“As far as Mr. Hambledon is concerned we haven’t got a motive, sir, have we?”

Alleyn raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose you may say we haven’t,” he said slowly.

“Is there anything—” began Wade.

“No, no. Nothing.”

A knock on the outside door heralded the entrance of Packer.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but are you ready for another?”

“Yes — all right — all right,” said Wade impatiently. “Send—”

“Beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Ackroyd says could you see him next? He says there’s something he’d like to tell you, particular.”

“Ackroyd? Which is he?”

“The comedian,” said Alleyn.

“Good-oh, then, Packer. Send him along.”

Packer went away with Cass.

“What’s biting Mr. Ackroyd, I wonder?” said Wade.

“I wonder,” murmured Alleyn.

“Is he one of their swell turns, sir? The funny man, is he?”

“Dreadfully funny,” said Alleyn.

“I haven’t seen the show. I like a good laugh, but these stage plays seem kind of feeble-minded after the flicks, I reckon. Nothing but talk. I don’t mind a bit of vordervil. Still, if it’s funny—”

“Mr. Ackroyd is a good comedian on the stage. I find him less entertaining when he’s off it.”

“He looks a scream,” said Wade.

The scream appeared, ushered in by Cass.

Ackroyd was a dot of a man; beside the gigantic Cass he looked like a dwarf. “And his face is funny,” thought Alleyn. “That button of a nose was made to be painted red. He ought to be in pantomime rather than polite comedy. No, that’s not fair — he’s a really good actor. There are brains behind his work and that kind of humour that comes from inside — the Chaplin brand. But I don’t think he’s a very nice little man. Waspish.”

Ackroyd walked across to Inspector Wade with neat assurance. His stage mannerisms were faintly imposed on his everyday behaviour. One expected him to say something excruciatingly funny.

“I hope I don’t intrude,” said Ackroyd.

“That’s all right, sir,” said Wade heartily. “Take a seat. You wanted to see me about something?”

“That’s right. Mind, I don’t want you to take too much notice of it. It’s probably of no account. Still, I feel you ought to know about it. It’s dead against the grain with me to butt in on other people’s business, you know.”

“Lie,” thought Alleyn.

“We quite understand that, Mr. Ackroyd,” said Wade.

“It’s a confidential matter.” Ackroyd turned to Alleyn. “No offence, you know, old boy.”

“None in the world,” said Alleyn cheerfully.

“—so if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Mr. Alleyn is a detective,” said Wade. “He’s in this case with us.”

“A detective?” shouted Ackroyd. “By George, Meyer knew about it all the time, did he! Working for Meyer, were you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Mr. Ackroyd. I am a policeman,” said Alleyn, “not a private detective.”

“A Yard man?”

“Yes.”

“Then it couldn’t have been him you were after.”

“Who d’you mean?” asked Wade.

“Why, Hambledon, of course,” said Ackroyd.

Chapter XI

ST. JOHN ACKROYD AND SUSAN MAX

“Hambledon!” said Alleyn sharply. “What the— I beg your pardon, Wade,” he added instantly. “This is your show.”

“Go right ahead, sir.”

“Thank you so much.” Alleyn turned to Ackroyd. “I must confess I’m curious to know why you thought I was interested in Mr. Hambledon.”

“Don’t mind me, old boy,” said Ackroyd easily. “When the inspector here said you were a ’tec, I thought Alf Meyer had put you on to follow Hailey and the fair Carolyn. That’s all. Quite natural, you know, under the circs.”

“I see,” said Alleyn, and was silent.

“It’s like that, is it?” said Wade.

Ackroyd pulled a serio-comic face, thrusting his lower lip sideways with the tip of his tongue. “Very much like it,” he said.

“Common little stinker,” thought Alleyn.

“D’you mean,” asked Wade, “that she gave him cause for divorce?”

“That’s my idea. No business of mine, mind.”

“Was it this you were wanting to tell me, Mr. Ackroyd?” pursued Wade.

“Oh God, no. At least, it’s something to do with it. I was going to keep it under my hat, but Alf Meyer was a white man, and if he’s been murdered—” He paused.

“That’s right,” encouraged Wade. Alleyn was conscious of an illogical distaste for both of them.

“Well, it’s like this,” said Ackroyd. “The morning we got here I came down to the theatre. We had a call at ten-thirty. I got here early and went to my dressing-room. It’s round the corner of the passage and up a right-angled one, so that actually it backs on to the star dressing-room. Well in these wooden buildings of yours you can hear each other thinking. The walls are only thin partitions in this show. I was getting my stuff out when I heard Hailey and the Great Actress talking in the star-room.”

“Mr. Hambledon and Miss Dacres?”

“None other. Hailey was in the devil of a temper, trying to get her to say she’d levant with him at the end of this tour. Fact! And she said she wouldn’t because she’s a Catholic and doesn’t believe in divorce. She was doing her ‘little devil’ stuff. Seemed to go big with Hailey — he got all he-man and violent. Tiff! Then he said something like: ‘Would you marry me if Alf was dead?’ And the Great Actress said she would. That took her off. She went out on the stage, and a minute later I heard her give her opening line.”

“Yes,” said Wade after a moment. “Thanks, Mr. Ackroyd. Doesn’t sound exactly as if she was Hambledon’s mistress, though, do you reckon?”

“God knows what she is. She’ll be his wife before long, I don’t mind betting you. Well, that’s that. Probably nothing in it. I’ll be off.”

“If you don’t mind waiting a minute longer, sir, there are one or two formal questions.”

Wade asked Ackroyd what he did after the final curtain. He went straight to his dressing-room, it seemed. He was alone there until he came out for the party. He looked in at Liversidge’s room and they then joined Vernon and Broadhead and went along to the party. After the catastrophe he left the stage with the others, went to his dressing-room, had a stiff nip and then joined the rest of the company in the wardrobe-room. On both these occasions he had repeatedly called out to the others from his own room. Asked about the train journey he said he slept solidly for at least an hour before they got to Ohakune, and had not the remotest idea who entered or left the carriage.

Cass took notes of this, as of all the former interviews. Ackroyd took it all very easily and gave some of his replies with an air of mock solemnity that the sergeant and Wade found extremely diverting. When it was all over Ackroyd turned to Alleyn.

“And what, may one ask,” he said, “is Scotland Yard’s part in the proceedings?”

“Noises off, Mr. Ackroyd,” replied Alleyn good-humouredly. “I’m here by accident and the courtesy of Inspector Wade.”

“Funny me thinking you were a private sleuth. I say, old boy, you’ll keep it under your hat won’t you — about Hailey and the Dacres, you know. You’re rather pally with them, I’ve noticed. That’s what made me think you were watching them. Don’t give me away, now, will you?”

“To Miss Dacres and Mr. Hambledon? No,” said Alleyn bleakly.

Ackroyd walked over to the door.

“Of course,” he said, “that fascinating blah stuff of hers goes down with the nit-wits. I’ve worked with her for six years and I know the lady. She’s as hard as nails underneath. That’s only my opinion, you know, for what it’s worth. It’s based on observation.”

“Was your suggestion about Mr. Mason’s past also based on observation?” asked Alleyn pleasantly.

“What’s that, old boy? Oh, George! No, I wasn’t in the company he stranded in the States. I don’t go out with bad shows.”

“But it’s a true story?”

“Don’t ask me. I was told it for gospel. You never know. But I get fed up with all this kow-towing to the Firm. Alf and George are not better than anybody else in management. Now Alf’s gone I suppose all the spare spotlights will be trained on George. ‘Our Mr. Mason.’ And of course on the Great Actress. By the way what’s all the fuss about the little green whatsit you gave her?”