“That’s a pretty little pet,” said Alleyn. “There’s a typewriter over there. Do you mind putting those squiggles into language?”

“Of course I will. Who’s Mortlake?”

“He’s a most elusive gentleman whom we have been brooding over for some years. At the time of the libel case his name wasn’t even mentioned, but it fairly burned between the lines. He’s a Yank, and his pet names are ‘Snow’ and ‘Dopey.’ ”

“Golly! It looks rum for Saint, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, doesn’t it? Get on with your typing.”

“If he did it,” announced Nigel, above the rattle of the machine, “he must have come round a second time, behind the scenes.”

“And old Blair swears he didn’t. I spoke to him last night while you were hunting up the taxi.”

“May have been asleep.”

“Says he wasn’t. Says he retired to his cubby-hole, after we had gone through, and waited there. The bluebottle at the door thought he was with the others on the stage.”

“Funny. Blair didn’t speak to the bluebottle.”

“I thought so too. He said he believed in keeping himself to himself, and such a thing had never happened before at the Unicorn.”

“Why did you ask about Saint’s doctor?”

“I wanted to know if the dear old gentleman was enjoying bonny health.”

“Oh, rats!”

“I did. He looks like a heart subject. Such rosy cheeks.”

Nigel returned, in exasperation, to his typing.

“There,” he said presently. “That’s done.”

Alleyn touched a bell and brought forth a constable. “Is Mincing out there? The man I saw just now?”

“He is, sir.”

“Read this through to him and get him to sign, it. Then let him go. He’s a horrid man.”

“Very good, sir.” The constable grinned and withdrew.

“Now, Bathgate,” began Alleyn. “If you really want to be a help, there’s something you can do for me. You can find out who the journalist was whose name was taken in vain over that article. Seek him out and do a bit of ferreting. Discover, if you can, any connection between him and the characters in our cast. See if he knew Surbonadier or Gardener — wait a moment; don’t be so touchy — and if either of them is likely to have introduced him to the other. Got that?”

“Yes. I suppose I’ll find his name in the files.”

“The report of the case will give it. Hullo! Come in!”

Detective-Sergeant Bailey put his head round the door.

“Busy, inspector?” he inquired.

“Not if it’s the Unicorn case.”

“It is,” announced Bailey. He came in and, at Alleyn’s invitation, sat down. Nigel kept quiet and hoped to hear something.

“It’s the report on the cartridges,” began Bailey. “The white stain was stuff used by Miss Vaughan. It’s in a bottle labelled ‘Stage-White’! It has been upset, but there was plenty left, and quite enough for the analyst on the glove. All the ladies used some sort of stuff, but hers was different. Specially made up for her. I’ve seen the chemist.”

“And the same on the thumb of the glove?”

“Yes. It beats me, sir. What would she want to dong him off for? I reckoned it was the other lady.”

“Your exquisite reason, Bailey?”

“Well, look how she carried on,” said Bailey disgustedly. “Making a break for her dressing-room and lying away like a good ’un. Now I’ve seen the statements it looks still more like it.”

“And she’s one step nearer Mr. Saint’s fortune by this — she was his heir after the deceased. And Mr. Saint consults a heart specialist regularly and, no doubt, does not obey his orders. That makes your eyes bulge, doesn’t it?”

“I must say it does, sir. Now look at it this way. Suppose my lady Emerald takes Mr. Saint’s glove when he’s round behind. She’s sure to meet him, seeing how things are between them. She plants the gloves and the cartridges somewhere — likely enough in one of the unused drawers of the desk. She’s on the stage. She’s by the desk. She waits for the lights to be blacked out and then puts on the glove, changes over the cartridges, and drops the gloves in Miss Max’s bag. It would look too obvious to leave them near the desk. She knows all this stuff about bad blood between Saint and his nephew will come out. Saint gets rigged out with the hug-me-tight necktie, and she romps home with the dibs.”

“Could anything be better put? And I suppose she dips the thumb of the glove into Miss Vaughan’s wet-white just to make it more difficult.”

“That’s the catch in it,” admitted Bailey gloomily.

“Look here,” said Nigel loudly. “Listen!”

“Ssh!” whispered Alleyn excitedly.

“Don’t be silly, now. Listen to me. Miss Vaughan showed you how Surbonadier struck her on the shoulder. Suppose he got the stuff on his hand and — oh no. Sorry.”

“As we were, Bailey,” said Alleyn.

“We all of us make mistakes, sir,” said Detective Bailey kindly.

Nigel looked foolish.

“Well, anyway,” he said, “I bet Surbonadier upset the stuff.”

“More than likely,” agreed Alleyn.

At this juncture Inspector Fox walked in.

“Here’s the Props fancier,” said Alleyn.

“Good morning, Mr. Bathgate. Yes, that’s me. I don’t see how you can get past that funny business with the chandelier. And he knew the dummies were in the second drawer. There’s motive, behaviour and everything else.”

“And the gloves?” Alleyn asked.

“Left on the stage by Mr. Saint, and used by Props for the job.”

“And the stage-white of Miss Vaughan, on the glove of Mr. Saint, used by Props for the job?”

“Oh, it was hers, was it?” grumbled Inspector Fox. “Well, Saint must have gone into her room.”

“It’s ingenious, Fox,” said Alleyn, “but I don’t think it’s quite right. I take it, this stage-white dries like a particularly clinging powder. Now if Saint had got it on his glove, earlier in the evening, it would be dry when the glove was used for the cartridges, and if any came off, it would be powdery and not likely to stick to the brass. Through the lens those marks looked as if the stuff had been smeared on, wet.”

“The same thing applies to Felix,” ventured Nigel. “According to Miss Vaughan, he left her room soon after we did, and after that they only met in his room.”

Alleyn swung round slowly.

“That’s quite true,” he said; “leaving her room vacant, during the black-out.”

“I get you,” said Fox heavily.

“I don’t,” confessed Nigel.

“Don’t you? Well I’m jolly well going to be inscrutable. The next thing to do is to see Mr. Jacob Saint again. He said he might call in. Do you know, I believe I’ll ask the old darling. Run and do your job, Bathgate.”

“Oh, I say,” Nigel protested. “Can’t I wait and hear Uncle Jacob?”

“Away you go!”

Nigel attempted persuasion and was cheerfully invited to get out before he was thrown out. He departed, conscious of smiles on the faces of Inspector Fox and Detective-Sergeant Bailey. A hunt through the file in his own office rewarded him with a complete account of the Jacob Saint libel action, and the discovery of the reporter’s name. He was one Edward Wakeford, whom Nigel knew slightly and who was now literary editor on the staff of a weekly paper. Nigel rang him up and arranged a meeting in the bar of a Fleet Street tavern much patronized by Pressmen. They forgathered at eleven o’clock, and over enormous tankards of lager the subject of the trial was broached.

“You doing this Unicorn murder?” asked Wakeford.

“Yes, I am. I know Alleyn, of the Yard, and was with him at the show. It was a marvellous chance, but, of course, I have to play fair. He vets everything.”

“By George, he’s a marvel, that man,” said Wakeford; “I could tell you of a case”—and did.

“It was Alleyn who asked me to look you up,” Nigel told him. “He wants to know if you’ve any idea who wrote the article in the ‘Mex’ in the Saint libel action. The story that was supposed to be yours.”