“You notice the scorched clothes. He was killed instantly.”

“Shot through the heart,” said the doctor.

“God, it’s awful!” said the manager suddenly.

“I think that will do.” Alleyn turned to the divisional surgeon, who knelt beside Surbonadier and closed the painted eyelids. Bailey, who had just gone off the stage for a moment, reappeared with a length of brocade, with which he covered the body. It was a flamboyant thing, flame-coloured and gold.

“The revolver will, of course, show Mr. Gardener’s prints,” Alleyn said. “But you will test it for others, please, Bailey. It was in his dressing-room at seven-twenty, when I saw it.” Bailey glanced at him in surprise. “The dresser took it to Mr. Surbonadier some time between seven-thirty and seven-forty-five. It was then unloaded and Surbonadier himself loaded it on the stage. We must remember that everyone in the cast knew exactly what would happen. Mr. Gardener was certain to do precisely what he did do — press the barrel of the revolver into Surbonadier above the heart and pull the trigger. There may be a remote possibility that Surbonadier was accidentally supplied with genuine ammunition. It seems scarcely likely. If he was deliberately supplied with live cartridges, the person responsible would be tolerably certain of results. Surbonadier was scarcely off the stage after he loaded the gun, and while on the stage would not fire, since even an unloaded revolver makes a loud click if this is done. Gardener would be certain to pull the trigger. His hand was in full view of the audience and the illusion had to be complete. Am I right, Mr. Stavely?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so, but, you know, the production is not my province, inspector. I belong to the front of the house. The producer is in Manchester, but Mr. Simpson, the general manager, would be your best authority — or Gardener himself.”

“Of course, yes. Will you be kind enough to get Mr. Simpson for me? Oh — and, Mr. Stavely, take Detective-Sergeant Bailey with you and show him the dressing-rooms. Bailey, don’t disturb any room but Miss Max’s. From that you may take a towel and soap and a pot of grease. They take their paint off with grease, don’t they? Take the stuff to the wardrobe-room, then lock the dressing-room doors and let ’em wash. And, Fox”—he turned to the second plain clothes man—“be a saint and ring for the mortuary van. Mr. Stavely will take you to the telephone. Sorry to be a bit Hitlerish, but it’ll save time.” He smiled charmingly at Stavely and the doctor. “Thank you very much, Dr. Milner. I shan’t bother you any more to-night, but I’ve got your address. I’m sure you’re longing to get away.”

The doctor looked very much as though he was longing to stay. However, he departed meekly, escorted by the divisional surgeon. The others went on their errands and Nigel was left alone with Alleyn.

The theatre had become very silent. Far away in the front of the house a door slammed and immediately afterwards they heard a clock strike. Eleven. Twenty minutes ago the dead man under the length of brocade had been vigorous and alert; the echo of his voice had scarcely died away. To Nigel it seemed more like two hours.

“Alleyn,” he said suddenly, “you don’t think it was Felix, do you?”

“Bless the boy, I’m not a medium. I haven’t the foggiest idea who it was, but he’s no likelier than any of the others. He didn’t load the revolver. The fact of his pulling the trigger doesn’t appear to be particularly relevant. I say it doesn’t appear to be. He may have to answer a technical charge of manslaughter. I don’t know. Don’t understand law.”

“Bosh.”

“Don’t say bosh to me, child. Can you write shorthand?”

“Yes.”

“Then take this notebook, sit on the other side of the scenery, and write down the ensuing conversations. Do it quietly. Your finger on your lips and all that.”

“I don’t want your notebook. Got one of my own.”

“As you please. Here comes Simpson. Skedaddle.” Nigel slipped out of the upstage entrance, leaving the door ajar. In the half-light offstage he saw a large round footstool of the type known as a “pouf.” He pulled it quietly towards the entrance, sat down, and took out his scribbling pad and stylo. He heard someone come down the dressing-room passage and walk on to the stage at the prompt corner. From behind the scene flat, and quite close to him, Alleyn spoke.

“Oh, here you are, Mr. Simpson. Frightfully sorry to keep you all hanging about like this, but I want to do as much as I can before the scent, if there is a scent, grows cold. Do sit down.”

There was a gentle sound of a soft impact, and the rustle of a silk cushion. Then Simpson spoke. “Of course — anything I can do to help.”

“I want you to tell me ‘in your own words,’ as leading counsel loves to say, the exact procedure that took place every evening, and particularly this evening, in regard to the ammunition used in the revolver. As I remember, Mr. Surbonadier loaded the revolver with cartridges that he took from a drawer in a writing-desk during the first scene in the last act. Who put those cartridges there?”

“The murderer.”

“I see,” said Alleyn good-humouredly, “that you take my point. I should have said: Who put the dummy cartridges there?”

“I did,” said George Simpson.

Nigel experienced a slight thrill in taking down Simpson’s last statement — a thrill that was at once tempered by the reflection that the placing of the dummy cartridges was of little importance in tracing the deadly ones. Alleyn went on easily:

“You did. Splendid. Now, when exactly did you put the dummies in that drawer?”

“During the second act wait, just before the curtain went up.”

“The desk was then on the stage, or should I say on the set?”

“Only if you’re a talkie actor. The scene was set and the desk was in position.”

“I wish there had been no further change of scene. Where exactly was the desk? As I remember, it was about here.”

Nigel heard Alleyn walk across the stage. By dint of squinting through the crack in the doorway he saw that the inspector was standing in the prompt first entrance, that is to say, in the doorway on the audience’s right of the stage.

“It was just upstage of there,” said Simpson.

“And the face of the desk towards the door, wasn’t it?” asked Alleyn.

“That is so.”

“Now, when you put the dummies in the drawer who was on the stage?”

“The beginners for the third act Miss Max, Miss Emerald, and Mr. Surbonadier.”

“Did they see you put them there?”

“Oh, yes. Janet said: ‘I’m always terrified you’ll forget those things, George. You leave it so late!’ ”

“The drawer was empty when you pulled it out?”

“I think so. I don’t know that I’d swear it was — I may not have looked at the back of it.”

“Do you remember if any of the others afterwards came near the desk? Perhaps sat down at it while waiting for the curtain to go up?”

“I don’t remember,” said Simpson in a great hurry.

“Mr. Simpson — try to remember.” There was a pause.

“I can’t remember,” said Simpson querulously.

“Let me try and help. Did you speak to any of them, now?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. I spoke to Miss Max, who was over on the O. P. She said the rug on that side was in the way of the door opening, and I moved it for her. Then she sat down in the chair over there and took out her knitting. The knitting is ‘business’ in the part.”

“Yes. She had it in a red bag.”

“That’s right.” Simpson began to speak very rapidly. “And she didn’t move again before the curtain went up. I remember that because she laughed about her knitting and said she was trying to get it finished before we had run three weeks. It’s a scarf. She put it round my neck to measure it.”