Enter a Murderer by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online Page A

and others. Props was standing beside me in the prompt box, I remember. He stayed there after he had given me the dummies and was there all the time until after the black-out. I know that because he kept whispering something about one of the dummies being loose. He seemed scared it might come to bits when Surbonadier loaded the gun.”
    “I see. And the others?”
    “I think young Howard Melville was somewhere round — he’s assistant S.M. I was on the book. It’s a short scene, but the beginners in the next bit aren’t called until half-way through.”
    “One more point and then I’m done. Where did you get the dummies?”
    “Props made them. He’s a positive genius at anything like that. Takes a pride in it. He got empty shells and filled them with sand, and then shoved the bullets in.”
    “Rather unnecessarily thorough, one would think.”
    “Lord, yes!” Simpson sounded much more at ease now. “But that’s Props all over. He was shell-shocked during the war, poor devil, and he’s — not exactly queer — but kind of intensely concentrated. He was as proud as Punch when he showed them to me, and said no one could tell they weren’t the goods.”
    “Where were they kept?”
    “Props always picked up the revolver at the end of the show and took them out. Then he used to take the gun to Felix Gardener. It was his brother’s gun and Felix sets great store by it and always takes it home. Props used to put the dummies into the property-room and bring them to me before that scene. I made him do that because I wanted to be quite certain they were in the right drawer.”
    “And that’s what happened to-night?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you examine them before you put them in the drawer?”
    “I don’t think so — I–I don’t know.”
    “Would you have known if they were genuine ammunition?”
    “I don’t know — yes, I’m sure I would.”
    “In spite of the property master’s art?”
    “I don’t know, I tell you.”
    “All right, all right, keep your hair on. If the property man was worried about the loose cartridge—”
    “Yes. Yes, of course. They must have been dummies.”
    “Q.E.D. Now, Mr. Simpson, that’s all for the moment. I see Inspector Fox is waiting out there. Just give him your address, will you, and get him to take you to your dressing-room? Show him which clothes you want to change into — no, wait a second; you’re in a dinner jacket, and I imagine won’t need to change. Fox!”
    “Hullo!”
    “Has the van come?”
    “Outside now.”
    “Oh. Well, see if Mr. Simpson wants anything from his dressing-room. And, Mr. Simpson, will you let Inspector Fox just have a look at you? Pure formality and whatnot. You needn’t if you don’t want to. Don’t get all het up over it.”
    Simpson’s reply to this speech was indistinguishable.
    Nigel, by dint of widening his peephole, could see Fox going rapidly and thoroughly through the stage manager’s pockets.
    “Cigarette-case, two pounds in notes and cash, pocketbook, handkerchief, matches, no written matter at all. Want to see anything, sir?” he asked cheerfully.
    “Not a thing. One last question. Would Gardener be certain to pull the trigger when he pretended to fire the shot into the Beaver?”
    “Definitely certain. It was rehearsed most carefully. He always closed his left hand a fraction of a second before he pulled the trigger. That gave me the cue for the blank shot.”
    “I see, yes. Thank you so much. Good night, Mr. Simpson.”
    Fox and the stage manager walked away. Nigel was wondering if he might speak when Alleyn’s face suddenly appeared close to the door. The inspector laid his finger on his nose and made a face at Nigel, who was rather shocked at this display. Alleyn opened the door and came out. Nigel saw men with a stretcher on the stage and suddenly shut the door to. Alleyn looked curiously, but not unsympathetically, at him.
    “Exit an actor, eh?” he said.
    “You’re a callous old pig,” said