Enter a Murderer by Ngaio Marsh Page A

asked Saint suddenly. “Gentleman ’tec, or the comedian of the Yard, or what?”
    “My dear Mr. Saint, you make me feel quite shy.”
    “Ow yow — yow — yow,” Saint echoed the inspector’s pleasant voice with the exasperated facetiousness of a street urchin. “All Oxford and Cambridge and hot air,” he added savagely.
    “Only Oxford, and that’s nothing nowadays,” said Alleyn apologetically. “Oh, here you are, Miss Max.” His voice was cordial, “I can’t tell you how bad I feel about giving you all this trouble.” Miss Max had waddled into Nigel’s line of sight.
    “Never you mind,” she said comfortably. “You’re only doing your job, I suppose.”
    “Miss Max, if only everyone felt like that a policeman’s lot would be a happier one.”
    “I played Ruth in
Pirates
on the Australian circuit,” said Miss Max, letting herself down into the chair the inspector had pushed forward.
    “Did you really? Do you remember the trio about the paradox? Frederick, Ruth, and Pirate King?”
    “Indeed I do.
     
    “ ‘A paradox,
    A paradox,
    A most ingenious paradox,’ ”
     
    sang Miss Max in a jolly wheeze.
    “Susan!” wailed Miss Emerald. “How can you?”
    “Why not, dear? It’s a lovely number.”
    “There’s something of a paradox here,” said Alleyn, “that you can solve for us.”
    “And you’re the policeman.”
    “Yes — would you call me ‘Frederick’ and may I call you ‘Ruth’?”
    “Get along with you!” said old Susan Max.
    “Well, here it is. Perhaps I won’t tell you the paradox; but ask you a question and hope that your answer will explain it. Can you tell me just what happened on the stage before the curtain went up on the last act?”
    “Susan,” began Janet Emerald. “You remember—”
    “Please!” (Alleyn made Nigel jump.) “Now, Miss Max.”
    “Well, let me think. I was sitting on the O. P. kniting my scarf and scolding George Simpson about that mat. ‘George,’ I said, ‘do you want me to break my neck?’ So he fixed it. Little things like that look so bad from the front, and it quite spoilt my eggzit at the end of that scene.”
    “I enjoyed your reading of the part enormously.”
    “Well, dear, I made it a type, you know.”
    “Is this a cosy chat or a statement?” inquired Saint.
    “It’s a dialogue between two people only,” answered Alleyn. “It’s a great thing to be able to study types, Miss Max — I have to do a bit of that myself.”
    “It’s all observation,” said Miss Max in a gratified tone.
    “Of course it is. You’ve learnt to observe. You can be of the greatest help to me. Now, can you tell me, Miss Max, exactly what happened after Mr. Simpson put the mat straight?”
    “Now, let me think,” said Susan Max. There was a dead silence. Miss Emerald gave a sob.
    “Yes,” said Susan suddenly. “Janet was upset and talking to poor Arthur, who was a little pizzicato.”
    “Pizzicato?”
    “A little too much wine taken. Pity. Well, they whispered together and then he said to her — No. I’m telling stories.
She
said to
him
: ‘Are you all right?’; and
he
said to
her
: ‘No, I’m all blanky wrong,’ using language as he did so. I didn’t hear the next bit, but presently he said in an extremely disagreeable manner: ‘You can’t talk about influence, Janet. You wouldn’t be where you are without it.’ More whispers. I didn’t listen. I measured my scarf round George Simpson’s neck. Then when he went off to the prompt corner — No, I’ve left out a bit. Wait.
Before
that, when George put the cartridges in the drawer, Janet said she was always afraid he’d forget them — do you remember, dear? And then
after
all the other bit about poor Arthur being drunk and influence and so forth, you followed over to the prompt corner and I recollect that you had another whisper with him— with George Simpson, I mean, of course. There you are!” Miss Max ended with a sort of triumphant gaiety.
    “Bravo!” cried