Chapter XIII

MISS GAYNES GOES UP-STAGE

“Now, Miss Gaynes,” said Alleyn patiently, “it’s a very simple question. Why not let us have the answer to it?”

Valerie Gaynes lay back in the office arm-chair and stared at him like a frightened kitten. At the beginning of the interview she had been in good histrionic form and, it seemed to Alleyn, thoroughly enjoying herself. She had accounted for her whereabouts during the two crucial periods, she had taken the tiki in her stride, with many exclamations as to it’s ill-omened significance, she had discoursed at large on the subject of her own temperament, and she had made use of every conceivable piece of theatrical jargon that she could haul into the conversation in order to show them how professional she was. Alleyn had found all this inexpressibly tedious and quite barren of useful information, but he had listened with an air of polite interest, chosen his moment, and put the question that had so greatly disconcerted her:

“What did you and Mr. Liversidge talk about before you left the stage after the final curtain?”

He could have sworn that under her make-up she turned white. Her enormous brown eyes blinked twice exactly as though he had offered to hit her. Her small red mouth opened and literally her whole body shrank back into the chair. Even after he had spoken again, she made no attempt to answer him, but lay there gaping at him.

“Come along,” said Alleyn.

When she did at last muster up her voice it was almost comically changed.

“Why — nothing in particular,” said Miss Gaynes.

“May we just hear what it was?”

She moistened her lips.

“Didn’t Frankie tell you? What did he say?”

“That’s the sort of question we particularly never ask a policeman,” said Alleyn. “I want you to tell me.”

“But — it was just about poor Mr. Meyer — nothing else.”

“Nothing else?”

“I tell you I don’t remember. It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t something very private and personal— between you and Mr. Liversidge?”

“No. Of course not. We haven’t anything — like that — to say.”

“Funny!” said Alleyn. “Mr. Liversidge told us you had.”

Miss Gaynes burst into tears.

“Look here,” said Alleyn after a pause, “I’m going to give you a very hackneyed bit of advice, Miss Gaynes. It’s extremely good advice and you may land yourself in a very uncomfortable position if you don’t take it. Here it is. Don’t lie to the police when there’s a murder charge brewing. Nobody else can make things quite as awkward for you as they can. Nobody. If you don’t want to answer my question you can refuse to do so. But don’t lie.”

“I–I’m frightened.”

“Would you rather refuse to give us your answer?”

“But if I do that you’ll think — you’ll suspect — terrible things.”

“We shall merely note that you declined—”

“No. No. What are you thinking! You’re suspecting me! I wish I was out of it all. I wish I’d never told him. I wish I’d never met him. I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you wish you’d never told him?”

“That I knew — who it was.”

Wade uttered a sort of strangled grunt. Cass looked up from his notes and opened his mouth. Alleyn raised an eyebrow and stared thoughtfully at Valerie Gaynes.

“You knew — who it was who did what?”

“You know what. You’ve known all the time haven’t you? Why did you ask me what we talked about if you didn’t know?”

“You mean that Mr. Liversidge is responsible for this business to-night?”

“To-night!” She almost screamed it at him. “I didn’t say that. You can’t say I said that.”

“Good heavens,” said Alleyn. “This is becoming altogether too difficult. We seem unable to understand each other, Miss Gaynes. Please let us tidy up this conversation. Will you tell us in so many words, what is this matter between you and Mr. Liversidge? You suspect him of something, obviously. Apparently it is not murder. What is it?”

“I–I don’t want to tell you.”

“Very well,” said Alleyn coldly. He stood up. “We must leave it at that and go elsewhere for our information.”

She made no attempt to get up. She sat there staring at him, her fingers at her lips and her face disfigured with tears. She looked genuinely terrified.

“I’ll have to tell you,” she whispered at last.

“I think it would be wiser,” said Alleyn, and sat down again.

“It’s the money,” said Miss Gaynes. “I think Frankie took my money. I didn’t believe it at first, when Mr. Meyer spoke to me about it.”

“Lummie!” thought Alleyn. “Now we’re getting it.” He began to question her systematically and carefully, taking pains not to alarm her too much, so that gradually she became more composed, and out of her disjointed half-phrases an intelligible sequence of events began to appear. It seemed that on the last evening in the ship, when she paid her poker debts, Liversidge actually went into her cabin with her. She took the money from her suit-case while he was there, and gave him the ten pounds she owed him. At the same time she took out a ten-pound note which she subsequently changed at the first saloon bar and paid out in tips. Liversidge told her that she was a fool to leave her money in an unlocked suit-case. She told him she had lost the key of the suit-case and said she was not going to bother about it, now, at the end of the voyage. He repeated his warning and left her. Next morning, when she returned from breakfast to pack her luggage, she prodded the leather note-case, felt the thick wad of paper, and fastened the suit-case without making any further investigation. It was not until she opened the note-case in the train that she knew she had been robbed. It was then that she paid her dramatic call on the Meyers and found Alleyn in their sleeper.

“And you suspected Mr. Liversidge when you began to tell us about paying your debt to him?”

She said yes. The thought of Liversidge’s possible complicity occurred to her at that moment. The next morning Meyer had taken her aside and questioned her closely about the money.

“He seemed to suspect Frankie — I don’t know why — but he seemed to suspect him.”

It was then that Meyer had insisted on paying her the amount that had been stolen. He had not made any definite accusation against Liversidge but had warned her against forming any attachment that she might afterwards regret.

“Did Miss Dacres speak to you about Mr. Liversidge?”

But it appeared Carolyn had said nothing definite though Miss Gaynes had received an impression that Carolyn, too, had something up her sleeve.

“And have you yourself said anything about this matter to Mr. Liversidge?”

Here a renewed display of emotion threatened to appear. Alleyn steered her off it and got her back to the conversation that took place off-stage. She said that, guessing at Meyer’s view of the theft, “all sorts of dreadful thoughts” came into her mind when he was killed.

“Then you thought, at the outset, that it was a case of murder?”

Only, it seemed, because Gascoigne kept saying that there must have been some hanky-panky with the gear. After a great many tedious false starts she at last told Alleyn that, when they were all hustled away from the scene of the disaster, she had blurted out a single question to Liversidge: “Has this got anything to do with my money?” and he had answered: “For God’s sake don’t be a bloody little fool. Keep quiet about your money.” Then he had kept her back and had said hurriedly that for Courtney Broadhead’s sake she had better not mention the theft. “I’d never thought of Court until then,” said Miss Gaynes, “but after that I got all muddled and of course I remembered how hard-up Court was and then I began to wonder. And now — now I–I simply don’t know where I am, honestly I don’t. If Frankie was trying to help Court and I’ve — I’ve betrayed him—”