“It’s a fair cow, that’s what it is,” grunted Wade.
“Beg pardon, Inspector,” said the silent Cass after a pause, “but if I might make a suggestion — it’s just an idea, like.”
“Go ahead,” commanded Wade graciously.
“Well, sir, say this Mr. Liversidge knew the deceased gentleman had seen him take the money, without deceased having let on that he saw, if you understand me, sir.”
“Well done, sergeant,” said Alleyn quietly.
“Yes, but how?” objected Wade.
“Mr. Liversidge might have overheard deceased say something to his wife or somebody, sir.” Cass took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on the opposite wall. “What I mean to say,” he said doggedly, “Mr. Meyer saw Mr. Liversidge take the money. Mr. Liversidge knew Mr. Meyer saw him. Mr. Meyer thought Mr. Liversidge didn’t know he saw him.”
“And there,” concluded Alleyn, “would be the motive without Mr. Meyer realising it. He’s quite right. You’re fortunate, Inspector. An intelligent staff is not always given to us.”
Cass turned purple in the face, squared his enormous shoulders, and glared at the ceiling.
“There you are, Cass!” said Wade good-humouredly. “Now buzz off and get us another of these actors.”
Chapter XIV
VARIATION ON A POLICE WHISTLE
Old Brandon Vernon looked a little the worse for wear. The hollows under his cheek bones and the lines round his eyes seemed to have made one of those grim encroachments to which middle-aged faces are so cruelly subject. A faint hint of a rimy stubble broke the smooth pallor of his chin; his eyes, in spite of their look of sardonic impertinence, were lack-lustre and tired. Yet when he spoke one forgot his age, for his voice was quite beautiful; deep, and exquisitely modulated. He was one of that company of old actors that are only found in the West End of London. They still believe in using their voices as instruments, they speak without affectation, and they are indeed actors.
“Well, Inspector,” he said to Alleyn, “you know how to delay an entrance. It was very effective business, coming out in your true colours like this.”
“I found it rather uncomfortable, Mr. Vernon,” answered Alleyn. “Do sit down, won’t you, and have a smoke? Cigarette?”
“I’ll have my comforter, if you don’t mind.” And Vernon pulled out a pipe and pouch. “Well,” he said, “I’m not sorry to leave the wardrobe-room. That young cub’s sulking and the other fellow has about as much conversation as a vegetable marrow. Dull.” He filled his pipe and gripped it between his teeth.
“We’re sorry to have kept you waiting so long,” said Alleyn.
“Don’t apologise. Used to it in this business. Half an actor’s life is spent waiting. Bad show this. Was Alfred murdered?”
“It looks rather like it, I’m afraid.”
“Um,” rumbled old Vernon. “I wonder why.”
“To be frank, so do we.”
“And I suppose we’re all suspect. Lord, I’ve played in a good many mystery dramas but I never expected to appear in the genuine thing. Let me see, I suppose you’re going to ask me what I was doing before and after the crime, eh?”
“That’s the idea,” agreed Alleyn smiling.
“Fire ahead, then,” said old Vernon.
Alleyn put the now familiar questions to him. He corroborated the account Liversidge and Broadhead had given of his movements. At the close of the play and after the catastrophe, he had gone straight to his dressing-room, where the other two afterwards joined him.
“I don’t know if that constitutes an alibi,” he said, rolling his eyes round at Wade. “If it doesn’t I understand I am almost certain to be innocent.”
“So the detective books tell us,” said Alleyn, “and they ought to know. As a matter of fact I think it does give you a pretty well cast-iron alibi.”
Vernon grimaced. “Not so good. I must watch my step.”
“You’ve been with the firm of Incorporated Playhouses a good time, haven’t you, Mr. Vernon?”
“Let me see. I started with Double Knock at the old Curtain.” He pondered. “Ten years. Ten years with Inky-P. Long time to work with one management, ten years.”
“You must be the senior member of the club?”
“Pretty well. Susie runs me close, but she left us for The Rat and the Beaver, two years ago.”
“Ah, yes. You must have known Mr. Meyer very well?”
“Yes, I did. As well as an actor ever knows his manager, and that’s very thoroughly in some ways and not at all in others.”
“Did you like him?”
“Yes, I did. He was honest. Very fair with his actors. Never paid colossal salaries — not as they go nowadays — but you always got good money.”
“Mr. Vernon, do you know of any incident in the past or present that could throw any light on this business?”
“I don’t.”
“The Firm is all right, I suppose? Financially, I mean?”
“I believe so,” answered Vernon. There was an overtone in his voice that suggested a kind of guardedness.
“Any doubt at all about that?” asked Alleyn.
“There are always rumours about managements like ours. I have heard a certain amount of gossip about some of the touring companies. They are supposed to have dropped money for the Firm. Then there was Time Payment. That did a flop. Still, Inky-P. has stood a flop or two in its time.”
“Were all Mr. Meyer’s interests bound up in the Firm, do you know?”
“I don’t know anything about it. George Mason could tell you that, probably. Alfred was a very shrewd business man and he and Carolyn are not the social spotlight hunters that most of ’em are nowadays. They lived very quietly. The theatre before everything. I should say Alfred had saved money. Only a guess, you know.”
“I know. It’ll all appear now, of course.”
“What puzzles me, Mr. Alleyn, is who on earth would want to do in Alfred Meyer. None of us, you’d have thought. Shops aren’t found so easily that we can afford to kill off the managers.” He paused and rolled his eyes round. “I wonder,” he said, “if that accident on Friday morning gave anybody the big idea.”
“What accident?” asked Alleyn sharply.
“The morning we got here. Didn’t you hear about it? One of the staff was up in the flies fixing the weight for the mast. The head mechanist and Ted Gascoigne were down below on the stage, having an argument. Suddenly the gentleman in the flies got all careless and dropped the weight. It fell plumb between the two men and crashed half through the stage. Ted Gascoigne raved at the poor swine for about ten minutes, and Fred — the head mechanist— nearly ate him. We all rushed out to see the fun. God, they were a sight! White as paper and making faces at each other.”
“Good Lord!” said Alleyn.
“Yes. It would have laid him out for keeps if it had hit one of ’em. Great leaden thing like an enormous sash-weight and as heavy—”
“As heavy, very nearly, as a jeroboam of champagne,” finished Alleyn. “It was used, afterwards, as a counterweight for the bottle.”
“Was it really!” exclaimed Vernon.
“Didn’t you know how they fixed the gear for the bottle?”
“I heard poor old Alfred holding forth on the subject, of course, but I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention.”
“You all knew about the mishap with the counterweight?”
“Oh God, yes. Everyone came out helter-skelter. It shook the building. George ran along from the office, Val Gaynes flew out of her dressing-room in a pair of scanties. The two Australians nearly threw in their parts and returned to Sydney. It was a nine days’ wonder.”
“I see,” said Alleyn. He turned to Wade. “Anything else you’d like to ask Mr. Vernon, Inspector?”