Vintage Murder

by Ngaio Marsh

  “Unless he’s fixing an alibi for her, or for Hambledon.”

  “We’ll have to check his statement, of course. But if all these people remember talking to him it’ll be good enough. Personally, I was favourably impressed with him.”

  Wade stared solemnly at Alleyn and then swore violently.

  “Good heavens, Wade, what’s the matter?’

  “Here!” said Wade. “If all he said is right, it—Look here, Mr. Alleyn, don’t you see what it means?”

  “Oh, rather, yes. It washes out the whole bang lot of ’em at one fell swoop. Tiresome for you. Unless of course the little window—”

  “We’ll go right along and have a look at the little window. By gosh, talk about eliminating! This is a bit too sudden. What about Liversidge?”

  “Bang he goes,” said Alleyn.

  “Liversidge—with everything pointing that way! Not only that. Liversidge, Broadhead, the wife and Hambledon. Mason tied up with enough alibis to blow holes in a cast-iron case! Come on, sir. Come on. We’ll have a damn’ good look at this little window.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Business with Props

  BUT THE LITTLE window at the back of the dressing-room passage turned out to be exactly as Bob had described it—dirty and gummed up with cobwebs—and Wade turned to Alleyn with an air of disgruntled incredulity.

  “It’s a case of ‘where do we go for honey,’ isn’t it, Wade?” asked Alleyn smiling.

  “I’ll see this Bob Parsons as soon as we get out of this,” said Wade. “If anyone’s squared him I’ll shake it out of him if I have to go at it all night.”

  “It’s possible, of course,” agreed Alleyn, “but look at it for a minute. Suppose Liversidge is the murderer. Liversidge plans to take off the weight. Instead of slipping round, unseen, to the back ladder after the last curtain, which would have been comparatively easy, he goes first to his dressing-room, knowing that he must come out again almost immediately into the brightly-lit narrow passage, where any of the others may be hanging about. Well, he risks that and comes out to find Parsons directly in his way. He knows that Parsons will see him go up to the back of the stage—knows, in short, that he is a man who can hang him. He decides to risk all this on the chance of bribing or corrupting the man. Do you think he’d do it? I don’t. And the same argument applies to Miss Dacres. To all the rest of the cast for that matter. I think when you see Parsons you will agree that he is not a corruptible type. Check his statement by all means, my dear chap, but I feel certain he is speaking the truth. And now let us have a look at the back of the theatre.”

  “The back of the theatre, sir?”

  “Yes. When I chased round on the trail of Master Palmer, I thought of something that may be of interest. Come across the stage, will you?”

  He led the way out of the dressing-room passage to the stage. They had turned on the working-lights, two desolate yellow bulbs up in the dusty proscenium, that cast a little dreary light on the tops of the box-set. Nothing had been moved. The door into the set stood open and through it they could see the white cloth, the chairs pushed back from the table, curiously eloquent, the huddle of broken glass and dead flowers, and the enormous bottle lying on the table.

  “That can all be cleared away,” said Wade. “We’ve gone over every inch of it to-day.”

  “Come round behind the set,” said Alleyn.

  They groped their way round. The stage smelt of old glue and dead paint. Alleyn switched on his torch and led Wade to the back wall.

  “Here’s the back ladder up to the grid. That, I feel sure, is the one that was used. Have you tried it for prints?”

  “Yes. It’s a fair muck of prints—so far, nothing that’s any good to us. The stage-hands used it over and over again.”

  “Of course. Well now, see here.”

  In the back wall, a little to the left of the ladder, was a door.

  “We noticed this on the plan,” said Alleyn, “and discussed it as a possible entrance for—say Mason.”

  “That’s right, sir. But it won’t wash as far as he is concerned. If Mason had gone through the audience, out at the front, and round the block, he’d have had to come in here. He would have to go aloft, do the job, come down, and sprint round the block again.”

  “Ten minutes at the very least and the risk of being seen running like a madman by any number of people on the pavement outside,” said Alleyn. “No. That cat won’t jump. I saw the door last night when your P.C. was so suspicious of my movements. Have you got a torch? Let’s have a good look at it.”

  By the light of both their torches they inspected the door.

  “Yale lock, with the key inside,” said Alleyn.

  “We noted this door last night, Mr. Alleyn. It wasn’t overlooked.”

  “My dear chap, I’m sure it wasn’t. What did you make of it?”

  “Well, seeing it was locked on the inside it doesn’t look as though anyone could have used it for an entrance. And seeing that there’s no exit from the dressing-rooms except to the stage, none of them could have used it for a getaway.”

  “None of the cast, no.”

  “You’re still thinking of Mason. It’s no go, sir. I wish to hell I could say otherwise, but it’s no go. We’ve thrashed it over—every minute of it—every second of it. He was in the office at the end of the show, and was seen there by the men from the box-office. He ran along to the stage-door and gave old Singleton—the doorkeeper—the message about not letting in uninvited people. Singleton watched him go back to the office and a minute or two later joined him there. Then Dr. Te Pokiha looked in. About two minutes later you overtook him yourself, on the way to the stage-door with the doctor.”

  “Not with Dr. Te Pokiha. He was at the party when Mr. Mason and I got in.”

  “Makes no odds, as far as Mason is concerned, sir.”

  “That’s true. Have you tried this key for prints?”

  “Can’t say we have.”

  “It’s early days yet,” murmured Alleyn, “and you’ve had a lot of stuff to get through. I think if you don’t mind—”

  He produced an insufflater and a packet of chalk from his overcoat pocket, and by the light of their torches, tested the key for prints.

  “None. It’s as clean as a whistle.”

  “That’s funny,” said Wade, reluctantly. “You’d have thought it would be used fairly frequently.”

  “There’s no dust,” said Alleyn, “so presumably it has been wiped clean.”

  Wade muttered something under his breath. Alleyn turned the key and opened the door. Outside was a dingy strip of yard, and a low tin fence with a rickety gate.

  “This is where I came out on my chase after Master Palmer,” explained Alleyn. “I met the P.C. in the street there. This door moves very sweetly.”

  He flashed his torch on the hinges.

  “Nicely oiled. Commendable attention to detail on the part of the staff—what?”

  “Look here, Mr. Alleyn, what are you getting at?”

  “I think we should concentrate on this door, Wade. When we’ve done here, we’ll go and have a look at the plan in the office and I shall propound my unlikely theory.”

  He squatted on his heels and peered at the threshold.

  “Not much chance here. Fine night and all that. I think it might be profitable to find out who oiled the hinges. Could you try? And the doorkeeper—Singleton is it? I suppose none of the guests went in twice? No, not Mason—anyone else.”

  “Went in twice?”

  “Yes. In at the stage-door. Out by this one. In again at the stage-door. Nothing in it, I dare say.”

  “None of the guests has got a motive, though,” said Wade with a certain air of desperate reluctance.

  “Not so far as we know. One might advance something rather fantastic. Young Palmer, mad for love, for instance. Far-fetched.”

  “Well then—”

  “And Gascoigne. He didn’t go to the dressing-rooms. He was on the stage. Have you dwel
t on Gascoigne, Wade?”

  “Thrashed him to death. We can’t get it down to what you might call a cast-iron alibi, sir, because he was mucking round on the stage here, but the hands say he never went off the set and we’ve found out he was there to welcome each of the guests as they came. No motive, far as we know.”

  “And he would have no occasion to use this door.”

  “This ‘in again, out again, gone again’ stuff with the door. Is it probable do you think, Mr. Alleyn? Is it possible?”

  “Let’s consider. Take any one of the guests—young Palmer or Dr. Te Pokiha, for instance.”

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  “Young Palmer comes to the party, passes Singleton, gives his name, and instead of joining the party on the stage, slips round to the back and up the ladder. He takes off the weight, comes down, lets himself out by this door, shins round to the front, comes in again and joins the party.”

  “I’m sure Singleton would have noticed it, Mr. Alleyn. You see, Mason had warned him about gate-crashing. He was on the look-out. He had the list of guests and he ticked each one off.”

  “Yes, that’s the great objection,” agreed Alleyn. “Still, I’d ask him.”

  “Certainly, we’ll ask him. The other objection is that the deceased was a stranger here, and most of the guests wouldn’t have the ghost of a motive. What about Mason, now? Could he have done this door business, after he went in with you?”

  “Unfortunately, I know he couldn’t,” said Alleyn. “He came on to the stage with me and we were together until he went to fetch Miss Dacres.”

  “Anyway, sir. Think of the risk a man would run, tearing round the block in his evening duds. It’d look pretty crook if anyone saw him, now, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t think he would tear round the block, Wade.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why not follow the Palmer route, in reverse, and come out in the yard?”

  “By cripey, yes. Yes, that’s so. But he’d have to know about the path behind the sheds, wouldn’t he? Which young Palmer seems to have done, seeing the way he took to it afterwards. Is there anything in this business of young Palmer, do you reckon?”

  “Not a damn’ thing, I should say.”

  “Aw geeze!” said Wade disgustedly. “What a case! It’s all cockeyed. Did you ever hear anything like this business of Miss Dacres! Owning up she fixed that weight to protect a man that, as far as we can see, couldn’t have done it.”

  “At least she’s saved us the trouble of accounting for everybody’s movements after the murder.”

  “She’s in a nasty hole. Messing about on the scene of the crime,” muttered Wade. “She’s going to find herself in a very, very uncomfortable little pozzy, is Miss Caroline Dacres Meyer, widow of deceased.”

  “I hope not,” said Alleyn. “I may even try to corrupt the New Zealand force on her behalf. You never know.”

  Wade looked doubtfully at him, decided he was attempting to amuse, and broke out into a guffaw.

  “Aw dikkon, Mr. Alleyn!” said Wade.

  “What did you say?”

  “Haven’t you heard that one, sir? I suppose it’s N.Z. digger slang. ‘Dikkon.’ It’s the same as if you’d say ‘Come off it.’ Used to hear it on the Penninsula. ‘Aw dikkon, dig.’”

  “On Gallipoli? You were in that show, were you, Wade?”

  “Too right. Saw it through from the landing to the evacuation.”

  “What ages ago it seems. And is.”

  Passing Sergeant Packer, who was on duty at the stage-door, they strolled back to the office, talking returned to soldier’s shop.

  “What do you think, Mr. Alleyn? If there’s another war will the young chaps come at it, same as we did, thinking it’s great? And get the same jolt? What do you reckon?”

  “I’m afraid to speculate,” said Alleyn.

  “Same here. And yet you know I often think: well, it was bloody but it wasn’t too bad. As long as you didn’t think too much it wasn’t too bad. There was a kind of feeling among the chaps that was all right. Know what I mean?”

  “I do. One has to take that into account. The pacifists won’t succeed until they do. You can’t overstate the stupidity and squalid frightfulness, but equally you must recognise that there was a sort of—what?—a sort of emotional compensation; comradeship, I suppose, though it’s an ill-used word.”

  “I often wonder if crooks feel the same.”

  “That’s a thought.”

  “Know what I mean?” continued Wade, encouraged. “As if they kind of forgot they were crooks and anti-social, and got a kick out of being all together on the same old game.”

  “I should think it was quite likely. All the same they’re a hopeless lot—the rank and file. Not much honour among thieves in my experience. Don’t you agree? That’s why homicide cases are specialised work, Wade. We’re not dealing with the class we’ve been trained to understand.”

  “Too right. Look at this case, now.”

  “Yes. Look at the damn’ thing. We’re wandering, Wade. We’ll have to get back to business. Come into the office and look at this plan. Have a cigarette.”

  “Thanks, I don’t mind,” said Wade, taking one. They went into the office, more than ever subfusc in the late afternoon light, with dust already lying thick on Alfred Meyer’s old desk, and last night’s fire dead in the grate. Wade switched on the lamp and Alleyn walked over to the plan on the wall.

  “Taking another look at the old lay-out, Mr. Alleyn?”

  “Yes. I’ve got together a sort of theory about the case,” said Alleyn, with his usual air of diffidence. “If I may, I’ll go over it with you. It’s the result of this rather wholesale elimination of suspects. You’ll probably find a gap in it as wide as a church door. I’d be not altogether sorry if you did.”

  “Well, sir, let’s have it.”

  “Right you are. It begins about five minutes after the final curtain last night.”

  Wade glanced up at Alleyn who still stood with his hands in his pockets contemplating the plan.

  “How about taking the easy chair, sir?” asked Wade. “You’ll be seeing that thing in your sleep.”

  “I dare say I shall. You see my whole theory is based on this plan. Come over here and I’ll tell you why.”

  Wade got up and joined him. Alleyn pointed a long finger at the plan and began to explain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Fourth Appearance of the Tiki

  WHEN ALLEYN GOT back to the hotel he found Dr. Te Pokiha waiting for him.

  “Had you forgotten that you were to dine with me this evening, Mr. Alleyn?”

  “My dear Te Pokiha, no, I hadn’t forgotten, but I had no idea it was so late. Please forgive me. I do hope you haven’t been waiting very long.”

  “I’ve only just arrived. Don’t worry, we’ve plenty of time.”

  “Then if I may rush up and change—?”

  “If you want to. Not a dinner-jacket, please. We shall be alone.”

  “Right. I shan’t be five minutes.”

  He was as good as his word. They had a cocktail together and then took the road in Te Pokiha’s car.

  “We take the north-east road towards Mount Ruapehu,” said Te Pokiha. “I expect you are tired of hearing about our mountains and thermal districts. I am afraid New Zealanders are too eager to thrust these wonders at visitors, and to demand admiration.”

  “I should like very much indeed to hear a Maori speak of them.”

  “Really? You mean a real Maori—not a pakeha-Maori?”

  “Yes.”

  “We, too, are strangers in New Zealand, you know. We have only been here for about thirty generations. We brought our culture with us and applied it to the things we found here. Our religion too, and our science, if we may be allowed to call it science.”

  Alleyn looked at the magnificent head. Te Pokiha was a pale Maori, straight-nosed, not very full-lipped. He might have been a Greek or an Egyptian. There was an aristocratic fla
vour about him—a complete absence of anything vulgar or tentative in his voice or his movements. His speech, gravely formal, carefully phrased, suited him and did not seem at all pedantic or affected.

  “Where did you come from?” asked Alleyn.

  “From Polynesia, and before that perhaps from Easter Island. Perhaps from South East Asia. The tohunga and rangitira say that in the beginning it was from Assyria, but I think the pakeha anthropologists do not follow us there. Our teaching was not given to everybody. Only the learned and noble classes were permitted to know the history of their race. It was learnt orally and through the medium of the carvings and hieroglyphics. My grandfather was a deeply-instructed rangitira and I learned much from him. He was a survival of the old order and his kind will not be seen much longer.”

  “Do you regret the passing of the old order?”

  “In some ways. I have a kind of pride of race—shall we say a savage pride? The pakeha has altered everything, of course. We have been unable to survive intact the fierce white light of his civilisation. In trying to follow his example we have forgotten many of our own customs and have been unable wisely to assimilate all of his. Hygiene and eugenics for example. We have become spiritually and physically obese. That is only my own view. Most of my people are well content, but I see the passing of the old things with a kind of nostalgia. The pakeha give their children Maori Christian names because they sound pretty. They call their ships and their houses by Maori names. It is perhaps a charming compliment, but to me it seems a little strange. We have become a side-show in the tourist bureau—our dances—our art—everything.”