Night at the Vulcan by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online Page A

and put the letter face-down on the shelf.
    “There’s someone,” he said with a jab of his finger at the envelope, “who’d give a hell of a lot for
that
one in there. A hell of a lot.”
    He burst out laughing, pulled a cigarette case out of the jacket and handed it to her with a flourish. “Purest gold,” he said. “Birthday present but not from me. I’m her husband, you know. What the hell! Are you leaving me? Don’t go.”
    Martyn made her escape and ran back to Miss Hamilton’s room, where she found her in conference with Adam Poole and a young man of romantic appearance whom she recognized as the original of the last of the photographs in the foyer — Mr. Parry Percival. The instinct that makes us aware of a conversation in which we ourselves have in our absence been involved warned Martyn that they had been talking about her and had broken off on her entrance. After a moment’s silence, Mr. Percival, with far too elaborate a nonchalance, said: “Yes. Well, there you have it,” and it was obvious that there was a kind of double significance in his remark. Miss Hamilton said: “My poor Martyn, where
have
you been?” with a lightness that was not quite cordial.
    “I’m sorry,” Martyn said. “Mr. Bennington had trouble in finding the case.” She hesitated for a moment and added, “Madam.”
    “That,” Miss Hamilton rejoined, looking at Adam Poole, “rings dismally true. Would you believe it, darling, I became so furious with him for taking it that, most reluctantly, I gave him one for himself. He lost it instantly, of course, and now swears he didn’t and mine is his. If you follow me.”
    “With considerable difficulty,” Poole said, “I do.”
    Parry Percival laughed gracefully. He had a winning, if not altogether authentic, air of ingenuousness, and at the moment seemed to be hovering on the edge of some indiscretion. “I am afraid,” he said ruefully to Miss Hamilton, “I’m rather in disgrace myself.”
    “With me, or with Adam?”
    “I hope not with either of you. With Ben.” He glanced apologetically at Poole, who did not look at him. “Because of the part, I mean. I suppose I spoke out of turn, but I really did think I could play it — still do for a matter of that, but there it is.”
    It was obvious that he was speaking at Poole. Martyn saw Miss Hamilton look from one man to the other before she said lightly, “I think you could too, Parry, but as you say, there it is. Ben
has
got a flair, you know.”
    Percival laughed. “He has indeed,” he said. “He has had it for twenty years. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Honestly, I
am
sorry.”
    Poole said: “I dislike post mortems on casting, Parry.”
    “I know, I
do
apologize.” Percival turned ingratiatingly, and the strong light caught his face sideways. Martyn saw with astonishment that under the thin film of greasepaint there was a system of incipient lines, and she realized that he was not, after all, a young man. “I know,” he repeated, “I’m being naughty.”
    Poole said: “We open on Thursday. The whole thing was thrashed out weeks ago. Any discussion now is completely fruitless.”
    “That,” said Miss Hamilton, “is what I have been trying to tell the Doctor.”
    “John? I heard him bellowing in here,” Poole said. “Where’s he gone? I want a word with him. And with you, Parry, by the way. It’s about that scene at the window in the second act. You’re not making your exit line. You must top Ben there. It’s most important”
    “Look, old boy,” Mr. Percival said with agonized intensity, “I
know
. It’s just another of those things. Have you
seen
what Ben does? Have you seen that business with my handkerchief? He won’t take his hands off me. The whole exit gets messed up.”
    “I’ll see what can be done.”
    “John,” said Miss Hamilton, “is worried about it too, Adam.”
    Poole said: “Then he should talk to me.”
    “You know what the Doctor is.”
    “We all do,” said