“Now, didn’t she sit in that chair for some time after the curtain went up? Wasn’t she still sitting there when Surbonadier loaded the revolver?”

Through the crack in the door Nigel saw Simpson’s surprised glance at the inspector.

“You’ve got a good memory,” he said. “That’s perfectly true.”

“I’ve got a rotten memory really,” said Alleyn, “but the scene impressed me, you know. If you think back it’s a great help. Now, what did you do after you had straightened the mat and had your merry jape with the knitting?”

“I think I had a look round the stage to see everything was in place.”

“And then—?”

“Then I went to the prompt box. I remember now that Surbonadier and Miss Emerald were standing upstage by the window and—” He stopped short.

“Yes?”

“That’s all.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Simpson. What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

“I can’t force you to speak, but do — do let me urge you to consider the seriousness of your position. It’s no good my pretending or trying to bluff. I’m no actor, Mr. Simpson. You put the cartridges in the drawer. It’s of first importance from your point of view to prove that they were dummy cartridges.”

“It’s not for myself—” began Simpson hotly.

“Then don’t for the love of Mike start some fool game of shielding another person. That sort of thing is either damn’ dangerous or just plain silly. However, it’s as you please, ”

Simpson moved away from the range of Nigel’s vision and when he did speak his voice sounded remote.

“You’re quite right, I suppose,” he said. “As for myself, I think I can clear up the cartridge business.”

“All to the good. Now what were you going to say about Miss Janet Emerald?”

“Honestly, it’s nothing really. Arthur Surbonadier seemed a bit upset. He — well, it’s my job as stage manager to look after that sort of thing — he was not himself.”

“You mean he was drunk — I know he was.”

“Oh — well — yes, that and something else. Sort of dangerous drunk. Well, when I went back to the prompt box Janet Emerald came after me and she said: ‘Arthur’s tight, George, and I’m nervous,’ and I said: ‘He’s giving a damn’ good show, anyway.’ (He was, you know.) Then she said: ‘That may be right, but he’s a beast, a filthy beast.’ And I heard her whisper — Oh, lord, it meant nothing—”

“Well?”

“She whispered to herself: ‘I could kill him’; and then she turned her back to me and stood with her hands on the desk. She talks that way. It meant nothing. I didn’t look at her again. I glanced at the book and said: ‘All clear, please,’ and they took up positions.”

“And then?”

“Then I said: ‘House lights’ to the switchboard man and flicked on the orchestra warning and the black-out warning. That scene opens on a black-out.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then I said: ‘Stand by please,’ and we blacked out and the scene went up.”

“How long did the black-out last?”

“For the first few speeches of the dialogue. About four minutes altogether, because we black out for a little before the curtain goes up. Then Surbonadier switched on the stage lamp.”

“Who was on the stage, behind the scenes, all that time?”

“Oh, the staff were up at the back. The property master and others. Props was standing beside me in the prompt box, I remember. He stayed there after he had given me the dummies and was there all the time until after the black-out. I know that because he kept whispering something about one of the dummies being loose. He seemed scared it might come to bits when Surbonadier loaded the gun.”

“I see. And the others?”

“I think young Howard Melville was somewhere round — he’s assistant S.M. I was on the book. It’s a short scene, but the beginners in the next bit aren’t called until half-way through.”

“One more point and then I’m done. Where did you get the dummies?”

“Props made them. He’s a positive genius at anything like that. Takes a pride in it. He got empty shells and filled them with sand, and then shoved the bullets in.”

“Rather unnecessarily thorough, one would think.”

“Lord, yes!” Simpson sounded much more at ease now. “But that’s Props all over. He was shell-shocked during the war, poor devil, and he’s — not exactly queer — but kind of intensely concentrated. He was as proud as Punch when he showed them to me, and said no one could tell they weren’t the goods.”

“Where were they kept?”

“Props always picked up the revolver at the end of the show and took them out. Then he used to take the gun to Felix Gardener. It was his brother’s gun and Felix sets great store by it and always takes it home. Props used to put the dummies into the property-room and bring them to me before that scene. I made him do that because I wanted to be quite certain they were in the right drawer.”

“And that’s what happened to-night?”

“Yes.”

“Did you examine them before you put them in the drawer?”

“I don’t think so — I–I don’t know.”

“Would you have known if they were genuine ammunition?”

“I don’t know — yes, I’m sure I would.”

“In spite of the property master’s art?”

“I don’t know, I tell you.”

“All right, all right, keep your hair on. If the property man was worried about the loose cartridge—”

“Yes. Yes, of course. They must have been dummies.”

“Q.E.D. Now, Mr. Simpson, that’s all for the moment. I see Inspector Fox is waiting out there. Just give him your address, will you, and get him to take you to your dressing-room? Show him which clothes you want to change into — no, wait a second; you’re in a dinner jacket, and I imagine won’t need to change. Fox!”

“Hullo!”

“Has the van come?”

“Outside now.”

“Oh. Well, see if Mr. Simpson wants anything from his dressing-room. And, Mr. Simpson, will you let Inspector Fox just have a look at you? Pure formality and whatnot. You needn’t if you don’t want to. Don’t get all het up over it.”

Simpson’s reply to this speech was indistinguishable.

Nigel, by dint of widening his peephole, could see Fox going rapidly and thoroughly through the stage manager’s pockets.

“Cigarette-case, two pounds in notes and cash, pocketbook, handkerchief, matches, no written matter at all. Want to see anything, sir?” he asked cheerfully.

“Not a thing. One last question. Would Gardener be certain to pull the trigger when he pretended to fire the shot into the Beaver?”

“Definitely certain. It was rehearsed most carefully. He always closed his left hand a fraction of a second before he pulled the trigger. That gave me the cue for the blank shot.”

“I see, yes. Thank you so much. Good night, Mr. Simpson.”

Fox and the stage manager walked away. Nigel was wondering if he might speak when Alleyn’s face suddenly appeared close to the door. The inspector laid his finger on his nose and made a face at Nigel, who was rather shocked at this display. Alleyn opened the door and came out. Nigel saw men with a stretcher on the stage and suddenly shut the door to. Alleyn looked curiously, but not unsympathetically, at him.

“Exit an actor, eh?” he said.

“You’re a callous old pig,” said Nigel.

“Did you get all that down?”

“I did.”

“Good boy. Hullo, who’s this? Stay where you are and stand by.”

Voices, noisy in argument, could be heard from somewhere near the stage door.

“What the hell d’yer mean?” someone inquired loudly. “It’s my theatre. Get out of my light.”

Nigel returned to his peephole. The body of Surbonadier had gone. Inspector Fox appeared in hot pursuit of a monster of a man in tails, with a gardenia in his coat. He advanced truculently upon Alleyn, uttering a sort of roaring noise.

“Mr. Jacob Saint, I believe,” said the inspector politely.

“And who the devil are you?”

“From the Yard, Mr. Saint, and in charge of this unhappy business. I am sorry you should have to meet such shocking news — I see you have heard of the tragedy. Mr. Surbonadier was your nephew, wasn’t he? May I offer my sympathy?”