by Ngaio Marsh
“It was all a joke. Meyer took it the wrong way. Look here Mr.—Mr. Nixon—”
“You are speaking to Mr. Alleyn, you know,” said Nixon, placidly.
“Yes, but—well then.” He turned, reluctantly, to Alleyn. “It was this way. You must believe me, I swear I’m telling the truth. I’d been ragging Val about the way she left her money lying about. I said she’d have it pinched. She just laughed. It was when she’d got out some notes to pay her poker debts. I went back to the cabin and I—well, I took out the money and filled up the case with—er—with—er—toilet-paper. Just for a joke to make her more careful. That was all. Honestly. Honestly!”
“Why didn’t you tell Mr. Meyer this?”
“I tried to but he wouldn’t listen,” said Liversidge, moistening his lips. “He’d got no sense of humour.”
“Pity. Why did you prompt young Palmer to accuse Broadhead of the theft?”
“I didn’t—I didn’t mean it that way. I told you. He took me up all wrong. It was all a joke. Can’t you see it was all a joke?”
“I’ve got no sense of humour, either,” said Alleyn, “but I dare say a jury would laugh till they cried.”
“A jury! My God—”
“Now, Mr. Liversidge,” continued Alleyn, composedly, “the inquest on this case will be held tomorrow. Mr. Mason will, of course, be one of the witnesses. As I expect you know—”
“I don’t know anything about inquests,” interrupted Liversidge, in a hurry.
“Then it will be an interesting experience for you. If you’d like to give us a statement—a true statement—of this affair and we find it has no direct bearing on the murder—”
“The murder! My God, I swear—”
“We may possibly not think it necessary to bring it out in evidence. If, on the other hand, you prefer that the whole thing be left until the inquest—”
“I’ll make a statement,” said Liversidge, and did so there and then, signing it, and taking himself off in extreme disorder.
“You gave him a nice thrashing,” said Nixon appreciatively when Liversidge had gone.
“I still think it looks good enough for a warrant,” said Wade. “We’ve got everything, sir; motive, opportunity—everything. Meyer may even have threatened him with exposure.”
“He may,” agreed Alleyn. “You’re quite right, Wade, but all the same I would like to look up Hambledon’s dresser, Bob Parsons. I can’t help feeling his evidence may be very useful. I think we ought to have it before we crystallise on Liversidge.”
“If Liversidge prompted young Palmer to fake this charge against Broadhead,” said Nixon, “it looks as if he’s a more than usual thoroughgoing bad hat.”
“He’s all that,” agreed Alleyn, “but still—”
“Well, if you will, Mr. Alleyn, do go and see Parsons,” said Nixon. “Wade will give you his address.”
Wade produced the address.
Parsons was staying at a boarding-house close to the theatre. Alleyn went there at once, and in an atmosphere of bamboo and aspidistra he had his talk with Hambledon’s dresser.
Bob Parsons was a wisp of a creature with a plaintive face that crinkled into a net of lines when he spoke. His forehead was so crossed with wrinkles that it looked as though it had been wrung out and left to dry and was badly in need of an iron. He had thin nondescript hair, a wide mouth, and a pair of very bright eyes. Alleyn liked the look of him and came directly to the point.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Parsons, but as I expect you will have heard, I am investigating this case in association with the local police. I want to ask you a few questions. I believe you may be able to help us very considerably.”
“Will you sit down, sir?”
“Thank you. Will you please tell me, as accurately as possible, what your movements were after Mr. Hambledon told you to go and get ready for the supper-party last night?”
“My movements, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I went into the passage, sir, and watched other people working.”
“Just for a change, what? You mean the stage-hands?”
“Correct, sir. I stood in the doorway watching the boys work overtime.”
“You could see most of the stage from the doorway, I suppose?’
“I could, yes.”
“I suppose you’ve no idea what the time was?”
“Yes. I have so, sir. It was ten-twenty-five.”
“Good Lord, how so accurate?”
“Always time the show, sir. I like to know how she runs. We rang down at ten-twenty-five, and I went straight to the dressing-room and Mr. Hambledon came straight off and told me to clear out. ‘You’ll want a clean swaller-and-sigh, sir,’ I said. ‘You’ve got No. 9 all over those.’ ‘Well, I can do that,’ he says, ‘and how about a clean collar and tie for yourself,’ he says. ‘What’s the time?’ So I told him the time—ten-twenty-six—and I went out.”
“How long were you in the passage?”
Bob screwed his face into a labyrinth of lines and thought for a moment.
“Well, sir, I rolled a fag and smoked it and I rolled another.”
“Whistling a bit, in between times?”
“That’s the ticket, sir. I’m a great hand at whistling. My old Dad learnt me that forty years ago. He was a vordervil artist, ‘Pip Parsons, the ’Uman Hedgesparrer,’ and he trained me for a Child Wonder. Made me whistle for me tucker. All day he kept me at it. ‘Pipe up,’ he’d say, ‘there’s only one place where you can’t rehearse your stuff, and that’s the dressing-room.’ It grew a habit and when I took on this business I had to unlearn it a good deal faster than I got it. Never do, you see, sir. Unlucky. Whistling people out of their jobs. When I first started dressing I was always being sent out to knock and come in again, to break the bad luck.”
“I see. Miss Dacres told me about this superstition.”
“Miss Carolyn’s a fair terror on it, sir. Well I usually tunes up when I gets outside the door. Once through ‘A Bird in a Gilded Cage’ while I roll me fag. That’s what I did last night with the falsetto encore. Then I lights up.”
“How long does ‘A Bird in a Gilded Cage’ take?”
“Well—can’t say exactly, sir.”
“Look here—will you whistle it through now?”
“Pleased to oblige,” said Bob briskly.
Alleyn took out his stop-watch. Bob fixed his eyes on a picture of two horses being struck by lightning, assumed an expression of agonised intensity, moistened and pursed his lips. A singularly sweet roulade, in a high key, came through them.
“Just to tune up. Count it in, sir. Always do it.” His eyes glazed and he broke into the Victorian ballad, saccharine, long drawn out, and embellished with many stylish trills. The refrain was repeated an octave higher, ending on a top note that seemed to impinge on the outer rim of human hearing.
“Three minutes,” said Alleyn. “Thank you Bob, it’s a grand bit of whistling, that.”
“Used to go big in the old days, sir.”
“Yes, I can believe it did. By the time it was finished you had rolled your cigarette, and you lit it, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Suppose you repeat the performance.”
Bob took a dilapidated tin from his pocket and from it produced a hand-made cigarette.
“Always keep some by me,” he said, and lit up. Alleyn glanced again at his watch.
“The next thing,” he said, “is to remember who came past you from the dressing-room to the stage.”
Bob looked him straight in the eyes.
“I get the idea, sir. Watch me step here. If in doubt say so.”
“Exactly.”
‘Well, when I first went out, some of them were still on the stage after the last curtain. Mr. Hambledon always goes straight to his room. Mr. Funny Ackroyd came along first and then old ‘I-Played-It-Well-Laddie,’ with young Broadhead.”
“Mr. Vernon?”
“Yes, sir. The boys on t
he staff called him ‘I-Played-It-Well-Laddie’ after his favourite remark. The last two were Mr. Liversidge and Miss Gaynes. They stood talking on the stage—couldn’t hear what they said—and then went past me to their rooms. I’d got to the falsetto repeat then, I remember.” Bob sucked his teeth meditatively. “Well, sir, they was all stowed away be that time.”
“Parsons, you’re a witness after my own heart. Now for when they came out.”
“Yes. Have to do a bit of thinking now. Take it easy, sir, it’s on the way. Yes.” Bob shut his eyes and took a vigorous pull at his cigarette. “The four gents was first. Mr. Comedy Ackroyd, Mr. Vernon, Mr. Broadhead, and Mr. Liversidge, all come out together and they stands there chaffing me and asking why I wasn’t wearing a tailcoat and a white tie. Ackroyd was that funny I nearly burst out crying. Footpath comedian!”
“You don’t care for Mr. Ackroyd?”
“Not so’s you’d make a sky-sign of it. We’re human, sir, even if we do earn our treasury dressing up the great ‘hactors.’ Mr. Ackroyd doesn’t seem to have thought that out for himself. I got Mr. Ackroyd’s number a long while back. So did my gentleman, and my gentleman is a gentleman, sir.”
“Mr. Hambledon?”
“Ah! The genu-ine ticket. He knows all about Mr. Saint John Ackroyd and so did the guv’nor.”
Bob re-lit his cigarette and looked significantly at Alleyn.
“Why?” asked Alleyn. “How do you mean?”
“It’s an old yarn now, sir. Ackroyd forgot ’imself one evening when we was at the Cri. He’s very partial to ’is glass of whisky at times, and ’e don’t break ’is heart if there’s not much water with it. This night he’d ’ad just that much too much, and he comes into Miss Carolyn’s dressing-room without so much as knocking and ’e starts up on the funny business. ’Struth! What a scene! She tells ’im orf a treat and Mr. Hambledon, ’e comes along and ’e tells ’im orf a snorter, and then the guv’nor ’e gets wind of it and ’e comes along and ’e tells ’im orf fit to suffercate. Laugh! I was outside the door when ’e comes out, and to see ’is face! Not so blooming comic and as red as a stick of carmine. Laugh! Next day ’e ’as to apologise. ’E’d ’ave got ’is notice if it hadn’t been that piece, I do believe, but ’e was playing a big part and ’is understudy was not too classy. So the show went on, but since then Mr. Funny Ackroyd ’as blooming well kept ’is place. Well now, where was we? Ah, I’ve got it. Mr. Broadhead and Played-It-Well, and Mr. Liversidge and Ackroyd, they all come out in a bunch. They ’as their spot of comedy with yours truly, and then I rather fancy Ackroyd goes orf to the stage-door. Not for long though. ’E comes back and joins the others, and then they all goes on the stage, and froo the Prompt entrance to the set, see? And they never comes orf again while I’m there.”
“Sure of that?”
“Yes, sir. Sure as s’welp me. Tell you for why. I could hear them telling Mr. Gascoigne what a lark they’d ’ad with me and how I was too shy to come to the party. Very funny, they was.”
Bob paused, his face a painful crimson.
“They sound thoroughly objectionable,” said Alleyn.
“Oh, well, there you are,” said Bob, dismissing them. “Well, sir. After that lot, Miss Valerie Gaynes came out. She was on the look-out for Mr. Liversidge as per usual, and I think she heard his voice on the stage. Anyway she made a bee-line for the door and went on. It was about that time the visitors from the front began to come in. I see you come with the guv’nor, sir, and that young Palmer and so forth. Mr. Gascoigne stood by the door looking out for them—the door on the set I mean. Then Miss Max came out and stood talking to me for a while. Always got a pleasant word for everybody. Then Minna come along and starts telling me orf for not ’aving changed me clobber. She’s a one, old Minna. We chy-ikes a bit and I says I’ll come along in me own time, see, and Minna goes back to doll ’erself up. Yes, that’s right, that’s ’ow she went.”
Bob paused.
“And then you joined the party, perhaps?”
“Nah! I felt kind of awkward, sir, and that’s the truth. The boys—the stage-staff, you know, sir—they was all on, be that time, see? They’d been fixing the stage, see? Else I’d ’ave mucked in with them. Well, blimey, sir, it was all posh-like. Wasn’t as if there was a door over on the O.P. I could of slipped froo on the Q.T. if there had of been, but there was only the one door, see? So I kind of hung fire and made another fag.”
He glanced shyly at Alleyn.
“I know. It’s a bit of a facer making an entrance, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, sir. Then, after a bit, my gentleman comes out—Mr. Hambledon—and he says, ‘Hullo, Bob,’ ’e says, ‘waiting for something?’ And ’e seems to tip I’m feeling silly-like and ’e says: ‘Come on,’ ’e says, ‘and we’ll make a big entrance, Bob,’ ’e says. Look, ’e’s all right, sir, my gentleman. ’E’s very nice. But—’struth, I couldn’t go on with ’im, sir. Wouldn’t be the right thing would it, now? So I says I’m waiting for Minna, and he smiles and cracks a joke, pleasant-like, and ’e goes across to the door where Mr. Gascoigne is still standing. I see him say something to Mr. Gascoigne and look across at me, smiling, and then ’e goes in and Mr. Gascoigne shuts the door and comes over to me and says: ‘We’re waiting for you and Minna,’ and then Minna comes along, and I puts out me second fag and we all goes acrost together and nobody notices nothing. And in about two shakes Miss Carolyn comes in and after you give ’er that ’eathen image we all sits down to supper and—and my Gawd, sir, then we know what happened, don’t we?”
“We do indeed. How long is two shakes, Bob?”
“Eh? Oh! See what you mean. Well now, sir. As we goes in everybody was just asking where was Miss Carolyn. So Mr. Hambledon and the guv’nor and Mr. Mason they went out to get ’er, passing Minna and me in the doorway. And they came back with her almost immediate.”
Alleyn made a sudden brusque movement, leaning forward in his chair.
“Then—Bob, this is important—it’s very important. You can tell me how long it was between the time Miss Dacres came out of her dressing-room and the moment of her entrance with the three men.”
“No time at all, sir. Just a jiffy. They must of met ’er in the passage.”
“And Bob! Could you swear that she came straight off the stage and didn’t leave her room till she went in to the party?”
“Yes, sir. ’Course I could. Didn’t I tell you I was—”
“Yes, yes, I know. It’s all perfectly splendid. Now for Mr. Hambledon—”
“Same for ’im, sir. Look ’ere, sir, I’m fly to what you’re after. You want to know who went up aloft after the guv’nor come down. That’s a fact, now, isn’t it, sir?”
“It is, Bob.”
“Well, sir, it wasn’t Miss Carolyn or Mr. Hambledon—physical imposs., sir. They both come straight orf after the curtain call. I see them. And they never come out of their rooms till they goes to the party, and they goes straight to the party. I’ll take me Bible oaf on it, kiss the book, and face the judge. Can’t say fairer than that now, can I, sir?”
“No. It’s good enough. Is there any way out from the dressing-rooms except past the doorway where you were standing?”
“No fear, sir. Not bloody likely, if you’ll excuse the expression, sir. Beats me they don’t have the fire inspectors down on them. There’s just the two rows of dressing-rooms downstairs, with the wardrobe-room at the end. The two star-rooms and Miss Max’s room all open orf the passage. Then it goes round at right angles with the wardrobe-room on the right and the three other dressing-rooms on the left.”
“Yes. I know.”
“Yes. So that Mr. Comedy Ackroyd’s room runs behind the two star-rooms and Miss Max’s. Suits ’im a fair treat; ’e can do ’is nosey-parkering nice with them wooden walls. I went to ’is room only the day we got ’ere, and there ’e was, standing on the table with ’is shell-like glued to the wall and ’is eyes shut, tuned in to Miss Carolyn and my gentleman what were ’aving
a little pass-the-time-o’-day next door. Never saw me, ’e didn’t, but when I goes back I calls arht to Miss Carolyn they’re getting near ’er entrance and she comes away, see? Mr. Saint John Ackroyd!”
Alleyn remembered Ackroyd’s version of this incident and chuckled appreciatively.
“And there’s no door at the far end of this back passage?”
“No, sir. Only a little window. All gummed up with dirt and cobwebs.”
“Big enough for someone to get through?”
“’Ave to be very small, sir, and then it’d be a squeeze.”
“I’ll have a look at it. Thank you very much, Bob. Nobody ever calls you Mr. Parsons, do they?”
“Lord love you, sir, I sometimes forget I got another moniker. Might almost be an iggyliterate if you’ll excuse the bit of fun. Going, sir?”
“Yes—I won’t keep you any longer. It’s after hours so we can’t have a drink, but if you’ll allow me—”
“Well, sir, that’s very kind of you, but I’m sure I don’t want anything. If it’s a case of my gentleman, and looking after ’im, well I’m used to doing that and it’s a pleasure.”
“I’m sure it is, but don’t make me feel uncomfortable, Bob. Just to show you bear me no ill-will.”
“If you put it like that, sir—well, thank you very much, sir. Good night, sir, and I’m sure I hope you get the bloke. He was a very fair man, was the late guv’nor. Carn’t fancy ’ow anyone would want to bash ’is nut in, even if it was with liquor, which is a classy way of ’anding in your notice. I always says—”
Alleyn listened to a somewhat discursive reminiscence and at last got away. He had arranged to meet Wade at the theatre and found the inspector waiting for him.
“Well, Mr. Alleyn. Any luck with the dresser?”
“Quite a purple patch.”
Alleyn related the gist of the information.
“By cripes!” said Wade. “That’s something to get our teeth into. How did the man strike you, sir? Reliable?”
“I think so. He’s a type that will disappear before long I’m afraid—the real undiluted cockney. Undersized, sharp as they make them, loyal, independent, and violently opinionated. You should hear him on the subject of Ackroyd. We’ll be able to check his statements, I think. I timed his cigarette—sixteen minutes—he had to keep re-lighting it. The whistled song took three minutes so that takes us to a quarter to eleven. He made and lit another cigarette, which he put out before joining the party—say three more minutes, which would mean twelve minutes to eleven when he left the passage. Now when everyone started asking for Miss Dacres, Mr. Meyer looked at his watch and said: ‘It’s ten to—time she was making an entrance,’ and about two minutes later she appeared. If Bob Parsons was in the passage all that time, she can’t have done it.”