by E.
He reached forward and picked up one of the arranged papers. “Now, this,” he said, “is the statement made to Inspector Bradley by Mary Lee, who is one of the Bow Belles.” He read it out:
“‘Miss de Grey generally watched us while we were dancing, and sometimes winked at us when we passed her. But she didn’t open her eyes tonight at all.’”
“As I had not, last night, seen this statement, I did not time the dancing of these little girls in the performance I saw with Inspector Kenway. I do remember, however, that the dancing started as soon as the Fairy Queen had said her lines, ‘Sleep on, sweet boy.’ Those lines would take less than half a minute. Thus we can say that Miss de Grey died between the time that the Fairy Queen heard her speak to the Cat as they were reclining together, and the time that the dancers first passed the pair of them, because Miss de Grey’s eyes, which were always open, were on this occasion closed. Shall we say that a timing of the performance will fix the time to half a minute?”
Inspector Kenway interposed. “We could, possibly, knock it down to even less, Doctor.”
Doctor Manson turned a questioning look on the inspector.
For reply, Kenway picked up the statement of Miss Low, the Fairy Queen. “The Doctor started his timing by saying that the Fairy Queen heard Miss de Grey talking to the Cat after they had lain down. Therefore she was alive then. But what did Miss de Grey say?” He read from the statement. This is Miss Low’s question and answer examination:
“Did she (Miss de Grey) speak at all—I mean outside the lines she had to say?”
“No . . . well. . . .”
“She did say something. What was it?”
“It wasn’t much. She just said in a loud whisper to the cat, ‘Don’t stick your damned claws into me, and get off my legs’.”
Inspector Kenway replaced the paper on the table. “If we can assume that the ‘damned claw’ stuck into her was the hypodermic needle, then we’ve only a quarter of a minute to the start of the dance—just the time the Fairy Queen’s lines take—before the Bow Belle saw Dick with her eyes closed, that were usually open.”
Doctor Manson beamed. “That is perfectly true, Kenway,” he said. “I had missed that very important point!”
He paused to marshal the facts in his mind before summing up.
“Now you see where all these facts lead us,” he said. “There is not the shadow of a doubt that Miss de Grey died on that stage, that she died at a time we can place to within a quarter of a minute, that the only person who was within even an arm’s length of her at the crucial time, and who, therefore, must have been the murderer, was the—”
“The Cat,” broke in Superintendent Jones. “Which is . . . what . . . said . . . from start.”
“The Cat,” agreed the scientist. “There is no doubt that the fatal prick which killed her was administered by the Cat.”
“And the Cat says he wasn’t on the stage, sir,” put in Inspector Bradley. “And the other Cat is accounted for, and also could not have been on the stage. Yet there was a cat there.”
“One thing at a time, Bradley,” chided the scientist. “Let us keep strictly to our facts. It is always the best way. Now the fact, the one fact, we have at the moment is that there was a cat at the feet of Miss de Grey. The stage-manager saw him. The Fairy Queen saw him; the audience saw him—and if he hadn’t been there the scene could not have been played. Therefore, we can say definitely that there was a cat on the stage. The only point at issue is—which cat was on the stage?”
Superintendent Jones chuckled, until the bulk of him quivered. “Thank Heavens . . . only . . . two . . . of ’em,” he said. “Can’t . . . be . . . much trouble . . . there.”
“Both of them have alibis,” said Bradley. “Enora says he wasn’t on the stage, and the other one is proved not to have been there.”
“Alibis are made to be broken, Bradley,” retorted Kenway. “The doctor always mistrusts an alibi. Nine times out of ten the fact that anyone has an alibi pretty nearly proves them the person who did it. An innocent person seldom has an alibi. He doesn’t need to go round making one, or looking for one, because he doesn’t know one is likely to be wanted.”
“You . . . talkin’ . . . like . . . doctor,” said Jones. “Couple of you at it . . . now.”
Manson smiled. “Nevertheless, Jones, it’s sound sense,” he said. “Now let’s look for a moment at these alibis. Take Enora first. What are the facts we know about him. He was on the stage at the opening of the performance. All the company can provide proof of that. He was on the stage in the shop scene. The company can prove that, and he says so himself. What’s next?”
Inspector Bradley took up the recital. “He was on the stage at the end of the shop scene,” he said. “That carries it a bit further. He came off with her?”
“Proof?” barked Jones.
“They had a row in the Green Room, which was heard by a stage-hand. He knew Enora.”
The inspector picked out the statement of Arthur Black from amongst those on the desk. “Here it is,” he said, and read:
“She and the Cat had an ’ell of a row. They was a’rowing over something she said he had done the previous night. I says to the stage-manager, just listen to her rorting to the Cat now. Then I says, he’s walked out on her. And he did, too. Just left her talking to herself.”
“The stage-manager agrees that there was a row and that the Cat did walk out.”
“Right,” said Doctor Manson. “Then we have the fact that the Cat was Enora at, and for some minutes after, the end of the shop scene, and just prior to the Highgate Hill scene. We have him leaving Miss de Grey in a fury. Where did he go from there?”
“He says that he went to his dressing-room for a drink and a rub down,” said Inspector Bradley.
“Any facts in regard to that?” asked Manson.
There was no answer.
“Urn!” Doctor Manson looked at each in turn. “Let’s see if we can find any. Was it in any way unusual for Enora to go to his dressing-room for a drink at that interval?”
“I think not, sir,” replied Inspector Bradley. “He told me that he always had a drink at that time, before going on for the Highgate Hill scene.”
“Have you checked that?”
“No.”
“Can you get hold of the dresser?”
“Bennett, sir? Yes. He works in the ‘pop-shop’ round the corner.”
A constable sent for the man, produced him in a matter of two or three minutes. Bennett eyed the formidable-looking company in some alarm. It was Doctor Manson who questioned him.
“Bennett, I understand that you looked after Mr. Enora during the pantomime. We are interested in one particular time in the pantomime—that interval between Enora coming off the shop scene, and returning for the Highgate Hill scene. What did Enora usually do during that interval? Do you know?”
“I do, sir. He went to his room for a drink. I always put a glass of bitter on his dressing-table ready for that little wait. He hadn’t much time, and he always wanted it there ready.”
“Did you put a drink there on the night that Miss de Grey died and he was taken ill?”
“I did, sir, same as usual.”
“When did you go to the room again?”
“I never did, sir. One of the lads found the Cat ill, and a crowd got in there. Next I knew, the door was locked and the key gone.”
“But you are sure that you yourself took a bottle of bitter to the room?”
“Yes, sir. I took it all right.”
“That is fact number two,” said Manson, after the dresser had gone. “Now, Enora says, according to this statement, that after he had the drink he went all queer, became light-headed, and the next thing he knew was waking up in hospital. That seems to tally with the view of Doctor Murdock that anyone drinking the dose which laid out the Cat would feel dizzy, probably sit down to save himself falling, and would go out of consciousness within a couple of minutes.”
“Then, if that i
s the case, it was not Enora who was on the stage,” said Kenway.
Doctor Manson made no response. He was reading from the papers on the desk those relating to the Cat. Presently he looked up, and across at Inspector Bradley.
“I have just been reading, Inspector, the contents of Enora’s dressing-room. They consisted of a tin of vaseline, one of cold cream, a watch, a suit of clothes, collar and tie, underclothes, a dressing-gown, a towel, soap, ashtray, a tablecloth, a brush for the cat-skin, a make-up towel, a make-up glass, a combination undersuit and his cat’s skin, which had been taken off him when he was found, and before he was taken to hospital. Was that everything that the room contained?”
“Everything, sir, yes.”
“Think carefully for a moment, Inspector, before you answer. Was there anything—even though it seems to have no connection with the matter at all—was there anything else in that room?”
Inspector Bradley puckered his forehead in the process of visualizing the Cat’s dressing-room. He let a minute elapse in thought. Then:
“No, sir. There was nothing else,” he said.
“Nothing else on the dressing table, for instance?” insisted the scientist.
“No. I am quite sure of that.”
“Doctor!”
Superintendent Jones leaned forward.
Manson looked at him. “Well, Super?” he asked.
“If I . . . wanted . . . murder . . . Whittington . . . and get ’way with it . . . stick needle . . . in her . . . run like hell . . . to room . . . drink prepared dope . . . be out to world when found . . . say I wasn’t on . . . stage ’tall.”
“I know, Jones. So would I. That is just what is worrying me.”
He paused; then added:
“You see, there are two things that ought to be in that dressing-room that are not there. I am going to have a look at that room myself and at the contents, which I gather are still in the room, and still locked and sealed.”
“What are the two things, Doctor?” asked Kenway.
“Think it over, Kenway, and you will probably find the answer,” was the reply.
INTERLUDE I
To the Reader
The practised Armchair Detective should, we think, by now be able to name one of the missing things mentioned by Doctor Manson. Maybe he can name them both.
Certainly any actor or actress will realize at once the second of the missing articles . . .
Or, at least, any actor or actress should do so.
The Authors.
CHAPTER X
A MINK COAT
The four men stood in the tiny dressing-room which had been the abode during theatre hours of Enora. The room was bare now, except for a large dressing-basket standing by the wall opposite the door. Doctor Manson, Superintendent Jones, and Inspector Kenway watched while Inspector Bradley broke the official seals on the basket, unlocked it, and laid out the contents on the dressing table.
Kenway ticked off each item as it was produced, using the Burlington police inventory for the purpose. The basket empty, Doctor Manson looked carefully over the exhibits.
There was the suit, the stained and dirty underclothes that were to have been sent to the laundry on the evening of the tragedy. There was the shirt, the collar and tie, the boxes of vaseline and cold cream. And there was the cat skin. His perusal over, the scientist peered into the wardrobe, the drawer of the dressing table, and every other crack and crevice which the room contained. He found nothing; and he said nothing.
He next turned his attention to the cat skin. “Well, there’s one thing we need not worry over—finger-prints,” he said. “We are not likely to find any on this sort of garment.”
He opened the skin at the neck, turned back the folds, and with a lens taken from a waistcoat pocket examined the interior.
“Remarkable pieces of work these stage skins,” he remarked.
The scientist was right. A skin is, indeed, a remarkable piece of work. The base is a woven net, like a thick stockinet. Into the holes of the net are woven hair, and it is this hair and its quality that gives the value to the skin. Sixty pounds is not at all a dear price to pay for the outfit, a hundred pounds would provide a good skin. The effect of the stockinet, thus woven, is that it stretches to ‘fit’ the wearer, thus avoiding the uncouth and ill-fitting appearance which a base of canvas or some other material would show.
“Yes, a remarkable piece of work indeed,” the scientist added. He passed his lens over the netting, pausing now and again to make a closer examination of one or two spots. After two or three of these pauses he called to Kenway.
“In my overcoat pocket, Kenway,” he said, “is a small case containing a pair of tweezers and some seed envelopes. Get them for me, will you?”
The inspector handed them over. Doctor Manson, again using his lens, searched the interior of the mask of the cat, and with the tweezers detached a small object. He slipped it into one of the envelopes, and proceeded with his search. Three times he carried out the operation, each time from a different part of the mask’s interior. Then, apparently satisfied, he put down the skin, and sealing the envelopes, labelled them, and held them out to Superintendent Jones for his confirming initials.
“’Swat I like to see . . . Doctor . . . goin’ all science,” said Jones.
“And I want the skin wrapped up, too,” the scientist retorted with a smile. “I’ll take it back with me in the car.”
From the Cat’s dressing-room the company proceeded to that which had been occupied by Miss de Grey. This, too, had remained locked, and its contents were sealed in two dress baskets. Once again, the contents of the baskets were lifted out and laid on the dressing table, and on the lounge. They included all the costume changes required for her part of principal boy in the pantomime, her greasepaint, creams, and other toilet concomitants, her clothes, wraps, and the usual feminine contents of a well-supplied dressing-room of a star performer.
Doctor Manson, after a perfunctory glance at the toilet articles and fripperies, ignored them as not likely to pay for examination. He turned instead, to the clothes worn by Miss de Grey when she was using that identity, and not that of Dick Whittington. They contained two costumes and a fur coat. Each garment was wrapped in a silk dust sheet, which had enfolded them in the wardrobe, and in which the dresser had lifted them out and laid with them in the basket. The scientist opened the first of the dust sheets. It surrounded the garment in its entirety. In a corner was the name, in red lettering, ‘Silks, Ltd.’ The costume was a two-piece suit, of excellent quality, and so, too, was the second costume. From them, Doctor Manson passed to the fur coat. This, also, was enveloped in a dust sheet. It was shaken from its covering, and hung up on a hook behind the door.
Doctor Manson, looking at it, whistled softly. He felt it over, inside and out. Then, stepping back, he inspected it as a whole.
“You know anything about furs, Inspector?” he asked Bradley.
“Not a great deal, sir,” was the reply. “My wife has one, but this strikes me as being a pretty good fur.”
“It certainly is a pretty good fur, Bradley, and not one I should have expected to be found worn by an artiste in the second-rate pantomime class. It’s mink, and would cost, I should say, about £1,200. You have not, I suppose, made any inquiries into Miss de Grey?”
“No. We saw no reason for it, Doctor. Mr. Henri de Benyat, the owner of the pantomime, said that as far as he knew she had no relatives. She had told him so and that she had come originally from Southampton, some five years ago. He attended the funeral, with the members of the company, but apart from that there were no other mourners.”
The scientist slipped on his overcoat. “Well, I don’t think you need deprive the theatre of their dressing-rooms any longer, Jones,” he said. “But have the baskets packed again and taken to the police station, together with that in Enora’s room. All that interests me is the skin of Enora and these dust sheets and the fur coat of Miss de Grey. Those I will take back with me.”
“Get Kenway to find out all he can about Miss de Grey, Jones,” he said. “Get it from the company, you understand. I’ll attend to de Benyat myself. And now, I’ve a bit of personal business with Bradley.” He called the inspector over, and, linking an arm in one of his, walked away.
The Burlington inspector stopped in surprise, and stared at his companion, when Doctor Manson mentioned the business on which he required the help of the police of the seaside town.
“Do you know, sir,” he said, “I’ve had a bit of a doubt always about that fire. Never liked it.”
“Why not?” from Manson.
“Well, for one thing, I did not like the proprietors. They were strangers in the place, and they were, to my mind, a shifty couple. They started off by making a large contribution to the police sports field and club fund. Now, the shop was taken over from a man who had found it hard to get a living out of it. You understand, sir, that trade here is purely a seasonal one. It does not last more than about three months. Half the people are ‘broke’ within a couple of months of the season ending. You’ve got to take enough money in the three months to last you through the winter. That isn’t too bad when it’s a trade like drapery, or outfitting, or ladies’ clothes, because there are always the local people to eke out the off-season. But with a trade like these fancy goods, of the expensive kind, it’s pretty hopeless. Now, this couple came here and paid a good price for the business. As a matter of fact, they paid £3,000, so the owner told me. They stocked it with more stuff than the other chap had sold in all the years he had been in business. It would have lasted them for years, and they wouldn’t have seen their expenses back, let alone have made a living out of it.