Enter a Murderer Read Free

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.
    “What are you doing with those bloody blues?” he inquired. His voice was deadened by carpets and furniture. Someone far above answered. A switch clicked and the set was suddenly illuminated. A pair of feet appeared above Nigel’s face; he looked up and saw dimly the electricians’ platform, on which one man stood with his hand on the switch-board and another sat dangling his legs. Blair led them into the bright entry, which turned out to be another passage. Along this passage on the left were the dressing-room doors, the first marked with a tarnished star. From behind all the doors came the sound of muffled voices — cosy, busy, at home. It was very warm. A man with a worried expression hurried round an elbow in the passage. As he passed he looked at them inquisitively.
    “That’s George Simpson, the stage manager,” whispered Nigel importantly. Old Blair knocked on the second door.
    There was a pause and then a pleasant baritone voice called:
    “Hullo, who is it?”
    Blair opened the door two inches and said: “Your visitors, Mr. Gardener.”
    “What? Oh, yes. Half a