Enter a Murderer

  ENTER A

  MURDERER

  Ngaio Marsh

  FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK

  Foreword

  WHEN I SHOWED this manuscript to my friend, Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, of the Criminal Investigation Department, he said:

  "It's a perfectly good account of the Unicorn case, but isn't it usual in detective stories to conceal the identity of the criminal?"

  I looked at him coldly.

  "Hopelessly vieux jeu, my dear Alleyn. Nowadays the identity of the criminal is always revealed in the early chapters."

  "In that case," he said, "I congratulate you."

  I was not altogether delighted.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Prologue to a Play

  ON MAY 25TH Arthur Surbonadier, whose real name was Arthur Simes, went to visit his uncle, Jacob Saint, whose real name was Jacob Simes. Jacob was an actor before he went into management and had chosen Saint as his stage name, and stuck to it for the rest of his life. He made bad jokes about it—"I'm no Saint"—and wouldn't allow his nephew to adopt it when he in turn took to the boards. "Only one Saint in the profession," he roared out. "Call yourself what you like, Arthur, but keep off my grass. I'll start you off at the Unicorn and I'll leave you the cash—or most of it. If you're a bad actor you won't get the parts—that's business."

  As Arthur Surbonadier ("Surbonadier" had been suggested by Stephanie Vaughan) walked after the footman towards his uncle's library, he remembered this conversation. He was not a bad actor. He was an adequate actor. He was, he told himself, a damn' good actor. He tried to stiffen himself for the encounter. A damn' good actor with personality. He would dominate Jacob Saint. He would, if necessary, use that final weapon—the weapon that Saint knew nothing about. The footman opened the library door.

  "Mr. Surbonadier, sir."

  Arthur Surbonadier walked in.

  Jacob Saint was sitting at his ultra-modern desk in his ultra-modern chair. A cubistic lamp lit up the tight rolls of fat at the back of his neck. His grey and white check jacket revealed the muscles of his back. His face was turned away from Surbonadier. Wreaths of cigar smoke rose above his pink head. The room smelt of cigar smoke and the scent he used—it was specially made for him, that scent, and none of his ladies—not even Janet Emerald—had ever been given a flask of it.

  "Sit down, Arthur," he rumbled. "Have a cigar; I'll talk to you in a moment."

  Arthur Surbonadier sat down, refused the cigar, lit a cigarette, and fidgeted. Jacob Saint wrote, grunted, thumped a blotter and swung round in his steel chair.

  He was like a cartoon of a theatre magnate. He was as if he played his own character, with his enormous red dewlaps, his coarse voice, his light blue eyes and his thick lips.

  "What d'yer want, Arthur?" he said and waited.

  "How are you, Uncle Jacob? Rheumatism better?"

  "It isn't rheumatism, it's gout, and it's bloody. What d'yer want?"

  "It's about the new show at the Unicorn." Surbonadier hesitated, and again Saint waited. "I—I don't know if you've seen the change in the casting."

  "I have."

  "Oh!"

  "Well?"

  "Well," said Surbonadier, with a desperate attempt at lightness, "do you approve of it, uncle?"

  "I do."

  "I don't."

  "What the hell does that matter?" asked Jacob Saint. Surbonadier's heavy face whitened. He tried to act the part of himself dominant, himself in control of the stage. Mentally he fingered his weapon.

  "Originally," he said, "I was cast for Carruthers. I can play the part and play it well. Now it's been given to Gardener—to Master Felix, whom everybody loves so much."

  "Whom Stephanie Vaughan loves so much."

  "That doesn't arise," said Surbonadier. His lips trembled. With a kind of miserable exultation he felt his anger welling up.

  "Don't be childish, Arthur," rumbled Saint, "and don't come whining to me. Felix Gardener plays Carruthers because he is a better actor than you are. He probably gets Stephanie Vaughan for the same reason. He's got more sex appeal. You're cast for the Beaver. It's a very showy part and they've taken it away from old Barclay Crammer, who would have done it well enough."

  "I tell you I'm not satisfied. I want you to make the alteration. I want 'Carruthers.'"

  "You won't get it. I told you before you'd ever faced the foots that our relationship was not going to be used to jack you up into star parts. I gave you your chance, and you wouldn't have got that if I wasn't your uncle. Now it's up to you." He stared dully at his nephew and then swung his chair towards the desk. "I'm busy," he added. Surbonadier wetted his lips and crossed to him.

  "You've bullied me," he said, "all my life. You paid for my education because it suited your vanity to do it, and because you like power."

  "Spoken deliberately—comes down-stage slowly! Quite the little actor, aren't you?"

  "You've got to get rid of Felix Gardener!"

  Jacob Saint for the first time gave his nephew his whole attention. His eyes protruded slightly. He thrust his head forward—it was a trick that was strangely disconcerting and it had served him well when dealing with harder men than Surbonadier.

  "Try that line of talk again," he said very quietly, "and you're finished. Now get out."

  "Not yet." Surbonadier gripped the top of the desk and cleared his throat. "I know too much about you," he said at last. "More than you realise. I know why you—why you paid Mortlake two thousand." They stared at each other. A dribble of cigar smoke escaped through Saint's half-open lips. When he spoke it was with venomous restraint.

  "So we thought we'd try an odd spot of blackmail, did we?" His voice had thickened. "What have you been doing, you—?"

  "Did you never miss a letter you had from him last February—when—when I was—"

  "When you were my guest. By God, my money's been well spent on you, Arthur!"

  "Here's a copy." Surbonadier's shaking hand went to his pocket. He could not take his eyes off Saint. There was something automaton-like about him. Saint glanced at the paper and dropped it.

  "If there's any more of this"—his voice rose to a shocking, raucous yell—"I'll have you up for blackmail. I'll ruin you. You'll never get another shop in London. You hear that?"

  "I'll do it." Surbonadier backed away, actually as though he feared he would be attacked. "I'll do it." His hand was on the door. Jacob Saint stood up. He was six feet tall and enormous. He should have dominated the room—he was much the better animal of the two. Yet Surbonadier, unhealthy, too soft, and shaking visibly, had about him an air of sneaking mastery.

  "I'm off," he said.

  "No," said Saint. "No. Sit down again. I'll talk."

  Surbonadier went back to his chair.

  On the night of June 7th, after the first performance of The Rat and the Beaver, Felix Gardener gave a party in his flat in Sloane Street. He had invited all the other members of the cast, even old Susan Max, who got buccaneerish over the champagne, and talked about the parts she had played with Julius Knight in Australia. Janet Emerald, the "heavy" of the play, listened to her with an air of gloomy profundity. Stephanie Vaughan was very much the leading lady, very tranquil, very gracious, carelessly kind to everyone and obviously pliant to Felix Gardener himself. Nigel Bathgate, the only journalist at the party and an old Cambridge friend of Felix, wondered if he and Miss Vaughan were about to announce their engagement. Surely their mutual attentiveness meant something more than mere theatrical effusion. Arthur Surbonadier was there, rather too friendly with everybody, thought Nigel, who disliked him; and J. Barclay Crammer, who disliked him even more, glared at Surbonadier across the table. Dulcie Deamer, the jeune fille of the play, was also the jeune fille of the party. And Howard Melville ran he
r a good second in registering youthful charm, youthful bashfulness and something else that was genuinely youthful and rather pleasing. Jacob Saint was there, loudly jovial and jovially loud. "My company, my actors, my show," he seemed to shout continually, and indeed did. To the playwright, who was present and submissive, Saint actually referred as "my author." The playwright remained submissive. Even George Simpson, the stage manager, was present, and it was he who began the conversation that Nigel was to recall a few weeks later, and relate to his friend, Detective-Inspector Alleyn.

  "That business with the gun went off all right, Felix," Simpson said, "though I must say I was nervous about it. I hate a fake."

  "Was it all right from the front?" asked Surbonadier, turning to Nigel Bathgate.

  "What do you mean?" asked Nigel. "What business with the gun?"

  "My God, he doesn't even remember it!" sighed Felix Gardener. "In the third act, my dear chap, I shoot the Beaver—Arthur—Mr. Surbonadier at close range and he falls down dead."

  "Of course I remember that," said Nigel, rather nettled. "It was perfectly all right. Most convincing. The gun went off."

  "The gun went off!" screamed Miss Dulcie Reamer hilariously. "Did you hear him, Felix?"

  "The gun didn't go off," said the stage manager. "That's just the point. I fire another off in the prompt corner and Felix jerks his hand. You see, he shoots the Beaver at close range—actually presses the barrel of the revolver into his waistcoat, so we can't use a blank—it would scorch his clothes. The cartridges that the Beaver loads his gun with are all duds—empty shells."

  "I'm damned glad you don't," said Arthur Surbonadier. "I loathe guns and I sweat blood in that scene. The price one pays," he added heavily, "for being an actor." He glanced at his uncle, Jacob Saint.

  "Oh, for Heaven's sake!" muttered J. Barclay Crammer in a bitterly scornful aside to Gardener.

  "It's your own gun, isn't it, Felix?" he said aloud.

  "Yes," said Felix Gardener. "It was my brother's—went all through Flanders with him." His voice deepened. "I'm not leaving it in the theatre. Too precious. Here it is." A little silence fell upon the company as he produced a service revolver and laid it on the table.

  "It makes the play seem rather paltry," said the author of the play.

  They spoke no more of the gun.

  On the morning of June 14th, when The Rat and the Beaver had run a week to full houses, Felix Gardener sent Nigel Bathgate two complimentary tickets for the stalls. Angela North, who does not come into this story, was away from London, so Nigel rang up Scotland Yard and asked for his friend, Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.

  "Are you doing anything to-night?" he said.

  "What do you want me to do?" said the voice in the receiver.

  "How cautious you are!" said Nigel. "I've got a couple of seats for the show at the Unicorn. Felix Gardener gave them to me."

  "You do know a lot of exciting people!" remarked the inspector. "I'll come with pleasure. Dine with me first, won't you?"

  "You dine with me. It's my party."

  "Really? This promises well."

  "That's splendid!" said Nigel. "I'll pick you up at a quarter to seven."

  "Right you are. I'm due for a night off," said the voice. "Thank you, Bathgate. Good-bye."

  "Hope you enjoy it," said Nigel, but the receiver had gone dead.

  At cocktail-time on that same day, June 14th, Arthur Surbonadier called on Miss Stephanie Vaughan at her flat in Shepheard's Market and asked her to marry him. It was not the first time he had done so. Miss Vaughan felt herself called upon to use all her professional and personal savoir-faire. The scene needed some handling and she gave it her full attention.

  "Darling," she said, taking her time over lighting a cigarette and quite unconsciously adopting the best of her six by-the-mantelpiece poses. "Darling, I'm so terribly, terribly upset by all this. I feel I'm to blame. I am to blame."

  Surbonadier was silent. Miss Vaughan changed her pose. He knew quite well, through long experience, what her next pose would be, and equally well that it would charm him as though he were watching her for the first time. Her voice would drop. She would purr. She did purr.

  "Arthur darling, I'm all nervy. This piece has exhausted my vitality. I don't know where I am. You must be patient with me. I feel I'm incapable of loving anybody." She let her arms fall limply to her sides and then laid one hand delicately on her décolletage for him to look at. "Quite incapable," she added on a drifting sigh.

  "Even of loving Felix Gardener?" said Surbonadier.

  "Ah—Felix!" Miss Vaughan gave her famous three-cornered smile, lifted her shoulders a little, looked meditative and resigned. She managed to convey a world of something or another, quite beyond her control.

  "It comes to this," said Surbonadier. "Has Gardener"—he paused and looked away from her—"has Gardener cut me out?"

  "My sweet, what an Edwardianism. Felix talks one of my languages. You talk another."

  "I wish to God," said Surbonadier, "that you would confine yourself to plain English. I can talk that as well as he. I love you. I want you. Does that come into any of your languages?"

  Miss Vaughan sank into a chair and clasped her hands.

  "Arthur," she said, "I must have my freedom. I can't be closed in emotionally. Felix gives me something."

  "The hell he does," said Surbonadier. He too sat down, and such was the habit of the stage, he sat down rather stagily. His hands shook with genuine emotion, though, and Stephanie Vaughan eyed him and knew it.

  "Arthur," she said, "you must forgive me, darling. I'm very attached to you and I hate hurting you, but—if you can—leave off wanting me. Don't ask me to marry you—I might say 'Yes' and make you even more unhappy than you are now."

  Even while she spoke she knew she had made a false step. He had moved quickly to her side and taken her in his arms.

  "I'd risk the unhappiness," he muttered. "I want you so much." He pressed his face into her neck. She shivered a little. Unseen by him her face expressed a kind of exultant disgust. Her hands were on his hair. Suddenly she thrust him away.

  "No, no, no," she said. "Don't! Leave me alone. Can't you see I'm sick of it all? Leave me alone."

  In all the "bad men" parts he had played Surbonadier had never looked quite so evil as he did at that moment.

  "I'm damned if I'll leave you alone," he said. "I'm not going to be kicked out. I don't care if you hate me. I want you, and by God I'll have you."

  He took her by the wrists. She did not attempt to resist him. They stared, full of antagonism, into each other's faces.

  Distantly an electric bell sounded and at once her moment of surrender, if it had been a moment of surrender, was past.

  "That's the front door," she said. "Let me go, Arthur." She had to struggle before she could break away from him, and he was still beside her, in a state of rather blatant agitation, when Felix Gardener walked into the room.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Overture and Beginners, Please"

  THE STAGE door-keeper of the Unicorn glanced up at the grimy face of the clock—7.10. All the artists were snug in their dressing rooms now. All, that was, except old Susan Max, who played an insignificant part in the last act and was given a bit of license by the stage manager. Susan usually came in about eight.

  Footsteps sounded in the alley outside. Old Blair uttered a kind of groaning sigh peculiar to himself, got creakily off his stool, and peered out into the warmish air. In a moment two men in evening dress stepped into the pool of uncertain light cast by the stage door lamp. Blair moved into the doorway and looked at them in silence.

  "Good evening," said the shorter of the two men.

  "'Evening, sir," said Blair, and waited.

  "Can we see Mr. Gardener, do you think? He's expecting us. Mr. Bathgate." He opened a cigarette-case and produced a card. Old Blair took it and shifted his gaze to the taller of the two visitors. "Mr. Alleyn is with me," said Nigel Bathgate.

  "Will you wait
a moment, please?" said Blair, and holding the card in the palm of his hand as if he were rather ashamed of it, he walked off down the passage.

  "That old gentleman had a good look at you," said Nigel Bathgate. He offered his cigarette-case.

  "Perhaps he knew me," said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn. "I'm as famous as anything, you know."

  "Are you, now? Too famous, perhaps, to be amused at this sort of thing?" Nigel waved his cigarette in the direction of the passage.

  "Not a bit. I'm as simple as I am clever—a lovable trait in my character. An actor in his dressing-room will thrill me to mincemeat. I shall sit and goggle at him, I promise you."

  "Felix is more likely to goggle at you. When he gave me a couple of stalls for to-night I told him Angela couldn't come and—I mean," said Nigel hurriedly, "I said I'd ask you, and he was quite startled by the importance of me."

  "So he ought to be—all took aback. When your best girl's away ask a policeman. Sensible man, Felix Gardener, as well as a damn' good actor. And I do love a crook play, I do."

  "Oh," said Nigel, "I never thought of that. Rather a busman's holiday for you, I'm afraid."

  "Not it. Is it the sort where you have to guess the murderer?"

  "It is. And you'll look a bit silly if you can't, won't you, inspector?"

  "Shut up. I shall bribe this old gentleman to tell me. Here he comes." Old Blair appeared at the end of the passage.

  "Will you come this way, please?" he said, without returning to the door.

  Nigel and Alleyn stepped inside the stage door of the Unicorn, and at that precise moment Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, all unknowingly, walked into one of the toughest jobs of his career.

  They at once sensed the indescribable flavour of the working half of a theatre when the nightly show is coming on. The stage door opens into a little realm, strange or familiar, but always apart and shut in. The passage led directly on to the stage, which was dimly lit and smelt of dead scene paint, of fresh grease paint, of glue-size, and of dusty darkness, time out of mind the incense of the playhouse. A pack of scene flats leaned against the wall and a fireman leaned against the outer flat, which was painted to represent a section of a bookcase. A man in shirt sleeves and rubber-soled shoes ran distractedly round the back of the set. A boy carrying a bouquet of sweet peas disappeared into a brightly-lit entry on the right. The flats of the "set" vanished up into an opalescent haze. Beyond them, lit by shaded lamps, the furniture of a library mutely faced the reverse side of the curtain. From behind the curtain came the disturbing and profoundly exciting murmur of the audience, and the immemorial squall of tuning fiddle-strings. Through the prompt entrance another man in shirt sleeves stared into the flies.