say she’d levant with him at the end of this tour. Fact! And she said she wouldn’t because she’s a Catholic and doesn’t believe in divorce. She was doing her ‘little devil’ stuff. Seemed to go big with Hailey — he got all he-man and violent. Tiff! Then he said something like: ‘Would you marry me if Alf was dead?’ And the Great Actress said she would. That took her off. She went out on the stage, and a minute later I heard her give her opening line.”

“Yes,” said Wade after a moment. “Thanks, Mr. Ackroyd. Doesn’t sound exactly as if she was Hambledon’s mistress, though, do you reckon?”

“God knows what she is. She’ll be his wife before long, I don’t mind betting you. Well, that’s that. Probably nothing in it. I’ll be off.”

“If you don’t mind waiting a minute longer, sir, there are one or two formal questions.”

Wade asked Ackroyd what he did after the final curtain. He went straight to his dressing-room, it seemed. He was alone there until he came out for the party. He looked in at Liversidge’s room and they then joined Vernon and Broadhead and went along to the party. After the catastrophe he left the stage with the others, went to his dressing-room, had a stiff nip and then joined the rest of the company in the wardrobe-room. On both these occasions he had repeatedly called out to the others from his own room. Asked about the train journey he said he slept solidly for at least an hour before they got to Ohakune, and had not the remotest idea who entered or left the carriage.

Cass took notes of this, as of all the former interviews. Ackroyd took it all very easily and gave some of his replies with an air of mock solemnity that the sergeant and Wade found extremely diverting. When it was all over Ackroyd turned to Alleyn.

“And what, may one ask,” he said, “is Scotland Yard’s part in the proceedings?”

“Noises off, Mr. Ackroyd,” replied Alleyn good-humouredly. “I’m here by accident and the courtesy of Inspector Wade.”

“Funny me thinking you were a private sleuth. I say, old boy, you’ll keep it under your hat won’t you — about Hailey and the Dacres, you know. You’re rather pally with them, I’ve noticed. That’s what made me think you were watching them. Don’t give me away, now, will you?”

“To Miss Dacres and Mr. Hambledon? No,” said Alleyn bleakly.

Ackroyd walked over to the door.

“Of course,” he said, “that fascinating blah stuff of hers goes down with the nit-wits. I’ve worked with her for six years and I know the lady. She’s as hard as nails underneath. That’s only my opinion, you know, for what it’s worth. It’s based on observation.”

“Was your suggestion about Mr. Mason’s past also based on observation?” asked Alleyn pleasantly.

“What’s that, old boy? Oh, George! No, I wasn’t in the company he stranded in the States. I don’t go out with bad shows.”

“But it’s a true story?”

“Don’t ask me. I was told it for gospel. You never know. But I get fed up with all this kow-towing to the Firm. Alf and George are not better than anybody else in management. Now Alf’s gone I suppose all the spare spotlights will be trained on George. ‘Our Mr. Mason.’
And
of course on the Great Actress. By the way what’s all the fuss about the little green whatsit you gave her?”

“Merely that it is lost and we should like to recover it.”

“Well if it’s lost, she did the losing. She had it last.”

“Is that so!” exclaimed Wade.

“Certainly. Branny put it down on the table and she picked it up and slipped it inside her dress. I’ll swear to that in six different positions. Cheerio!”

And, like a good actor, on this effective line he made his exit.

“He’s a hard case, that one,” said Wade appreciatively. “I reckon he’s a real shrewdy.”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn, “he’s shrewd.”

“I’d like to know how much there is in that stuff about Hambledon. ‘Would you marry me if Alf was dead.’ And she said she would. I’d like to know just how he said it. And, by gum, I’d like to know if there’s a free passage from the top of Miss Dacres’s dress downwards.”

“And I,” said Alleyn, “would like to know when Miss Dacres found occasion to snub Mr. Ackroyd, and why?”

“Hullo!” said Wade. “Where d’you get that notion, sir?”

“From the funny gentleman’s behaviour. He radiated a peculiar malevolence that I associate with snubs from the opposite sex.”

“Still, sir, he’d hardly want to involve her in a murder charge, now, would he? And that statement about the tiki — well.”

“It is Hambledon, I fancy, whom he would like to involve.”

Wade chewed this over, eyeing Alleyn with a sort of guarded curiosity.

“Well,” he said at last, “we’d better get on. Let’s see: there’s that old lady, Miss Max, and Miss Gaynes, Mr. Liversidge, Mr. Weston, who’s not a member of the company, his cousin, young Palmer (ditto), and Mr. Brandon Vernon. Suppose we see the old girl first, Cass.”

Cass went off.

“Miss Max is an old acquaintance of mine,” said Alleyn; “she was in the Felix Gardener show.”

“Is that so, sir? Well, now, perhaps you would talk to her. I’d like to listen to your methods, sir. We’ve got our own little ideas here about interviews and it’d be very interesting to compare them.”

“Bless me, Wade, I’m afraid you won’t find much to analyse in my remarks, especially to Miss Max. I’ll talk to her if you like, only don’t, for the Lord’s sake, expect fire-works. Here she comes.”

In came old Susan Max. Her roundabout figure was neat in its velveteen evening dress. Her faded blonde hair had been carefully dressed for the party, her round honest face with its peculiar pallor, induced by years of grease-paint, had been delicately powdered but not made-up. She looked what she was, an actress of the old school. She waddled forward, her face lighting as she saw Alleyn.

“Well, Miss Max,” said Alleyn, pushing a chair up to the fire, “I’m afraid you’ve had a long wait in the wardrobe-room. Sit down by the fire and cheer us up.”

“Me cheer you up,” said Susan. “I like that.”

She gave a cackle of laughter, but when she looked up at him her faded blue eyes were anxious.

“I never thought we’d meet again — like this,” said old Susan.

“I know,” said Alleyn. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”

“They’ll be calling me a Jonah,” she said. The pudgy old hands moved restlessly in her lap.

“You a Jonah! Not a bit of it. You’ve met Inspector Wade, haven’t you?”

Susan gave Wade a grand nod.

“He’s asked me to have a talk with you about this beastly affair. Do the others still think I’m a harmless civilian?”

“Would you credit it, dear,” said Susan indignantly, “that just before I came along here that girl blurted it all out!”

“Miss Valerie Gaynes?”

“Little idiot. I’ve no patience. Doing her emotional act all over the room. What business is it of hers?”

“None at all, I should have thought,” said Alleyn comfortably. “Have a cigarette and tell me some scandal. How did she get her job?”

“Who? Gaynes? My dear, through influence, like everybody else nowadays. Her father’s a lessor of our theatre in Town. The girl knows nothing about the business. No poise. No charm. No personality. You were in front, weren’t you? Well! What a
naughty
performance.”

“I wonder Miss Dacres puts up with it.”

“My dear, she has to. Some leading women don’t mind poor supports, of course. Selfish. But Carolyn Dacres is an artist. Different type altogether,” said Susan, settling her chins.

“Anything between Liversidge and Valerie Gaynes?” asked Alleyn.

“Somebody ought to tell that girl to look after herself,” said Susan darkly. “Not that they’d get any thanks for it. I’ve known Frankie Liversidge a good many years and I wouldn’t care for any daughter of mine to be on those terms with him.”

“Anything in particular wrong with him?” asked Alleyn.

“Well, dear, he’s not — not quite straight, shall we say, especially where women are concerned. But I mustn’t sit here gossiping. It’s all hours of the night as it is. What can I tell you?”

Alleyn asked her about her movements before and after the catastrophe. Like everyone else, she had spent the two significant periods in her dressing-room. At the end of the play she had gone straight there, removed her make-up and changed her dress. Miss Dacres’s dresser had, at old Susan’s invitation, also used the room to smarten herself up for the party.

“She’s a nice woman — been with Miss Dacres for years, and she helped me with my change. The dress I wear in the last act is a beast to get out of. I was only just ready when the last of the guests arrived.”

After the catastrophe Susan had gone to the door of the star-room with Carolyn Dacres and had offered to go in with her.

“She said she’d rather be by herself, so I went on to my own room, dear. Minna — the dresser, you know — came in a little later. Miss Dacres had sent her away too. After a little while Minna said she couldn’t bear to think of her there alone so she went back, and in a minute or two she came for me. The poor child — I mean Miss Dacres, dear, for to me she
seems
a child — had thought she would like my company. She was sitting there quite quietly, staring in front of her. Shock. Couldn’t talk about it or weep or do anything to ease her mind. Then she suddenly said she’d like to see you. Hailey Hambledon had come in and went to fetch you.”

“How long had he been there, Miss Max?”

“Let me see. He came in soon after I did. About ten minutes, I should say.”

“Ah,” said Alleyn with a sort of satisfied grunt. After a moment he leant forward.

“What sort of a fellow was Alfred Meyer?” he asked.

“One of the very best,” said Susan energetically. “The right type of manager, and there aren’t many of them left in the business. Always the same to everybody. Devoted to her.”

Alleyn remembered the pale commonplace little man, who had been so quiet in the ship and so frightened on the train.

“And she to him?” he asked.

Old Susan glanced at Cass and Wade.

“Very,” she said dryly.

“We’ve got to learn the truth, you know,” said Alleyn gently. “We’ll have to pry and pry. It’s one of the most revolting aspects of a murder-case, and the victim is sometimes the greatest sufferer.”

“Then it is murder?”

“I’m afraid so.”

There was a long silence.

“Well,” said old Susan at last, “it’s no good making mysteries where there are none. She
was
very fond of Meyer. Not perhaps in a romantic fashion, exactly. He wasn’t a figure for romance. But she was fond of him. You might say she felt safe with him.”

“And Hambledon?” asked Alleyn quietly.

Susan squared her fat shoulders and stared straight in front of her.

“If you mean anything scandalous, my dear, there’s not a word of truth in it. Not a morsel. Mind, I don’t say Hailey isn’t devoted to her. He is, and has been for years, and he makes no bones about it. I’ve been with the Firm off and on for a long time and I know. But there’s been no funny business between them, and don’t let anybody tell you there has.”

“They’ve been trying,” said Alleyn. Susan suddenly slapped her hands on her lap.

“Ackroyd!” she cried.

“It was, but don’t say so.”

“I’ll be bound. Little beast. He’s never forgiven her — never.”

“For what?”

“It was when he rejoined us for the revival of
Our Best Intentions—
a year ago it was. He’s the type that always hangs round the leading woman and tries to go big with the management. You can smell ’em a mile off. Well, he tried it on with Carolyn Dacres and believe me it took him right off,” said Susan, becoming technical. “As soon as the funny business started she was
well
up-stage and Mr. Ackroyd made a quiet exit with no rounds of applause. He’s a spiteful little beast and he’s never forgiven her or Hailey. Hailey actually spoke to him about it, you know. I believe George Mason did, too. He’s never forgotten it. You heard how he spoke about George to-night. Dragging in that American business.”

“Nothing in it?”

“My dear,” said Susan resignedly, “I dare say something did happen. I rather think it did, but if we knew all the circumstances I’ve no doubt we’d find faults on both sides. George Mason started in a small way and he’s not the only one, by a long chalk, that’s got an incident of that sort to live down. My advice to you is, forget all about it. Whatever happened in the early days, he’s an honest man now. I’ve worked for him for a good many years and you can take my word for it. And what’s more, I wouldn’t say the same for Ackroyd.”