Enter a Murderer Read Free Page B

smiled charmingly. “It’s a rum life, Nigel,” he said.
    “You mean they are rum people?” said Nigel.
    “Yes — partly. Like children and terribly, terribly like actors. They run too true to type.”
    “You were not so critical in our Trinity days.”
    “Don’t remind me of my callow youth.”
    “Youth!” said Alleyn. “You children amuse me. Twenty years ago next month I came down from Oxford. Ah me! Fie, fie! Out upon it!”
    “All the same,” persisted Nigel, “you can’t persuade me, Felix, that you are out of conceit with your job.”
    “That’s another matter,” said Felix Gardener.
    There was a light tap on the door, which opened far enough to disclose a rather fat face, topped by a check cap and garnished with a red spotted handkerchief. It was accompanied by an unmistakable gust of alcohol, only partially disguised by violet cachous.
    “Hullo — hullo, Arthur, come in,” said Gardener pleasantly, but without any great enthusiasm.
    “So sorry,” said the face unctuously. “Thought you were alone, old man. Wouldn’t intrude for the world.”
    “Rot!” said Gardener. “Do come in and shut the door. There’s a hellish draught in this room.”
    “No, no, it’s not important. Just that little matter of — I’ll see you later.” The face withdrew and the door was shut, very gently.
    “That’s Arthur Surbonadier,” Gardener explained to Alleyn. “He’s pinched J.B.’s part and thinks I’ve pinched his. Result, J.B. hates him and he hates me. That’s what I mean about actors.”
    “Oh!” said Nigel, with youthful profundity. “Jealousy.”
    “And whom do you hate?” asked Alleyn lightly.
    “I?” Gardener said. “I’m at the top of this particular tree and can afford to be generous. I dare say I’ll get like it sooner or later.”
    “Do you think Surbonadier a good actor?” asked Nigel.
    Gardener lifted one shoulder.
    “He’s Jacob Saint’s nephew.”
    “I see. Or do I?”
    “Jacob Saint owns six theatres, of which this is one. He gives good parts to Surbonadier. He never engages poor artists. Therefore Surbonadier must be a good actor. I refuse to be more catty than that. Do you know this play?” he said, turning to Alleyn.
    “No,” said the inspector. “Not a word of it. I have been trying to discover from your make-up whether you are a hero, a racketeer, one of us police, or all three. The pipe on your dressing-table suggests a hero, the revolver a racketeer, and the excellent taste of the coat you are about to put on, a member of my own profession. I deduce, my dear Bathgate, that Mr. Gardener is a hero disguised as a gun-man, and a member of the C.I.D.”
    “There!” said Nigel triumphantly. He turned proudly to Gardener. For once Alleyn was behaving nicely as a detective.
    “Marvellous!” said Gardener.
    “You don’t mean to tell me I’m right?” said Alleyn.
    “Not far out. But I use the revolver as a policeman, the pipe as a gun-man, and don’t wear that suit in this piece at all.”
    “Which only goes to show,” said Alleyn, grinning, “that intuition is as good as induction any day.” They lit cigarettes and Nigel and Gardener began a long reminiscent yarn about their Cambridge days.
    The door opened again and a little dried-up man in an alpaca jacket came in.
    “Ready, Mr. Gardener?” he asked, scarcely glancing at the others.
    Gardener took off his wrap, and the dresser got a coat from under the sheet and helped him into it. “You need a touch more powder, sir, if I may say so,” he remarked. “It’s a warm night.”
    “That gun business all right?” asked Gardener, turning back to the mirror.
    “Props says so. Let me give you a brush, if you please, Mr. Gardener.”
    “Oh, get along with you, Nannie,” rejoined Gardener. He submitted good-humouredly to the clothes brush.
    “Handkerchief,” murmured the dresser, flicking one into the jacket. “Pouch in side pocket. Pipe. Are you right, sir?”
    “Right as rain — run