“Half-hour, please. Half-hour, please.”
“I must be off,” said Mr. Crammer, sighing heavily. “I’m not made up yet and I begin this revolting piece. Pah!” He rose majestically and made a not unimpressive exit.
“Poor old J.B.’s very disgruntled,” said Gardener in an undertone. “He was to play the Beaver and then it was given to Arthur Surbonadier. Great heart-burning, I assure you.” He smiled charmingly. “It’s a rum life, Nigel,” he said.
“You mean they are rum people?” said Nigel.
“Yes — partly. Like children and terribly, terribly like actors. They run too true to type.”
“You were not so critical in our Trinity days.”
“Don’t remind me of my callow youth.”
“Youth!” said Alleyn. “You children amuse me. Twenty years ago next month I came down from Oxford. Ah me! Fie, fie! Out upon it!”
“All the same,” persisted Nigel, “you can’t persuade me, Felix, that you are out of conceit with your job.”
“That’s another matter,” said Felix Gardener.
There was a light tap on the door, which opened far enough to disclose a rather fat face, topped by a check cap and garnished with a red spotted handkerchief. It was accompanied by an unmistakable gust of alcohol, only partially disguised by violet cachous.
“Hullo — hullo, Arthur, come in,” said Gardener pleasantly, but without any great enthusiasm.
“So sorry,” said the face unctuously. “Thought you were alone, old man. Wouldn’t intrude for the world.”
“Rot!” said Gardener. “Do come in and shut the door. There’s a hellish draught in this room.”
“No, no, it’s not important. Just that little matter of — I’ll see you later.” The face withdrew and the door was shut, very gently.
“That’s Arthur Surbonadier,” Gardener explained to Alleyn. “He’s pinched J.B.’s part and thinks I’ve pinched his. Result, J.B. hates him and he hates me. That’s what I mean about actors.”
“Oh!” said Nigel, with youthful profundity. “Jealousy.”
“And whom do you hate?” asked Alleyn lightly.
“I?” Gardener said. “I’m at the top of this particular tree and can afford to be generous. I dare say I’ll get like it sooner or later.”
“Do you think Surbonadier a good actor?” asked Nigel.
Gardener lifted one shoulder.
“He’s Jacob Saint’s nephew.”
“I see. Or do I?”
“Jacob Saint owns six theatres, of which this is one. He gives good parts to Surbonadier. He never engages poor artists. Therefore Surbonadier must be a good actor. I refuse to be more catty than that. Do you know this play?” he said, turning to Alleyn.
“No,” said the inspector. “Not a word of it. I have been trying to discover from your make-up whether you are a hero, a racketeer, one of us police, or all three. The pipe on your dressing-table suggests a hero, the revolver a racketeer, and the excellent taste of the coat you are about to put on, a member of my own profession. I deduce, my dear Bathgate, that Mr. Gardener is a hero disguised as a gun-man, and a member of the C.I.D.”
“There!” said Nigel triumphantly. He turned proudly to Gardener. For once Alleyn was behaving nicely as a detective.
“Marvellous!” said Gardener.
“You don’t mean to tell me I’m right?” said Alleyn.
“Not far out. But I use the revolver as a policeman, the pipe as a gun-man, and don’t wear that suit in this piece at all.”
“Which only goes to show,” said Alleyn, grinning, “that intuition is as good as induction any day.” They lit cigarettes and Nigel and Gardener began a long reminiscent yarn about their Cambridge days.
The door opened again and a little dried-up man in an alpaca jacket came in.
“Ready, Mr. Gardener?” he asked, scarcely glancing at the others.
Gardener took off his wrap, and the dresser got a coat from under the sheet and helped him into it. “You need a touch more powder, sir, if I may say so,” he remarked. “It’s a warm night.”
“That gun business all right?” asked Gardener, turning back to the mirror.
“Props says so. Let me give you a brush, if you please, Mr. Gardener.”
“Oh, get along with you, Nannie,” rejoined Gardener. He submitted good-humouredly to the clothes brush.
“Handkerchief,” murmured the dresser, flicking one into the jacket. “Pouch in side pocket. Pipe. Are you right, sir?”
“Right as rain — run along.”
“Thank you, sir. Shall I take the weapon to Mr. Surbonadier, sir?”
“Yes. Go along to Mr. Surbonadier’s room. My compliments, and will he join these gentlemen as my guests for supper?” He took up the revolver.
“Certainly, sir,” said the dresser, and went out.
“Bit of a character, that,” said Gardener. “You will sup with me, won’t you? I’ve asked Surbonadier because he dislikes me. It will add piquancy to the dressed crab.”
“Quarter hour, please. Quarter hour, please,” said the voice outside.
“We’d better go round to the front,” said Nigel.
“Plenty of time. I want you to meet Stephanie Vaughan, Alleyn. She’s madly keen on criminology and would never forgive me if I hid you.” (Alleyn looked politely resigned.) “Stephanie!” Gardener shouted loudly. A muffled voice from beyond the wall sang:
“Hullo — oh?”
“Can I bring visitors in to see you?”
“Of course, darling,” trilled the voice, histrionically cordial.
“Marvellous woman!” said Gardener. “Let’s go.”
Behind the tarnished star they found Miss Stephanie Vaughan in a rather bigger room, with thicker carpets, larger chairs, a mass of flowers and an aproned dresser. She received them with much gaiety, gave them cigarettes and dealt out her charm lavishly, with perhaps an extra libation for Gardener and a hint, thought Nigel, of something more subtly challenging in her manner towards Inspector Alleyn. Even with blue grease on her eyelids and scarlet grease on her nostrils, she was a very lovely woman, with beautifully groomed hair, enormous eyes, and a heart-shaped face. Her three-cornered smile was famous. She began to talk shop — Alleyn’s shop — to the inspector, and asked him if he had read H. B. Irving’s book on famous criminals. He said he had, and thought it jolly good. She asked him if he had read other books on criminals and psychology; if he had read Freud, if he had read Ernest Jones. Mr. Alleyn said he thought them all jolly good. Nigel felt nervous.
“I’ve saturated myself in the literature of crime,” said Miss Vaughan. “I’ve tried to understand, deep down, the psychology of the criminal. I’m greedy for more. Tell me of more books to read, Mr. Alleyn.”
“Have you read Edgar Wallace?” asked Alleyn. “He’s jolly good.”
There was a nasty silence, and then Miss Vaughan decided to let loose her lovely laugh. It rang out — a glorious, bubbling cascade of joyousness. Gardener and Nigel joined in, the latter unconvincingly. Gardener flung his head back and shouted. He put his hand lightly on Stephanie Vaughan’s shoulder.
Then quite suddenly they were aware that the door had been flung open and that Arthur Surbonadier was standing in the room. With one hand he held on to the door — with the other he fumbled at the spotted neckerchief below his scrubby beard. His mouth was half open and he seemed to be short of breath. At last he spoke.
“Quite a jolly little party,” he said. His voice was thick and they saw how his lips trembled. They stopped short in their laughter, Gardener still with his hand on that lovely shoulder, Stephanie Vaughan open-mouthed and frozen into immobility — rather as though they were posing for a theatrical photograph. There was a quite appalling little silence.
“Charming picture,” said Surbonadier. “All loving and bright. Mayn’t I know the joke?”
“The joke,” said Alleyn quickly, “was a bad one — of mine.”
“The cream of the jest,” said Surbonadier, “is on me. Stephanie will explain it to you. You’re the detective, aren’t you?”
Gardener and Nigel both started talking. Nigel heard himself introduce Alleyn. Gardener was saying something about his supper-party. Alleyn had got to his feet and was offering Miss Vaughan a cigarette. She took it without moving her gaze off Surbonadier, and Alleyn lit it for her.