by Ngaio Marsh
“Well,” Alleyn said, “I’d better see.”
“We covered him,” Gibson said. “With a dust sheet. It’s about as bad as they come. Worst I’ve ever seen. Now!”
“Very nasty,” Fox said. He nodded to one of the men. “O.K., Bailey.”
Detective-Sergeant Bailey, a finger-print expert, uncovered the body of Jobbins.
It was lying on its back with the glittering mask and single eye appallingly exposed. The loudly checked coat was open and dragged back into what must be a knotted lump under the small of the back. Between the coat and the dirty white sweater there was a rather stylish yellow scarf. The letter H had been embroidered on it. It was blotted and smeared. The sweater itself was soaked in patches of red and had ridden up over the chest. There was something almost homely and normal in the look of a tartan shirt running in sharp folds under the belted trousers that were strained across the crotch by spread-eagled legs.
Alleyn looked, waited an appreciable time and then said: “Has he been photographed? Printed?”
“The lot,” somebody said.
“I want to take some measurements. Then he can be moved. I see you’ve got a mortuary van outside. Get the men up.” The Sergeant moved to the stairhead. “Just make sure those two young people are out of the way,” Alleyn said.
He held out his hand and Fox gave him a steel springtape. They measured the distance from that frightful head to the three shallow steps that led up to the circle foyer and marked the position of the body. When Jobbins was gone and the divisional-surgeon after him, Alleyn looked at the bronze dolphin, glistening on the carpet
“There’s your weapon,” Gibson said unnecessarily.
The pedestal had been knocked over and lay across the shallow steps at the left-hand corner. The dolphin, detached, lay below it on the landing, close to a dark blot on the crimson carpet where Jobbins’s head had been. Its companion piece still made an elegant arc on the top of its own pedestal near the wall. They had stood to left and right at the head of the stairs in the circle foyer. Four steps below the landing lay a thick cup in a wet patch and below it another one and a small tin tray.
“His post,” Alleyn said, “was on this sunken landing under—”
He looked up. There, still brillantly lit, was the exposed casket, empty.
“That’s correct,” Gibson said. “He was supposed to stay there until he was relieved by this chap Hawkins at midnight.”
“Where is this Hawkins?”
“Ah,” Gibson said disgustedly, “sobbing his little heart out in the gent’s cloaks. He’s gone to pieces.”
Fox said austerely, “He seems to have acted very foolishly from the start. Comes in late. Walks up here. Sees deceased and goes yelling out of the building.”
“That’s right,” Gibson agreed. “And if he hadn’t run into this Mr. Jay and his lady friend he might be running still and us none the wiser.”
“So it was Jay who rang police?” Alleyn interjected.
“That’s correct.”
“What about their burglar alarm?”
“Off. The switch is back of the box-office.”
“I know. They showed me. What then, Fred?”
“The Sergeant’s sent in and gets support. I get the office and I come in and we set up a search. Thought our man might be hiding on the premises but not. Either got out of it before Hawkins arrived or slipped away while he was making an exhibition of himself. The pass-door in the main entrance was shut but not locked. It had been locked, they say, so it looked as if that was his way out.”
“And the boy?”
“Yes. Well, now. The boy. Mr. Jay says the boy’s a bit of a young limb. Got into the habit of hanging round after the show and acting the goat. Jobbins complained of him making spook noises and that. He was at it before Mr. Jay and Miss Dunne left the theatre to go out to supper. Mr. Jay tried to find him but it was dark and he let out a catcall or two and then they heard the stage-door slam and reckoned he’d gone. Not, as it turns out.”
“Evidently. I’ll see Hawkins now, Fred.”
Hawkins was produced in the downstage foyer. He was a plain man made plainer by bloodshot eyes, a reddened nose and a loose mouth. He gazed lugubriously at Alleyn, spoke of shattered nerves and soon began to cry.
“Who’s going to pitch into me next?” he asked. “I ought to be getting hospital attention, the shock I’ve had, and not subjected to treatment that’d bring about an inquiry if I made complaints. I ought to be home in bed getting looked after.”
“So you shall be,” Alleyn said. “We’ll send you home in style when you’ve just told me quietly what happened.”
“I have! I have told. I’ve told them others.”
“All right. I know you’re feeling rotten and it’s a damn shame to keep you but you see you’re the chap we’re looking to for help.”
“Don’t you use that yarn to me. I know what the police mean when they talk about help. Next thing it’ll be the Usual Bloody Warning.”
“No, it won’t. Look here—I’ll say what I think happened and you jump on me if I’m wrong. All right?”
“How do I know if it’s all right!”
“Nobody suspects you, you silly chap,” Fox said. “How many more times!”
“Never mind,” Alleyn soothed. “Now, listen, Hawkins. You come down to the theatre. When? About ten past twelve?”
Hawkins began a great outcry against buses and thunderstorms but was finally induced to say he heard the hour strike as he walked down the lane.
“And you came in by the stage-door. Who let you in?”
Nobody, it appeared. He had a key. He banged it shut and gave a whistle and shouted. Pretty loudly, Alleyn gathered, because Jobbins was always at his post on the half-landing and he wanted to let him know he’d arrived. He came in, locked the door and shot the bolt. He supposed Jobbins was fed up with him for being late. This account was produced piecemeal and with many lamentable excursions. Hawkins now became extremely agitated and said what followed had probably made a wreck of him for the rest of his life. Alleyn displayed sympathy and interest, however, and was flattering in his encouragement. Hawkins gazed upon him with watering eyes and said that what followed was something chronic. He had seen no light in the Property Room so had switched his torch on and gone out to front-of-house. As soon as he got there he noticed a dim light in the circle. And there—it had given him a turn—in the front row, looking down at him was Henry Jobbins in his flash new overcoat.
“You never told us this!” Gibson exclaimed.
“You never arst me.”
Fox and Gibson swore quietly together.
“Go on,” Alleyn said.
“I said: ‘That you, Hen?’ and he says ‘Who d’yer think it is’ and I said I was sorry I was late and should I make the tea and he said yes. So I went into the Props Room and made it.”
“How long would that take?”
“It’s an old electric jug. Bit slow.”
“Yes? And then?”
“Oh Gawd. Oh Gawd.”
“I know. But go on.”
He had carried the two cups of tea through the house to the front foyer and up the stairs.
Here Hawkins broke down again in a big way but finally divulged that he had seen the body, dropped the tray, tried to claw his way out at the front, run by the side aisle through the stalls and pass-door, out of the stage-door and down the alley, where he ran into Peregrine and Emily. Alleyn got his address and sent him home.
“What a little beauty,” Fred Gibson said.
“You tell me,” Alleyn observed, “that you’ve searched the theatre. What kind of search, Fred?”
“How d’you mean?”
“Well—obviously, as you say, for the killer. But have they looked for the stuff?”
“Stuff?”
“For a glove, for instance and two scraps of writing?”
There was a very short silence and then Gibson said: “There hasn’t really been time. We would, of course.�
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Fox said, “If he was surprised, you mean, and dropped them? Something of that nature?”
“It’s a forlorn hope, no doubt,” Alleyn said. He looked at Sergeant Bailey and the cameraman who was Sergeant Thompson-both of the Yard. “Have you tackled this dolphin?”
“Just going to when you arrived, sir,” Thompson said.
“Take it as it lies before you touch it. It’s in a ghastly state but there may be something. And the pedestal, of course. What’s the thing weigh?”
He went to the top of the stairs, took the other dolphin from its base, balanced and hefted it. “A tidy lump,” he said.
“Do you reckon it could have been used as a kind of club?” Fox asked.
“Only by a remarkably well-muscled-up specimen, Br’er Fox.” Alleyn replaced the dolphin and looked at it. “Nice,” he said. “He does that sort of thing beautifully.” He turned to Gibson. “What about routine, Fred?”
“We’re putting it round the divisions. Anybody seen in the precincts of The Dolphin or the Borough or further out. Might be bloody, might be nervous. That’s the story. I’d be just as glad to get back, Rory. We’ve got a busy night in my Div as it happens. Bottle fight at the Cat and Crow with a punch-up and knives. Probable fatality and three break-and-enters. And a suspected arson. You’re fully equipped, aren’t you?”
“Yes. All right, Fred, cut away. I’ll keep in touch.”
“Goodnight, then. Thanks.”
When Gibson had gone Alleyn said: “We’ll see where the boy was and then have a word with Peregrine Jay and Miss Dunne. How many chaps have you got here?” he asked the Sergeant
“Four at present, sir. One in the foyer, one at the stage-door, one with Hawkins and another just keeping an eye, like, on Mr. Jay and Miss Dunne.”
“Right. Leave the stage-door man and get the others going on a thorough search. Start in the circle. Where was this boy?”
“In the stalls, sir. Centre aisle and just under the edge of the circle.”
“Tell them not to touch the balustrade. Come on, Fox.”
When Alleyn and Fox went into the now fully lit stalls the first thing they noticed was a rather touching group made by Peregrine and Emily. They sat in the back row by the aisle. Peregrine’s head had inclined to Emily’s shoulder and her arm was about his neck. He was fast asleep. Emily stared at Alleyn, who nodded. He and Fox walked down the aisle to the chalk outline of Trevor’s body.
“And the doctor says a cut on the head, broken thigh and ribs, a bruise on the jaw and possible internal injuries?”
“That’s correct,” Fox agreed.
Alleyn looked at the back of the aisle seat above the trace of the boy’s head. “See here, Fox.”
“Yes. Stain all right. Still damp, isn’t it?”
“I think so. Yes.”
They both moved a step or two down the aisle and looked up at the circle. Three policemen and the Sergeant with Thompson and Bailey were engaged in a methodical search.
“Bailey,” Alleyn said, raising his voice very slightly.
“Sir?”
“Have a look at the balustrade above us here. Look at the pile in the velvet. Use your torch if necessary.”
There was a longish silence broken by Emily’s saying quietly: “It’s all right. Go to sleep again.”
Bailey moved to one side and looked down into the stalls. “We got something here, Mr. Alleyn,” he said. “Two sets of tracks with the pile dragged slantways in a long diagonal line outwards towards the edge. Some of it removed. Looks like fingernails. Trace of something that might be shoe-polish.”
“All right. Deal with it, you and Thompson.”
Fox said, “Well, well: a fall, eh?”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it? A fall from the circle about twenty feet. I suppose nobody looked at the boy’s fingernails. Who found him?” Fox, with a jerk of his head, indicated Peregrine and Emily. “They’d been sent in here,” he said, “to get them out of the way.”
“We’ll talk to them now, Fox.”
Peregrine was awake. He and Emily sat hand-in-hand and looked more like displaced persons than anything else, an effect that was heightened by the blueness of Peregrine’s jaws and the shadows under their eyes.
Alleyn said: “I’m sorry you’ve been kept so long. It’s been a beastly business for both of you. Now, I’m going to ask Mr. Fox to read over what you have already said to Mr. Gibson and his Sergeant and you shall tell us if, on consideration, this is a fair statement.”
Fox did this and they nodded and said yes: that was it.
“Good,” Alleyn said. “Then there’s only one other question. Did either of you happen to notice Trevor Vere’s fingernails?”
They stared at him and both repeated in pallid voices: “His fingernails?”
“Yes. You found him and I think you, Miss Dunne, stayed with him until he was taken away.”
Emily rubbed her knuckles in her eyes. “Oh dear,” she said, “I must pull myself together. Yes. Yes, of course I did. I stayed with him.”
“Perhaps you held his hand as one does with a sick child?”
“It’s hard to think of Trevor as a child,” Peregrine said. “He was born elderly. Sorry.”
“But I did,” Emily exclaimed. “You’re right. I felt his pulse and then, you know, I just went on holding his hand.”
“Looking at it?”
“Not specially. Not glaring at it. Although—”
“Yes?”
“Well, I remember I did sort of look at it. I moved it between my own hands and I remember noticing how grubby it was, which made it childish and—then—there was something—” She hesitated.
“Yes?”
“I thought he’d got rouge or carmine make-up under his nails and then I saw it wasn’t grease. It was fluff.”
“I tell you what,” Alleyn said. “We’ll put you up for the Police Medal, you excellent girl. Fox: get on to St. Terence’s Hospital and tell them it’s as much as their life is worth to dig out that boy’s nails. Tell our chap there he can clean them himself and put the harvest in an envelope and get a witness to it. Throw your bulk about. Get the top battleaxe and give her fits. Fly.”
Fox went off at a stately double.
“Now,” Alleyn said. “You may go, both of you. Where do you live?”
They told him. Blackfriars and Hempstead, respectively.
“We could shake you down, Emily,” Peregrine said. “Jeremy and I.”
“I’d like to go home, please, Perry. Could you call a taxi?”
“I think we can send you,” Alleyn said. “I shan’t need a car yet awhile and there’s a gaggle of them out there.”
Peregrine said: “I ought to wait for Greenslade, Emily.”
“Yes, of course you ought.”
“Well,” Alleyn said. “We’ll bundle you off to Hampstead, Miss Dunne. Where’s the Sergeant?”
“Here, sir,” said the Sergeant unexpectedly. He had come in from the foyer.
“What’s the matter?” Alleyn asked. “What’ve you got there?”
The Sergeant’s enormous hands were clapped together in front of him and arched a little as if they enclosed something that fluttered and might escape.
“Seventh row of the stalls, sir,” he said, “centre aisle. On the floor about six foot from where the boy lay. There was a black velvet kind of easel affair and a sheet of polythene laying near them.”
He opened his palms like a book and disclosed a little wrinkled glove and two scraps of paper.
“Would they be what was wanted?” asked the Sergeant.
“To me,” said Mr. Greenslade with palapable self-restraint, “there can be only one explanation, my dear Alleyn. The boy, who is, as Jay informs us, an unpleasant and mischievous boy, banged the door to suggest he’d gone but actually stayed behind and, having by some means learned the number of the combination, robbed the safe of its contents. He was caught in the act by Jobbins, who must have seen him from his post on the half-landing.
As Jobbins made for him the boy, possibly by accident, overturned the pedestal. Jobbins was felled by the dolphin and the boy, terrified, ran into the circle and down the centre aisle. In his panic he ran too fast, stumbled across the balustrade, clutched at the velvet top and fell into the stalls. As he fell he let go the easel with the glove and papers and they dropped, as he did, into the aisle.”
Mr. Greenslade, looking, in his unshaven state, strangely unlike himself, spread his hands and threw himself back in Winter Meyer’s office chair. Peregrine sat behind his own desk and Alleyn and Fox in two of the modish seats reserved for visitors. The time was twelve minutes past three and the air stale with the aftermath of managerial cigarettes and drinks.
“You say nothing,” Mr. Greenslade observed. “You disagree?”
Alleyn said: “As an open-and-shut theory it has its attractions. It’s tidy. It’s simple. It means that we all sit back and hope for the boy to recover consciousness and health so that we can send him up to the Juvenile Court for manslaughter.”
“What I can’t quite see—” Peregrine began and then said, “Sorry.”
“No. Go on,” Alleyn said.
“I can’t see why the boy, having got the documents and glove, should come out to the circle foyer where he’d be sure to be seen by Jobbins on the half-landing. Why didn’t he go down through the circle by the box, stairs, and pass-door to the stage and let himself out by the stage-door?”
“He might have wanted to show off. He might have —I am persuaded,” Mr. Greenslade said crossly, “that your objections can be met.”
“There’s another thing,” Peregrine said, “and I should have thought of it before. At midnight, Jobbins had to make a routine report to police and fire-station. He’d do it from the open telephone in the downstairs foyer.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Greenslade. “That would give the boy his opportunity. What do you say, Alleyn?”
“As an investigating officer I’m supposed to say nothing,” Alleyn said lightly. “But since the people at the bistro up the lane and the wretched Hawkins all put Jay out of the picture as a suspect and you yourself appear to have been some thirty miles away—”