“Did he, now? What for?”

“As far as I remember it was to tell Mason the guests were beginning to arrive. It struck me he was looking for a free drink, but he didn’t get it. Mason packed him off in no time.”

“Did you see him go?”

“How do you mean? I saw him go out into the yard. Then someone else looked in, I think. People were going in and out all the time.”

“Yes, I see.”

“I suppose that was a crucial time,” said Te Pokiha. “I heard about the counterweight from Gascoigne and Mason, last night. They both insisted that there had been interference. Of course there must have been interference. That sort of thing couldn’t happen accidentally.”

“Hardly, one would think. Yes, it’s an important period that, when you were in the office. You left Mason there?”

“Yes. He was there when I returned, too; still in his chair by the fire.

“You returned to the office? Why did you return?”

“Didn’t I tell you? How stupid of me. When I got to the stage-door I found I had taken Mason’s overcoat instead of my own. We had taken them off at the same time and put them down together. I took my own coat, said a word or two more, and left him locking things up in the office. I remember that I had only just gone on to the stage when you and Mason arrived.”

“I met him at the door of the office as I went down the yard.”

“Well, I suppose I have established Mason’s alibi for him,” said Te Pokiha, with a smile, “and my own too I hope if I needed one.”

“It’s always a handy little thing to have beside you.”

“I suppose so — still there’s an absence of motive in my case.”

“Ah, yes,” murmured Alleyn, “we must have motive, of course.”

He picked up the tiki, returned it to his pocket, and looked at his watch.

“Good Lord, it’s eleven o’clock and I haven’t so much as rung up for a car.”

“There’s no need. I shall drive you back and spend the night at my rooms. I often do that — it’s all arranged. You must have a drink before you go.”

“No, really not, thanks. I promised Wade I’d ring him up before eleven-thirty, so if you don’t mind—”

“You can telephone from here.”

“It may be rather a lengthy conversation, so perhaps I’d better leave it until I get to Middleton.”

“Come along, then,” rejoined Te Pokiha courteously. “I mustn’t try to keep you, I suppose.”

“It’s been a delightful evening.”

“I hope it is not to be the last.”

They drove back in the starlight. To Alleyn it seemed strange that it was only that morning — a short eighteen hours ago — that he had stood in the deserted street to watch dawn break over the mountains. It seemed to be ages ago. So much had happened. Carolyn by the little stream, talking about her husband, the bush bird whistling “She was only a bird—” with a wrinkled human face, Gordon Palmer drinking whisky that poured itself out of the neck of a gargantuan champagne bottle. “Don’t do that, it shouldn’t be interfered with.” “But my old dad taught me. It used to go big in vordevil.” And there was Wade running up and down a ladder like a performing monkey and saying: “Eight minutes for refreshments at the central police station.” “Don’t do that, you’ll muddle the prints.” “It’s all right if you sound your horn at the top. This horn is called a beep-beep. Listen — beep-beep—”

“This horn is called a ‘beep-beep’,” said Te Pokiha. “It reminds me of the Paris streets.”

“Lord love us, I’ve been asleep,” said Alleyn.

“If you will allow me to say so, I think you’re overtaxing your strength a little. You look tired. Aren’t you supposed to be on a holiday?”

“I’ll be able to sink back into sloth to-morrow.”

“As soon as that?”

“I hope so. Here we are at the hotel, I see. Well, thank you so much, Te Pokiha. It’s been an extremely interesting evening.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been of little use as far as your case is concerned.”

“On the contrary,” said Alleyn, “you have given me a piece of exceedingly valuable information.”

“Really? I mustn’t ask questions, I suppose. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Chapter XXIII

ALLEYN AS MASKELYNE

Alleyn slept heavily and dreamlessly until half-past nine. He had arranged to meet Wade at ten, and the inspector was waiting for him when he came out of the breakfast-room. They walked down to the theatre together.

“I’ve fixed it with old Singleton, Mr. Alleyn. He’ll be there waiting for us. He’s a funny old chap. Dismal Joe, the stage-hands call him; quite an old character in his way, he is, with a great gift of the gab. He says he’s an old actor and I believe it’s a fact, too.”

“Another actor! I remember giving him my name. He seemed rather a rum old article.”

“It’s a theatre show this, isn’t it, sir?”

They walked on in silence, and then Wade said:

“Well, Mr. Alleyn, I hope you’re quite satisfied with the work we’ve done for you.”

“My dear chap, more than satisfied. I’ve never had such a case. All the routine work done by you fellows, and damn’ well done. All I had to do was to pick out the plums.”

“Well sir, as far as we’re concerned it’s been a pleasure. We very much appreciate the way you’ve worked with us, Mr. Alleyn, taking us into your confidence all along. I must say when you rang up last night I got a bit of a surprise. I don’t say we wouldn’t have thrashed it out for ourselves and come to the right conclusion, but we wouldn’t have come there so quick.”

“I’m sure you’d have got there,” said Alleyn cordially. “You fixed up the other business all right, I suppose?”

“Yes. I don’t think there’ll be any trouble. Packer and Cass are there.”

Packer and Cass met them in the theatre yard. Standing just behind them was the doorkeeper to whom Alleyn remembered giving his name on the night of the party. Old Singleton was an extraordinary figure. He was very tall, very bent, and remarkably dirty. His nose was enormous and gloomily purple, he suffered from asthma, and he smelt of whisky.

“Morning, Packer, morning, Cass,” said Alleyn.

“This is Mr. Singleton, Chief Inspector,” said Wade.

“Chief Inspector who, Mr. Wade?” asked Singleton earnestly, in a rumbling wheeze.

“Alleyn.”

“Of New Scotland Yard, London?”

“Yes, Mr. Singleton,” said Alleyn good-humouredly.

“Shake, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Singleton, extending a particularly filthy hand. Alleyn shook it.

“From the Dear Old Town!” continued Mr. Singleton emotionally. “The Dear Old Town!”

“You are a Londoner, Mr. Singleton?”

“Holborn Empire! Ten years. I was first fiddle, sir.” Mr. Singleton went through an elaborate pantomime of drawing a bow across the strings of an imaginary violin. “You wouldn’t think it to look at me now,” he added truthfully. “I have fallen into the sere and yellow, Chief Inspector. I am declined into the vale of years. I am a fixed figure for the time of scorn to point his slow unmoving finger at. Yurrahumph!” He coughed unpleasantly and spat. “You would not credit it, Superintendent Alleyn, if I were to tell you I played the Moor for six months to capacity business.”

As Alleyn really could not credit it, he contented himself with making a consolatory noise.

“Shakespeare!” ejaculated Mr. Singleton, removing his hat. “The Swan of Stratford-on-Sea! The Bard!”

“Nobody like him, is there?” said Alleyn cheerfully. “Well, Mr. Singleton, you’re about to take the stage again. I want you to tell us all about last night.”

“Last night of all when that same star did entertain her guests. An improvisation, Chief Constable, based on the Bard. Last night. I could a tale unfold would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood. As a matter of fact I am unable to do any such thing. Last night I merely discharged my degrading duties as a doorkeeper in the house of the ungodly, and repaired to my lonely attic.”