Vintage Murder by Ngaio Marsh Page A

the right of the centre of the table.
    “Stap me and sink me!” said Alleyn and returned to the stage. He found Ted Gascoigne by the stage-door. With him were two large dark men, wearing overcoats, scarves, and black felt hats; a police officer, a short pink-faced person who was obviously the divisional surgeon. “Do they call them divisional surgeons in this country?” wondered Alleyn.
    They were some time at the stage-door. Gascoigne talked very fast and most confusedly. At last he took them on to the stage, where they were joined by Te Pokiha. From the wings Alleyn watched them make their examination. It gave him a curious feeling to look on while other men did his own job. They examined the end of the rope which was still knotted into the net enclosing the bottle, and the piece of red-bound wire cord that lay on the table. Gascoigne explained the mechanism of the descending jeroboam. They peered up into the grid. Gascoigne pointed out the other end of the red cord.
    “When Miss Dacres cut it, it shot up,” he explained.
    “Yes,” said the detective. “Ye-ees. That’s right. Ye-ees.”
    “Out comes the old notebook,” said Alleyn to himself.
    “Hullo,” said a voice at his elbow. It was Hambledon.
    “Carolyn wants to see you,” he whispered. “What’s happening out there?”
    “Police doing their stuff. Wants to see me, does she?”
    “Yes. Come on.”
    He led the way into the usual dark wooden passage. The star dressing-room was the first on the left. Hambledon knocked on the door, opened it, and led the way in. Carolyn sat at her dressing-table. She still wore the black lace dress she had put on for the party. Her hair was pushed back from her face as though she had sat with her head in her hands. Old Susan Max was with her. Susan sat comfortably in an arm-chair, radiating solid sense, but her eyes were anxious. They brightened when she saw Alleyn.
    “Here he is, dear,” she said.
    Carolyn turned her head slowly.
    “Hullo,” she said.
    “Hullo,” said Alleyn. “Humbledon says you want me.”
    “Yes, I do.” Her hands were trembling violently. She pressed them together between her knees.
    “I just thought I’d like you here,” said Carolyn. “I’ve killed him, haven’t I?”
    “No!” said Hambledon violently.
    “My dear!” said Susan.
    “Well, I have. I cut the cord. That was what did it, wasn’t it?” She still looked at Alleyn.
    “Yes,” said Alleyn in a very matter-of-fact voice, “that was what set the thing off. But you didn’t rig the apparatus, did you?”
    “No. I didn’t know anything about it. It was a surprise.”
    She caught her breath and a strange sound, something like laughter, came from her lips. Susan and Hambledon looked panicky.
    “Oh!” cried Carolyn. “Oh! Oh!”
    “Don’t!” said Alleyn. “Hysterics are a bad way of letting things go. You feel awful afterwards.”
    She raised one of her hands and bit on it. Alleyn picked up a bottle of smelling-salts from the dressing-table and held it under her nose.
    “Sniff hard,” he said.
    Carolyn sniffed and gasped. Tears poured out of her eyes.
    “That’s better. You’re crying black tears. I thought that stuff was waterproof. Look at yourself.”
    She gazed helplessly at him and then turned to the glass. Susan gently wiped away the black tears.
    “You are a queer one,” sobbed Carolyn.
    “I know I am,” agreed Alleyn. “It’s a pose, really. Would you drink a little brandy if Hambledon got it for you?”
    “No.”
    “Yes, you would.” He looked good-humouredly at Hambledon, who was standing miserably by her chair. “Can you?” asked Alleyn.
    “Yes — yes I’ll get it.” He hurried away.
    Alleyn sat on one of the wicker baskets and spoke to old Susan.
    “Well, Miss Max, our meetings are to be fraught with drama, it seems.”
    “Ah,” said Susan with a sort of grunt.
    “What do you mean?” asked Carolyn. She turned to the mirror and, very shakily, dabbed at her face with a