Vintage Murder by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online Page B

Gascoigne may be right.”
    George Mason spoke for the first time.
    “But who’d want to hurt him? Old Alf! He hasn’t an enemy in the world.” He turned a woebegone face to Te Pokiha.
    “You’re sure, doctor, he’s — he’s — gone?”
    “You can see for yourself, Mr. Mason,” said Te Pokiha; “the neck is broken.”
    “I don’t want to,” said Mason, looking sick.
    “What ought we to do?” asked Gascoigne. They all turned to Alleyn. “Do I exude C.I.D.?” wondered Alleyn to himself, “or has Hambledon blown the gaff?”
    “I’m afraid you must ring up the nearest police station,” he said aloud. There was an instant outcry from Gascoigne and Mason.
    “Good God, the police!”
    “What the hell!”
    “… but it was an accident!”
    “That’d be, finish!”
    “I’m afraid Mr. Alleyn’s right,” said Te Poldha; “it is a matter for the police. If you like I’ll ring up. I know the superintendent in Middleton.”
    “While you’re about it,” said Mason with desperate irony, “you might ring up a shipping office. As far as this tour’s concerned—”
    “Finish!” said Gascoigne.
    “We’ve got to do something about it, Ted,” said Hambledon quietly.
    “We built it up between us,” said Mason suddenly. “When I first met Alf he was advancing a No. 4 company in St. Helens. I was selling tickets for the worst show in England. We never looked back. We’ve never had a nasty word, never. And look at the business we’ve built up.” His lips trembled. “By God, if someone’s killed him — you’re right, Hailey. I’m — I’m all anyhow — you fix it, Ted. I’m all anyhow.”
    Dr. Te Pokiha looked at him.
    “How about joining the others, Mr. Mason? Perhaps a whisky would be a good idea. Your office—?”
    Mason got to his feet and came down to the centre of the table. He looked at what was left of Alfred Meyer’s head, buried among the fern and broken fairy lights, wet with champagne and with blood. The two fat white hands still grasped the edges of the nest.

     
    “God!” said Mason. “Do we have to leave him like that?”
    “It will only be for a little while,” said Alleyn gently. “I should let Dr. Te Pokiha take you to the office.”
    “Alf,” murmured Mason. “Old Alf!” He stood there, his lips shaking, his face ugly with suppressed emotion. Alleyn, who was accustomed to scenes of this sort, was conscious of his familiar daemon which took little at face value, and observed much. The daemon prompted him to notice how unembarrassed Gascoigne and Hambledon were by Mason’s emotion, how they had assumed so easily a mood of sorrowful correctness, almost as if they had rehearsed the damn’ scene, said the daemon.
    They got Mason away. Te Pokiha went with him and said he would ring up the police. The unfortunate Bert, the stage-hand who had rigged the tackle under Meyer’s and Gascoigne’s directions, was hanging about in the wings and now came on the stage. He began to explain the mechanics of the champagne stunt to Alleyn.
    “It was like this ’ere. We fixed the rope over the pulley, see, and on one end we fixed the bloody bottle and on the other end we hooked the bloody weight. The weight was one of them corner weights we used for the bloody funnels.”
    “Ease up on the language, Bert,” suggested Gascoigne moodily.
    “Good-oh, Mr. Gascoigne. And the weight was not so heavy as the bottle, see. And we took a lead with that red cord from just above the weight, see, and fixed it to the table. So when the cord was cut she came down gradual like, seeing she was that much heavier than the weight. The weight and the bottle hung half-way between the pulley and the table, see, so when she came down, the weight went up to the pulley. It was hooked into a ring in the rope. We cut out the lights and used candles so’s nothing would be noticed. We tried her out till he was sick and tired of her and she worked corker every time. She worked good-oh, didn’t she, Mr.