Vintage Murder by Ngaio Marsh

Gascoigne?”
    “Yes,” said Gascoigne. “That’s what I say. There’s been some funny business.”
    “That’s right,” agreed Bert heavily. “There bloody well must of.”
    “I’m going up aloft to take a look,” said Gascoigne.
    “Just a moment,” interrupted Alleyn. He took a notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Don’t you think perhaps we had better not go up just yet, Mr. Gascoigne? If there has been any interference, the police ought to be the first on the spot, oughtn’t they?”
    “My God, the police!” said Gascoigne.
    “I think I’ll go and see how Carolyn is,” said Hambledon suddenly.
    “They’re all in their dressing-rooms,” said Gascoigne.
    Hambledon went away. Alleyn completed a little sketch in his notebook and showed it to Gascoigne and Bert.
    “Was it like that?”
    “That’s right, mister,” said Bert, “you got it. That’s how it was. And when she cut the bloody cord, see…” he rambled on.
    Alleyn looked at the jeroboam. It had been cased in a sort of net which closed in at the neck, and was securely wired to the rope.
    “Wonder why the cork blew out,” murmured Alleyn.
    “The wire was loosened a bit before it came down,” said Gascoigne. “He — the governor himself — he went aloft after the show specially to do it. He didn’t want a stage-wait after it came down. He said the wire would still hold the cork.”
    “And it did till the jolt — yes. What about the counterweight, Mr. Gascoigne? That would have to be detached before the champagne was poured out.”
    “Bert was to go up at once and take it off.”
    “I orfered to stay up there, like,” said Bert. “But ’e says ‘No,’ ’e says, ‘you can see the show and then go up. I’ll watch it.’ Gawd, Mr. Gascoigne—”
    Alleyn slipped away through the wings. Off-stage it was very dark and smelt of theatre. He walked along the wall until he came to the foot of an iron ladder. He was reminded most vividly of his only other experience behind the scenes. “Is my mere presence in the stalls,” he thought crossly, “a cue for homicide? May I not visit the antipodes without elderly theatre magnates having their heads bashed in by jeroboams of champagne before my very eyes? And the answer being ‘No’ to each of these questions, can I not get away quickly without nosing into the why and wherefore?”
    He put on his gloves and began to climb the ladder. “Again the answer is ‘No.’ The truth of the matter is I’m an incurable nosey parker. Detect I must, if I can.” He reached the first gallery, and peered about him, using his electric torch, and then went on up the ladder. “I wonder how she’s taking it? And Hambledon. Will they marry each other in due course, provided— After all, she may not be in love with Hambledon. Ah, here we are.”
    He paused at the top gallery and switched on his torch.
    Close beside him a batten, slung on ropes, ran across from his gallery to the opposite one. Across the batten hung a pulley and over the pulley was a rope. Looking down the far length of the rope, he saw it run away in sharp perspective from dark into light. He had a bird’s-eye view of the lamp-lit set, the tops of the wings, the flat white strip of table; and there, at the end of the rope in the middle of the table, a flattened object, rather like a beetle with a white head and paws. That was Alfred Meyer. The other end of the rope, terminating in an iron hook, was against the pulley. The hook had been secured to a ring in the end of the rope, and the red cord which Carolyn had cut was also tied to the ring. The cut end of the cord dangled in mid-air. On the hook he should have found the counterweight.
    But there was no counterweight.
    He looked again at the pulley. It was as he had thought. A loop of thin cord had been passed round the near end of the batten and tied to the gallery. It had served to pull the batten eighteen inches to one side. So that when the bottle dropped it was slightly to