“Did you really? Do you remember the trio about the paradox? Frederick, Ruth, and Pirate King?”

“Indeed I do.

sang Miss Max in a jolly wheeze.

“Susan!” wailed Miss Emerald. “How can you?”

“Why not, dear? It’s a lovely number.”

“There’s something of a paradox here,” said Alleyn, “that you can solve for us.”

“And you’re the policeman.”

“Yes — would you call me ‘Frederick’ and may I call you ‘Ruth’?”

“Get along with you!” said old Susan Max.

“Well, here it is. Perhaps I won’t tell you the paradox; but ask you a question and hope that your answer will explain it. Can you tell me just what happened on the stage before the curtain went up on the last act?”

“Susan,” began Janet Emerald. “You remember—”

“Please!” (Alleyn made Nigel jump.) “Now, Miss Max.”

“Well, let me think. I was sitting on the O. P. kniting my scarf and scolding George Simpson about that mat. ‘George,’ I said, ‘do you want me to break my neck?’ So he fixed it. Little things like that look so bad from the front, and it quite spoilt my eggzit at the end of that scene.”

“I enjoyed your reading of the part enormously.”

“Well, dear, I made it a type, you know.”

“Is this a cosy chat or a statement?” inquired Saint.

“It’s a dialogue between two people only,” answered Alleyn. “It’s a great thing to be able to study types, Miss Max — I have to do a bit of that myself.”

“It’s all observation,” said Miss Max in a gratified tone.

“Of course it is. You’ve learnt to observe. You can be of the greatest help to me. Now, can you tell me, Miss Max, exactly what happened after Mr. Simpson put the mat straight?”

“Now, let me think,” said Susan Max. There was a dead silence. Miss Emerald gave a sob.

“Yes,” said Susan suddenly. “Janet was upset and talking to poor Arthur, who was a little pizzicato.”

“Pizzicato?”

“A little too much wine taken. Pity. Well, they whispered together and then he said to her — No. I’m telling stories. She said to him: ‘Are you all right?’; and he said to her: ‘No, I’m all blanky wrong,’ using language as he did so. I didn’t hear the next bit, but presently he said in an extremely disagreeable manner: ‘You can’t talk about influence, Janet. You wouldn’t be where you are without it.’ More whispers. I didn’t listen. I measured my scarf round George Simpson’s neck. Then when he went off to the prompt corner — No, I’ve left out a bit. Wait. Before that, when George put the cartridges in the drawer, Janet said she was always afraid he’d forget them — do you remember, dear? And then after all the other bit about poor Arthur being drunk and influence and so forth, you followed over to the prompt corner and I recollect that you had another whisper with him— with George Simpson, I mean, of course. There you are!” Miss Max ended with a sort of triumphant gaiety.

“Bravo!” cried Alleyn. “Top marks. We shall have to get you into the force.”

“Oh, yes, I dare say. Well, now. Is that all? Can I go?”

“I shall be sorry to lose you.”

Nigel had waited for an outburst from Miss Emerald — a denial, an explanation, another bout of hysteria. Instead there was dead silence. He wished he could see Janet Emerald and Jacob Saint.

“It’s a shocking thing,” said Susan Max abruptly. “It’s a very shocking thing for a young man to die as Arthur Surbonadier died. Not himself. Angry. For he was angry, you know.”

“What about?”

“All sorts of things. Not satisfied with the casting. Unhappy over other matters too, I believe. I suppose it’s murder?”

“It looks like it.”

“And poor Felix. You’re not running away with the idea Felix had anything to do with it, I hope? Except pulling the trigger, poor fellow. Um?”

“Why not?” Janet Emerald demanded. “Why not Felix Gardener? He shot him. It was his revolver. Why is everybody so sure he knew nothing about it? Stephanie doing brave heroine stuff all over him. Everybody treating him like an invalid. While I–I—am treated like a criminal. It’s infamous.”

“There’s only one thing more,” said Alleyn, exactly as if she had not spoken. “It’s unavoidable or I wouldn’t press it. I should like everyone behind the scenes to-night to be searched before they leave. I can’t insist, but it will save a lot of bother if you consent. Miss Max, I expect you know what we are looking for?”

“I don’t, then.”

“For the dummy cartridges.”

“Oh.”

“They will be fairly bulky. Miss Emerald, will you take off your wrap?”

“Here!” said Jacob Saint. “Whaddeyer going to do?”

“Oh, hold your tongue, Jacco!”

A slithery noise. Nigel craned his neck and saw Janet Emerald move forward. She was clad in a sequinned sheath that fitted her like a skin.

“Miss Emerald, will you let me make a very superficial examination or would you prefer to go to a police station, where there will be a wardress?”

“Don’t let him touch you, Janet.”

“Oh, Jacco, don’t be a fool.” There was no touch of hysteria here, only a harsh and wearied contempt. “Do whatever you like,” said Janet Emerald. She held up her magnificent arms and closed her eyes. Alleyn passed his delicate hands lightly over the surface of her dress. He too had closed his eyes. He looked as though his brain was in his fingertips. There was something uncannily remote about him. Lightly the hands swept down the sides and front of the sequinned dress, down the flanks, pausing at the knees and then dropping disinterestedly away. He picked up the fallen wrap, felt it all over, shook it and held it out politely by the collar. “You would like to put it on again,” he said.

Janet Emerald breathed unevenly and a curious, distorted smile visited her lips. She slid into the wrap.

“And what about you, Miss Max?” said Alleyn.

“I’m more bulky — you’ll have to prod,” said Susan Max cheerfully. She took off her overcoat and stood, a round, and somehow pathetic, figure in blouse and skirt.

“You are very courteous,” said Alleyn gravely. “And very wise.”

He searched her and then Jacob Saint, who stood up for it without protest or comment. Alleyn looked carefully at the papers in his pocket-book, but appeared to find nothing that interested him.

“That is all,” he said at last. “I’ll keep you no longer. How will you get home, Miss Max?”

“I live in South Kensington — I suppose I’ve missed the last bus.”

“Fox. Be a good fellow and tell the constable at the door to get a taxi. My party, Miss Max.”

“You are kind,” said Susan Max.

“Good night—‘Ruth.’ Good night, Miss Emerald. Mr. Saint. Inspector Fox will take your addresses.”

“Here!” said Saint suddenly. “Maybe I’ve been short with you, inspector. This thing’s upset me. You’re doing your duty and I respect that. I’d like to see you to-morrow.”

“I shall be at the Yard at eleven, should you wish to make a statement, Mr. Saint.”

“Statement be damned.”

“By all means. Good night.”

Footsteps and then silence.

“Still awake, Bathgate?” asked Alleyn.

“Just,” said Nigel. “Let me come out there for a minute. I’m all pins and needles.”

“Come out, come out, my dearest dear. What did you think of little Janet? And Uncle Jacob?”

“Not much.” Nigel emerged and stood blinking. “By Jove, she told some stinking big whoppers.”

“She did rather.”

“I say — do you think—”

“Only very confusedly. It’s all so muddly.”

“I distrust you intensely,” said Nigel, “when you go on like that.”

“Get back to your corner. Who shall we have next?”

“Don’t ask me. It’s beastly cold on this stage.”

“Shall we adjourn to a dressing-room?”

“Good idea — whose?”

“Bailey has been searching them while you were in your cosy corner. I rather fancy Arthur Surbonadier’s.”