“Good-oh,” said Wade.

“It is extraordinary,” thought Alleyn, “how ubiquitous they make that remark. It expresses anything from acquiescence to approbation.”

He mounted the iron ladder.

“Well now, sir,” said Wade, “it all looks much the same as your sketch to me. Where’s the difference?”

“Look at the rope by the pulley,” suggested Alleyn, climbing steadily. “Look at the end where the counterweight should be attached. Look—”

He had reached the second platform where Wade sat, dangling his legs. He turned on the ladder and surveyed the tackle.

“Hell’s gaiters!” said Alleyn very loudly. “They’ve put ’em back again.”

A long silence followed. Alleyn suddenly began to chuckle.

“One in the eye for me,” he said, “and a very pretty one, too. All the same it’s too damn’ clever by half. Look here, Inspector. When I came up here twenty minutes ago the counterweight was not attached to the rope over there, and the pully had been moved eighteen inches this way by a loop of cord.”

“Is that so?” said Wade solemnly. After another pause he glanced at Alleyn apologetically. “It’d be very dark then, sir. No lights at all, I take it. I suppose—”

“I’ll go into the box and swear my socks off and my soul pink,” said Alleyn. “And I had a torch, what’s more. No — it’s been put right again. It must have been done while I was in the dressing-room. By George, I wonder if the fellow was up here on the platform when I came up the ladder. You had just got to the theatre when I went down.”

“D’you mean,” asked Wade, “d’you mean to tell me that this gear was all different when we came in and someone’s changed it round since? We’d have known something about that, Mr. Alleyn.”

“My dear chap, but would you? Look here, kick me out. I’ve no business to gate-crash on your job, Inspector. It’s insufferable. Just take my statement in the ordinary way and I’ll push off. Lord knows, I didn’t mean to buck round doing the C.I.D. official.”

Wade, whose manner up to now had been a curious mixture of deference, awkwardness, and a somewhat forced geniality, now thawed completely.

“Look, sir,” he said, “you don’t need to make any apologies. I reckon I know a gentleman when I meet one. We’ve read about your work out here, and if you like to interest yourself — well, we’ll be only too pleased. Now! Only too pleased.”

“Extraordinary nice of you,” said Alleyn. “Thank you so much for those few nuts and so on. All right. Didn’t you stay by the stage-door for a bit, when you came in?”

“Yes, that’s right, we did. Mr. Gascoigne met us there and started some long story. We didn’t know what was up. Simply got the message, there’d been an accident at the theatre. It took me a minute or two to get the rights of it and another minute or two to find out where the body was. You know how they are.”

“Exactly. Well now, while that was going on, I fancy our gentleman was up here and very busy. He came up under cover of all the hoo-hah on the stage some time after the event. He was just going to put things straight, when he heard me climbin’ up de golden stair, as you might say. That must have given him a queasy turn. He took cover somewhere up here in the dark and as soon as I went down again he did what he had to do. Then, when you were safely on the stage and shut off by the walls of the scenery, down he came, pussy-foot, by the back-stage ladder, and mixed himself up with the crowd. Conjecture, perhaps—”

“I’ve just been reading your views on conjecture, sir,” said Wade.

“For the Lord’s sake, Wade, don’t bring my own burblings up against me, or I shall look the most unutterable ass. Conjecture or not, I think you’ll find traces of this performance if you look round up here.”

“Come on, then, sir. Let’s go to it.”

“Right you are. Tread warily, I would. Damn — it’s slatted.”

The gallery turned out to be a narrow stretch of steel-slatted platform extending from the prompt corner to the back wall, round the back wall, and along the opposite side of the O.P. corner. It was guarded by a rail to which the ropes that raised the scenic cloths were made fast. They began to work their way round, hugging the wall and taking long steps on the tips of their toes.

“There’s plenty of dust in these regions,” said Alleyn. “I had a case that hung on just such another spot. Hung, by the way, is the right word. The homicide swung his victim from the grid.”

“You mean the Gardener case, sir? I’ve read about that.”

“Bless me, Inspector, if you’re not better up in my cases than I am myself. Stop a moment.”

They had moved out of the area of light, and switched on their torches. Alleyn swung his towards the rail.

“Here, you see, we are opposite the pulley. Now when I came up here before, a piece of cord had been passed round the batten on which the pulley is rigged. That beam, there. The rope to the beam stopped it from slipping and it was made fast to this cleat on the rail here. The effect was to drag the pulley eighteen inches or so this way.”

“What for, though?” asked Wade.

“In order that the jeroboam of fizz should fall, not into the nest of ferns and fairy lights, but on to the naked pate of poor Alfred Meyer.”

“Geeze!”

“And here, I think, I very much suspect, is the piece of cord. Neatly rolled round the cleat. Clever fellow, this. Keeps his head. What? Shall we move on?”

“I’ll collect that cord on the way back,” grunted Wade. “On you go, sir. After you.”

“There are any number of footprints in these damn’ slats. The stage hands have been all over the place, of course.”

“Not much chance of anything there,” agreed Wade, “but we’ll have to see. If you’re right, sir, the suspect’s prints will be on top.”

“So they will. Here’s the back wall. Another ladder here, you notice. I daren’t look down, I’m terrified of heights. Round we go. This, no doubt, is where he crouched with blazing eyes and bared molars while I climbed the ladder. Dramatic, ain’t it? Also remarkably grubby. Bang goes the old boiled shirt. Hullo! Another ladder going down to the back of the stage. That’ll be the one he used, I should think. Turn the corner gently. Now we’re on the last lap.”

“And there’s the pulley again.”

They had worked round to the O.P. gallery and were close by the pulley which hung within easy reach from its batten.

“Yes,” said Alleyn, “and there hangs the counterweight on the hook. I understand the weight is one of the sort that is used in the second act, to lead the ship’s funnel down to the right spot. They’ve got several of them. Look. There is the funnel with the weight on it, just above our heads. And here, along the side, are several spare weights. Different sizes. You’ll notice that the ring at the top of the hook would serve as a chock and prevent the rope whizzing through the pulley when the weight was removed. The weight hung exactly half-way, so there would be no slack rope on the table.”

“And you say there was no weight on this rope when you looked up here before?”

“There was no weight. The rope with the cut end of red cord simply hung in the pulley.

He flashed his light on the beam. “You’ll notice the whole thing is within arm’s length of the gallery. The table was placed well over to the side for that reason.”

“Well, I’ll test the batten for prints,” said Wade, “but it’s a bit hopeless. Anyway he’d use gloves. Don’t you reckon it’s a mistake, sir, the way they’ve advertised the finger-print system? Any fool-crook knows better than to forget his gloves, these days.”

“There are times,” said Alleyn, “when I could wish the penny Press-lords in the nethermost hell. Yet they have their uses, they have their uses. Nay, I can gleek on occasion.” Sensing Wade’s bewilderment he added hurriedly: “You’re right, Inspector, but of course they have to come out in evidence. Prints, I mean. I grow confused. It must be the smell of fizz.”