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

Nigel.
    “Did you get all that down?”
    “I did.”
    “Good boy. Hullo, who’s this? Stay where you are and stand by.”
    Voices, noisy in argument, could be heard from somewhere near the stage door.
    “What the hell d’yer mean?” someone inquired loudly. “It’s my theatre. Get out of my light.”
    Nigel returned to his peephole. The body of Surbonadier had gone. Inspector Fox appeared in hot pursuit of a monster of a man in tails, with a gardenia in his coat. He advanced truculently upon Alleyn, uttering a sort of roaring noise.
    “Mr. Jacob Saint, I believe,” said the inspector politely.
    “And who the devil are you?”
    “From the Yard, Mr. Saint, and in charge of this unhappy business. I am sorry you should have to meet such shocking news — I see you have heard of the tragedy. Mr. Surbonadier was your nephew, wasn’t he? May I offer my sympathy?”
    “Who’s the swine that did him in?”
    “At present we don’t know.”
    “Was he drunk?”
    “Since you ask me — yes.”
    Jacob Saint eyed the inspector and suddenly threw his bulk into an arm-chair. Nigel was seized with an idea and began taking notes again.
    “I was in front to-night,” said Saint.
    “I saw you,” said Alleyn brightly.
    “I didn’t know he was dead, but I knew he was drunk. He did it himself.”
    “You think so?” Alleyn seemed quite unmoved by this announcement.
    “Stavely rang me up at the Savoy. I was behind, earlier in the evening, and saw Arthur. He was tight then. I told him he’d have to get out at the end of the week. Couldn’t face the music and killed himself.”
    “It would take extraordinary fortitude to load a revolver, play a part, and wait for another man to shoot you, I should have thought,” remarked Alleyn mildly.
    “He was drunk.”
    “So we agreed. He had provided himself with live cartridges before he was drunk perhaps.”
    “What d’yer mean? Oh. Wouldn’t put it past him. Where’s Janet?”
    “Who?”
    “Miss Emerald.”
    “The artists are all in the wardrobe-room.”
    “I’ll go and see her.”
    “Please don’t move, Mr. Saint. I’ll let her know. Miss Emerald, please, Fox.”
    Inspector Fox went. Saint glared after him, appeared to hesitate and then produced a cigar-case. “Smoke?” he said.
    “No, thank you so much,” said Alleyn. “I’m for a pipe.”
    Saint lit a cigar.
    “Understand this,” he said. “I’m no hypocrite and I don’t spill any sob stuff over Arthur. He was a rotten failure. When one of my shows crashes I forget about it — a dud speculation. So was Arthur. Rotten all through, and a coward, but enough of an actor to see himself in a star part at last — and play it. He was crazy to play a big part, and when I wouldn’t give him ‘Carruthers’ he — he actually threatened me — me!”
    “Where did you see him to-night?”
    “In his dressing-room. I had business in the office here and went behind.”
    “Would you care to tell me what happened?”
    “Told you already. He was drunk and I fired him.”
    “What did he say?”
    “Didn’t wait to listen. I had an appointment in the office for seven-fifteen. Janet!” Saint’s voice changed. He got to his feet. Nigel moved a little and saw that Janet Emerald had appeared in the prompt doorway. She gave a loud cry, rushed across the stage and threw herself into Saint’s arms.
    “Jacco! Jacco!” she sobbed.
    “Poor baby — poor baby,” Saint murmured, and Nigel marvelled at the kindness in his voice as he soothed the somewhat large and overwhelming Miss Emerald.
    “It wasn’t you,” she said suddenly. “They can’t say it was you!” She threw her head back distractedly and her face, cleaned now of its make-up, looked ghastly. Saint had his back to Nigel, but it was sufficiently eloquent of the shock her words had given him. Still holding her, he was frozen into immobility. When he spoke his voice was controlled but no longer tender.
    “Poor kid,” he said, in the best theatre-magnate