“There’s — there’s a kind of whitish look,” ventured Nigel, “on all of them. It’s very faint on most, but here’s one where it looks clearer. It looks almost like paint.”

“Smell it”

“I can smell nothing but brass.”

“Put your cigarette out. Blow your nose. Now smell.”

“There is something else. It reminds me of something. What is it?”

“It looks like one person. It smells like another.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“It looks like cosmetic and it smells like Jacob Saint.”

“What’s the time?” said Alleyn, yawning.

“Nearly two o’clock and a dirty night.”

“Oh, horror! I loathe late hours.”

“Two’s not late.”

“Not for a journalist, perhaps. Hullo, here come the mummers.”

Voices and footsteps sounded in the passage and presently a little procession appeared. Miss Dulcie Deamer, Mr. Howard Melville, Mr. J. Barclay Crammer, Inspector Fox. Miss Dulcie Deamer had her street make-up on — that is to say she had aimed a blow at her cheeks with the rouge puff, and had painted a pair of lips somewhere underneath her nose. She still contrived to be jeune fille. J. Barclay Crammer’s face showed signs of No. 5 grease paint lingering round the eyebrows and a hint of rather pathetic grey stubble on the chin. He wore a plaid muffler, with one end tossed over his shoulder, and he looked profoundly disgusted. Mr. Melville was pale and anxious.

“Dulcie, how are you going home?” he asked querulously.

“Oh, my God, in a taxi!” she answered drearily.

“I live at Hampstead,” Mr. Crammer intoned.

“We are very sorry about all this,” said Alleyn, “and will, of course, make ourselves responsible for getting all of you home. The constable at the door will fix it up. Fox, just look after them, will you? Good night.”

“Good night, everybody, good night,” mimicked Mr. Crammer bitterly. Miss Deamer glanced timidly and confidingly at Alleyn, who bowed formally. Mr. Melville said: “Oh — ah — good night.” Alleyn glanced at him and seemed to get an idea.

“Half a minute, Mr. Melville,” he said.

Mr. Melville instantly became green in the face.

“I’ll only keep you a few moments,” explained the inspector, “but we’ll let the others go on, I think. Just wait for me in the wardrobe-room, will you?”

The others turned alarmed glances on Mr. Melville, who looked rather piteously after them and then returned to the wardrobe-room. They filed out towards the stage door.

“Fox,” said Alleyn, “have they been searched?”

“The men have thoroughly. I–I kind of patted the lady. She’s wearing hardly anything.”

“Is there room for a glove there, do you think?”

“Oh — a glove. That’s different.”

“I know it is, and I’ve let two of ’em out without a complete search, benighted dolt that I am. Still, old Miss Max is really out of the picture, and there was nothing under those sequins except the Emerald. She doesn’t wear stays.”

“Nor does Dulcie,” said Inspector Fox gloomily.

“Fox, we forget ourselves. If you’re not sure, persuade her to go to the station and be searched there. If not, send ’em home in taxis and pay for them.”

“Right-oh, sir.”

“Where’s Mr. Gardener?”

“Waiting for you in the deceased’s dressing-room.”

“Thank you. Are you coming, Bathgate, or do you yearn for your bed?”

“I’ll come,” said Nigel.

Felix Gardener stood in the middle of the doorway with his hands in his pockets. He started nervously when they came in and then gave a little laugh at himself.

“Is it an arrest?” he said jerkily.

“Not unless you are going to surprise me with a confession,” said Alleyn cheerfully. “Let’s sit down.”

“A confession. My God, it’s clear enough without that! I shot him. No matter who planned this ghastly business, I shot him. I’ll never get rid of that.”

“If you are innocent, Mr. Gardener, you are entirely innocent. You are no more to blame than Mr. Simpson, who put the dummies, or it might have been the cartridges”—Nigel glanced at him in surprise—“in the drawer of the desk. You are as much an instrument as the revolver — as Surbonadier was himself, in loading it.”

“I’ve been repeating that to myself over and over again, but it doesn’t make much difference. Nigel, if you could have seen the way he looked at me — as if he knew — as if, in that tiniest fraction of time, he knew what had happened, and thought I’d done it. He looked so surprised. I didn’t know myself at first. I got such a shock — you can’t think — with the revolver going off. I just went on with the lines. It’s Bill’s revolver, you know. He said he never shot at a Hun with it. Good job he’s dead and can’t see all this. He fell just like he always did. Limp. Arthur played the part well. Didn’t you think so? And you know I didn’t like him. I said so, didn’t I — this evening? Oh, God!”

“Mr. Gardener, you can do no good by this,” said Alleyn quietly. “Perhaps the truest of all our tiresome clichés is the one that says time cures all things. As a policeman, I should like to say ‘time solves all things,’ but that unfortunately is not always the case. As a policeman I must ask you certain questions.”

“You mean you want to find out if I did it on purpose?”

“I want to prove that you didn’t. Where were you at the beginning of the first scene in the last act?”

“The first scene in the last act? You mean the scene when Arthur took the revolver and loaded it.”

“That scene — yes. Where were you?”

“I was — where was I? — in my dressing-room.”

“When did you come out?”

Gardener buried his face in his hands and then looked up helplessly.

“I don’t know. I suppose soon after I was called. Let me think — I can’t think collectedly at all. I was called, and I came out into the passage.”

“When was this?”

“During the front scene, I think.”

“Before or after the black-out, during which the first part of that scene is played?”

“I can’t remember. I’ve really no recollection of anything that happened just before—”

“Some little thing may bring it back. Did you, for instance, walk out of the passage on to a pitch-black stage?”

“Somebody trod on my foot,” said Gardener suddenly.

“Somebody trod on your foot — in the dark?”

“Yes. A man.”

“Where was this?”

“In the wings — I don’t quite know where — it was pitch dark.”

“Any idea who it was?”

Gardener looked with quick apprehension at Nigel. “Shall I implicate anyone by this?”

“For Heaven’s sake,” said Nigel, “tell the truth.”

Gardener was silent for a moment. “No,” he said at last. “If I had an idea, it was altogether too slight to be of use, and it would carry undue weight; you couldn’t help yourself — you’d be influenced. I can see that. I’ve done enough harm for one night, haven’t I?” He stared fiercely at Alleyn.

Alleyn smiled.

“I’m not terribly easily influenced,” he said, “and I promise it won’t carry one ounce overweight.”

“No,” said Gardener obstinately. “I’m not even sure myself. The more I think the less sure I get.”

“Was it something to do with your sense of smell?”

“My God!” whispered Gardener.

“Thank you,” said Alleyn.

Gardener and Nigel stared at him. Gardener began to laugh hysterically.

“Proper detective stuff. ‘This man is clever.’ Actor-proof part.”

“Be quiet,” said Alleyn. “I don’t want any more histrionics. I’m sick of scenes, Mr. Gardener.”

“Sorry.”

“So I should hope. Now this revolver. I understand it belonged to your brother. How long have you had it, please?”

“Ever since he died.”

“Had you any ammunition?”

“I gave Props the cartridges he turned into dummies.”

“Any more at home?”

“No, couldn’t find any more. Just the six that were in it. Oh, I supplied everything.”