“I am glad you think so,” said Alleyn tonelessly. “I’d be extremely grateful,” he added, “if you kept my occupation a secret. Life’s not worth living if one’s travelling companions know one is a C.I.D. man.”
“Of course we will. It will be so much easier for you to discover Valerie’s jewels if you’re incog, won’t it?”
“It’s not jewels, it’s money,” began Miss Gaynes. “It’s quite a lot of money. You see, daddy gave me some English notes to change when I got to New Zealand because of the exchange, and I kept some of them out for the ship, and gave some of them to the purser, and the night before we landed I got them from the purser and — and — they were all right, and I–I—”
“Have some brandy?” invited Carolyn suddenly.
“Thank you. Daddy will be simply livid about it. You see, I can’t remember when I last noticed I still had them. It’s all terribly confusing. I put them in a leather folder thing in my suit-case when I got them from the purser.”
“That was a damn’ silly thing to do,” said Mr. Meyer gloomily.
“I suppose it was, but I’m awful about money. Such a fool. And, you see, this morning, before I shut the suit-case, I felt the folder and it rustled, so I thought, well, that’s all right. And then, just now, I couldn’t sleep in this frightful train so I thought I’d write a letter, and I got out the folder and it was full of paper.”
“What sort of paper?” asked Carolyn, sleepily.
“Well, that’s what makes me wonder if it’s just a low joke someone’s played on me.”
“Why?” asked Alleyn.
“Oh!” said Miss Gaynes impatiently, “you must be too pure and clean-minded at Scotland Yard.”
Hambledon murmured something to Alleyn who said: “Oh, I see.”
“It was the brand they had in the ship. I noticed that. I call that pretty good, don’t you? I mean, to notice that. Do you think I’d make a sleuthess, Mr. Alleyn? No, but really, isn’t it a bore? What ought I to do? Of course I’ve got a letter of credit for Middleton, but after all one doesn’t like being burgled.”
“Did you look at your folder, or whatever it was, after breakfast this morning?” asked Meyer suddenly.
“Er — no. No, I’m sure I didn’t. Why?”
“How much was in it?”
“I’m not sure. Let me think. I used four — no, five pounds, for tips and then I paid Frankie ten that I lost at—”
She stopped short, and a kind of blankness came into her eyes.
“Oh, what’s the use, anyway,” she said. “I suppose it was about ninety pounds. It’s gone. And that’s that. I mustn’t keep you up, darling Miss Dacres.”
She made for the door. Alleyn opened it.
“If you would like to let me see the leather case—” he said.
“Too sweet of you, but honestly I’m afraid the money’s gone for good.”
“Well, I should let him see it,” said Carolyn, vaguely. “He may be able to trace it directly to the murderous footballer.”
“What murderous footballer?”
“I’ll tell you in the morning, Valerie. Good night. I’m so sorry about your money, but Mr. Alleyn will find it for you as soon as he has time. We’ve all had quite enough excitement for one night. Let us curl up in our horrid little sleepers.”
“Good night,” said Miss Gaynes and went out.
Alleyn looked at Carolyn Dacres. She had shut her eyes as soon as Valerie Gaynes had gone. She now opened one of them. It was a large, carefully made-up eye, and it was fixed on Alleyn.
“Good night, Carol,” said Hambledon. “ ’Night, Alf. Hope you get some sleep. Not much of the night left for it. Don’t worry too much about your adventure.”
“Sleep!” ejaculated Mr. Meyer. “Worry! We get to Middleton in an hour. Scarcely worth trying. I can’t lie down with any hope of comfort and you’d worry if someone tried to kick you off a train on the top of a mountain.”
“I expect I should. Coming, Alleyn?”
“Yes. Good night, Miss Dacres.”
“Good night,” said Carolyn in her deepest voice.
“So long,” said Mr. Meyer bitterly. “Sorry you’ve been troubled.”
Hambledon had already gone out into the little corridor, and Alleyn was in the doorway, when Carolyn stopped him.
“Mr. Alleyn!”
He turned back. There she was, still looking at him out of one eye, like some attractive, drowsy, but intelligent bird.
“Why didn’t Valerie want you to see the leather writing-folder?” asked Carolyn.
“I don’t know,” said Alleyn. “Do you?”
“I can make a damn’ good guess,” said Carolyn.
Chapter III
OFF-STAGE
The Dacres Company arrived at Middleton in time for breakfast. By ten o’clock the stage staff had taken possession of the Theatre Royal. To an actor on tour all theatres are very much alike. They may vary in size, in temperature, and in degree of comfort, but once the gas-jets are lit in the dressing-rooms, the grease-paints laid out in rows on the shelves, and the clothes hung up in sheets on the walls, all theatres are simply “theatre.” The playhouse is the focus-point of the company. As soon as an actor has “found a home,” and, if possible, enjoyed a rest, he goes down to the theatre and looks to his tools of trade. The stage-manager is there with his staff, cursing or praising the mechanical facilities behind the curtain. The familiar flats are trundled in, the working lights are on, the prompter’s table stands down by the footlights, and the sheeted stalls wait expectantly in the dark auditorium.
Soon the drone of the run-through-for-words begins. Mechanics peer from the flies and move, rubber-footed, about the stage. The theatre is alive, self-contained, and warm with preparation.
The Royal, at Middleton, was a largish playhouse. It seated a thousand, had a full stage and a conservative but adequate system of lighting and of overhead galleries, grid, and ropes. Ted Gascoigne, who was used to the West End, sniffed a little at the old-fashioned lighting. They had brought a special switchboard and the electrician morosely instructed employees of the local power-board in its mysteries.
At ten o’clock Carolyn and her company were all asleep or breakfasting in their hotels. Carolyn, Valerie Gaynes, Liversidge, Mason and Hambledon stayed at the Middleton, the most expensive of these drear establishments. For the rest of the company, the splendour of their lodgings was in exact ratio to the amount of their salaries, from Courtney Broadhead at The Commercial down to Tommy Biggs, the least of the staff, at “Mrs. Harbottle, Good Beds.”
George Mason, the manager, had not gone to bed. He had shaved, bathed, and changed his clothes, and by ten o’clock, uneasy with chronic dyspepsia, sat in the office at The Royal talking to the “advance,” a representative of the Australian firm under whose auspices the company was on tour.
“It’s going to be big, Mr. Mason,” said the advance. “We’re booked out downstairs, and only fifty seats left in the circle. There’s a queue for early-door tickets. I’m very very pleased.”
“Good enough,” said Mason. “Now listen.”
They talked. The telephone rang incessantly. Box-office officials came in, the local manager of the theatre, three slightly self-conscious reporters, and finally Mr. Alfred Meyer, carrying a cushion. This he placed on the swivel chair, and then cautiously lowered himself on to it.
“Well, Alf,” said Mason. “ ’Morning, George,” said Mr. Meyer.
Mason introduced the Australian advance, who instantly seized Mr. Meyer’s hand in a grip of iron and shook it with enthusiasm.
“I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Meyer.”
“How do you do?” said Mr. Meyer. “Good news for us, I hope?”
The reporters made tentative hovering movements.
“These gentlemen are from the Press,” said Mason. “They’d like to have a little chat with you, Alf.”