“I hear the verdict is murder,” he said. “I don’t know your reading of it, inspector, but he died from strangulation and a broken neck. I can see no signs of anything else, except a slight bruise at the base of the neck.”

“Could that have been caused by a downward kick from a stockinged foot?” Alleyn asked.

“Yes,” said the surgeon. He looked up to where the iron ladder ran into the galleries. “I see,” he said.

“What about Watkins?”

Fox, who had returned to the stage, answered: “He’d gone home but they are turning him out.”

“Any news from Cambridge?”

“A long statement from a servant at Peterhouse. They’re sending it round with the officer who went down there. The mortuary van’s here.”

“Right. They can come in now.”

Fox went to the stage door and returned followed by two men with a stretcher.

Props was carried out of the Unicorn at exactly midnight.

“I feel like Hamlet when he killed Polonius,” said Alleyn.

“Shakespeare,” said Fox. “I don’t read that sort of thing myself.”

But the surgeon stood on the stage and said quietly: “ ‘Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell.’ I suppose the words have been spoken here before,” he reflected.

“Under somewhat different circumstances,” said Alleyn harshly.

“Here’s Watkins,” said Fox.

Detective-Sergeant Watkins was a stocky, sandy-headed man. He looked worried.

“You want to see me, sir?” he said to Alleyn.

“I want an account of your day, Watkins.”

“Very monotonous it was really. The party I was looking after stayed indoors from the time I relieved until the time I came off.”

“Are you sure of that?”

Watkins flushed.

“I sat on a bench in the gardens opposite and I stood by the lamp-post. I never took my eyes off the door, sir.”

“Who passed in and out?”

“Other people in the building. I saw my party several times — looked out of the window.”

“When was the last time you noted that?”

“At fifteen minutes to ten, sir,” said Watkins triumphantly.

“Who came out of the building after that?”

“Quite a number of people, sir. Going out for supper-parties and so on. I recognized most of them as residents.”

“Any that you did not recognize?”

“There was a woman. Looked like a working woman, I thought, and a couple of housemaids, and before them an old gentleman in a soft hat and a dinner suit and a sort of opera cloak. He was a bit lame. The commissionaire got him a taxi. I heard him say ‘The Plaza Theatre’ to the driver. I asked the commissionaire about them just to be on the safe side. He’s a dense sort of bloke. He thought the woman must have been doing odd work in one of the flats. The old gent he didn’t know, but said he came from the top floor, and had probably been dining there. The housemaids came from the street-level flat”

“That’s all?”

“No, sir. One other. A young fellow wearing a shepherd’s plaid double-breasted suit, a bowler hat, and a dark blue tie with pale blue stripes, came along. I crossed the street and heard him name our party’s floor to the liftman.”

“Had he a fair moustache and a carnation in his coat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he reappear?” Alleyn asked sharply.

“He came out again after about five minutes and walked off towards the square. That’s all, sir. I was relieved at ten-fifteen by Detective-Sergeant Allison. He’s still on duty.”

“Thank you. That’s all, Watkins.”

“Have I gone wrong anywhere, sir?”

“Yes. You’ve mistaken a murderer for an innocent person. I don’t know that I blame you. Get one of these men to relieve Allison and ask him to report here immediately.”

Watkins said nothing, but looked miserable. He and Thompson conferred sympathetically. After a few moments Watkins said diffidently:

“If I may, sir, I’d like to relieve Allison myself.”

“Very well, Watkins. If anybody comes away from the building, man or woman, stop them, speak to them, get their names and addresses and make sure they are what they seem. Thompson, you can go too if you like. Don’t look so injured, both of you. We’ve all gone wrong over this.”

A pause, and then Thompson addressed the lining of his hat with some feeling.

“We’d both go back on P.C. night-duty before we’d let you down, if you know what I mean, sir.”

“That’s right,” said Watkins fervently.

“Well, push off, you couple of boobies,” said Alleyn. He turned to Fox. “I’m going to the telephone. The statement from Peterhouse ought to be here any moment. If Allison comes before I’m back, get a report on those lines from him.”

“Are you going for a warrant-to-arrest tonight?” asked Fox.

“I don’t think so. I’ll still stage my performance tomorrow morning.”

Alleyn went through the front of the house and sought out the telephone in the box-office. Enlargements of actresses smiled or stared soulfully at him from the walls. “All the best,” “To dear Robert,” “Ever yours,” he read. In the centre was a magnificent picture of a woman standing in an open window. Written firmly across the mount were two words only: “Stephanie Vaughan.” When he had dialled his number Alleyn turned and gazed steadfastly at this picture.

“Hullo!” said a sleepy voice in the receiver.

“Hullo. I thought I said there were to be no more little visits.”

“Oh — it’s you.”

“It is,” said Alleyn grimly.

“I had an idea. You needn’t get all hot and bothered, I didn’t see anybody. I rang for five minutes and then came away. Even the servant was out.”

“You rang for five minutes, did you?”

“Yes. I say, is everything all right?”

“Perfectly splendid. There’s been another murder at the Unicorn.”

“What!!”

“Go to bed and stay there,” advised Alleyn and hung up the receiver.

He crossed over and looked more closely at the photograph on the opposite wall.

“Oh, hell!” he said and went back to the stage of the Unicorn.

CHAPTER XXII

Final Curtain

On the morning of June 17th, at a quarter to eleven, old Blair hung his dilapidated bowler above the tall stool in his cubby-hole behind the stage door. He glanced at the grimy clock and clicked disapproval when he saw that it had been allowed to run down. He inspected the letter rack which was garnished with a solitary postcard, addressed to Miss Susan Max. Blair advanced his nose to within four inches of its surface and read it:

Blair sucked his teeth, but whether in scorn or appreciation it would be impossible to say.

Footsteps sounded in the alley outside. Old Blair groaned slightly and returned to the stage door. The constable at the stalls entrance saluted. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn and Inspector Fox followed by Detective-Sergeant Bailey and three plain clothes men walked up to the entrance.

“Good morning, Blair,” said Alleyn.

“ ’Morning, sir.”

The party went in at the stage door and down the long passage past the wall of the dock. On the stage they were met by two more plain clothes men— Thompson and Watkins.

“Everything fixed up?” asked Alleyn.

“Yes, sir.”

Alleyn looked up towards the flies. A ceiling-cloth had been stretched across and tied back to the first of the grid galleries.

“If you’ll just listen, sir,” said Thompson.

They all stood still. A sibilant whisper came from above the canvas cloth. It alternated with a faint creak. At a place near its border, the cloth bulged slightly as if some small object was touching it on the upper surface. The impress made by this object appeared and disappeared regularly, synchronising with the sibilant whisper.